The stupidity of this race never ceases to amaze me.
Ulljrex glared at the monitors in the control room that displayed images from various news networks and websites. Despite the destruction of their "mighty" carrier groups, despite Port of Spain lying in ruin, despite their leader's capitulation, the American humans still wanted to fight! He couldn't understand it. Their spirit should be broken. They should be consumed by hopelessness.
Yet they continued to resist.
Twelve American states had seceded, with a few more expected to follow soon. In spite of all his years studying humans, he could never understand that aspect of their behavior. In many nations, the subjects insulted and even disobeyed their leaders without a second thought. And those so-called leaders allowed it! How could these mud-eaters accomplish anything when they refused to bow to those in power?
Ulljrex groaned, his eyes shifting from one screen to another. In Concord, New Hampshire, a secessionist opened fire inside the federal building there, killing six and injuring five before police shot him. A group of Pennsylvania National Guardsmen attempted to storm the White House, only to be gunned down by the President's bodyguards. US Government agents had tried to arrest the governors of both Tennessee and Mississippi when they proposed secession, only to be stopped by a force of state police and National Guardsmen. Many American military forces had switched their allegiance to the newly seceded states. Several cities saw protests from people in favor of surrender. Many more were the site of rallies in support of secession.
His anger burned hotter by the second. He took this defiance as a turn of the back, an insult that in Simbaaku society usually resulted in a duel.
Sometimes, those duels ended in death.
"We have to end this," said Pelgret, who stood beside Ulljrex's seat. "These vermin must stop believing they can resist us."
"I agree. It appears Titanosaurus must teach them another lesson."
"What if the American humans don't learn from it?"
"Then we destroy another of their cities," Ulljrex snapped. "And another, and another after that. We keep destroying their cities until they finally accept defeat."
Pelgret nodded. "Which one shall we attack first?"
"Destroy one in their state of Texas," blurted General Moscoso. "That state has a history of rebellion. They wear their individualism and insolence proudly. I have watched many foreign news broadcasts. Texas is becoming a symbol of the secession movement. Send Titanosaurus there. Crush Texas, and the Americans will stop resisting us."
Ulljrex stared in silence at Moscoso. He was briefly overcome by surprise. For once, this bellicose human actually made sense.
"Texas, then." Ulljrex called up a 3-D map of the large American state and scanned its coastline. It didn't take long to pick his target. With six million people, one of the largest ports on Earth and the heart of their laughable space program, its destruction would be an enormous psychological blow to the secessionist movement.
His fingers danced across the console. A signal went out to Titanosaurus. The monster plowed through the water, heading west.
Toward Houston.
XXXXX
His regenerative powers took longer than normal. It had been a long time since Godzilla suffered injuries so severe. In the past, only King Ghidorah and Mechagodzilla had hurt him so gravely. He hadn't expected that from Titanosaurus. But the monster had grown more powerful since their last battle. He would remember that when next they met.
And that would be soon.
Godzilla felt the vibrations through the water and the earth. He sensed Titanosaurus heading west, toward another large human city.
He pushed himself off the sea floor and followed.
XXXXX
John Ruffin stood on the bow of the Austal-class patrol boat TTS Scarlet Ibis as itsliced through the waves. All he saw in front of him was darkness. Some seventy miles through that darkness lay the Venezuelan coast, and their target, Puerto Cabello naval base.
His worry grew with each passing minute. He tried to compartmentalize it, as he had before all his previous combat missions. But he wasn't successful. That pissed him off. He wasn't a noob at this. He'd been among the best of the best in the Marine Corps. He'd led men on critical missions before.
None of those missions, however, had this much at stake. Failure on his past missions may have resulted in the deaths of a handful to, at worst, a couple hundred people.
Failure on this mission meant the death of the entire human race.
Ruffin shivered.
"It's madness, Sir. Absolute madness."
He turned to find Sergeant-Major Best walking up to him.
"Spotty intelligence, no idea the layout of our target, personnel and assets not suited for special operations."
"Mm-hmm." Ruffin nodded.
"Not to mention all this improvisation. Can't recall any time during my tenure with the Paras when we had to raid hardware stores to make weapons."
"It is a bit out of the norm, Sergeant-Major."
"Out of the norm. It's a recipe for disaster."
Ruffin waited for Best to continue. Venting was his usual way of calming down before a mission. "Getting all the bad juju out of the system," he liked to say.
But the Brit stayed silent.
"I agree with you," Ruffin said. "This isn't how I want to go into any mission. But you know as well as I do we don't have a choice."
"Right, right. Fate of the world at stake and all that." Best sighed. "Well, at least there's one thing we can take comfort in. If we botch this up, we won't be around to hear everyone go on about what wretched soldiers we are."
Ruffin grinned briefly. "I think you've been hanging around Fetisov too much. You sound just as morose."
Best grunted.
Ruffin turned back to the darkened Caribbean Sea. The pressure continued to build from being the tip of the spear for Task Force Avenger, Chief Briggs' designation for their hastily-formed band of multi-national warriors. He glanced at his watch and held his breath.
Almost time.
XXXXX
Captain Keon Norville felt his heart pound against his chest as he stared at his watch.
Almost time.
He let out a long, silent breath as he peeked out from behind the trees he used for cover. The electrical substation that distributed power to much of northern Caracas lay just twenty yards away. Two army sentries stood near the fence, their AK-103 rifles slung over their shoulders as they chatted and smoked cigarettes. They were definitely not expecting trouble.
Little did they know.
Norville closed his eyes, attempting to settle himself. He had served five years with the Defense Force, two of them with the Special Operations Unit. He had been on numerous exercises, cross-trained with US and British elite forces, even been assigned to high profile security details.
Yet he had never fired a shot in anger.
That would change tonight.
He opened his eyes and looked at the sentries. Amazing how young they looked. Could either of them be over 20? What grief would he cause their families when –
How much grief have the Venezuelans and those alien scum caused my country?
Norville had no time to be sentimental. This was war. He needed to do his duty. Not just for the sake of his country, but for the entire world.
He stifled a laugh. Usually it was the militaries of America or some European country that carried out such important missions. Who could ever imagine that little Trinidad and Tobago would play such a pivotal role in the future of humankind?
But no one will celebrate what we did if you do not succeed.
Norville closed his eyes again, thinking of the wasteland that had once been Port of Spain. He used that to motivate him.
He opened his eyes and stared at his watch.
It's time.
Norville drew his silenced Heckler & Koch USP 9mm pistol and exhaled. He burst from his hiding place and took off at a dead run toward the sentries. He covered about five yards before they both looked up. Their eyes widened in shock.
Norville didn't break stride. He raised the pistol and fired twice. Both rounds tore apart the face of the first sentry. The remaining one reached for the strap on his rifle. Two more rounds caught him in the face.
Checking their vitals was a formality. Norville knew before he reached them they were dead. He pulled out his bolt cutters and severed the lock to the chainlink gate. He quickly attached blocks of C4 throughout the substation, then hurried away. When he reached the small rise a quarter mile away, Norville got out his detonator and triggered the explosives. Sparks and small fireballs shot up form the substation. In the distance, thousands of lights flickered off, as if someone had thrown a dark blanket over northern Caracas.
Over the next few minutes, other explosions erupted throughout the Venezuelan capital. The three other members of his Special Operations Unit team had set off their charges. Targets included the Federal Legislative Palace, the headquarters of the state-owned oil company, two police stations, and the Ministries of Interior and Justice, Telecommunications, and Communications and Information. They didn't have enough C4 to destroy any of the buildings. But it would cause some damage. More importantly, the explosions would get General Moscoso's attention. That and the tour boat, yacht and two fishing boats outfitted with wooden mock-ups of guns and missile launchers. By now the Trinidadian Coast Guardsmen who piloted them had abandoned those vessels, leaving the engines running and pointing them straight at beaches north of Caracas. Norville's team would also be setting off more C4 throughout the city during the next couple of hours. That ought to convince the lunatic running this country that his capital was being invaded.
Norville hoped that would be the case. The success of this mission may well depend on it.
XXXXX
Lieutenant Rayad Rampaul could barely contain his excitement. The lanky pilot smiled wide, his hands flexing on the controls of his C-26 Metroliner. He'd imagined himself doing this ever since he saw Top Gun for the first time when he was 13. He never thought it would happen. The Air Guard's primary job was patrol. They had no combat aircraft. That fact stuck in his craw when the Venezuelans began raiding Port of Spain. He and his fellow pilots had sat on the ground while the enemy looted their capital with impunity. Any Air Guard plane that took off would be a sitting duck for a Venezuelan F-16 or SU-30. It infuriated him even more when the government brought in foreign mercenaries to fight for them.
That's what we should be doing. We're responsible for our country's security.
Now Rampaul could do it. Granted, the Shield International people did help convert his C-26 into a true combat aircraft. Two windows on each side had been removed and turned into firing ports for machine guns, an eclectic mix of two Negevs, an old FN MAG, and an even older Bren Gun. Then there were those "special weapons" the foreigners and some army engineers came up with. He couldn't wait to use those.
If there had been a drawback, the removal of the windows meant the plane's interior had become decidedly chilly, requiring Rampaul, his co-pilot Lieutenant Sonny Simmons and the rest of the crew to wear jackets. A small price to pay for being able to hit back at the Venezuelans.
"That should be our target up ahead." Simmons pointed out the windshield.
Rampaul gazed ahead. Strings of light glowed in the darkness. He checked his instruments and nodded in satisfaction. El Libertador Air Base lay dead ahead, the home of Air Group 15, which flew light attack aircraft like the K-8 and the OV-10. They could make life difficult for the main element of Task Force Avenger at Puerto Cabello. But the base's other tenant unit, Air Group 16, could doom the entire mission. That group flew F-16 jet fighters.
Rampaul leaned forward in his seat, putting the C-26's nose right on the runway. He licked his lips, hoping that German cowboy with Shield International had the electronic jamming pod on his Phantom working full blast to foil the Venezuelan radar.
If he didn't, I'd probably have a bunch of F-16s right in my face.
That wouldn't be good.
"Perkins. Open bomb bay doors." Rampaul couldn't help but grin. The "bomb bay doors," in reality, was simply the aircraft's rear door. But bomb bay doors sounded much cooler to say.
"Yes, Sir," replied Sergeant Perkins, the C-26's crew chief.
Rampaul heard, then felt, the blast of chill air rush through the twin-prop plane.
"Bomb bay doors open."
"Stand by to drop payload."
"Standing by."
Rampaul eased the C-26 to the right, making sure the nose was not lined up directly down the middle of the runway. His heart raced.
I hope those things work.
He erased the doubt from his mind. They would work. They had to.
"Perkins. Release payload at your discretion."
"Yes, Sir."
"Gunners. Fire at will. Targets of opportunity."
The four gunners acknowledged the order.
Rampaul tensed as the runway flashed below him.
"Bombs away!" Perkins hollered.
Rampaul fought the urge to look over his shoulder. Instead he imagined Perkins and another crew member shove the two oil drums out the door. Inside each one were blocks of C4, mortar shells and various objects like nails, tools, silverware, coffee mugs and aluminum cans.
The machine gunners opened up. The runway vanished below Rampaul. He banked right and reversed course. The machine gunners ceased fire. Both he and Simmons looked out the window.
A brief fireball flashed around the center of the runway.
"Yes!" Rampaul cheered.
"That was just one," said Simmons. "I don't see any sign of a second explosion."
Rampaul frowned. The engineers back at Piarco warned him the improvised contact fuses on these IEDs might fail. Even so, the Venezuelans would have to remove all those C4 blocks and mortar shells, and they'd have to do it carefully. That would take time.
The second Air Guard C-26 streaked over El Libertador Air Base and dropped its payload. One IED completely missed the runway. The second exploded just next to it.
Streaks of light shot up from the ground. Rampaul stifled a gasp. Anti-Aircraft fire.
He relaxed when he noticed all the tracers were too far away to harm his C-26 or the other one. Both planes gunned their engines and flew away from El Libertador.
And we go down in history. The first combat operation by the Trinidad and Tobago Air Guard.
They may not get high marks for accuracy, but they'd been close enough. The runway probably suffered only minor damage, but the main thing was all the shrapnel the IEDs had unleashed. Even one piece of twisted metal sucked into the intake of a jet could be disastrous. The Venezuelans would have to conduct an FOD – Foreign Object Damage – sweep of the runway, and make sure every piece of debris got picked up. And they had to do it at night. They wouldn't be finished any time soon.
Elsewhere, Shield International's other two F-4 Phantoms jammed the radars at Landaeta Air Base in Barquisimeto, home to Air Group 12's F-5s and K-8s, and Garcia Air Base in Barcelona, home to Air Group 13's SU-30 multi-role fighters. The two F-8 Crusaders, Duck Soup and an Air Guard Cessna 310 dropped bombs and IEDs on the runways.
In the span of a few minutes, the bulk of the Venezuelan Air Force's combat power was grounded.
XXXXX
"They're taking the bait," Miranda announced as she stared at the hacked satellite image of Caracas.
Chief Briggs came over to her console on the AEW&C plane Eclipse, orbiting 180 miles off the Venezuelan coast. The CEO of Shield International nodded as Miranda watched the frigate Almirante Brion and two POVZEE-class patrol vessels leaving their stations and heading east toward the capital.
"And radar reports all of Venezuela's Combat Air Patrols are making for Caracas at top speed. I knew this would play into Moscoso's paranoia. He's gonna send every unit he can to the capital thinking it's under siege. That should take some heat off our guys."
"Not all of it." Miranda continued to stare at the screen as the satellite picked up a pair of Bell 412 helicopters taking off from Puerto Cabello, probably with squads of marines. "There's another frigate docked at the base, and two other patrol vessels around. And we still don't know where their submarines are."
"Well, let's just hope our Dutch friends can take care of them."
Miranda hoped so, too. They had lucked out in getting the Van Speijk to join Task Force Avenger. After dropping off its evacuees on Grenada, Briggs and Trinidad and Tobago President Wheeler flew out to the Dutch frigate to talk with its captain, Henk Borgman. He didn't need much convincing. Borgman had vivid memories from his childhood of watching Titanosaurus and Mechagodzilla lay waste to Japan. He had no desire to live under the rule of their alien masters, that is, if the Simbaaku even let him and rest of the human race live. When President Wheeler asked Borgman how his superiors might react, the captain gave a wry grin and said, "Unfortunately, there seems to be a problem with our communications preventing us from contacting The Netherlands. I shall have to use my own initiative on how the Van Speijk proceeds from here."
Even with the Dutch frigate, even with the Venezuelans rushing forces to Caracas, the odds were still heavily against them. But as Briggs kept saying, what choice did they have?
"Wait ten minutes," he said. "Let those ships put some distance between them and Puerto Cabello. Then we'll have our assault teams move in. Yell out if those ships turn back around."
"Yes, Sir." Miranda's brow furrowed. After spending so much time opposing Briggs, it felt strange following his orders.
She continued to monitor the progress of Almirante Brion and the two patrol vessels. They were still headed toward Caracas at top speed.
Miranda checked her watch. Her throat went dry as she counted the remaining minutes, the remaining seconds, until John and the others attacked Puerto Cabello.
She closed her eyes and pictured his face, recalled how she felt every time he held her.
Please come back to me.
XXXXX
Ruffin answered his secure sat phone on the second ring. A French-accented voice said, "Eclipse. Amberian Dawn."
"Acknowledged."
He ended the call. His muscles tensed.
We're on.
He turned around to face the twenty-plus Shield International commandos crowding the deck of the Scarlet Ibis. "Mount up, people. We just got the call from Eclipse. The way to Puerto Cabello is clear, or at least there aren't as many enemy ships to deal with. Do a final gear check and get the RHIBs in the water. We head out in five minutes."
"Yes, Sir," the others responded.
"Sergeant Jellicoe, tell the captain to send the 'go' signal to the Chaconia and the Nelson."
"Yes, Sir." Jellicoe wound his way through the commandos to get to the bridge.
Ruffin checked his gear. With his G36 rifle beneath the waters of Port of Spain, he took a loaner weapon from the Defense Force. A Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun. Compact, reliable, good rate of fire, and better suited for the kind of close quarters fighting he expected in the Titanosaurus control complex. He also had plenty of extra magazines for it and his Glock pistol, along with frag and flash-bang grenades, C4, his KA-BAR knife, NVGs, Duct Tape, a mirror – useful for seeing around corners – and rope. Just the basics for a mission like this.
The growl from Scarlet Ibis' engines faded. The patrol boat bobbed in the water as Ruffin and his men got into their Rigid-Hull Inflatable Boats. Not far from them, 14 members of the Trinidad and Tobago Special Naval Unit and Special Operations Unit on TTS Chaconia climbed into their RHIBs. A couple miles away, 40 more Trinidadian soldiers deployed from the Nelson, the Coast Guard's largest vessel. They would advance inland to the junction of the two roads leading to the control complex and form a blocking force with Lieutenant McGlothen's 82nd Airborne platoon. The Americans would parachute in from a Dash-8 Q300, a twin-prop airliner commandeered from Caribbean Airlines.
Ruffin clenched his jaw. Those 80-plus soldiers would have their work cut out for them. Venezuela's 2nd Marine Brigade was just a few miles away at the naval base, and they could be easily reinforced by the army's 41st Armored Brigade 30 miles to the south at Valencia. The Americans and Trinidadians had to keep those two forces from reaching the control complex. He didn't even want to calculate how badly they'd be outnumbered.
Guilt flashed through him when he thought of Jaelin. He knew the former SWAT officer wanted his pound of flesh from the Simbaaku for the death of his brother. But Ruffin felt Jaelin's sniper skills would be more useful with the blocking force than the assault force. He couldn't help but wonder if he was sending Jaelin to certain death.
Given the odds, we're all probably facing certain death.
So long as they took out the control complex, he could live with that . . . sort to speak.
Ruffin offered up a quick prayer to Jaelin and the rest of the blocking force, and all of Task Force Avenger for that matter.
He climbed into an RHIB with Best, Fetisov, Akua, Gomez and Jellicoe. Gomez started the motor. Their boat cut through the waves, followed by six others. In the distance, seven more RHIBs carrying the Trinidadian soldiers from Nelson headed for shore.
Ruffin clutched his MP5, constantly scanning the sea and sky through his NVGs. No sign of enemy ships or aircraft. He hoped it stayed that way.
They'd gone a mile without incident. Nine more to go. Nine long miles. Nine miles where anything could happen.
He continued scanning for threats.
Eight miles to go. Seven. Six. Everything was fine. Maybe it'd stay that way.
He crushed the thought. He couldn't afford to relax for an instant, given what was at stake.
Five miles to go. Four miles. Three miles.
"Patrol boat approaching," a voice burst through his earpiece. It was Major Tinto, the CO of the Trinidadian blocking force. "Patrol boat approaching our position from the east."
"Kill engines," Ruffin ordered. "Kill engines. Get low. Get low."
Gomez shut off the engine. Everyone in the boat crouched down. Ruffin could hear his heart hammer in his chest as he peered over the gunwales. He had flashbacks of his initial recon of Puerto Cabello, when they narrowly avoided a Venezuelan patrol boat.
He prayed their luck held a second time.
Prayed . . . prayed . . .
A beam of bright white light pierced the darkness two miles away. Ice coated Ruffin's entire body. He tried to swallow but couldn't.
The beam swept back and forth over the water. Would they see the Trinidadians? Would they miss –
Orange strobes lit up the night.
"They've seen us!" Major Tinto shouted. "We're taking fire! We're taking fire!"
TO BE CONTINUED