Capital Offensive. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
“And have the professor prepare for phase two.”
“It will be my pleasure, sir.” The major saluted, then sprinted toward the communications bunker.
There, it is done, Calvano noted, staring after the officer. I’ve crossed the line between soldier and terrorist. I am no longer an honorable man. Oddly though, a great weight was lifted from his shoulders at the decision, and the general felt exhilarated, almost intoxicated at the rush of total freedom. There were no more rules anymore, only results.
With a low rumble, the APC came alive and started after the general, the great machine advancing until it loomed over the man, casting him into a dark shadow.
CHAPTER FOUR
Makran Coast, Pakistan
“Red alert!” a voice boomed over the PA system of the U.S. Navy frigate as Klaxons blared. “Red alert!”
Erupting into action, the crew of the USS Canton scrambled for their posts even as the Phalanx guns at the bow and stern swung about automatically and started roaring at full blast. Guided by radar, the Vulcan miniguns vomited a fiery barrage of 40 mm shells at the incoming missile, the rapid-fire cannons spraying a wall of soft lead and steel pellets into the air.
With a violent concussion, the two LAW rockets fired from the hills along the rocky shore exploded in midair, peppering the sea with hot shrapnel until the water appeared to be boiling.
The crew cheered and quickly reloaded their weapons. Riding low in the choppy water, the USS Canton was anchored just off the desolate Makran Coast of Pakistan. There were no fishing villages along most of the coastline, the sea being far too heavily polluted from the oil refineries of Iran to the west and the steel industries of India to the east. But this section was possibly the worst. The coast resembled the lunar surface with bare jagged mountain covered by stiletto-like spires. There was only sparse vegetation, raggedy plants and leafy weeds struggling to stay alive in a hostile land, only a few randomly scattered acacia trees. Nearby was a gurgling mud volcano, the geological phenomenon endlessly pumping out waves of bubbling mud, the sluggish river of muck flowing along the cracked ridges and dissolving the sandstone formations on its way to the murky sea. Visibility was almost nil in the thick waters, and if there were any fish in the area, the sonar operator of the Canton couldn’t find them. The crew knew they were still on the planet Earth, but had to keep reminding themselves of the fact.
On the bridge of the Canton, Captain David Henderson lowered his binoculars and grudgingly admired the strategy of the Afghanistan rebels. If they could get America embroiled in a shooting war with Pakistan, then the U.S. Navy would be hard-pressed to aid the NATO troops inside Afghanistan hunting down terrorist training camps.
“Ready a Tomahawk,” Henderson said calmly as the bow Phalanx fired again. Then it swung to a new position and fired twice more.
Barely visible in the swirling steam of the mud volcano, another missile exploded, only doing damage to the ragged plants along the crumbling cliffs.
“And let HQ know we are under fire from the hills,” the captain added over a shoulder. “These appear to be LAW rockets from the look of the contrail.”
“Sir!” a man replied from the communications board inside the bridge. Swiftly, the man started to relay the information to the Pentagon via satellite.
Stoically, Henderson went back to watching the shore. LAW rockets against a frigate? The Afghans had to be desperate to try that. Even if they hit the ship, which was highly unlikely, the rockets simply didn’t have enough power to punch through the armored hull. It’d be like throwing grenades at the Empire State Building.
“Tomahawks ready, sir!” a lieutenant reported crisply, with a salute. “On your command.”
“Double check the coordinates,” Henderson ordered, sweeping the coastline once more with the binoculars. “We want to hit that training camp outside of Safar, not the American troops encircling the damn place.” Three hundred miles wasn’t a long distance for a Tomahawk, but the old fortress the warlord ruled was small, and the troops in close quarters. The tiniest slip in the coordinates could spell a disaster.
On the stern deck of the Canton, sailors were returning fire at the snipers in the hills with an Armbrust. There was a snowy backblast of nitrogen flakes from the aft end of the launcher, and the rocket streaked away. But unlike the incoming LAW rockets, there was no smoke from the projectile to reveal its trajectory.
A few moments later there was a bright flash among the scraggly trees on a small cliff, and a fireball of white phosphorous spread across the ledge. Covered with flames, screaming men rose from behind the boulders to dash about madly. The sailors at the port-side gun emplacement opened fire with a .50-caliber machine gun and another Armbrust. In a muted crack, the ledge broke into pieces, slowly coming away from the sandstone cliff, bodies and boulders plummeting straight down into the gelatinous brown sea.
“Well done, men,” the captain said, trying unsuccessfully to keep a tone of satisfaction from his voice. “Lieutenant, fire the Tomahawks!”
In a double explosion of smoke, two metal lids blew open on the honeycomb on the main deck and a pair of sleek missiles lifted into the sky, then streaked away to disappear inland.
“Heading?” the captain asked, squinting after the Tomahawks. Funny, he actually thought that he could see the airborne missiles. But that was impossible. They were both much too far away by now to be spotted by the naked eye.
“Aye, sir,” a lieutenant replied, hunched over the radar screen. “Missiles are at…” He paused to work the controls, the beeps strangely coming faster and faster. Then the men looked up in confusion and horror. “Sir! One of them is coming right back at us!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” the captain demanded, turning away from the coastline. “Double check your instruments! It must be just another LAW coming in, that’s all.”
“No, sir, this is a Hawk!” the man replied, the beeps almost a single tone now, they were happening so fast. His hand hovered over the self-destruct switch. “Should I abort?”
Was the man serious? Henderson thought. Snapping his head back toward the craggy coastline, the captain briefly saw something moving in the air, coming straight for the frigate. He waited for the Phalanx system to engage, but the guns did nothing, the military software of the computer-guided radar strictly forbidding the guns to fire upon any Navy missile, even one coming straight for the ship.
“Abort!” the captain bellowed.
The lieutenant slapped the switch, but it was too late. Moving almost too fast to visually track, the Tomahawk slammed directly into the open hatch it had just launched from less than a minute ago.
A strident explosion shook the entire vessel from stem to stern, the fiery blast blowing out the portholes and causeways, throwing burning bodies into the sea. For a single heartbeat, Henderson thought the internal firewalls might just hold.
In a thundering staccato, the rest of the complement of Tomahawks detonated belowdecks, and the Canton lifted from the water and burst from within, the armored hull rent apart from the multiple trip-hammer detonations.
For several long minutes debris and corpses rained from the sky, hissing as they plummeted into the dirty water. But when the hellish rain eventually ceased, the USS Canton was gone, completely obliterated.
T HREE HUNDRED MILES away from the coastline, the second Tomahawk cruise missile checked the GPS network and sharply veered around a tall mountain peak to flash down into a valley below, and then around another outcropping.
Running across the barren landscape, U.S. Army troops and tanks were steadily surrounding an ancient fortress carved into the rock of a hill. The resilient walls had withstood attacks by Alexander the Great, Julius Caesar, Napoleon and the Soviet Union. But now the rocks were cracked and weakening from the nonstop barrage of shells unleashed by the American tanks. A thousand Afghani fighters along the walls of the fortress were firing at