EndWar

Onboard TV cameras would accurately identify the final orienting landmarks as each missile plummeted toward the Saskatchewan River and the High Level Bridge below.

After the last missile blasted away, Andreas congratulated the crew, then he gave the order to head back to the Dolphin and Union Strait to continue their patrol, even as they monitored the missiles’ progress.

Just one hour into that journey, the sternplanesman cried, “Jam dive, sternplanes!”

The sternplanes were horizontal rudders, or diving planes, extending from each side of the submarine near the stern. They had lost hydraulic pressure and had slammed into the dive position, where they would remain locked until hydraulic pressure could be restored and control reasserted.

With miles and miles of steam, electrical, and hydraulic lines running up, down, and through bulkheads, it was just a question of time before something broke, got damaged, wore out, or operator error occurred.

Now the Florida was headed straight toward crush depth.

“All back full!” yelled the OOD and Andreas in unison.

The bow planesman jerked his joystick to full rise, trying to counteract the effects of the sternplanes.

“Passing one thousand feet, thirty-one degrees down bubble,” reported the chief of the watch, his hands hovering over the controls to blow the forward main ballast tanks.

The sternplanesman immediately switched to auxiliary hydraulics and pulled back on the sternplanes. Nothing.

“Passing twelve hundred feet, forty degrees down bubble, sir,” cried the chief of the watch.

The sternplanesman switched to emergency hydraulics, pulled up, when suddenly the sonar operator lifted his voice:

“Torpedo in the water, incoming torpedo bearing three-two-zero! WLY-1 classification — a Shkval — range thirty thousand yards, speed two hundred knots!”

Sergeant Nathan Vatz and his men had shifted farther back into the town to their secondary positions along the rooftops of some local businesses on 97^th Street, parallel to the highway.

For the past hour the Russians had been pounding the hell out of the obstacle, and Vatz figured they’d destroy the remaining mines within thirty minutes, maybe less.

Once that happened, Berserker and Zodiac teams could make a last stand or withdraw and live to fight another day.

Because if they didn’t withdraw, they would eventually exhaust all ammo and be overrun. Vatz felt sure those Spetsnaz forces would not take them prisoner.

In fact, Russian political officers might order the public execution of the captured ODA teams to keep High Level’s civilian survivors fully intimidated and in line.

Moreover, if watching a group of military men forced to their knees and shot in the head wasn’t enough, they’d shoot a few civilians, as well as threaten the use of biological and chemical weapons.

“Black Bear, this is Bali, over.”

“Go ahead, Bali.”

He gave the assistant detachment commander a SITREP regarding the obstacle, then added, “What’s the status of the Tenth, over?”

But before Vatz could get a reply, the channel went dead. Damn it. The Russians were jamming again.

“Hey, look!” cried Beethoven, pointing up at the northern sky. A dozen or more Ka-29s were inbound, flying in an arrowhead formation.

The lead chopper, along with one other, pulled ahead, swooped down, and began unloading rockets on the remaining cars in the obstacle, blasting a clear lane through the burning wall.

Even as the choppers peeled off, one on either side, the first few BMPs broke through.

The weapons sergeant on Vatz’s team, who was now posted atop a machine shop two buildings down, cut loose with the team’s last Javelin.

With a powerful whoosh, the missile streaked skyward, came down, homing in on the lead BMP, then struck it perfectly, blasting apart the vehicle and sending pieces slamming into the BMP behind it, killing the vehicle commander who’d been standing in his hatch.

Vatz rose, jogged to the edge of the roof, and gave the signal to fall back. The signal was passed on to the other four men as Vatz and Beethoven got moving.

Once on the ground, they piled into their pickup truck, with Vatz at the wheel, Beethoven riding shotgun.

“Are we headed to a third fallback position?” asked the medic.

“I’m not sure yet.”

“We’re low on ammo. We can’t stay.”

“Black Bear figured the Tenth would be here by now. We’ll have to wait right here till those choppers fly by, then I’ll get us to the south side of town, find some cover there. And after that, well—”

“This is it. We won’t make it out of here. Not with them dropping troops on the ground now.”

Vatz didn’t respond.

Part of him was getting awfully depressed, whispering like the Reaper in his ear, It’s about time you died. You’re long overdue.

He shoved his head out the open window, lifted his binoculars, and watched the helos streak overhead, descending hard and fast.

Before darkness fully settled, High Level would belong to the Russians.

THIRTY-EIGHT