Red Metal

CHAPTER 76

Only twenty-one miles off the coast of Mombasa, Kenya, a small black shaft of metal, little more than a wire, broke the surface of the sea. It was the antenna of a Raytheon HDR (high data rate) multiband-satellite communications system, and it was mounted to the mast of the American Virginia-class submarine that lurked just below the waves.

The USS John Warner.

Commander Diana DelVecchio stood at the helm, eyes on the communications officer as she broadcast a digital transmission that would fire up to the Milstar satellite network and inform Fleet Operations of the submarine’s current location and disposition.

It was this disposition that DelVecchio and the others on board were concerned about now.

After telling herself days earlier she had no chance of slipping through the Iranian and Russian ships and subs that would be arrayed in a picket line in the waters off Mombasa, searching for her specific acoustic signature, she’d set about finding some sort of patrol area far out to sea where she could both protect her crew and at least have some chance to affect events on the ground at Mrima Hill. But as the John Warner moved toward its patrol area, DelVecchio’s confidence grew. A particularly wily Russian sub that they had just barely escaped days earlier up north had sprinted down into the area to wait for their arrival, but the John Warner’s radar operators found her when she surfaced, presumably to send and receive messages, and the American boat slipped around her undetected.

And it was at this point DelVecchio told herself to go for it. If she moved slowly, took care to stay in the right thermocline to make it harder to be detected by sonar, and had her own sonar team working tirelessly to find and fix all threats, then maybe, just maybe, she could get her boat somewhere closer to the action, where they would be exponentially more useful.

So she did just that, and for thirty-one hours all hands on the John Warner worked virtually without rest or breaks. Now they found themselves just twelve nautical miles south of an Iranian frigate with antisub rockets and depth charges, and nine nautical miles northwest of a Russian frigate with even more counter-submarine abilities. Also, there were other subs in the water; the John Warner had detected them intermittently, although right now she had no idea where the hell they all were.

The John Warner was in position to launch a single salvo of cruise missiles if the Marines needed them, but they’d have to be sent to targets that would be in the exact same location for sixteen minutes, the flight time from the John Warner’s current position to the Mrima Hill area.

Plus, after firing this single salvo, the John Warner would have to somehow slip the noose yet again and find a way out to sea as the enemy all around closed in.

DelVecchio and her XO had been working the charts for most of the past thirty-one hours, and they thought they’d found their escape route. A trench that would help mask them zigzagged to the southeast; they would have to dive into it and race through it, relying on nothing more than their nautical charts to tell them when to turn to port and starboard to avoid colliding with the trench walls.

But if they could do this, DelVecchio felt good about her chances.

Now it was all up to the U.S. Marines to give her targets and to make this entire endeavor worthwhile.

Eight minutes after sending the transmission, the SATCOM monitors broadcast a reply. The Marines were in desperate straits at Mrima Hill. The battle had been raging for half a day, and some Russian units were inside the lines. Fleet had sent word to the Boxer, and the LHD was in the process of setting up radio communication between the John Warner and the Regimental HQ on the top of Mrima Hill so that there would be less delay in comms between the customer of the weapons and the supplier of the weapons.

DelVecchio nodded slowly as she read the transmission.

To the bridge she said, “All this wasn’t for nothing. Our forces need help, and we’re only going to get one shot at this.” She added, “And then we’re going to run like hell.”

Connolly looked over the lip of the trench to the north and saw fire and smoke and explosions, dead lying on open ground between his position and the wood line, and mangled wreckage of Marine Corps vehicles, and it occurred to him that he’d never seen combat like this in his life. But he was not alone. None of the Marines had.

Nor had the Russians, for that matter.

One of the radiomen turned to the lieutenant colonel. “We’re going to get overrun with the next wave down here, sir, and the regimental command post is under threat of complete destruction behind us. That arty is too intense for us to fight; all we can do is hunker down and wait for the BTRs to come up the hill and kill us in our trenches.”

Dan Connolly had to admit that this twenty-two-year-old Marine had as accurate a take on this battle as any working group at the Pentagon ever would.

He kept looking over the top of the slit trench, his eyes just barely high enough to see the continuing explosions at the front of India Company. There had been reports that the Russians had broken through in platoon-sized elements, but the last series of strikes from the F/A-18s took out six or seven BTRs, with the loss of one of the aircraft.

He was about to task the last two Cobras when a call came from a battalion radio operator. An unknown number of Russian BTRs had indeed made it inside the defensive lines, and they were now marauding in the rear.

Damn it, he thought. They’ve broken through.

He looked over the air officer’s attack data and thumped him on the helmet, giving him the approval for the Cobra run. Then he looked down the line in the direction of the battalion commander. Everyone in the trench was low to the ground, and one of them yelled and pointed to the north. Connolly turned his head to see three figures coming from his right. They were Russian infantrymen racing through the trees, obviously dismounts from a BTR.

A grenade bounced along the dirt and rolled across the front of Connolly’s trench.

“Watch it, sir!” Casillas stood up on the top of his LAV just behind the trench and cut loose with the M240 machine gun. He laid into the trigger, spraying rounds into the approaching Russian soldiers.

Connolly dropped down now, falling on top of the rest of the fires team.

The grenade made a deafening crack less than a dozen feet from the lip of the trench. He heard the shrapnel beating the dirt above his head like steel rain.

The men in the slit trench next to Connolly popped up, firing their rifles as yet another group of Russians appeared soon after. Casillas fired from atop the LAV, and the enemy scrambled for cover.

A BTR burst from the shattered trees at the northeastern side of the clearing, and raced into the open, veering between the wrecked hulks of LAVs and other vehicles. It fired wildly into what remained of the battalion headquarters, destroying vehicles, generators, aid station tents, and the seven-ton trucks parked in the wood line behind Connolly’s position. The Russian APC’s cannon peppered the area, sweeping a wide arc left, then right, shooting at anything in sight.

Connolly heard the agonized cries of men caught up in the blasts.

His group ducked down into the trench again to avoid the incoming 30mm fire as it passed close, and then Marines left and right popped up to fire with their rifles. It forced the Russian soldiers to duck down but it could not penetrate the BTR; its armor was too thick, even for Casillas’s heavy weaponry.

The Russian machine advanced slowly with soldiers crouched behind it, using it as a shield and firing to their flanks.

Connolly hefted his carbine, thumbed off the safety, and rose above the trench line. He only managed to squeeze off a few rounds in anger at the BTR fifty meters away before his position was raked by 7.62mm fire.

Dropping back below the lip of the trench, he looked behind him. There was nowhere to go. If he and his team jumped out, the BTR would cut them in half. If they stayed, eventually the soldiers closing in on them would take the trench.

They were completely pinned.

Without warning, an incredible screaming sound shot right over him. He heard an explosion just to the north, and then heat and flame shot over the top of the trench.

The incoming fire stopped immediately.

Connolly poked his head up and saw the BTR, a gaping hole in its side, smoke pouring out of its top. The Russians behind it were either dead, wounded, or scrambling for cover back down the hill.

“Get some!” came a shout from behind, and Connolly turned to see Sergeant Casillas off his LAV, on his knees in the dirt with an empty AT-4 rocket tube in his hands.

He tossed it aside and started to climb back aboard his LAV. His uniform was shredded at his right thigh and completely coated in shiny, slick blood.

Men cheered and poured fire into the surviving Russian dismounts.

Connolly yelled for the two nearest men from his fires team to race out to grab the Marine sergeant. Casillas had made it halfway back to the top of his LAV and was trying to man his machine gun in case of further attack. They reached him quickly and coaxed him back down despite his protests, and corpsmen were called over to carry him to the makeshift medical station in another slit trench in the clearing.

Connolly worked on getting the aircraft back on his radio for confirmation and another run, then shook his head in amazement. Only a Marine sergeant would get shot, then try to climb back to his post to continue his duty.

The radioman next to Connolly had wicked cuts to his face, and blood was smeared around it like war paint, but he was still doing his job.

“Call from the Boxer, sir!”

Connolly couldn’t imagine what the hell the Boxer would have to tell him that would do him any good right now. “Unless they came across an extra squadron of F/A-18s down in their hold, I don’t have time to talk with the damn ship.”

The radioman handed Connolly the hook, too overwhelmed by events to laugh at the joke. “They said it’s urgent, sir.”

Connolly brought the hook to his ear with annoyance. “Grizzly Five, fired. Over.”

The voice on the other end said, “John Warner is in range and on station and offering to help. They have cruise missiles but a very short window before they’ll have to turn and run once they expose themselves. Flight time to estimated Russian positions is sixteen minutes, but they’ll need coordinates from you. Not sure how effective they’ll be, seeing how we don’t have the Russian forces locked into one area.”

A shell crashed less than twenty-five meters away from the trench. Dirt, stones, and branches flew inches over Connolly’s head while he squatted with the hook at his ear.

But despite this his eyes widened and he broke into a smile.

“Sixteen minutes’ flight time? Hell yeah, I can work with that! Wait one.” He looked to the men around him and shouted over the sound of the incoming. “TLAMs!” The men knew he was referring to the Tomahawk Land Attack Missile.

The men squatting in the trench next to Connolly gave him a puzzled look. Then a young captain said, “Sub-launched Tomahawks, sir?”

“Yes. If we can just silence the Russian artillery we can help break the attack on the battalion. I want you guys coordinating the close air support and hitting everything in front of India Company. The Russians picked 3/5, India Company in particular, as their through point, and if I read their general correctly, he’s about to turn up the heat. Get a full package ready to fire on my signal.”

The men began working up the necessary equations while huddled together on their knees in the slit trench, which looked like it was about to collapse around them.

Connolly radioed up to Caster; it took a full minute to get him off another radio and onto Connolly’s net.

“You guys holding the line, Dan?”

“Sir, the command post’s been destroyed and we’re in the trenches now. India Company is about to be in a real shit sandwich. But the John Warner is in range and ready to prosecute stationary targets with Tomahawks. If we can neutralize that Russian arty with the cruise missiles, we can take the pressure off India, and then Darkhorse can adjust his lines to deal with any attempted breakthrough.”

“You tried to take out those Russian cannons once before, but it seems to me like they still have plenty of fight left in them.”

“Yes, sir. But we have an accurate grid, and based on the Russian rates of fire, they’re pouring it all on. They have not moved their guns, sir. Lazar should have, but he’s too confident they’re about to break through to slacken the fire. Those artillery pieces are in the same place where they were an hour ago. I bet they’ll be there in sixteen minutes. If Lazar keeps up the heat on us, the TLAMs can hit that grid and shut them down.”

“How sure are you on the grid?”

“Solid intel, sir. My map says they’re in an open spot.”

Caster and the CP were clearly under withering fire at the moment; Connolly could barely hear the colonel over the sound of artillery. “Then let’s put that sub to work. Send the coordinates. I’ll get McHale and his fires coordination cell to look over the firing data and deconflict the Tomahawks’ path with the converging fires from artillery, mortars, and the helicopters and jets already converging on Darkhorse’s frontage.”

“Roger that, sir.”