EndWar

But two rounds struck Rule’s armored chest, knocking him backward. He lost his footing, fell on his rump. He got up, started once more toward the sergeant, the.50 caliber still churning behind him, ripping up bark and limbs ahead.

It dawned on Rule that the sergeant wouldn’t be lying there, shot up, if it weren’t for him and his damned busted radio.

So he poured every ounce of energy he had left into his legs. He reached the sergeant, dropped, returned more fire as rounds stitched lines in the snow just a meter parallel to them.

“Rule, you idiot,” gasped McAllen.

“I know,” he said. “Ready?” He rolled the sergeant over and hoisted him up over his back, legs buckling under the man’s considerable weight.

He walked three steps and collapsed.

Meanwhile, Szymanski, Palladino, and Gutierrez had hopped back out of the chopper, dropped, and were providing more covering fire.

“You’re going to kill me if they don’t,” said McAllen. “Drag me!”

“Thought a carry would be faster.” Rule stood, came behind McAllen, grabbed his pack’s straps and began sliding him over the snow.

A sudden thud on his chest sent Rule back to the snow, his hands snapping off the pack. He groaned in pain.

“Rule?”

“Yeah.” He gasped. “Got my armor. Damn I’m going to be sore tomorrow.”

He returned to dragging the sergeant, whose legs were leaving a blood trail in the snow.

“Hey, Rule, I didn’t tell you this before, but you cast a big shadow, Marine. A big shadow.”

“You’re just saying that so I drag your shot-up butt out of here.”

“That, too.”

Even as Rule continued hauling the sergeant forward, McAllen lifted his rifle and fired several bursts.

After a few more tugs, Rule suddenly felt the sergeant grow lighter as Gutierrez joined him. Within a handful of seconds they had McAllen into the bay, where Gutierrez immediately cut off the sergeant’s pants legs and got to work.

Rule shoved himself into the back of the Pave Hawk as the chopper roared up and away, leaving the Russians on the ground firing wildly at them as they cleared the trees, their muzzles now winking in the half-light of dusk.

“How is he?” he shouted to Gutierrez.

The medic gave him a look: Not now. I’m busy.

McAllen gestured for Rule to come close so he could shout in his ear. “You did good. I give you a B plus.”

Rule rolled his eyes. “Thanks!”

“Make your depth one-five-zero feet,” ordered Commander Jonathan Andreas.

“Make my depth one-five-zero feet, aye,” repeated the officer of the deck.

It was all business in the Florida’s control room, though Andreas noted a hint of excitement in the OOD’s tone. They were in launch position in the Coronation Gulf and about to punch their Tomahawk land attack missiles out of their vertical launch system tubes.

Despite the outbreak of war, Andreas assumed that most members of his crew had never live-fired those missiles; they had only practiced simulations. Andreas recalled when he could only launch while at periscope depth, but design improvements now made it possible to fire from the safety of 150 feet.

He reviewed the sequence in his head: The tube door would open, the gas generator would fire up to boil the water pocket inside. The water would flash to steam, forcing a pressure pulse to the bottom of the tube. The pressure pulse would then push the missile up through its protective membrane enveloped in a steam bubble, and eject the bird completely clear of the surface.

Then, as the Tomahawk cleared the surface, the first stage would ignite, lifting the bird to three thousand feet.

At its apex, the first-stage would jettison and the missile would plummet into free fall, spinning the missile’s jet engine on the way down. The increasing flight speed would turn the compressor and build up pressure and heat in the combustion chamber. Fuel would be injected, and the missile’s engine would then be up and running.

Andreas could see it all in his head.

Now it was time to make it happen. He gave the firing order, and the entire submarine rumbled.

Once the first missile left the sub, Andreas lifted his voice and said, “Watch your trim, Officer of the Deck. Keep your eye on the bubble.”

The Florida had to adjust her buoyancy and trim to compensate for the sudden loss of weight after each missile left the sub.

The remaining five Tomahawks, spaced three minutes apart, would follow the first down a bearing of one-seven-eight degrees while cruising at subsonic speed roughly fifty feet above the surface.

The one-hour, forty-nine-minute, thousand-mile flight included a pre-programmed midpoint correction as each Tomahawk passed over Wild Buffalo National Park.

Packed into each missile’s computer memory were final destination landmarks: pictures of the Alberta Legislative Assembly building, the exact interchange point where 97th Avenue NW, 109th Street NW, and 110th Street NW converged and provided sole access to High Level Bridge.