Alea Jacta Est: A Novel of the Fall of America (Future History of America Book 1) (77 page)

"Cooper!"

"Here!"
he replied, facing the stairs, rifle up and waiting for an attacker to try and
gain the top floor.

"Get
on the horn—we need those ambulances,
now
," ordered the
Lieutenant.  "Stupid...stupid...
stupid
...should've kept them with
us..." she muttered to herself as she threw a blood-soaked bandage over
her shoulder and applied a fresh one.

"Push
harder,
dammit
, stop that flow!" she growled at her assistant.

"I'm
trying
,"
grunted the trooper.  He was a grunt, not a nurse.  Erik watched the man's
clumsy hands, filthy with the grime of battle.  The soldier gamely tried to
staunch the flow of blood out of Susan.  It was dark, dark red.  Almost black. 
Erik shivered.  Even
he
knew that was a bad sign. 

Lord....not
like this.  She deserves to die many years from now in her bed surrounded by
grandchildren...not like this in front of her own babies.  Please...I know I've
asked a lot of you lately, but this is not for me...
Erik prayed
as he watched Ted.  The tough Recon Marine was on edge of the cliff.  It was
everything he could do to hold on.

"On
their way!  ETA in five," called out Cooper from the stairs.

"Better
make it two!" replied the medic.  Cooper relayed the frantic message.

The filthy,
scared little boy looked up through the tears that streamed down his face.  His
little body shook with fear but he controlled his crying long enough to speak. 
He could see the Medic and her assistant bent over the pale form of his
mother.  His father slowly rocked back and forth on his heels and held his
wife's head.  The bandage on Ted's wound was soaked to a dark color as if
someone had thrown a glass of merlot at him. Ted's back began to quiver when
the medic's voice started getting higher pitched.  They had to work fast; too
fast for her liking, but they didn't have a choice or the supplies they
needed.  It was going to be a battlefield patch.  Susan's arms slowly dropped
to the floor, limp.

"No...no,
Susan stay with me
.  Stay with me!
" begged Ted in a soft urgent
voice that Erik would never have recognized as belonging to the Marine.

"
Mommy?
"
asked one of the girls.  Her eyes were wide open in fear.  She stood and
reached out an arm.  She was too young to know exactly what was happening, but
instinct told her it was very, very bad.

Erik felt a
little hand squeeze three of his fingers. The big man's eye filled with tears
as he looked down at the little boy.  He really was a younger, smaller version
of Ted, Erik noticed for the hundredth time.  The little man looked up at him
with red rimmed watery eyes.              His eyes were large and very blue.

"Erik,
is my mommy gonna die?" the little boy asked in a high, quiet voice
between quivering breaths.

Next to
him, he heard Brin gasp and put a hand over her mouth.  She wrapped her arms
around the little boy and held him close.  The child still held tight to Erik's
three fingers—it was all he could manage to grab in his small hand.

Erik opened
his mouth but didn't know what to say.

"
Stay
with me!
" cried Ted.  "
Please..."

WELL, ADMIRAL, THERE it
is…the Rock of Gibraltar.”

“Nothing
between us and home now but the open Atlantic,” grunted the old Admiral.  He
leaned over the railing of the observation deck on the
Roosevelt
and
peer below.  Satisfied with the level of activity on the flight deck as crews
continued to make sea-repairs, he grunted to himself and turned to face his
companion.

“Steady as
she goes, Captain.  Make your course for Norfolk.”

“Aye, aye,
sir,” replied the Captain.  He nodded to a Lieutenant to relay the message to
the bridge.

Ahead of
the wounded supercarrier, on the gentle swells of the extreme western
Mediterranean on this bright day was the
Anzio
, spearhead of the surface
fleet.  Still miles out in front further, was the true tip of the spear: the
battlegroup’s remaining twin nuclear attack subs.  They prowled the deep water,
itching for more targets.  The little Franco-Spanish fleet had gotten the
entire battlegroup spooled up for more combat.

Arrayed
around the supercarrier like a pack of sheepdogs were what was left of the
battlegroup: the surviving unarmed support vessels, another cruiser like
Anzio
,
and the three destroyers.  Together they had cut a wide swath through the enemy
off the coast of southern France like a sword and taken minimal casualties. 
All in all, the Admiral and his command staff figured they were in pretty good
shape for the sprint home.

“Any
contacts?” asked the Admiral has he glassed the African coast, rolling
peacefully by to port, south of the command ship.

“Negative,
sir.  I think we scared the Spaniards right out of the fight with that last
half-assed sortie they tried yesterday.  They won’t contest our crossing into
the Atlantic.”  The Roosevelt’s Captain thought for a moment.  “CAP has
airspace locked down tight till we’re offshore and out of range any land based
fighters.  You want me to add to it?”

The
Admiral, out of curiosity, aimed his collapsible telescope towards the sky and
scanned in silence.  He couldn’t see the F-35 Lightnings of Hawk flight or the
F-18 Superhornets of Hammer flight, but he knew they were up there, circling
like sharks, sniffing for blood in the water.  Between those two squadrons, the
entire battlegroup was protected, 24 hours a day now.  The other squadrons
could scramble within minutes.  An American supercarrier battlegroup, even
wounded, was still the single most potent fighting force on the high seas. 

And his was
going home, no matter the cost.  That determination had already wrecked a
significant portion of France and Spain’s naval power, days earlier.  Another
reminder of America’s rule of the high seas had to be dished out the day before
when a flight of Spanish jets had tried a last ditch attempt to further wound
the
Roosevelt
.  The Admiral suppressed a chuckle.  The Spaniards had
never even gotten within visual range of the
Roosevelt
before they were
plucked out of the sky by Hawk flight.

“I believe
we’ll maintain our status, Captain.  I want the other squadrons to maintain high
alert and be ready at a moment’s notice.  Continue the CAP rotation as is.” 
The Admiral lowered the spyglass and squinted in the glare of the sun
reflecting off the Med.  “I think the news casts we were able to pick up give
us all the info we need.  I don’t see Spain trying anything else.”

“Agreed.  I
think they just want us to get the hell out of here so they don’t have to try
to attack anymore,” the Captain chortled quietly.

The bridge
radio squawked to life from its cradle on the gray railing: “Admiral to the
bridge, Admiral to the bridge!”

A junior
officer rushed up as the Captain held the heavy steel hatch open for the older
officer.  “Report,” he barked over his shoulder.

The Admiral
collapsed his spyglass with a snick-snick-snick and handed the antique to the
young lieutenant.  He knew the crewed loved the idea of running up the Jolly
Roger and the Admiral using a pirate’s spyglass.  Moral couldn’t be higher,
under the circumstances.

“The
Hampton
just radioed in contacts to our south, along the Liberian coast.  They also
picked up scratchy transmissions—“

“Let’s hear
it, son,” said the Admiral, impatiently willing his eyes to adjust to the
semi-darkness of the command center, the brain of the supercarrier.  He made
his way forward to the twin heavy seats on a dais looking out over the vast
flight deck and the expanse of ocean beyond.  Above their heads, speakers in
the ceiling let everyone hear the patched through signals from the attack sub.

“—
day,
mayday!  Any United States military assets come in…we are under attack!  This
is the
U.S.S. Coral Sea
, requesting immediate assit
—“

The Admiral
stepped over to a microphone and pointed at the Captain, a signal the younger
man well understood. 
Find them.  Provide them cover.  Now.

“
Coral
Sea
, come in
Coral Sea
, this is
Theodore Roosevelt
, do you
read me, son?”

“Thank
God!” was the scratchy reply.  The voice nearly screamed in relief.  The
obviously shaken man on the other end of the transmission radioed their
coordinates in a shaky voice.  “
They bottled us up after the attack in the
harbor last week.  Left us alone for the most part, to lick our wounds.  But we
couldn’t come ashore because the local warlord got the whole town up in arms
against us.  Now they’re just trying to finish us off.  Just a bunch of pirates
but we’re
—“

“Don’t
worry son…I have help on the way.  Just hang tight, keep your heads down and
keep quiet.  No sense giving away details.  This channel is
not
secure. 
Understand, sailor?”

“
Aye,
aye, sir!
”

LIEUTENANT COMMANDER
RIGGS led Hawk flight over the remnants of the Marine Corps amphibious
carriers, holed up in the small Liberian harbor.  From his view, screaming in
at 10,000 feet, the ramshackle enemy flotilla looked like toy boats blockading
the mortally wounded U.S. vessels.

“
Coral
Sea, Coral Sea
, do you read me, this is Hawk Lead,” he called out from the
cockpit of his F-35 Lightning II.

“
Roger
that, Hawk Lead, thanks for the assist.”

Riggs
grinned behind his oxygen mask as he tipped his stealth fighter over and began
to vector in from the north.  “Looks like they’re trying to move in tight.”

“
Affirmative,
we’ve been able to hold our own, but now they’re sending in zodiacs filled with
explosives.  Fuckin’ suicide bombers!
”

Riggs could
tell by the lack of return fire and the proximity of the unarmed little
inflatable boats to the larger ships that the Americans were extremely low on
ammo, if not out.  There was no other excuse for letting the scum of the water
get that close to your ship.

“Just keep
your heads down and prepare for evac.  We’re comin’ in hot.”  To his squadron
he called out, “All right, boys, you know the drill.  Spearhead, on me, keep it
loose.  Call your shots.  We don’t want to waste any missiles on these floating
trash heaps.”

“
Let the
turkey shoot begin!
” whooped one of the other Hawks.

Riggs
checked his mirrors and saw his flight spread out behind him to the left and
right, wings wobbling only a little with the delicate maneuver.  As they
descended down through 5,000 feet and a thin patch of clouds he called out,
“Light ‘em up, Hawks!  Let’s show these jarheads how we do it in the Navy!”

“
There
must be sixty or seventy targets down there!
” another pilot announced.

“Fox one!”
called out Riggs.  A chorus of missile launches filled his headsets.  The
deadly rain shot forward, their smoke trails looking for all the world like
lances as they sought tiny targets on the water far below.

Missiles
continued to streak across the late afternoon sky.  The first explosion puffed
to life on the surface of the water.  “
Got one!
” called out Riggs’
wingman.

The third
world flotilla opened up with random and ineffective AAA: AK-47s, pistols, a
few mounted .50 caliber machine guns.  The spray of small arms fire was
impressive in its impotence to defend against the lethal state-of-the-art American
warbirds.  The Lightnings streaked ahead, untouched over and past their
targets.  The little gunboats exploded like firecrackers as the seemingly
unending cascade of missiles rained down on the pirate blockade.

Riggs
risked a low pass to get a better look at the beached
Coral Sea
.  It
dwarfed the attacking gunboats.   Even run aground and on her side, the
amphibious carrier still looked dangerous. 

He swooped
over a gunboat that looked like it had been put together from six or so
different boats just as a missile hit it amidships.  The explosion was
impressive and rocked the Lightning as he made a pass up the starboard side of
the carrier.  Marines in battle fatigues cheered and raised weapons along the
tilted and torn flight deck.  He saw the main hanger was mostly wreckage, bits
of Harrier jumpjets and hardware were strewn out in the shallow water of the
harbor among the support vessels that had tried to form a protective wall for
the disabled carrier.  He could see the firefight as the guns on the smaller
vessels engaged the enemy flotilla at point blank range to devastating effect.

The little
gunboats and pirate skiffs were quickly closing the distance to their quarry. 
Riggs didn’t like the odds that gave, when his missiles slammed into their targets,
practically on top of the besieged Americans.  He rolled hard into a bank
around the battle, roaring out over the harbor town.  Out of the corner of his
eye, he saw an explosion—one of the support vessels had been rammed with a
zodiac loaded with explosives.  Its hull ruptured, the support vessel nearly
lifted out of the water in a massive fireball. 

“
Shit!
”
he called out, watching pirates get knocked off their boats by the shockwave
from the death of the American ship.  “Hawk Lead, Hawk Flight,” he said,
grunting from a high-gee turn to get back into the fray.  “Watch it, guys, the
port is crawling with bad guys.  They’re truckin’ ‘em in.  They’re too close
now for missiles—switch to guns and start your strafing runs!”

Something
down below in the spinning view of shanties and dilapidated coastal warehouses
caught Riggs’ eye as he looped out over the city, heading for the water.  He
ignored his squadron’s chatter as they eagerly lanced through the hapless
blockade. 

There.  Two
convoys of trucks forking in towards the coast…oh shit.
  His
onboard early warning system squawked to life the instant he saw a flash and
smoke trail in the warren of crowded streets below.

“SAM
launch!  Northwest corner and southeast corner of the port—“ he called out and
threw his fighter into a gut-churning evasive spiral.

“
What? 
I got nothing on active search
…” another pilot radioed.

“
Stingers! 
Handheld missile launch, southeast of the harbor!
” crackled the voice of
Riggs’ wingman.  “
Target locked, fox two!”

“
Taking
fire
—“ someone called out with panic in his voice.

“
Hawk
Lead, you got a tail!”

“Can’t see
it,” Riggs grunted, ignoring the shrieks of warning from his jet’s computer.

“
Bank
port…now!
” called Jonesy, screaming in between his commanding officer
and the missile.  Riggs saw a flash out of the corner of his eye as the stinger
missile found Jonesy’s flare.  The two jets turn in tandem and bore down on the
SAM site from opposite directions.  They fired missiles and passed
belly-to-belly.

“
Wooaaah! 
That got ‘im!
” called out Jonesy as he turned towards the sea battle once
more, another target already in sight.

Riggs hit
the deck and roared through the smoke to strafe what was left of the SAM site. 
Men ran everywhere as vehicles exploded in Riggs’ path.

“
Hawk
Lead, Hammer Lead.  Anything left for us?
” came over Riggs helmet.  He
grinned as he saw a fresh wave of American jets streak into the maelstrom of
destruction from the north.  Reinforcements had arrived.

Poor
bastards won’t know what hit ‘em.  Maybe next time they won’t pick a fight they
don’t have any business watching, let alone fighting.
  Out loud,
Riggs replied, “You bet, Sledgehammer.  There’s another SAM site, southeast
corner of the harbor—looks like they’re getting reinforced from the east.”

“
Copy
that
,” replied Sledgehammer.  Riggs wobbled his wings in salute as he
headed out to sea, past Hammer Flight, hell bent on destruction.

Once Riggs
was satisfied resistance had been crushed, he circled the crippled amphibious
carrier one more time through the smoke of dozens of burning enemy boats. 
“Nest, Hawk Lead,” he said.  “The road’s clear for evac, over.”