Excerpt from the New York Times, 1st November 1973:
Earlier today it was confirmed that a significant Soviet naval, amphibious and aerial force gathered off the coast of Northern France launched an all-out assault on the southern coast of Britain, focusing mainly on Brighton, while launching raids into other locations. As of writing, the outcome is unclear. British Prime Minister Roland Gibbs has announced the evacuation of multiple towns at risk of Soviet incursion, and has instated martial law in London and other major English metropolitan areas, with the support of Allied Peacekeeper divisions based in the United Kingdom.
With Allied forces having to this point suffered major defeats and still awaiting backup from extra-European sources, military experts working for this newspaper have soberly decided that the Soviets will succeed in their landings and will seize south England in a matter of days. President Ackerman and Marshal Bingham have as of yet issued no reports.
We at the New York Times urge our readership to remain hopeful and pray that the free world will persevere in this dark hour.
**
"Captain? I've got bad news."
Captain William Keller, officer of the United States Navy and by extension of the Allied Combined Naval Fleets, stoically gazed out of the bridge viewports of the Allied aircraft carrier UAFS Spruance. Through them he could see the flight deck of the carrier, waters of the English Channel, and part of the island of Portsea. He could hear the buzzing of blowtorches and wielding machinery as engineers and repair drones scrambled over damaged aircraft and aerial vehicles on the deck and as maintenance boats bobbed around the carrier fixing gashes in the hull. He could feel the sweat trickling down the back of his neck as the fact that his situation was so goddamn hopeless swept over him. Slowly, he turned around.
"I can't possibly see how this can get any worse, First Mate, but give it to me."
First Mate Frazer nodded. "London has just told us the commies have launched an all-out attack on Brighton. They're launching smaller subsidiary attack forces on other locations—including here. Exact composition of any enemy forces we can expect to face is unknown. Ranged missile bombardment and use of magnetic satellites is probable, apparently."
"You're taking this all very well, First Mate. I commend you."
"Just doing my job, sir." Stuttered Frazer.
Keller walked over to the tactical map screen spread out in the center of the bridge, with other crewmen seated at consoles lining the walls, studying readouts and reports. Satellite uplink was jammed, so all that was visible on the map was a wireframe computerized image of the English south coast. Their communications array—and a whole lot of equipment—had been damaged in a skirmish the day before. With Allied forces on the breaking point, Bingham had informed him that he, and this single damaged carrier, were to form the defence of Portsmouth, potentially a major beachhead for a Soviet invasion of Europe. The carrier's capabilities had been stymied, its complement damaged, and the crew was demoralized and panicking. Only an hour ago had he almost shot two engineers for attempting to desert to land. He could sympathise with them.
"Our Sky Nights are crippled, but still operational, and we still have two available Blackout missiles." Continued Frazer. "We've also got a couple of Apollos being repaired on the flight deck. Our chances are minimal, but not zero."
"Morse code message from command." Called a crewman from the communications console. "Soviet forces reported landed at Brighton, heavy naval backup. Orders are to remain where we are."
"We are, to the best of our knowledge, one of the few remaining, if not the last, sources of heavy and ranged naval support in the English Channel." Announced Keller, speaking up. "Were I extremely foolhardy or a hero in a Hollywood movie, I would disregard those orders with abandon. But I am not. We are gonna stand our ground here, we're gonna chew up those godless fucking reds will throw at us, and boy are we gonna make our people proud! Do I make myself clear?"
"Sir!" acknowledged the bridge crew in unison.
"Nice reassurance." Said Frazer quietly aside to him.
"Sometimes a little corny speeches can be the only things that keep a man fighting when he's got no chance." Sighed Keller. "Get the Sky Knights ready for takeoff. The Apollos too—as long as they can fly and fire, I'm not interested in what the grease monkeys on the flight deck think."
"Understood."
Keller barely had time to register Keller's acknowledgement when there was a muffled screaming sound, followed by the boom of an explosion. The carrier rocked slightly as he ran over to the side windows. Smoke was billowing from flaming buildings along Portsmouth harbour, with the dissipating contrails of missiles trailing from their source. God help me, he thought. It's time.
"Sky Knight's in the air!" reported a crewman. "Bringing up visual on source of fire in approximately twenty seconds!"
"I don't need a visual on the fucker doing this." Snarled Keller. "Get all aircraft in the air. Now."
On the flight deck, engineers and crewmen rushed below decks as Sky Knight UCAVs rose out from the hangar bay out of an opening, with the Apollos revving up their engines. Black-and-white visual feeds from cameras built into the drones flickered into view on monitors above the bridge viewports. Alarm klaxons began blaring on all decks. Keller tensed himself. There was the option of screwing orders, abandoning ship, and running to fight another day—but damn if he did that.
"ECM effective?" he snapped.
"No, sir, but given our position and the absence of Soviet satellite support over this area I don't think they can accurately acquire us as a target, short of blindfire."
"And blindfire's what they'll do." If there was one thing those Ivans loved, it was overkill. God, what he would give for some AA-capable craft to cover him. But with Soviet submarines infesting every damn square metre...a terrible realization suddenly hit him. "Sonar! We got anything?"
"Nothing save fishes, sir." He relaxed. But likely once the Reds caught onto him they'd send in their damned Akulas. Until then, though, he had no choice but to hold firm and kick copious amounts of ass.
"We got visual!" announced Frazer. Glancing up at the monitors, he could see a grainy, black-and-white image of a Soviet Dreadnaught missile ship accompanied by some smaller craft—Stingray attack boats, by the looks of them.
"Apollos report mild Soviet air support in vicinity. They're engaging now." Through the viewports, he could faintly see twisting trails of exhaust snaking around in the clouds, with flashes of missiles and countermeasures. God help the poor flyboys, he thought. He could only think about what they could be facing up there. Quickly, he turned back to the situation at hand.
"Target the Dreadnaught, Knights three to five."
"Copy, sir." Through the visual feed, he could see several of the attack drones each expending their munitions onto the lumbering vessel. He saw several explosions tear into the foredeck and amidships, and a geyser of water erupt beside it as one of the bombs missed. By rights, the ship would now be on its way to meet the fishes—but Soviet vessels were tough bastards. He'd learned that from experience—the hard way.
"Soviet vessel confirmed hit. Damage extensive. Status of firing capability unclear." Reported a crewman.
"Remainder of Knights are pulling back for fuel replenishing." Announced Frazer.
"How many more runs do we have the supply capability for?"
"Five."
Damn. Each run would have to be perfectly timed. Those drones had low fuel capability, and burned what gas they had like hell. Their ordnance capacity was limited as well. Sometimes he felt like tracking down the guys who worked at Allied design bureaus and pointing out their respective fuck-ups in no uncertain terms, but of course there were the constraints of budget and supply. Still, sometimes fighting like this was good—it made a good tactician think and improvise. But in this case? Oh no.
"Report from Apollos, sir. Outcome of air combat as yet undecided. They also claim to have spotted naval reinforcements heading in our direction. ETA unknown."
Keller's hopes raised as he felt the adrenaline of excitement start to build up in him—and then he stopped himself. It was doubtful they were even heading for him—most likely to support whoever was fighting at Brighton. After all, the only way to avoid crushing disappointment was not to hope for too much. Trying to establish communications would be an option, if it wasn't for the risk of giving their position away to the Reds and the fact that he didn't know their exact location and frequency.
"Sir, we got incoming." Looking up, Keller could see Soviet attack boats coming into view in the distance, with a slanting column of smoke indicating the limping, damaged Dreadnaught. There was the option of frying them with one of the EMP rockets—but then there was the problem of just how many attack groups were closing in. Still, when in doubt, going for the straightforward option was usually good.
"Launch a second wave. Drones one to three target the boats, four to five on the Dreadnaught."
"Copy."
He watched as the drones rose out of the hangar opening, one-by-one. Up ahead, the attack boats were closing in rapidly. The Dreadnaught was also slowing down—was it readying the missiles? Restraining the urge to break down into panic, he watched as the first few drones dropped their munitions onto the first two boats, which blew apart in satisfyingly large blasts of metal and water. The last two moved in on the Dreadnaught, and also released their ordnance—seconds after three rockets burst out of its launcher.
"Shit! We got moving capability?" he shouted.
"Er...negative."
"Brace for impact!"
He closed his eyes as the bridge went silent. A moment passed. Then, there was a screaming sound as several buildings on the nearby island were shattered by an explosion. A moment later, and a geyser of water erupted literally meters in front of the bow of the carrier, knocking everything that wasn't bolted down onto the floor. Finally, an explosion suddenly engulfed the forepart of the vessel, blasting everything on the flight deck back. Consoles in the bridge flickered and alarms came from below decks.
Picking himself up, Keller waited for his vision to focus and grabbed onto a railing as his head swam. Glancing out of the viewport, he could see the Dreadnaught slowly disappearing below the waves, surrounded by scorched wreckage. The front part of the carrier was completely engulfed in smoke, but she still seemed intact—yes, the shipbuilders had built it to withstand firepower like that well. Whether or not she could still fight was another question entirely.
"Damage report!"
"Maintenance bay one is gone, sir. We've lost half our drone capability. Engineering reports at least six hull rupturing. Structural integrity...questionable, according to this." Reported a crewman hoarsely.
"Ready the lifeboats." Said Keller calmly.
"That's not all." Announced Frazer. "We got what looks like a Twinblade squadron incoming. Probably laden with Spetnatz."
"Apollos available?"
"We've lost contact. Either they were taken down, or headed to one of our airbases. Either way, not getting them."
"We're beyond fucked."
"The feeling is mutual, sir."
He racked his brain for a solution. A standard Soviet gunship wing would easily tear them apart and mop up all survivors. From there, whatever they were carrying could seize the town—it had been evacuated, so it wasn't like there was anyone to stop them—and set up a beachhead for further landing forces. They had no option for conventional AA or air support. Then, he hit on a possibility. It would require insane timing and precision, but he had little choice.
"Ready Blackout 1." He snapped. "Get all non-bridge personnel off this ship. Set the missile to blindfire configuration."
Through the viewport, he could see a cluster of dots appear against the sky, growing larger rapidly. He could almost see the grinning, demonic commie fuckers inside each one, commissars who wanted nothing less than to strip free men and women of their rights. They were probably thinking that they'd blast him into nothing and tear-ass through the rest of England. Well, he'd show the fuckers that they had another goddamn thing coming.
"Blackout ready for launch?"
"Affirmative." Reported a crewman.
"Tech crews abandoning vessel." Reported Frazer.
"Excellent. Aim missile at Dreadnaught wreck, alt 50. Ready to remote detonate on my command."
He stood back as the missile rose almost lethargically out of its silo beside the command island, before accelerating and rising upwards. The Twinblades were close enough to be distinct now. Nervously, he watched as the rocket flew forwards parallel to the gunship wing. As the two approached, he mentally calculated the discharge spread. Would it be enough? Hell with it.
"Detonate."
The missile imploded in mid-air, releasing a blue flash. The gunships juddered to a halt, as if uncertain as to what to do. Then, their momentum carrying them forward, they spiralled downwards into the sea, impacting into the water like stones. Keller exhaled a sigh of relief. God had certainly been watching over him today. Now all that was needed was to limp back to a dry dock and undergo repairs. Yes, there was still life left in this old bucket.
Then Frazer spoke.
"Sir, sonar's got underwater contacts."
Akulas.
Shit.
"Tech crews are away?" he asked a crewman.
"Affirmative, they're making landfall as we speak...shit, shit, shit, torpedoes incoming!" Frazer stood and braced himself, noticing the curved conning tower of an Akula attack sub poking out of the waves ahead. "Impact in approximately five seconds...it's been a pleasure serving with you, sir."
"Likewise. I guess I should give some overlong sentimental speech, but we haven't got time, and our duty together should speak for itself. Good luck, gentlemen."
An explosion came from amidships, and the consoles flickered out. Keller stood silently as the carrier groaned, before being rocked by another torpedo impact. There was no chance of him miraculously escaping. There was no way out of this apart from drowning or dying of lack of oxygen. As the carrier began to rapidly sink into the water, he felt his Colt holstered by his thigh. He had done his duty to the end. Now, as his ship sank into the waves, he took the gun to his temple, and prepared to go out with a bang.