open. Seconds later, the Tomahawk’s nose appeared.
“Three, two, one…” Stevens said in the sub.
Under gas pressure, the Tomahawk missile ejected from the tube and into the air. All told the Tomahawk was eighteen feet and three inches in length. It weighed 3500 pounds. The solid-fuel booster kicked on as a ball of fire shot the Tomahawk higher.
“Ignition, sir,” Stevens said in the sub.
The booster quit several seconds later. The missile’s wings now unfolded. Their span was eight feet, nine inches. With a whirl and a click, the air-scoop appeared and the turbofan engine kicked on. The missile made an easy transition to cruise flight, heading toward the targeted Chinese vessel.
On his chair, Winthrop licked his lips. The Chinese Navy had been hunting down and destroying American submarines. There were a few left, but something had to change. This was one of those changes—if it worked.
“I see it, sir,” Stevens said. He was using the small drone as his camera eye.
Every eye aboard Merrimac watched the screen. The big Tomahawk cruise missile appeared, flying low over the water. It zoomed toward the heavily-laden Chinese cargo vessel.
Are they carrying tanks, or maybe more troops? Winthrop didn’t want to know if it was troops. He hadn’t told anyone, but he’d been having nightmares of launching the nuclear missiles at Santa Cruz. He was glad he’d done it. The Chinese hadn’t deserved any better. But all those men…he’d killed all those men by launching the Tomahawks. Had every Chinese soldier deserved to die so horribly?
Not all the dead were Chinese.
Winthrop didn’t want to think about that, either, but he did. He couldn’t help it.
“Look at it,” Stevens said.
The cruise missile sped straight toward the center of the Chinese cargo vessel. Whoever was out there didn’t have a chance. The missile bored in and struck, exploding its one thousand pound warhead.
A column of fire reached up into the sky. In slow motion, the huge cargo vessel cracked in half. It was awful. It was glorious. Men tumbled into the sea, so did big tank and huge crates. The splashes—
Winthrop turned away. They’d done it. The new system worked. If the Chinese hunted the killer—the launch tube—they would simply sink the empty Tomahawk drone. He had three more to fire before he crawled back to Seattle for another resupply.
“Wow,” Stevens said.
The other two crewmembers grinned at each other.
Winthrop forced a smile onto his face. His back hurt badly. It throbbed. “Shut down the scout,” he said.
“What if can find more—”
“Shut it down,” Winthrop said, with more force than he’d wanted. He needed to take some pills and get to sleep. His back was killing him.
“Good work, gentlemen,” he said. “Our country has found a winner in this combination. Now we want to write our reports and tell the brass hats back home we did it. They need our information as much as we need to make another…hit.”
He’d almost said kill. But he didn’t want to kill. He just wanted to destroy the Chinese capacity to wage war against America.
ALAMOSA, COLORADO
Private Jake Higgins of the Seventh CDMB—Colorado Detention Militia Battalion—lay on his stomach. It was night and he was cold, hungry and gaunt, and the seven of them were on the wrong side of Alamosa.
The seven of them, seven stragglers, seven SOBs who had been traveling northwest for weeks now. Jake was the only Militia member. A hard-bitten artillery sergeant led them, taking over when the lieutenant had bought it eight days ago. Back then there had been fifteen desperate soldiers.
Tonight, well east of Highway 285, they were seven U.S. soldiers remaining who had refused to surrender. They’d eluded the Chinese ever since the cauldron battle around Amarillo, Texas had destroyed their formations and pounded the living into bloody dust. From there they had crawled cross-country, avoiding enemy patrols and aircraft sweeps, reaching northeastern New Mexico. After a near-fatal ambush by a Chinese garrison platoon, they passed Trinidad in southeastern Colorado. Now the seven of them needed to race across the 285 south of Alamosa. They were trying for the Rio Grande National Forest, believing the wilderness area would be outside Chinese occupation.
Jake looked like a younger version of his father, Stan Higgins, but he’d lost weight these past weeks. It gave him the staring eyes of a wild dog on the run, with similar stark ribs. His uniform was ragged and dirty, his coat had holes and the soles of his boots were far too thin. His feet ached all of the time, causing him to