Holding Their Own VII: Phoenix Star (2 page)

Chapter 1

Alpha, Texas

July 19

General Owens closed the Humvee’s door, the up-armored appendage weighing over 500 pounds and producing an audible thunk. After waiting for the driver to maneuver through the ever-growing traffic in downtown Alpha, he turned to the backseat and made eye contact with the Undersecretary of the Interior. “That didn’t go as I expected.”

“They’re just being stubborn; that’s all there is to it,” came the reply.

Marcus replayed the meeting’s high points, absentmindedly watching Alpha pass by the thick glass mounted in the door. Diana had been unyielding on even the smallest point, the rest of the Alliance’s Council sullen and quiet.

“They’re still stinging over losing two of their leading citizens,” the general commented. “I’m going to insist we open the next session with something other than a demand that they surrender Bishop.”

The general’s aide looked over, “Sir, do you believe their story? It seems a little farfetched that he’s no longer in their territory.”

“Yes… yes, I do believe them. Now mind you, I would imagine someone helped him escape, but we have enough eyes and ears on the ground to know if he shows himself in these parts. The leaders of the Alliance have to know that and wouldn’t mislead us.”

Shaking his head, the man from Interior spoke up, “I would have thought their leadership would have crumbled almost immediately, but clearly that is not the case. I seem to be having trouble relating to these people. Or maybe we’re just not giving it enough time.”

Owens digested the concept, eventually shaking his head. “I disagree. I think striking while momentum is on our side was the right move. My read on Diana is that she doesn’t believe our story about the massacre. The same with that big guy… Nick. They may never accept that their friend is a murderer.”

“So what do you propose, sir?”

Marcus didn’t hesitate. “If we are going to get this over quickly, working from the top down isn’t the right strategy. However, their leaders will listen to public opinion or be replaced. We need to stir up the fine citizens of West Texas – let them know we mean business.”

“And how do you purpose to do that, General?” The politician inquired from the back seat.

The officer grunted, a smirk crossing his face. “I may not be a world-class diplomat, but one thing is for certain - I am fully capable of delivering a message.”

Midland Station, Texas

July 20

The two Longbow Apache gunships resembled black, demonic wasps as they rocketed across the West Texas desert. That image was enhanced by their nose-down intent, slanted canopies, and hard points bristling with weapons. From an enemy’s perspective, the Longbow resonated with apocalyptic capability – the end was near.

A short, stubby wing extended from each side of the fuselage, both birds carrying a deadly mixture of Hydra rockets and Hellfire missiles. Capable of delivering more firepower than a WWII naval destroyer, the war birds were lethal hunters on any battlefield, day or night.

But it was the third helicopter that was to play the critical role today. Flying slightly lower and between its two heavily armed escorts, the small Kiowa transported neither missile, nor rocket. In fact, the tiny craft was unarmed. 

Compared to the two gunships accompanying it, the scout appeared rather clumsy and benign. That misleading form was accented by the beach ball-shaped object mounted above the main rotor. Technically referred to as the MMSS, or Mast Mounted Sight System, the spherical protrusion was packed with observation and target-designation electronics.

In any weather or light, the Kiowa could dart behind ridges, tree lines, and hills, exposing only the small ball at the top of its mast to prying eyes, enemy pilots, and anti-aircraft gunners. Its role was to identify targets, designate them with a laser beam, and then call in the heavy firepower. It excelled at the job.

As the flight neared Midland Station, the two Apaches slowed, letting their smaller cousin take a considerable lead. Before long, the scout spotted the perfect hiding place and reduced its forward momentum considerably, eventually hovering behind a slight crest on the outskirts of the Alliance city.

Nick had ordered the seized convoy trucks driven to an empty warehouse on the edge of town. A few days after capturing the more than 20 trucks, the council had decided to unload any useful arms and ammunition, but to leave the non-perishable food and fuel untouched. The Alliance’s leaders believed the tons of cargo would eventually become a point of negotiation during the on-going deliberations with the US government.

The militia leadership didn’t like the decision, worried that the parking lot full of US Army transports was a temptation for the other side. They were right.

The Kiowa scanned the industrial complex from its hide, the co-pilot viewing images of the anticipated Army transports via a monitor mounted in the cockpit. “Right where the captain said they would be,” he informed the pilot. “Too easy.”

He began punching a series of buttons that transmitted both the coordinates and the frequency of the helicopter’s laser designator.

In the warehouse’s office, a warning beep sounded, causing the three men working inside to look up quickly with concern. “Shit,” the older man mumbled. “Get on the radio, and call for help.”

For a moment, the helpers ignored the boss, both of them mesmerized by the source of the alarm. The presence of the Kiowa and all of its advanced electronics was being announced by a common radar detector, normally used by commuters to avoid speeding tickets. Scavenged from one of the countless abandoned vehicles surrounding the town, Nick had ordered four of the devices mounted on the warehouse’s roof.

Nick had warned his men, “They most likely will start with a stand-off attack. They’ll splash laser beams all over this facility before the hurt comes raining down. You won’t have much notice, so get low… and get there quickly. For a few minutes, you will feel like you are in Dante’s seventh level of hell.”

Heeding his advice, the three office workers scrambled for the preassembled pits of sandbags in the back corner. Each miniature bunker consisted of a heavy metal desk, completely lined and covered with sandbags. As they scurried for the cover, one of the men was screaming on the radio, advising any listener on the frequency they were under attack.

Radios carried the alarm all over Midland Station. Hundreds of men hustling to pre-assigned defensive positions, the vast majority centered on the only functional refinery in Texas. The Alliance was determined not to let its primary bargaining chip fall into enemy hands. Rigged with explosives and surrounded by the best defenses the tiny militia could assemble, Nick would destroy the facility if it couldn’t be held.  

In the desert, 15 miles to the east of the warehouse, the Kiowa’s transmission was received by three M109 Paladin self-propelled howitzers. Looking like elongated battle tanks with extra-large gun barrels, the tracked vehicles had been a staple of the American ground warfare since the 1960s.

But these war machines weren’t primitive by any sense of the word. Constantly upgraded and modernized, each of the mobile artillery units was equipped with the latest in networking, software, and munitions. The fire-control computers onboard the armored guns processed the Kiowa’s broadcasted coordinates and within seconds began delivering a firing solution.

The 155mm gun barrels arched toward the sky, each tube reaching a high degree of apex. Almost simultaneously, the three belched smoke as their projectiles roared toward Midland Station.

Inside the crew compartments, loaders were feeding a new round into the breach. Within seconds, the barrels lowered their aim a few degrees, and soon three more rounds were on the way.

The process was repeated a third time, the final salvo fired with the barrels at a much lower angle. The tactic was simple. While the first shell was traveling on a high arch toward the target, each follow-on round was catching up via its lower trajectory. A high fly, then a lob and finally the line drive. All nine rounds would impact at the same time, despite being fired several seconds apart.

As each shell began its descent, stabilizing fins sprouted from the projectile’s body. A few moments later, an electronic seeker energized in the nose, scanning for the Kiowa’s laser designators.

The Kiowa hovered, well hidden behind the mound and keeping its invisible laser beams aimed at the objective. Those lines of intense light weren’t focused on a single point. Rotating in a computer controlled sequence, each corner of the parking lot was highlighted as well as the center of the warehouse’s roof.

Miles above and east of the target, the artillery seekers locked onto the beams and made small adjustments to their courses. Four of the incoming warheads zeroed in on the actual building while the remaining projectiles flew toward the grounds surrounding the marshalled trucks.

One hundred and fifty feet above the structure’s roof, the Excalibur Block II shells detonated. To any observer on the ground, the explosions appeared as harmless, grey puffs of smoke, the effect more closely resembling malfunctioning civilian fireworks than a deadly military strike. It was an illusion.

Multiple bomblets scattered from each shell, free falling downward in a precise pattern. Ribbons stabilized the grenades, pounds of high yield explosives descending toward the warehouse’s roof. At 15 feet above the structure, each sub-warhead exploded.

During the Gulf wars, US troops had coined the term, “Steel rain,” when referring to cluster munitions, and it was an apt description. The roof of the warehouse practically disintegrated, the victim of high velocity shrapnel and a compressed blast wave of air.

Two of the three workers inside of the structure actually survived the attack, huddled in their makeshift bunkers. Lucky to still draw breath, they found themselves at least temporarily deaf and blind… they couldn’t hear the continuing air strike or see the carnage. The sole causality died when his body was crushed by a collapsing wall of scorching rubble.

At the same instant the warehouse was being shredded, a wall of West Texas soil erupted around the parking lot. Five of the artillery rounds bracketed the area surrounding the military’s seized trucks. The planners back at Hood hadn’t wanted any guard posts, sniper hides or other hidden defenders enjoying their breakfast.

Before the dust and debris had begun to fall, the two Longbow Apache gunships pointed their noses downward and accelerated toward the target. At a range of four miles, each war bird energized two Hellfire missiles, verified its target, and launched.

The second wave of the attack was really unnecessary, but the officers back at Hood had been surprised and embarrassed by the Alliance once. They vowed it wouldn’t happen again and used the Apaches to “bounce the rubble.”

What little was left of the warehouse was struck by the missiles, the net result of the mission a pile of unrecognizable, smoldering ruins.

A short time later, the two gunships roared over the scene, infrared sensors scanning for any sign of defenders or resistance. There were no survivors, the two remaining Alliance workers slain instantly in the follow-on attack.

The Apaches didn’t leave. Instead, the two aircraft began orbiting the facility, almost as if daring any Alliance fighters to show themselves. None did, at least not in the immediate vicinity.

Nick and the other militia leaders had been concerned that the US might attack. Their foresight had even gone so far as to anticipate an assault from the air.

“We can’t keep them from destroying the convoy’s trucks or cargo. We can do little to defend the warehouse from a determined attack. What we can do is make them pay a high price for their actions and save as many of our people as possible.”

Their plan had included the radar detectors, sand bagged desks, and a third measure of defense.

Months ago, when it had become clear that the Alliance might face the US military, a detailed inventory of all available weapons, ammunition and personnel skills had been ordered by the council. Every small-town National Guard armory, police station, and sporting goods store had been searched and the contents counted.

Most had been looted after the collapse, but the stolen items had not simply vanished into thin air. Over time, the men of the Alliance had recovered, stumbled upon, or received voluntary donations of a considerable cache of offensive firepower.

While small arms and ammunition were important, Nick fully understood that his force’s most critical shortcoming was standoff weaponry. His foe could project power from great distances while he could not, and that was a recipe for a hasty defeat.

Of all the arms available to the Alliance, it was the seven .50 caliber rifles that caused the ex-Special Forces operator to smile. The huge rifles were man-portable, capable of inflicting damage at considerable distances, and deadly accurate.

All seven had been in the hands of private individuals, some purchased for the sheer fun of target practice, others as conversation pieces. Whatever the reason, Nick appreciated their contribution to the Alliance’s arsenal and planned to make good use of their capabilities.

Given warning by the desperate radio broadcast from the warehouse, all seven of the 50s were on the move by the time the howitzer shells landed. Teams comprised of two carefully selected men scrambled for predetermined positions, each duo carrying one of the big rifles.