How he longed for a little air cover to get some of that sweet early warning advantage. In all his tours, even to the Middle East and that saber-rattling stint in the Straits of Taiwan, he had never felt so naked and exposed. Ever since the sprawling Bangor Naval Base outside Seattle finally succumbed to a three-month long rebel siege, there was no longer a single military facility still answering to federal authority along the entire West Coast.
They couldn’t even count on any help or information coming out of Canada, only 200 miles northeast. US ally or not, Ottawa kept taking increasingly aggressive steps to enforce their neutrality in America’s civil war. Well, neutral against armed forces. They had no problem accepting every damn smuggler, like this ship ahead. With all those land-based rebel aircraft roaming the skies, the US Navy couldn’t effectively enforce their blockade closer than 200 miles from the coast. Any vessel that could make it across the Pacific and into Canadian waters had a free pass to any URA controlled port.
With most of what was left of the US Navy aggressively patrolling the Pacific, it should have been impossible for any ship to approach the mainland without being searched. On paper, at least. Turns out the Pacific is pretty damn large. There was also too much money to be made smuggling arms and industrial goods to the enemy for threats alone to scare off all these nautical entrepreneurs.
“Hey sir! They’re heaving-to for inspection. Finally responding to the radio.” The young midshipman sounded disappointed that they weren’t going to fire “a shot across the bow.”
“A stroke of luck for a change. Chief, ready the boarding party.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Should I have the rest of the crew lower their alert status? We’ve been at General Quarters for hours, Captain.”
“Negative, Chief. As long as we’re outside of friendly air cover and so close to those rebels, we’re keeping our heads up. I will not be commanding the first naval vessel sunk in this war. I’ll be damned if I’ll let those sneaky sons of bitches catch us with our pants down!”
The whole bridge chorused, fatigue momentarily forgotten. “Aye, Aye, Captain!”
Twenty minutes later the Captain was even less at ease. “I don’t know. This is too easy.” His destroyer and the CONEX-laden ship four times their size lay dead in the water, only a mile apart. The other crew hadn’t made a hostile gesture, but only a few of their sailors crowded the railings to see what was happening. Not even a single peep over the radio protesting their innocence. Both of his ship’s inflatable powered boats were less than a minute from reaching the boarding ladder. Eighteen well-armed sailors and one ferocious German shepherd were ready to play pirates if the other ship tried anything.
“Keep the 5-incher and machine guns covering them, Chief. Double check personally that no one’s slacking off.”
Modern destroyers run with a relatively small crew. The captain had already lost a dozen crewmembers that never returned from leave in California when the war first kicked off. Toss in the boarding party and all the other sailors operating secondary machine guns mounted around the ship, and the USS Dunnel was hardly at peak efficiency. Too many of his remaining sailors were temporarily pulling double or even triple duty.
Maybe that’s why it took so long for his radar station to identify the threat. “Bridge, this is CIC. Inbound bogeys from the southwest. Eight planes coming in low, but fast.”
Hairs prickled on Captain Worden’s neck. Still, he didn’t panic. He commanded an AEGIS-equipped guided missile destroyer. One of the most deadly anti-air platforms ever created. Before he could give any orders that same voice came back over the radio, professional demeanor cracking.
“Correction, bridge. Twelve inbound and only 30 miles out. Shit, another flight! Sixteen headed right for us! Positively I.D’d… those are F-35’s and not friendly, Captain!”
“Comms! Get the admiral and have him scramble some air cover as fast as possible!”
He knew the request was a long shot. The nearest carrier cruised nearly 200 miles due west of them, but he had to try. Maybe some friendly fighters could arrive in time to avenge his ship’s loss, at least. Worden didn’t waste any effort with despair. Their fate was already written when those planes snuck so close without being detected. All he could do for his crew was try to guarantee they’d get more than a footnote in the history books.
“All stations: weapons free! No FDC checks; no safeguards. Empty the arsenal and show those bastards who they’re fucking with!”
Within seconds, real control of the battle passed to computers. Due to moral constraints rather than technical limitations, a handful of human operators in the CIC manually had to press the fire buttons. Still, all the work of finding, targeting and even reloading the missile launchers were in automatic hands. Inside the darkened battle center, deep in the bowels of the ship, the battle looked like a geek party, with kids feverishly tapping red buttons on their video game controls.
From the perspective of the surprised rebel fighter-bombers above, the ship disappeared in smoke. These were Air Force pilots after all. Not naval aviators. For a brief moment, they hoped the vessel below had some sort of accident.
Their flashing threat receivers shattered that fantasy. One lance of fire after another rocketed straight up from both the bow and aft of the gray destroyer. In less than 30 seconds, dozens of the most sophisticated surface-to-air missiles ever built joined the fight. This random and dangerous interloper flipped the URA’s carefully planned attack upside down. The pissed off leader of the rebel strike force quickly adapted.
“All elements: Release your packages now and break contact. Don’t bother acknowledging. Just execute!” He had to trust in the GPS systems on the cruise missiles.
Some midshipman clapped Captain Worden on the back when the CIC hollered over the bridge’s PA system that the enemy planes were breaking contact. He added a less enthusiastic piece of information a second later.
“Sir, enemy missile launches… looks like two or so from each bird!”
No one looked at the Captain, but every soul waited for his direction. Those million dollar anti-air missiles the ship pumped out had the ability to change targets after launch. He had the option to divert them and try to intercept the incoming death, or stay the course and hit the launching aircraft. Make the enemy pay. Possible salvation or guaranteed revenge were the choices. Well, that’s why he was paid the big bucks.
Despite the crew’s expectations, Worden didn’t hesitate. “Keep all fire on the enemy aircraft. All stations: brace for impact!” Thirty-six missiles were too many. Just one getting through would shred his ship into so much confetti. Their primary defense was all the firepower they packed. Modern naval combat took the old adage, “the best defense is a good offense,” to an extreme. Offense was their only defense.
The enemy planes were losing altitude and piling on the speed, but his missiles still closed. He idly wondered why the CIC was so quiet as he straightened his uniform for the last time. It nagged on his sense of professionalism. He should be getting a “five seconds to impact” warning. Oh well. Under the circumstances, he was still proud of his crew. He flipped on the ship’s PA system for the last time. “This is the captain. I want you all to know it has been a pleasure to serve with-
“Bridge, CIC! All, I say again, all enemy missiles have overshot us outside of point defense range. They’re maintaining a wave-top height cruising altitude, but are continuing west. The radar has no other inbound threats!”
Something didn’t fit. His staff excitedly tallied off hits to the fleeing Joint Strike Fighters. Despite their stealth technology and low-heat signatures, his team counted five kills before they crossed over the horizon. Only at that distance did the stealth technology begin to make a difference.