Alea Jacta Est: A Novel of the Fall of America (Future History of America Book 1) (53 page)

CAPTAIN URI STOLNOYVICH
stood near his XO at the Conn.  He smoked his cheap Ukrainian cigarette to a
smoldering stub and let it hang from his dry lips absent-mindedly.  His
attention was focused exclusively on the radar return screen that transmitted
the signals from the three torpedoes he had just launched.

Every man
in that cramped command center held his breath.  The air was rank with
cigarette smoke and the air filters were working at full capacity to clear the
atmosphere inside the Russian attack submarine
Dansk
.  The dull red
light that signified combat stations cast a demonic pallor on all the men.

The XO held
a stopwatch in his hand, watching the numbers tick by, one by one.  He cleared
his throat and spoke softly.  “Time to impact, twenty-seven seconds.”

Uri could
imagine the scene that surely was playing out on board the American Naval ship
he had just designated to be destroyed.  Men at computer consoles not unlike
those before him were probably screaming out commands and information, fear
boiling up inside them as they noticed the three spears coming out of the
darkness of the sea aimed straight at their soft underbelly.   Sirens would be
going off to alert the ignorant of their impending doom.  The ship would be
like an anthill that has been kicked over by a child, men swarming everywhere,
to battle stations, to damage stations, running in panic.

Uri smiled
through a week-old beard.  Moscow would be pleased to hear of this.  The other
subs had moved into position around U.S. Naval bases and troop concentrations
around the world.  The big boomers, the ballistic missile subs of the Red Navy,
had taken their position in the middle Atlantic, waiting to unleash their
deadly cargo on America. 

But the old
Dansk
, relegated to patrol duty off the coast of northern Africa for
more than a year would be the one to reap first blood in the new war. 
Dansk
,
hull rusted and leaking in more than a few places, low on every imaginable
supply, would get the first kill, sink the first ship.  Everyone in Moscow
seemed to have forgotten the American presence in Liberia.  There were a couple
thousand Marines stationed there to help the African cesspool get itself
together after decades of bloody civil war.  Now they were all nicely packed on
two large American naval vessels, just getting underway for home. 

Uri felt no
remorse—
After all,
he thought,
we are all soldiers.  They would do
the same and feel the same if our roles were reversed.  I shall drink some
vodka for you, Americans.  You were a worthy adversary for so many years.

“Twelve
seconds to impact…”

CAPTAIN DANIEL HURT
roared into the microphone in his hand.  “Flank speed, rudder hard to port!” 
He could feel the ship respond to his commands and felt the deck shudder as the
amphibious assault carrier tried to evade the incoming torpedoes.  Orders were
shouted out by more than one man on the bridge.  Lights flashed, klaxons
sounded.

As the big
ship began to heel into her turn, Hurt called out, “Where the hell did they come
from?”

“Countermeasures
away, sir,” reported the XO.

“They’re
locked on!” reported the radar man.

“Look!”
said the XO, pointing out the observation windows to starboard.  In the early
morning light, three slim trails of phosphorescent light broke the calm dark
surface of the sea.  “There they are…”

A large
white spot suddenly appeared at the lead point on one of the glowing trails
left by the torpedoes.  “One fish down!” reported the radar operator. 
Countermeasures got that one, sir.”

“Very
well,” said the Captain.  “Time to impact?”

“I estimate
about fifteen seconds…”

“Number two
just veered off course, it’s following the decoy!” called out the XO.  The
glowing trail in the water suddenly turned and headed aft, heading back out to
see, the torpedo’s guidance system scrambled by the American decoy.  Everyone
on the bridge strained to see the third trail, still heading true for
amidships. 

“Seven
seconds to impact…” called out the XO.

“All hands,
brace for impact—I repeat, all hands, brace—-“ Hurt was knocked off his feet
when the torpedo punched through the ship’s hull below the waterline and
detonated deep inside the American vessel.  As the explosion reverberated
throughout the ship’s hull, more sirens went off, louder.  The deck began
shuddering and sailors slid and fell all over the bridge.  An awful groaning
sound echoed through the hull.   The captain grimaced.  His ship had been
gutted.  Like a fish in a barrel.  By a damn torpedo.

Captain
Hurt composed himself and climbed to his feet in order to hold onto to a
railing nearby.  The ship had already swung up to level and began listing to
port now.  “Damage report!” he bellowed into the microphone hanging from the
ceiling in the bridge.  Nothing.  The deck shuddered again from a secondary
explosion. 

“She’s
listing to port, sir,” called out the XO, watching in horror as the ship began
to slowly rotate and lean out over the water.  He could see men jumping from
the deck into the ocean below.  The groaning sound grew louder and louder. 
“Sir, she’s tearing apart—“

The captain
grabbed the mike one last time, made a snap decision that would probably cost
him his career but save the lives of the men he was sworn to command. “Abandon
ship, repeat, abandon ship!  All hands to your lifeboats!  Abandon ship, this
is not a drill!”  Another explosion shook the bridge, computer monitors sparked
and went black.  A thick, dark cloud of smoke began to obscure the view out the
bridge windows.

The XO
raced to the radio station and began to call for help over the fleet frequencies.

 “Alright,
everyone out!  Let’s go, move!” shouted the captain. 

IN THE HEART
of the
Dansk
,
silence still reigned.  No one dare speak yet.  The captain had not said if it
was a kill or not and none of the crew wanted to jinx the attack. 

Uri could
tell by the radar screens that two of the torpedoes had failed…but the third
had hit home.

“Transmission
from the Americans…” said the radio operator in a high, excited voice. 
“Translating…” the man closed his eyes and concentrated, hearing English over
his large headphones and converting it to Russian in his head before speaking. 
Everyone in the command center turned and stared at their comrade.  He began to
sweat.

“Mayday…mayday…”
the man mumbled to himself, trying to get his thoughts straight.  “Under
attack, torpedo strike…” he shook his head.  “They talk so fast!” he took a
breath and tried again.  “Taking on water…sinking…abandoning ship…” the man
never finished his sentence as the command center erupted into cheers.

The XO
clapped his captain on the back and smiled.  “Congratulations, Captain!  You
sank the Americans!”

Uri shook
off his XO’s hand and barked a command for silence.  “Get me plots on the
other
ship, comrades!  Our business with these Americans is not over!”  More cheers
erupted as the Russian sub aimed its sights at the second Marine transport
ship, now slowing down to gather survivors from the flaming, dying sister ship.

“By the
time we are through with the Yankees, our comrades in the Army will have
nothing to fight but gang members and prostitutes when they reach American
soil!” bellowed Uri.  The men cheered again and set to work.

WHERE THE HELL is our
Force Protection?” asked General Robert Stirling’s image on the wall monitor.             

“It’s
there, and it’s working—“ began the Secretary of Defense’s face. 

“The hell
it is!  We lost two amphibious carriers this morning—God knows how many Marines
died, we’re still waiting for the numbers because someone shot our damned
satellites down,” barked the Commandant of the Marine Corps.  He glared at the
Chief of Staff for the Air Force.

“Hey, we’re
just as blind as you are,” retorted the Air Force general’s avatar.

“
Knock
it off!
” barked the President, slapping the oak desk with his open palm. 
All the gathered men and women fell silent.  The President was letting his
anger show more and more as the days and weeks went by.  “It’s bad enough I’ve
signed away our Constitutional rights temporarily, I don’t need school yard
bickering from my chiefs of staff.”  All the display screens fell silent and
most look ashamed to have been called out by their Commander in Chief.  No one
was getting enough sleep lately.

Hank Suthby
frowned at the mention of his role in the national interest in such a negative
light.  He brightened when the President nodded for him to start the briefing.

“Hank.”

“Yes, Mr.
President.  Ladies and Gentlemen, it’s been almost three days now since we’ve
instituted Martial Law, and I’m happy to say, we’re seeing the first signs of
success.”

“Oh?” asked
SecDef’s image.  He half grinned, eyebrow arched.  “That’s not what I’m hearing
over short-wave broadcasts from the BBC.”

“With all
due respect, Mr. Secretary, the British have their own agenda.  Now, as you can
see from these numbers,” the head of Homeland Security said as aides began
passing around photocopies.  “We’ve got New York, what’s left of L.A., Houston
and Tampa under lockdown and contained.”

“What do
you mean by contained?” asked the Secretary of State.

“Simply
that—we’ve encircled the cities, we’re blocking all exit/entry and the looting,
raping, violence and destruction is not spreading outside those cities, and in
some cases, we’ve localized it to the downtown areas altogether.”

"And
we're doing nothing to stop the looting, raping and violence that's now trapped
in
the cities?" asked the President.

"Sir,
we can't solve everything in a week.  I think it's good enough that we're
preventing it all from spreading for the moment," replied Suthby.  More
than one pair of eyebrows went up around the room.  The DHS chief was growing a
pair and letting it show.  The expected rebuke from the over-stressed President
never came.  That caused even more eyebrows to go up.  More than a few looks
were shared across the virtual conference table.  Things were shifting.

“How much
manpower is this using up?” asked General Stirling’s screen, looking at the
confusing paper in his hands.

“We’ve got
roughly one third of available National Guard units in the affected states
handling ‘encirclement detail’.”

“A third
for shelter—“ began SecDef.

“Eh, Safe
Zone…” offered Suthby with a sly grin.

“Safe Zone,
whatever
…and the rest are doing what?”

“The
remaining troops are being used to…persuade citizens to come to the Safe
Zones.  In cases where they are met with refusal, we’re handing out food and
water, whatever they need.  But it’s taking more time than we thought to reach
the more rural areas and bring people in.  I’m considering forced evacuations…”

“Just out
of curiosity, why are we doing this?” asked the pug faced Marine Commandant. 
“These are Americans, not—“

“Frankly,
General, it’s because without
us
people will starve and turn to
violence.  Remember, we’ve got large areas of the country that have been
without power and running water for almost two and a half weeks now.  I’ve got
reports of cholera and typhoid fever popping up in the south.  If we don’t get
people out of those zones and fast, we’re going to have nationwide epidemics on
our hands!”

“I’m
getting reports from some National Guard units that there are pockets of
‘resistance’ out there.  People banding together for the common good type of
thing.  When the scum come creeping out of the gutters in the cities, there’s
bound to be problems,” said General Stirling’s image.  He directed his comments
directly at the President, ignoring the uppity DHS Secretary.

“With all
due respect, General, I think you should focus more on bigger problems, like
Chicago,” replied Suthby with an icy tone to his voice.

The
General’s face flushed with wounded pride.  “There is a stalemate, yes.  But
General Stapleton has the city under siege.  This rebellion will die down soon
enough.”

“Well, he’s
already destroyed half of Chicago, he may as well level the rest and finish the
rebellion off,” muttered Suthby defiantly.

“Leaving
Chicago aside for the moment, I want to know the situation with our soldiers
returning home,” cut in the President.  “We lost two Marine carriers and a 747
in the last thirty-six hours.  What the hell is going on out there, people?”

“Sir, it’s
the U.N.,” commented SecDef’s image sourly.  “We expected them to marshal their
forces and launch an invasion, but we didn’t expect them to hit our boys before
they got home.”

“It makes
sense, that’s the weakest point,” said the National Security Advisor.  “We
expected marginal loses in transit.  So far the numbers are in the green.”