*****

SHOTGUN ONE:

by
Kerry M Plowright

SMASHWORDS EDITION

*****

PUBLISHED BY:
Australian Windows Publishing Pty Ltd
Copyright © 2010 Kerry Plowright

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given
away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an
additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not
purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.
Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

*****

SHOTGUN ONE:
Antarctica, Станция Востока

Antarctica is home to more than 70 lakes that exist thousands of feet under the surface of the
continental ice sheet, including one under the South Pole itself. Lake Vostok, beneath Russia's Vostok
Station, is one of the largest of these sub glacial lakes hidden beneath 12,000 feet of ice. The Lake, a
body of water the size of Lake Ontario, is over 155 miles long, 31 miles wide, and contains around
1250 cubic miles of water, a good match for Lake Superior.
There are more than 145 other lakes trapped under the ice. Vostok's two largest neighbors are
referred to as 900E (named after the longitude) and the other Sovetskaya, named after the Russian
research station coincidentally built above it. Like Lake Vostok, their icy waters have been sealed off
from the surface for over 35 million years. The 900E Lake has a surface area of 2,000km2, which is
about the size of Rhode Island, and is second only to Lake Vostok's 14,000km2 surface area.
Sovetskaya Lake was calculated to be about 1,600 km2. Both are sealed beneath more than two miles
of ice. The lake depths, estimated to be at least 900 meters, were calculated from gravity data taken
during aerial surveys in 2000 and 2001.

*****

CHAPTER ONE
The Seeds of Armageddon
Conflict and subjugation are attracted by weakness, not strength.

Sunday Dec 30 2010. The gunman pressed the end of the barrel hard into the back of the other
man's neck squeezing the trigger at the same time. The sound of the gunshot was partly muffled by the
heavily padded hood of the victim's parka, the rest of it snatched away in the blizzard of wind and ice
that swept over the two lone figures. The large calibre round entered the man's lower neck and exited
through the other side of his skull, taking most of his face with it and spraying sizable chunks of bone
and brains over the white surface. Feng's dead body collapsed like a wet sack. The killer knelt next to
the body quickly going through the dead mans pockets. He found what he was looking for and carefully
examined it. It was a cylindrical piece of ice that with the exception of the black globules near its centre
was crystal clear. He retrieved a small plastic container from his own jacket and dropped the sample
inside, sealing the lid.
The gunman stood for a moment, holstering the weapon and replacing the outer glove back on his
gun hand. He watched with satisfaction as the drifting snow quickly covered the bloody evidence
staining the ice. The body was also collecting snow and would be covered in minutes. In 70,000 years,
as the ice floe continued its steady march north; they might find it at the other end of the lake. The man
with the gun grunted and returned to the waiting snow tractor, climbing into the warmth of the cab.
The driver waited until he was seated then shifted the snow machine roughly into gear without
looking up. "Wet feet?" he asked.
 "Big fucking mouth," the gunman said, Frozen feet now.
"You think Feng knew you were going to kill him?"
The gunman thought about the exit wound, "didn't show in his face." He said, at least what was left
of it. Hong Liu squirmed himself comfortably into the trucks seat. He worked for the Second Bureau of
the Chinese Ministry for State Security, the Foreign Bureau, the one responsible for operations abroad.
"What about Hamilton?" The driver asked.
"If he sniffs around here again kill him." He looked through the windscreen into the blinding
snow, the wipers scraped back and forth furiously in an almost futile attempt to maintain some
visibility. But he wasn’t thinking about the snow, he was thinking about the Australian. Hamilton was a
risk, too great a risk to leave walking and talking. He pulled his gloves off, checking his pocket for the
cylinder. "Hamilton was talking to Feng,” He continued, “when the time is right..." Hong left the
sentence hanging because he was really talking to himself, he knew if anyone were to find out about
the ice core sample, China’s future would be gravely jeopardized.
The driver nodded. "We have agents in Australia, why not have them do it?”
"No,” Hong Liu said, a little troubled by the other mans complacence. “This I need to do myself.”
What they were undertaking now would take many years to come to fruition and could turn the world
and the balances of power upside down.
The driver had no idea what was in Hong’s pocket or what they were doing here. He didn’t want to
know; in this case ignorance was bliss. Like Shultz in Hogan’s Heroes, his chances of survival were
much better if he ‘knew nothing!’ anyone in the PLA could tell you that. He replayed the German
accent in his head, he wasn’t about to try it out loud.
"Durnovo is preparing the drill site," Hong said shivering a little, but not from the cold. "We don't
need any more complications like Feng." He looked at the driver. “Or we might join him.”
The driver inwardly shrank and looked away. Yes, the least said the better; Hong seemed to have
an unusual degree of latitude with Beijing. He didn’t want to be Hongs next job. What ever they were
doing was clearly worth killing for, not that that had ever been a problem.
He looked up and glimpsed the squashed orange pumpkin shape of the moon as it appeared
between racing clouds of blowing snow. The flattened shape was due to atmospheric bending of light
or refraction - an effect which is more severe closer to the horizon, something poor old Feng would
never see again he thought, but something the driver wanted to see many more times.
On the way back to camp the driver tracked the moons path until it sank below the horizon, fearful
now thinking somehow his fate and the moons presence were somehow entwined. Strangely, the driver
was right. Thousands of miles away someone else was looking at the same moon at the exact same
moment. This person was scouring its surface looking for something left behind from decades before
and had a far better view than the Chinese snow cat driver enjoyed. Fate was drawing their paths
together. A set of events had just been set in motion that bound them all together in a struggle that
would pit them against each other, see two of them dead along with thousands of others and a planet on
the brink of destruction. 

*****

The Russian Bear Trap

THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW March 5 2018. The Russian leader, President Vladimir Ivanovich
Petrov, tapped the rubber end of a yellow HB pencil on the neatly printed report that sat on his desk.
Petrov was aware of the caliphate ambitions of the Iranians. His security focus however was fixated on
the west, specifically the Americans and the UK. He figured anything the Iranians did at this point
could only be a positive in the quest to weaken them, which is why they had provided assistance to help
the Iranians build the bomb in the first place. Unlike the Americans who had become faltering,
bewildered and unable to act decisively, Petrov would not hesitate to completely annihilate the goat
herders in a first strike if they became annoying. While numerically similar, Russia’s nuclear capability
now exceeded that of the Americans who had failed to upgrade their systems. The Russians could
destroy the Iranians before they could react and the Iranians knew it. Right now however there were
other larger considerations.
"How long have you known about this Bing Qing operation?" Petrov asked. The Chinese term
'Bing Qing' meant 'ice clear' in English.
Colonel General, Sergey Nikolayevich Lebedev, Director of Agentstvo Voyennykh Novostey,
Russia's Foreign Intelligence Service, looked around at the opulence of the President's office. It
contrasted strongly to his own, which was Spartan but functional. "I was approached by the director of
the Guoanbu personally a few months ago." Guoanbu was the Chinese intelligence arm. "Initially we
didn't know what to think, so it wasn't so much keeping it under wraps but waiting and watching. So
we put Durnovo in charge of the project … to see what substance existed." He paused, fishing through
his pockets for his cigarettes. "You mind?" he asked.
"No, go ahead," the President said, waiting patiently while the other man lit up. The two men went
back a long way. Lebedev had worked for Petrov when the President held the position of Director of
Intelligence under Putin. They worked well together. "And you agree with Durnovo's findings?" The
President finally asked.
"Absolutely, we have cross checked the data many times. It's all very real. This is why we
committed to the first part of the operation." He was referring to the air force base they were
constructing on land recently leased from the Argentineans at Grande de Tierra del Fuego, paid for
with Russian oil. Lebedev continued. "The Chinese seem to be living up to their part of the deal. We
now have to make sure we look after our end of the bargain." He looked at the President.
Petrov sat quietly. He had spent most of the morning reading the report and conferring on the
phone with his Chiefs of Staff. He had personally rung Professor Durnovo. Old habits died hard. He
had already made a decision. He looked at his watch. "I have convened another meeting with the Chiefs
of Staff in two hours. We have already talked." Lebedev didn't look surprised.
"A preliminary operational plan based on your report has already been drafted," Petrov said.
Lebedev smiled. "Excellent."
"But it means we have to ready our Pacific Fleet, and you have to have your forces in position as
soon as possible. When will the Georgia Aviatsion'nyi Baza be ready by?"
"June."
"Good, and the Chinese will have the Martin De Vivies base operational by then as well?"
"Da."
"Then your plan calls for us to move into phase two?" the President asked, tapping the report
again.
Lebedev nodded. "Yes, now it becomes interesting."
"The Americans, do they have any idea at all?"
"Nyet. It appears not"
Were they ever going to get a surprise Petrov thought? Finn must have had them all sleeping at the
wheel and now they had a leadership crisis to manage. Too bad for them, that lapse would cost them
dearly. After this, the USA would be a spent power, third in line if lucky after China and Russia.

*****

The Hamilton Hit. Станция Востока, Антарктида

VOSTOK STATION, ANTARCTICA. Hong Liu, now a senior officer in the PRC’s Ministry
for State Security, scraped his boots on the thresh hold leading into a Russian mobile. It was the office
of Professor Nelomai Ostaf'ev syn Olfer'eva Durnovo, head of the Russian Vostok science and drilling
team.
“It’s the Australian again.”
Hong already knew. He had seen him. “Hamilton.”
“Yes. I thought you were going to do something about him?” Durnovo, so close to the prize after
so many years of painstaking effort labouring under choking security conditions, was understandably
nervous. “We are that close.” He held his thumb and forefinger together to illustrate the point; it
reminded Hong of Maxwell Smart. Durnovo continued, “I think he suspects something.”
“So do I, but I don’t think he has any idea what ‘IT’ is.” Hong replied.
“I don’t think we can take the risk. The question is; are you going to do something about it, or
should I ask my people.”
“I will handle it.” Hong said. If he had taken offence he didn’t show it. “Personally.” He looked
the Professor in the eyes.
Durnovo looked away. Hongs dark emotionless eyes were every bit those of a killer. He didn’t ask
Hong how he would ‘handle it’.
As Hong left the office he looked back at the professor behind his desk. He even looks a little like
Maxwell Smart he thought. He walked back to the Chinese camp. The next flight out was still a few
days away. There were more flights than usual, ostensibly Chinese and Russian supplies to support the
drilling operation. This was mostly true, but there was more than just food and drilling equipment on
the aircraft. He would fly via Martin de Vivies to Indonesia and then back to Perth, Australia. It was
time to pay the prying Australian a visit. His solution to the problem was crude. But in the past he had
found the method effective and permanent. The Russians had been knocking off journalists and anyone
else that asked too many questions for years. It seemed to work for them as well, why fix something
that works?

*****

The Amanab Emergency

PORT MORESBY, PAPUA NEW GUINEA. Natasha Braithwaite drew in a deep breath and
adjusted her dress. No cameras hung from her neck and the ever ready note book and recorder no
longer evident, her days as a journalist were over. The experience however had served her well. She
was now a popular figure in the Australian Human Rights Party. The press liked her and not just
because she used to be one of them. She was slim and featured large well-rounded breasts that seemed
to defy gravity. She was natural camera fodder. But that popularity wasn’t the reason she was selected
to lead the Papua New Guinea (PNG) Senate Investigations Committee. Senator Braithwaite was also
particularly smart, often devouring others with a sharp intellect while they became lost and
shipwrecked in the depths of her cleavage. In Braithwaite, the marriage of beauty and brains made for a
great politician. It was the smarts that landed her the job of leading a Senate Enquiry team to PNG.
Papua New Guinea, situated less than one hundred and twenty five miles north of Australia, was
roughly the size of California and populated by more than six million people. The country existed as a
strange mixture of modern costal towns and remote tribal villages led by a government that had become
a hive of corruption. The result was anarchy. Tribal fighting was common, strongly fuelled by
something called 'raskolism' another term for gang-based crime and the reason for Colonel Brian
Hamilton being in PNG. The guy he had snatched in Aceh, Usman El Muhammady, had come up with
some interesting names and dates, one of them being Trevor Somare. Somare was nothing less than a
bandit, but what was interesting was whether the TNI were feeding weapons to him and why.
While Hamilton searched in the heavy jungle of the Papua New Guinea highlands, the subject of
his and Braithwaite's attention was much further west.
The Raskol's self-elected leader took a long pull from the SP Lager can. It was warm. But he and
his men had got used to that. It was midday at the edge of Amanab, a small Wahgi village just east of
the 475 mile border between PNG and Indonesia's Irian Jaya Province.
Most of his men were avoiding the heat, seeking shelter on the shady side of an old whitewashed
church, but they could do little to escape the steaming humidity. His meeting with the Kopassus unit of
the Indonesian military (Angkatan Bersenjata Republik Indonesia or ABRI, reverted back from the TNI
in 2010) on the border had gone well. Now, instead of being armed with machetes and shotguns, his
men, after quick instructions from the Indonesian Special Forces, were equipped with the latest Russian
assault rifles. They were clearly itching to use their new toys.
The local Wahgi villagers had been rounded up and forced into the church. Their neat little village
that was decorated with flowered paths was now a convenient garden bar for his men. The Raskols
were mostly made up of Huli Wigmen from the Southern Highlands - tribesman with a reputation as
some of the fiercest fighters in Papua New Guinea. They were now getting drunk, shouting and
sweeping the surrounding area with the barrels of their weapons.
After urinating heavily, carelessly splashing his boots and trousers, he sauntered drunkenly down
towards the church, his shirt open and belly bulging over his military styled trousers. He disappeared
through the front door of the building bumping past the two guards he had posted. He emerged amid
yells and screams clutching a terrified boy, no more than 10, who struggled to get free from his tight
grip. The Raskol's commander threw the boy into the center of the circle of men that had gathered.
"Run!" he yelled.
The small child stood petrified
"I said RUN!" he screamed, stumbling as he pulled a sidearm from his holster. He shot at the
child's feet. "Run, RUN, RUN!"
The boy stumbled backwards; his eyes glued to the gun, and then stood still, his small body
wracked by shakes. The Raskol's Commander was becoming frustrated.
"Give me!" he yelled to one of his men, holding out an arm. The Raskol reluctantly handed his
new rifle to the Commander. It was a 5.56mm AK-104, a modernized export version of the Russian
AK-74. The Commander, swaying a little, fumbled with the mechanism. Finally cocking it, he aimed it
at the boy. The weapon jumped in his hands, most of the rounds missed, but one struck the boy in the
thigh spinning him around and another exploded into the back of his skull spraying blood and gristle
over the ground. For a moment no one said anything. Then the Raskol's leader smiled and laughed
loudly. He whooped and held the rifle high. They all cheered. The Raskol's leader, Trevor Somare,
looked back to the Church, there was more fun to be had back there. They would save the women to
last.
Somare was little different than the men he led, just meaner and smarter. He was devoid of feeling
other than the satisfaction of his own desires. Trying to organize the anarchy of the Raskols, as
annoying as it was, got him closer to where he wanted to go - money and power, the same as most
politicians.
After he and his men had finished with the women and left the village, they hiked for many miles,
eventually meeting with their transports. From there they headed back to the permanent base situated
in an abandoned mining camp. There, in a small hut, the Raskol's Commander spread his flowing
overblown body across his favorite chair, the front bench seat from an old Plymouth.
"You mean they actually bought that piece of crap?" Trevor Somare said, cracking another can.
"Hook, line and sinker it appears," Somare's second in command replied.
"And she is actually coming up here to meet with us?" Somare exclaimed, even more incredulous.
"Yes, her and three others." He held up the printout of the email. Despite the crudity of their
operation they had set up a satellite-fed network system.
This was quite incredible. Trevor Somare wasn't interested in politics; he and his men had just
found an easy way to make money -- looting, killing, stealing, selling drugs, in fact any illegal business
they could think of that made money. Which is exactly what the TNI wanted them to do, create chaos.
Now the Indonesians AND some very dirty PNG politicians were giving him money to keep up the
good work. It truly was wonderful, he thought. He had just thrown the political stuff in for fun. It
looked like the foolish Australians had taken him seriously.
"Fuckin A!" he laughed, a plan already forming in his head. He would have to talk to the Russian.
The Russian would know what to do and how; if it were not for him they wouldn't have the guns. What
the Russians were getting out of all this he wasn’t sure, but who cared anyway?

THE AUSTRALIAN EMBASSY, PORT MORESBY, PAPUA NEW GUINEA. The

Australian Defense Attaché was caught between listening and looking. The woman in front of him was
better looking in the flesh than on TV. Combined with her good looks and intelligence, she was very
disarming.
If Natasha Braithwaite was aware of her looks, she did not show it. She was characteristically
straight to the point. "The question is," she said, her hazel colored eyes fixing the Attaché's attention.
"Have we been getting involved in local politics here? We have it on good authority that Australian
military personnel have used unnecessary force against the political group led by Trevor Somare."
The Australian Defense attaché very nearly rolled his eyes. "Can I ask who the 'authority' is?"
"Trevor Somare," she said. "We are here to test the validity of the accusation."
The Attaché stifled a laugh. "We don't even know who this guy really is Senator. From what we
can gather he's nothing but a common hoodlum. Why we would even give him any credibility I don't
know."
Braithwaite fumed inside. "That's what I am here to find out. We will speak to the local force
commander and then Somare himself. Hopefully, we can get to the bottom of this unpleasantness as
quickly as possible."
The Defense Attaché was incredulous. "Speak to Somare! Are you kidding?"
The woman's eyes didn't flinch. He pressed the issue, but despite arguing till he was blue in the
face he finally gave up. The woman was as stubborn as a mule. "I have to insist that at the very least
you use our driver and an armed escort from the RPNGC," the Attaché said out of despair. She agreed
to that.
Less than an hour later, Braithwaite stood outside the main compound building that housed the
small contingent of Australian forces. She had tracked down the most senior officer there but was still
not learning anything new. The Australian army major was no more helpful than the Attaché'. In fact
he showed no signs of having a clue as to what she was talking about.
The Australian major wasn’t familiar with Somare, but the woman’s increasingly agitated voice
meant she thought he was being evasive. While she talked he couldn't help notice the woman's ample
cleavage and was fascinated by the small trickles of sweat that ran down her skin and the sides of her
breasts. With great reluctance he dragged his eyes away before crossing the bridge to lechery.
Natasha checked the personnel sheet and looked around her in annoyance. Somebody must know
something. "Where's Hamilton?" she suddenly asked. "I see according to this sheet he is the most
senior officer here."
"Who?" the Major asked, this time actually playing the dumb part as best as he could.
"The Colonel!" she said loudly.
"Oh! Hammer" The Major said the last part quietly kicking himself. He shrugged.
Where had she heard that? "Did you say Hammer?" She asked.
The Major seemed to ponder that for a moment, wondering how to answer – perhaps he shouldn’t
have mentioned Hammer, she seemed to recognise that. "To be honest I don't know.” He said quickly
“He doesn't really tell us his schedule. He comes and goes." He suddenly brightened. "I can leave a
message if you like?"
Hammer she thought. Of course, Hammer Hamilton, the guy in the airplane crash in Afghanistan,
why hadn’t she put those two pieces together before? This just made her more frustrated. "Can I order
you to get him for me?"
The Major laughed and then stopped; who the fuck did she think she was? "No disrespect Senator,
but while I may have to talk to you, and answer your questions, there is about as much chance of you
ordering me around as your pet cat, no disrespect," he added again, remembering to wipe the smile off
his face and thanking God he didn't say pussy.
Braithwaite's cheeks reddened. The Major went to say something, suddenly feeling bad. Natasha
held up her hand, embarrassed. "You don't need to apologize, Major. I do. I was out of line." Her face
softened.
Maybe she wasn't the uptight bitch she seemed, the Major thought.
"This was a surprise visit," she conceded. "Can you please advise the Colonel I will be back in
two days and would like to meet with him when I return? Could you do that?"
"Yes ma'am."
The ma'am part was beginning to annoy her. "I will be meeting Somare first."
A cloud suddenly covered the Major's face. He had been warned about this part.
Natasha continued. "Whether we talk again depends on what Somare has to say. There are still a
lot of questions."
The Major's jaw clenched. "Yes, ma'am. Before the Colonel left ma'am he asked me to give you
this."
 She looked up in surprise. "He knew I was coming!" She was annoyed again. How did he know
that? If he knew why didn't he wait? She didn't like being played for a fool.
The Major was still talking. "Before he left he was specific about you getting this," He held up
what looked like a phone. "Normal phones are pretty useless out here, if you get into trouble, you can
use this." The Major handed her the small cell phone device. "This is a SAT phone. You can call from
anywhere. There's only one button and one number it calls."
"Who's that?"
"The Colonel ma'am." He looked at her, reading her thoughts. "And don't use it to just have a chat
with him. He won't talk to you. Unless you are really in trouble, leave it alone, but carry it with you
always."
Natasha looked back at the major. He was very serious. Her first thought of course had been to
ring Hamilton. Now she would wait, at least until she returned to Port Moresby.
The following day the Senate Investigation Committee flew to Daru where they met two guides
kindly provided by Somare. From there they travelled overland by 4WD towards Sibidiro. But Senator
Braithwaite and her Investigation Committee never arrived.

At the same time, several hundred miles north in the jungles of the Enge province, Lieutenant
Colonel Brian William Hamilton from the Australian Special Air Services Regiment stopped and
checked his GPS readout. His team was now just 2500 yards to the east of their designated target.
Hamilton, like the rest of his team, was silently threading his way through dense undergrowth, hoping
that their brief sojourn to verify a report of bloody violence would prove false. Just moments later that
hope was dashed; Hamilton had stopped in mid stride. They were still several hundred yards from the
village when the smell hit him. Hamilton's small team all recognized it. As they moved forwards, the
distinctive odour of burnt flesh, blood, and decomposition became almost unbearable. Without being
told, several of them separated to secure the perimeter while Brian and Sergeant Gary Fulham entered
the town.
The small village was littered with fly blown corpses. The bodies looking like life size raggedy
dolls discarded by a spoiled giant, many of them horribly twisted, torn and mutilated - men, women,
children…even babies. From the state of the Wahgi village women, it was obvious they had been
brutally abused. There must have been over sixty dead in the immediate area. There was dried blood
everywhere. It was unspeakable horror. Even the battle hardened Special Forces troops were shocked
to their core.
"Tribal?" Fulham asked.
 "Nope," Hamilton replied. He looked at the beer cans and other rubbish littered among the bodies.
"Raskols," he said. There was a sudden flash of gold amongst the rubbish. The Colonel squatted and
picked up some brass shell cases. "Looks like our Indonesian friends have given them some new toys
as well." He placed the two shell casings in his upper left pocket and turned to his imaging specialist.
"Pat, get Tony to take some pictures and call it in will you." The other soldier nodded. As Hamilton
spoke those words a radio message crackled through his small earpiece.
"Sierra One, this is Sierra Bravo copy over?"
Sierra One was Hamilton. "Sierra Bravo this is Sierra One, read you loud and clear," Hamilton
replied.
"Sierra One HOTSIT, Papa India Alpha is missing." A HOTSIT was a hot situation message. They
had given the young Green Senator the call sign of PIA - pain in the ass.
Brian swore under his breath. Damn that woman. "Sierra Bravo, roger that." He gave a hand signal
to the others as he replied to Sierra One, the lead chopper. "Exfil on my smoke now," he said. They
would have to leave the clean up and investigation to someone else for the moment. He flipped the
smoke grenade into the middle of the village clearing. Somehow the choppers would have to land
between the bodies.
"Roger Sierra One, exfil now on your smoke, Sierra Bravo out." The chopper pilot replied, rolling
in for the pickup.
Minutes later the Colonel watched the village disappear beneath the chopper's belly followed by an
endless sea of blurred green jungle as they sped south. Somewhere along the line it had all stopped
being fun. No, that was a bad word--these things were never funny. But there had been excitement. He
couldn't quite put his finger on the exact moment. But somewhere, sometime, that excitement and the
thrill of adventure had bled away from all the things that used to drive him. Maybe it was just age. At
42 it was probably time to retire and leave this stuff to younger blood. The SASR Colonel shook his
head to clear it and focused on the job at hand. The two old Hueys which should have stopped flying
years ago vibrated faithfully through the hot tropic afternoon. He should have been sitting in a C130
heading to Cairns contemplating a cold beer. That arrogant woman Braithwaite had now got herself
kidnapped, and the very men she seemed to loathe so much, had to risk their lives to save her.
His mind wandered for a moment. It was a long time ago, he still remembered it like yesterday, the
desert, the red sand and inescapable heat – the back of Burke. An endless flat landscape covered by
shimmering heat waves. But there was life there and for such a long time he had been part of it.

*****
 100 KM SW OF BURKE, AUSTRALIA - 32 Years Previously. The young boy was confused.
His left arm was bleeding badly and his right hand had been punctured through in several places.
Afraid to death, he had stood his ground, trying to make sense of what was happening. The dingo bitch
was all teeth and saliva, blood dripping from her mouth, his blood.
The boy at just ten was no heavier than the Dingo. But the native Australian Dingo had more teeth.
Three times the bitch had rushed him. Three times he had punched and kicked to keep her off him, not
making the mistake of falling to the ground. But the loss of blood was making him a little woozy. He
knew she was a bitch because of her teats. That's what gave him the clue. As he thought of this he
heard a rifle being cocked behind him.
"Stand back!" It was the strident and urgent voice of the boy’s father. He had to kill the dog before
it attacked his son again. Instead of backing away, the young boy had stood between the growling
dingo and his father's gun. The boy was covered in blood, his eyes wide with fear, but there something
else, he was still thinking.
"Move back Dad…but slowly." The boy had said.
The father looked at the son. There was rationale there. He didn't know what, but he did know his
boy. Despite the desire to kill the animal that threatened his son, he lowered the rifle and stepped back.
Brian did the same thing. The appearance of another large predator had cooled the Dingos passion.
But she stuck to her guns.
As they both backed off quietly there was a small whimper from some undergrowth near Brian.
They kept moving. Once they were twenty yards away, the bitch rushed into the small brush, picking
up a tiny pup, she looked once more at the two humans before trotting away.
"I knew it," the boy said, "she had a pup!" He yelled in delight, his hunch correct.
George Hamilton looked at his son. It was like the boy had won a prize. Despite his wounds,
some of which looked quite severe, the kid was smiling, almost laughing. George Hamilton picked the
boy up in his arms. There was going to be hell to pay back at the house. "She's a good mum." He said
simply, watching as the Dingo bitch slid into the swimming haze.
Brian remembered his father's strong arms. He was a big strong man. He would also never forget the
day his father died. He had felt the last breath rushing from his lungs. Right then, he had never felt so
hopeless. Miles from anywhere, he and his younger brother had buried their father. Life had never
seemed so unfair. Lance had been stoic; he was a tough son of a bitch. Their father hadn't pushed him
to be that way, he just was. Lance was so young; he barely had the honour of knowing the man. The
memory was never far away, neither many others which quickly followed. Brian tried to switch them
off.

*****

SAS Sergeant Gary Fulham watched his CO give the jungle the 10,000-yard stare. There must be
a lot of memories in that head, he thought. Some pretty bloody bad ones too. Gary's wife had described
the boss as having rugged good looks; he was just shy of six foot, and even in his forties, was a match
for any of his SF team. The man could walk faster, further and carry more weight than any of them,
and still operate and make decisions. He carried no fat; the poor bastard, Gary knew Hamilton never
had a chance to accumulate any. He was broad shouldered, muscular with sandy coloured hair. He was
unique. As far as Fulham was concerned, if Australia wanted a secret weapon, Hamilton was it. He
watched his boss snap out of his thoughts and begin to carefully check his gear.
The field kit Hamilton was checking was a combination of traditional soldiering with the latest
technology that was a seamless and integral part of their combat dress. Hamilton was using a Tactical
Terminal (TACTERM), a portable Battlefield Intelligence System designed to help plan and execute
the mission. Put simply, it was a real tough, thin laptop specially designed for field operations and was
plugged via satellite into an international battlefield network called the GIG. The Global Information
Grid was an Allied network, a super turbo version of the Internet that linked almost every allied unit in
the world into one big information system.
Hamilton looked up from the TACTERM. "Gary, you got the TAI?" Meaning the Target of
Interest.
"Right here!" Fulham unfolded the map.
"What about the T&G on the Senator?" the Colonel asked, examining the map. He was talking
about the tracking and guidance device they had given Braithwaite.
"On your screen."
The Colonel referred back to his portable terminal screen. The readout provided GPS data on the
mobile phone they had provided Braithwaite. While the screen was great, the good old-fashioned
paper map was bigger and easier to read. Once Hamilton had the location isolated on the monitor, he
poured over the map. Hamilton wasn't happy going into a rushed unplanned mission. That was exactly
how you got killed. But after what he had seen in the village, he knew time was of the essence. These
Raskols were unpredictable, undisciplined and uncontrolled, which made them very dangerous. They
took innocent life just for the fun of it. And although the Special Forces officer knew his team had
superior training, eight guns against eighty were lousy odds.
 *****

As Hamilton and his team flew over the jungle towards the rebel camp, Somare was scrutinizing
his new guests. They were all bound and gagged. The three men had begged and pleaded, one was
crying. They had become really annoying. He looked at the woman, her face and eyes had been defiant
to the last moment as they had tied and blindfolded her. He had pulled her jeans off to expose beautiful
white legs and dainty under pants. Her breasts were magnificent he thought. He had fondled them, her
nipples hardened by fear. They were as firm as they looked. He felt himself stiffen as he remembered
the feeling of her ass in his hands and running his fingers down the muscled stomach, then beneath the
lace panties and between her legs. That was good. He had to force his mind to return to the question in
hand, dragging his eyes away from the top of her thighs and panties.
"How much?" he asked the only other white man in the room that wasn't tied up.
The Russian Spetznaz (SPETSialnoje NAZnachenie) officer Mikolai Nabialok, shrugged. "Two
million at least; ask too much and it gets harder for the government to hide the transaction. Remember
they don't negotiate with terrorists."
Good point, Somare thought.
"Also," Nabialok added, "Keep them in the open." He pointed skywards. "Satellites, so they can be
seen."
That was good advice too. The Russian, Somare had learned, was both smart and ruthless. He had
seen what the man was capable of with the small boys and girls of the village, pointless cruelty that
exceeded his own. The Russian was impressive and very dangerous. Somare ordered the Australians to
be dragged out to his personal fire. The woman's breasts danced tantalizingly beneath the thin white
cotton. Despite her defiant attitude, her body shook with fear. He liked that, quickly becoming aroused
again. He desperately wanted to be between her legs.

The two choppers with the SF team had taken a wide berth of the target, travelling 7000 yards
south before turning into the selected landing zone. The pilot of the first Huey came in low over the
trees pulling the collective up hard in his left hand to arrest the rapid descent. The chopper flared to a
stop, just feet from the ground. The troops were out of the Huey in seconds. The pilot then twisted the
throttle to the stops, pushed the cyclic forward pitching the Huey on its nose, after a few feet of
allowing energy to build in the 48-foot rotors, he pulled back on the collective again, climbing hard and
expertly skimming the tree line before turning south, the old gas-turbine spinning the big blades to
produce the wop-wop-wop sound so many infantry soldiers loved and feared at the same time.
It took several hours for the SF team to cover the seven miles back to the target. After closing to
1,000 yards, Hamilton stopped and checked his TACTERM. The real-time satellite image displayed a
hazy outline of the encampment. The tracking signal was coming from one of the huts. That didn't
necessarily mean Hamilton thought that Braithwaite was there, someone else would probably have the
phone, but she might be close by.
Downwind of their target, they could listen, watch and wait. After nearly three hours of silent
vigilance, they were rewarded. Out of the same hut from where they had located the signal,
Braithwaite emerged, bound and gagged with three others. The visuals from the team's helmet-
mounted systems were immediately relayed to an orbiting satellite and into the GIG, the allied Global
Information Grid. Back in Canberra, the Crises Action Team was watching the drama unfold in real
time.
The Raskols had several bonfires burning brightly; a group of native women were hanging around
two trucks that had arrived with what looked like critical supplies - more beer. Good, boozed up they
were easier to take on. But on the downside they would also be more unpredictable and could take out
the hostages at any time. After a thorough reconnaissance of the perimeter security, the Colonel
repositioned the team around the target and then re-examined the scene through high-powered digital
glasses. The Raskol boys were really beginning to whoop it up. The four hostages sat beside one of the
bonfires looking scared shitless. One of the men was groping Braithwaite's breasts. That must be
Somare, Hamilton thought. Just then another man emerged from the hut. He was white.
"Who the fuck is that?" Fulham whispered.
"Don't know." Hamilton didn't like surprises either. This guy didn't belong to the piece of the
puzzle. "Setup the directional mikes and video," he whispered.
After a few minutes they had a pretty good feed from the hostage group. They listened in. Somare
and the white guy were talking.
"Russian," Hamilton said. "Sounds like he organized the trade."
They kept listening. What they heard as the two men boasted of their village exploits made them
sick. The Australians waited impatiently till it was dark.
"Ready?" Gary Fulham asked. Hamilton nodded the affirmative. Fulham pulled a small capsule
from his breast pocket while Hamilton plugged a control stick onto the side of his TACTERM. The
capsule was less than two inches long.
"Ready!" Hamilton said.
Fulham opened the small canister and exactly like the insect it parodied, the Dragonfly Micro
Unmanned Aerial Vehicle escaped and darted off, the small beat of its fast moving wings inaudible. It
was an advanced version of the Dragonfly they had used in previous missions. This version was much
smaller and had no power of its own. Instead it drew its power from microwave energy. A multi-
directional antenna on Hamilton’s TACTERM tracked the vehicle and provided a microwave beam to
provide energy to the Dragonfly. The MUAV received it, rectified it and then used that energy to
power the motor. In moments it was in position. A small, graphite canister weighing no more than a
piece of paper provided all the sensors; video camera, radiation sensors, chemical sensors, GPS and
communication relay. The Dragonfly’s own body could also be used as an antenna.
"Beautiful," Brian said. The infrared eye of the Dragonfly hovering above the camp clearly showed
the positions of each and every Raskol in and around the camp. "Designating," He added, moving the
cross hairs over tightly knotted groups of bodies, pressing a key to designate each target and its
priority. Once he was completed he looked back to Fulham. "Get the mortar set up and as soon as the
last round leaves the tube we move in." He signalled the Kiwi, the nickname of a New Zealand trooper,
by holding three fingers up, pointing and patting the top of his head. The Kiwi nodded, he carried the
rotary minimi which was capable of firing over a thousand rounds per minute. He would lay down the
covering fire from the flank.
Fulham quickly assembled the mortar. The Hirtenberger 60mm carried a rotary self-loader on top
of the barrel that took six rounds. The rounds were laser-guided and extended a broad set of fins after
leaving the tube. This enabled the projectile to steer and extended its range.
"Claymores?" Hamilton said into his mike. There was a double click in reply. Hamilton then
transferred the imagery and control of the UAV to the display module in his helmet visor. He folded
the wafer thin TACTERM and slid it into a side pocket on his pack. He gave the thumbs up to Fulham.
Fulham pressed the trigger. There was the familiar, but quiet plop of the first mortar as it ejected
from the tube, rapidly followed by five others. The Hirtenberger was folded and packed before the first
round fell on target. The UAV monitoring the camp relayed the overhead imagery to everyone's
helmet visors. They could alternately switch it on and off using it for reference. The visor displays
erupted in bright flashes as the mortars struck, most exploding a few meters in the air, spraying a
deadly jet of darts towards the ground below. The detonation over the top of the hostages was a stun
round. It made a very distinctive thump as it exploded. This was the signal to move in.
Hamilton and Fulham were up and running low, the infrared helmet visors turning night into day.
A body suddenly appeared in front of them, raising his weapon. Fulham double tapped two bullets into
the body and one to the head. The body flew backwards. To his left, Hamilton could now hear the roar
of the Kiwi's minimi, pumping thousands of red tracer lines racing through the camp. This was joined
by streaks of white and red lights as the other SF members took out their targets with their Heckler &
Koch G3 assault rifles. Twenty five yards to go, the Head Up Display (HUD) in Hamilton's helmet
showed some of the bodies in the hostage party moving; they were recovering from the stun round. He
killed the overhead image on his HUD and dropped to his knees. The sight on his FN SCAR Heavy
assault rifle was slaved to the helmet-targeting cue displayed in his visor. Red colored cross hairs
framed whatever the rifle was pointing at. He rapidly moved the weapon across each target. Some,
recovering from the stun shot were reaching for their weapons. If not hostages, they took three rounds
each, two shots to the body and one to the head the heavy 7.62mm rounds tearing big holes and
throwing them backwards. With the images of the village slaughter still fresh in his mind, he killed
without remorse. There was rapid firing right across the mine pit. Some of the Raskols tried to escape
into the bush. But each firing team, via infrared imagery from the hovering Dragonfly, was quickly
able to identify, track and kill them.
It took just two minutes; the entire campsite was suddenly deathly silent. The only figures
standing were friendly blue in color. The overhead imagery showed no movement, apart from their
own and the hostages. There was the odd bone jarring shot as the SF troops applied first aid to any
injured raskols. Again it was quiet. The Colonel, turning his back to the carnage, called in a report. He
didn't see the lone surviving Raskol reach for his weapon. Neither did anyone else. The young man
slowly pulled the weapon to his chest as he lay on the ground, quietly checking the rifle; it was cocked.
The Raskol correctly identified the attacker's leader from the way he talked and gave orders; he would
kill him at least. He took several slow breaths and then exploded from the ground bringing the weapon
to bear. Hamilton was talking and didn't notice the movement till too late.
Fulham caught the motion in the corner of his eye, the Colonel was in the way; it would be close.
Fulham, without waiting, fired just beneath Hamilton’s chin. The Colonel felt the burn of the muzzle
flash on his neck and the shockwave of the bullet as it blew past him and onto its target. Fulham's
round entered the Raskol's right eye and removed the back of his head; he never got to complete the
trigger pull.
That was close. The Colonel flipped the lid of his visor open and looked at Fulham with a
surprised expression, his neck still stinging, he looked at the dead Raskol and then Fulham. "Is there
really any need for that Gaz?" he said, a slight smile creasing his camouflaged features. "Can you keep
the noise down for god’s sakes; I'm trying to get a call through here!"
Fulham shook his head, all the while scanning the surrounding area. Fulham was the Colonel's
bodyguard. It was his job to keep the boss alive while he focused on command and control. It was a
job he enjoyed and did well. The Colonel was already legend several times over, time and again turning
disasters into success. There was not one man among them that wouldn't have followed him to hell and
back if he asked. Hamilton always brought everyone back. If anything happened to the boss, Fulham
knew he wouldn't be going home either.
The three hostages were sitting up now and some of the troopers were trying to steady them.
Hamilton was talking into his mouthpiece. "What's your current loc stat over?"
"Inbound Sierra One, south east two clicks."
"Roger that Sierra. All hostages ready for exfil, plus three ready on my pointer.”
"Sierra One, pointer located, fifty seconds."
"Roger that Sierra Bravo." The Colonel, Brian Hamilton, could see the familiar shape of the Huey
as it crested the tree lined ridge in front of him. "Sierra One now has you visual."
"Rog."
Brian turned to Fulham. "What about the Russian?" he asked.
"Hasn't been seen, looks like he bugged out early."
That got Brian thinking. "Somare?"
Fulham rolled one of the bodies over with his boot. "This him?" There was a neat little hole in the
centre of his forehead.
"Yep,” Brian said, “that’s him; make sure we take pictures of all of them." This was done pretty
easily. Whatever they were looking at was being recorded and relayed to ADFHQ in Canberra for later
analysis.
"Secure?" Hamilton asked over the SF network. He got rapid confirmations. "OK, untie them," he
said to one of the troopers that had moved in, he pulled his helmet off enjoying the fresh air. Quickly
the four hostages were untied and helped to their feet. Natasha Braithwaite shrugged off the help, stood
by herself and looked coolly towards the Colonel, their eyes locked.
The blue eyes she remembered so well stared back at her cold and detached just like in
Afghanistan. She tried to hide from them the uncontrollable shakes that wracked her body. During
those frightening last moments of the ordeal, when there were explosions, gunfire and screams, she was
sure she was going to die. It was after that she had heard his voice. Now she looked into the eyes of the
man that she had once thought dead and who had come to save her, the eyes were piercing and
unemotional. She then looked around her; all she could see was carnage. Had it been necessary to kill
every one? She wondered now just how many people this man had killed.
The returning choppers flared in the darkness. The hostages were rapidly loaded followed by the
SF team. It was starting to rain, time to go. It would take several days before anyone visited the mining
site. No one would miss these people. Indeed, if it had not been for Braithwaite's complaint to the
Senate, it would all have been forgotten.

*****

PERTH, WESTERN AUSTRALIA . It had taken Hong the better part of five days to make the
trip, jumping from one military flight to another before catching a commercial flight out of Jakarta.
Once in Perth he gathered his team together and prepared the mission. This took almost two weeks and
included training exercises in the desert to rehearse as best they could. When he thought they were
ready he set in motion the operational timetable. After a nervous wait he surveillance team told him
what he wanted to hear. The target was in his apartment, there was little activity in the area and the sun
would be behind them. It was time to move.
Hamilton eased back into the comfort of the large sofa that dominated the small lounge of his Perth
apartment. He used the unit whenever he was working out of the Campbell Barracks in Swanbourne.
He had been ordered to take a few days off. Not enough time to go far, but enough to put his feet up
and maybe relax a little.
He had not seen or heard from the Senator or her companions since he had rescued them. But
obviously they had been busy. The document he was reading was an official reprimand for excessive
use of force in Papua. The Senate Committee had reviewed the combat footage from the SF helmet and
UAV cameras. They probably never even looked at the massacre in the Whagi village and instead
were scathing in their criticism of how the crisis was handled and whether there was any justification in
the killing of the Raskols. Looking from his small apartment over the Swan River in Perth it all seemed
far away and remote.
He picked up the other letter, a crisp fresh A4 sheet that lay next to a freshly stamped envelope.
This was one he had written. It was his resignation; it looked like both he and his brother would be out
of the service. He sipped his scotch. Bitch, he thought, he wasn’t normally prone to those feelings but
he felt horribly betrayed. Time to move on, he pulled out the RosenBridge contract from under a pile of
papers. He had been sitting on this for some time and had already worked for them in the past. The
RosenBridge Foundation had been an ideal cover for his previous visits to Vostok Station on request
from DoD. The RosenBridge Foundation was made up of a group of scientists researching magnetic
anomalies and the like; they contracted him routinely to investigate the Vostok anomaly, an authorised
activity that was also in the interest of the government. His gut had been telling him for some time
there was something going on between the Russki’s and Chinese at the station. It was public
knowledge that the research team with their new rig had drilled down to the lake and were meters away
from melt water. For the scientist’s that was all very exciting. But he had sensed something else, some
of the characters he ran into didn’t give him the vibes he had expected and he was sure they were either
military or Intelligence types. Why would they be down there? What made the drill program a security
matter? He would have to dig a little deeper this time.
It had only been a few months since his last trip, but RosenBridge wanted him back there again.
Maybe another trip to Antarctica would help keep him busy and not so pissed off. At least it wasn't
dangerous.
He looked at the phone. Should he call Lance? For some reason he felt ashamed, Lance at least
had a good reason. Logically he knew he had nothing to be ashamed of. But Lance was his younger
brother. He didn't want to disappoint him. He bent to pick up the phone but was stopped half way
through the motion; there was a crash and the scotch glass on the table in front of him exploded in his
face.
Hamilton rolled instinctively, his eyes stinging from the scotch and his face from the pinpricks of
broken glass. There were two more thuds as high velocity rounds punched through the ranch sliders.
Brian scrambled as even more rounds came through the wall and smacked into the floor. Thermals!
Someone was shooting at him with a thermal sight; they could see and shoot him through the wall!
More rounds, big calibre, ploughed through the brick facing like it wasn't even there, the mortar, brick
and dust exploding through the apartment. Christ, the rounds kept coming. Whoever the attackers were
- he assumed more than one - they were not going to give up till they got him.
From a rooftop behind Hamilton’s building, Hong Liu examined the apartment through highly
specialised infrared gun sights. With the Bing Qing operation so close to completion, like Durnovo he
wanted to remove any risk of exposure. The chances were Hamilton knew nothing, but it was a chance
Hong wasn’t going to take, not with the stakes so high. He jerked his head with irritation motioning his
small team to keep firing. Shouldering his own weapon, a KSVK 12.7mm anti-materiel sniper rifle, the
Station Chief for the Second Bureau of the Chinese Ministry for State Security took aim again and
fired. They had just minutes before they had to move, but in that time he was willing to destroy the
entire building if that’s what it took to kill Hamilton. The KSVK was a large calibre anti-materiel
sniper rifle developed in Russia for the purpose of counter sniping and penetrating thick walls, as well
as lightly armoured vehicles. There was nothing between himself and Hamilton, bricks or otherwise,
that would stop the sniper rifles heavy calibre rounds.

*****
 CHAPTER THREE
Enemies at the Gate

MOSCOW October 4 2018. The cold morning air shuddered to the noise of big jet engines,
crackling and reverberating across the flight apron and into the airfield's medical facility. Inside, no one
even looked out the window.
"That should do it." The Russian Flight Surgeon pulled the last laces tight. The man in front of her
nodded self-consciously. She slapped his shoulder. "It suits you," something she could not say about
most of her customers, mostly rich fat, and out of shape Americans or Brits.
She learned a lot from that slap. The mans torso barely moved, the shoulders hard with muscle.
The Australian was in excellent shape and seemed at home in the 'G suit'. Fortunately since Russia
became oil rich these episodes were mainly about PR and not paying the bills by sucking up to wealthy
western fools. The Flight Surgeon felt a lot more pride in her job today. If she wanted to she could tell
this guy to take a hike, but she knew immediately this guy was military. She looked at his sheet,
Hamilton was his name.
“Mr Hamilton!”
“Lance looked up in surprise.”
“Let’s cut the pretenses, you are a pilot. Not just a pilot, but a fighter pilot.” Her English was
excellent. The Russian Flight Surgeon looked at him in a scolding manner. “Don’t look surprised, you
are all as obvious as hell.” She thought for a moment. “Make sure you tell Nafaniel, the Major.” She
smiled, “All you guys think you are the best, Nafaniel might teach you something.” She left the room
without looking back.
Lance felt stripped naked and totally transparent. He looked at himself in the mirror. The Gee suit
did fit, but a little uncomfortably. The suit was laced tight, pinching a little in the back, but that didn't
really matter. In a few minutes he would forget that as the anticipation and excitement continued to
build in his gut. Like many others before him, the Australian had been thoroughly briefed and had just
completed a physical at the Gromov Flight Research Institute prior to taking a ride in the Mig-35 or
Fulcrum F. Now he would be driven out to the waiting aircraft ready for some real fun, unaware that at
the very moment his brothers flat was being ventilated by heavy calibre rounds and Brian was trying to
be as small as possible to avoid them. This was a development of the MiG-29M/M2 and MiG-
29K/KUB technology, classified as a 4.5 generation fighter aircraft.
The Russian pilot was standing patiently on the ramp by the aircraft, and introduced himself as
Major Nafaniel Logvinoch. The Australian shook his hand enthusiastically.
 "Lance Hamilton," the Australian said, shaking his hand. "I have read much about you."
The Russian smiled. "You mean the promotional brochures. They always make you sound better
than you are. But," he added, smiling and turning to the big airplane, "I do know how to fly
these….many hours you know."
Lance Hamilton didn't doubt. Nafaniel Logvinoch was the recipient of the country's highest
award, 'Hero of Russia,' and was one of their top test pilots.
"Call me Nathan," the Major said.
"Lance, please call me Lance. Calling me mister makes me feel like I've been pulled over by the
cops or done something wrong." Lance smiled.
The Russian chuckled. "Yes, very polite while they write you a ticket." He chuckled again and
briefly nodded as he began his pre-flight. Hamilton stood back and watched the man's intensity and
attention to detail as he walked around the big airframe. This was no bored routine of running your
hand down the leading edge and kicking the tyres before lighting the fires.
The Russian pilot took a lot of time looking at the hydraulics, actuators and stress marks on the
metal skin, longer than normal. The man clearly knew and understood the mechanics of what he was
looking at; Hamilton expected nothing less from the test pilot he had seen at air shows in Avalon
conducting the famous cobra-and-tail slide movements. The highly decorated Russian Air Force Major
had booked nearly 4000 hours on 45 different aircraft. This was really going to be fun.
The MiG-35D was thirty percent heavier than her predecessor featuring large twin tails, menacing
exhaust nozzles and sweeping wings and tail plane that all screamed "fly me!" This was the dual seat
version - Uchebno-Boevoi - the combat trainer featuring Otklanyayemi Vektor Tyagi or deflected
thrust vector exhaust nozzles.
The Russian Major finally finished his long walk around tail number 304 and motioned Hamilton
to the ladder, the front ladder. The Australian was surprised. Hamilton knew it was standard procedure
that all foreign pilots or ‘joy riders’ sit in the back, in the trainee or WSO (Weapons Systems Officer)
seat. The front cockpit hosted controls and instruments only operated from the front seat. It was down
right dangerous if the front seater did not understand them.
He was still pondering that as Major Logvinoch helped him strap in and began to explain the
controls, flight and engine instruments. They weren't a whole lot different than those in western
aircraft. The altimeter was in meters instead of feet, the air speed in kilometers per hour and the main
flight instruments were reversed. In the front seat, the Major explained, Hamilton had the control of
the ejection handle.
"If I say EJECT, EJECT, EJECT, this is not a subject for discussion Lance. I'm out first, then you."
Hamilton nodded his head, a lot of responsibility to give someone you know little about, he thought.
The Russian pilot stepped across to the rear ladder and climbed into the back seat where he began to
start the left and then right engines. After conducting instrument and flight control checks,
methodically using his kneeboard and prompter, the Russian Air Force pilot received clearance from
the tower, ran some power up on the two big engines and taxied to the active runway.
Stopping on the threshold, momentarily standing on the brakes, Major Logvinoch ran the throttles
forward. The engines instantly spooled up to 100 percent before he selected the after burners,
simultaneously releasing the brakes as they snapped on. The two Klimov RD-33MK ‘Morskaya Osa’
afterburning turbofans with more than 20,000 pounds thrust each gunned the MiG down the tarmac.
They were airborne in less than six seconds and 1400 feet. The wheels were barely sucked into the
airframe before Logvinoch pulled a 6G loop bottoming out over the runway at 150 feet. Staying low
they thundered out over the Moscow River at 500mph.
"You have the plane," the Major said suddenly.
Hamilton instinctively grabbed the stick as the Major released his own grip and sat back. Was he
fucking nuts! They were tenths of a second from being dead at this speed and height. Not only that but
large pylons loomed ahead and higher, long cables sagging between them. Hamilton moved the stick
slightly to see whether the Russian Major was still guiding it. There was no resistance; there was no
guiding hand of experience from the back seat. In the reflection on the plexiglass canopy he could just
make out the Major leaning back in the ejector seat, his hands behind his head, idly looking out of the
cockpit. And he began to whistle! Not very well either. The lines were closing rapidly and the Russian
had still not tried to take the controls back. So Hamilton pushed the stick forward. The Russian's
whistling stopped. At a little over one hundred feet, with less than thirty feet separating them from the
wires above, the big MiG thundered under the powerlines before standing on its tail and going vertical.
Major Nafaniel Logvinoch, Hero of Russia, laughed. "Very good Lance, you almost made me
crap myself, and that's hard to do." He paused and said, "You used to fly your F-111C the same way?"
SOB, Hamilton laughed beneath his oxygen mask. The bastards would never have let him in the
front seat unless they knew who he was. Logvinoch knew damn well Hamilton would take the bait.
Right now though, heading straight up, Lance was just having too much fun to wonder about what all
that meant.
"She's all yours Squadron Leader. See what you can do with her."
Selecting afterburners and pulling a lot of gees, Hamilton pushed the MiG up to 51,000 feet, both
men grunting to keep from blacking out, before levelling and going supersonic.
"What do you think? Would the F-111 do that?"
 "Da, pre krasna…it's beautiful and the F-111 would still be way down below! Now how about
showing me that cobra and tail slide Nathan? You allowed to do that?" RAAF Squadron Leader Lance
Hamilton asked.
"With pleasure," the Major replied. "It is not often I fly with foreign fighter aces." The aircraft
snapped over onto its back into a split S to lower altitude then a nearly 8G roll into an Immelman,
followed by the famous cobra. Normally of course, Logvinoch was just feet from the ground. Pulling
into the vertical the Major chopped the throttles. The air speed dropped to zero and then the MiG slid
back to earth tail first. Logvinoch spooled the engines backup, arrested the backwards slide and, using
the thrust vectoring to maintain attitude, pushed the airplane straight back up the vertical.
"Ok, your turn," Logvinoch said. "The airplane is yours."
Hamilton emulated Logvinoch's split and Immelman flawlessly. The aircraft was a dream to fly,
big, powerful and highly manoeuvrable. After the tail slide, which he thought was pure joy, Hamilton
picked up speed, horsed the stick back to bring the nose of the MiG up into the vertical with enough
power and momentum to push the plane horizontally forwards while in a vertical attitude - the cobra
maneuver.
Logvinoch, sitting in the back, now knew exactly how the Australian came to be an ace. He was a
natural instinctive flyer. He checked their position and gave the Australian pilot the heading to
Zukovski air base for an ILSA instrument approach and low pass. Over the airbase the Major once
again took over the controls, punching straight into a hard turn back to the runway followed by some
viciously fast aileron rolls, a quick reversal, snap roll to the inverted before powering down the runway
at less than twenty meters upside down. To Squadron Leader Hamilton, it was all sheer bliss.

The two men became fast friends. "Zdorovye zhelayu!" Lance said, remembering his little bit of
Russian.
"Da!" The Russian grinned broadly tossing the Vodka back. The Australian followed suit.
"Damn." Hamilton winced. "This would melt the turbines off an F-111."
The Russian laughed. "So you are retired?" Logvinoch asked.
"Don’t know yet, I’ve taken a year out to get some perspective."
"Hmmm..good idea. We cannot do that. You were the one with the bird strike in the F-111?"
Hamilton looked up and nodded quietly. The Russian pilot for a fleet moment saw the pain that
still lingered behind the other man's eyes.
"I'm sorry," Logvinoch said, genuinely regretting bringing the subject up. Call sign Horde he
remembered. The F18 pilot, he was the one that died.
 "No," Hamilton said waving a hand. "Nat," he continued, having already truncated the Major's
name from Nafaniel. "You now, it's what we do. Our jobs are to push against that envelope….every
now and then it pushes back, wrong place wrong time." Hamilton wasn't surprised the Russian Pilot
was aware of the accident. Such accidents were broadly published and examined by aviation
professionals all over the world in the pursuit of making something inherently dangerous as safe as
possible. "One bird," Hamilton said after a pause, holding his hands out wide. "One really big bird,
twelve feet I think, wing tip to wing tip." As if it were yesterday, he could still see the mess of blood,
feathers and plexiglass. Not just birds' blood. There was blood everywhere.
"Me too," the Russian said.
"Really?"
"Not a bird though, a piece of turbine. Killed my … what do you call it? Wozo, my navigator. We
ejected, but it was too late for him." For a moment Lance could see the Russian reflect. The images
still all to clear for him as well. "You never forget these things. Neither should we. But we get past it to
carry on and pay honor to those lost."
They continued to trade shots of vodka throughout the afternoon until Hamilton pushed away from
the table, stood to leave and said goodbye. As he walked away, he heard the Major call out, "Lance!"
Hamilton turned. The Russian touched the brim if his service cap.
"Good luck Buck Shot…. Z'bogm," Logvinoch said, an old Russian farewell, 'go with God.' Buck
Shots call sign was hardly secret and such was the reputation it was frequently used as an adversary
role in Russian flight training.
"You too friend, you too." Hamilton smiled, it was kind of complimentary to know you were on
the adversary list of names they used to train combat pilots.

*****

Perth Hit - Same day

PERTH, WESTERN AUSTRALIA. As Lance walked away from trading vodka shots with
Logvinoch in Moscow, Brian was doing his best to avoid being shot. Bullets seemed to be punching
into every nook and cranny in the apartment. The rooms were full of dust, plaster and brick. The walls
riddled with holes. Brian leaned against the back of the fridge, they, whoever they were, were now
firing blind, oblivious to accidental casualties. They didn't care who they killed so long as they got
him.
 Behind the fridge he had a hunch he was invisible. He placed his night glasses on; the apartment
plunged into black and green. Shit! There were three beams searching through the rubble of his
apartment. These guys were friggen serious players he thought, you didn't buy that technology at a
department store.
The shooting suddenly stopped. He waited three and then moved. They could be trying a more
direct approach through the front door while he sat on his ass behind the fridge. He looked around.
There were few windows left unbroken in the apartment. He picked the unbroken one, threw the
microwave through it and dived out. Obviously they were not able to target that window for some
reason. Obvious now he thought, not before.
He was out, but it was several floors to the pavement below. He swung wide of the window,
grabbing the piping on the side of the building with both hands as he fell. The trip down was painful,
his fingers smashing against every pipe support, but it slowed the fall. He hit the pavement and rolled
to his feet with his SIG P226 semi automatic pistol clasped tightly between both hands. He swung
round in a crouched shooting position looking for a target. Nothing, just some very startled patrons in
the local coffee shop, surprised first by the microwave hitting the pavement and then a man with a gun.
Microwaves must be getting expensive some of them thought.
Then he saw her. She had a shocked expression on her face. What the hell was she doing here?
And right now! He was about to holster his weapon when a high velocity round hit him dead centre in
his back. As he pitched forwards he could hear her scream. His vision blurred, all he could see was
pavement, concrete. He couldn't move, he thought he could hear sirens, but it all went black. Brian had
always been sure he would die in a jungle, on the battlefield, but not at his flat.

*****

The de Vivies Analysis

INTELLIGENCE ANALYST CENTER (IAC), LANGLEY VIRGINIA. October 4, 2018.

David Stringer, now head of the Office of Chinese Analysis, Directorate of Intelligence, CIA, read off
the number he had scribbled on his office pad.
"37°55'S, 37°30'E. You got it?"
The Image Analyst Officer (IA) quickly typed the co-ordinates into his IAWS computer. He could
have just as easily given it voice commands, but a product of Gen Y his fingers moved as fast as his
mouth did and were les prone to errors. The instructions were instantly relayed to an orbiting ISR
satellite.
Half the world away and 130 miles above the earth, the 'War Fighter IV' satellite rotated its ultra
hi-resolution optical camera to focus on a small island located in the southern extremity of the Indian
Ocean.
"Got it, French base called Base Martin de Vivies, Ile Amsterdam, isn't it?"
"Right first time," Stringer said. The guy was a walking atlas. "What do you see?"
"Okay…interesting, new earthworks." He zoomed in more on the images that were being
communicated in real time. "An airfield, why the hell are the Frenchies building an airfield?"
"They aren't," Stringer replied fishing for a piece of paper buried in a thickly stuffed manila folder
he was carrying. "We got this HUMINT report from DO this morning." He handed it to the Imagery
Analyst Officer. "It looks interesting, enough for this guy to visit."
The IA, Wendell Cross, quickly scanned the short report. "Kwok-Wing Cheung. Head of the
Guojia Anquan Bu isn't he?" he said referring to the Chinese Ministry of State Security (MSS).
"Yep, and a vice chair of the PRC Central Military Commission, which begs the question, why
such a big fish would travel to such a small pond. They leased that property from the French just two
months ago."
"The airfield could just be for resupply of their Antarctic bases you know?"
"That would make sense except for the fact that all those normal activities are managed and liaised
by COMNAP," referring to the Council of Managers of National Antarctic Programs, which, among
other things, was responsible for the conduct of logistical operations in support of Antarctic science
efforts. "COMNAP has received no advice from either the French or Chinese on this. And it still
doesn't explain why it's so important that Kwok-Wing needs to visit there."
"Yeah, I see what you mean. If I remember correctly he's got quite a reputation, a protégé of
General Chen Jianguo."
"Yes, and I see Chen's footprints all over this," Stringer replied. General Chen Jianguo was the
executive vice chair of the CMC, the Chinese Central Military Commission. He only answered to the
Chinese President and Chairman of the CMC. Stringer knew him to be very measured and an excellent
strategist. He didn't get involved in something unless it was big game. He tapped the thin display
screen. "Get in as close as possible and record whatever you can get," he said to Cross, "and then give
me a time for when the bird is over Ushuaia and then…."
"Grande de Tierra del Fuego," the IA interrupted.
Stringer looked at him, with a little awe. "Right again." It was almost annoying.
"What am I looking for?"
 "Another airfield, give me a buzz when we have it."
"Roger."
Stringer walked slowly back to his office. His mind churned over the seemingly isolated facts like
a concrete mixer, waiting for them to fall together into something solid.
An hour later he read Cross's report on both the French-based airfield and the Grande de Tierra del
Fuego construction. He was in the midst of writing an Initial Intelligence Assessment and was already
getting the feeling this was leading to something much bigger. Why would the Chinese and Russians
be building airfields that far south? What possible strategic motivation would there be for that? He
filed the report and sent it through to the office of the Deputy Director of Intelligence, hoping it would
make the President's Daily Briefing, the PDB.

*****

EMERGENCY WARD, ROYAL PERTH HOSPITAL WA . As David Stringer submitted the

finished report into the Presidents Daily Brief (PDB), Lieutenant Colonel Brian Hamilton had been
rushed to hospital emergency.
"How is he?" the SAS man asked. He had just arrived driving directly from Swanbourne Barracks
as soon as he had heard.
"Amazingly good, case of good luck and bad luck," The doctor said. "The vest saved his life, but
the 7.62mm round hit him right in the centre of the middle vertebrae. The shock from the bullet
paralysed him, if it wasn't for the immediate CPR the young lady gave him, he would be dead."
The other man looked stunned. "Paralysed?" he asked
The doctor waved his hands. "Temporarily," he said, "Heavy bruising, but nothing permanent."
"Thank God." Good thing it wasn’t one of the 12.7mm types they had found, otherwise they would
have been scraping Hammer off the side walk. The SAS Sergeant shuddered at the idea, "And the
woman?"
"She left after we advised her he would be okay."
"You have a name?"
"Natasha Braithwaite." The doctor was normally less forthcoming, but management had advised he
answer this man's question as best as possible without breaching too many confidentialities.
"Can I see the bullet?"
"Has to go to police forensics I'm afraid." He handed him the plastic bag. "But please, have a
look." The doctor was playing protocol, but was not slow on the uptake. His patient had been wearing a
vest that was restricted issue. Not even the police had those.
"No probs." Fulham examined the round, armour piercing long nose 7.62mm. They had pulled a
shovel load of these and 12.7mm anti-materiel rounds out of the floor and wall already, but wanted to
make sure they were dealing with one set of shooters, not two.
"Thanks." He handed the bag back, they would check with forensics after. It was Russian of
course, which meant nothing; could be anyone. Just who the hell was trying to kill his boss? He was
going to find out, and when he did, he would do his job. He was acting out side of protocol, but bugger
the AFP he thought, he wanted to make sure it got done right. "Can I see him now?"
"Of course, please follow me." The doctor led him to Brian's room. As he followed the doctor he
wondered what on earth Braithwaite was doing there. Perhaps he needed to pay her a visit and ask.

*****

Doctoring the PDB

.
THE WHITE HOUSE. OCTOBER 5, 2018. Paul Goldschmidt, Secretary of State, sat on the
forward edge of the desk in a small office adjacent to the Situation Room in the West Wing of the
White House. He flicked the cover sheet of the PDB closed. "That's fine," he said flatly.
The other man in the office, Hans Jacoby, the National Security Advisor, nodded. "There was
some mention of an airfield being constructed at a place called Martin de Vivies," he said. "Stringer
seemed to think it was important.
"Where the hell is that?" Goldschmidt asked.
"Some place in the Southern Indian Ocean I think."
"Do we care?" Goldschmidt said, quickly scanning the original pages again. "In this case, I think
no. It's French territory; I don't want our replacement President sticking his nose into their business at
the moment."
"I deleted it anyway," Jacoby said. It was the NSA's job to act as an 'honest broker' filtering the
huge volumes of intelligence from the Situation Room into the PDB. He had buried the Martin de
Vivies stuff in his department as well as the steady trickle of data that showed some unusual military
activity among the Chinese and Russians. It didn't seem to threaten them, so he didn't see the point in
passing it on yet.
"Good," Goldschmidt replied. He had also crossed pen lines through other intel he didn't think the
President needed to know. Jacoby would distribute the edited version to the rest of the NSC.
 "What do you propose to do about Blaire then?" Jacoby asked.
"I don't know yet, try to keep him under control while we figure something out. Hopefully Lachlan
will recover soon and we can put this all behind us. The important thing is to keep Blaire from making
any unwelcome decisions before he returns."
"What are the doctors saying?"
"He's stable." Meaning Lachlan Finn. "A full recovery is possible," he added optimistically.
"Sooner than later I hope," Jacoby added.
"Amen. I don't know how long I can stand working with Blaire." He paused. "Anyway, gotta go."
He held up the file. "Daily chores," he said, leaving the office.

*****

THE WHITE HOUSE OVAL OFFICE President Damon Andrew Blaire stood up
uncomfortably from the big black Gunlocke leather chair. It felt like it was designed for someone else.
A little over 5'9", the U.S. President appeared fit and healthy with average looks and a thick mane of
short-cropped hair that was almost pure white. He looked at himself in the mirror on the opposite wall.
He was sure that just a few weeks ago there had been some colour there. But that was a few weeks
ago, a lot had changed since then.
Blaire laid the flat of his palms on the big oak desk. The desk and the seat really belonged to
Lachlan Finn, a President who was in the beginning of his second term in office, suddenly struck down
by an embolism and unconscious for the last six weeks. Congress had declared him incapacitated, and
for the moment at least, the Vice President was thrust into the top job.
Damon Andrew Blaire was, until further notice, President of the United States of America. He put
those thoughts on the back burner. He motioned the tall slim figure of the Secretary of State into the
office. Paul Goldschmidt strode quickly into the room tapping a file against his thigh.
"You have the PDB?" the President asked. He was annoyed he had to ask, but didn't let it show in
his voice. There was smouldering resentment to his presence here. He could feel it. He had not been
Finn's choice of a Vice President. In contrast to a tradition decades old, the party leadership had made
that choice, resolving bitter factional feuding that had threatened to derail the party. Finn had argued
hard against the Blaire appointment, but in the end had to accept that or lose the nomination. Finn had
gone on to win, but kept Vice President Blaire as far away from the office of power as he could.
Now Finn lay prostrate in a hospital bed and he was the 'accidental' President. This was a term that
seemed to be taking traction inside the White House and in the press. Damon Blaire was keenly aware
that Goldschmidt, like many of the others, did not believe he should be sitting in the Oval office. This
wasn't his Presidency and none of them were his appointments or staff. They belonged to President
Finn. He watched as Paul Goldschmidt dropped the Briefing Book and its contents onto the Resolute
Desk, Finn's desk, originally presented to President Rutherford B. Hayes by Queen Victoria.
Goldschmidt ignored the small courtesy of turning and opening the folder for the President to read.
Blaire pretended not to notice, sliding the folder across the desk and spinning it around before
thumbing through the sheets. He first looked at the PDB, then the two-page blue paper, the INR and a
whole mess of newspaper clippings and reports.
"Not much going on it seems," Blaire commented.
"All quiet on the western front, Mr. President," Goldschmidt replied. "Do you need me for
anything else Sir?"
Blaire looked up from reading the last page. How about some real help, he thought. "Have you
normally delivered the PDB Paul? I thought that Jacoby delivered the Briefing Book," the President
asked. He could see Goldschmidt bristle a little.
"He normally does Sir, but sometimes I do it, especially if the pickings are thin, like today." He
lied. Goldschmidt looked about to leave but hesitated, coming to a quick decision. "Permission to speak
freely Mister President?"
"I hope you always do Paul. Go ahead."
"President Finn's condition is still not completely known. Because of that, I think we should
conduct our duties under an assumption he will be returning to office. I don't think it would be
requisite that we administer policy that might contradict his, and that we treat the current situation as a
caretaker government."
"In other words Paul, you want me to do as little as possible?" Blaire's voice was devoid of
emotion. "Avoid making decisions?"
"I think avoid taking any actions that might conflict with President Finn or his administration's
objectives, might better characterise it, at least until he returns."
If he returns, Blaire thought. But maybe the Secretary of State was right. Finn was the elected
President, not him. Whether he agreed with his policies didn't matter. Who was he to go against the
wishes of the voters? "Perhaps you are right," Blaire said after a moment. Goldschmidt didn't look
convinced.

*****
 CHAPTER FOUR

THE PENTAGON, WASHINGTON DC October 5 2018. It was already late in the afternoon
and cold. The shadows of the Pentagon were stretched across the inner lawn. Originally built in record
time during World War II, the Pentagon was considered to be the largest office building in the world
with three times the floor space of the Empire State building, housing 25,000 employees and nearly
eighteen miles of corridors. In a small office located on the fourth floor, in a place known as the Office
of Special Plans, General George Pirelli, the nation's highest-ranking military officer, Chairman of the
Joint Chiefs of Staff, cringed as he watched the television re-run of President Lachlan Finn's last
speech.
"The question is," the reporter said, introducing the segment, "will President Damon Blaire follow
the same strong policy as his running mate in the last election. It is no secret the two were not great
friends." The scene switched to previous footage of President Lachlan Winston Finn speaking at the
White House.
"The U.S. government has drifted down a path of paranoia based on a threat of our own invention.
Where enemies have not previously existed we have created them. The distrust with which we deal
with our world partners is expressed in every daily brief and report we get from our intelligence
agencies and defence. This stuff," he clutched the paperwork crumpled in his fist, "is Cold War
fantasy!" He threw the paperwork in the bin. He stood up from his chair and walked around the table
towards the camera, sitting on the edge of the table, looking relaxed and in control. "Unless we are all
blind, and terrorism aside, we have never been further from a traditional military threat since our
independence. Despite that, the previous Administration lavished enormous amounts of money on our
conventional military, building a defence capability to fight something that does not exist. That
paranoia led them to believe that China, Russia and other countries, which did not immediately
embrace our own ideals, were our enemies." He stopped and looked hard into the cameras. "This is a
new world. This government is not about making enemies; it's about making friends. The billions
currently funnelled into unnecessary defence projects will instead be redirected to health, education and
critical social programs."
The scene switched back to the reporter, the backdrop of the White House behind her. "The
tragedy of course is that just hours after this speech, President Finn suffered a severe embolism, and
today still lies in a coma with no one knowing whether he will recover well enough to return to his
office."
Pirelli pressed the remote, switching off the sound. The small room plunged into silence. The man
seated opposite Pirelli looked at the General expectantly.
"Who's running the show up there Captain?" General Pirelli asked.
"Goldschmidt," Captain USN Vince Kipper replied crisply.
Pirelli nodded his head. He had guessed that much. "What's Jacoby doing?"
Captain Kipper, a Situation Room Watch Officer, considered the reply. "He's not Goldschmidt's
patsy, but they are most definitely on the same page." Kipper looked briefly at the TV monitor again
before continuing. "There is some heavy editing of the PDB and the Blue Thing. I would classify it as
manipulation."
"So would I, I've seen them. Is that why you're here Vince?"
"Sir, we are receiving information that suggests unusual and extensive force movements by the
Chinese and Russians, especially naval." He referred to some notes he was carrying. "David Stringer,
probably our last senior strategic analyst in the CIA, was given a tip by our Australian friends about
construction sites at Il de Amsterdam and Tierra del Fuego. They appear to be large airfield facilities.
We followed up and discovered the Chinese leased the land in question from the French at Martin
De Vivies and the Russians did the same in Argentina. Put these things together and it all points to
something very unusual going on that we don't understand. The problem is it has been excluded from
the President's Executive Briefs and those going to the NSC members." He looked around, almost
nervously. "The President is being deliberately deprived of information."
"I know," the General said simply. "Tell me about the Martin De Vivies and Argentine bases."
Kipper quickly read the unedited briefing from Stringer.
"That means the Director of the CIA isn't sharing. That's a worry."
"I'm afraid there's more Sir; Jacoby also has his sights on you General. I have overheard both
Goldschmidt and the Secretary of State discussing the JCS positions."
"I know, but thanks for the heads up." He gave a wry smile. "Occupational hazard," he said. One
of the pre-requisites to heading up the Joint Chiefs of Staff is that they had to have served at least one
term in the capacity of vice chairman. There was currently no other serving officer on staff with that
qualification. Goldschmidt, Finn's answer to defence, had been gunning to fire him even before the
Finn Administration was officially sworn into office.
"That's not all Sir; I questioned the contents of the PDB and Blue Thing. Jacoby wasn't amused,
and in my opinion was definitely not on the level; it's why I came over today."
"Can you talk to Stringer without Jacoby or Miles getting in the way?"
"I'll try, but Galen Miles is shepherding his flock. He's pretty cosy with the NSA and Goldschmidt
as well." Galen Miles was currently head of CIA.
 Across the other side of the city, in the opposite corner of the West Wing at the White House,
Secretary of State Paul Goldschmidt relaxed back into the soft leather of the visitors lounge chair,
wondering what Pirelli was up to. Outside the window he could see the street lamps coming on, dull
glows in the fading light of day.
"Kipper's with Pirelli right now," the Director of the CIA said from the other matching chair,
almost reading his mind.
"What's Kipper up to?" Goldschmidt asked.
"Complaining to Pirelli I would think," Jacoby interrupted from his perch on the desk. He slipped
off the desk and paced the room. "He had a problem with the total exclusion of Stringer's report from
the PDB and blue file." He paused looking from one to the other. "My guess is he's telling Pirelli all
about the Martin De Vivies thing right now."
"Well, they can gas bag as much as they want. As far as we are concerned it's a dead end,"
Goldschmidt replied. He turned to the Director of the CIA. "Galen, make sure you limit that stuff
before it hits the Situation Room. We don't want our Watch Officers raising the alarm."
"What about the rest of the West Wing staff?" Galen Miles asked.
"Homeland Security is dependant on information from us, and the rest of the crew are either
hoping Finn comes back to save their jobs or are keeping their heads down. The rumour mill has it that
Blaire will replace most of the staff with his own people if he stays in office." Goldschmidt paused,
thinking.
Miles had a pretty good idea where the rumour started.
"Listen, just had an idea." Goldschmidt cupped his hands together. "Why don't we turn the
intelligence faucet on some more instead, swamp them in background noise, and pack it full of
suspected terrorist stuff. Snow them under for a while."
CIA Director Miles smiled and nodded. He knew exactly what Goldschmidt meant. Keep them
away from the Chinese and Russian chatter that seemed to be building up.
"We have a meeting of the Security Council later this week; it wouldn't hurt if Bin Ladin's old
mate was to raise his head again," Goldschmidt said, getting a little more creative.

*****

THE PENTAGON, October 6. The next morning, Pirelli received a call from Stringer. The
Situation Room Watch Officer had obviously been good to his word. Like Kipper, Stringer sensed
something happening over the horizon that they really needed to know about. Pirelli asked Stringer
about the President's Daily Brief.
"Cleansed and sanitised I'm afraid," Stringer answered. "Galen Miles is well and truly riding on
Goldschmidt's band wagon."
"That's what we figured. What do you think is happening down there on that island?"
"Nothing we can put together yet. But there is obviously some game in play and I'm betting it's
not to our benefit."
"Loud and clear," Pirelli said.
"What do you want me to do?" Stringer asked.
Pirelli chewed that question uncomfortably. "Nothing that will put your ass on the line; you've got
Miles to worry about."
Stringer thought about it. "General, I can probably back channel some stuff through to Vince
Kipper. Get it stuffed into daily chore material. I doubt Miles has the time to read it. But Kipper will."
The General smiled. "Good idea. I'll let Vince know to look for it." Playing cloak-and-dagger spy
stuff was not exactly Pirelli's major at West Point. He was skirting the edges but knew that at the
moment it was the only way to move forward. "I think something really stinks about these new
airfields. Its unfortunate Goldschmidt and his boys are ignoring it and playing cheap politics. They
believe the Chinese and Russians have nothing but good warm fuzzy feelings for us."
For a moment there was silence on the phone. The other man was considering the options.
"General, we will still need to increase our intelligence effort on this. I will do what I can, but Galen
Miles will be up my ass from now on."
"Understand, I'm meeting with the Chief of Defense Intelligence this morning; whatever we find
I'll make sure gets to you. By the way, if Goldschmidt and his boys push this too far, it becomes a
criminal offence, and when rats are cornered they come out fighting. Make sure you log everything."
Stringer felt the cold hand of dirty politics stroke his throat. He swallowed. He hated that stuff.
"I will."
"Good. Speak to you soon." Pirelli closed the connection.
A little while later, the CJS, General George Pirelli, walked quickly into the VIPERS Planning
Center. To any outsider the room looked like something from a Star Trek set. This was part of the
command battle center. VIPERS was a Virtual Integrated Planning and Execution Resource System. It
gave U.S. Command an unprecedented real time, three-dimensional view of virtually every corner of
the earth and any battle space hooking into such systems as the Wideband Global Satellite
Communications (WGS) constellation. VIPERS was fed information from every possible sensor and
intelligence-gathering source the U.S. and selected allies had in the field. Satellites, spy planes,
submarines, combat aircraft and the men and machines on the ground, all fed into one huge network.
"Can you get me Martin de Vivies now commander?" the General asked. He had been watching
the recorded data of the airfield construction. As far as he could tell it looked complete. But then
everything seemed to go quiet. Perhaps the Chinese had no intention of making the facility active.
"No sir.' The Marine officer answered.
That stopped the General in his tracks. "What do you mean no Sir?"
"We have repositioned two birds over the island and each time we experience interference. We
can't pin point it and once we pass over it disappears."
"From the ground?"
"Not that we can tell."
"From space?"
"Its too hard to tell. Nothing big enough to cause damage just interrupts communications and
operations."
"Not coincidental."
"No sir, definitely outside directional interference, probably an adaptation of their directed energy
weapons." This was a laser beam that at close range was lethal, but at long range could cause major
disruptions to systems.
"Interesting. Alright, put a request into VIPERS to get a U2 over Martin de Vivies and make sure
this and any other interference is logged. Keep me posted," the General said, leaving the VIPERS
planning room. It was becoming more interesting by the minute. He motioned the CDI to follow him
into the adjacent conference room.
"What do you make of it?"
"Adds up, with the intelligence on the current ship and aircraft movements, there is no question the
Chinese and Russians are well progressed into what looks like a major operation, and somehow it
involves Martin de Vivies and Tierra del Fuego. But we have no idea to what ends."
"And to interfere with our satellites suggests they think it must be important enough to
compromise a strategically important capability like being able to suppress satellites at their discretion.
Finn is still comatose and so is the White House. Our accidental President is having a nervous break
down and the Cabinet and NSC are playing the whole thing down. What a cluster fuck," he exclaimed.
"It is becoming clearer by the minute that the Russians and Chinese are running the ball down our blind
side!"
President Blaire would have been embarrassed, but not surprised to hear what the General was
saying. It was fair comment. At that very moment Blaire was looking out the window over the Rose
Garden. Several months had passed and there was no change in President Finn's health. He looked at
the heavy circle around the date on his desk calendar. It was October 21, that was his drop-dead date.
He picked up the phone.
The sound of the conference phone ringing almost made the General jump. The caller ID flashed
in red; VIPERS had directed the call automatically. He looked up in surprise at the CDI and then
around the room. Were they bugged? What were the chances of that?
He snapped up the handset. "Yes Mr President, General Perelli, here."

*****

THE WHITE HOUSE OVAL OFFICE - Same day. In the worldview of President Finn, the
military and intelligence community were inventing enemies that no longer existed. The Chinese or
Russians were no longer a menace; terrorism was, but not the conventional threat that the military were
so used to preparing against. Aircraft carriers and massive spending on other defence platforms was no
longer warranted. Chinese totalitarianism would be defeated by its own financial success.
The logic of that view was enticing and understandable, Blaire thought, but also flawed. An awful
lot of people, perhaps even the majority of citizens in the US and those of many other countries might
believe this. Despite that, he wasn't about to lead the U.S. down a path with blinkers on. While it was a
lofty ideal, the reality was the Chinese and Russians coveted resources as much as the U.S. did, and
were getting ready to fight for them. Unlike the U.S. they were not democracies, but autocratic
governments that could change tune in a heartbeat and attack the U.S. its friends or any other state
without having to ask anyone. The Russian and Chinese economies now challenged that of the U.S.
The simple fact was America was no longer as big as it used to be and the need to be diligent stronger
than ever.
Blaire looked at the heavily braided uniform of his senior active officer. "President Finn thinks the
only thing the military has been able to do in the last ten years is spend money and fuck things up." He
said, standing up and walking in front of the fireplace.
General George Pirelli said nothing, he didn't take the bait. He would have resigned long ago but
for his sense of duty. The shit would hit the fan sometime, and this administration was going to be
completely unprepared. He kept his mouth shut. Like his predecessor had said, someone had to stay the
Watch, and it was his duty. What Pirelli didn't know, was that the seeds for a crises of historical and
deadly proportions were already taking root.
"Mr President," he said eventually, his voice void of emotion, "I call a spade a spade, Sir. Whether
I like working for you or not is irrelevant, I'm not a politician. I will give you my honest advice. That's
my job. What you do with it is your job. If you don't like what I have to say, you only have to ask for
my resignation."
For a long awkward moment Blaire stood in silence. Pirelli wondered what he was planning next.
"Martin de Vivies?" Blaire said suddenly.
Pirelli almost fell off the chair.
"Tell me what you know about Martin de Vivies." He could tell the General was surprised.
"Goldschmidt had his chance to do the right thing. I know about Martin de Vivies, General. I might
have been quiet in the last few months. I hadn't turned stupid."
The General looked at the President gob smacked.

*****

THE PENTAGON, VIPERS PLANNING AND CONTROL CENTER - October 7

"It's operational," Stringer said, referring to Martin de Vivies.
"What can you see?" Pirelli asked.
"It's no civilian airfield. We photographed and tracked heavy military aircraft movements in and
out of the place while the 'Shotgun' satellite was overhead. It's a new satellite, so whatever is wrong
with the others, hasn't affected this one yet."
"Miles know about this?"
"No. We put it over the island while re-tasking it to another mission; I'm emailing the pics now."
"Good going. Keep your head down, Dave, but between you and me, it looks like the President is
running with the ball." Pirelli hung up. The conversation was short and to the point. It seemed insane
that they were sneaking around in their own government while trying to protect it; he now understood
the dilemma of the President. He opened his email and examined the pictures. Minutes later he
snatched the phone off its cradle and spoke to his aide.
A few hours later the General waited patiently for his aide to call back. Finally it rang.
"Dragon Hawks in position Sir."
"Thank you." He saw the confirmation appear on his VIPERS situation screen.
A few miles away in the White House Situation Room, the Watch Officer, Captain Vince Kipper,
watched the same display on large overhead screens.
"You getting that General?"
"Loud and clear," the General replied.
 The data, fed from a high flying RQ-4R started to flow through to the main screens. The Dragon
Hawk was at 70,000 feet, 50 nautical miles North West of its target, Martin de Vivies, the French base
on Île Amsterdam. This was a small 34 square mile volcanic Island rising to 2674 feet at Mont de la
Dives.
"Good grief, look at that." The side imaging optics were looking at an oblique angle towards the
Chinese Air force Base. "Christ sakes, it looks like they are getting ready for a war!"
"Vince?"
"Yes Sir."
"Get the President into the situation room ASAP. Is he available?"
There was a pause on the other end. "Done Sir, he’s on his way."
A monotone electronic buzzing noise suddenly invaded the Control Centre. Pirelli immediately
recognised what it was. As Blaire walked into the Situation Room in the White House, he was
confronted by the same sound, his own nervous system automatically cycling into high gear. He looked
at the overhead.
"Martin de Vivies Sir," Kipper explained to the President over the Early Warning Radar (EWR)
alarm. "These are live images from the Dragon Hawk flight."
"Looks like numerous missile locks," one of the operators in the Pentagons control room
announced. There was a brief pause. "Air warfare destroyers, the designations look like they come
from components of the Shi Lang Battle Group."
"Turn it around. Get it out of there," Pirelli said. The very fact they had locked on the Dragon
Hawk with attack radars told him more than the pictures did.
"Confirmed Dragon Hawk is turned around sir."
"Thank you."
They waited a few tense moments as the sophisticated reconnaisance UAV exited the area, the bat
and other symbols designating antiaircraft radars disappeared from the screen.
"Mister President?"
"I'm here George," Blaire said.
"You see that?"
"Yes I did. I also saw they have those S-400s operational as well,"
Pirelli gave his Intelligence Director a quick glance; the new President didn't need any prompting
to understand what he was looking at.
"Now we know for sure they are there in force and ready to defend that rock. The question that
begs is why?" The President said.
 "I agree," Pirelli said. "I think we need to get up close and personal." Pirelli explained what he
wanted to do.
"Do it," The President said firmly.
Pirelli patched in another call. "Mike, get a hold of the CNS (Chief of Naval Staff) ASAP. Tell
him it's urgent."
A few minutes later the phone rang. "George, Ethan, whatsup?" the CNS said.
"Île Amsterdam."
"Oh crap, I knew that would come back," Rear Admiral Ethan Fox almost sighed. "The Secretary
of Defense cut across our bows last time and had the Sea Wolf pulled out of the AOP (Area of
Operations) before we could get anything useful."
"Well that's all changed now fortunately. Ethan, sorry to hassle you on leave, but we have to keep
this tight. We have to get a look at that joint. It's active and from the pictures I have in front of me,
very busy."
"You have pictures!"
"Just a few hours old; who can you put in there?"
The Admiral thought a moment. "The Greeneville."
Pirelli could hear the cogs still working. "LA class? I thought you would send in a Virginia Class
or Seawolf?"
"Normally yes, but Greeneville has a damn good crew and skipper, Commander Scott Turner;
young, measured, very smart and aggressive when needed. Greeneville also qualified top in the new
UUAV trials. You couldn't do better, and the AOP the Greenville will operate in is deep water.” The
LA boat was not suited to littoral (shallow water) warfare like the latest boats. "You won't get a better
look unless you put men on the ground.”
Well, that might be the next step Pirelli thought. "Okay Admiral, Greeneville it is. Get her
underway yesterday Ethan. Keep it quiet. No one knows where she is going except COMSUBPAC,
the immediate Squadron Commander and you and I. Crews not to know until underway, only Turner."
"Aye," The Admiral said automatically. Pirelli could hear what he thought were golf clubs rattling
in the back of a golf cart. A few minutes later the Admiral called back. "Done, she will be underway
tomorrow morning."
"Thanks Ethan. Don't let this spoil your game."
Ethan smiled. "Absolutely not George, you just made my day." Maybe, just maybe, they had
some real work to do instead of budget cutting. He placed the crisp clean white ball on the tee. He
intended to smash it hard with glee and then head straight back to work.
  
*****

THE NIMITZ-MACARTHUR PACIFIC COMMAND CENTER, PEARL HARBOUR,

October 7, 0300hrs local time. The Captain of the Los Angeles Class submarine, the USS
Greeneville, strode quickly away from the Nimitz-MacArthur Pacific Command Center. Actually he
felt like running, but that wouldn't look good. The center was built across the street from the old
headquarters complex at Camp H.M. Smith and overlooked the majestic Halawa Valley in Hawaii. But
the moonlit view was far from Lieutenant Commander Scott Turner's thoughts. The COMSUBPAC
briefing and the orders he received, left him in no doubt that this current assignment would be the most
difficult Greeneville had experienced in some time. The face to face with COMSUBPAC was unusual
and urgent. "Get underway immediately." The urgency was underlined by the time of the meeting -
zero three thirty. Admirals rarely got out of bed that time of morning unless it was important.
The meeting had included Rear Admiral Allan Cutter, Commander Submarine Force, U.S. Pacific
Fleet (COMSUBPAC) and Turner's immediate boss, the Commodore of Submarine Squadron Number
One, Captain Bill Cottrell. Cottrell had issued a warning order earlier in the evening to get the
'Underway' in motion. Nuke boats didn't just start at the flick of a switch. As the Greeneville skipper
walked impatiently to his car, he knew his XO was recalling the crew while the ship's Duty Officer
readied the ship for sea. In fact there was no real need to rush. But Turner felt a burning need to get
back on the boat.
"Balls to the wall, Scott," Cottrell had said. The Squadron Commander had then looked to the
Admiral who nodded quietly. "We want you to flank it to just south of the French Southern and
Antarctic Islands, Ile Amsterdam and Ile St Paul."
"Martin de Vivies Ile Amsterdam?" Turner said.
Cottrell looked quickly back to the Admiral. Turner was quick on the uptake. He had either
guessed, or the scuttlebutt was travelling faster than he thought.
"Yes," The COMSUBPAC answered. "Martin de Vivies. The frogs have leased a nice piece of flat
land to the Chinese who now, it appears, have a long operational airstrip, conveniently close to
Antarctica."
Cottrell spoke quietly. "Scott, this is sensitive. The administration to date hasn't put much sway in
military intelligence. But the question begs why the Chinese would build such a big airstrip so far
south. The request comes discreetly from the CJCS himself to the Admiral. He wants us to keep a close
eye on it."
 The COMSUBPAC spoke again. "We want to know everything that goes on at de'Vivies,
everything! Intelligence strongly suggests that Chinese and Russian subs are also operating in the area,
so watch your baffles."
The mission brief had gone on at length. But what carried more weight in the submariners mind
were those words not spoken. The Admiral and Commodore were clearly concerned about suggesting
a potential 'invasion' of Antarctica; that seemed almost insane, there was no logical reason, but it was
obviously not far from verbalization and a lot of evidence was pointing to a build up. The Chinese and
Russians are about to make a play. Scott hurried back to his command. When he arrived at the Pearl
sub base-berthing pier, the ship was already a hive of activity, the USS Greeneville, SSN 772, sat
menacingly in the water, ready for work.
She was not new, but to Turner she was beautiful and equal to the task of taking on any adversary
he could imagine. He was confident in his command - not just the ship, but also the mixture of men,
machine and technology.
Technically speaking, a ship is anything longer than 350 feet and anything shorter is a boat,
however all submarines regardless of length were called boats. According to Hollywood legend, if you
made the mistake of calling a submarine a ship, you would be laughed at. The reality was that real
submariners used both terms interchangeably. Besides, the USS Greeneville was 360 feet long, so
when Commander Scott Turner looked at her, she was his ship, his boat and his command.
He knew by now that his Duty Officer, Lieutenant Vern Driscoll, must be having a coronary. He
was sure Driscoll had never contemplated getting the ship underway on his Watch; this would be his
first time and he was new to the ship. Launching a moon mission had a shorter count down and check
list than getting a nuclear submarine started and underway. Turner contemplated replacing him for just
a moment and then shook his head. We all have to learn sometime he thought. This would be Driscoll's
baptism of fire.
On board the boat, Driscoll was a study of nerves and adrenalin fuelled professional diligence. It
was his job to both start the boat and get it underway. At zero one hundred hours in the morning he had
relieved the engineering duty section and replaced it with the engineering watch section in preparation
to starting the reactor and steam plant. Since receiving the warning order he had been up all night.
Unlike his previous assignments, initial preparations were not left in the hands of just a few, the 'nukes'.
The 'coners' were also required on board at the same time. Both nukes and coners had struggled bleary
eyed to the boat together, after being dragged from bars, beds, wives and family. While the nukes were
responsible for the reactor startup, the Captain wanted the coners, those who ran the forward conical
end of the boat and who normally arrived at a more pleasant time in the morning, to share the load and
discomfort equally.
The entire reactor and engine startup procedure was tightly scripted. Everything that took place
was by the book, the bible, specifically the Reactor Plant Manual (RPM). In paper form it took up eight
shelves of space in six different locations on the boat. The paper was just a backup, the whole
procedure now fitting neatly on each of the watch members' digital handsets.
On top of the boat, the Watch stander, Lieutenant 'Punch' Milligan, counted in the crew. He
watched as the Captain walked brusquely onto the deck. Not waiting for ceremony, his boss yelled,
"Down ladder!' and dropped easily into the dark mouth of the upper hatch. Turner's feet instinctively
found the metal rungs of the ladder that led into the forward escape trunk. The familiar high-pitched,
400-cycle whine of the electronic system and the deeper growl of the air handlers instantly surrounded
him. The Hawaiian night disappeared above him.
Turner went straight to Nukes; he wanted to see first hand the progress of the startup. His Reactor
Officer (RO) was shimming the rods and watching his instruments at the same time. Turner was glad to
see it was Wilkinson. He was good. He was in the process of pulling the rods to the ECP - or Estimated
Critical Position - to test whether the reactor had reached a critical state. Making no apologies from not
looking up from a crucial task he was performing, the RO said, "Ten minutes," telling the Captain
exactly what he wanted to know without being asked. Turner nodded and went back through the hatch
and the shielded tunnel. The passageway led to the forward part of the boat but had to pass close to the
reactor. The passageway was lined with lead and polyethylene to shield against gamma radiation and
neutron flux. Turner was touring his boat. He knew the Duty Officer would have the Underway in
control and used the time to quickly survey the ship and to 'be seen', not getting in the way of those
moving frantically to complete their assigned drills and procedures. Being seen, even if not talking to
crew was still important Turner believed, taking his influence and character into every corner of the
boat without getting in their face. Everyone on his boat was important, an integral part of a team that
relied on each other for survival. He made time to see them and make them know that they were not
lost in the chain of command, something easy to do when you got lazy.
A few minutes later the overhead boomed into life. "The Reactor is critical!" This meant that the
bomb-grade, uranium-fuelled core was now splitting atoms fast enough to produce a steady stream of
neutrons. The reactor was putting out enough juice to start heating the large amounts of water that
comprised the reactor plant. POAH, they called it - the point of adding heat. Now the nuclear fuel plant
was beginning to do something interesting. It could start to turn the turbines.
The overhead PA system clicked on again. "The reactor is in the power range."
"Bypass and equalize pressure around main Steam 1 and 2." The orders from Maneuvering filled
the engineering spaces followed by the sound of steam hissing through pipes. Steam entered the engine
room for the first time in over a month.
"Open Main Steam Stops 1 and 2." The throttle man flicked a switch and hydraulics forced the
valves open to release 400psi of full steam generation power. The order then came to start up port and
starboard main engines and both turbine generators. The port turbine howled, spinning up until the
sound rattled chests. A boom sounded through the generator as the breaker shut and the turbine picked
up the load from the shore power.
"The reactor is self sustaining!" the PA announced. The starboard turbine suddenly screamed as
the watch standers kicked it into gear as well.
"Port and starboard main engines ready to answer all bells and for electric loading," Maneuvering
announced over the PA.
"The electric plant is in normal full-power lineup! Engineering watch supervisor report to
maneuvering," the PA blared. The Engineering Watch Supervisor hurried forward to supervise the
removal of the shore power cables, along with fresh water, sewer lines, and fixed broad band
connections, a relic mostly replaced by entirely wireless processes. After casting those off, they were
ready.
Going forwards, the Duty Officer, Lieutenant Vern Driscoll, met the Captain who was now
ensconced on his chair in the Control Room. Turner looked up at him as he entered.
"Station the Maneuvering Watch," he ordered. The young submariner felt the eyes of the world
upon him. Turner thought he looked a little tired, but seemed to be handling the stress of the situation
well.
"Station the Manoeuvring Watch. Aye," Driscoll repeated. He then reached for the overhead mike
and spoke into it. "Station the manoeuvring watch!" he announced over the 1MC, the ship wide PA
system. At that point Driscoll ceased to be the Duty Officer and became the OOD, Officer of the Deck,
which meant he was in tactical command of the ship. He then quickly scaled the ladder to the top of the
sail. "OD to the bridge" he shouted! Christ he thought. I have to conn the ship to sea! He tried to keep
the nervousness from his face.
It was standard procedure for the OOD to do the Captain's job. Driscoll had the deck and the conn.
The Captain, looking relaxed, sat back and monitored the activity. He was however, far from relaxed.
Turner knew that even in peacetime, leaving and entering port were dangerous exercises, prone to
collision and groundings. Especially this boat, he thought. She had already surfaced under a Japanese
fishing boat, the Ehime Maru, during a practice blow from 400 feet, sinking it, and killing the crew.
The ignoble past was added to by not one, but two groundings while entering Pearl. In each case the
skipper at the time was court-martialled, administratively reprimanded or relieved of command. Death
knells to any career either way. Turner was always ready to conn the ship if he thought she was
standing into danger. He watched the young Lieutenant climb the sail. He hoped for Driscoll's sake he
got it right. To have to take over the conn from the young man would be crushing.
He stood up from his station and climbed the ladder, following Driscoll to the sail. He passed
Driscoll who was now standing in the bridge cockpit and carried on up into the flying bridge. From
there, three stories up, on top of the sail, he could easily monitor the underway process.
"OOD report," Turner said.
Driscoll responded crisply, confirming the status of the engine, electronics, navigation and other
small but crucial items.
Turner nodded in response. "Thank you OOD. Take her out."
The OOD picked up his megaphone. "Take in all lines!" As the last line disconnected, a deep
sounding horn blasted out from the sail. Driscoll then directed the tug to take them undertow until they
cleared the channel. It took thirty minutes before the tug cast off.
"Secure the Manoeuvring Watch set the Underway Watch. On deck, rig for dive!"
"Bridge Navigator, recommend due west to turn point."
"Navigator, Bridge aye," the OOD replied. "Helm, Bridge, all ahead two thirds, steer course due
west."
The ship picked up speed, the small ocean swell rising over the bow and rolling down the boat's
flanks, the angry white froth a deep contrast to the vivid blue sea.
"Bridge, Navigator, 250 yards to turn point. New course two four five."
"Navigator, Bridge, aye,"
"Bridge, Navigator, mark the turn!"
"Helm, Bridge, left full rudder, steady course two four five." The helm answered and the ship
steered into her new heading. The topside deckhands were now below and Driscoll was ready to give
the ship some throttle. He gave the orders.
"Control, Bridge aye. Helm, all ahead standard." They were quickly into deep water. Turner
wanted the ship submerged to test depth and flanking it as quickly as possible. He had not had time,
indeed, had been prevented from briefing any of the crew before their departure.
"OD, take her out at flank and get us deep as soon as possible. I want to avoid as many AGI's as
possible." AGI meant 'assholes gathering intelligence.' In a new era, Soviet spy trawlers had been
replaced by a plethora of Chinese and Russian substitutes that could be passive, smaller and much
harder to identify from the standard commercial or day-tripper.
 "Aye Sir, flank speed and dive as soon as possible." The OOD picked up the mike. "Manoeuvring,
Bridge, shift reactor recirc pumps to fast speed."
"Shift main coolant pumps to fast speed, Bridge, Manoeuvring aye!" A moment later Manoeuvring
confirmed the order.
"Helm all ahead flank," the OOD ordered.
Turner watched in satisfaction as the bow wave climbed all the way back to the front of the sail,
feeling the huge hull surge through the water, pushed along by over 45,000 shaft horse power. The
American flag snapped hard behind him. A few minutes later they cleared the bridge and the OD
slowed the boat and ordered them to dive. The last man down informed the OD he had shifted his
watch to control. Numerous checklists were completed all over the boat as it rigged for its first dive.
The sea was the unwilling accomplice in Turner's mission, trying at every turn to invade his boat, to
take them in a death plunge thousands of feet deep.
The COW, Chief of the Watch, looked at his hatch indicators and verified all closed. He manned
the Ballast Control Panel and kept the boat level. "Straight line ready to dive," he said.
Driscoll informed the Captain of the ships readiness to dive. "Chief of the Watch, rig control for
red!"
"OOD report," Turner asked.
"Mark the sounding," the OOD called.
"Five, five three fathoms and shelving deeper." The OOD then gave his report stating the ship was
ready to dive.
"Very well Off'sa'deck," Turner said. "Take us down to one three zero feet."
"Submerge the ship to one three zero feet, OOD aye sir." The OOD then gave his orders to the
COW. "Diving officer submerge the ship to one three zero feet."
The dive officer repeated the order and then picked up his mike. "Dive, dive, dive," he said over
the loud speaker and sounded the Dive Alarm. "Helm all ahead two thirds." He waited for the
responses. "Opening forward main ballast tank valves." Outside, four geysers of water screamed up
vertically from the bow. The dive officer did the same with the aft tanks and then ordered the bow
planes extended.
"Helm, twelve degrees on the bow plane."
The deck angled downwards slightly. After reaching the ordered depth the Dive Officer and COW
worked to trim the boat before turning back to the OOD. The OOD reported to Turner they were ready
to go deep.
"Take her to test depth," he ordered. "Steep angle." It was standard practice to take the hull and the
crew’s preparedness through its paces as early as possible. Better to find out something wrong now
than in the middle of a gun fight.
"Helm, all ahead standard. Dive, make your depth one four hundred feet," the OOD ordered.
"Twenty five degrees down bubble and rig ship for deep submergence."
Helm answered and the PA blared, "Rig ship for deep submergence." The planesmen pushed their
control yokes forward and the bow plunged heavily downwards.

*****

Over the next few hours, Turner ran his crew through exercise after exercise, drill after drill until
they were warmed up, weary, but poised for more. Then he ordered a depth of 600 feet at flank speed,
and turned his attention to the task at hand. They would transit through the Caroline Basin north of
Papua New Guinea and then through the deep canyons of the Banda Sea north of Timor before going
deep into the Indian Ocean.
Turner was sitting in his wardroom when his Executive Officer burst through the door and slapped
a thick paperback onto the wardroom table. "First it was the Cheyenne, then the Sea Wolf, and now the
New Mexico." The XO sighed. "Man, I tell you, we are yesterday's news." He shook his head in mock
disgust. "I told you, driving this boat we are never going to be destined for the silver screen or fame.
After Clancy immortalized the Cheyenne, we were forgotten, now that the writers have the Seawolf
and Virginia class, who the hell's going to write about us!"
Turner laughed. "Hopefully nobody Jack, the only reason they would write about us would mean
scary shit like we were being shot at, or the post mortem of how the skipper and XO managed to run
into an iceberg or undersea mount on a perfectly nice day."
The XO shook his head. The boat had its fair share of those accidents. "Mmmm, good point. That
means if no one writes about us, then nothing much happens. Not bad, not bad, never looked at it that
way before."
"Let's just try and avoid written reprimands, court-martials or accident reports. That writing I
definitely hate. Besides, I have a feeling the very reason we were chosen was because we were NOT a
Sea Wolf or Virginia Class. Fewer people interested in what we are doing."
The XO looked at his skipper. Lieutenant Cmdr Jack Thompson cracked a smile but said nothing.
Turner was the best driver in the business; everyone on the Greeneville knew that, obviously some
brass did as well. His ability was not just reliant on technology; he was instinctive beneath the water
and was able to drag the very best from his people. The man had the innate ability to make a person
feel loved while he kicked them in the ass if they stuffed up. He was fiercely loyal to his crew and
equally tough in expectation. He got the best back.
Turner was very young for a command, which was why he was driving an LA class boat and not
the latest Virginia class. But in Thompson's mind, there was no doubt why the CNS or COMSUBPAC
had selected Turner for this job. He wasn't surprised Turner probably didn't see that. Despite being so
good, he was a very humble person. He never underestimated anybody. It was that duality of ability
and confidence, but deference to others that made up the leader that he was.
But that compliment by command was a double-edged sword. To send the best meant they were
potentially expecting the worst. There was shit blowing in the wind the XO thought, and unfortunately
they might just be the fan.

*****

Operation Bing Qing

BEIJING, INSITUTE OF COMMAND AND TECHNOLOGY (CONSTIND). 2115hrs local,

October 13, 2018. General Chen Jianguo, the Executive Vice Chairman of the Chinese Government's
Central Military Committee, sank appreciatively into the heavy leather of the President's visitors' chair.
President Yuen poured two stiff scotches, handed one to the General and sat in the opposite chair. The
two men were in a large complex that housed the Chinese Academy of Sciences and the Commission
of Science, Technology and Industry for National Defense (CONSTIND).
The President, who was a vocal sponsor of many of CONSTIND's latest projects, had arranged a
personal office to use during his frequent visits.
"Iraq delivered us an unparalleled opportunity," Yuen began. "For every single dollar we spent
with the insurgents, al Qaeda, Iran, or Syria, the Americans had to spend thousands. Money was sucked
out of their advanced weapons programs to pay for foot soldiers, old tanks, and trucks. Iraq and
Afghanistan broke the back of their technological advantage." He tasted his scotch. “When they refused
to buy oil off despots like the Sudanese, we were able to buy it at massively discounted prices. When
the credit crunch hit, it was they who were weakened, not us.
"While they battled their deficit and reduced investment in new defence technology, we multiplied
ours. It reminds me of the end of the Cold War, except it's the Americans who have been run into the
ground this time." The look on his face was almost astonishment. "Then, on top of all that, they elect
this fellow Finn who, it seems, was determined to deliver the coupe de grace to their military." His
eyebrows shot up again. "And then, the stupid bastard collapses and leaves the country leaderless!" He
shrugged and shook his head back and forth - a silent tutt-tutt 'Do you believe that? And now General,
you bring me this, a divine chance for us to control our energy future at a time when our greatest
adversary has become the paper tiger."
But Yuen was not smiling. He, along with most of the leadership, was fearful of financial failure to
the point of paranoia. His fear took a tangible form. There was a dark enemy that challenged not only
his leadership but also the country's prosperity and subsequent security. It was energy and it was oil
that lubricated the economy. While many of the worlds developed nations traded carbon credits and
sort alternative energies, China was still well and truly addicted. The CCP's own success, the legacy of
Jiang Zemin and Hú Jintao's balanced approach to leadership and growth, would be lost if Yuen could
not bring the energy animal to heel. "Let us be realistic, Jianguo, while the clouds of U.S. dominance
scatter and we bathe in the sunlight of their failure, we could easily become victim to anarchy. Oil is
still the key to ensuring our continued growth. Which is why this is so important, the risks bearable.
Where once I might have said the chances of success were minimal, today I think otherwise. You have
been confident all along that the Bing Qing program will realize its lofty promises?"
"I am," General Chen Jianguo replied.
"Based on what?"
"As much feeling as fact Mister President."
The Chinese President narrowed his eyes and looked closely at his vice chair of the CMC and his
military Chief of Staff. Jianguo's gut feelings were legend and nearly always right, and his insight and
intuitiveness so sharp that those working for or beneath him felt like their minds were nothing but open
windows.
"How long before we know for sure, General?"
"Before we know? When we know so will the rest of the world, our only advantage is that we are
prepared for the eventuality, less than a month from today, depending on weather; if the weather is
good maybe two weeks."
"And the Backfires?"
"As we agreed, they are being readied as we speak."
"Who knows about this?" Yuen asked. "Kazakov and Petrov are in the loop. Who else?"
"A handful of scientists, the Russian Professor Durnovo, our own Dr Huang Yew and Professor
Feng of course, but he went missing a few years ago."
"Feng?"
"He was talking too much. We took appropriate measures."
 Yuen remembered his face from several years back. "Too bad, I liked him."
"Me too. Apparently some Australians liked him too." He flicked over some notes. "But we have
dealt with that. There are also a handful of other Russian intelligence types; I can't answer for their
security, but it was a calculated risk to bring them in." "The air bases?"
"Ready. The French were particularly helpful. With your permission we have called the facility
the Han Air Force Base." This meant 'kingdom splitter' in Chinese.
"Good, good," President Yuen said, taking a healthy gulp of his drink. "Even if this Bing Qing is
just a lot of hot air we can still use them. At the very least it will keep our friends at Langley bouncing
off the walls."
"My thinking exactly." They really would be scratching their heads. General Chen sipped the
scotch and enjoyed the warm feeling in his stomach.

*****

Rig for Ultra Quiet

THE USS GREENEVILLE, THE INDIAN OCEAN October 15, 0731hrs UTC. The Los
Angeles class nuclear attack submarine USS Greeneville slid silently through the depths of the southern
Indian Ocean. With the hull number of SSN-772, the silent killer was the second to last of the Los
Angeles class nuclear attack subs to be built by Newport News Shipbuilding in Virginia. It was named
Greeneville after a historic town in north-eastern Tennessee, itself named in honor of Revolutionary
War hero General Nathaniel Greene.
The USS Greeneville, despite not being the youngest blood in the fleet, still represented the
epitome of technical superiority over numerical brute strength, which was still the driving force in
American submarine development. Greeneville was one of the most capable nuclear attack submarines
in the world. However, in addition to her numerous lethal virtues, she boasted retractable bow planes
and a hardened sail, providing the capability to surface through ice. At a little over 360 feet long, she
weighed in at 6,900 tons and had sprinted from her North Pacific base at Pearl. Her crew consisted of
13 officers and 116 men. She carried a full load out of Tomahawk and Harpoon missiles as well as Mk-
48 Madcap torpedoes. She was battle ready.
At exactly 1300hrs the OOD had ordered the SSN to one-third. With the ship slowed, Turner was
able to concentrate the ship's highly evolved sensor and weapons systems on detecting and tracking
potential threats. There was no shooting yet, but an awful lot of shooters were converging on one place.
Greeneville was currently free to shoot in self-defence only, according to his issued Rules of
Engagement (ROE).
Sitting in the tiny wardroom, Captain Turner motioned his officers to sit. "As you know, we are
monitoring a rapid build up of military assets from numerous countries in the Southern Ocean and
influential to Antarctica. The most concerning to us are two new airfields, one built on Île Amsterdam,
next to Martin de Vivies and the other on Tierra del Fuego. These are both long runways designed to
land heavy transports. Our job is to watch Martin de Vivies. This is French territory, so not only will
we be spying on our so-called allies, but you can also bet your bottom dollar that there will be Chinese
boats in the vicinity. We should expect Kilo class, type 093s and if the Russians are here maybe some
improved Akula class subs. We are going to run at flank speed with the occasional slow down to clear
our baffles from here all the way to our patrol area. Get some rest now, because we are going to be
very busy. When we get here," he pointed to the overhead, "we will rig for ultra quiet. Make sure your
guys are prepared."

*****

THE SITUATION ROOM, THE WHITE HOUSE, October 15

"Greeneville is moving into the AOP Sir," Kipper said quietly.
The President stood with his arms folded. He nodded his head. Goldschmidt was on leave, and
Jacoby was at a network security conference in Los Angeles. The Greeneville wouldn't rank a footnote
in their interests. He walked back into his office and called in his chief of staff. The chief of staff
walked into the Oval Office and was surprised to see two marines standing by the President's desk.
Half an hour later he emerged white faced and visibly shaken.
Kipper smiled as he watched the man walk down the hallway. He was getting to like this new
President more and more by the minute.
The President appeared a few minutes later. "So what's at the top of your worry list Kipp?" It was
an unusual question to ask a Watch Officer.

*****

SOUTHERN INDIAN OCEAN 37°50' South and 77°35' East, October 17, 2018. You could
tell you were going fast because of the vibration coming through the boat. There was the sound of the
mains and the water rushing past the hull. In the engineering spaces all the systems were operating at
their maximum capacity. The lube oil, turbines, reactors and main engines were all working overtime.
There was a sense of purpose, because if something was going to go wrong it would happen real fast.
After days of pushing through the ocean at high speed, hidden to the rest of the world, the Greeneville
finally reached its Area of Operations.
"Off'sa'deck," the CO said. "Clear the baffles and come to PD."
"Aye sir, clear the baffles and come to PD."
"Helm, conn, slow to one third." The helm answered and the OOD then proceeded to take the
Greeneville through a series of turns to clear the baffles, the area directly behind the boat before
coming to Periscope Depth or PD.
"Baffles clear," Sonar announced.
"Conn, sonar coming shallow in preparation for periscope depth." The OOD then advised, "Diving
Officer, make your depth one five zero feet." The diving officer acknowledged and then later
confirmed depth one five zero feet.
"Sonar, Conn, report all contacts," the OOD asked. A few minutes ticked by.
"Conn, Sonar no contacts."
The Greeneville then began a very deliberate ascent from 150 feet. The OOD manned the scope
constantly moving in a circle, looking for any shapes moving through the water that might indicate
another vessel. The Dive Officer called out the depth every few feet, which seemed to spur the OOD to
even faster circles. At 65 feet the OOD called, "Scope clear!" A few seconds later, after another sweep,
"Initial periscope sweep complete, no close contacts."
For the moment, Turner thought, they were alone. After doing some house cleaning and picking up
messages from the satellite, Turner ordered the boat back down. Closing in on their destination, Turner
ordered the towed array to be streamed and the ship to be rigged for Ultra Quiet.
The CO of the Greeneville drew a small circle around the two Islands. "If I was going to try
something, or even just prepare for something in Antarctica, this is the place I would build an air bridge
through. The fact the Chinese have chosen this place instead of doing something with the Australians
says something doesn't it?"
The two islands he circled with the digital pointer were the Amsterdam and St Paul Islands in the
southernmost Indian Ocean. They are among the most isolated in the world, located more than 2,500
miles from any continent, approximately halfway between South Africa and Australia. Both volcanic,
they rose from a fault separating the Indian Ocean from the Antarctic Ocean. Amsterdam was broadly
oval in shape, measuring 5 miles wide by 4.5 miles across with a maximum altitude of 2685 feet. The
two islands lay on a narrow oceanic ridge, which rapidly fell to great depths either side. Good news for
the Greeneville. They could get in close and still have room to move.
"The French base, Martin de Viviès had until recently been the only inhabited place on
Amsterdam." The CO looked around the officers' wardroom. "The recent inclusion of a military airbase
built by the Chinese has quickly turned the place into a secret small city." He brought up some images
on the overhead display. "It's the cliffs that are a problem. They rise vertically fifty feet from the
ocean." The Islands were volcanic knobs that stuck out of the ocean with no natural harbor. "We can
monitor the traffic going in and out, but we can't actually see the airfield, and neither can our satellites
for some reason. Which is why we are here, COMSUBPAC wants us to find out what they are doing."
A little later, "Torpedo room," Turner called from the conn. "Remove the torpedo from tube one
and reload with the ULUAV." This was a small-specialized reconnaissance UAV (Unmanned Aerial
Vehicle) about the size of a butternut pumpkin that could be launched from underwater. The acronym
was a mouthful and said quickly, especially after a drink, sounded like 'Orlov', which is what it became
known as. The torpedo room repeated the order. "XO, open outer doors and float out the Orlov."
The XO ran through the procedure with the torpedo room and then turned to the CO. "Outer doors
opened and Orlov released."
"Thank you, XO."
From the number one tube a small cylinder floated out. On reaching the surface the 13 by 9-inch
diameter tube bobbed around like a coke bottle. The top of the tube popped off and the Orlov, a small-
ducted fan UAV, flew vertically up and away from the wild choppy surface. The Orlov was in effect a
short tube encasing two fans with a diameter just shy of 9 inches, weighed less than 4.5 pound and
operated like a helicopter. The Naval version of the Orlov SLADF was fitted with an optional wing to
provide useful lift, increased loiter time, and fuel capacity. A small but powerful pre-programmed chip
piloted the UAV to 100 feet, where it hovered and waited for instructions. Once the feed was
confirmed it sped off.
"Weps?" the Captain asked. "Bring it up on the main monitors."
The main monitors in the control room fuzzed and then went dark before going green again as the
imagery from the Orlov's camera cut in. Weps checked the First Lieutenant who was flying the bird.
'UAVP' (Unmanned Aerial Vehicle Pilot) a new rating that could be earned onboard a nuke sub.
"Thanks Weps, can we cut in the telemetry and map as well?"
"Aye sir, we can. Watch the auxiliary screens."
In addition to the infrared view the Orlov was giving them, they were also able to cross reference a
map that showed the GPS location of the UAV as it moved.
"Coming up on the cliffs," the UAVP announced.
 The cliffs were clearly visible rising high out of the water and the Orlov seemed to be racing
straight at them. For a moment it seemed the young First Lieutenant was going to crash into them. The
screen blurred suddenly as the small-ducted fan climbed sharply. Just feet above the cliff tops the pilot
pulled the UAV to a stop.
"Holy shit! Will you look at that?" There was a hushed silence in the control room as everyone
absorbed the images. The runway threshold was just yards from the edge of the cliff. Right then, a
thunderous sound relayed from the Orlov’s highly sensitive microphones blared over the speakers. The
UAV imagery suddenly gyrated wildly as the Orlov spun out of control. Something was seriously
wrong with the UAV, they were going to lose it. The telemetry looked like spaghetti; she was toast
Turner thought, hoping it would crash in the ocean rather than leaving the Chinese a present.
The young Navy Lieutenant flying the UAV immediately hit the stabilize or 'panic' button, which
kicked in the aircraft's own flight control. The Microcraft spun end over end. Just short of smashing
into the tarmac, the autopilot managed to bring it under control. A second later the image settled down
again. The reason for the sudden adventure was quickly apparent to all as they watched a huge
transport fill the screen, touching down on the runway, the massive wing turbulence almost having
ended their mission before it started.
Turner was in a hurry. The Greeneville was deep and in a hover. The launch canister floated high
above and acted as a transmitter, tied to the sub by a thin wire. The problem was that the small
emission could easily be picked up by any anti electronic warfare equipment (AEW) the Chinese might
have, which would expose their position. It was, however, a tricky but worthwhile part of Turner's
plan, he could have used a trailing wire. But if the Chinese had AEW capabilities, he wanted to know
how good they were. If they were installing defensive systems operated by experienced crew, this in
turn meant they were getting ready to defend something of value and were working to a plan.
The CO stood up from his chair and walked over to Weps. Using the overhead screen, he
indicated the proposed flight path. The Weapons Control Officer nodded, looked at his pilot, who
nodded in return. They were relatively new at this and were relying on the UAV pilot to make them all
look good.
The pilot pushed the small control stick. The command input relayed instantly to the Orlov, which
tilted forwards and quietly sped down the side of the runway, the pilot steering away from the lights.
While small and silent, at fifteen centimeters across, it could be easily seen. The pilot flew in the
shadows, frequently hovering and scanning for anybody that might possibly detect them. Near the end
of the runway the pilot was preparing to fly over the fence when they saw him.
"Guard!" Weps said.
 The guard's back was to them, but he was looking around. He then turned. The Chinese guard was
sure he had seen movement out of the corner of his eye. A bird? No, it was too dark for that. He
shrugged the collar of his coat higher. The never-ending wind seemed to penetrate every opening. He
scanned the area in front of him.
Back in the Greeneville's control room everyone was holding their breath.
"Christ, he's looking right at us," Weps said
"I know," the young pilot answered, stressed to the max.
"Well, get us the fuck out of there!"
"He can't see us Sir," the Lieutenant said, sticking to his guns, trying to keep a cool head.
"What do you mean? He's looking at us right now!"
"I know, but he thinks we are part of the lighting system." He paused. "I landed on one of the
runway lights; it's about the same size." He was holding his breath, his nerves screaming, but his hand
on the small joystick was rock solid.
The Chinese perimeter guard swept the area again. Nothing moved, it was getting close to the end
of his duty shift, time to go.
On board the Greeneville there was disbelief and a collective sigh as the Guard turned his back and
walked off.
"Son of a bitch," Weps exclaimed. The XO wiped his hand across his face. "That kid has got some
balls," he said quietly.
"Amen to that," the Captain replied just as quietly. "Let's let him do his job in peace."
"Aye"
The overhead showed the view from the UAV as it climbed over the fence and skimmed around
the perimeter to come up behind some large hangers. It then climbed, hugging the edge of the hanger
before flying down the large guttering and coming to hover on the forward edge.
The runway was long. They knew that because they had just measured it. Long enough to land
the An-124 Condor, one of which was sitting right there on the apron. The Condor, next to the An-225
Mriya, designed to carry the Russian shuttle, was the world's largest transport aircraft. The wings were
high-mounted, swept-back, and tapered with curved tips. Four enormous turbofans were mounted on
pylons under the wings, the massive aircraft shared the tarmac with two large Tu-95's, TU-22
Backfires, Midas air refuelling tankers, Hinds and Havocs. Two SU-34 aircraft were being towed into
the hangars where the tails of numerous other aircraft that included the J-7 and J-10's could be seen.
"Crap, I've never seen so many different aircraft outside of an air show," someone said, most of the
crew in the control room just stared at the screen.
 The Captain had seen enough. "Weps get the Orlov out of there or sink it somewhere no one will
find it."
"Aye, Sir'
"XO, get us a course out of here to somewhere we can talk to COMSUBPAC, and fast."
"Weps, splash the bird," the XO said making a decision. Trying to get the UAV back on board
wasn't going to work. Its loss was a small price to pay against revealing their presence. "Cut the wire."
Suddenly the UAVP interrupted. "Sir! We have some activity."
"Zoom in," the Captain demanded.
The screen showed a lot of men running to the Kamovs, the blades already beginning to turn. The
Kamov twin rotor helicopters were dedicated sub hunters that carried torpedoes and sophisticated ASW
equipment. "They're on to us," Turner said. "XO, clear the datum!"
"Permission to activate AEE procedure, Sir?" Weps asked. This meant terminating the
communication link with the UAV. In this event the Orlov was pre-programmed to escape and splash
itself in water so deep no one would find it.
"Aye! Cut the Wires!" the CO replied
Weps moved quickly. "Aye, wires cut." He confirmed back. "Helm, conn, full ahead, steer course
three five zero. Make your depth one two hundred." The XO, Lieutenant Commander Jack Thompson,
thought of the towed array hanging off the stern and quickly rechecked the depth. He didn't want to
lose it by getting it caught on the bottom as they accelerated away. He could feel the boat begin to
move and quickly pick up speed as the big prop bit into the water. Minutes later, the CO's written
report and the video were transmitted through the Recoverable Tethered Optical Fibre streamed behind
them.

*****

NIMITZ-MACARTHUR PACIFIC COMMAND CENTER, PEARL HARBOUR. October

18
"Holy Mother of God," the Admiral said. "Get this directly to the CNS. Direct, do you
understand? I want immediate confirmation of receipt."
"Aye, Sir."
It was not usual to bypass the command chain, but what the Admiral had just seen scared the hell
out of him. Seven minutes later, the Chief of Navy staff, Rear Admiral Ethan Fox, looked at the same
report with almost exactly the same reaction.
 "Holy shit!"
Thirty minutes later the entire chiefs of staff were gathered. It was zero one thirty hours local
time.
"It's what we suspected, but bigger," Fox said. "This is a full-scale military build up, but for what?
They have some serious shit there. Notice the tankers, also the navalized SU-34s and ASW Kamovs.
They've even deployed some of their J10s and 11s. These guys are prepared for extensive air
operations, capable of deploying long-range strike fighters and bombers complemented by naval strike
aircraft able to land and operate off carriers. With the Backfires they can range over the entire
Australian continent and Antarctica.
"They have substantial AWAC's and air refuelling capability. There is a significant air lift
capacity and," he said pointing out the warehouse facilities and ground handling equipment, "they have
the hard facilities to deal with large logistical requirements. From here they are capable of land strike,
ASW and anti-ship warfare over a protracted period of time, and with their navy, they can extend that
offensive capability over the entire Southern Ocean.
"We estimate that they are several days from being operational. As you can see from this imagery,
the Antonov is only just now unloading additional S400 anti-aircraft batteries. Our earlier U2 mission
was spiked by one. They won't do anything serious until they have these other long-range bad boys in
place. Then we will find out what they are really up to. From my humble position I would say these
people are getting ready to rumble. What do you reckon?"
The Joint Chiefs of Staff, who a few moments ago had been shaking the cobwebs of sleep from
their minds, were now suddenly very wide eyed and very much awake.
"If you ask me?" one of the generals said with a hint of Texan accent. "It looks like they are ready
for a gun fight and we don't even have our goddamn pants on!"
 
*****

RUSSIAN NAVAL BASE, VLADIVOSTOK October 21. Colonel General, Sergey

Nikolayevich Lebedev held the mobile close to his mouth. It was blowing hard and he knew the wind
would muffle the sound. "Alexei," he said, shouting over the wind. "I think it is time. The Chinese are
already moving forces south."
"We know its close. The clever bastards are trying to get a small jump on us."
"Perhaps just a few days we think." Lebedev turned his back to the wind and cupped the phone in
his hands. "Brief Mishka, give him a chance to prepare whatever forces we will need." In addition to
the large number of Special Forces we already have there, he thought.
"By the way, our Chinese friends think they picked up a sub contact off Martin de Vivies."
"I thought Finn was keeping them all at base?"
"Well it's Blaire now, besides it might not be American. But we need to be careful all the same.
Very soon everyone will know." Lebedev closed the phone lid and turned back to Vice Admiral
Vyacheslav Popov. "Are you ready?"
"As we ever will be Sergey. We will be at sea tomorrow, the fleet's largest exercise in living
memory."
Lebedev looked across Vladivostok, to the Sea of Japan, home to the Pacific Fleet. Perhaps they
could bring some honour back to the once proud city, he thought. Next to the Chinese, the Russian
Naval armada was now the biggest Pacific fleet in history. Amongst this, perhaps Russia might find
her dignity.

*****

CANBERRA, AUSTRALIA, GOVERNMENT HOUSE

"There's no question about it. Some one tried to take him out."
"What the hell does that mean," the Australian Prime Minister, Dennis Gordon asked in agitation.
“Take him out?"
"A professional hit team attempted to kill Colonel Brian Hamilton. Something is going down and
we don't know what it is," The Australian Minister of Defense, Brian Reid answered, "this is the Martin
de Vivies issue, apparently President Finn didn't care, but Blaire does. Since he took over, we have
been getting better intelligence from the Americans. There seems to be a circle of intrigue surrounding
Martin de Vivies and Antarctica. The last time Hamilton returned from Antarctica he had some pretty
interesting information. Nothing solid, but snippets he had overheard from the drill crews at Vostok
and from the Chinese scientist called Feng. Seemingly Innocent events but put together, suggest
something more important."
"So we had Hamilton making enquiries, the same one I’m thinking of?"
"Yep," he said, waiting for the response.
"Christ this is a small country sometimes; he was shafted over that Braithwaite affair wasn't he? It
wasn't that long ago."
"One and the same, the Senate Committee did a real number on him."
Political expediency, the PM thought. "Poor bugger gets shoved to the side, his career stuffed I
imagine, and somehow he comes up centre stage."
"Basically, yes, and now someone tries to rub him out, almost succeeded."
"How is he?"
"Brian? He'll be okay, just heavily bruised."
"Good, because it looks like he might have to go back... to Vostok that is. Where's Howe?" the
Prime Minister asked, referring to the Australian Minister for Foreign Affairs.
"On his way back from Jakarta as we speak."
"Suggestions," Gordon asked.
"Like get tough with our biggest trading partner when we have nothing more than a hunch?"
"Yes, I was hoping if someone else said it would sound different. Chinese trade is worth twice
what the Americans give us."
"Rock and a hard place," he muttered.
"What do you think they are doing?" the PM asked.
"Something to do with Vostok Station; it all ties together somehow."
But dealing with death squads wasn't how Australia liked to be negotiated with. "Who, Chinese or
Russian?" The PM asked.
"Chinese we think."
"The Chinese want to get rid of him for hearing rumours?"
"They seem to think he either knows something or has something they want. To go this far, it's got
to be a BIG ticket item."

*****

The city of Canberra, situated hundreds of miles inland Australia sweltered in the midday summer
heat. Not far from the office of the Prime Minister, Natasha Braithwaite cupped her chin on her hand
and pondered the rolling heat waves. Such a contrast to winter she thought, Natasha hated Canberra in
winter.
She was torn between conflicting emotions and loyalty. Hamilton was everything she had grown
to hate. He was a killer; she had seen what he was capable of. It was one of the reasons she had
become part of politics, to stop exactly that sort of mentality. But at the same time he had saved her
life, and her companions. She was then party to the official complaint and the resulting individual
reprimand; there was never an excuse for such brutal violence. She had not fully understood the result
would kill his career until she had enquired about his resignation.
 "What did you think was going to happen Natasha?" the leader of the Australian Human Rights
Party had said, smiling. He was happy; he had walked away with a scalp. Natasha felt guilty; Hamilton
had saved her life. She had attempted to meet him to explain her actions; she thought he at least
deserved that. But while sitting there he had literally fallen at her feet, in his typical style. At least this
time she had saved him.
Pushing the thoughts aside she once again looked back to the opposite wall and the big map of
Antarctica. This would be exciting, another Senate Investigation Committee, this time on the
collaboration of scientists at Vostok Station. She felt secure in the fact there were no terrorists or
criminals overrunning the ice continent, compared to the last adventure it was positively safe.

CHAPTER FIVE

VOSTOK STATION, NOVEMBER 12 0830HRS LOCAL. Antarctica is home to more than 70

lakes that lie thousands of feet under the surface of the continental ice sheet, including one under the
South Pole itself. Russian and British scientists had confirmed the lake's existence by integrating a
variety of data, including airborne ice-penetrating radar observations and space borne radar altimetry.
Lake Vostok, beneath Russia's Vostok Station, is one of the largest of these sub glacial lakes.
Hidden beneath nearly three miles of ice, Lake Vostok, a body of water the size of Lake Ontario, is
over 155 miles long and 32 miles wide, and contains around 1250 cubic miles of water, a good match
for Lake Superior. Its maximum depth (1800 feet) similar to Lake Tahoe. The Lake is a wedge-shaped
body of water that deepens southwards from 60 feet at its northern end to 1800 feet at the south. It is
roofed by ice that began life as snow falling on the surface of the frozen continent; snow that records
the last 20 million years of Antarctic history. If the lake beneath ever had a direct link with the air
above it, that connection had ended some 30 million years ago.
Vostok Station is located in one of the world's most inaccessible places, near the South
Geomagnetic Pole, at the center of the East Antarctic Ice Sheet. Ironically, its very hostility was a
beacon to scientific adventurers prepared to combat these elements in the quest for knowledge. The
coldest place on earth was now home to a multinational team of scientists.

Brian Hamilton stepped out of his trailer. There was still some pain in his back, but it was getting
better. He was surprised for the thousandth time how cold it was. The sky was clear and a cold sun
glowed low on the horizon. There was no wind, but it was cold - really, really cold. The ice crunched
noisily beneath his feet as he glanced back at what he called home. The small collection of bright red
huts stood out untidily against the backdrop of the endless bumpy white plain. They always looked so
messy, he thought.
Hamilton's temporary home was the 'East Camp'. The U.S. enclave was situated next to the
Russian permanent Antarctic Research Station called Vostok. Located in the centre of East Antarctica
on the Polar Plateau, the tiny station floated on an ice dome almost 12,000 feet high. It was also the
most remote and, of course, cold. On July 21, 1983, the station recorded a numbing -128.6 degrees
Fahrenheit (-89.2 degrees Celsius), the coldest temperature recorded on Earth, nearly cold enough to
freeze carbon dioxide out of thin air.
With him were Dr Rhys Cooper and a freelance journalist called Vincent Gray. Dr Rhys Cooper,
'Coop' as they called him, and Brian were old friends. Gray was bunking out in the same trailer. The
guy was a real Jeckyl and Hyde character. Under normal conditions the most likable bloke on the
planet. Put a pen in his hand and let him ask questions and he became the fanatical journo that
wouldn't give up until he had screwed the last morsel of information out of you.
"So Doctor Cooper," Gray said, running awkwardly in his EWC (Extreme Weather Clothing)
boots to keep up with Cooper. "What is it exactly that SCAR and COMNAP have against this drilling
program? Should the Scientific community not be excited about exploring the unknown?"
Coop knew Vinny had his recorder on; otherwise he wouldn't have been so official. Cooper
stopped. "Exploring yes, not destroying," the Doctor answered. "Entering the lake in this manner, an
environment sealed for millions of years, could easily contaminate the whole investigation process
which we have worked on for years."
"The Russian team argues that the US investigation has had ten years to achieve something and
that it was now time to act."
"It's the Russian team?" Cooper almost spat. "It's an unsanctioned Russian team, and its not just
science here that we should worry about. There is a safety issue. We are dealing with an environment
under huge pressure, several hundred atmospheres. Our research suggests that the portion of the lake
they have drilled contains high gas concentrations that could make the water critically unstable and
potentially dangerous," Cooper said. "If you exposed a glass of lake water to normal atmospheres, the
gases would instantly boil off and vaporize." He wanted to add that the renegade research team looked
like it was funded by Russian Oil oligarchs but kept his mouth shut. "Their aim is to drill the lake floor.
There is some evidence to suggest that the lake is split by an ice ridge. Where the Sino-Russian team
have drilled, is an area directly exposed to oil and gas deposits, cracked open by all this weight." He
jumped up and down on the ice to make the point. "Several miles of it and has been for millions of
years probably. What they propose has huge risks"
 The journalist suddenly changed tack. "Do you have any additional comment on the unusual
magnetic anomalies, Doctor Cooper."
Cooper wanted to roll his eyes. "You are referring to the SOAR flight I take it?" The lake itself
was not the only interest to Rhys Cooper. An SOAR flight had detected a huge magnetic anomaly on
the east coast of the lake's shoreline, with readings that swung dials wildly to almost 100,000 nanotesla,
way up from the normal 60,000 nanoteslas around the surrounding area. A tesla is the standard measure
of magnetism. These variations were massive and had Rhys and his team consumed by their meaning.
Usually magnetic anomalies are much smaller and it takes some effort to distinguish the anomaly from
normal daily changes in the magnetic field. In this case there was no confusion, the observation
encompassed the entire southeast corner of the lake, about 65 by 46 miles.
"The hypothesis is that the combination of massive weight of several miles of ice, and the lake
itself, has caused the earth's crust to stretch," He used his hands to make the point, "thinning to less
than two percent as it has been pulled taut, exposing the underlying metal creating the magnetic
anomaly."
"That's it?" Gray sounded disappointed. No green men?
"The point is, Vinny, these features are just the head of what I think is a much larger infection in
the earth's crust. To start, there is probably enough trapped methane gas down there to cause a fatal
'Green House' effect and massive amounts of oil and gas under huge pressure. All that plugged for
millions of years by the weight of the ice cap above it and the extreme pressure of the sub glacial lakes.
All combined to make the largest volatile explosive cocktail on the planet."
"Isn't that perhaps painting a rather dramatic picture to resist competitive research programs?"
Gray loved a bit of mud slinging between scientists.
"I guess we are about to find out," Cooper said, but he knew in a way that Gray was right. He was
envious of those involved in that moment, the moment they would first enter the lake and the moment
that would immortalize those names involved. But not, he thought, at the price of compromising the
entire project and decades of research.
Hamilton listened in amusement to the theatrics as they walked. The three arrived at the drill site.
Hamilton looked up at the towering platform before him; it was a serious piece of work. Jutting out of
the sparkling snowfield, the exploratory drilling rig was crammed with pipes, platforms and state-of-
the-art computer gear. A crew with specialized cold weather hard hats, wrestled with a huge vertical
pipe moving in and out of the ice, shouting to be heard above the constant clang of metal against
metail.
Brian noticed that the official congregation was arriving. A small crowd had assembled around the
drill platform. The head of the Russian science team could be seen talking excitedly to the arriving
audience, his thickly padded arms waving up down and around. Professor Nelomai Ostaf'ev syn
Olfer'eva Durnovo, Brian recognized his voice. His clipped Russian accent carried across the ice
mixed with the clanging of pipes. He wondered what had happened to Feng. He had enjoyed his
company, he was under the impression he had been leading the Chinese contingent of the drill team.
"This subterranean lake is the size of Lake Ontario," the Professor shouted to be heard over the
din, "and has been trapped for millions of years. Last time we stop 200 meters short. We halt roughly
above where we suspect boundary between ice and water meet, to prevent contamination of the lake of
course." He paused for effect. "Today….today we go into the lake and then the lake floor."
He held up a thickly gloved hand and waggled his finger. "And what will we find?" he asked his
small audience. His eyes squinted playfully, about the only thing you could see behind a profusion of
beard, heavy hood and super cold weather clothing. "Hah! That is why it is so exciting. We do not
know!"
Still more folk drifted in, fortunately no traffic problems plagued this outpost…at least not yet.
Brian looked down at the frozen surface. Beneath his feet the ice was 12,000 feet thick, nearly four
miles of ice sitting on top of a lake millions of years old. It made you think; he could almost feel the
pressure, trillions of tons of ice pressing down on a lake which was nearly 2000 feet deep in places. He
still couldn't help thinking in the old measurement. The Russian contingent argued that any fluid
movement would freeze in minutes. Which is why, he thought, it was strange that a large BOP (Blow
Out Preventor) was tethered to the bottom of the drill casing. He looked back up at the drill platform.
Gray's voice interrupted his thoughts. "..you here for these magnetic swings as well?" He laughed.
"Every year for the last three Vinny,"
"And at almost the same time each year," Gray added.
Brian looked at Gray slightly surprised he knew. "That's right."
"I know. The Rosenbridge deal, right."
"Right." Gray was full of surprises today he thought.
"You're out of the service though eh?"
Brian nodded the affirmative. After the Braithwaite fiasco they ‘the service’ had agreed to an
immediate release if he had agreed to come back to Vostok one last time, to see what the Chinese and
Russians were doing. This was under the same cover as the last few times, working for the Rosenbridge
Foundation. His cover job on this gig was to monitor mild and spasmodic EMP events that occurred
regularly over the other end of the lake. His real job was to get close to the drilling operation. Little did
he know how the two seemingly unrelated tasks would collide so spectacularly.
 "Must be riveting watching that bloody needle quiver eh!" Gray said joking.
Hamilton laughed. "Gives me goose bumps every time." He looked quizzically at the BOP, a large
and very heavy looking contraption with numerous valves and metal jackets. "That's big!" he said half
to himself and half out loud.
"What is it?" Gray asked.
"A BOP, a Blow Out Preventer, caps oil wells. It arrived here yesterday," Coop explained. "But the
question is what is it doing here?" It was an annular BOP which could be used to seal off the hole when
no pipe was in it.
Good question too, Hamilton thought. The BOP was far too heavy to send to Vostok as an
afterthought, its use was clearly planned for. Hamilton gestured at the Russian and Chinese drilling
complex. "They seem pretty prepared. I'd estimate that's what," He looked it up and down some more.
"a 50,000psi ram BOP. The drill case will go before that will."
A Blow Out Preventer is a big valve that sits on top of the well bore and seals off the well
whenever there is an unexpected pressure surge. Ram blow-out preventers have a hydraulic ram that
automatically seals the well when a "kick," or pressure surge, is detected.
"I don't think it's here by mistake." Coop said. "Me thinks they have not been telling us everything
they know.'
Gray's ears were burning. He knew little about BOPs. But if it had something to do with oil it was
interesting.
"Surprise, surprise," Hamilton said.
Gray smelt a good story coming on. He knew both Hamilton and Cooper were pretty straight
arrows and both very bloody smart. If they were intrigued, so was he.
"I have a feeling this is going to be interesting," Hamilton said. The men looked at each other and
then back to the rig.
Gray was itching to find out more. "You guys coming?" he said, heading off towards the platform,
doubly interested now in the whole process.
"Not invited. We will watch from out here," Brian said. The scent of deception was growing
stronger and he was now more interested in the missing Dr Feng, the pain in his back smarting a little.
Cooper and Hamilton waited patiently while the rig crew prepared for the last few feet. That was when
he saw her.
She stopped for a moment at the top of the steps and pulled her hood back, Natasha Braithwaite.
Damn! Every time he saw that bird, shit happened. He didn't believe in fate, luck or any of that stuff.
But there was a sudden feeling of desperation. She looked directly at him. There was no way she could
recognize him, not with a full beard, hood and sunglasses...just like Afganistan but with less dirt. She
walked inside. Here was a woman whose life he had saved, apparently had saved his own but ruined it,
and they had barely ever spoken. Now here she was. Why didn't he ever get those odds at the casino?
She disappeared inside; Brian made a note to avoid her. Still reeling from the moment he turned to his
companion who was admiring the drilling operation.
At the top of the stairs Braithwaite had stopped, something had made her look down. She noticed
the man looking at her, beard and dark sunglasses. Everyone seemed to give up shaving down here, so
he looked pretty much like everyone else. But despite that, she could feel his eyes; her instincts were
trying to tell her something.
The drill rig was state of the art and Cooper envied the financial support the Russian and Chinese
scientists were enjoying. Instead of a thread of pipes, the rig used continuous lengths of pipe wound on
a spool. The pipe was straightened prior to pushing into the well bore.
The computerized GPS steering of the drilling operation guaranteed delivery of a data logger and
drill bit to within feet of the intended target. The data logger would confirm whether they were at the
lake. Once firmly in the lake they would collect a fluid sample and bring it back, something to satisfy
the other scientists that would undoubtedly be observing.
The borehole was nine inches in diameter. The tapering drilling mast above the hole stood nearly
one hundred feet high. The heavy girders of the platform sat on top of a control building big enough to
house the crew. They literally lived on the job. This complex in turn, rode 20 feet in the air on heavy
steel legs with the drill process at the centre.
From the control room the team's scientists and chosen visitors could see the mechanizations of the
drill equipment driving the pipes the last few feet. Braithwaite could feel the pent up excitement. The
scientists clustered around the instruments as the drill crew steered the last few inches. There was
hesitant excitement. Finally the ultra slow spin of the drill pipe came to a stop. The sound of the diesel
faded as the revs spun down to an idle.
For a moment the room was completely silent except for the gentle thrum of the rig's diesel
generators. For the team's geologists, this was as close to sex as you could get without taking your
pants down. In fact, a lot of them would have said this moment was better. Now was the moment of
truth the team leader Durnovo thought. This had been one of the most challenging drilling operations
on the planet and had taken two years, every foot, painstakingly slow. Despite the technology, the
slowly moving deep ice fought them every step, yard by yard. But they had won. The new
methodology had allowed them to remove core samples on the run, all the while drilling to their target.
The retrieved cores were shared with the other scientists on the base. This had been Durnovo's
idea. The Russian Scientist had easily hidden the project's real objective, distracting others with the
highly valued core samples, the apparent generosity keeping anyone from asking too many questions or
trying to get involved in the drill process.
Apart from the last core sample, the drill shaft was now hollow. A 12,000-foot, nine inch diameter
hole ran through the drilling jacket all the way to the lake. Everything now stood still. The drill crew
were preparing for the wire line recovery of the last core sample, the most important yet. A sudden
hiss of air stopped them in their tracks. Several red lights lit up on the control panels and an alarm
started to wail. Braithwaite felt the familiar shot of adrenalin when shit happened, she knew it was
happening. She could see the drill crew were running, that meant something was going down. The
assembled scientists and visiting dignitaries gave each other a quizzical look.
Hamilton and Cooper heard the heavy hiss of air above the blaring of the rig's alarms and saw the
sudden and urgent activity of the drill crew. Like them, they knew what was coming. Braithwaite
again! Brian thought, it was happening again, it was like matter meeting anti-matter.
The sound of escaping air increased until it became violent. The whole platform shook and
shuddered as the drill head fought to contain the maelstrom. It was a losing battle. The mounts were
simply not designed to contain that sort of shock. In what seemed like slow motion the drill housing
fractured, split and then seemed to disappear. The whole drill mount parted, disappearing in an
incredible explosion of ice and air venting under massive pressure from thousands of feet below.
Brian guessed correctly that they were about to receive the last core sample very quickly. Which
they did, sprayed out over several thousand square yards. What came next they had only suspected.
But it would change the world.
While the scientists stood riveted to the spot, the drill crew were already on the run. They knew
what was happening; they just found it difficult to believe. But they were moving.
Now we all know why you wanted a big BOP Hamilton thought, his mind almost a mirror to
Cooper's. The BOP with its special gates and rams could be closed around the drill pipe completely
closing the top of the casing. Without the sheer weight of the BOP it would have been impossible to
close over the opening.
"Fifty thousand pounds to cap a small hole," Cooper exclaimed. "They'll need it," Brian said,
looking at the high-pressure geyser of gas, water and black sludge.
"Almost enough to make your eyes water eh?"
"If it weren't for the rigidity of the ice the bloody casing wouldn't last a second either."
It took hours to reconnect, as they tried to lower the BOP over the shaft the massive blow out
pressure would spin and kick the heavy device as if it were confetti. By the time they had locked and
tightened the last clamps it was getting hard to breathe.
"What have you got Coop?" Brian asked, even though he could already smell the gas.
Cooper was doing a quick air analysis near the platform. "High saturation of methane, lot of
oxygen and natural gas, if it hadn't been for this katabatic wind, we would all be dead. In fact, let's
move further upwind; it's bad enough here."
Later on, back in the transportable shack they called a bar, they all skulled some rather nasty
Russian brew that tasted more like dog poo than vodka, but was quick to warm the insides. Putting his
glass down Gray looked up.
"What exactly happened there Doc?"
"As you could see it was huge pressure. I’m betting it’s a combination of two factors. First of all
we know the ice sheet here,” He pointed down. “the part directly above Vostok Lake… can move up
and down depending on the volume of water in the lake - which can vary.” He used his hands to
describe the motions. “The blow out probably means that this sheet we are standing on is resting
unsupported on top of the lake and is massivley pressurising the water. It’s like the worlds biggest
plunger. This pressure with explosive force blasts the water up the drill core and to the surface. Already
exciting enough it gets more interesting. As it hits the surface and depressurises, the gas load which has
been suspended in it escapes all at once, explosively, straight from liquid to gas. That gas load includes
methane, oxygen and a whole bunch of other stuff. The fact we didn't have an explosion was a
miracle."
Gray took a second look at the cigarette in his hand. He stubbed it out. "What are we dealing with
here then?"
"We weren't sure before, but we are now. Our Russian and Chinese friends weren’t interested in
just the lake, but what was beneath it. They have just tapped the world's largest and uniquely deadly,
reserve of gas and oil. What we stand on, separated by a few miles of ice, will make the Middle East
reserves look like a sandpit next to the beach."
"They knew." Hamilton said more to himself than anyone else. Remembering Gray was there, he
didn't say anymore. The Chinese and Russians knew. How long had they known for, and why keep it
secret? You only kept a secret if you had something to hide, and now he was willing to bet, that secret
was the reason for Feng's disappearance years before. They didn't like Feng talking. He couldn't help
but feel bad about that. It was probably himself talking to Feng that was the problem. But the scientist
had said nothing, he was no traitor to his own country, but now Brian was sure he knew who had tried
to kill him.
 *****

MOSCOW, November 12, 2018. Colonel General, Sergey Nikolayevich Lebedev punched the
connect button on the ringing phone.
"Da." After a few moments of intense concentration to the other speaker, the usually stern face of
the Intelligence chief broke into a broad smile. "Really," he added. "Get me a full report." Lebedev
terminated the connection and then called the President. "Bing Qing."
"Da, I know." On the other end of the phone Petrov nodded.
The next phase of the plan could begin. His old friend Mishka Kazakov, General of the Army was
going to be busy. "Who have you selected as a lead on the ground?
"Mikolai Nabialok."
Nabialok, Petrov thought, surely someone would have killed him by now, a nasty man. "Interesting
choice," he said.
"You approve sir?"
"Da." Mikolai was just this side of being a homicidal maniac, he thought. Maybe the cold will kill
the bloodthirsty bastard, but he doubted it, the devil seemed to look after his own.
Lebedev nodded to himself and cradled the phone. He needed to be sure he had somebody at point
that wouldn't quit or get gun shy. Nabialok, as distasteful as he was, fitted the bill. They were in the
next phase now. They were committed.

VOSTOK STATION. The problem, Brian thought, is that it never got dark, not during the middle
of summer anyway. There were no trees and no hills, just those little sastrugi and naduvy, ice blown
mounds of snow. But tonight, even though it was still daylight, the weather had become nasty, almost
a white out. Very fine ice particles blew through the air. The wind wasn't that strong, but the result of
the airborne ice particles and the sun resulted in an incredible glare. He didn't waste time making the
most of it.
He knew exactly where Durnovo would be, sitting up in the control room of the drill rig, admiring
his handiwork. It took five minutes to reach the rig and another few to scale the eastern side. He settled
into the joins between some big steel girders and carefully attached the sensors to the outside of the
wall and some piping. He then attached the earpiece; it was just like being in the room. From what he
could tell there were three men. They were sharing vodka, laughing and talking about their women and
families. Then they talked about geology and then women and sex. He was getting cold. If he stayed
too much longer he would freeze.
 "Bing Qing," he suddenly heard someone say. That was Chinese; 'crystal clear' was what he
thought it meant.
Another man said something in bad Chinese with a Russian accent. Durnovo, he thought. Brian
listened intently; it was getting interesting, he didn't see the other man stealthily approach him from
behind. Hong Liu, the same man that had killed Feng, positioned himself above the crouched
Australian and swung the pickaxe violently down towards Hamilton's skull.

*****

PRESS RELEASE Media. Int. - For Immediate Release

Sino and French Forces Conduct Southern Indian Ocean Exercises
By Vincent Gray, Media Int. Press Writer.

Thursday. Nov 21, 2018. Navy and air units from China and France are involved in an extended
air and naval exercise in the Indian Ocean. The long duration of the exercises are designed to test the
extended deployment of both French and Chinese blue water assets as far as the Southern Ocean and
involve unprecedented numbers of ships and aircraft. This is a clear message that the two nations take
seriously their desire to protect their critical supply lines, wherever on the planet they may be. The
French have permitted their new partners to operate air support out of Martin de'Vivies from the newly
built Han Air Force Base. The Chinese have deployed several new warships, submarines and aircraft
which involve Russian defense personnel in the training role prior to a complete hand over of the new
equipment. These exercises confirm the growing friendship between Beijing and Paris, contrasting
heavily to France's renewed frosty attitude to the U.S. – End

*****

CHAPTER SIX

BEIJING, CHINA November 12 0930hrs (0230 UTC). President Yuen Xinghua, the General
Secretary of the Chinese Communist Party and powerful CMC, looked out of the window and across
the large square. The morning was surprisingly warm, but the fall of golden leaves from the trees
surrounding the park warned of colder weather to come.
Chen, as usual, had been right, the Chinese President thought. The oil and gas strike would be
public within hours; there was little he could do to prevent that. The international media agencies
would be all over it. Gone were the days when they could dictate what the Chinese population was
told. The sea walls and borders that had kept the rest of the world out had well and truly been broken.
He would have to tread carefully. The members of the Hanyu Pinyin, the Chinese Communist Party
(CCP), knew the critical and strategic importance of oil to China's growth and economy, but in his
mind they were too cautious.
Unlike the previous President Hú Jintao, Yuen Xinghua was a product of what many referred to as
the Shanghai clique, an informal name for officials in the central government of the People's Republic
of China who rose to prominence in the Shanghai city administration. Six of the nine members of the
all-powerful Politburo Standing Committee of the Communist Party of China were part of that clique.
Grudgingly, even President Yuen recognized the brilliance of Hú Jintao. A hydraulics engineer by
trade, Hu had spent most of his time in the hinterland but rapidly rose to power. Hu's photographic
memory was party legend and the death trap of those who were not up to the task. In the new order Hu,
like Jiang Zemin, had stepped aside willingly to allow the next generation of leadership to take the
party forward. But not after completely dominating the Chinese political system by holding all three
senior posts, effectively ruling the country as a dictator.
Where Hu was brilliant, Yuen was ruthless. Yuen Xinghua while not possessing the same memory
as his predecessor was nonetheless a very smart man; equal or better to the task than many of his
western counter parts. He had done well, a Jiang Zemin protégé, with the added support of the
Shanghai clique; he had managed not only the Presidency, but also chairmanship of the General
Secretary of the CPC and Central Military Commission (CMC). The leader of the world's most
populous nation, the Chinese President was aware that next to the President of the United States,
Damon Blaire, he was the most powerful person on earth.
Xinghua ran his hand through the sparse remains of his hair. "Is this accurate?" he said simply.
General Chen Jianguo, Vice Chairman of the state CMC and Chief of Staff nodded. "Yes, what
you are reading is our own HUMINT less than two hours old. From what I can gather, half the world's
governments will be reading a similar communiqué from their own people.
"Your plan, Bing Qing, has paid off, it seems. When did you find out?"
"Thirty minutes ago." Chen had watched the event in real time over a secure Vidcon.
Yuen Xinghua felt mildly irritated he wasn't aware earlier. But such good news should not be
spoiled. "The clock is now ticking. What are your thoughts?"
"Secretary General, we still have to wait and see how the rest of the world responds, especially the
U.S."
 "Yes, it will be interesting to see what Blaire does with Finn still refusing to die."
"Mr. President," Chen said formally. "We are prepared to move into the third phase of the plan."
The question hung in the air. The third phase he thought.
"Strictly speaking," the General added, "Our recent activities have simply been the realization of
our Active Defense Policy, especially given the situation. It is time we let our presence be felt with
something a little more substantial than a few diplomats with nothing sharper than words. We should
extend our Active Defence Policy to not only cover such issues as Taiwan, but also our energy supplies
and challenge the U.S. domination of trade routes in the southern oceans."
"And in Antarctica as well?"
"Yes, in the Southern Ocean first, this will catch the Americans off guard, especially with their
new President still fumbling with the control levers. From Martin de Vivies we can easily bolster our
Antarctic bases and in the Indian and Southern Ocean we can now show our flag and push back the
hegemonism of the U.S." Chen, like most of the leadership in the PLA saw the United States as a
superpower well into its decline, losing economic, political, and military influence around the world. It
still, however, controlled the critical flow of energy resources. Now was the time to act.
The term "hegemony," to Chinese thinking, had a negative connotation, and depicted a power that
desired imperialistic control over other powers, and is overbearing and controlling. The recent Chinese
defense white paper Chen had signed off on was more to the point, accusing the U.S. of 'threatening
world peace, by pursuing neo-interventionism, new gunboat policy, and neo-economic colonialism.'
To Yuen, Chen and the Chinese leadership, the U.S. Government practiced deception and
repeatedly lied about its intentions to maintain hegemony. U.S. actions, including those taken in the
name of 'global public good' were seen as part of a conspiracy to impose the U.S. vision of the world
on others.
"Yes," the President and Secretary General said at last. "I think you are right. It is time." China
had dedicated considerable resources toward preparing for potential conflict with the United States,
initially over the Taiwan issue, but now for other reasons. "I'm still worried about Blaire?" he said
again. "He is an unknown quantity."
Chen smiled broadly. "A new President, presiding over a hostile administration and a government
still in confusion afraid of its own military, just as you described. Finn's Presidency decimated his own
defense forces, destroyed his strategic advantage and has virtually given us a free reign." He laughed.
"We have a lot to thank Finn for."
The Chinese President steeped his hands together. "Yes," he said again. It was almost too good to
be true. This was an historic and perhaps once in a lifetime opportunity, first Finn and now the oil. A
frown moved over his face. "I get worried when things come too easily. Are we prepared for this or just
sliding into it?"
"I look at it as a pleasant convergence of fate. But we are steering this and so far it has gone
exactly to plan."
Yuen stood up and strode to an intricate globe that sat on the corner table. He tapped the bottom
part of the ball. "To achieve your phase three objectives, we have some diplomatic hurdles. The
territory is in dispute. There is no clear ownership or process."
Chen nodded. "The Australians claim it as theirs," he said. "But it has never been recognized by us,
the U.S. or many other countries. But we are still signatories to a treaty prohibiting exploitation of the
Antarctic Continent. Phase two, drilling into the lake, and secretly building up our military forces there
has breached that agreement.
"But now that doesn’t matter, the question is who will stop us? We will have the UN onside,
Blaire's no threat, the Australians have no power projection, and the British and Europeans are too busy
selling us technology and luxury motor cars. Sure, they will jump up and down. With France, Germany
and Russia in our camp, there will be little argument.
"The Australians are not going to like this," Yuen stated.
"Yes. This will kill our free trade agreement with them, but who cares; we own half their resource
industry, our economy dwarfs them and if need be we can buy all the resources we need in Africa."
Yuen spun the globe, the countries blurred in motion. Chen saw his opening; he did not want the
president to hesitate when they were poised to succeed.
"Oil is still world currency, the world's central oil bank, Antarctica, has just been opened. This
will change everything. It can easily shift the balance of power. It could if managed properly propel
our economy to overtake the Americans." Green house gases be damned he thought.
The President looked up sharply; the general really knew how to press his hot button. The end
might well justify the discomfort and short-term risk. Yuen Xinghua was a political survivor; it was
military, not diplomatic pressure that got results in the end. This is why there were so many elected
PLA officers in the Central Committee. Diplomacy was the sheath that covered the sword. Without the
sword, diplomacy was just empty rhetoric.
President Yuen looked up from the spinning globe. "I agree. But the Central Committee will still
need convincing. I assume we must act quickly?"
Chen nodded.
"I will convene the PSC in the morning then. But before then, after you have met with your
general staff, we need to talk again."
 "The Russians?" Chen asked.
"Yes." Chen's intuitiveness was at times alarming. "You have obviously thought the same thing.
We are up to our armpits with them on this. I will need to speak to Petrov. We will then have to do a
ring around. Your PLA faction support and my party currency, for what ever we decide, will be
critical."
General Chen nodded again. He knew Xinghua needed to consolidate his position in the party. The
looming National Party Congress might well try to take away the President's dual occupancies of the
countries two top posts as well as being Chair of the Party CMC. His own prosperity was also tied to
Xinghua's continuing control of the party apparatus. There was also the question of ownership of
shares through foreign corporations. Both men owned considerable shares in the China National
Petroleum Corporation (CNPC), the country's largest and mostly state-owned oil consortium.
There was the potential for a lot of money to be made here. Despite that, Chen knew Yuen's
primary driving force was not money. Yuen Xinghua was driven by his desire to lead. He was a man
without the usual emotion or guilt that plagued most ordinary men. He cared about being admired,
respected and powerful. He liked competition and he liked to win. While many looked up to him,
others saw him as an egomaniac. The realization of surpassing the U.S. as the world's dominant super
power in his own Presidency would be a legacy that would mark Yuen's name in history. Something he
had previously not even dared dream about.
After the meeting with the President was concluded, Chen drove directly to the PLAHQ, the heart
of China's Rénmín Jiefàng Jun, the Red Army. He would remember this day for as long as he lived.
General Chen Jianguo was 65 years old, he was on the short side and thin, but very energetic. A native
of Shaanxi, he had joined the PLA in 1966 and did a two-year course at the Military Academy in
Nanjing (the forerunner to the National Defense University) during 1987-1989. He rose through the
ranks of the Lanzhou MR, serving successively as a squad leader, platoon leader, regimental
propaganda cadre, headquarters staff officer, and eventually MR Deputy Chief of Staff. He spent a total
of 24 years in these positions with one single unit: the 55th Division of the 19th Army Corps.
Chen was a specialist in ground force operations and training and was one of the first to
experiment with large-scale force-on-force mechanized infantry exercises and the use of xin gainian
wuqi or new concept weapons. Through his position he personally over saw the development of all
types of new technologies including DEW (Directed Energy Weapons) high power lasers, high power
microwaves, railguns, coil guns, and particle beam weapons at the China Academy of Sciences and the
Commission of Science, Technology and Industry for National Defense (COSTIND).
Chen Jianguo walked sprightly through the corridors of his land command, the Chief of Staff of
the world's largest military, commanding a military force of 2.5 million people under arms. The small
general strode directly into the PLAN operations room. "Report!" He said, looking up at the huge
digital situational display.
The Chinese Operations Duty Officer was quick to respond. "Yes Sir. The South Pacific Fleet and
her escorts are now driving south into the lower Indian Ocean. The Taizhou has been ordered to
advance into the Southern Ocean below the sixtieth parallel and is moving due south at flank speed."
"Excellent." the General said, his words clipped. There were still vast distances to cover. He
wanted all the pieces in place ready to move once the Central Committee had met and approved the
operation.
The Australians had nothing in their inventory that could threaten a Sovremenny guided missile
ship. This action, like the Taiwan crises, was an exercise in intimidation, a demonstration of China's
ability to project force anywhere it wanted to. A deliberate threat to the sea-lanes that would in future,
transport the oil reserves from Antarctica to the rest of the world. To get the CNPC a lion's share in the
world's largest oil reserve would make both himself and Xinghua, incredibly rich. While Yuen clung
tenaciously to power, Chen knew it was just a matter of time before he himself, would be removed to
make way for new, younger officers.
While there was no time limit or statute on his position, it was generally accepted by the party that
five years was about enough, while not compromising his political position, to reap a financial windfall
in oil profits would make those twilight years after retirement that much more bearable. The oil wealth
would keep his family comfortable for generations. As the Americans would say, make hay while the
sun shines.
Only moments after the oil discovery and before Chen had met with the Secretary General, the
General had directed his orders be issued to the Fleet. The Captain of the Taizhou, PLAN Commander
Li Zhenbang, standing in the ship's control center, had read the FLASH orders just moments later.
They were short and simple. Head due south, flank speed, more to follow. The Commander knew
better than to argue. He turned to the officer of the watch.
"Set course due south, flank speed," he ordered.
"Due south at flank speed it is." The officer of the watch responded. As the Watch Officer gave
the orders, the Taizhou's Captain could feel the ship heel to port as it turned almost one hundred eighty
degrees to head south. How far south, he wondered?

*****
 WASHINGTON DC. November 11, 2345hrs local (0445 UTC). It had almost been midnight on
the U.S east coast when the Chinese and Russians hit pay dirt. The news hit the White House late in the
evening. People were dragged out of their beds all over Washington. Politicians and defense personnel
scrambled to understand what was going on and what it all meant.
The President was sitting at his desk in the Oval Office; he hadn't been to bed yet. Until a short
while ago, the Gunlocke chair he sat on had actually started to feel comfortable. But now it felt more
like a hot seat. He looked at his watch, closed the cover of the folder he had been working on and
walked across the building to the Situation Room. In the control center the main screen showed a
reporter standing outside the UN buildings.
"The discovery by Russian and Chinese scientists at Vostok Station in Antarctica, confirms the
existence of the world's largest known oil and gas deposit. The discovery at a Russian station on
territory claimed by Australia is sure to generate controversy.
"A joint Russian and Chinese statement said they did not acknowledge the claim but would work
with the UN to ensure stability and continued international co-operation and good will on the continent.
There has, as yet, been no comment from Australia or the White House. We will bring you more on this
incredible breaking story as news comes to hand." The woman signed off and CNN went to a break.
"Sir!"
Blaire turned to the Watch Officer, Captain Vince Kipper.
"I'm glad you are here. We have picked up a lot of activity from Chinese and Russian Naval
units."
Blaire followed him to the main monitors dominating the south wall.
"We have just received confirmation that the Taizhou is steaming at flank speed out of the Indian
Ocean towards the southern Antarctic Ocean. Their South Pacific carrier task force has also reversed
course and is not far behind her. It also appears they are generating other assets which will probably
follow. In addition, Russian communication traffic in its Northern Fleet has increased dramatically and
we have unusual aircraft movements and troop deployments. SOSUS has also picked up multiple
underwater contacts heading south. We can safely assume that we are witnessing deployment of
capital defense assets into the Southern Ocean and perhaps onto Antarctica itself."
The normally noisy Situation Room was very quiet. Kipper shuffled his notes. "In the last twelve
hours we have also detected significant ship movements in and around the Russian Pacific Fleet bases,
this has been confirmed by a communiqué from Vice Admiral Vyacheslav Popov. He has officially
advised that a large combined force package from the Russian Pacific Fleet has left Vladivostok on
'maneuvers'. The package includes the Marshal Ustinov, a Slava class cruiser; the aircraft carrier
Ul'yanovsk, two Udaloy-class destroyers the Vinogradov and Tributs, the Admiral Vinogradov,
Panteleyev and the Sovremenny class Besstrashnyy(Бесстрашный-Fearless).
“The Russian Pacific Fleet also operates around 20 nuclear powered submarines based in
Vladivostok area, several to the northeast of Vladivostok, and on the Kamchatka Peninsula. Several
Kilo's and Akula's have put to sea in the last 12 hours also. Whether they are part of this package we
don't know. At the same time the large anti-submarine ship Marshal Shaposhnikov, and the large sea-
going tanker Pechenga, also put to sea."
"Maneuvers my ass. That old goat Popov knows, we know, that's a load of bullshit. He's headed
south, as far as he can go," the President said. For the first time Kipper saw the eyes of his Commander
in Chief flash with anger.
"Coincidentally Sir, the Russian ice breaker Arktika is also close to docking at the French base
d'Urville."
"No coincidence Captain."
"No Sir, I don't believe in those when it goes down like this either."
"Okay, let's take this into the conference room. Get me the CJC and that fellow Stringer."
In the conference room Damon Blaire sat to one side of the table. "Vince you stay as well, but
keep an ear out for what's happening out there."
"Aye sir."
"General Perelli you there? David."
Video of both the men appeared on the overhead.
"I take it General you have been watching this?"
"Yes Sir."
Blaire noticed a nervous chief of staff pacing in the room outside. Blaire motioned him in.
"Arrange meetings with both the Russian and Chinese Ambassadors tomorrow morning."
"Yes Sir."
"And where are Goldschmidt and Jacoby?"
"The NSA is on a flight from Boston and the Secretary of State is on his way in now Sir."
This was bad timing Blaire thought, but crisis never did happen at a good time. "Okay, send them
in as soon as they get here. Captain Kipper will brief them." He watched the still nervous chief of staff
flee the room.
"Let's get some background on this. George, let's start with you. What do you make of this?"
"I think this answers our questions on Martin de Vivies. I think its unfortunate there wasn't more
information on the drilling operation earlier on."
 The President made a mental note to check on that.
"I think we are looking at a small piece of a larger process that has been going on for some time.
There is a whole other part of that plan underway as we speak which includes these naval movements.
This is all orchestrated, has been for months, if not years."
"Which means we are way behind and they have already thought out all the moves and all the
contingencies, they are just waiting to see what we do next."
"That's the way I see it, Sir. We have to assume with the amount of planning and preparation time,
that their combat preparedness will be at unprecedented levels."
"Great. David?"
"Same as the General, Sir.” Stringer replied. “Our problems with the satellites, the airfields and
forward deployment of combat units, demonstrate a well thought out plan being acted out jointly
between the Chinese and Russians. From a CIA perspective, we have had too few assets of measurable
quality looking hard at Chinese and Russian military operations or their capabilities for some time."
"Not a hell of a lot different for us either," Perelli conceded. "President Finn through the office of
Homeland Security had most of the Defense Intelligence Agencies resources reduced and its efforts
focused on the terror war."
"Mister President," Stringer said. "It's the Chinese that really worry me at the moment. Xinghua
and General Chen Jianguo seem to have a virtual strangle hold on the Central Committee's decision
making." Stringer paused for a moment as he structured the thousands of strands of intelligence he
consumed over the last few days into something he could verbalize.
"For China the gap between its internal ability to produce oil and how much it imports has grown
massively. It needs to import over sixty percent of its oil, mostly from the Middle East. Inability to
meet its growing energy appetite will strangle growth. Each year its oil consumption grows by nearly
ten percent. I’m sure the recent financial crisis only re-inforced their problem with dependency. While
their friends for the moment, Russia, have lots of oil, they hardly want to depend on them either.
"China's three main oil producing zones-Daqing, Shengli and Liaohe, which are situated in the
northern and north eastern parts of the country, are mostly depleted. The development of oilfields in the
Xinjiang province in western China, and the offshore oil ranges in the East China Sea have also failed
to meet expectations let alone the growing demand. Even the large-scale oilfield development deals
with Kazakhstan and Venezuela have not made a dent in the oil deficit. With our strategic domination
over the region, we are clearly perceived as the primary threat to China's energy supply." He paused
again. "There is some compelling logic to their argument."
Kipper had a hand to one ear. His head snapped up. "Sir, Indonesia has just closed its territorial
waters to U.S. and Australian warships on the basis it does not want to further inflame the situation."
"But Russian and Chinese vessels are plying through there right now!" the President said, the
irritation clear in his voice. "Thanks Vince. Okay Dave, keep it coming."
Stringer picked up the overhead controller and split the screen so the images of each other were
reduced to the bottom of the screen. A satellite photo of Vostok filled the rest over laid by images of
the oil operation. "The drilling operation was a Chinese, Russian venture. This entire operation was a
little renegade, headed by a Professor Nelomai Durnovo." A photo of the Professor came up on the
display. "This guy we know is connected with Russia's Foreign Intelligence Service. If that is the case
we can assume Guoanbu is involved as well. SCAR, which is the Standing Scientific Group in
Antarctica, had been complaining for three years that these guys were not taking enough care to avoid
introducing contaminants into the lake. COMNAP requested some papers outlining their plans but
didn't receive anything. We are also pretty sure, but can't prove it, that a lot of the money is coming
from Russian and Chinese oil companies, routed through government channels.
"This is an abbreviated guide to the treaty; I will copy everyone the exact text. We, along with
some 45 other countries, are signatories to the Antarctic Treaty, which has been in force since 1961.
Seven countries claim portions of Antarctica as national territory. Some of these claims overlap.
Ourselve’s and Russia have reserved the right to make claims. We do not at this moment recognize the
claims of others.
"However, the Australians are claimants, and to a very large piece of this pie, the piece of the pie
we are all about to argue over." He worked the remote again. "These are the Antarctic Treaty
obligations." He stopped for a moment to allow everyone to scan the document.

Article 1 - area to be used for peaceful purposes only.

Article 2 - freedom of scientific investigation and cooperation shall continue
Article 3 - free exchange of information and personnel, cooperation with the UN and other
international agencies
Article 4 - does not recognize, dispute, or establish territorial claims and no new claims shall be
asserted while the treaty is in force
Article 5 - prohibits nuclear explosions or disposal of radioactive wastes
Article 6 - includes under the treaty all land and ice shelves south of 60 degrees 00 minutes south
and reserves high seas rights
Article 7 - treaty-state observers have free access, including aerial observation, to any area and
may inspect all stations, installations, and equipment; advance notice of all expeditions and of the
introduction of military personnel must be given

"The issue here," Kipper continued, "is how we respond to a breach in this treaty. Everyone now
knows there is more oil and gas down there than anywhere else on the planet. But exercising that
breach in the UN will be difficult when the Security Council is filled with the perpetrators and their
friends. But without the treaty, we have nothing at all to threaten the Chinese and Russians with. If we
stick with our current position, that there are no recognized claims, this opens the gate for a new claim
process. Historically, we left the right to claim a piece of the pie between 90 and approximately 150
degrees west, the area encompassing the Amundsen Sea and Marie Byrd Land. But if we try that, it
will just green light the Russians and Chinese to make claims as well."
"So no matter what we do, we pave the way for a claim process and from what I can see, the UN is
going to work against us," the President said. "If we make a claim, then everyone else will, voiding
any authority in the treaty, which is what they want... options?"
"An option," Perelli ventured, "may be: don't press our claim and instead, support the Australian
and New Zealand rights based on geography and history. China and Russia couldn't be further away
and Australia lays claim to the entire plateau that Vostok station sits on."
"Yes, and Russia's arguments with Japan over Kurile Island and China's over oil in the East China
Sea, the Diaoyu and Senkaku, as well as the Spratly and Paracel Islands, are all based on history and
geography."
"That's worth considering; it might be one of the few options open to us."
Stringer spoke up. "Russia and China are going to demand that the UN get involved, even with this
argument; it keeps us on the defensive, while at the same time they send all their gunboats south. With
these countries stacking the Security Council, the UN is going to procrastinate and drag us out as long
as possible."
"While they finish whatever it is they have started."
"Yes."
Perelli leaned forwards. "You know, I suspect the Russians and Chinese, and perhaps ourselves,
may be somewhat underestimating the Australians. I don't think for a minute they will shrink from
defending their claim if it's challenged, even if it is China or Russia."
"Perhaps it doesn't matter; they are pretty much out gunned," Stringer said.
"Let's look at that," Perelli interjected. "They have one of the best-trained and disciplined regular
forces in the world. Their special forces are second to none. Their air force is also top grade. RAAF
C130's out performed every other transport in the Iraq theatre by a margin of at least three. These guys
are dedicated and very professional and advantageously we have excellent interoperability with them.
"They fly F/A-18E/F in the air defense role and have exceeded the boundaries of the F-111 but
decommissioned them some years back to pave the way for the F35. Without their F-111s they now
have no capability to project air power to somewhere like Antarctica, other than Special Forces. At the
moment operating military aircraft from Antarctic bases would breach treaty provisions.
"Their Navy has several units currently operating in the Persian Gulf and six operational Collins
class submarines. Their diesel boats are excellent. In war games we couldn't find them, but they found
us and included carrier kills and SSN's to their catch of the day. These are very capable attack boats
that both Los Angeles and Sea Wolf boats find a challenge with. In addition their ANZAC and Hobart
class destroyers are also quite capable and able to project sea power into their Antarctic claims along
with their recently commissioned LHD’s the HMAS Canberra and Adelaide. They carry the best anti-
air and missile defense available, having equipped with the latest sea sparrow series, HPM and
cavitation guns networked by improved AEGIS fire and control systems." The vice CJS continued,
rapping off and itemizing various components of the Australian Defense Forces that could be used in a
fistfight.
"You talking to them General?"
"Yes Sir."
"Good. Let me know what their military is thinking. I will be talking to their Prime Minister before
the end of the day. All right, keep me posted. I want each of you to draft your own recommendations
the way you see it and send them through to me. I will be calling a meeting of the NSC later today. If
any of you need me I will be here or in the Oval Office."
While none of them knew, the first seeds of the humankind's greatest threat to survival were being
sown.

*****

Phase Three Bing Qing authorization - Political Bureau's Standing Committee

BEIJING NOVEMBER 13, 0900HRS LOCAL (0100 UTS). If the old axiom that shit truly did
rise to the top, many considered the current Central Committee Secretary General of the Chinese
communist Party lent a lot of credence to the legend. But to others he was a strong man who could
inspire, motivate and lead people. He rewarded loyalty well but reacted harshly to those who were not.
Like so many strong personalities, people either loved or loathed him.
 Yuen Xinghua, The Party President and Central Committee Secretary General had ordered an
emergency meeting of the Political Bureau's Standing Committee, the PBSC, the innermost circle of
power for the world's largest nation. The PBSC was made up of just six men, ruling over nearly one
and a half billion people and a standing army of two and half million. The six took their positions at the
table. The Central Committee Secretary General seated himself at the head of the table, nodding firstly
towards General Chen Jianguo, and then the other four.
While on most occasions the Secretary General indulged in the annoying pleasantries and
protocols that came with these meetings, today he was not in the mood for it. As soon as everyone was
seated he plunged straight into the problem at hand.
"You have all been informed of the Vostok situation. This oil find is a completely unexpected
development," he lied, "one with serious implications. I have called this meeting to discuss how we
respond." Xinghua looked to the men seated around the table. He knew that General Chen Jianguo had
already initiated phase three activities. Their alliance ensured they dominated the Central Committee as
well as the CCP's Central Military Commission. Chen had helped Yuen win the support of the PLAN
party members in Congress. Between them, they had their hands firmly in control of the political and
military machinery that ruled China. They were partners in mutual political success and survival.
Despite that, they still needed the rest of the Committee to unanimously support the planned action.
"General please." He motioned to General Chen Jianguo. The General stood; a small stack of heavily
stamped papers spread in front him.
"Oil, as you all well know, is no longer just a commodity. China needs it like our bodies need
water or air. You might all remember the oil blockade during the U.S. military involvement in
Kosovo." The Chinese had long memories. "We witnessed the U.S. imperialistic influence on oil
supplies. We have seen it again as one of our greatest potential suppliers Iraq, was dominated by the
U.S. war machine. Oil is now our most serious security consideration. Oil controls our future, but now
… perhaps fate has finally smiled on us and we can control it." Jianguo paused. The men nodded in
affirmation. "This is a situation that we must not allow the Americans to dictate. Like us, they do not
recognize any claims on the continent. This means the oil there could belong to anyone. The genie is
out of the bottle and it's not going back."
One of the other four men interrupted. "I understand that Vostok is on an Australian claim. Does
this not mean they control it?"
The General grunted. "That's all it is - a claim. A claim we do not recognize. The Australians are
nothing less than puppets of the Americans. We have as much right to that oil as any other country.
Indeed, because we represent the world's biggest population we are entitled to our representative share.
Better still if we controlled it."
"Are you suggesting we take it by force?"
"No, General Chen is not suggesting that," the Secretary General said, interrupting. "But we
cannot, and should not, allow our security to once again be compromised by permitting the U.S. and its
allies to threaten and control the access to this oil supply. The General is simply reiterating what has
been an intolerable situation for too long, one that is getting worse by the day. General Chen Jianguo is
quite correct in pointing out that unlike the past, this time we should be at the table when the roast is
carved. Preferably for once, we should be the ones carving and sharing the slices in a way that is fair to
us."
The implication was clear to the committee members. This was an unusual situation. There was
consternation amongst the members and for a while they chatted loudly between themselves. Yuen
knew this would happen and let them rush the inevitable issues out onto the table where they were
thrashed about. Despite becoming increasingly obsessive in his desire to rule, he was a master
politician with great patience that would wait for the right time before he struck. He let the men
squabble and argue between themselves, all of it going nowhere. Eventually they turned back towards
him.
"So what do you propose?" he was asked. Xinghua smiled to himself. According to National
Defense Laws, only the President of the PRC along with the Standing Committee of the National
People's Congress could mobilize the nation for war or order the military forces into combat. The next
few days and weeks would be testing, clearing the way to make decisions without necessarily referring
to the Standing Committee. The outcome would make his leadership unassailable.
"We need to guarantee a strategic position on the negotiation table. At the moment we have none.
We are thousands of miles away with zero influence. We do however have our own Antarctic base,
Zhong Shan. We also now possess a blue water navy. It is time we stopped hiding in the brown mouth
of the South China Sea and guided our destiny instead of being dictated to."
When Xinghua paused, General Chen easily slipped into the dialogue. The two men's arguments
were well rehearsed. "Not since the establishment of the Chinese Communist Party have we had the
opportunity to become truly independent and not threatened by imperialistic powers. This oil offers
that opportunity."
The other four men pondered. There was compelling logic to the argument. Like Chen and Yuen,
most of them owned many shares in the oil companies, but did not admit this.
"And what will the Russians say while we rattle our sabres? Vostok is a Russian research station,"
one of them asked.
 The President looked almost conspiratorially at Chen; here it was. "The drilling project was sixty
percent funded by ourselves."
There was stunned silence. Jiang Zemin leaped to protest. "Why did we not know this? This could
have been a diplomatic disaster."
"You are right," Yuen admitted. "And I would have accepted the blame. As it stands however, this
has placed us as a player at the table instead of being a bystander."
Jiang Zemin thought about that. The President was right. At least they had a position to play. But it
had been a dangerous gambit. "What about the Russians. Can we trust them on this?"
"Jiang." The Chairman Secretary's voice was conciliatory. "This is a good question. Russia's
future economy is dependant on the massive growth of the Chinese domestic market, which is right
next-door. We are already their biggest export customer of military hardware and technology. We
have major oil and gas projects. Their future, especially one that is not controlled by the U.S., is
determined by their relationship with us. I have already spoken to President Petrov this morning. We
have agreed to pursue our own interests independently. However, we also agreed it was in both of our
interests to deny control of the oil to the U.S. and its allies. To this end the Russians have acquiesced
to our request to speed up the supply of the latest generations of military hardware. This of course will
aid in our continued implementation of our Active Defense Policy."
The other four Politburo men were Jiang Zemin, Yuen Chiang, Ming Ley Pei and Cheung Kwook-
Wing. They understood the Active Defense Policy. It was not new and had worked well in the past.
China's military strategy was not one of being purely defensive, but instead attacking and taking
offensive action in supporting foreign policy aims.

China's military strategy, "Active Defense," reflected the ambiguity with which Yuen Xinghua and
his committee used to cloak military and security affairs. It declared a defensive military strategy and
asserted that China did not initiate wars or fight wars of aggression, but engaged in war only to defend
national sovereignty and territorial integrity and "attacked only after being attacked."
However, Beijing's definition of an "attack" on national territory or sovereignty, or what
constituted an initial attack, was deliberately vague. The term Active Defense then indicated little to
western allies about when or how China would choose to initiate hostilities. Moreover, once Beijing
determined that hostilities had begun, history suggested the characteristics of Active Defense were
distinctly offensive. In fact public PLA writings on the campaign level of war implied this offensive
nature of Active Defense.
PLA writing from The Study of Campaigns by Zhanyi Xue explained:
 'While strategically the guideline is active defense, in military campaigns, the emphasis is placed
on taking the initiative in "active offence." Only in this way, the strategic objective of "active defense"
can be realized.'
It was this Active Defense doctrine that Yuen Xinghua held up to his colleagues to convince them
of the wisdom of the plan. The reality of course was that the General had already pre-positioned assets
and prepared the path that included forward bases to make this all possible. After some considerable
deliberation Yuen and the General finally had the other four men in agreement. Phase three of the Bing
Qing operational plan would continue.

*****

The Russian nuclear powered Icebreaker Arktika call sign UKTY

THE ROSS SEA November 22, 2100hrs. The sounds were explosive - some like cannon shots
and others a bone crunching, cracking sound, which if you weren't used to it really made you wince.
The bow of the nuclear icebreaker heaved into the air before crashing back down, 24,000 tons of
ship with steel two feet thick mindlessly crushing the pack ice that covered the Ross Sea. 75,000
horsepower delivered by two nuclear reactors drove her forward. The Russian icebreaker was the
largest of its kind in the world and she looked every part of it. She was huge, over 150 feet high with
twelve decks, four of them below water. Running at four knots, she was pushing through ice twelve
feet thick, a relentless brute force action that left a broad channel twice her beam behind her.
At four knots in such conditions the ship was in a hurry. Driving directly south down a thin wedge
of the map that made up the French claim, she had avoided the scrutiny of the prowling Global Hawks
and long-range reconnaissance aircraft from the Australian mainland. Icebreakers were not unusual in
Antarctica. In fact the U.S. Coast Guard ship Global Star was at that very moment running a channel
into Scott base. What was unusual was that Arktika had run at maximum speed from her base in
Murmansk down the Atlantic to the Southern Ocean, the other end of the Earth. She was a long way
from her normal area of operations in the Arctic.
At Arktika's heart - a spotless room lined with humming banks of computers covered in flashing
lights and fast-changing displays - a small army of civilian technicians and regular Russian naval
personnel checked the controls of its two nuclear reactors and steam turbines. Captain Stanislav
Rumyantsev sat easily in the command chair. After the dash down the Atlantic with the engines
straining at more than 100 percent, he felt easier now that he was back in the familiar territory of ice.
 The French had been most co-operative. Why shouldn't they, Rumyantsev thought? They get a
channel punched through the ice for free, and supplies. All we want is to drop off some equipment and
personnel.
Several decks below the Captain, the 'personnel' were getting ready for the next part of the
mission. The men, unshaven and wearing an assortment of cold weather clothing, looked like any other
group of scientists embarking on researching the last and most pristine outpost on Earth. The men,
however, kept to themselves, not talking to the crew or any of the other scientists on board.
One of these men, Mikolai Nabialok, looked at the motley group and smiled. Indeed, buried
beneath so much padding they could have been anyone.
Nabialok's men were the third team. One was already in Mirny while his now joined another
operating out of a base just south of Dermont d'Urville - a base carved into the ice and impossible to
see from the air; a base in French-claimed territory immune to inspection or detection from coalition
forces. From here the first team had continually been monitoring the coalition's activities, the term
loosely applied to the Australian and U.S. forces. It was this team that had alerted them of the late-
model C130 that had departed and headed south to Vostok. This was also augmented by information
from Russian scientists still based at the camp. Still 50 miles from the camp, the ship's two KA-32
helicopters cranked their twin counter rotating blades and with Mikolai Nabialok and his team on board
headed directly to the Russian ice camp. Within hours of arriving, Nabialok received his first orders.

*****

WASHINGTON, November 12, 1145hrs (1645 UTC) When Goldschmidt and Jacoby had
finally reached the White House they were met by Galen Miles and hustled into the NSA's office.
"Blaire's been in the Situation Room the whole time. He's all over this thing," Miles said, clearly
bothered.
"We know, we just got the brief from Kipper."
Who's feeding the intel on this?"
"Not me, that's for sure, probably Department of Defense, Perelli's lot."
"Well he's going to have to call the NSC together on this. We have to slow this thing down before
he gets us into a shooting war. He's getting out of control."
"He's even dragged the Chinese and Russian ambassadors over the coals."
"Christ, this is a disaster. I'm going to talk to the Chinese Ambassador myself, see if we can calm
this down some. Galen, make sure you close off all of those intelligence pipes, we need to stop Blaire
getting excited. Hans, sit on top of the Situation Room. Vet everything that comes in before it gets to
the President."
Almost twelve hours had passed since they had learned of the discovery, sixteen hours since the
actual event.
After just a few hours of sleep, Kipper was back in the White House Situation Room, having
relieved the standing Watch Officer. Jacoby was walking around like a caged lion watching everything
that was going on. There was a lot of traffic from the CIA, but it was confused and looked to Kipper,
deliberately disorganized. It took time to look through it all. At the end, none of it was relevant or
important.
The phone rang. It was Stringer; Kipper listened but said nothing, hanging up quickly. Jacoby was
looking at him curiously. Minutes later he picked up the direct line to the President's office.
The phone only rang twice. "Yes?"
"We have a problem Mr. President," Kipper stated. Five minutes later he was in the Oval Office.
Jacoby watched him leave, suspicious.

*****

Security Council Meeting, the White House Cabinet Room

Members of the Security Council were arriving including General George Perelli who had been
recalled urgently from the Pentagon. As soon as the last was seated President Blaire nodded for Kipper
to begin the briefing. It took several minutes and covered the same information as previously but in
greater detail.
"Take a seat Captain," the President said, "in case we have some questions."
"Aye Sir."
"With two large Chinese and Russian fleets sailing south, the rest of the world is looking at us to
see what we do next. All options are on the table.” the President stated.
"I don't think we should do anything," Goldschmidt started in. "It was an election promise that we
would not be aggressive and would not resolve issues with force but diplomacy."
That was true, Blaire thought.
"I think we should order every combatant back into port, on the ground, however it might be
phrased, because every time we act, they react. Anything we do that can be construed as aggressive
will just confirm in their minds we are back to our old tricks," Goldschmidt went on, his voice raised.
"Can you blame them for what they are doing, they need oil as much as we do, perhaps more? This
Administration's goal was a strong China. And this current crisis is an opportunity to demonstrate we
are not a threat."
The President crossed his arms. Despite what he thought of Goldschmidt, there was a lot in what
he said. Looking around the table, he could see many agreed. There was the problem he thought. He
would have to face it head on; he could not run the Administration with enemies inside the gates. "This
situation is still deteriorating; the Chinese and Russians have momentum and almost a year of planning
and preparation on their side. They have a plan. I think we should be concerned what that plan might
be; it is backed up by military forces that are either landed, in the Southern Ocean or close by in places
like Martin de Vivies." He paced, arms folded, talking at the same time. "As you know, the atomic ice
breaker Arktika has cut a 100 mile channel through the pack ice into the French base at Dermont
d'Urville. She is currently moored alongside their jetty. The French and Russians claim this is scientific
co-operation. We think otherwise. In addition to the two southern airbases, we believe with absolute
certainty they are covertly inserting military teams and equipment onto the continent." He stopped
walking for a moment.
"Mr. President, I assume by 'we' you mean yourself and the Joint Chiefs of Staff? I haven't seen
any intelligence that might suggest this. Hans?" Jacoby shook his head.
"Nothing that we have seen either," Galen Miles added.
The President stopped walking and turned slowly. He looked at each of them. "Let me ask the
question again, and I want you to consider your answers carefully." The sudden change in attitude took
the three men by surprise. They looked nervously at each other.
"Mr President!" Goldschmidt went on the attack. "We are not in the business of inventing
intelligence to satisfy policy goals."
"And I'm not suggesting you are." He nodded to the naval officer who handed him a thick folder.
"But you have certainly been in the business of sweeping it under the rug," The three looked nervously
at each other again, wondering where this was going. Blaire removed a CD from the inside cover. "And
of conspiring to mislead the President of the United States." His face was suddenly full of rage. "You
all had a chance right now to come good. Instead, you demonstrated a keen desire to persist this illegal
manipulation of the Presidency. I hereby advise that the Secretary of State, National Security Advisor
and Director of the CIA are removed from their posts."
"What do you mean?" Goldschmidt said incredulously. "You can't do that!" The other two men's
mouths were moving, but no sound came out.
"I also advise that you three are now under arrest and will face charges of conspiring against the
government and the people of the United States. These are serious charges!" He motioned to the door.
"Gunny!"
Goldschmidt's face went from red to white. The Gunnery Sergeant who had been standing outside,
stepped into the room, saluted and marched purposely behind Goldschmidt's chair. President Blaire was
well liked by the working White House staff and security personnel. He knew most of them by name
and took the time out to talk to them. Somehow, the man even knew the Gunnery Sergeants kids'
names! While he didn't show it, the Gunny was enjoying watching President Damon Blaire kick some
butt that needed it. Goldschmidt was an ass wipe from hell. The gunny was followed by a small
security detail that in turn, stood behind the NSA and Director of CIA. The men were stood up, and
looking visibly shaken, removed from the room.
Blaire sat back down at the head of the table. He looked hard at the rest of the faces around the
table. During all of this the Secretary of Defense had almost been invisible. Blaire looked at him now.
"I expect your resignation. While not guilty of active deception, you were complicit in your knowledge
and not reporting it. The Secretary of Defense knew when it was a good time to leave. He didn't want
to be in the same room as the other three. Without a word he stood up and left the room. That left just
Blaire, Perelli, Kipper and the still nervous Chief of Staff, Larry Perkins.
"Larry, you can relax," Blaire said. "It's over and you did the right thing." Even if I did have to
scare the shit out of you, he thought. It was Perkins who provided the dirt.
"Vince, can you please get Stringer and Chauncey Gray in here?"'
"Aye Sir."
He waited until they were all in the room. "As you can see, we are running short on Secretaries
here. Given the magnitude of what has transpired, I can make no promises on how long this
Administration will survive, so will understand if any of you decline what I am about to propose. We
are in a crisis situation that dictates we have an Administration that can work together and make
decisions. Vince, I would like you to fill in the NSA's position, can do?"
"Aye sir," Kipper said, completely taken by surprise.
"Thank you. George?" turning next to the General.
"Yes sir."
"I want you to take the position of the Secretary of Defense. It means you will have to resign."
There was no hesitation. "Yes Sir, the Deputy Chief of Staff is easily up to managing the role of
CJC."
"Good. Chauncey, I want you to take the reins over from Galen Miles and I want David Stringer as
your deputy. In all future meetings involving this crisis, I want David here as well. All these positions
are effective immediately. You all have twenty minutes to make any adjustments back at your offices
or home, and then I want you back here acting under your new posts."
Once they had left the room, Larry Perkins the Chief of Staff spoke up. "Mr. President, the Press is
going to be all over you."
"I know."
"With your approval, I am working with Brady Fox to manage the process, as well as how we
manage the Party." Brady was the White House Press Secretary. "He can be trusted," Perkins added,
knowing what the President must be thinking. Blaire nodded.
Twenty minutes later the meeting resumed.
"From what I can gather, this is the first time in 77 years that we cannot guarantee the outcome of
a conventional armed conflict if we were resolved to press the issue. The Chinese and Russians have
not out spent us militarily. But while our money was going to support ground troops in Iraq and
Afghanistan, every dollar they spent went to developing and deploying new defense systems. Ships,
aircraft, missiles, laser weapons, you name it; which means we have become more and more dependent
on our nuclear deterrent. They know this as well. During his time in office, Finn and Goldschmidt
gave Chinese and Russian defense officials highly sensitive documents that completely exposed the
backbone and deployment of our entire national and international defense apparatus. He showed them
exactly where to hit us and make it hurt. They are right now exploiting this weakness."
"What does that mean?" Perkins asked, probably the only person in the room not aware of the
damage done to the U.S. defense force.
"Larry, it means for the moment they can continue to build up their defenses while we scramble to
pick up the pieces," Blaire answered.
Perelli picked up the thread. "Our active units were so severely run down that it is not possible to
generate combat ready forces on a scale that could threaten the current Sino-Russian deployment," the
General said. "At the moment they have run of the roost, but we are working on it."
Blaire continued. "The French and Germans are deeply complicit in this scheme and have been
deliberately blind-siding us. The problem here is," the President added, "if they believe we have
decreased conventional capability, this will translate to us potentially resorting to nukes, which in turn
will make them more predisposed to using them. They will most certainly have deployed them. So not
only could we get our ass kicked but we could also start world war three."
"What the President says is correct. We can't afford to expose our forces to a fight they cannot win.
We could end up resorting to battlefield nukes in self-defense if it meant saving thousands of our
service people."
 Blaire nodded in agreement. "If we ignore the treaty or any current claim, and go in there with a
carrier task force, we would simply legitimize the Chinese and Russian attempt to invade the ice
continent." It was, he thought, an invasion, even if by stealth at this point. "We will look like the bad
guys and probably start a war."
The Chief of Staff looked frustrated. "Neither can we sit still while they seize the high ground and
take the continent, and the oil," he added, "without some resistance." finally getting his head around the
magnitude of the problem. Finn, he realized, had not just crippled the military, he had removed the
country's ability to negotiate, defend or influence its global interests.
"You are right," the President replied. "The balance of power is at the moment in their hands. The
potential intent and the threat their southern forces present, in my view, constitutes clear and present
danger to U.S. and allied interests. But we do have something of a game plan. Overnight we worked on
a progressive strategy to hopefully neutralize at best, or slow any potential aggression while
legitimizing our potential ability to project defensive assets into the region, when we are ready. We will
invoke the ANZUS alliance at 1800hrs today, requiring us to help protect the territorial integrity of
Kiwi and Australian claims on the ice. Article IV of the Australia-New Zealand-United States
(ANZUS) Treaty, commits Australia and the United States to act to meet common threats. In the next
few hours we will release a public statement supporting current claims even if we have none ourselves.
If we do not publicly get behind and recognize these, it will be a green light to the Chinese, Germans
and Russians and every other man and his dog, that they can go and do whatever they want in
Antarctica, and opens up the possibility of taking unclaimed territory by defacto presence or force."
The President looked to the CJCS. "The Secretary of Defense will announce emergency funding to the
military to cover any operational short falls. Vince," The President looked over to the NSA. "Give
George whatever help you can. We are way behind the eight ball on this."

*****

CHAPTER SEVEN

VOSTOK STATION, ANTARCTICA. As Hamilton listened intently, an almost imperceptible

shadow crossed in front of him. It was cast by sunlight that had filtered weakly through the swirling ice
particles. He moved instinctively, the swinging pick handle slashed his ear and buried itself loudly in
the side of the cabin.
Inside the drill cabin, Durnovo jumped and yelled in surprise, looking at the tip of the pick that had
penetrated the wall.
Outside, Hamilton's attacker pulled the pick free, ready to strike again. Falling backwards, Brian
clutched the steel girder with one hand and swung both his legs, sweeping the other man's out from
beneath him. They both fell over 45 feet to the piled snow beneath. Struggling to free themselves, the
two men faced off. The man with the pick lunged forward. In one clean movement, Brian ducked,
removed a glove and slammed his palm into the attacker's jaw. As the attacker's head snapped
backwards, Brian allowed the body to fall back across his knee, using the momentum and bringing both
his arms down hard at the same time. There was a sharp crack. "That's for Feng you bastard!"
Inside the rig, Durnovo ordered the other two men outside to investigate. They both carried
handguns. Fifty yards away, Brian dropped the limp body and pulled out a small pair of infrared
binoculars. Through the white out, he could see two armed men rapidly descend the stairs, searching
beneath the platform. There was no way they could see him yet. Using the Spetznaz pick, he quickly
dug a shallow hole in the ice, pushing the body into it and covering it up. He then moved rapidly in a
wide path around the drill platform, navigating with his small GPS. He stopped and looked ahead. The
two men were working their way through the camp. One stopped and walked back towards him. The
white out was starting to fade. He could see the shadows of buildings begin to appear. They would see
him any moment.

Press Release: Media. Int

Antarctic Crisis Deepens, by Vincent Gray, Media Int. Press Writer.

November 27 1310 EST. The crisis over the oil discovery in the Antarctic has escalated
dramatically with President Blaire seeking to censure the Chinese and Russian governments in the UN
Security Council.
In sharp contrast to President Finn's foreign policy, the Blaire Administration has accused both
China and Russia of recklessly increasing their military posture. President Damon Blaire has asked
both Russian and Chinese Presidents to recall naval assets that the U.S. assert are preparing to enter,
or are already operating in, the Southern Ocean.
President Vladimir Petrov stated that it was not the business of the U.S. to dictate where Russian
forces trained and that Russia was entitled to use international waters just as the U.S. does. The
Chinese Secretary General, Yuen Xinghua, was even less diplomatic, accusing Washington of
attempting to hijack the oil discovery.
Adding to the pressure, the Australian Government has also advised the U.N. that it stood by its
Antarctic claim, but would still work with other countries to find a solution that represented the
interests of all parties that had a recognized and legitimate claim in the Antarctic continent. It was
clear in the preamble that the Australian Government did not believe that either Russia or China had
any legitimate claim or interest to the potential oil resources or territory.
End

*****

MOSCOW, THE KREMLIN.

"What do you know of this Blaire fellow?" Petrov asked,
"A lot, unfortunately," Sergey Nikolayevich Lebedev answered.
"What do you mean unfortunately?"
"Ex-military. Perhaps even special ops."
"Shit. He will be on to us faster than a dog to a bitch on heat."
"Yes, my thoughts exactly."
"So, what exactly happened to Finn?"
"Don't know, still comatose."
"We were far better off with that fool Finn. What do you make of this ANZUS alliance?"
Lebedev shrugged. "It's a political ploy. They are running out of options. With the UN working on
our side they are stuck. Their military, after Finn decimated it, is not what it used to be. We have
several years of preparation, the Americans just a few days."
Petrov still looked worried. "We just had the U.S. bailed into a corner, now I fear they will come
out fighting."
"This time we are ready Mr. President. As we speak, Popov is leading our nation's largest battle
fleet south."

*****

USS Greeneville, Heading Due West. Once again the USS Greeneville was at flank speed,
headed west and into the thick of a naval build up the size of which had not been seen in two centuries.
In the officers' wardroom, the Greeneville's Captain was going through another set of SUBCOMPAC's
orders.
"Our job now is to track the Shi Lang into the Southern Ocean. Seawolf has been recalled to the
AOP and tasked to shadow two Sovremenny Class missile destroyers, the Hangzhou and Fuzhou."
There was instant reaction in the faces of his officers. "Yep, Sunburn missiles, sizzlers..and the rest.
The aircraft carrier, the Shi Lang, is the task force's centerpiece. Some forward assets are already here,
some of them we can assume to be submarines - now looking for us. We expect the two groups will RV
down here somewhere." He pointed to the overhead map. "Other usual suspects supporting the carrier
are the latest PLAN destroyers to roll out of the Jiangnan shipyards. They are dedicated air defense
and AEW guided missile destroyers fitted with the phased-array radar system similar to the U.S. Aegis,
and possibly the vertical launch system (VLS) for air defense missiles. Unconfirmed reports suggest it
could also be equipped with the HQ-9 long-range SAM, which they have been developing for years.
“You can assume they all have close-in weapon systems for short-range air defense. A 100mm
single-barrel main gun fitted on the front deck at least. A VLS is possibly located between the main
superstructure and the main gun, and a second VLS is located behind the funnel.
"Propulsion systems consist normally of two gas turbines and two indigenous diesels, I think we
have most of the tonals on record?" He looked at the XO who nodded. "The helicopter hanger at the
rear is big enough to accommodate two helicopters." He looked up from his notes. "In this case two
Ka-28 Helix helicopters." He paused. "And we have it on good authority their torpedoes are kept
warm." He was referring to the Helix's heated torpedo bay, which ensured the reliability of weapons in
low-temperature weather conditions. "It wasn't previously known whether the export version of the
Russian helicopter had them. We can expect the Shi Lang to have substantial protection from Kilos,
Akulas, Type 093 Shangs and the older Han class. Topside, in addition to the ASW helo support from
the destroyer screen, the carrier has over 18 of its own helos, as well as strike fighters capable of
delivering torpedoes. There is also the possibility of Tu-92 ASW support from the French Islands.
"At the same time we are to listen for other threats, especially other SSNs. China, Russia, India
and France all have the capability of putting boats in the water here. Let's look sharp."
The mention of the surface threats had piqued everyone's attention levels. The awesome threat that
the two Sovremenny Class missile destroyers presented to the U.S. surface force was not
underestimated. The air defense cruisers were obviously there to defend the Chinese carrier. Most
likely the Hangzhou and Fuzhou, whose primary job was surface-to-surface, were there to take out
carrier threats.
Scott headed back to the control room. He was acutely aware of the threat ahead of them and other
attack submarines. Greeneville was now at an ordered depth of 450 feet and could still be reached by
ELF - a slow, low frequency band of communications - in the event of dire emergencies or changes of
orders. He waited, watched and hoped.
 He didn't have to wait long. The next message would get everyone's attention. A Chinese Akula
class submarine was suspected in the area of operations. The Russian word for shark is akula. Akula
was the designation given to the newest and most technologically advanced attack submarine of the
Russian Navy. The Akula class submarine was Russia's answer to the American Los Angeles class fast-
attack subs. Common opinion held that Russian submarines are noisy and technologically inferior to
their American and British counterparts. Scott Turner however, knew what lay behind the traditional
Russian veil of secrecy.
With the Akula, the former Soviet Union had caught the U.S. in the undersea arms race. That
technology was now being steered by Chinese drivers. Soviet naval engineers designed Akula as the
follow-up to the Victor and Sierra classes to set a new standard in stealth and serve as the vanguard of
the modern Russian Navy.
The Chinese Akula displaced 7500 tons surfaced and 9100 tons submerged, with a length of 340
feet and a beam of 42 feet. Propulsion was derived from a pressurized water reactor generating 43,000-
shaft horsepower.
The Akula used a double hull construction. The living spaces, torpedo tubes, and most of the
machinery existed within the stronger inner hull. The ballast tanks and specially adapted gear are
located between the inner and outer hulls. Double hull construction dramatically increased the reserve
buoyancy of the submarine by as much as three times over that of a single hull craft. The greater
capacity for absorbing enemy fire and still being capable of reaching the surface must have had a very
good effect on the morale of the 80 crewmen.
An Akula has a very distinctive profile: a broad beam, sleek lines, and the conspicuous stern pod,
which housed a hydrophonic towed array. Hull material is high-strength steel. Diving depth approached
1550 feet, possibly 10 percent more, placing the Akula ahead of the American Los Angeles class. The
engineers had taken great care to blend the sail into the hull producing superior hydrodynamic qualities.
Intelligence film revealed another powerful capability. Parallel sections of small-diameter tubing
running down the hull were thought to be a system that emitted a polymer substance, greatly enhancing
underwater speeds under combat conditions. Capable of gunning as well as running, armed with four
533mm and four 650mm torpedo tubes, Akulas deployed twice as much ordnance as the Greeneville.
Load out consisted of twenty SET 53 torpedoes, four SS-N-21 nuclear cruise missiles, four SS-N-15
nuclear torpedoes, and ten ultra-heavyweight SET 65 ASUW torpedoes. Both the SET 53 and SET 65
torpedoes were wire guided and possessed active, passive, and wake-homing capabilities. The SET 65
packed an 1800Lb punch, enough to take out a carrier with one unit.
Akulas were one of the most silent killers in the ocean. Turner couldn't allow any of these loose in
the Southern Ocean. There was little chance of stumbling over this other boat in the short term. He
wanted to find her quickly.
"Time to go fishing XO," Turner said. "Specifically trawling, if you know what I mean."
Lieutenant Commander Jack Thompson smiled. He knew exactly what he meant. "Aye sir."
An hour later, the Greeneville was almost drifting through the water, the submarine and crew
deadly silent.
"Conn sonar, weak contact!" The sonar supervisor classified them as coming from an Akula
further to their west. It had made the mistake of speeding up to pursue one of the Greeneville's decoys.
The OOD reported the Akula to be coming into the outer range of both the boat's weapons when
Turner got a nasty surprise.
"Conn sonar, Master Two is opening outer doors!"
Smart bastard, Turner thought. The Akula Captain knew it was a decoy. He was following it back
to shoot its parent, but the Greeneville's Captain wasn't about to let that happen. Turner had manned
battle stations torpedo. He didn't know whether the Akula had seen him, but that didn't matter. The
small sonar on the decoy had helped the Greeneville develop a TMA (target motion analysis) on Master
Two.
"He's accelerating," sonar reported. "Fifty knots!"
Shit that was fast. Fast enough to outrun one of his torpedoes Scott thought, but it was also stupid,
the Akula for the moment would be deaf. "Make tubes one and two ready in all respects." Let him keep
coming.
The Combat Systems Officer reported the course speed and range.
"Match sonar bearings and shoot, tubes one and two."
The Combat Systems Officer reported "Tubes one and two fired electrically."
"Conn, sonar, units from tubes one and two running hot, straight and normal. Master Two has
slowed, taking evasive action, noisemakers in the water. Torpedo in the water!"
The Akula driver had taken a snapshot. "Steer the weapons," the Captain ordered.
"Both units have acquired!"
"Cut the wires, shut the outer doors," Turner said quickly. "Helm, Conn, all ahead flank steer 090
make your depth 1300."
Helm confirmed and the Greeneville accelerated quickly away from the torpedo thrown at them in
desperation.

*****
 CANBERRA AUSTRALIA
"He arrived back yesterday," The Australian Minister of Defense Brian Reed said
"What do we know?" the PM asked.
"That we were right. The drilling operation was part of a larger operation, one important enough to
kill people over." He wondered whether he should tell him. "Hamilton had some problems with
security." He explained what happened.
"Have the Chinese said anything?"
"Nope, that's the interesting part. Brian was pretty sure they would be three short on the morning
roll call."
"Christ, were they suspicious?"
Reed shrugged. "Don’t know. I don’t think they recognized who they were dealing with when they
tried to take Brian out. They will now though."
"Then he should go back."
The MoD looked surprised. "But they will suspect him."
"Just the point, nothing like stirring the pot to find out what's on the bottom."
"I see your point," he said. But maybe Hamilton won't go back he thought. Multilingual
operatives with good field capability were hard to find. There was no one as good as Hamilton. When
the Senate had shafted Hamilton they had done the country and the man a huge disservice.

*****

SYDNEY AUSTRALIA. As soon as Hamilton had arrived back in Sydney from his time on the
ice, Rosenbridge had arranged a meeting. It sounded urgent, Frank Cuppito picked the restaurant, a
habit of Frank's he liked because the man had fine taste in cuisine and always knew the best spots.
"Oh yeah, that's fantastic." Brian devoured another Sydney rock oyster and topped it off with a sip
of aged Jacobs Creek red wine. "So what's this all about, Frank?" He had to speak up because the next
table was getting noisy.
"Alex wants you to go back to check what these SOAR guys are telling us. They have told us
there's a significant increase in the levels of the magnetic anomaly you were checking out a few weeks
ago."
"Why me? I just got back; I was bloody lucky to do that."
"No one else wants to go down there at the moment. There are a lot of rumours floating around
about the Chinese and Russians."
"You mean like what happened to Dr. Feng."
"Yes. That, the oil strike and the military build up. It's all getting pretty scary for most folk. They
haven't said it officially, but they want everybody out of there that isn't Russian, Chinese or on their
side."
Hamilton admired the view of the Sydney Harbour Bridge. It was midday with bright clear blue
skies. The sparkling blue water was almost intoxicating, such a contrast to Vostok Station.
They were seated in the Summit Restaurant, which revolved slowly on top of the Sydney Central
Tower. Frank Cuppito worked for the Rosenbridge Foundation, which had hired Brian to investigate
magnetic anomalies in the Antarctic. Hamilton thought they had some pretty hair-brained ideas, but it
had been good money without being shot at and it was what the Government wanted him to do as well.
Everybody had been happy. But now he had been kicked in the teeth and shot at.
"It is getting scary Frank. For anyone." He finished off the last of the oysters.
"The fact is we think this will probably be our last trip down there. I can't bullshit you Brian; you
know more about what's going on down there than I do." He paused fidgeting a little with his napkin,
looking out the huge windows. "Alex said he would triple the contract fee for this trip. He knows it's
riskier."
Brian had been pouring another glass of red wine. He put the bottle down slowly. "That's pretty
serious money to take a few readings."
"It is, but it's a pretty serious place."
That sort of money could be pretty useful right now, Brian thought. "Alex is still chasing this
elusive magnetic gate then?"
"No," Frank said, his face straight. "Alex thinks he's found it."
Back in Canberra Reed and the Prime minister were wrapping up their meeting.
"This is as close as it gets to being scary, right?" the Australian Prime Minister asked. "You've
spoken to Morel?" Referring to General Morel Chief of Defence Forces.
"Yes. He agrees. It isn't the answer any of us wants though."
"Alright, give them whatever they need. This is no time to go weak at the knees; the Chinese will
sense that in an instance."
"We are doing that Sir; I kind of figured you would say that."
The Prime Minister smiled. The Australian General had his number, he didn't mind.

*****
 WASHINGTON DC
"It's shaping up like this Sir," the new Secretary of Defense was saying. "The Australians will face
off the Chinese in the Southern Ocean. We provide what we can without looking directly involved, at
the same time we square off with the Russians somewhere south of New Zealand. We hope that
somewhere amongst this we can pull off a diplomatic solution."
"Me too," the President said.

*****

CHAPTER EIGHT

BELOW THE 60TH PARALLEL.December 2 0300 UTC / AEST Dec 2. 1351hrs. Deep in the
Southern Ocean, the captain of the Chinese destroyer, the Taizhou (138), looked with distaste at the
heavy sea. The main task force body was still a long way behind.
"Make your course nine zero west."
"Course nine zero west."
The ship heeled a little as she settled into her new heading. Its motion became more pronounced
as she took the larger swells to her port beam, the green water plunging over the forward decks.
"Course zero nine zero, 115 east by 60 south, twenty knots."
The captain thanked the officer of the watch and retired to his wardroom. He was uncomfortable.
His ship was plunging through another nation's territory without permission. It might only be notional
territory, but he was sure the Australians didn't see it that way.

KELLYVILLE, SYDNEY AUSTRALIA, December 2, 0530hrs UTC AEST 1535hrs. It was

Wednesday afternoon, the middle of another hot summer day in a typical West Sydney suburb.
Someone was banging at the front door. Not knocking, banging. At first he tried to ignore it, but
whoever it was, was persistent. Lance Hamilton struggled out of what had been an excellent siesta that
should have lasted just that little bit longer. But the banging wouldn't stop.
In flip-flops, boxer shorts and singlet, he scuffed his way to the front door. The guy was still
banging. He pulled the door open. It was really bright and there was an RAAF MP standing on his front
step. Lance could already see his next-door neighbours, both sides, coming out to see what the
commotion was.
 "What the fuck is this flap about? I have messages on my home phone, mobile and email account.
Why can't you call someone else? Don't tell me I didn't pay my mess bill or something?" He didn't
think they arrested people now for not paying mess bills.
"No sir, nothing like that. The CAF wants to talk to you urgently sir. Those were his orders."
"I'm very flattered, but doesn't he know I'm retired?"
The flight Sergeant was hesitant, looking for something to say.
"What if I don't want to go," Lance added. "I'm a civilian you know. That means I don't take
orders from the RAAF anymore, and you don't have to call me Sir."
"He said you might say that Sir."
"Who said I would say that?"
"Air Marshall Norton Sir. He said you wouldn't come easily."
"No, I don't come easily, and stop calling me Sir." He thought perhaps he could have worded the
first part a little better.
"I'm afraid I have to Sir. I have with me your activation papers." He held the papers forward.
Lance Hamilton snatched them from his hand. This was bullshit. He quickly thumbed through them.
The Commander Australian Forces, Major General David Morel, had signed the cover letter. The
Flight Sergeant was right. The bastards had pulled him from the Active Reserve list. Squadron Leader
Lance Hamilton knew the rules. It seemed he was back on the payroll whether he liked it or not.
"I have orders to take you to him now."
"Now! Right now?"
"Yes Sir," he said speaking louder, the growing thump of big rotor blades drowning him out. A
shadow passed over the house followed by the shape of a big MRH-90 helicopter.
Standing there in his knickers, clutching his papers, Lance found himself being sand blasted by the
rotor wash from the big twin-engine chopper as it touched down on his front lawn. Good thing my
lawn was big enough he thought, wonder what they would have done otherwise? Did they know he
had a front lawn big enough to land the damn thing?
The MP reached down to a duffle bag at his feet and pulled out a flight suit and helmet. "These are
for you Sir." Lance noticed that somewhere along the line, someone had found time to attach a Velcro
wing and name patch. Nice touch. He climbed into them. No point arguing. Less than two minutes
later he was standing at the cockpit door of the NH90.
"Wrong side Sir!" the pilot yelled. "You need to go round the other side."
Hamilton slowly shook his head. The pilot finally caught on. He looked into the back seat for
help. The man in the back jerked his head. The pilot, a little disgusted, unbuckled and walked around
the other side to the co-pilot's seat.
Hamilton climbed in, buckled up and plugged his mike in, flicking the internal comms switch to
ON. He looked at the dejected pilot strapping back in on the right hand seat.
"I like to drive," he said simply. If they were going to drag his butt back into service like this, he
would damn well drive.
"Don't we all know that already," a voice said from the backseat.
Hamilton knew the owner of that voice; Group Captain Laurie Wilkie, Officer Commanding 82
Wing, his old boss. He twisted the throttle of the big twin turbines and pulled the collective, kicked
some rudder (tail rotor) in and pitched the nose over hard as she came off the ground, the blades almost
trimming his front lawn.
"You could have just sent a car Sir!" he said into the mike. "Hell, I would have driven in myself
eventually."
For a moment Wilkie said nothing. Lance could see him looking out the open doors from the rear
seats. "Wish we had time for that Lance." The banter in the voice was gone. "I'm afraid it's time we all
earned our combat pay."
"Where are we going?"
"HQJOC." The Pilot had suddenly figured out who the man was that had taken his seat, his initial
irritation evaporated. He smiled. "No need to call Sydney Traffic Control either. We are cleared all the
way through! We can go wherever we like. Air Traffic Control has been ordered to keep everyone else
out of our way." This must be really important.
HQJOC was the Joint Operational Command Head Quarters located in Bungendore New South
Wales. Hamilton banked the chopper hard into a new heading that would cut through air space
normally heavily congested with civilian traffic. Something really must be up. He pointed the nose in a
straight line that would take them to the JOC, his curiosity gauge deep in the red zone as he wondered
what the hell was going on.

*****

HQJOC Head Quarters Joint Operational Command.

"Sir, with all due respect, I don't know what it is you want but I was actually enjoying retirement."
"The accident still bugging you?" Air Marshall John Norton asked as if he hadn’t heard what
Lance had just said..
Hamilton said nothing.
 "We have a job for the F-111," Norton continued.
That took Hamilton by surprise. "I thought they were all struck off the register."
"Up until a few minutes ago, yes." He threw a thick file on the table. "The Chinese destroyer
Taizhou is currently steaming in our Southern Ocean territory. The government is trying diplomatic
channels to convince the Chinese to move the vessel out of our waters. Not far behind is the main fleet,
heading straight for the 60th parallel as well. At the same time they are muscling their way around
Vostok Station and beefing up their other stations. Our own intelligence estimate suggests they will
ignore diplomatic efforts and that we will need better persuasion methods. We want to surprise them,
send them a message." He tapped the folder. "We want you to prepare a mission, put your bonedome
back on and lead it. Wilkie will fill you in on the rest.” Lance Hamilton sat there, his wide mouth open,
completely lost for words.
Outside the room, the Chief of Air Force quickly consulted the 82nd Wing Commander. "What do
you think Laurie? Can we get those birds operational?"
"With Buck Shot leading the crews we have a better than even chance and if this goes pear shaped,
of which there is a good possibility, we will need him to straighten it out."
"All right, I buy it, give Lance whatever he needs, but keep me in the loop. Call me if you need
me; I'll be with the CJOPS. This is the main game at the moment."
Back inside the conference room, Group Captain Laurie Wilkie found Lance pouring through the
Defense Intelligence file covering the deployment of the Chinese fleet and the most recent activities.
"The Chinese posture was clearly to intimidate," he said. "They don't think we have the legs to project
any air power, especially with the U.S. holding back. It was public record when the F-111's were rolled
off the flight line. The Chinese obviously think they aren't airworthy and we don’t have the distnce
with the F-35 or Rhino."
This was a massive undertaking that Lance barely knew where to begin. "Who have I got to help
me pull this shit fight together then?"
Wilkie pondered the answer for a second. “On the systems side, your airframes, electronics and
ordnance, we are lucky enough to have scored some help from a guy by the name of Patrick Boone.
He’s an engineer, real brainy bugger with a specialty in F-111’s. No doubt he probably has his head
under the dash right now. I would like you to meet him. Hope you don’t mind but you will need to take
another small trip, Patrick will fill you in the Pig progress when you get there. He has a few surprises
for you.
“You can’t tell me now?”
“Obviously it’s secret, but that’s not the reason. Boone’s pretty passionate about his birds and
wanted to show them to you himself. It’s his show and we don’t want to disappoint.”
His birds? Lance was thinking. His show? What did all that mean?
The Wing Commander saw the puzzled expression on Hamilton’s face. “It will be revealed pretty
shortly, I’ll let him do the talking. In the meantime let’s do some walking; you have a ride to catch.” He
opened the door. “Don’t just sit there, grab your stuff lets go!”

*****

MULKA BORE, SOUTH AUSTRALIA. Australia is the driest continent on our planet. Deep in
the interior, a remote and extremely parched piece of dirt called Mulka Bore has earned the title of
being the driest place in Australia. Mulka Bore is situated just a few miles west of Lake Eyre in South
Australia and is home to a defense research facility run by a private U.S. firm called MacDowell
Aviation. This fact wasn’t top secret; the firm was very active in the development of UAV’s and
worked closely with the CSIRO, Defence and other partners. But they also did some other stuff. That
particular stuff no one knew about.
The Challenger 604 VIP transport jet landed on what looked like a broad flat salt pan, a smooth
dust bowl located in desolate environment that looked the same as far as the horizon. Less than five
minutes ago Lance Hamilton had not even heard of this place. Now it was a name on a map but still a
place with no roads, no people, just dust That’s what the map showed and that is what it looked like.
Mulka Bore he thought, what the hell am I doing here?
Where the flies came from god only knew, but as soon as he stepped off the plane they were hell
bent on checking out every crevice on his face, just like home. Hamilton waved them off, especially the
little bastards that went straight for the corners of his mouth. He had enough time in the bush to know
to leave them alone if they were sitting on his back or arms, anywhere in fact but his face. It reminded
him strongly of his childhood. A loud voice interrupted the sudden flashback.
“Welcome to Mulka Bore, hot one day, bloody sight hotter the next.” The voice came from one of
a small group of men who had been standing beside their vehicles in the middle of no-where waiting
the arrival of the RAAF biz jet. Lance looked up from the fly swatting exercise, this must be Boone he
thought recognizing the face from the photo. The man, medium height and build with a shock of unruly
gray hair and glasses walked towards him, offering his hand.
“Patrick Boone.” He said shaking Lance’s hand. “He motioned to the open door of a white Land
Cruiser, one of three in the small convoy. Boone climbed in the front and they were moving before
Lance had finished shutting the door. The drive was a lot shorter than he had expected.
 The four-wheel drive rolled to a stop in front of what looked like large Nissan huts recessed into
the ground that he been unable to see from the air. These were short one-story structures used in the last
big war to barrack troops. Interesting he thought, maybe some old research station.
Up until now the whole trip had almost been theatrical, the chopper ride, the fancy biz jet and the
mystery that landed him in the middle of nothing. But all this drama was very expensive so there had to
something really interesting happening here. While he was thinking that, and before he had a chance to
ask any questions, Boone exited the front passenger door. Lance Hamilton guessed this is where he was
supposed to exit and climbed out as well. It was blistering hot. Once on the ground he looked around,
but Boone was already walking fast, motioning him forward, he hurried to catch up. They were
walking directly to the Nissan huts. They looked too low to be anything of significance, but as he got
closer he realized they were recessed into the ground further than he had realised disguising much
larger structures. A few more steps and he saw they were really huge big bugger hangers, he almost
stopped in his tracks but Boone was still going full bore talking at the same time. He wondered how
come he didn’t know about these before. You didn’t build multi million dollar hangers in the middle of
nowhere without good reason. He then took another look at the ground. It wasn’t dirt but cement; this
was no dust outback strip as he had thought. The surface was stencilled, colored and blended
seamlessly with the endless flat desert surrounding it. This was very ‘Area 51’ like, with the exception
that fewer people seemed interested in this one. Boone walked up beside him.
Hamilton looked at him. “You win, I’m truly intrigued.”
Boone laughed. “Yes, sorry for the secrecy,” Actually he wasn’t, he was enjoying it immensely.
He spread his arms out, “but its par of the course. Follow me.” He started walking again.
Lance bit his lip. What had been intriguing now had him almost gagging in anticipation, of what he
couldn’t even begin to guess. Boone led him down a long graduated ramp towards the hanger doors.
The buildings were dug at least 20 meters into the desert floor.
“Okay, bear with me a few more minutes and all your questions will be answered.” Boone keyed a
small mobile remote. The big doors moved, it seemed to take ages. Compared to the glare outside it
was hard to see the interior. Hamilton followed Boone towards the entrance. Gradually the interior
came into focus; he stopped in his tracks, the sound of Boones foot steps echoing through the hangar.
Hamilton was struck dumb. Never in his wildest ideas had he ever believed to see such a thing.
Lance Hamilton stood stock still, jaw dropped and in complete awe at what he was looking at. The
massive entrance he stood in were the first of several huge hangars. The hangar he stood in was
spotless aside from a few coffee table sized mobile toolkits. Dominating the cavernous space in front of
him were five large airframes, big jets. They were Pigs.
 Boone was loving every moment of this, the expression on Hamilton’s face worth gold. “Careful
not to catch flies Squadron Leader.” He walked past the nose of the first big jet and kicked the nose
wheel, running his hand down the side of the aircraft looking back at the Squadron Leader. Patrick
Boone was a flight engineer, what you might call a boffin, a particularly good one. He was also a pilot,
but while he loved flying, the engineering of flight he loved even more. He turned and picked up a
clipboard that was sitting on one of the trolleys; he still preferred paper at times. He adjusted his
glasses, flicked the cover over and started reading from the top of the page.
“Let me see, A8-272,” He looked up, “I think you know her, the Bone Yard Wrangler,”
Hamilton was stunned, riveted to the spot. Wasn’t that airframe sitting out is days at Point Cook?
“Yeah, I know, different airframe at Point Cook.” Boone said reading his thoughts. “We painted
some airframes we got from the States and swapped them for these RAAF airframes. The paint job on
our originals here isn’t that great at the moment, but we can fix that.”
Lance could only grunt. He could see the familiar Bone Yard Wrangler motif very clear on the tail,
something that had been part of his life for so long.
“So tell me, why’s your call sign Buckshot?”
“Shotgun, flight of two Pigs is often called shotgun…”
“Got it...shotguns fire buckshot?”
“Yep.” There was more to the story but that would suffice.
Boone had wondered about that, but he also figured there was more to it, he was very familiar with
Hamilton’s career and usually a story went with every nick name.
“Okay, moving on, we are pleased to present the first of our beauty contestants today.” He paused
dramatically. He was clearly enjoying this. “Delivered to RAAF 10/05/94. Former USAF FB-111A and
F-111G AF68-272. Served with the USAF's 428thFS/27thFW.” He flicked the sheet on his note pad
over. “Retired at Cannon AFB, NM on 23/09/82, allocated to AMARC as FV0130. Later removed
from storage and transported to the Sacramento ALC, McClellan AFB, CA for refurbishment and sale
to Australia. Named 'Boneyard Wrangler', she was the first F-111 to be recovered from the Boneyard in
Arizona. On arrival here had a total of just over 5766 flight hours. I think you flew her in the flyby
during the Olympics Closing Ceremony and then at the Avalon Air Show several times with number 6
Squadron right?
Lance just nodded as Boone continued. It was like finding out that some one close to you thought
dead, had come to life. Lance could see that his name was still stencilled on the side. But she was not
the same airplane he had left in the hanger just a few years before.
“You have made some changes.” He said.
 Patrick Boone grinned. ‘Just the odd one or two.” He said casually, but the grin was super glued
across to his face as he watched Hamilton walk around the aircraft. He could see Lance instinctively
run his hand over the engine inlets. They were modified to allow the new engines to develop full thrust.
“MMmmmmm….I’m guessing new engines for a start.” Hamilton said.
“Correct, lighter and more powerful F119’s,” The Pratt & Whitney F119-PW-100 also powered
the F22 Raptor. “They were relatively easy to fit. The TF30 bay hardly needed any structural
modification and the new engines are half the weight of the old TF30. We added an inlet plug with a
radar blocker same as on the F/A-18E and a tailpipe extension plug with another radar blocker like the
F-22.
“Supercruise?” Hamilton asked.
“Absolutely, and then some, this plane will cruise faster than any other on the planet.” Boone
didn’t bother expanding. Hamilton knew it all already. The basic aerodynamics of the F-111 are
particularly well suited to supersonic cruise, especially with the variable wing and inlet geometries
which are not a feature of the F-22 design, and the internal bomb bay which is a feature common to the
F-22 and JSF designs. The option of sweeping the wings fully aft to 72.5 degrees results is a significant
reduction in supersonic drag, compared to a conventional fighter with a fixed sweep angle. This is why
underpowered swingwing F-14A Tomcat could match the supersonic speed of the F-15A.
The two men spent the rest of the afternoon going over each airframe and every modification. By
the end of the day a good friendship had developed and by the time Hamilton left a sense of excitement
had replaced the dull aches in his mind that belonged to the past. Boone’s risky venture to upgrade,
rebuild and maintain retired F-111C airframes had paid off in ways that no one would have imagined.
In the current crises the Australian government was happy to pay top dollar to acquire the immediate
capabilities of the F-111C and F-111S, MacDowell Aviation recouping its significant investment. The
Super Hornet, the remaining F/A-18’s and the first batch of three JSF’s were just not up to the job, not
even close. There was no other option, no other aircraft capable of the distance, load and speed required
to get the job done. As far as Canberra was concerned, if MacDowell Aviation made a good profit,
good on them, Lance agreed.
On the flight back to Canberra Lance began pulling all the pieces together and working it up on his
notebook. It was like a big neglected jigsaw set with pieces scattered everywhere, some of them no
doubt lost. They would have to make new ones to replace them. As soon as he landed he was driven
back to Defence Headquarters. It was midnight and time was waiting on no one.
"The government has set a deadline for its diplomatic efforts with the Chinese. Discussions will
cease zero seven hundred hours Saturday. That's your T/O time," the 82nd Wing Commander said.
"That gives you a little less than three days to get the aircraft and crew ready. Given the current state of
affairs we have been authorized to regenerate as many F-111 airframes as we can and to recall as many
certified crew as possible. We have a possible 35 operational aircraft plus others for parts. For the
moment they fall under the command of the 82nd Wing, but once operational will form a new wing -
for as long as the current crisis persists."
"Yes Sir."
“What are your thoughts on specific airframes for this job.”
“No chance of using the Super Pig. I have a list of preferred tail numbers here of F-111C.”
The Wing Commander agreed, he picked up his notes. “As you know, Headquarters Air Command
resides here, which is your start point. As soon as you are done here you will move everyone involved
to Avalon in Victoria. They're getting ready for you."
While the two men talked through the processes, far to the north, over the Java Sea and in the
Antarctic, other events were spiralling the crisis inexorably out of control.

*****

Flight V-017 enroute for Vostok Station from McMurdo

ANTARCTICA, December 3. 2310hrs UTC/local time AEST Dec 3 1510hrs. Brian had to
admit to himself it wasn't just the money. Alex actually believed they were onto something. He hoped
he wasn't getting sucked into the old man's science fiction reality. So here he was, headed back to
Vostok, images of endless days of blue skies, hot days, and the beach fading with every mile the
aircraft flew south.
The massive and unexplained magnetic anomaly, which had been discovered at the northern end of
the sub glacial lake, was now a phenomenon of extreme interest. Researchers from the Support Office
for Aero physical Research, (SOAR), had found the anomaly. Rosenbridge wanted to know more.
Brian's friend Rhys Cooper had been monitoring the site ever since the oil discovery. It looked like
they were going to meet up again sooner than they thought.
Around him the airframe vibrated and thumped. This was the McMurdo-Vostok leg of the
journey. It used be full of scientists and support crew. Today it was virtually empty. It would be full
going back. It seemed that Australians and Americans were very unwelcome in Vostok, to the point
where even seasoned residents were packing their bags and getting out. The aircraft flew with just a
handful of journalists and reporters. He chatted amiably to the others about nothing important.
 But something was nagging and teasing at his brain, a sixth sense that had saved him so many
times in the past. He just couldn't figure out what it was, but it made him nervous.
Fat Albert, as the C130 was affectionately known, bored a steady hole through the Antarctic sky.
The 'Herc Bird' was used to operating in extreme conditions from the Sahara to the Antarctic. Hamilton
felt the aircraft bank after many mind-numbing hours of flying straight, in what was obviously an
approach pattern. On the flight deck the crew was beginning to run through the checklists for landing.
"V-017 this is Vostok. We have you on radar but we are experiencing white-out conditions." The
Vostok flight controller said clearly over the radio.
"Vostok V-017 roger that, will call on final." The C130 pilot looked at the co-pilot and shrugged.
The normal procedure was to try an approach to the field, and if it looked bad, abort and then fly
around in circles hoping to get a window to land. If that didn't work it was back to McMurdo.
"That would be the second time this month, damn it," the co-pilot said.
About one mile away from touch down, it was obvious to the C130 crew that the weather was
deteriorating. The wind speed had increased, buffeting the airframe. But the C130 dropped her flaps
and landing gear.
Vostok Station was situated on top of the southern flank of the sub-glacial lake. At the same time
as the C130 approached the station, the northern part of the lake shuddered a little; the drifting snow ice
blowing across its surface was suddenly whipped into an unusual frenzy. The air above the ice became
static and huge arcs of electricity weaved through the blizzard's flying ice and danced across the
surface. The arcing became more and more intense building into an explosion of blinding light.
Suddenly it stopped.
From the epicenter of this light fell a metal rod, impacting hard into the ice surface.
Simultaneously an electromagnetic pulse rippled out from the focal point with the same power as that
generated from hundreds of nuclear blasts. It fried every electrical circuit for one hundred miles.
Aircraft included.
Computer and communications equipment were particularly vulnerable to electromagnetic pulse,
or EMP, effects. Only a small amount of energy is required to permanently wound or destroy them. In
fact, any voltage in excess of tens of volts could produce an effect termed 'gate breakdown' which
effectively destroys the device.
Flight V-017's signal processors, electronic flight controls and digital engine control systems were
vulnerable to 'gate breakdown'. The result on board the landing aircraft was like someone tripping a big
"off" switch.
Flight V-017 was dead in the air. For no apparent reason to the crew, all the instrumentation on the
aircraft went dead. National Guard Hercules LC130 aircraft Skier 93 under the command of Captain
Andrew Panoski was flying completely blind.
The immediate effect of the magnetic pulse was the virtual destruction of all communications and
electronic infrastructure. Vostok and its surrounding camps were deaf to the world. The second affect
was global. All over the world, operators and monitoring stations, civil and military, witnessed in real
time the massive burst of electromagnetic energy centered on the northern end of the lake. The
immediate and only conclusions were a nuclear event or an e-bomb, the latter more unlikely because no
one had ever admitted to having one, certainly none that big and neither had any ever been publicly
tested.
While some scratched beards in contemplation, sitting in seats comfortably thousands of miles
from the event, back onboard flight V-017, there was no time to scratch or do anything other than to
make a series of life-and-death decisions. With a dead flight deck a go-around in whiteout conditions
would be fatal. Panoski had to assume the instruments and all the aircraft's communications were gone
and would not be recovered. Unable to effectively navigate, communicate and certainly not fly in the
white out, they were better off on the ground.
A black marker passed directly beneath the aircraft and Panoski instinctively reached for the
throttles. "I have the runway, I have the airplane," he said to the co-pilot, his eyes glued to the white out
as if he could see the runway. Panoski closed all four throttles and started an immediate transition into
the landing attitude. He pulled the emergency gear lever, a mechanical hydraulic pump system, but had
no luck with the flaps, which were electronically operated. The rate of descent was excessive, over
1000 feet per minute. Not surprisingly the landing was hard, but not too hard, the Captain hoped. The
aircraft skidded smoothly but completely out of control toward the left side of the skiway developing a
tilt to the right. Again instinctively, Panoski attempted to correct the left drift by using all the right
rudder he could, pressing so hard with his left foot on top of his right that he winced in pain. He had no
idea the tail had just separated from the aircraft and his effort was accomplishing nothing.
The C130 crunched into the ice at the 850-foot mark from the end of the skiway. The force of the
landing caused the wings to flex all the way to the skiway surface, digging into the ice and breaking
away from the main wing just outside of the inboard engines.
Throwing a quick look back along the fuselage, Panoski could see the wing tanks, outer wing
surfaces and the outboard engines had already ripped off the airframe, as had all the props, which had
separated from the outboard engines and spun violently into the snow. The force of the landing crushed
the main landing gear and skis, which tore free, digging long trenches.
Hamilton, sitting in the very rear was unaware of any emergency until the fuselage in front of him
parted like a zipper taking his backpack and bag with it. Suddenly there was just open space and the
crazy sight of the front part of the fuselage, as his section skidded along with it. Frozen air blasted his
face and body. The tail section in which Hamilton was seated had torn free of the main body of the
aircraft at the head of the loading ramp and was sledding along right behind the main fuselage. Above
the horrendous sounds of ripping and scraping he could hear the screaming of the passengers marooned
in his part of the fuselage.
The main section of the aircraft continued at a slight left drift from the skiway center line and
continued down the skiway coming to rest, almost level, just past a large plywood "8" marker,
signifying there was 8000 feet of runway left. The aircraft had skidded in its icy ballet for more than
1450 feet.
Hamilton knew this bizarre incident was not life threatening; it felt almost orchestrated but pretty
amazing, like an amusement ride. The rear section, its passengers and Hamilton finally came to a stop
about 8 to 10 feet aft of the main fuselage. Hamilton casually unbuckled and stepped down from the
wrecked fuselage. Compared to his last experience in a crash landing, this was positively fun. The
bulk of passengers in both halves of the airplane looked shocked, still clinging white knuckled to their
seats. The loadmaster however was a professional. Across the small space separating them, he fixed
Hamilton with a quizzical gaze.
To the loadmaster, Hamilton looked more like some guy stepping from a theme park ride than a
major plane crash. It almost looked like he had enjoyed it. He wondered who he was; he was one very
cool customer.
At the pointy end of the aircraft, it was deathly quiet on the flight deck. From the cockpit,
everything had looked and felt normal. As long as you could ignore the missing wings, engines and ass
end, Panoski thought. Aside from the aircraft's very slight starboard roll, it had all felt very smooth.
The flight engineer instinctively went down the steps to open the flight deck door. It was jammed.
The loadmaster in the rear of the front section behind the flight deck door undid his harness and walked
briskly to the bottom of the flight deck steps and yelled "FIRE." The smoke drifting from the cargo
area up into the cockpit emphasized his point. The loadmaster quickly, but efficiently, began moving
the passengers off the aircraft and onto the skiway.
The crew was calm … but very aware of the fire and pretty keen to leave the aircraft. With the
flight deck door jammed shut, Panoski reached up and opened the overhead hatch above the upper
flight deck bunk. He ordered the crew out and followed the last man through the hatch to slide down
the front of the fuselage. This was the first time he had an opportunity to look at his command.
The wings were just "stubs" and the ends of the stubs were dumping all of the remaining fuel from
the ruptured fuel tanks. The hot engines had ignited the fuel, which was consumed by flames as it fell
to the surface. A tall column of smoke rose from both wing stubs into an even bigger column of
smoke that was left from the "burning fire ball" of the aerated fuel that had been sprayed from the
separating wings. The pilot immediately thought of the two fuel bladders they had carried and the
possibility of explosion. Now seemed like a good time to "leave the area." Everyone else was pretty
eager to get as far from the aircraft as possible. The outside temperature was -32 Fahrenheit (-57C).
Their adrenaline rushing, no one noticed the cold as they began as a group to trudge towards the
station. The two large fuel bladders Panoski had worried about contained diesel. The rearmost bladder,
which had been secured to the ramp, had torn free when the aircraft broke in half. The bladder had
caught fire and was burning furiously, quickly creating a big hole, already fifty feet deep, in the ice.
Hamilton felt a shiver run through his body that had nothing to do with the cold as he watched the
flames and billowing smoke from the burning fuel. 11,000 feet beneath him lay a pool of fuel far
bigger than any bladder.
Panoski was gratified to learn that of all the souls on board his plane, no one had been hurt and that
they were all able to walk on their own to shelter. The pilot and crew were huddled together as they
walked, their voices a little shrill with the after shock and excitement.
"It just went dead. Completely dead," Brian could hear the pilot saying.
"The whole goddamn system shut down," the co-pilot added.
"Thank fuck we were in the landing phase. Otherwise we wouldn't be talking."
"I have never seen anything like it. Like someone pulled the plug."
They stopped talking as Hamilton approached. "Damn it," Brian said to the group, looking at his
watch seriously. They all looked at him. "I’m going to be late."
It wasn't that funny, but thankful to be alive, their nerves still jingling, the smiling faces exchanged
glances, infectious snickers broke out amongst the group that then turned into laughter, unstoppable
laughter. Despite the cold, the men howled and doubled over with the effort. When they stopped, they
felt a whole lot better. The reporters looking on could only guess at what sort of joke they were
laughing at. It didn’t seem at all funny to them
"Panoski," the pilot said extending his hand to Brian. "Andrew Panoski." The two men shook
hands, Panoski introducing Brian to the rest of the crew.
The skiway was adjacent to the U.S. 'enclave' just a few hundred yards from Vostok Station itself,
the Russian encampment and the drilling rig. It just might be Brian thought, going through the crash in
his mind as they stamped through the snow, that maybe Rosenbridge had indeed stumbled over
something. It took ten minutes to walk to the skiway's control hut, which was also an entrance to a
whole group of huts slaved together. Panoski started into the resident controller immediately.
"What do you mean you have no communications?"
"Nothing. Like your airplane, just about everything went dead."
The Russian, Rabets Filipovich Gnoitskii, better known by his nickname Rabbit, shrugged his
shoulders. The men were all clustered around the entryway to the small station. They all looked at each
other, somehow expecting an answer.
It was Brian who eventually spoke. When he did, he held a small device in his hands. The
expression on his face was one of surprise. He was looking intently at a read out on the small
instrument. The numbers were huge. He folded the instrument and returned it to his pocket.
"Electromagnetic pulse… We were hit by a very big electromagnetic pulse."
"How do you know that?" Panoski asked.
Brian retrieved the instrument, flipped it open and turned it around so the men could see. There
was a complex list of numbers on its digital readout.
"Essentially this device absorbs and measures electrical and magnetic energy, volts, amps, watts,
magnetic fluctuation and that type of thing. It received a shot of energy that was in the region of thirty
volts. Anything sensitive to exposure to high voltage transients suffers what you call 'gate breakdown'
which effectively destroys the device, which is why we crashed and why we cannot talk to the outside
world and they can't talk to us." Brian turned to Rabbit, who he knew from his previous visits. "All
your radios and communicators are dead, right?"
"Yes, but why are the lights still on - the heating?" Gnoitskii asked.
"Good old fashioned hard wiring and diesel generators," Hamilton said. "The stuff that's sensitive
is anything built with high density Metal Oxide Semiconductors - radios, TV's, computers.
"Shit. What would have caused that?"
"A nuke," the loadmaster said. "But since we are all standing it can't be that," Stating what he
thought was the obvious.
"It could also have been a high air burst bomb," Panoski said, "But we would have had other
effects like shockwaves apart from the very obvious blinding light,"
"Or it could be pre-emptive," the Russian said. "Maybe the Americans closing down
communications in advance of an occupational force." This had actually been one of Brian's first
thoughts.
"Doesn't make sense for either Russia or the U.S. It's a Russian-administered base, part of Vostok
Station and we were on a scheduled U.S. Air Force flight." Even if it was the last one. "I would have
noticed something back at McMurdo. There was nothing cooking there apart from sausages."
 There was silence for a moment. The talk of food was too much for the copilot. He hadn't eaten for
hours. "Speaking of which, does the cooker still work?" he asked.
"It's gas!" The Russian smiled, food his favourite subject. He waved a lighter in his other hand.
"And we have a light."
"Well then," the copilot said with some finalization in his voice. "If it's all the same to you guys,
I'm hungry and looking forward to hot coffee while we wait for rescue. What do you say Rabbit?"
"Good idea."
Hamilton followed behind thinking through the problem. Gas is right. Gas and oil, that's what this
is all about. He had another sudden thought - was Braithwaite still here?

*****

CHAPTER NINE

The KREMLIN MOSCOW, December 4. Under Putin and his ‘stand in’ Medvedev, Russia had
embarked on a massive modernization of its defense forces which by 2018 had closed the technology
gap with the U.S. and in many areas surpassed it. They were prepared for opportunity and the time had
arrived.
It was still dark in Washington, while in Moscow, eight hours ahead; the government and its
military machine were in full motion. The northern hemisphere was wrapped in its winter with Moscow
weighed under by feet of snow.
Just outside the Kremlin, a large black Mercedes rolled through the high brick structure called the
Spasskiy Gates and past numerous saluting soldiers and checkpoints. In the rear seat of the Mercedes
sat Colonel-General Mishka Kazakov, head of Russian General Staff and twice decorated Hero of
Russia. The General's dress uniform was typically adorned with a multitude of medals, each telling a
story of bravery. To the General, that was his past. He was indeed a decorated soldier with substantial
combat experience and a lifetime of training to defeat the western allies and specifically the United
States. Unlike many of his friends who embraced the new way of things, his memories lived on.
The car stopped and a ceremonially dressed Tamanskiy Guardsman opened the door. He saluted
smartly. Kazakov returned the salute with equal respect. The General, instead of taking the large set of
stone stairs in front of the Kremlin, took a side elevator to the upper floors and the President's office.
When President Vladimir Petrov waived in his Joint Chief of Staff, General Mishka Kazakov was
red faced and clearly irritated. Without saluting or waiting for pleasantries, the General continued from
where he had finished on the phone.
"Mister President. I can confirm the report of a massive EMP blast near Vostok Station." The
detection of such a large burst of electromagnetic energy normally only meant one thing, but he killed
that line of thinking. "Like I said, it's not a bomb. Our satellite and seismological sensors didn't move,
just the EM monitors. The only explanation is an e-bomb. We have lost all contact with Vostok
Station. I have placed our defense forces on full alert."
Both the U.S. and Russia retained large nuclear forces that remained on a ‘hair-trigger’ - they
could both launch against their targets within minutes. Increasing the Russian anxiety was the
vulnerability of Russian forces to the increased U.S. capability to deliver accurate and devastating
strikes and the installation of ABM systems among its neighbours.
"Can we reposition a satellite to have a look?"
"We have already done that. Unfortunately it's one of our really old models and uses film
canisters. We will have to wait to retrieve the film. We are repositioning one of our Arkon-type
spacecraft, which delivers real-time digital imagery. But that will take many hours. In all likelihood
we wouldn't be able to see anything anyway. The weather was deteriorating rapidly before we lost
contact."
"Who would detonate an e-bomb over Vostok?"
"The question I think, Mister President, is not who would, but who can? Only the Americans,
Chinese and ourselves are close to perfecting, or have that type of device. It has to be the Americans.
Yuen and Chen are in too deep with us in Vostok, so it won't be them. The Americans are already in
the deployment stage of FCG's and high energy microwave systems."
The President gave him a quizzical look.
"FCGs. Explosively pumped Flux Compression Generators." The General almost felt silly saying
it. The FCG sounded like something out of the American TV show Star Trek.
The President nodded, not really understanding, but not looking for a physics lecture either. "Go
on," he said.
"The FCG is a device capable of producing electrical energies of tens of mega joules in tens to
hundreds of microseconds of time, in a relatively compact package. To place this in perspective, the
current produced by a large FCG is ten to a thousand times greater than that produced by a typical
lightning strike."
"And," the President prompted.
"And the only other country capable of doing that is the Americans. The inescapable logic is that
the U.S. must have been the ones to deploy that weapon."
 "Mishka, we cannot just assume it was them. What if we are wrong? And sit down will you. You
are making me nervous with your pacing."
The General pulled up an elegant period chair and leaned forward across the desk. The General
and the President had known each other for a long time. "Okay, given. Look at it this way. We have
two scenarios. The first being that it was the Americans; the second it was someone else. Either way,
whoever detonated the device is probably already swarming all over the base and trying to secure the
oil head. Taking out our communications is a prelude to action. The enemy does not want us seeing
what they are doing. My bet is, it's the Americans." General Mishka Kazakov paused.
President Vladimir Petrov had already reached the same conclusions. It sounded logical.
Destroying an enemy's communications was frequently a precursor to an attack. Even if it wasn't the
Americans, someone was escalating the crisis. First of all he would blame the Americans. The logic
was inescapable and understandable, even if he was wrong. If he was wrong and it was not the
Americans, there was a strong possibility that the Americans would think it was the Russians and act to
take over and control Vostok anyway.
"Neither the USSR or Russia has ever recognized any claims in the Antarctic, but we have
reserved the right to make a claim," the President said quietly. "Vostok Station itself is a Russian
outpost. We are well within our rights to defend ourselves. What's our standard response?"
"In the possible event of such an incident, nuclear or similar, we launch a ready reaction strike
force from Engels, part of the 100th Bomber Regiment." The General looked at his watch. "They are
in the air now."
"Can they reach the Antarctic?" the President asked.
"Yes they can. In less than eight hours."
Oil, Petrov thought, it was all about oil. The Russian Duma had argued for days over the issue.
The plunge in oil prices and possibility of an almost inexhaustible glut of fresh crude on the market was
like arsenic to the Russian economy. So long as America was reliant on others for oil, countries like
Russia were able to force the U.S. to spend money to get it and hold her in check with the threat of
withholding it. It was a balancing act for sure. But it worked. If the U.S. or some other country were to
gain control of the oil the result would be unthinkable.
Someone had increased the stakes though and played a major card. If that someone were to
occupy the station now and secure the lakes, it would be hard to move them. Possession was nine-
tenths of the law. He had to admire the balls of whoever was playing hardball. Well, Russians could
play hardball as well. The President looked keenly at his Chief of Defense.
"Okay Mishka, what is it?"
 "We have to move up the planning time table. I will talk to Chen. Lebedev and Vladimirovich will
co-ordinate the Special Forces. The first two parts are successfully completed. The recent event means
we need to act quickly. Beacause of weather conditions we are currently blind to whatever threat the
enemy may hold in surprise. With each hour it will become harder to remove whoever is digging them
selves in there."
"You want to retake the station?"
"No … not yet anyway. We will simply deny the station and the lakes to anyone. No one will
have it for the moment." Kazakov explained the third and final phase of the plan. "Lebedev suggested
we get the Chinese to use their ASATs."
"Good thinking."
"In the meantime we need to stall the Americans."
President Vladimir Petrov pressed the intercom buzzer on his desk.
"Yes Sir." A clipped female voice answered over the speaker.
"Summon the U.S. Ambassador here immediately." Turning to the JCS he said, "Do it, get it done.
I will stall the Americans. What do you propose next?"
"We already have Spetznaz forces in Mirny and Dermont d'Urville. I have ordered the aircraft
carrier Admiral Gorshkov and a Pacific Fleet Force element under the command of Vice Admiral
Vyacheslav Popov into the theater of operations immediately. A North Atlantic Fleet task force has
also been given orders to make best speed to the Southern Ocean."
The President could not but help admire Kazakov's decisive decision processes. "You don't fuck
around, do you Mishka? Good job for us. For my part I will immediately lodge a complaint with the
UN. I will advise the Americans within the hour that we view the use of EMP devices the same way we
would a nuclear device and will act in kind. Any further use of EMP devices will result in an
immediate retaliation with nuclear weapons," the President said.
The General nodded his head in agreement. The President was well informed and understood the
ramifications. To permit the use of such a weapon without the threat of massive retaliation simply
invited capitulation. The President, he knew, understood detente. Despite the advantage the Americans
had militarily, they knew they could not neutralize ALL the Russian offensive forces, especially if they
were dispersed.
"There is one other thing," the General said before leaving. "We have been monitoring some type
of transmission from Vostok - a Sat Phone, obviously hardened against EMP. It looks like someone
was prepared for this."
"Secure?"
 "No, this is the strange thing. We just got the signal, no one talking on it."
"Well it won't be there long, will it Mishka?"
"No" the General said. "No." But it still bugged him.

*****

BEIJING, CCP Offices December 4, 0210 UTC.

"You agreed to the Blackjack strike?" Yuen Xinghua asked.
"Yes," General Chen Jianguo said.
"What does this do to our program?"
"We have to move up our schedule. If the Americans or Australians are deploying e-bombs it
means they are on the move. We have to beat them to the punch."
"Okay, move it up. Given the e-bomb, I will use my emergency powers to authorize use of
military force if necessary. We can also slow them down diplomatically. Try and prevent any re-
enforcement. The Blackjack strike will sanitize the place. Make sure the Russians are not the only
ones to get back to Vostok." The President found it agitating that the Russians might get there before
them. He didn't trust them one bit.

Vostok Station Станция Востока December 4, 0215 UTC. Almost on the opposite side of the
earth, Brian Hamilton was also wrestling with an agitation; he knew the goddamn thing was out there
somewhere. His Satellite Phone, the only access to the outside world. It had been attached to the side
of his pack. It was sitting out there on the skiway buried beneath snow. He needed to go and get it.
But, first things first, something was responsible for the electromagnetic pulse. He needed to find out
what it was.
Fishing the little EM sensor out of his pocket he flicked the lid open. It was still registering the
afterglow of the pulse. Whatever it was, Hamilton thought, it had been big. He was well aware of the
area's anomalies. But there had been nothing like this. The best bet was to zero in on the center of the
SOAR anomaly along with the directions indicated from his little magnometer. At the same time he
could drive down the runway and look for the phone.
He needed wheels. Better still tracks. There had to be some somewhere. You didn't maintain a
skiway with brooms. Hamilton crunched his way around the station's center. Behind the main
structure, in the shelter of the wind was what he wanted. Big bulldozers, some old friends he
recognized. And they were old, which is why they would still work. Unlike their modern counterparts,
the old family of dozers did not sport any metal oxide semiconductor devices.
They were diesel, hydraulic and purely mechanical. They could withstand almost any EMP attack.
The oldest of the group he knew was called Maryanne. Brian looked her up and down. The other old
workhorses named Pam, Colleen and Big John sat quietly next to her. Magnificent, he thought. What
tin ass luck. These steel beasts that lived on the ice had been abandoned in remote camps for the winter
and seen in and out newcomers a fraction of their age. Even today, these old codgers were still the
toughest hombres on the block. They should have retired years ago. But here they were, celebrating 50
years on the ice. More importantly they were where Brian was in desperate need of them, or one of
them anyway.
These bone-jarring, clanking and smoking pieces of machinery had all been produced back in
1963, they were known as the Caterpillar SD-8 LGP - Stretch D-8 Low Ground Pressure - built
specifically for polar programs by Caterpillar. "They will pull a heavier, bigger load than anything else
that we've got, across more difficult conditions without sinking in and without slipping," Russell
Magsig would say. He should know. He had looked after the station's heavy machinery for nearly 15
years.
Brian was still mentally re-acquainting himself when a big-gloved hand slapped him on the
shoulder. He didn't flinch. "Russell," he said, without even looking around. "You move like a pregnant
polar bear." Hamilton knew that wherever these iron treasures still worked, Russell would be there.
Russell was not surprised either. They all knew Hamilton had eyes in the back of his head, an
acute sensitivity derived from a past and present no one dared ask about. But they all liked him.
"Good to see you, man," Russell said, a big genuine grin on his face as they gave each other a big
bear hug.
"Russ," Brian said, getting serious. "I need your help." He quickly explained the predicament, not
knowing for a second he was weaving himself into a global crisis.
Russell nodded. While he was not big with people, he worshipped Hamilton. In fact, if it weren't
for him, he would have been dead years ago, lost in a freak blizzard from hell. Russell took Hamilton
straight to his most treasured possession, Maryanne. He never let anyone else drive her. "She's all yours
mate." He bowed majestically, jumped up on the tracks and opened the cab door. "We thank you for
staying with us and look forward to your next visit." He smiled. Brian jumped up after him and stepped
into the cab.
He settled himself into the old leather seat that before Russell had seen more bums than a male
prostitute. Not that there was anything wrong with that. The aged control levers fitted neatly into his
hands. It felt good. He shut the door and looked outside the cab. Russell gave him a mock salute,
jumped off the tracks and pulled the diesel refueling hose from the tank. Brian couldn't hear him but he
was pretty sure he said good luck. He tipped his hand to his head in a return gesture and engaged the
gears. The dozer lurched forward. It only took the D8 a few minutes to reach the crash site. It took
another ten to locate his backpack, which was further down the skiway. There was no sign of the Sat
Phone. He swore to himself. No one in the outside world knew what was happening here. It would be
hours, if not more than a day before any help arrived.
He guessed the rest of Vostok was blacked out communication wise, just like they were. How
would that look? All he needed was his Sat Phone, specifically designed to handle high
electromagnetic pulses. Given that he was there initially to observe mild EMP events it had seemed a
good idea. The mild had become the monstrous. It was like going on a mission to measure plankton
and being given a whale. Time was a wasting. He would come back and look again on the way back.
Right now he needed to find out what was behind the EM pulse.
The little gadget was good. Not only did it measure EM radiation, it even gave a directional
reading. It was pointing to the source of the blast. Coupled with the GPS read outs, a two year old
could have followed the trail. It took the best part of two hours to reach the location towards the
northern end of Vostok Lake. Was that a coincidence? Brian had monitored the GPS read outs down to
the dime and didn't believe much in coincidences. It was pretty much in the epicenter of the SOAR
flight readings, exactly where Blake had wanted him to observe readings.

The northern end of Vostok Lake looked just like every other place for hundreds of square miles.
Brian walked the last few yards leaving the D8 with its engine running. And there it was, plain as day,
a two-foot long, one-inch diameter, metallic-looking rod sticking out of the ice.
What it was, Brian had no idea. It did strangely remind Brian of the rod that Al Haqq always
seemed to keep with him. The fact that it lay in the center of the EMP blast suggested it might be
evidential to how or who initiated the event. The way it stood out of the ice was like something from
Excalibur. The modern version, like ‘Please grab me and I will blow up.’ He looked at his radiation
meter; it was dead as a doornail. He flicked it with his fingers just in case -- nothing. He kept a ready
eye on the readout display as he approached the metal rod -- nothing. He stopped short of it and looked
carefully around. There was no evidence of anyone being there, no tracks, no footprints, nothing,
weirder by the minute, he thought. He carefully brushed the loose ice and snow away from the base of
the object.
The metal rod, or whatever it was, appeared to have been dropped heavily into the ice, perhaps
from a plane, or maybe ejected from the source of the EMP device, from some height any rate. Closer
up, it looked less like it was planted, which is what he was more concerned about. That might have
meant anti-tampering devices. After some minutes of searching and of detailed inspection around the
rod, he was concluding very quickly that perhaps it was just what it seemed, a metal rod sticking out of
the ice. It had been dropped from some height to impact as heavily as it had. It was also extremely
likely that it had something to do with the e-bomb, which was why he was nervous about radiation. It
wasn't, at least as far as his radiation meter could tell, emitting anything harmful. He stepped gingerly
towards the object, waited for a moment - he didn't know what for - before wrestling the rod from its
hole in the ice and carrying it back to the dozer.
Back in the cabin of the D8 it was warm, a heated oasis sheltered from the hellish cold. Hamilton
sat the heavy rod on the floor of the cab. Removing his bulky gloves, he tentatively touched the metal
shaft. In freezing temperatures your skin can stick to metal objects so it paid to be careful.
Surprisingly, it felt vaguely warm. He picked the rod up so that whatever light there was could help
him examine his find.
The rod was heavy. Why was it warm? He couldn't help thinking of uranium or some other
radioactive material, but his RAD meter was quiet as a mouse. If it were one of those materials, he
would have already had enough exposure to kill him. He was past the point of no return. At least it
could keep him warm. He headed back to the station, taking a route that would pass the crash site. He
still wanted his phone.
It was the third time he had been back to the crash site. The phone had to be there somewhere. On
the second occasion he had enlisted some help and had a group of guys conduct an emu-bob, still to no
avail. Third time lucky, Brian thought; he stopped the dozer and walked the crash site and the skiway.
Then he heard it. It was ringing, coming from the wreckage of the rear end where he had been sitting.
Wouldn't that piss you off, he thought; he couldn't believe he had missed it. It was jammed beneath the
forward part of the rear fuselage and the ice. He had assumed it had been thrown across the ice runway.
The device was only a little larger than a standard mobile. Hamilton wrenched it free and hit the call
button.
"Hamilton," he said.
"Jesus Christ Hamilton. Where are you?" The voice was crisp and clear.
"Vostok Station," he said flatly. "More importantly does anyone know what's going on down
here?"
"No, we were hoping you could shed some light on this. Defense won't talk to us. You know, us
being crazy scientists and all."
"Surprise, surprise." Hamilton raised his eyebrows, even though no one could see him. "No doubt
you know it's not a nuke, right?"
"Yes, we all figured that out rather quickly thank you. But it's almost as bad anyway. Everyone
thinks it's an e-bomb. By the way, there is a C130 and C17 Globemaster on their way to your location
now."
"Thanks Frank." He then told him about the crash and the EMP spike.
"Did you find anything, any evidence of the device?"
"Yes I did, I think." Brian was explaining his strange discovery when he suddenly stopped in mid
sentence. "Frank, is this secured?" He should have asked that before. There was a pause on the other
end. Brian thought he heard Frank Cuppito say "shit" before the other end terminated.
While Rosenbridge was not a secret organization, there were times that called for discretion, like
now. Frank had obviously been anxious. Brian wondered whether his hypersensitivity to security
mattered. Too late to worry about that, he made his next call. It was after that the phone went dead. It
might have been hardened for EMP, but not from getting crushed beneath a C130 fuselage. The split
case and dark chemical stains around the battery cartridge were all too obvious. Still, it had done the
job.

At the same time in Moscow, the satellite communications officer charged with analysing the
Vostok event picked up the print out and read the transcript. Some one down there was talking on a
hard phone and some one knew what was going on. He immediately faxed the transcript and details
over a secure line to the Kremlin duty officer.

*****

WHITE HOUSE SITAUTION ROOM, December 4 0245 UTC.

"Complete communications blackout over the entire central Antarctic Plateau," Chauncey Gray,
the Director of the CIA, stated.
"Well we know it's not nuclear, Chauncey; what was it?" President Blaire asked. He wanted to
make sure they did not miss anything by assuming something, regardless of how obvious it seemed.
"Massive electromagnetic pulse. Only thing that could do that is an e-bomb. But even we don't
have one with that radius."
"You sure? I mean, that it's a magnetic pulse."
"Absolutely, it's been confirmed from someone in Vostok who had a hardened phone and recorded
a massive electromagnetic spike." He looked at the visitor.
 The NSA glanced quickly to the new Secretary of Defense, some circuits were coming together.
They were all seated in the White House Situation Room. The Secretary of Defense looked at Kasiniia
Sakrov, the chairman of the Rosenbridge Foundation. Sakrov had been called to the White House to sit
in on the meeting.
"So you should know about the Herc then," Sakrov said. "Crashed on the runway at Vostok,
unbelievable, no injuries. The aircraft lost its wings, snapped in half and is burning right now, but
everyone got out."
“Yes, thankyou Kasiniia, Alex relayed the information straight away.” The President said. Without
that information they would truly have been blind to what was going on.
Sakrov was still thinking of the crashed aircraft. It had been late leaving McMurdo. It had been in
the air during the time their normal observations had expected a magnetic fluctuation. The magnetic
anomolies they normally observed were a mllion times smaller than the electromagnetic pulse that had
brought down the Herc. Strange...
Perelli took it all in and looked back to the President. "Sir, as you know we are currently being
blamed by almost every country on the planet for e-bombing Vostok. This in turn has provided the
Russians, Chinese and anyone else with aspirations to Antarctic real estate, a prime time excuse to push
in military forces. I have invited Kasiniia Sakrov to the meeting because it's his man on the ground. It
appears this guy may well have the evidence we need to diffuse the mess and prevent a major conflict.
If China or Russia pushes in, we will have to follow suit. There is absolutely no way that we can allow
them, or anyone else to control that oil."
"We do not want to be the reason for starting a war either," Blaire said. "But I agree." He turned
to Sakrov. "I understand your people have a great deal of interest in electromagnetic anomalies."
Kasiniia Sakrov nodded.
"Well, in this case," the President said, "it seems you have tripped over a big one. Do you think it's
an e-bomb?"
Sakrov looked uncomfortable. "Perhaps, Mister President, perhaps not."
"All the others here do," President Blaire said. "At the moment I am inclined to agree with them.
But I always keep an open mind. This evidence your man has could be crucial to us, proving we didn't
cause the event. Will your man be happy to hand it over?"
"Of course Mister President."
"Good. We need to get that evidence secured and back here ASAP."
“By the way, what exactly does this thing look like, obviously small enough for a man to carry?”
Chauncey Gray asked, closing his personal note book at the same time.
 Sakrov repeated the description Frank had provided him. The Deputy Director of the CIA stopped
what he was doing and looked directly at Sakrov. “Say that again…”

Back at Vostok Station's east enclave, Brian waved his hands in the air. Everyone was asking
questions at once. "Okay. Relax. We have two birds in the air as we speak, coming to pick us up. A
C17 and a C130." There was a chorus of whistles and yahoos. "I suggest we get some sleep and relax."
This was met with a lot of 'boos', 'sod off' and other derogatory comments. Someone had obviously
found the vodka. He looked at Rabbit, who gave him an innocent shrug.

CANBERRA AUSTRLIA, The Prime Minister's Office,. December 4 0315 UTC.

The Australian Prime Minister, Dennis Gordon, sat uneasily in his chair. "So it's Hamilton again."
"Yes Sir, Colonel, still on the reserve list. He called a short time ago, apparently the only one with
a Sat Phone that works down there. Or did work anyway," he added.
"What about the Russians and the Chinese?"
"Playing bloody Mary. Think we or the Americans dropped an e-bomb."
"They don't believe we did, do they?"
"Emphatically."
"Can't we get through to them to talk to their people down there?"
"Hamilton's phone appears to be off the air. The conditions on the surface mean satellite imaging
is showing us nothing, nor them. A massive low-pressure system has prevented any flights into Vostok.
We are waiting for a break in the weather to get them in."
"So until then we have no idea what's going on down there."
"Nup..nada..nothing."
"And neither do the Chinese or Russians. In fact, it has to look a lot worse to them," the Prime
Minister said.
"What would you think?"
"Pre-emptive strike."
"Me too and I'm not even military. You've had the benefit of a long career there."
"If you were them what would you do?"
"I wouldn't wait. Wait and it's too late."
"What can we do?"
"Nothing really. Any change in our defense posture would simply reinforce their current belief.
We just have to hope they don't do anything. If they do, we react"
 "Comforting, Brian, comforting. What about the Taizhou?"
"With the EMP event, this episode has ratcheted up a few notches on the crisis meter. The Chinese
have driven her below the 60th parallel and into our exclusion zone - presently a few hundred
kilometers north of the Shackleton Ice Shelf."
"This is an absolute nightmare," the Prime Minister said. "Our second biggest trading partner is
deliberately challenging our sovereignty over that territory. I have a hunch now they will go for the oil
too. This EMP thing is really going to crowd us." Geographically China could hardly be further away,
he thought. Should Australia, in the interest of trade, lie down and let its Antarctic territory go? The
fact was if you didn't defend your property, you didn't own it. And now this bloody e-bomb or what
ever it was had massively escalated the whole thing to a boiling point. He could in ways understand the
Chinese rationale. It was clear that after years of being penned in regionally, China was determined to
flex its new military muscle. The choices were thin. Nations like China had developed blue water
navies. The Chinese, North Koreans and Iranians possessed long-range missiles that now threatened the
Australian mainland.
The Prime Minister's last two years in office had been dedicated to repairing the damage inflicted
on the country's defense and security forces by the previous political tenant. That aside, an unerring
dedication by Australian defense to working with the U.S. military over more than two decades had
resulted in a small, highly sophisticated defense force that was entirely interoperable with U.S. and
allied forces. In other words, they used the same parts, munitions, communications systems and
logistic methods. Not as flush with defense dollars as the U.S., the Australian ingenuity had not only
stretched the budget further, but also produced new systems, methodologies and technologies that were
world class. Australian defense had turned other nations' abandoned and delinquent systems into
unrivalled lethal weapons.
Gordon had already made up his mind. It was time to put these good men and women to work once
again. Each time was harder than the last, each time you knew you were sending people back that had
already given more than you could expect, and each time you were sending unblooded newbies into
harm's way as well. That dwelled on his mind. Would he have the courage these folk did, that much
trust? In his heart he believed these Australians to be better than he was. He hoped the rest of the
country felt the same respect

*****

HASANUDDIN AIRFORCE BASE, South Sulawesiprovince, Indonesia. December 4. The

Hasanuddin Air Force base of the Republic of Indonesia (formerly AURI, currently TNI Angkatan
Udara), was littered with tired and torn military aircraft and old commercial freight carriers, a scene
very reminiscent of the aviation bone yards in the Mojave Desert. It was difficult to tell which ones
were flying and which ones were truly derelict. The flight line of F16's and modern Sukhoi fighter jets
stood out like dogs balls against the tragedy of aviation surrounding them. As did the two big Russian
tankers that were preparing for take off and an assortment of recently purchased Backfire bombers.
The long sealed runway shimmered in the tropical heat clear of any traffic. Unusually, fire trucks
and numerous fuel tankers were neatly lined up near the main aircraft apron clearly in anticipation.
They were waiting for something. Two large Il-78 Midas air tankers taxied to the active runway and
ran up their engines, one after the other they took off, streaming thin exhaust trails as they disappeared
into the haze. As the men stood beside their trucks they would from time to time gaze to the south.
Clearly this event was unusual to attract such interest. At last their patience was rewarded with the
sound of the heavy jets they had been expecting. All heads turned to the southern approach. There was
a speck on the horizon that rapidly grew in shape. Its wings were spread wide and it was big, very big.
The aircraft flared and then landed with the usual screech of tires at the far end. It wasn't until it drew
nearer that the assembled mass of Indonesian military personnel really appreciated the size and lethal
menace of the airplane they were hosting that day. The wings had been extended for the landing phase
and as it taxied past the audience, they were swept back, revealing the massive airframe's streamlined
obsession with speed. This was the Blackjack, the Tupolev Tu160; the heaviest and largest combat
aircraft ever built. With a maximum top speed of over Mach two, a 12,000km combat radius, low radar
cross section and a 130,000kg weapons load, the Blackjack was a formidable long-range weapons
platform that was twenty percent larger than the American B1 with similar low-mounted variable
geometry wings, large dorsal fin and positioning of its two powerful engines.
The Blackjack that taxied along the off ramp was one of five that were refueling on the base, each
aircraft a few minutes apart. Anticipating the occupation of NATO fields in the Cold War, the
Blackjacks accepted standard NATO refueling nozzles. After refueling and a thorough systems check,
the aircraft taxied back to the runway and took off for the next long leg of their journey over the Indian
Ocean and then down into the Southern Sea and Antarctica.
The Blackjacks were part of the 200th Heavy Guard Bomber Regiment from Engels Air Force
Base, in Russia. The lead Russian pilot, Ivan Grigor'ev Nagoi, looked into the darkening sky. Fading
behind were the lights of the Javanese AFB Atang Senjaya - the last land they would see for some time
as they headed deep into the Indian Ocean and south to their intended target. His aircraft was
numbered 07 and named after Aleksandr Molodchii, a famous Soviet wartime pilot. She was one of the
latest in the Russian fleet of Tu160s which with recent new additions brought the total operational
numbers to 21. The companion aircraft were number 01 - Mikhail Gromov (the legendary Soviet test
pilot after whom the Gromov Flight Test Center at Zhukovsky was named.); aircraft number 04, the
Ivan Yarigin; and aircraft number 02, the Vasiliy Reshetnikov.
Later, after a quiet and uneventful flight and just at the right moment, Nagoi slowed the aircraft
and swept the wings forward. The familiar and always welcome Il-78 Midas aerial refueling tanker
was just visible against the backdrop of stars. Unlike a lot of big aircraft, the Tu-160 had a fighter-like
control stick for flight control rather than control wheels or yokes. Ivan gently eased the stick over to
slide behind the tanker, carefully pulling back on the throttles as they drew closer. He then extended
the retractable IFR probe located in the nose of a fuselage directly in front of the pilot. The small light
on the end of the drogue chute guided him in. Expertly he nudged the basket with the fuel boom
almost feeling the satisfactory click as it connected. The fuel indicator lights turned green and 2200
litres per minute of fuel flowed into the bomber's tanks. After topping off, Nagoi gently pulled back
from the basket and slipped the aircraft sideways to allow the next thirsty Blackjack in for a drink.
Normally the Midas could refuel three aircraft at a time with its three-point tanker probe and
drogue, but because the SU160 was so big, only one aircraft could plug in at a time with any margin of
safety. It also took two of the Il-78s to satisfy the full flight of bombers. One by one in the darkness
they plugged in and topped off their tanks. Fuelling completed, they bade farewell to the tankers, which
turned north, the flight of bombers headed deeper south.

*****

WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM. Chauncey Gray, the Deputy Director of the CIA held
two fingers up.
“Two, maybe we have two already.” Sakrov’s description of the metal rod carried by Hamilton had
immediately reminded him of the Quinn River finding. It was the sort of thing without answers that you
didn’t forget. Maybe they were a step closer.
“Let me get some imagery so you can see what we are talking about.” He called Stringer from his
mobile and a minute later had the Quinn River images transferred to his phone. He handed it to the
President.
Blaire examined the pictures and passed it to Perelli who then passed it on to Sakrov. “Where did
you say you found these?” Blaire asked.
“Northwestern Nevada, in a quarry.”
 “That means they could come from any where…dumped there, disposed of, those places are full of
junk. Metal rods like these could come from anything.”
“Normally that might be the case, but like the one in Vostok its not just what it is, but where. The
particular quarry we found our pair in intersects what is called the Lower Triassic Quinn River
Formation. And it’s not just this quarry that’s interesting its how we found these rods there.” He
retrieved the phone and scrolled through to another set of images handing it back to the President.
“That’s how we found them.”
The Presidents closely examined the pictures and the descriptions. “I see what you mean.
Amazing, so we know what they are then.”
“We wish. Fact is even after ten years we don’t have a clue.”
“So you didn’t cut one up...see what made it interesting?”
“Unfortunately yes.” He explained what had happened.
“Crap.” The President held the phone looking at the images thoughtfully. “So IF…the Australian
has one of these, not only might that explain the EM event, it might explain what the hell these things
are as well. Might be the proof we need to unravel this mess.”
“Yes…” Grey replied, hesitating, “also means it might not be in our best interest to tell anyone
what we have until we know what it actually is...that we have.” He looked around. “This guy
Hamilton…” He thought for a moment, “his artefact is a lot more interesting…doing more stuff than
the ones we have.”
“The one you have left you mean.” The President corrected.
“Yes.”
“More reason then to get it back before anyone finds out about it.”

*****

CANBERRA AUSTRALIA, December 4 1100hrs UTC/Dec 4 2100 local.

The Prime Minister's office was jam-packed. It was not the normal place to hold such a meeting,
but had to do. It was host to the Prime Minister's hand-selected crisis committee. The new Situation
Room, similar to the Americans setup wasn’t quite ready.
The extra heads in the room were key stake holders, Gordon didn't like advice sifted through the
echelons of political and administrative machinery, even if all intentions were good. In a crisis
situation he liked to hear everything from the lion's mouth, which meant each meeting would welcome
the key players from the coalface.
 Which was why Squadron Leader Lance Hamilton, Commander No. 13 Squadron (F-111 Strike
and RF-111 Reconnaissance) was present. This was not usual, neither was the situation.
The Prime Minister skipped the introductions; everyone knew each other already. Gordon looked
serious, but pretty pissed off. He had been chewing over the problem all night and he moved straight
into it. "The situation has deteriorated rapidly. Just three hours ago I asked the Chinese Ambassador to
urgent consultations. I was informed he was unable to attend and now understand he has been recalled
to Beijing. As you all know the warship Taizhou has passed into our eastern non-exclusion zone and is
below the 60th parallel. As a consequence we have sent an official notification to the Chinese
demanding the Taizhou to leave the area immediately. Over night we have sent two notifications and
both have been ignored."
Gordon paused to let the information digest. "It's clear they do not recognize our claim and unless
we do something about it, any thread of its legitimacy will disappear with our failure to protect our
sovereign territory. To acquiesce and do nothing will be recognized internationally as a failure to
enforce our ownership. We have issued a statement to the UN but now need to send a clearer and
implacable message that this territory belongs to Australia and we are prepared to defend it."
The Minister of Defense followed on. "The fact is that while the Chinese are massively superior
militarily, there is a limit to the quality of force projection they can mount in this area. You will have to
excuse me here, because I am using information provided by DFAT overnight, so feel free to correct
me. The closest land base is Martin de Vivies from which long-range aircraft can sortie. The carrier
task force enroute is substantial with a large number of surface ships either with the carrier Shi Lang, or
following on. U.S. intellgence also includes a substantial number of submarines. I will leave the
specifics of the military threat to our experts here. However, it is my job to inform you that the Prime
Minister, myself, and all our cabinet colleagues, have met in emergency consultation and every man
and woman among us is steadfastly committed to protecting the sovereignty of our territories. Until the
UN fronts up and decides the fate of the Antarctic claims, we will not be intimidated or bullied. If the
UN fails in delivering a balanced decision it can back, we will protect that which we deem is ours. We
are open to negotiated settlement, but will not be forced - even if it is the Chinese!"
The Prime Minister spoke. "And let me add, these are easy words to say but not so easily realized.
They sure as hell are not without risk. We all understand that. It grieves me that this government must
face this, and that it is the men and woman of our services that bear the risk and the sacrifice. Your job
is to forcefully, but politely, dissuade the Chinese from encroaching on our territory. But be prepared to
back it up." The Prime Minster motioned to the most senior defense officer. "General Morel, please
continue."
 The Chief of Defence Force, CDF, Major General David Morel stood up and walked to the center
of the room. A little over fifty, medium height with thick greying hair and built like a football player,
he spoke in a voice that was not just commanding, but compelling. Morel's eyes measured his
audience. "The Russians, Chinese and French are accusing the U.S. of the EMP blast and a covert
military operation. The official U.S. response is that they do not want to move into the area for fear of
further provoking the situation, a response we don't like but agree with. They want to help, but we both
realise U.S. intervention will immediately escalate tensions, possibly to a nuclear threshold. This
means we have to handle this situation without immediate support from our primary ally." He paused to
let this sink in. "What this means in real terms is: if we start something, we have to be prepared to
finish it on our own. The Chinese won't threaten us directly, that would provide immediate authority to
the U.S. to counter with whatever military force they deemed necessary, including nuclear.
“Understanding the Chinese political thinking, their objectives and desires, is essential to us
providing the appropriate response. Are they deliberately intimidating us or just getting their foot
through the door? Under our noses they sail a capital warship into our territory, despite our published
protestations at the highest levels. They then stonewall us, virtually closing their embassy, and then
patrol up and down the strip like they own it. They believe we cannot or will not challenge them. And
Prime Minister, with your permission, they hold no value in our continued relationship when it clearly
gets in the way of their aspirations in the Antarctic oil fields.
"Their aircraft carrier, its task force and a substantial fleet of escorts are now less than a day's
sailing away. They figure they have separated us from our U.S. protector and we will not confront
them. With the UN Security Council dominated by the Chinese, Russians and the French, there is no
expectation we will be listened to. After all, each of these nations is an accomplice to an act that is
designed to usurp the world's greatest energy resource.
"Our distance and our isolation have long been our protection. The enemy, as we now must view
them, think that is our weakness. The current strategy is a well thought out plan by the Chinese. With
the Rhino’s now operational and our recent acquisition of the JSF, we are in the middle of training
aircrew on a new aircraft. As far as the Chinese and Russians are aware, we mothballed our F-111s
nearly five years ago. The Taizhou is well out of practical range for either the FA-18 or Super, even
with tanker support.
"The Taizhou is several thousand kilometers from any airbase. These guys feel pretty secure in the
fact we cannot challenge them from the air. Since they carry SS-N-22 Sunburn anti-ship cruise
missiles, Sizzlers and other highly capable offensive systems, they feel pretty safe from any surface
threat as well. And they are right. Beneath her are probably layers of Kilo and Akula II Russian-built
subs.
"So what do we do? We could use our Collins Class subs to threaten her. But since we aren't
actually shooting at anything yet, I can't see the point in exposing their operations and their potential
use later. Better the Chinese use up their assets looking out for them than playing that card too early."
The General paused again, getting closer to the point.
"I agree with the Prime Minister: we have to be decisive and able to demonstrate our ability to
strike. Even given that mandate, what I propose is somewhat audacious.” The General paused, “When
this threat first arrived on our radar screens we immediately went through our options. Needless to say
at that stage it was way too early to know what might be required. However, our job was to ensure we
had those options on the table and to be prepared.
"The option we are about to propose is an idea we had a few days ago that we believed might
work, but hoped we would not have to use. Due to the lack of alternatives and the effort of some
exceptional staff, it's turned into an operational plan. Given the collapse of the diplomatic effort, it now
seems the Pig might be our best response."
There were a lot of surprised looks in the room.
"There is only one aircraft that has the capacity to take on a threat like the Taizhou over such long
distances. That aircraft is the F-111. We ceased operation of those several years ago. However, most of
the fleet was retired operational and the airframes you see in museums and hanging around as
ornaments, almost all of them come from Nevada. The good airframes were signed off to a special
project located in central Australia managed by Patrick Boone and his company MacDowell Aviation.
Right at this minute we have on the ramp over six Pigs mission-capable. Within the next few days
we will have 35. We propose using the F-111 to pay a visit to the Taizhou. This will let the Chinese
Navy know, and anyone else, that we have the legs to protect our territory."
"What about ground and aircrew?" one of the crisis team asked.
"That was the hard part. Boone and his crew have been a god send and we tracked down anyone
we could find with F-111 experience. A lot were still serving, which made it easier. Others we had to
find and drag in the hard way." He glanced at Hamilton. The faces in the room looked worried.
"There's going to be significant opposition to this after the fact. Using a 50-year-old fighter to
tackle a 21st century opponent, it doesn't sound smart, does it?" the Deputy Prime minister asked.
"That's a good question. A good number of you know this. The Pigs, as we often refer to them, are
still the fastest, most sophisticated long-range strike fighter in the world today. It might be over 50
years old, but over the years we developed that machine and the men that fly it to be the best. Let me
introduce you to Squadron Leader Lance Hamilton. He is the most experienced F-111 driver we have
and has substantial combat experience in this aircraft and others. The Squadron Leader is also a proven
and exceptional mission planner and is the author of our current ops plan in addition to leading it."
Hamilton stood up and eyeballed the room. "In keeping with trying to keep this response low key,
but passing a strong message, we are proposing a Mach two, low-level pass over the Taizhou. The
shockwave will shake her from stem to stern. It will also let them know we can reach them anywhere
in our territories."
There was a heavy silence. "We can do that?" someone said from the back.
"We can Sir, and with permission will. The Pigs will be loaded with live Harpoon and AMRAAM
missiles. The Chinese surveillance photographs will make no mistake in recognizing the live
ordinance."
"This sounds like really risky stuff. How do you know they won't shoot?" a worried Defense
Secretary said, apparently voicing everyone's thoughts judging by the nodding heads around the room.
"Good point. Basically we don't."
There was silence again as everyone absorbed the information.
"In fact," General Morel said, "we rate a 50-percent chance they will." His face hardened. "These
guys are playing hardball. They really don't believe we have the nerve to take it to the next level. If
we let them stare us down on this issue, we have absolutely no way of stopping them move whatever
they want onto the ice. To fail here is an admission to the world community we do not believe in our
own territorial claim."
"Let's take this in steps," the Prime Minister said. "On first glance this appears a tough balanced
response. The last thing we want on our hands is the unnecessary blood of Australians or anyone else
for that matter. But let's be clear. We are not accepting 'No' from the Chinese. This is not Tibet. This is
not their territory. They will receive this final warning. If the Taizhou fails to leave the area, the
instruction is to either disable or sink her. If she takes any hostile action before hand, the same applies.
“The Chinese government will be advised of this, this afternoon. If after this incident any uninvited
foreign vessel enters our territory the same will apply. One warning through diplomatic means with a
three-hour response time." The Prime Minister looked to Lance. "Since it's your ass you are putting on
the line, Lance, why don't you give us a quick synopsis?"
Hamilton stood up; the RAAF dress uniform fitted him well, his face looking calm and confident.
"Thank you sir." He walked over to the white board on the sidewall that also had a large map of
Australia stuck to one end. "First of all, to follow on your comment about the task force - the Shi Lang,
formerly the Varyag, is not a new addition to their fleet but its operational status is an unwelcome
surprise. The Chinese purchased this from the Ukraine, supposedly to join the Kiev and the Melbourne
as amusement facilities. But in secret, they paid for the completion of the carrier, finalizing the fit out
in its Zhonghua shipyards in Shanghai ostensibly as a training vessel. AS you know they have two
other 60,000 ton carriers, both only recently commissioned.
“The Shi Lang (Named after the Chinese general who took possession of Taiwan in 1681) pennant
number 83 is a variation on the Kuznetsov Class conventionally powered carrier, displacing roughly
65,000 ton and carrying naval versions of the Su-33, the MiG-29K, Su-25 and several more. If she gets
within range, our capacity to project any offensive capability on the Taizhou, Hangzhou, Haibing or the
ice breaker Hongze diminishes, if not evaporates. The planned T/O, sorry, take off time, is now 1200
tomorrow. If we can do that, we can make some waves for our Chinese friends.
"We can deliver six operational F-111s with both AMRAAM 120D, AIM9s and block-II Harpoon
missiles to sortie within 24 hours."
The CDF and Chief of Joint Operations (CJOPs) both looked up after conferring with each other.
There was a quiet nod from the Prime Minister followed by similar gestures throughout the room.
The CDF spoke. "Okay Hamilton, you have a GO. T/O 1200 hours tomorrow. Also make sure you
have as many of those birds available to fly as soon as possible; this may not be the end of it. We will
want 75 Squadron to provide top cover on the return augmented by Rhinos. With the Prime Minister's
permission, I would also like to call on our Active Reserve pilots. With three generations of jets on the
ramp at the time we will need as many helmets as we can get." Hamilton nodded and began heading to
the door. The General held up his hand.
"No, wait here. This is going to be a combined force exercise. I want you and your team fully
briefed on this and want your input. You are going to be facing the guns, not us." He then turned his
attention to the senior Naval Officer, Vice Admiral Nick Jansen. "Nick, fill us in on your side of the
fence. I know you have been busy ever since we learned of this."
The Chief of Joint Operations (CJOPs) stayed seated. He was a big man with an equally big voice.
"HMAS Waller, Collins, Farncomb, and Rankin are already en-route to designated patrol routes in the
Southern Ocean. HMAS Sheean will follow in seven days." The Admiral looked around him. Despite
the sombre mood, there were genuine looks of 'well done' amongst those there, even some smiles. The
Admiral was well liked and trusted. The Collins Class submarine had received a really bad and
undeserved beating in the press, especially on mission readiness. This turnout was exceptional.
"That's a pretty bloody impressive turnout for a dud sub," General Morel said sarcastically. "Due
to the fine efforts of the Admiral and many others, our boats are now the best diesel boats in the world.
These hunter-killers are among the best in the business, right there with Sea Wolf and Virginia class
boats when it comes to taking names."
 The Admiral allowed himself a tight-lipped smile. "The Frigates Arunta, Parramatta, ANZAC and
Warramunga are en-route but will not, as directed, challenge the Taizhou. These will be led by the
latest Aegis equipped Air Warships. Senator Shehan," the Admiral said nodding to the legislator seated
at the table, "has spoken with our New Zealand colleagues and they have promised the Te Kaha and Te
Mana, as well as Hercules transports and SAS support. This will give us a total of 10 missile frigates,
three destroyers and, within days, five Collins Class subs in the area of operations. The two carriers are
being rushed into operations as we speak. We will also be recalling the fast movers Longreach and
Alice Springs."
Not bad for a couple of rat bag little countries hiding in the South Pacific, the Prime Minister
thought. It was moments like these that made you understand what Australians were all about.
 
*****

Media. Int.
For Immediate Release.
UN Condemns Antarctic EMP Attack
By Vincent Gray, Media Int. Press Writer.

Dec 4, 1234hrs Geneva. The United Nations was in immediate and broad condemnation of the use
of an EMP device in Antarctica. The UN Russian Ambassador charged the Americans with escalating
an already explosive situation. The Americans for their part emphatically denied any responsibility for
the EMP blast and pointed out that one of their own aircraft was a casualty of the event. Following the
EMP debate, the Australian Ambassador to the UN informed the assembly that Australia was asserting
its territorial claim and would actively defend it. It advised all countries, until the current crisis was
resolved, to remove all their personnel from its territories. In addition, the Australians stated they
would exercise a 200-mile coastal exclusion zone around all Australian territories and that the
presence of the Chinese warship, the Taizhou, in Australian waters was deemed a hostile provocation
The Chinese and Russians delegations reacted immediately, stating they did not recognise any claims
to the Antarctic and would view any move to prevent their free passage through the region as illegal
and an act of hostility. They further moved for an immediate sitting of the Security Council to resolve
the matter. The Russians, in response to the escalating crisis in the Southern Ocean have ordered a
powerful division of the Northern Fleet to put to sea, including the heavy missile cruiser Petr Veliky,
the Kirov Class, Peter the Great and the heavy aircraft carrying cruiser Admiral Kuznetsov. These are
to join the Pacific Fleet forces already operating in the southern Indian Ocean and Tasman Sea. End

*****

CANBERRA AUSTRALIA December 4 2030hrs (UTC). December 5 0830 hrs local

"So that was a big zip, huh. Nothing. They really want to stick it to us, don't they?" The Minister
of Defense was prowling backwards and forwards across the PM's office.
"No, it's not a matter of that. You know that too. You're just pissed off they are ignoring us. So am
I, but this is all about energy, oil. This is really crucial to them; I can even understand their thinking.
We just happen to be in the way. But it doesn't change the fact we are not going to give away our rights
in Antarctica, our claims, any less than they did in Hong Kong and Taiwan."
There was a soft knock at the door. An Army officer - an Artillery Captain, the Prime Minister
noticed - stepped into the room. "The briefing is ready Sir."
"Thanks Jack." Gordon made a point of knowing names. The young Captain was a little surprised
by the fact the Prime Minister knew his name. It was a small thing, but he left the room feeling an inch
taller.
"This the Blackjack stuff, right?" the PM said. His mind wondered a little bit because of the
Captain's name. Funny how those things converged sometimes, it made him suddenly think he might
have muddled the names. What were the chances?
The Prime Minister and Minister for Defense joined the defense briefing, walking directly from the
PM's office to the Ministers' conference room. As they entered the room, a large map of the northern
Australian coastline and the Indonesian territories dominated the overhead display. The two men
barely had their backsides in their seats when the Army Captain launched into the briefing. There was
a real air of urgency. The Defense Intelligence briefer, Captain Jack Cornell RAAC, ran the infrared
pointer down from just above Jakarta to just above Christmas Island.
"U.S. intelligence has kept us informed ever since the flight left Engels. We picked them up
climbing out of Indonesian airspace. We intercepted the flight 10 minutes ago. They had a low radar
signature, so at first we thought they might have been Indonesian F16s or Sukhois. However, they kept
heading south. We subsequently scrambled two F-18E’s out of Darwin to investigate."
"That was the first time you realized they were the Blackjacks the U.S. had warned about?" the PM
asked.
"Yes Sir, we intercepted them using JORN and passive EM then went for a visual confirmation
and show of force."
 "So where are they now?" The PM kicked himself; he was getting in the intelligence officers face,
not giving him a chance.
"500 miles southwest of Perth at 38,000 feet cruising at 650 knots. We have no reason to believe
that these five aircraft are up to any good. They are, however, over international airspace and until they
do something wrong there is not much we can do."

*****

CHAPTER TEN

INDIAN OCEAN DECEMBER 4 2000HRS (UTC) It was enough to send a chill through any
combat pilot, like being caught with your pants down in the schoolyard. The young Russian pilot
Demetri shuddered. One minute they were alone in an empty night sky, the next minute two FA-18Es
were sitting on his port wing. Because the aircraft had been quietly vectored by the Australian Jindalee
over-the-horizon radar network, they had not detected them until the last minute. If this was a shooting
war he and his crew would be dead. The intercept was, however, expected, but certainly not desirable.
While his aircraft were not emmitting he had still expected to see them coming, to pick up their search
radar. But the two Rhinos painted with Australian roundels with the kangaroo at their center, were
patent evidence that the Australians were operational with their latest fighter and using them well. He
would have liked to talk to Ivan. That would have to wait till later.
For four hours a rotation of Rhinos and Hornets had shadowed them. The group's lead pilot Ivan
ignored them. A fanatical planner, he had anticipated and prepared for just this event. The reason for
the tanker top off was not because the bomber did not have range for its mission. It did. The extra fuel
was taken on to provide ample indulgence in speed. Ivan's escorts were neither as fast, nor full of fuel
as the Blackjacks. The extra effort was about to pay off.
It was time to say goodbye to the Australian flyers. In a flickering of lights, the afterburners of the
Blackjacks lit up the night sky. Four big NK-321 Kuzenestov afterburning turbofans powered each
aircraft. In just seconds they were each delivering nearly 50,000 kilograms of thrust each. The two
F/A-18 Hornets following the bombers followed suit. While a fast jet, the Hornet, even in full
afterburner, was not fast enough to stay with the Blackjacks. Within moments the big bombers out
climbed and out hauled the struggling fighters, disappearing into the skies of the southern oceans. The
fighters, close to bingo on fuel, had to turn and head for home.
 *****

NO. 1 RADAR SURVEILLANCE UNIT (1RSU) RAAF BASE EDINBURGH December 4

2000 hrs (UTC). The radar controller sat back in his seat.
"Shit, we lost them. They virtually left us standing on the pavement."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean," the young woman said, slightly annoyed, "they put the hammer down and all we could
do was watch them disappear. But," she added, holding her finger up, "we do have a Global Hawk."
She turned back to the console and switched the monitoring screens on her imaging system to bring up
Global Hawk's telemetry. "Very faint. It's only just painting them."
"So all we can do now is watch."
"Basically … Yes. Watch and see."
"Bugger!"
After leaving their unwanted escorts behind, the bombers began preparation for the most crucial
part of the mission. The Blackjack was the only aircraft in the Russian armed forces capable of carrying
the new Kh-101 strategic cruise missile. Three of the aircraft carried 14 missiles each. Far more than
was required. Super stealthy, with a range of over 2500 miles, the new missile allowed the bombers to
drop their weapons and be long gone before anyone realized what they were up to.
The crew of a Tu-160 was made up of a pilot, copilot, navigator, and operator. Compared to many
other ex-Soviet-era aircraft, the Tu-160 crew flew in positive luxury, boasting a sleeping place, toilet
and electronic cabinet for warming up food. These were far from the crews' minds as the bombers
approached their release point - the 45th parallel. In unison three of the aircraft released their entire
weapons load and turned back towards the north. A tactical cruise missile, the KH101 was a fire-and-
forget munition. Once released the 42 missiles had immediately continued their trek to the south, now
on their own. Their electronic brains already pre-programmed with the mission profile and target, they
sped unseen towards the south to an entirely unsuspecting target.
Aircraft numbers 02 and 04 lingered on course a moment longer. They had a different mission.
Climbing close to their maximum altitude of 54,000 feet, they hit the release buttons unleashing two
Diana-Burlak missiles. Both 02 and 04 were equipped with the latest aerokosmos Burlak air-launched
space transportation systems. The two Burlaks free fell from the bombers. A retarding parachute
popped behind each missile and then snapped free before the missiles engines ignited and drove it into
polar orbit. The bombers Ivan Yarigin and Vasiliy Reshetnikov, satisfied with a successful launch,
turned around, pushing their noses downhill to chase their friends back home.
 The launch of the Burlaks were neon signs in the heavens and were picked up in moments by the
AFSPC and the ballistic missile warning system in NORAD. The AFSPC operates and supports the
Global Positioning System, Defense Satellite Communications Systems Phase II and III, Defense
Support Program, NATO III and IV communications and Fleet Satellite Communications System UHF
follow-on and MILSTAR satellites. So they knew some missiles were launched.
The data was fed directly to the Pine Gap facility near Alice Springs. Originally code-named
MERINO, the ground station intercepted satellite, telephone, radio, data links, and other
communications from around the globe. The facility included a dozen radomes, a 17,000 square foot
computer room, and 20-odd service and support buildings. In addition to its Australian personnel, the
facility also hosted more than 1000 personnel from U.S. intelligence agencies. Two of its ground
antenna were part of the U.S. Defense Satellite Communications System and were at that point of time
supplying a live feed to a joint services defense team gathered to monitor and, if necessary, react to the
highly unusual visit of the Russian bombers into southern airspace.
Near Canberra, Lance was in the middle of getting his big fighter-bombers ready for an intensive
operational sortie. The F-111 airframes maintained by MacDowell Aviation over the last few years had
been flown in from Mulka Bore. A whole team of RAAF, Boeing and other contractors were crawling
over the airframes like frenzied ants as they prepared the aircraft. In the middle of this a call came in
from Air Headquarters at HQJOC in Bungendore.
"You're going to need to see this," Wilkie said. "Let Jake manage the evolution while you come in
here." Jake was Lance's weapons operator, a Squadron Leader and effectively the unit's 2IC. "You
know he can handle it. There's something big going down but none of us can figure what it is."
It was a quick drive to Bungendore. Once he got there they were patched into the GIG and
received a live feed from Pine Gap. Hamilton along with the rest of the defense staff then reviewed the
big bombers progress right up to the release point.
"No, it looks like they have released what appears to be rockets. Probably satellite boosters,"
Hamilton said. Lance was not an analyst. But he did know his trade.
"Could it be nuclear?" one of the staffers asked.
"No, wrong flight profile. It's definitely a satellite launch." Something tugged in the back of his
mind. There was something they were missing. Five aircraft, two launches. Surely they wouldn't have
three backups? "Are you sure you have nothing else?" Lance asked, looking to the satellite technicians
monitoring the feed.
"Not that we can see. They are thousands of miles from anywhere, too far for its KH55 missiles to
go anywhere."
 This was the sting in the tail. The orbital boosters were noisy and easily seen by surveillance
satellites and other tracking technologies. There was nothing immediately threatening about them as
they sped into low orbit over the Pole. At the same time, while the orbital vehicles fixated Allied
surveillance, the cruise missiles - the unseen KH101s - cruised at high altitude towards their targets,
almost invisible to radar. Within minutes they were receiving additional data from the two satellites
deposited in orbit by the Burlak missiles and updated their flight logs. Looking ahead, the satellites
steered the KH101 missiles around radar pickets and other threats to avoid detection.
A few hundred miles from the edge of the ice pack, the cruise missiles dropped from altitude to
skim just feet from the ocean surface. Very quickly they passed the ice shelf, hugging the contours of
the ice surface as they penetrated into the continent's interior. The missiles electro-optic flight path
correction system used a terrain map stored in its onboard computer to navigate in conjunction with
GPS to its target.
After Lance returned to the flight line at Canberra, the Blackjack problem was still nagging him.
He stared intently at the packets of Harpoon missiles sitting on the ramp, improved weapons with
longer range. Several fitted to each aircraft. You don't fly expensive airframes that far unless they are
delivering something. Blackjacks only have one job, delivering heavy payloads, fast over long
distance. He climbed into his car and drove to back HQJOC.
Once inside he went straight to the Control Center. "What about 101s? You guys must have seen
them by now," he asked.
The IA looked at Hamilton. "As far as we know it's not operational."
"Crap, I heard about them years ago. The bastards just keep us believing they aren't ready, for just
a moment like this."
Clearly the analyst had been thinking the same thing. "Which would mean?"
"Which would mean we have……" Hamilton looked at the map. "We're too late if it's a coastal
target and maybe we have fifteen to forty five minutes to figure out…" He stopped in mid sentence.
"Shit!" It dawned on him. "They are going after Vostok! They wouldn't dare risk an all-out conflict
yet, but are obviously pissed off about the supposed e-bomb and believe we are running all over the
base. They are going to play dog in the manger. This is a denial strike!"
Faster than a game show contestant who didn't need any more guesses, the IA hit the buzzer. The
alarms started to ring around the compound and all the way to Langley and the Pentagon.

Lance Hamilton was really impressed. They might have all been HQ staff pukes, but they didn't
muck around. A room previously with many empty seats was suddenly full. They must have all
dressed on the run. Apart from the odd rumpled shirt here and there, these people were ready to go.
"Well, if I'm not wrong we have thirty plus cruise missiles on their way to Vostok," Hamilton
announced in the control room to stunned silence.
"While we were watching the satellite launch, the cruise missiles were already in the air. Look at
this," the CIA analyst said, throwing the replay from Global Hawk on the screen. "Why did these three
birds turn away before the launch of the satellites, especially if they were supposed to be backups?" He
let that sink in. "The KH 101 is operational. We have already seen it's stealthy; now we are about to
witness what it can do on target."
"Do we still have a comms blackout?"
"Yes. The only communications we have with Vostok was with that Rosenbridge guy."
"Sorry? Who did you say?" Squadron Leader Lance Hamilton asked.
"Rosenbridge you mean?"
"Yes, the Rosenbridge thing. What guy?" Hamilton asked again.
"This is the bloke with the only communication that survived the EMP event, seems he had a
hardened Sat Phone."
"The Rosenbridge guy, I am also willing to guess, is Brian Hamilton?" Lance asked.
There must have been a lot of Hamilton's in the world, what was the probability of that? "Don't tell
me you are related?"
Lance paused, thinking hard. "Yes, he's my brother." He couldn’t help the stupid thought ‘and he
ain't heavy’ floating through his mind, he pushed it aside. "And there is a reason he has the hardened
communications, to protect against EMP affects." They all looked at him.
"No time to explain; get him on the phone NOW. Tell them to evacuate immediately. And
somehow let's get a message to Vostok."
"Not possible."
"What do you mean?"
"The phone appears dead."
"Shit. Shit! Shit! Shit!" he said to himself.
"We have a Starlifter and C130 in the air out of McMurdo now."
"Too late," Lance said. In his mind he could see his brother in the snow, unaware that death was
approaching. He ground his teeth. Brian would tell him off for that.

*****
 MOSCOW, December 5 0600hrs UTC. 0100 hrs theatre time. Colonel-General Mishka
Kazakov read the transcript again. The mouse was back. The part that did not fit the puzzle, a hardened
commercial satellite phone. The first call was clear. The second encrypted. Hamilton he had said. He
picked up the phone.
"Get me Admiral Vladimir Kuroyedov. Quickly," he snapped. A few minutes later he heard the
click of the ancient phones as they connected. "Admiral, I have another rather urgent job."
 
VOSTOK STATION, East Enclave, December 5. 0800Hrs UTC. While the others had a few
drinks, Brian fretted, something crawled in the back of his brain. Communications were down. Many
hours had passed. He had been wondering what the Russians might do. Even Rabbit had said he
thought it was a U.S. e-bomb. Maybe it was. Brian had no idea. But all of a sudden he felt like a
target.
"Rabbit! Rabbit!" Brian was running through the complex. Rabbit, surprised, came bolting out of
the kitchen, spatula in hand. Brian grabbed the man by his shoulders and looked him hard in the face.
"Swear to me Rabbit. Have you talked to anybody outside of this camp?"
Rabbit, while being patriotically Russian, trusted Hamilton. There was urgency in his eyes.
"Nothing, Brian, nothing!"
Brian let him go. "What do you think your superiors would think if Vostok went off the map and
the only communication they picked up was a U.S. Sat Phone?"
The little Russian's eyes lit up like Christmas trees. He was not stupid. He understood Soviet and
Russian tactics.
"They will assume an e-bomb and a subsequent occupation force." He paused. "Ooooh crap. They
will then try to deny the place."
"Level it," Brian said.
"Yes level it, wipe it out," Rabbit offered in a very depressed tone.
That was depressing. Hamilton quickly wound the hours back in his head from the beginning of
the emergency. "I have an idea. The cruise missiles are pretty accurate. Your cruise missiles, Rabbit,
are very accurate." Rabbit nodded not very sure.
"Well, they are, unfortunately, terribly fucking accurate."
Rabbit looked more depressed.
"No, this is good," Hamilton, said. "They may well be on the way, but they have to fly thousands
of miles. Let's not waste a minute. All we have to do is get the people to move out of the kill zone,
right?"
 Rabbit looked up. The Australian was a natural leader; Rabbit was terribly smart as well, which is
why he chose to follow the aussie.
"All right, mate," Brian, said. "Get everyone - I mean everyone! - Onto the skiway now!" The
expression on Hamilton's face told Rabbit all he needed to know. The two men bolted in opposite
directions, waking folk who were asleep and almost dragging others out by their hair. The urgency was
palpable.
"We have multiple cruise missiles on their way here right now!" All of a sudden everyone was
awake and listening very hard. "Panoski, I want you to work with Russell and Rabbit to get all the
dozers fired up. In the next 45 minutes we are going to drag whatever we need from this base one mile
away. Rabbit, you point to all the essentials we need. Make sure you take some blades. We are going
to need to cut a new skiway."
Panoski wasn't arguing. "Which direction?"
"Any. Almost any direction from here is north. Let's just do it quickly."
Out on the skiway Brian looked at the dozers pulling the trailers. In a few hours he could be
looking really stupid if he was wrong.

The cruise missiles performed flawlessly. As they neared the Antarctic coast, they dropped to 50
feet, skimming over the Shackelton Ice Shelf and then the Queen Mary Coast as they began their 1000-
mile low-level penetration of their target. Hugging the jagged white contours, the missile exhausts
would occasionally kick up small wisps of ice.
Following the frozen terrain up from sea level, they climbed 6000 feet, yet remained only 50 feet
from the ice surface. Each missile package was being steered to within 12 feet of its intended target.

*****

WASHINGTON DC, the Oval Office, December 5 0530hrs. Almost on the other side of the
planet, the Secretary of Defense picked up the phone on the President's desk.
"It's Knopf," Pirelli said looking at the President. "He wants to take out the two birds the Russians
just launched. He says the missiles inbound to Vostok are using them for guidance. Wait a sec." He
punched the mute button.
President Blaire was hesitant, ever since Pine Gap had established the probable mission of the
Blackjacks. He looked around him. Vince Kipper nodded his head as did Gray and Stringer. "I concur.
Tell him it's a GO, George."
 "Yes Sir." The SECDEF hit the button again. "Sorry for the wait. That's an affirmative, take them
out."
Kipper hung up the phone. "You know what this means, of course?"
"The nano sats."
"Are we ready for them?"
"Good a time as any. But we will be blind below the 60th for a whole bunch of hours."
"So will they."
"Not only that but if we don't face this now, they will hit us at a time far more beneficial to them.
This whole thing just forced our hand a bit earlier than we wanted, but we just have to live with it."

At nearly 60,000 feet, a specialized B52L ABL system rotated its nose turret to look into space. In
a few minutes they would use the common ingredients for making shampoo to shoot down a satellite
nearly four hundred miles away.
Located where the bomber's cavernous bomb bay used to be was a Chemical Oxygen Iodine Laser,
a COIL gun. Normally used for shooting down ballistic missiles, it was also pretty useful at shooting
anything in clear air, or space. The ACTS was a 200 kW-class supersonic COIL that utilized a rotating
disk oxygen generator coupled to a Mach 3 supersonic nozzle.
Basically the COIL was a chemical laser that converted energy from a chemical reaction into laser
photons. These laser photons were directed by an incredibly complex mirror system to shoot a beam
hundreds of miles without divergence. Unfortunately, all the things we experience with a common
flashlight also affect lasers. Atmospheric turbulence, which weakens and scatters the laser's beam, is
produced by fluctuations in air temperature [the same phenomenon that causes stars to twinkle].
Adaptive optics relies on a deformable mirror, sometimes called a rubber mirror, to compensate for tilt
and phase distortions in the atmosphere. The mirror has 341 actuators that move at a rate of about a
1000 times per second.
The ABL had something like twenty shots in the system. Locking onto the satellites in low orbit
over the Pole was easy. With no distortion in the atmosphere at that height, the shots were clean. Two
shots, two kills.
After spending 90 minutes over the ice, the Russian cruise missiles reached their terminal phase.
Thousands of miles to the north, the Tu-160 crews visually guided the ordinance to their final
destination. The TV-seekers housed in the missile's nose gave the T160 technicians last-second
corrections as they viewed the target and guided each missile to its closure. Suddenly the TV screens
fizzed and they lost all telemetry on the missiles.
 "What the hell!" The weapons officer yelled.
"The satellites are down," the navigator replied.
The pilot turned around as far as his straps would allow to look at the rest of the crew. "The
missiles, they will find their way now. Time for us to go home," he said shrugging his shoulders
The loss of the overhead satellites had little effect on the missiles as they closed on their Vostok
target. The cruise missiles already had inertial guidance and positional sensitivity from geographic data
stored on board, they were also capable of using the European Union's Galileo Positioning System or
the Chinese Beidou Navigation System, which they switched to as soon as the two guidance satellites
disappeared. They also optically compared the terrain with what they held in memory. The result of all
of this was that they were still accurate and on target.

*****

BEIJING, December 8 0800hrs UTC. In Beijing the Vice Chair to the Party's CMC stalked the
room and said, "The Russian President has just informed me that the two polar satellites they launched
have been destroyed."
"Did the Americans admit this?"
"Of course not."
"What about the cruise missiles?"
"They think unaffected." The small man stopped pacing. "We need to proceed to the next phase.
This might in fact help us."
"How?" the Chinese Party President said.
"This is an escalation. It gives us the opportunity to retaliate in kind."
"Now?"
"They will find out eventually. It's better that we use this asset while it is worth something,"
General Chen Jianguo said. "Soon, it may be useless to us." The nano-satellites had in fact been sitting
there for years. Great achievements in their time, these miniature satellites were no more than a
centimetre across but included their own solar energy devices, operating systems, propulsion and most
importantly a miniature but deadly payload.
Yuen thought about that. He was right. These little advantages come and go. Better to make the
most of it. "Let's keep it to the south polar orbiting satellites, nothing outside of that. Anything more
and we might possibly lose all of our satellites as well." To knock down all of the U.S. satellites would
invite disaster, resulting in a knee-jerk reaction from the U.S. he thought. This action was just right. He
smiled to himself. In a few minutes the Americans would be wondering what the fuck had happened.
"Please General." The President gestured to his phone. "Make the call from here."
General Chen placed the call to COSTIND; the 'xin gainian wuqi' were going to get their first real
work out. The orders went through to the Chinese Academy of Space Technology (CAST), a military
establishment with a gossamer thin veil purporting to be civilian. Over 45 percent of China's R&D
effort was in the military field. China was a country hell bent on military supremacy. "Be careful only
to disable those on the polar orbit including the GPS tracking satellites." He added. This at least, the
General thought, creates a level playing field, time for everyone to pull out their compasses and
sextants. Subsequent to the order every satellite below the 60th parallel was rendered useless. GPS
navigation ceased to exist, NOAA polar orbiting weather satellites, NASA birds and RADARSATS
went off line. Below the 60th existed an area that was blind to satellites, technologically thrown into
the dark ages.
Originally sanctioned by Chairman Mao Tse-tung, the nano-sat initiative was part of the '863
Program'. Beijing's effort to develop laser technology alone, employed over 10,000 personnel --
including 3000 engineers in 300 scientific research organizations. Nano-sats were one endeavour
amongst many that were part of China's new class of concept weapons called xin gainian wuqi. They
included Direct Energy Weapons, coil and railguns, high power microwaves and particle beam
weapons.

*****

AIRFORCE SPACE COMMAND (AFSPC)

The Space Warfare Center at Schriever AFB, Colorado, December 5 0900hrs. UTC.
"Holy shit!"
"Holy shit what?"
"Wait!" The ready officer was punching keys so fast the CO didn't have a clue what he was doing.
The man then made a call from a list of numbers on the computer screen. He spoke into the mike that
was part of his head kit. "Same with you … yep … yep, me too, exactly the same. You check with
anyone else? Okay, go through the procedure; let me know if you find something you think I should
know." He coded the connection on the screen and turned around to the Air Force Space Command's
commanding officer standing behind him.
"We are down!" he stated. "Big time! Somebody just took off the air every satellite asset that
passes through the 60th parallel south."
 The general didn't look surprised; he had been in the center to watch the laser shots. "Why do you
assume someone took them off the air?"
"Because you don't lose sixty-plus communication, navigation, met and military satellites in one
hit. Somebody knew exactly what birds to hit and all at once."
The General just wanted to be sure. It was true then, he thought. They had constellations of allied
satellites infested with those miniscule Chinese space ants. Every space asset in the air was
compromised. They would have to replace every damn one of them. He turned back to the Ready
Officer. "All right, get that B52 ABL back on the line Captain, we have some more work for him and
his friends. If we are going to be blind, I will god damn make sure not one Russian or Chinese satellite
gets a sniff of that place and they are as blind as we are!" He wasn't going to give them the opportunity
of playing the game both ways.
"Beckham!" the General yelled. An Air Force Major appeared out of nowhere. "Get me a direct
line to the President." He would need authorization for this.

*****

CHAPTER ELEVEN

VOSTOK STATION, December 5 1100 hrs UTC. The space drama that unfolded over the
southern continent was unseen by the men and women hundreds of miles below. They congregated
around the handful of huts they had dragged clear of the presumed kill zone. Not everyone was happy
with this idea and more than a few thought Hamilton's logic was paranoiac. Many looked at him as if
he were insane.
"You think you have this right?" Rhys Copper said, slapping Hamilton's shoulder.
"I don't know Coop." Hamilton's reply was flat. "I could very shortly look like a complete twot,
especially since I had to force some of these guys to move almost at gun point - including the Russian
and Chinese team."
"Well, if it means anything, I'm for erring on the side of caution. But if nothing happens…I never
said that." He smiled wickedly.
Hamilton raised his eyebrows. "Thanks mate…NOT!"
Rhys looked at his watch, no longer smiling. "So when do you think they will arrive?"
Hamilton looked at his own watch. "Anytime from now."
They waited. Sitting in small groups, the scientists and reporters often looked over at Hamilton,
thinking if it weren't for him they could be doing something useful or at least be comfortable. The time
dragged. Hamilton could tell a lot of them were bitching. Rhys noticed it as well.
"I hear jets!" someone yelled. "At last!" They all began to talk excitedly. Rhys and Hamilton just
looked at each other. The first missile flew almost directly overhead. There was utter dismay and
confusion on the faces of most of the evacuees. The moment of dismay was short lived as the first
missile crashed into the surface just five hundred yards away, detonating in an enormous explosion of
ice and flame. Chunks of ice bigger than baseballs pulverized the surface. This was quickly followed
by more missiles from all directions, most of them arriving with no sound heralding their approach.
Each missile plunged deep into the frozen surface before detonating in a massive explosion; an
eruption of white snow and ice that was hurled hundreds of feet into the air. This was followed by
multiple hits too many to count, the ice beneath their feet convulsing as the shock waves rippled
through the frozen mantle. Every now and then the explosion would be dark in colour as the ordinance
hit one of the buildings. The missiles were so thick they landed like carpet bombs. The explosions
rippled and piled upon each other. But nobody died. Not so much as a scratch. Eventually the
explosions stopped.
The ice around the base was cratered, blackened and scarred. Debris was scattered in all
directions. A light wind hissed over the scene of the carnage. Small clouds of ice seemingly tried to
cover the wounds, gently dusting the debris. From their relocated position, the complete destruction of
the Vostok base was evident. But it wasn't the destruction of the base which left Brian with the chill of
death. There was something much worse left in the wake of the strike.

It must have been 200 or 300 feet high, he thought. A jet of flame that was so many times larger
and more intense than those he had seen in the Kuwait oil fires. It roared like a bunch of big jet
afterburners, pounding the air drums. A cruise missile had made a near direct hit on the wellhead,
blowing it apart and igniting the gases. Under huge pressure, millions of cubic feet of methane, oxygen
and exotic gases spewed into the air, igniting instantly and creating temperatures of thousands of
degrees at the wellhead.
Hamilton could see it had already melted one hundred feet deep. Every now and then there were
small eruptions as ice falling off the crater's walls fell into the intense heat and exploded. Like the fuel
bladder on the runway, Brian was surprised at the ferocity with which the fire burnt into the ice, over
four thousand feet below his feet was that big lake and he wondered what would happen if this blow
torch reached it. The clock was now ticking.
Rabbit and Panoski looked at Hamilton, who was looking intensely at the fire in the destroyed
base. They felt tinges of guilt for unspoken doubts. Panoski spoke up first. "Good call, mate. What
made you think of it?"
Hamilton turned away from the fire to look at the pilot. "Rabbit did," he said looking at his
Russian friend. "Rabbit made me think of it. The very first thing he thought of was that the U.S. had
launched an e-bomb, pretty simple from there."
"Who said they didn't?" Rabbit jumped in, still a good friend, but still a patriotic Russian.
"Quite right mate, quite right." Colonel Brian Hamilton felt the steel rod against his side and a
greater urgency. Brian and his group turned as they heard a commotion from the contingent involved in
the drilling project. It was coming from the Russian and Chinese teams.
"These were American cruise missiles!" the Russian Professor Nelomai Ostaf'ev syn Olfer'eva
Durnovo yelled. His other Russian and Chinese colleagues joined in. They started to head towards the
American contingent of scientists and aircrew, clearly laying the blame on them. It was inconceivable
their own countrymen would sacrifice them in the name of oil. The U.S. contingent braced themselves.
It was just about to get really nasty. From nowhere, the thunderous sound of a heavy automatic
punched through the air. Everyone stopped. The loud and strong Russian voice of Rabbit rolled over
the lot of them.
"Back off!" he yelled in both Russian and English. "Idiots! All of you. Do you think you would
be alive now if this Australian," he gestured to Hamilton, "had not stepped in! Fools!" He spat on the
ground. "Christ, and you call yourselves smart?" The Russian held the barrel level. Hamilton was
impressed. He had never seen this side of Rabbit before. The barrel didn't waiver and Hamilton
instinctively knew that Rabbit could, and would use it if necessary.
"We don't know who it was," the Russian continued, his voice firm, commanding. "It doesn't
matter. But we are not going to start World War Three here. If you want to die I will help you." There
was no argument. "Now sit down and shut up before I shoot someone." They all believed him, all of
them sitting down, barely a word between them. The tough little Russian had really torn their sails and
besides, he had the biggest gun.
Hamilton didn't know where Rabbit had pulled that automatic from, but he was really pleased he
had. When the Russian turned, his face was set with anger and determination. But Brian, despite
himself, couldn't help but smile at him. He put his hands up in mock submission. "You keep it mate,
you scared the crap out of me!" The Russian grunted in annoyance and stalked off. But he was smiling
as he walked away. That bloody Australian always made him smile, but he didn't want him to see; he
needed to look and feel grumpy, maybe over some vodka later.
It was a nervous wait. With a complete black out on communications it was all guess work. When
at last the sound of the jet engines rolled over the enclave, Rabbit clapped his hands. The Australian, he
thought, did have the inner eye. He had heard of this, a cunning but life saving intuitiveness. This man
was special. He wondered whether Hamilton's brother was the same. He knew a lot about both of them.
Moments later both the C17 and the C130 arrived. Fifteen minutes after that, a far less vocal and
solemn line of men boarded the big planes to head towards Scott Base and then hopefully home. There
wasn't much left for them at Vostok. Brian made sure he was last on the plane. Once they were on
board, he did a thorough check to make sure everyone was accounted for. As he took a last look around
he felt himself being tapped on the shoulder. He turned to see a U.S. Marine Sergeant and three
troopers.
"Sir, are you Brian Hamilton?" the Sergeant said, trying to look casual. Brian looked at him. "You
need to come with us Sir," the Marine said, shouting over the sound of the jet engines and wellhead
fire.
"And if I don't want to?" Brian said.
"We have orders to use force Sir," the man replied with a quick look that begged him not to argue.
"Really," Brian laughed.
The Marine had not expected this. The man in front of him was not intimidated at all. In fact he
seemed perfectly relaxed, smiling even.
"Sir, let's not make this difficult. I understand you carry some important evidence." The Sergeant
didn't know what the evidence was. He was just repeating what he had been told.
"Maybe I do, but it's not your property. At least I goddamn hope it's not. So the answer I guess, is
no."
The Sergeant sighed. He stood back for a moment and was about to use his Sat Phone when he
suddenly remembered it didn't work. The Marine became nervous, undecided what to do next. The
slight movement of the Marine Sergeant's weapon was enough.
The SMG barrel had barely moved two inches in its arc to cover Hamilton before it was torn from
the Marine's fingers and the Sergeant suddenly found himself looking down the bad end of Hamilton's
handgun. Hamilton stood firm, now holding the Sergeant's SMG, safety off, which covered the other
three Marines as he pointed his own handgun at the Sergeant's head. No one needed to say 'freeze'.
Hamilton was surprised to see just how fast the Sergeant could sweat even in the cold weather. Then as
quickly as disarming and containing them all, Hamilton reversed the SMG, handing it back to the
Sergeant, the handgun disappearing back inside his jacket.
The Marines, still stunned, slack jawed, watched as he turned on his heel and casually walked
without a word up the ramp and into the waiting C130. They had never seen anyone move so fast.
 They obviously thought the evidence was pretty important, Hamilton thought.
All the others had easily fitted on the C17. It appeared he had his own little welcome team and the
C130 all to himself. He considered telling them about the danger the wellhead fire presented. But there
wasn't much point. They couldn't communicate outside of their immediate range either. The fire was
obvious, but not the danger it represented to everyone if it were to get to the lake below. He would have
to figure something out back at Scott Base, maybe a radio relay. He badly needed to get the information
out; a very bad feeling was developing in the pit of his stomach.

*****

Dermont d'Urville, The French Ice Station. December 5. 0700 UTC. Almost 1500 miles to the
north, in the French base Dermont d'Urville, the Spetznaz Colonel, Mikolai Nabialok, stepped out the
dividers on the map. The technique was old but he found the visualization helped him form the plan
and all its components. It was definitely the C130 they were after, the same one they had observed
leaving McMurdo much earlier with the Marines on board.
Let the C17 fly through first. They had gleaned enough information to know this before all the
satellites died in the ass and from observation teams on the ground near Williams Field. The traditional
approach route was to fly down the dry valleys and turn over the Ross Ice Shelf and back into Williams
Field. The wind nearly always blew north, katabatic, cold air flowing down hill from the southern
interior. Nabialok tapped the map.
"Here, here is where we will meet them. We will set up a quick ambush, multiple launch sites
situated on both sides of the valley. We will each parachute as closely to our positions as possible.
This is going to be a low-level jump. More than likely the Americans will be able to track the transport
on radar. But that's all they will see." He looked up at the men around him. They looked very different
than they did a few hours ago. After receiving a warning order 20 minutes previously, they were
already prepared. He continued explaining his plan. Twenty minutes later they were in the air on their
way to the ambush site.
Dermont d'Urville was nearly 1000 miles from their target area. So it was no short flight, but well
within the Antonov transport's range. Colonel Nabialok again looked at the men around him, a
specialist Naval Spetznaz unit from the Russian Spetsgruppa Vympel. He had 12 men in his
detachment, a small group to be under the command of such a senior officer. This was not always that
unusual in Spetznaz missions. They were all hand picked for each job. All of them were dressed in
winter combat gear. They had trained in the freezing north of Russia's Siberia and were used to
fighting in the worst of environments. It was almost like home.
Nabialok's task was simple. Shoot down the C130 leaving Vostok. Either capture or deny the
enemy the evidence found at the EMP site. There were no fighter aircraft within thousands of miles. If
they let the C130 get to the ice runway near McMurdo, they would lose their chance to recover the
evidence. Why the hell they were not going to Vostok to retake the station baffled Nabialok. The
massive EMP blast and the loss of all communications with Vostok pointed directly to a well-managed
plan to take control of the station.
His second in command of the mission sat next to him. Warrant Officer Fedor Mikhailovich. No
love lost there. In fact he suspected the man hated him. Nabialok was not the most liked of men and he
didn't care. He liked his job. The sudden and heavy buffeting of the airframe took his mind back to the
task, the elements outside.
The Antonov 74 groaned, cracked and squeaked as it fought its way through the strong northerly
winds. The plane was specifically designed to be used in Arctic operations. The high-mounted engines
allowed operation on ice and snow strips without ingesting the ice and snow from the runways.
Powered by two Lotarev D-36 engines, developing 16,535 pounds of thrust, it could carry a payload of
over seven-and-a-half ton. Two of them were enough to carry Nabialok, his men, snow mobiles,
weapons and equipment.
As the two transports closed the distance to their ambush site, the Russian Colonel rolled the name
over in his head for the hundredth time. Hamilton. Where had he heard that name before? A common
English name. He was the target. The communication Russian intelligence had intercepted earlier had
told them this man was carrying evidence from the site of the EMP event. Get him and the evidence he
carries at all costs. Use whatever means necessary, the communication had said. It was the sort of
language that gave Nabialok a hard on.

*****

PLAN South Pacific Fleet Flag Head Quarters. Admiral Wen Jinsong sat uncomfortably in
front of the large teleconferencing screen in his flag quarters. He was a very tiny fish in a pond of great
hunters.
On the other end of the call, the Central Committee Secretary General, Yuen Xinghua, initiated the
communication. "Shaozu," he said.
An unusual honor, Jinsong thought. This was the name his mother had given him. Bring honor to
our ancestors it meant. He had changed this later to Jinsong; less to live up to, he thought. Although he
did not know how Yuen Xinghua would know this, he was nonetheless greatly honored to have this
consideration bestowed upon him. Xinghua for his part was sensitive to the meaning of the Admiral's
name and knew the affect his using the other man's birth name would have.
"Shaozu, your brother..." Xinghua paused. "Your brother was aboard the Kursk, was he not?"
"Yes Sir," Jinsong said.
"He died to help bring us Ta Po." He was referring to the Chinese version of the Russian Shkvall
or Squall rocket torpedo. The 6000-pound Shkval rocket torpedo had a range of about 7500 yards and
could fly through the water at more than 230 miles an hour. Along with the acquisition of the Sunburn
missiles, it was intended to kill aircraft carriers, cancelling out the threat these sea-going giants had
over China for last few decades.
"But now we have the Yuan, Shang, Shi Lang and other vessels that truly project our power across
the globe. U.S. military superiority has chained us for years, they penned us in like petty criminals,
barely able to wander from our own home shores without being shadowed and bullied by U.S. naval
forces. As you will be aware, after the outrageous deployment of the U.S. EMP weapon, our allies the
Russians have launched a long-range cruise missile attack on their own base at Vostok Station,
presumably to wipe out the invading forces of the U.S. and her allies attempting to gain control over
the oil. We support that action. On the other hand, we do not want the Russians to become masters of
the world's greatest oil resource either. It is right now we can become masters of our destiny. This is a
historic step for our nation and I wanted myself and the members of the CMC and Central Committee
to personally wish you and the fleet luck in your new endeavour, and for you to pass that on to your
men."
Jinsong felt a chill run down his spine. It was true then; he was going to take the largest Chinese
task force ever gathered, deep into the Southern Ocean and below the 60th. The Australians would not
let that happen without a fight. He had studied them from Gallipoli to Iraq. His own force was
superior, but the Australians he knew would not crawl in a hole and go away. Neither would the bond
between their American ally. This was dangerous policy.

*****

CHAPTER TWELVE

CIA OPERATIONS ROOM LANGLEY, VIRGINIA. December 5. 0100hrs UTC (Dec 4

2200hrs local). The Director of CIA Operations, David Stringer, leaned confidentially towards his
senior field manager Jack Granger. "Jack, these Rosenbridge guys may seem a little kooky, but they
were in the right place at the wrong time. It looks like they may have picked up something that might
shine some light on what happened," he said.
He along with several others were seated in the CIA operations room in Langley Virginia,
receiving a briefing from the head of the Rosenbridge Foundation, which was somehow intimately
entwined in the unfolding Antarctic conflict. "These guys may be on a fruitcake mission. But they
seem to know the science well. And we desperately need the evidence their bloke picked up to prove it
wasn't us that pulsed the Pole."
Granger looked at him questioningly.
Stringer shook his head. "Jack, it wasn't us. Take that as gospel. The rest of the world, though, is
convinced we detonated an e-bomb over Vostok. We have to prove otherwise." He gestured to the man
at front. "It's their guy - Hamilton's his name - that has the evidence and was, until all the satellites
disappeared, our only communication. Do me a favour. Despite how kooky you think he is, humor
him. Whether we like it or not, the ball is in his court."
"This is the thing that looks like the other thing we found at Quinn River right?” Granger didn’t
wait for the answer. “We could just take it. National security and all that," He said quietly.
"Yes we could, and we might yet do exactly that. Find out more about this guy Hamilton, will you.
No one seems to be particularly forthcoming. Sakrov is here on the President's request," he added.
Both the men turned their attention to the front as the older gentleman from the Rosenbridge
foundation fiddled with his paperwork on the podium.
"The guy standing next to Sakrov is Frank Cuppito. He's the 'go for' or get it done guy," Stringer
whispered.
The sound of the paper over the speakers was loud. After a bit more fumbling, hands perceptibly
shaking, he looked up to his audience.
"We call it the Santa Claus effect," Kasiniia Sakrov said. "Almost every year at the same time we
monitor this EMP event over the Pole. Of course we've never had anything like this, small, very small,
minuscule in fact. Never made sense, never did understand why. Even during the cold war, we and the
Russkis had an understanding about this. Well, it appears these events have got much bigger -- an e-
bomb, everyone thinks. Now we have experienced a massive EMP event over the northern end of
Vostok Lake, the same area we were interested in.
However you want to view the 'event'," he said, wagging his fingers in parenthesis, "I believe we
have at least gathered some evidence that will prove this was not the result of an e-bomb." Several of
the audience looked surprised. "At this time we have a man at Vostok Station, situated here," he
pointed on the map, "in the center of East Antarctica on the Polar Plateau at an altitude of 3,488
meters." He looked at his audience. "It is the most isolated of any Antarctic bases and is also known as
the coldest place on earth. It is also completely isolated electronically. Everything except our hardened
Sat phone was disabled. Unfortunately that failed a short while a go as well. The man we have there is
Brian Hamilton, an Australian, very nice fellow."
Cuppito flipped the overhead screen to a satellite image of the same area.
Sakrov awkwardly turned to the screen. He was in intense pain. He had at best a few weeks, maybe
two months to live. No one knew this yet. But the old Rosenbridge scientist did not want to go out
believing the world was doomed on the eve of his own amazing discovery. He pointed with his cane to
the screen.
"In 1977 a team of international scientists discovered a vast lake - Lake Vostok - beneath the ice
sheet attracting considerable attention because of its unusual size and why it was not frozen. A frozen
ridge separated the lake we found out later, the Russians and Chinese had obviously figured this out.
While we drilled in the north, they knew exactly where and what they were after. Of course we now
know it was gas and oil. Otherwise, no one would really be interested in any of this.
"We all know the story thus far. But what makes all this interesting now, is the bizarre EMP event.
Our contractor, Brian Hamilton, was specially equipped to monitor EMP events. Very small ones mind
you, nothing like this. Nonetheless, he was able to measure it and identify it for what it was. He was
also able to visit the epicenter of the event and was able to retrieve an object that may be related to the
blast. We have asked Hamilton to bring this evidence back to us so we can assess what it is and perhaps
the cause of the pulse. With the current loss of communications with Antarctica we are only aware that
the C130 and C17 left Williams Field to pick up any survivors at Vostok, that's all any of us believe.
Correct?" The Professor looked at Stringer who nodded affirmatively.
"Prior to this blackout we had a conversation with Hamilton."
"Secured?"
Sakrov looked at Stringer a little embarrassed. He had forgotten that part. "It was insecure." The
Professor looked at the rest of the audience then back to Stringer, but he and his companion were
leaving in a hurry.
Crap, Stringer thought. He knew that bit of information was important, but in the rush of events
had forgotten. He turned to Granger. “Get the mission team together now. Update them immediately; I
will be there in a few minutes.”
It was the small strand that wove the fabric of logic together. There were more alarm bells going
off in Stringer's head than in a fire station, the phone call, why hadn’t they figured that before. He hit
the speed dial on his cell phone. "Get me the Commander, 57 Wing, Nellis AFB Nevada. Now!" There
was a pause as his call was transferred. "Pat, it's David Stringer. Yes. Yes, thanks. I have an urgent
mission requirement. As you know, we have a complete satellite black out below the 60th parallel. I
need desperately, and I mean desperately, to get a look at the area between McMurdo to Davis and as
far inland as we can."
As the CO listened to Stringer he was already pulling up the 11RS status and deployment. They
already had assets in the air, but not their usual fare of Globalhawks. For this job they had something
completely different, a standard Tandem Class blimp. Ever since the emergency began they had been
stealthily moving it south towards the area of interest. The blimp, a twin balloon, high altitude, low cost
utility airship was floating at over 140,000 feet above the earth’s surface. It carried a sophisticated suite
of EO, IR and SAR sensors and was able to see and hear almost all the way to Vostok Station, but not
quite. It looked anything but sophisticated, two medium sized white balloons, one tied at each end of a
30 foot keel or pole. Normally its relatively short duration, low speed and cost meant it wasn’t much
use in any conflict situation. Right now it was perfect and could do everything a satellite could plus
more.
"Wait...okay, we have three Tandems deployed to try to cover our satellite blackout." Launched
just after the satellite blackout, the Tandems were still crawling south.
"Can we patch through communications?"
"We can try. Let me see what I can do."
"Thanks!" Stringer said, hanging up and slightly puffed. He was running, a task he had thought
was just useful for field ops. He then went straight to the mission room; it was packed, Granger must
have put the fear of god in them to get them all there that fast. Stringer collapsed into his seat, still
getting over the small run from the previous meeting to this hastily drafted get-together of what he
hoped could be forged into a crisis team.
As requested, the center's senior Air Force intelligence officer was starting into his briefing.
"Latest information is the Russian Aircraft Carrier Admiral Kuznetsov is at flank speed from the
Tasman Sea with several escorts. She is currently 48 hours from being able to project airpower into the
area. The area of ops has been an established Russian base for a long time. The Russians could
potentially use this to legitimize any hostile acts as defensive in nature. Prior to the comms blackout,
Hamilton, with the artifact, was still on the ground and making his way back to the airfield. The base is
populated by scientists at this point, which do not represent a threat. A late-model C130 and C17 were
enroute, 60 minutes from Vostok, diverted from McMurdo. We also know that the Russians know
that."
 "Right, a call was placed by a SAT phone and the discussion involved the evidence Hamilton
found. Almost every electronic sensor in the world is trying to find out what is going on down there, so
we have to assume the call was intercepted." David said quickly between breaths, "They know that, and
we have to assume, we know-they know, that we have retrieved evidence and are bringing it back
home."
"So who is this Hamilton character who has the evidence?" Chauncey Gray, the Deputy Director of
the CIA, asked.
"We don't know. An Australian hired by a group called the Rosenbridge Foundation to study
electronic fluctuations at the Pole. The individual was drafted randomly from a civilian contractor
database by Rosenbridge and matched a requirement for arctic experience, and basic scientific
observation."
"So, at the moment, we have an unknown person, holding evidence that could easily influence the
entire outcome of this crisis. Correct?" Gray asked.
"Yes Sir." Stringer was stone faced.
"We have nothing on this guy?" Gray persisted.
"No Sir. But we are working on it."
"Okay, let me know as soon as possible." He nodded at the presenter to continue. David sat to
catch a few breaths.
"The Chinese also have two Sovremenny Class, Type 956 destroyer’s enroute. As you can
appreciate this is a very measurable threat," the presenter said. "The Clinton battle group is 23 hours
from station and will be directly exposed to the Chinese missile threat."
That sent a chill down everyone's back. Purchased from the Russians, they carried supersonic SS-
N-22 Sunburn anti-ship, sea-skimming missiles that packed either a conventional or 200-kiloton
nuclear warhead designed specifically to take out U.S. aircraft carriers.
"They are the Hanzhou and the Fuzhou. Both of which also boast a significant anti-air capability
with SA-N-17 "Grizzly" semi-active radar-guidance intermediate-range air defense missiles. The SA-
N-7 Gadfly is similar to the U.S. standard ship-to-air missiles and is considered one of the world's most
effective intermediate-range ship-to-air missiles today. If they get supported by their 052C Class or
better warships with HHQ-9, a design based on the S-300, this will give them an umbrella of
approximately 100 kilometers each with the ability to track 100 targets and guide six missiles to six
targets."
"Anything else?" Stringer asked. "What about their new submarines?"
"The Yaun or 093’s?"
 "Yeah. Aren't they a problem?"
"Yes, but their ballistic boats at least for the moment are not. They have experienced severe
radiation leakage problems and are currently all in dry dock, a classic deployment of Kilo, Shang and
Han class subs is also underway."
"Okay, what's the OP-PLAN for Hamilton?"
"Relieve him of the evidence immediately and fly it out to the Cruiser USS Port Royal, already
within Helo range of McMurdo," Chauncey said.
Right, Stringer thought. Assuming Hamilton goes along with that little plan and you don't piss him
off too much. The more information he was finding out about Hamilton, the more he believed the
safest place for the artifact might be with him. But he wasn't prepared to share that yet. He knew
Rosenbridge were calling it an artifact, and since nothing was proven yet, it seemed a good name for a
metal rod found in the middle of nowhere that looked strikingly like another one they found in weird
place.

CIA Headquarters, CIA and Rosenbridge meetng one hour later.

Cuppito had suspected the U.S. military might try to take the artifact forcefully, which is why he
was there. Alexander Blake, the other Rosenbridge man at the meeting, sat looking stone faced.
"So what are you saying?" Chauncey Gray asked.
"I'm simply stating the facts," Blake replied. "At the center of the massive EMP event, we
discovered the evidence that might suggest what caused the blast and maybe who. It’s probably better
off with us at the moment, at least till its back here."
"Stringer thinks your call was intercepted, which means someone may try to either capture or
destroy the evidence. I fail to see how it can be considered secure in the hands of your people when
our guys are trained for this stuff."
"I understand that. I also bet you intended to TAKE the artifact from Hamilton if you needed to,
right?"
"Damn right," Gray almost yelled. "This is way beyond an individual's ego!"
"And you are right on that score as well Chauncey. First I'm asking myself whether you guys really
have something to hide?" The Rosenbridge man looked questioningly.
"What do you mean?" Gray asked.
"I don't know; you guys are the spooks, not us. Anyway, if you guys gave instructions to take that
stick by force, then I will lay odds on, it's still with Hamilton."
"How do you know that?" an increasingly perturbed Gray asked.
 "Because I don't think you have anyone available down there capable of taking it off him."
Gray made a mental note to chase up the information on Hamilton. "Why do I get the feeling there
is something you are both not telling me about this?"
Cuppito ignored the question; Blake just looked away. They wouldn't believe their version of the
EMP event anyway; even the CIA were not ready for that information.
"Some Australian is waltzing around the ice with the key to all this and we have absolutely no idea
of what's going on down there," Gray said.
It was a fair question. Yes, Cuppito thought, waltzing was also a good term. "Couldn't be in safer
hands Chauncey, but I think we may have some bigger problems, which is the other reason for this
meeting."

December 5 1301 UTC, 0801 local. CIA Global Hawks spot Nibialoks Antinovs and ambush.

The three Global Hawks floated on thin air at 50,000 feet, orbiting well beneath the 60th parallel,
communicating between the Tandems to the south and satellites to the north.
David Stringer, director of CIA Operations, leaned over the shoulder of the Duty Watch Officer.
"Where's the Russian aircraft now?" he said. Looking at the myriad of screens in front of him, the duty
officer touched one of the larger ones and changed the magnification. A vivid 3D map of the Antarctic
Peninsula near McMurdo materialized. This was overlaid with real-time information from the
Tandems, ground and air assets. The officer tapped a red marker.
"This is the Antonov 74, an improved version of the CURL, a twin-engine transport, definitely
Russian." He pulled up another window inside the screen. It showed the aircraft and its Russian
markings. "This photo we took this morning from one of the Tandems's oblique cameras." He closed
the screen. "It left the French base at about the same time as the C130 left from the Pole." He pointed to
another green dot further up the screen. "This is our bird. If they all keep the same speed and heading,
they will meet somewhere south of here. A place called the Dry Valleys."
"The Antonov is not headed towards Vostok?"
"No, it's tracking too far east."
"We talking to any aircraft now?"
"No. The Russians and Chinese would be onto us in a minute. At the moment, they don't know
about the Tandems or Global Hawks which have realyed COMMS via laser to satellites or an
Australian Wedgetail."
"So what is the CURL doing? Can it shoot the transports down?"
 "No, it's purely a transport, no air to air capability."
Stringer wondered what the hell the Russians were pulling. Back in his office the director dragged
deeply on a cigarette; strictly forbidden in government offices. He figured if he and his staff couldn't
keep that secret they should be in another line of work. It was easier to think when he smoked, even
though he knew it would kill him sooner than his appointed time. The C130, if low on fuel, normally
took this route; the Russians would know this. Half way through drawing back another lungful of
smoke, he stopped and almost choked. The Antonov wasn't there to intercept the C130. No, it was
setting up an ambush! The cigarette disappeared into the bin as he ran through the door and back to the
Duty Officer's console.
"What's the Antonov doing now?" he asked urgently.
"I don't know. It got as far as the Dry Valleys and then turned west to Mirny Station. I can't…"
"How long before the C130 gets to the Valleys?" Stringer interrupted.
The duty officer touched the screen with a small pointer. "She's just entering the southern end
now."
"Shit - get her out of there fast. It's an ambush, a fucking ambush!""If I radiate, that Tandem's
useless to us."
"If we don't, we could be killing everyone on board those airplanes."
The Duty Officer brought up the communications channels and aircraft identifiers. He kept one eye
on a clock, the passing seconds now draining away like molten gold, he tapped the touch screen icon
that designated the Tandem and made an immediate patch to it from Langley. There was no time to go
through official channels.

*****

C130 Aircraft Number 30492 December 5 1312hrs UTC. They were over the Dry Valleys
beginning the let down into Williams Field. Suddenly the aircraft stood on its wing, almost reversing
course, the engines at full power. Moment's later two Strella missiles snaked out from the valley
beneath making a beeline for the hot engine signatures of the ski-equipped C130 aircraft number
30492. The pilots were not slow and Hamilton could feel and hear the pump of the chaff ejectors
spewing hot decoys into the freezing air. While he could not see the missiles he knew you didn't pump
chaff as a joke. They were under attack and a C130 was not exactly the most nimble of birds in the air,
even a late model one.
The loadmaster hung precariously from the canvas webbing. He knew what was happening, but
hadn't expected to be at shot by missiles at the ass end of the earth. Like the loadmaster, Hamilton's
mind was working through the problem. The four Marines escorting him looked surprised and scared.
They had not reckoned on this set of events.
The sudden jolt of the first missile impacting on the port engine threw them on the deck. The
blinding flash of the explosion, holes in the fuselage and the burning engine hanging off a wing full of
fuel was all too evident. The second missile had been distracted. But there would be more.
The Master Chief was more together than Hamilton would have guessed. Despite the chaos, he
was as cool as custard.
"You done this before Chief?"
The Chief loadmaster looked at him evenly. "Yes Sir. Looks like you have too. This isn't anymore
fun, I might add, than last time."
Hamilton couldn't help but crack a smile. The Chief cracked a smile as well; he knew an
experienced warrior when he saw one, even if he wasn’t in uniform. "I forgot to welcome you on
board, Sir. Master Chief Andrew Wilkins."
"Thank you, Master Chief. Brian Hamilton"
The Master Chief's smile suddenly evaporated. Brian could see him concentrate for a moment,
obviously listening to the pilot on his intercom. He nodded, turned to an overhead compartment,
dropping the door and pulling a bunch of parachutes out. He threw them around the cabin, yelling,
"Put them on!"
The Marines now looked truly terrified.
Brian screamed over the sound of the roaring engines and the slipstream. "Watch me." He quickly
demonstrated how to strap on the parachutes. The back ramp was already dropped and freezing air
whipped through the fuselage interior. He watched as the men struggled to buckle their chutes. That
was when the second missile hit, opening a huge hole in the fuselage just rear of the wing. Before
Hamilton could even think, he was spinning through empty space.

*****

WILLIAMS AIRFORCE BASE, Victoria, Australia.December 5, 1330 hrs, UTC. Lance

Hamilton ran a gloved hand down the leading edge slat of the F-111. The 'Pig' as many referred to it,
squatted on its rugged truck like undercarriage looking powerful and lethal. Lance was one of just a
handful of pilots on the planet that had in recent history flown the F-111C and this particular airplane
was older than he was.
 When the Menzies Government of Australia ordered 24 General Dynamic F-111Cs in October
1963, no one could have imagined the versatility or longevity of this exceptional aircraft. Nearly 60
years had passed since ordering the aircraft and its planned replacement. Despite nearly half a century
that had witnessed some of the most amazing technology advancements in human history, the F-111
still remained, arguably the most powerful strike aircraft in its class. Supported by Jindalee OTHB/P-
3C targeting, the F-111/Harpoon was also the most potent anti-shipping weapon system in the Western
World.
The F-111 had proven to be an expensive exercise in technology too early for its time. Within a
short span of years the U.S. had mothballed their fleet to make money available to the B1 project. Since
then Australia had remained the world's sole operator of the F-111. With perseverance and a typical
'make do' spirit, the Australians had turned the Pig into a long-range strike weapon without comparison.
Despite its age, the aircraft was a showcase of the latest technology, incorporating variable
geometry wing design, leading and trailing edge high-lift devices, afterburning turbofans, a crew
ejection module, a highly automated inertial bomb/nav package, automatic terrain-following radar,
long-range pulse doppler air intercept radar in the F- 111B, and internal electronic warfare equipment
that was world class.
Lance Hamilton sighed. The F-111 had been taken out by the interim strike platform the Super
Hornet, which in turn was being augmented by the joint strike fighter, the F35, of which they so far had
received just a handful. Saying goodbye to the F-111 was like witnessing the passing of a good and
faithful friend. There were a whole lot of reasons for phasing the old girls out - many financial, others
based on anticipated operating environments and foreseeable threat. Fate, however, was asking the
venerable but still able airframe to soldier on. There was still no other airplane in the world capable of
delivering the same weapon load at such high speed down in the dirt, over such a distance. Only the
Pig, and Lance knew that he and it were about to be tested to their limits.
The massive F-111C, built to kill long-range bombers and their supersonic cruise missiles was not
designed for knife fights with lightweight MiGs and Sukhois. But Lance knew that with his precision
bird he was able to deliver ordnance with stunning accuracy. Get him talking about his beloved Pig and
it was hard to stop him. "You select which window of a building you want the bomb to go through, and
the Pig and I will do it to the nearest second anywhere in the world," he'd say. "I can drop 500 pounds
of high explosive, 2,000 pounds or even 10,000 pounds of high-explosive ordnance into that building. I
can do it at low level - less than 50 feet over water or land. I can do it supersonic - not only at the speed
of sound, at twice the speed of sound and I can do it day or night, and I can use my terrain-following
radar to keep me close to the ground to do it, to avoid enemy detection. I can pull four gee to seven-
plus gee and be back for breakfast before the dust settles."
Statistically the F-111 was the most successful strike aircraft used in the Desert Storm campaign,
and no F-111E or F-111F aircraft were lost to enemy fire in the highest density air defense environment
seen outside of central Europe. The combination of range, payload, high speed and precision gave the
F-111 more punch than the UK's Tornado or the stealthy F-117A, and its speed at low level made it
extremely difficult to engage by SAMs.
There is no 'tactical' aircraft that can match the F-111 in its key aerodynamic performance
specifications. The F-111C was acquired as a 'strategic strike,' a sledgehammer force. A battlefield air
interdiction and close-air support aircraft, the F-111 remained challenged only by the B-52. With 24
500lb Mk.82 bombs, a single F-111 carries roughly half the bomb load of all B-52 variants other than
the Vietnam era 'big belly' B-52D. While modern strike technique is focused on killing high-value
targets with guided weapons, battlefield bombardment is a niche where sheer tonnage still remains
decisive. Doubters might consider the demise of the Taliban in 2001, or the collapse of Serbian
fortifications in Kosovo in 1999.
With two-and-half times, or better, the payload radius of typical multi-role tactical fighters, the F-
111 remains in a class of its own. When finally retired in 2010, with Mach 2.6 class high-altitude
supersonic dash performance, and Mach 1.2 dash capability at low level, the F-111 was arguably the
fastest combat aircraft in operation in any Western air force. As the previous backbone of the
Australian defense force structure, it allowed the RAAF to 'punch above its weight' in the broader
region - providing a significant deterrent effect. Something the Chinese had obviously misjudged.

*****

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

RAAF BASE AVALON VICTORIA. The lead pilot, Squadron Leader Lance Hamilton, called a
60-second "hack" to start the countdown to brake release. The three aircraft squatted at the end of the
runway, their jet exhausts shimmering behind them. The pilots sat, hands on throttles, senses taut,
anticipation crowding their thoughts. Hamilton rolled the throttles forward, the two big turbofans
roaring at 80 percent rpm.
Hamilton spoke into his mask. "Lead, five, four, three, two, one." Simultaneously all three pilots
released brakes and lit their afterburners. The "burners" instantly increased thrust from 24,000 to
40,000 pounds and gave the aircrews a "kick" that jammed them back in their seats. Acceleration was
quick. The scenery became a blur. Hamilton and his navigator checked instruments for engine power
and performance. Rotation speed came fast. He then eased the stick back, lifting the nose smoothly off
the runway. With the aircraft free of the ground he used his left hand to raise the gear, keeping his right
hand on the control stick to correct pitch angles and keep wings level. It was all automatic, as natural as
scratching his nose. Moving his left hand from the gear handle to flap handles, he sucked in the flaps
and slats as they accelerated through 290 mph, repositioning the wings from 16 degrees to 26 degrees
of sweep. As they approached 400 knots, Hamilton retarded the throttles, cut off the burner and
reduced the power setting to continue the climb out.
With the Pig climbing steeply, Lance made radio contact with their departure control, scanning his
radar to locate any possible aircraft in front of him. It had been 90 seconds since he had left the runway.
In less than 10 minutes he leveled off at 27,000 feet, with his fellow aircraft stacked in neat trail
formation, heading south.
Conversation with the traffic controllers on the ground was clipped as they steered the flight
quietly through the myriad flight paths of commercial and private planes. The Pig's inertial system's
gyros and digital computers hummed in unison, accepting the directions of the computer program.
While Lance busied himself with course changes, speed, and other mission variables, the electronic
sensors in the avionics systems measured every tiny movement of the aircraft, compensating for each
deviation by issuing direct commands to the flight-control surfaces. In fact, the navigation system was
so sensitive and accurate that the Pig's parking spot on the ramp had to be surveyed to give the system
the exact coordinates of the mission starting point.
Right on schedule, the RAAF KC-30B MRTT of 33 Squadron made radio contact, navigating their
intercept at over 480 knots. Hamilton and his escorts adjusted their heading to close at a rate of almost
1500 feet per second. Following the image of the KC-30B on his radarscope, the lead navigator relayed
course corrections to the small formation, adjusting the flight path toward, but slightly offset, from the
tankers. At a 1000 knots closure rate, the distance between them diminished rapidly.
When the tanker was exactly 21 miles downrange, Lance, flying lead, directed the KC-30B to turn
onto his heading. He spotted the KC-30B halfway through its turn 10 miles out. When he rolled out, the
bombers were five miles astern, now three abreast in loose visual formation. In minutes, the lead Pig
was in position, immediately behind and below the refueling boom, ready for hook-up. The KC-30B
began to offload its JP8 jet fuel. One by one the tanker's boom operator inserted the refueling boom
into the small receptacle just behind each F-111's cockpit while it flew in very close trail position
behind the tanker.
The Pig was very heavy and slippery in flight. Despite controls specially designed to adapt
automatically to almost any altitude and airspeed condition, when you pulled the power off the F-111,
it just kept going. This meant for newbies, continual corrections with throttles and airbrakes or boards
and burners as they would say. After so many hook-ups and hours of refueling practice, Hamilton had
developed a feel for the correct position behind the boom, the hook up and transfer seeming casual and
easy. He was thinking about Brian when the boomer suddenly broke into his thoughts calling a
"Disconnect". Hamilton slipped below and away from the tanker. Hamilton's Pig was loaded to the
gills, packing some major surprises for anyone getting in her way.
Meanwhile, far south, the target of interest steamed west unaware of the approaching danger. The
Taizhou displaced most of the other ships in the Chinese fleet by over 50 percent. She was built for
long endurance and could run fast. Even in the heavy following sea, the Sovremenny class destroyer
made a comfortable 25 knots. Her captain and crew were confident in their systems. She was, after all,
the 'Carrier Killer'. The Taizhou was a lethal package of air, ASW and surface-to-surface weaponry, the
ship's captain, PLAN Commander Li Zhenbang, easily moved with the steady roll of the ship. There
was, he believed, no one close enough or daring enough to offer a threat to them. They strolled with
complete impunity through the Australian waters.
Two hours after refueling, the flight of Pigs descended to sea level well outside the range of the
Taizhou's radar capabilities. Flying fast and on the deck, the big jets ploughed the ocean with their
exhausts. It was a rough ride, especially with a full rack of munitions. Hamilton's lead jet buffeted
heavily. They were closing with the target quickly and if they had actually been conducting an attack
they would have already released weapons performing a pop up which potentially exposed them to
radar. Today, they stayed on the deck.
Just three miles out, the Taizhou’s ops room acquired the flight. By then the F-111s had split,
converging on the target from different directions. A collision was a real possibility, but the gain of
splitting the ship's defenses in all directions was worth it. On board the Taizhou, the missile director
frantically punched his keyboard, loading SA-N-7 Gadfly missiles into their launchers calling multiple
incoming at plus mach one. Hamilton and the rest of the flight saw and heard the Sovremenny radar
lock onto them.
The anti-air missiles were not the only threat; the Taizhou's four six-barrel 30 mm AK-630 air
defense guns could spit out a curtain of lead at a rate of three thousand rounds per minute to a range of
two miles. A shower of cold lead you only took once.
Captain Li Zhenbang had no previous combat experience. Neither was he stupid. But for the first
time in his life he froze. What were the contacts, missiles? The time was the hard part. At the point of
detection, the incoming flight was moving at more than 1000 feet per second. In the time it took the
missile director to utter the warning and the ship's Captain to comprehend it, the air exploded, the deck
of the destroyer shook violently, everything reverberated from the thunder and shockwaves of the jets
as they skimmed the ship close enough to leave exhaust stains on the paint work. The missile officer
panicked, pushing the launch button, sending four Gadflies into the sky in pursuit of the aircraft.
On the bridge and around the rest of the ship they realized quickly that they had suffered no
damage and this was no missile attack. If there had been one, they would have been dead by now.
Several of the crew had seen the sinister black shapes seemingly leap from the ocean without any
sound, leaving an explosion of noise and shock waves in their wake.
The flight profile was the problem the ship's Captain thought. If they were firing missiles the
attacking jets would never have passed over the ship. Indeed, they would have never come that close.
Captain Li Zhenbang realized what was happening and swore loudly. "Shut the system down," he
screamed into the ship's communication system. It was already too late.
Hamilton now had a real problem. He had the Gadfly locked on to him and coming in fast. The
warbling of the threat receiver was annoying the shit out of him. The Gadfly missile profile would
have been to climb, look down and then plunge towards the target - him. How low can you go, he
thought? Running parallel to the big rolling swell of the Antarctic Ocean, Hamilton dialled 20 feet into
the system. The aircraft sank so low it flew between the swells; he could look up at them on either
side, the canopy heavily smeared in salty spray. The F-111s Electronic Warfare (EW) system was in
hyper drive. The EL/L-822 system had autonomously detected and classified the enemy radar and
missiles emitting electronic signal to jam and deceive the threat. The missile hesitated and lost the F-
111 as the fleeing jet plunged into the heavy swells, unable to see through the waves it lost lock. Within
seconds the missile warning stopped and Lance's heart started again, but only for a few moments of
respite.
"We're being painted by radar." Lance's navigator Jake, worked his box of tricks. There was no
sign of his wingman. "Looks like a Zhuk."
"Let him keep looking. We are turning around. The rules of engagement were quite clear, only
fire if fired upon. We have been fired upon and by the looks of it Stuart and Hat Trick are gone."
The Taizhou was following the heavy Southern Ocean swell. At 60 miles out Hamilton approached
from an angle to the stern, settling the big jet in between the moving mountains of water to keep her
below the Taizhou's radar. He closed the gap to 50 miles and popped the aircraft up. The threat
receiver blared immediately as the Taizhou's radar picked them up. He waited until the F-111's own
radar registered the target and fed the information to the Harpoons.
The AGM-84D Harpoon Block II was an all weather, over-the-horizon, anti-ship missile system.
The Harpoon's active radar guidance, integrated Global Positioning System/inertial navigation system,
warhead design, and low-level, sea-skimming cruise trajectory and re-attack capability, made it an
extremely unpleasant visitor, even on the best of days.
With the target information fed through to the missiles, two were released. The inner pylons (3, 4,
5 and 6) all carried Harpoons and once satisfied the first two were tracking, the next pair with a
different attack profile were let go. Lance then stood the aircraft on its wing and dropped back into
hiding among the heavy swells. With the missiles gone Lance jettisoned the empty pylons and swept
the wings back picking up speed.
For the second time that day the Taizhou's on board threat systems came alive as they briefly
picked up the F-111 during its pop up. While the men and systems on the ship reacted, the active radar
on the four inbound Harpoons clearly painted the ship as they closed in their terminal flight phase. The
missile's onboard computer system compared the target ship with the profile in its memory. They
matched. Programmed to fly like the Pigs, they dropped back to just above the water's surface,
skimming in low and fast between the rolling walls of water, concealing themselves from the Taizhou's
highly developed detection system. They needed no input from Lance's aircraft, which was now busy
escaping. Lance had deliberately launched the missiles to run parallel to the big rollers so they could
hide. Any other direction would have forced the missiles higher.
The Taizhou’s Captain heard the expected warning, "Incoming missiles," from the radar operator,
the voice tight with fear. But this time the ship's Captain knew it was no aircraft. They were going to
pay for the missile director's trigger-happy fingers. The ships incredibly sophisticated CIWS systems,
which included COIL lasers and microwave anti-missile capabilities accounted for two of the missiles
hitting the incoming Harpoons at the last nanosecond. But hiding in the waves the missiles were near
impossible to track.
The surviving Harpoons struck hard near the center of the ship close to the water line. The two
500 pound warheads delivered a lethal blast that almost broke the ship's back. The frozen waters of the
southern seas eagerly raced into the gaping hole in the side of the Taizhou's hull. With a quarter of her
compliment killed instantly by the joint explosions, the injured and surviving crewmembers raced for
escape hatches and to the lifeboats. None of them made it. In a slow and sickening movement, the
ship, still making headway, her engines faithfully making revolutions, rolled onto her back. For a few
moments the two large propellers rotated in the air, thrashing the water as the doomed ship slipped
quickly beneath the sea.
To the north the surviving F-111 was making a hasty exit.
"We are being painted"
 "Same bogey?"
"Yes, it's miles out. 100 kilometers I would say."
"You think they've seen us?"
"Not yet. Not at this level with all the clutter. But they will. We have to go past them to get
home. The bogey is between us and home."
"Is he single?"
"We are only looking passively. So I'm only picking up the active signals. He could have a
hundred buddies for all we know."
"Oh good," Lance said, the tension setting back in again.
Almost 100 miles away Captain Vlas Naberezhnyi looked hard at the primary display. His Su-
27SK, temporarily based out of Martin de Vivies, was equipped with a Phazotron N001 Zhuk coherent
pulse Doppler radar with track-while-scan and look-down/shoot-down capability. The range of the
radar was over 80 miles in the forward hemisphere and 28 miles in the rear hemisphere. It had the
capacity to search, detect and track up to 10 targets. At extreme ranges he almost had to have the nose
of the big fighter pointed directly at the target to see it. But there was something out there. It would
come and go.
One of the F-111's enduring qualities was its ability to carry a big payload. That day it carried the
Harpoons as well as AAIMs and another surprise. The surviving member of the flight of three, named
Wombat carried an internal weapons palette similar to the F-22, capable of carrying two AMRAAM
and two AIM-9X.
MacDowell Aviation engineers had replaced Wombats old radar system with the APG-79 AESA,
the same as that used in the Super Hornet. There was no reason for either the Russians or the Chinese
to believe there was any aircraft operational in the area that posed any threat outside of 30 miles.
Which is why Captain Vlas Naberezhnyi was shocked to hear the threat receiver shrill in his ear with
an almost instant radar lock. What the hell was that? The active radar provided him an instant lock by
his own system, giving him little comfort. He was still out of range to use his own missiles.
Almost 80 miles away, Lance dropped both AMRAAMs. They speared off ahead of the aircraft,
arching up high into the sky. Naberezhnyi cranked his aircraft defensively as Hamilton tracked his
missiles. As soon as they acquired, like the Harpoon he could forget them. Once again he dropped the
Pig back into the tide, trying as best as he could to hide the Wombat among the waves.
It was a painful wait for the Russian pilot. There was little he could do. His own radar was
excellent. But it could not shoot down missiles at that range; not yet. He sweated as he watched their
approach. When they were near, Naberezhnyi viscously weaved and hauled his aircraft around the sky,
punching chaff and using every avoidance technique he knew, every minute closing ground on his
unknown attacker. The target was hard to acquire, flitting in and out of the background noise of the
radar. F-18s didn't normally fly that low, nor as fast he thought. It was so low it was being lost in the
ocean swell. As he closed to 45 miles he dropped two Alamo-B missiles with combined semi-active
radar guidance and infrared homing. Less than 10 seconds later both Hamiltons missiles arrived,
Naberezhnyi evaded one but not the other. His missiles had however locked up their target before he
died.
The two Alamo missiles chased the elusive Wombat as it wound its way though the ocean swells at
over the speed of sound.
"Shit, we have two missiles chasing us."
"Counter measures!"
Both chaff and flares spewed from the Wombat's ejectors. But the two Alamos kept coming on.
The Wombat hugged the water, her life depending on it, weaving down the big watery canyons
between the waves. The supersonic shock wave threw a curtain of thick spray behind her. The first
Alamo to fall on the Wombat lost her behind a wave and then struck the heavy curtain of spray in the
big jet's wake, tumbling out of control. The second missile was more lucky, the approach higher. It
closed to within yards of the Wombat's airframe before hitting the curtain of water, but close enough
for the fuse proximity sensor to detonate the weapon.
The aircraft kicked hard, the blast tipping her forwards. Any other airplane would have smashed
into the waves, but not the Wombat. The close terrain-following system was acutely aware of the
aircraft's position and made immediate adjustments.
"Lost number two!" Jake cried.
"Shit. Number one?" Lance's eyes were riveted on the towering waves either side of them, too
busy to look at the instruments.
"Looks good. We are back to three fifty knots."
Lance could see that on his HUD but he liked confirmation when systems were starting to fail.
"Warning lights?"
"Compressor stall. The missile must have blown back up the pipe," Jake said, trying to get the
other engine started unaware of another lethal threat closing on them.
Lieutenant Colonel Lachinov took his time. Three hundred knots, he thought. Flies between the
waves and shoots long range missiles, or something similar anyway. It was like a game show quiz; he
liked those. Now it was injured; it had slowed substantially, making it an easier kill. Dobycha Lachinov
had closed the distance to use his Archer missiles, an all-aspect, close-combat air-to-air missile that at
close range had a better chance of taking out the opponent. The target was almost invisible. But every
now and then he would get a glimpse. He switched the active radar on.
The Wombat sensed its pursuer. Once again the threat warning wailed; it wasn't loud but took all
your attention. Lance dialled the bomber down another two more feet.
Lachinov swore. He couldn't get an accurate lock; there was too much interference from the water.
Switching to guns he ran the throttles forward plugging in the afterburners. It would have to be guns.
Whatever it was, at 300 knots it was dead. There was nothing out here on this day as far as Lachinov
knew that could take him on.
The seconds dragged … and then he saw it. Lieutenant Colonel Lachinov was no slouch. It was an
F-111. One engine glowed, the other obviously dead and all her weapon pylons were empty. She might
have guns but there was no way they would ever get a chance to get a shot at the Sukhoi. Even though
the other aircraft was slower, wounded on one engine, it was incredibly hard to follow between the
waves, even as he flew above them. The F-111 seemed to flatten out and was hard to see. Not hard
enough, he thought, for a gunshot. Everyone knew there was no competition between an F-111 and the
big Su-27.
Lance knew the Sukhoi was on his ass and if he could have chatted with Lachinov over a glass of
beer he would have agreed with him. There was no doubting that the Pig was no fighter. Against the
Su-27 Flanker she was a lamb to the slaughter in a turn-and-burn fight. The Flanker was a truly best of
breed fighter. But the Pig still had a few tricks. Hamilton was not about to get caught in an energy-
bleeding exercise that would end in his demise. After the AMRAAM surprise, the guy on his rear was
probably champing at the bit to take a piece of F-111 ass when it was most vulnerable.
"Engine?"
"On it."
The sea in front of the Wombat exploded as canon shells ripped the surface.
"Christ Jake, give me my engine." It was not an order but a comment. He really didn't need to tell
Jake how urgent it was.
Lachinov missed on the first shot. He told himself to calm down and settled the Sukhoi high and
behind the fleeing bomber, lining the HUD indicators up for the next burst.
"Got it…spooling up……wait," Jake said.
"Can't wait!" Lance hit the burners on the first engine prematurely, pulling hard and left, risking a
flame out.
Lachinov saw the engine light as the big F-111 hauled itself out of the trench and throw itself into
a left turn. He followed easily. Pigs might fly he thought, but not very well. He chuckled, once again
setting up another shot.
Squadron Leader Lance Hamilton ground his teeth. Something he did when he was really
annoyed. Right now having a Flanker trying to shoot his ass off ranked as most annoying…and
perhaps a little nerve wracking, but enough of this shit. He needed one good turn without exposing
himself. The Flanker was on him like a fly stuck to butter. He couldn't see him. The Flanker was
directly behind.
"Both engines now at 100 percent," Jake reported. It was time to leave and open some space. As
old as the Wombat might have been, even the Sukhoi had no chance of pacing the big jet down in the
weeds. The Pig leaped ahead but then turned presenting Lachinov with an excellent cannon shot. Bad
mistake Lachinov thought. He turned inside the other jet, closing the distance, too short for missiles but
good for guns. As he pressured the trigger he saw the plumes of two missiles as they sped from
beneath the F-111. He was sure the racks had been empty; still, the other aircraft was facing the
opposite direction, another stupid mistake he thought, and your last. But before he could fire, his
threat-warning receiver went active and in that instance Lachinov went from offensive to defensive.
Lance Hamilton was sweating heavily. It was all about timing. He needed the turn. But too long
and he was dead. He knew the Sukhoi either had to get distance to take a missile shot or get closer.
Either way he had to take the initiative away from the superior Russian dogfighter. This was another
first: the real-time application of the F-111's new helmet-mounted cueing system. As the F-111 turned,
wings extended, he was able to see his enemy. If he could see him he could kill him. It was fast.
Thank god. As he looked at his pursuer, his Helmet Mounted Cueing System began talking to the
AIM-9X high off-boresight air-to-air tucked in the weapons bay. Basically it meant he could fire the
missiles while still facing the F-111 in the opposite direction. The magnetic head tracker combined
with a display projected onto Lance's visor allowed him to aim sensors and weapons wherever he was
looking. Hamilton knew exactly how to use it. The weapon bay doors had opened and the two missiles
ejected clear of the aircraft before firing.
The AIM-9X was the latest member of the AIM-9 Sidewinder short-range missile family. With the
F-111's extreme speed capability at low level, he could engage and blow past his opponent, taking on
aircraft that would have given his predecessors a heart seizure.
To Lachinov's alarm he could see the two missiles turn towards him, even as they left the F-111.
He tried to live. He tried to avoid the missiles. But in his mind he knew he was dead. Like
Naberezhnyi, he did not feel the end, both missiles arriving almost simultaneously.

*****
 ANTARCTICA,. The Dry Lakes Region.December 5 1311hrs UTC. As the Wombat fled north
over the Southern Ocean, Colonel Brian Hamilton was tumbling through space reaching for his ripcord.
The canopy of the MC-5 ram air parachute snapped open, yanking hard on the body straps and
swinging him wildly in the frigid air. Just as quickly and a whole lot more disconcerting was the
unexpected and sudden release of that pressure on the straps. A quick look up explained the renewed
feeling of rushing to the ground. The canopy had collapsed and the lines looked hopelessly tangled.
Maybe some rogue piece of shrapnel from the missile hit had pierced the parachute pack.
The ice rushed to meet his feet at over 100 miles per hour. Brian could imagine a red smear across
the crisp white glacier that would mark his last jump. Part of the chute still dragged behind him
spinning him viciously as the white expanse began to engulf him. Using all his strength he rolled on
his back pulling his combat knife from its ankle sheath and slashed at the shrouds. With his other hand
he released the reserve chute. The reserve chute streamed out as the failed canopy fluttered and quickly
disappeared behind him.
Watching him, Warrant Officer Fedor Mikhailovich Rabik felt the smooth recoil of the rifle flow
into his shoulder. A practiced veteran, he kept his eye to the telescopic sight and watched as the man's
parachute began to candle. That was unexpected but welcome. He was enormously impressed by the
man's efforts to jettison the tangled chute and deploy his reserve. He doubted whether he could have
done the same. Still, it was a shame in many ways that his target was not rewarded by such an
impressive effort. The man and the un-deployed reserve hurtled out of sight into the glacier. Rabik
lowered the weapon. Aptly named "Thread Cutter", the 7.62mm VSK-94 Vintorez was living up to its
name, even if it was a coincidence. Ideally suited to cold conditions, the VSK-94 was made completely
of composite construction with an alloy barrel and integral suppressor while still retaining full-
automatic capability. The whole setup was incredibly light and weighed less than three kilos.
After a few moments of scanning the impact area, Rabik stood up, shouldered his weapon, and
began to walk the 500 yards to where he saw the body fall. The glacier was rough going. Like a page
of wrinkled paper that someone had tried to straighten out, it was criss-crossed with compression
ridges, berms and deep fissures. Two water channels had also dug into the ice surface, fed by the
summer melt water. This was the only place on the continent you could hear the sound of running
water. Despite his supreme fitness, it still took Rabik twenty minutes to cover the distance.
Standing near the edge of the glacier, Rabik scanned the ice. There was nothing. No chute, no
body. He hadn't slammed into the glacier after all, but had obviously fallen somewhere near the base of
the towering ice cliff that ended the glacier's march to the valley below. Not good. He wanted to see
the body. A veteran of Chechnya and numerous other hotspots in which the Russians found
themselves, Rabik was still alive because of his instinct and unerring dedication to do each and every
job properly. No short cuts. It was then he heard the sound of rocks. Rocks and pebbles sliding down
a slope.
Hamilton had missed the glacier edge by just a few feet. The canopy had just started to bite into
the air as his body smashed into the top of the scree slide, plunging him headlong down the slope. The
force of the impact knocked him unconscious. When he came to he was on his back facing downhill.
His senses were immediately alert. He lay perfectly still, slowly allowing his eyes to focus as he
looked back up the scree slope and to the towering cliffs of the glacier. The sun glinted off the ice.
Not ice! A voice in his brain screamed. Hamilton rolled rapidly to one side as a heavy calibre slug
buried itself into the rocks and stones where he had just been laying.
Rabik swore to himself. He had had him dead to rights. Rabik's quarry was now moving
surprisingly fast, zigzagging erratically as he raced down the remaining slope, trying to put the scree
slide between him and eternity. The Spetznaz Warrant Officer squeezed off two more shots and then
went to full automatic. Puffs of dust and stone exploded all around the running figure. This guy was
good. Really good, he thought. His movements were unpredictable, making it hard to keep a bead on
him. And he was strong. Rabik bit his heavy mittens; they were making shooting more difficult. He
quickly shook them off and hoisted the weapon back to his shoulder.
Brian's lungs burned and his muscles screamed in protest. It was still 100 yards before the curve
of the scree slope hid him from his hunter. He weaved furiously, running across the slope, every
muscle in his back twitching as he waited for the impact of the big 7.62mm slug. Stones and dirt
sprayed up around him, blinding him. It was a VSK-94, he thought … Spetznaz, big soft bullets with
the stopping power of an elephant gun. They made nasty holes on the way in and took most of your
insides with them on the way out. One hit was all it took. He shook his head as a round buzzed past
his ear. Too close, still fifty yards to go, too far. The guy was going to pick him off. He should be
dead already. The scree was a mix of rocks, light shingle and powdery dust, hard to run on.
More bullets exploded into the ground around him. Hamilton removed his own mittens, which
hung on straps, and then threw himself into the air, spinning and rolling in space while removing the
Browning from his jacket. He landed hard on his back, head facing down hill, skidding down the
slope. Through his legs he could see his attacker and the barrel of the VSK pointed directly at him. It
was too far for a handgun but it was all he had. He emptied the clip, 13 rounds in rapid succession as he
continued to skid down the scree.
Rabik jumped as the 9mm slugs ploughed into the glacier beneath and around his feet. Ice
splinters sprayed through the air and into his eyes, blinding him. By the time he cleared them the man
was gone. Shit.
Once behind the protection of the scree slope, Hamilton kept going. Removing himself as far as
possible from the last position the Spetznaz trooper saw him.
He reached into his jacket for the new Sat phone he had pocketed on the C130. Wrong! It was
obviously not designed to crash into mountainsides. He quickly buried it. He then stopped and took in
the landscape around him. He was no stranger to the Dry Valleys.
On a continent completely covered with ice, the valleys were small oases of exposed dirt and
running water. Only two percent of Antarctica was ice-free, most of it right here. It had been that way
for over eight million years. At times they were filled with giant lakes and at other times almost empty.
The glaciers that oozed between the mountains had retracted and advanced, but never far. The reason
the valleys were ice-free was that the distant Trans Antarctic Mountains formed a dam there, holding
back the East Antarctic Ice Sheet.
There were no fish in the lakes, no birds in the sky and no animals. Glaciers retreating through
here four million years ago had wiped out everything except microscopic organisms.
From his position looking down the valley, Hamilton could see Lake Vanda. There would be a
summer research team there, exploring the strange and bizarre environment of the dry lakes.
A stream wound its way between tall berms of material deposited by the retreating glaciers
providing possible cover. It also provided cover for his enemy. Somewhere out there was a team of
Spetznaz, intent on killing him and taking the evidence. He had to assume they wanted the stick.
Hamilton knew Lake Vanda was just a 10-minute helicopter ride in from the Ross Sea coast, so
close, yet so far. First of all he had to get rid of the guy following him and then try to avoid the rest
and figure a way of getting back to McMurdo. The sound of water was the inspiration.
Getting wet was not a good idea. Despite that, Hamilton slid into the freezing glacial stream at a
point where it wound its way under the glaciers edge. It was numbing and he knew within minutes he
would be unable to function or defend himself. The seconds seemed like minutes and the minutes
hours. His shivering was becoming convulsive. From under the ice ledge that he hid beneath, all he
could see were the boots. Russian boots. Because of the cold, Hamilton knew he would be weaker and
the Russian stronger and prepared. The fight would have to be decisive. He struck hard with his K
knife, grabbing one of the man's legs, cutting and sawing hard through the boot, severing his ligaments
at the ankle.
Rabik was taken by surprise. He had not thought to look in the water, a bad mistake. The knife
strike caused his left foot to fail. Powerful hands grabbed his legs and he felt himself being dragged
under the ice shelf. In the last moment he cursed his decision to put the big black mittens back on as
his flailing hands reached for his own knife. His head struck the ice as he was dragged under, the
freezing water engulfed him. He knew only too well the feeling of the knife as it severed his throat and
what it meant. Warrant Officer Fedor Mikhailovich Rabik thought for the briefest moment of his wife
before it went black.
Hamilton released the body and sheathed his knife. Without so much as looking at the Russian's
body as it floated away face down in the stream. He scrambled out of the water and lay panting on the
sand. The sand was warm. Just inches higher the temperature was very much colder, just seven
degrees Fahrenheit.

*****

Because of its unique nature, the Dry Valleys were a favorite site for research teams during the
summer months. A Kiwi meteorologist and Australian biologist idly watched the group of men
approach them from the lower part of the valley, chatting and wondering what research party they
belonged to, because they had not heard of anyone else coming out here for the next few days. It was
not until they got closer that they saw the guns. Then it was too late.
Of course the Russian Officer did not kill them immediately. The Colonel wondered whether the
two, now enemy scientists, might know something. Maybe they had seen or even helped this man
Hamilton. He would make them talk first. Then kill them. Spetznaz had a special passion for the sexual
organs. A very old and simple method was used to demonstrate the power of Spetznaz. The captors
drive a big wedge into the trunk of a tree, then forcing the victim's sexual organs into the opening and
knock out the wedge. They then proceed to question the other prisoners. That was one of his favorites.
Obviously, Mikolai Nabialok thought, there were no trees here. So it had to be the old 'swallow'
method. Well known in Soviet concentration camps, it did not require any weapons or other
instruments, and if used with discretion, didn't leave any traces on the victim's body. Mikolai ordered
his men to lay the scientists face down on the ground. The Spetznaz troopers grabbed the scientists'
legs, bending them back until their heels touched the back of their necks.
The men screamed and moaned in agony. Despite their ordeal, the two scientists were still not
able to help much. One more try, the Colonel thought. He removed the principal Spetsnaz weapon -
the little infantryman's spade. He ordered the men untied. They kept saying they knew nothing. It was
becoming annoying but exciting. He was wary to keep the pleasure of the interrogation from his face.
Spetznaz did not torture anybody for the sake of torture. There were practically no sadists in
Spetznaz. If one was found they were quickly disposed of. Both the easier and the tougher forms of
questioning in Spetznaz were an unavoidable evil that the fighting men had to accept. They used these
methods, not out of a love of torturing people, but as the simplest and most reliable way of obtaining
information essential to their purpose.
Mikolai Nabialok knew this and went to great pains to erase the facial evidence of the huge
pleasure he derived from the infliction of pain on another. He first used the blade of the shovel to cut
off each of their ears and then fingers, while also smashing the victims in the liver. They screamed,
wept, begged and protested ignorance and innocence until the end. Still keeping a mask on his face,
Nabialok stood up from his severing operation of the man's genitals, the thick red blood pumping onto
the sandy soil, the only place on the ice continent that it would not freeze on. The man was dead, like
his academic friend. Now they could really join the valley culture, he thought, almost laughing at his
little joke.
"Let's go", he said, once again impatient. They were not there for razvedka, intelligence gathering.
They were there to kill and take the evidence. Rabik had told them over the radio he had seen the
parachute further up the valley. He said he had seen the man plummet to his death. That was the last
he had heard from Rabik. Had he fallen? Had an accident? Was the man on the parachute dead and was
it Hamilton? Clearly the scientists knew nothing. It was obvious the Americans would want to keep the
evidence secret. Only one parachute was seen to leave the aircraft before it crashed. Four of his men
were already on the way to search the wreckage. He now had to find Hamilton and Rabik.
If Rabik were injured he would give him the blessed death. He almost hoped. It would provide a
good demonstration that he was not sadistic. Spetznaz had a very humane means of killing its wounded
soldiers - a powerful drug known as 'Blessed Death'. An injection with the drug stopped pain and
quickly produced a state of blissful drowsiness.
In the event that a commander decided, out of misguided humanity, to take the wounded man with
him, and it looked as if this might jeopardize the mission, the deputy commander was under orders to
dispatch both the wounded man and the commander, the commander to be removed without recourse to
drugs. It was recommended that he be seized from behind with a hand over his mouth and a knife blow
to his throat. If the deputy failed to deal with his commander in this manner, then not just the
commander and his deputy, but the entire troop would be regarded as traitors, with all the inevitable
consequences. Colonel Mikolai Nabialok smiled to himself again. He really did love his job.
Hamilton made his way to the floor of the dry valley. His new Sat phone was smashed, not that it
would have worked without satellites, but at least he had the VSK-94. He was in a boulder field.
Ventifacts -- rocks polished and smoothed by the wind -- littered the surface. The ground in between
was soft and brown, powdery, filled with pebbles. As he dived for cover behind some boulders the fine
powdery sediment kicked up into his face. He couldn't help but notice it tasted like flour with some
gunpowder mixed in.
There seemed no sense to the rocks scattered around him. As he stopped and listened for his
pursuers, all he could hear was the wind shooting down from the glaciers.
Just ahead of him lay the mummified seal. He had heard about it but never seen it. It gazed with
perfectly preserved black eyes in his direction. It was the ideal guardian for this land of the barely
living and the long dead.
It was blond and lay on its left side. Part of the skin around its eye socket was gone, but his eyes
were still black and a little shiny. The skeletal structure of his left flipper and his tail were clearly
evident: long, thin grey-white bones that looked like human fingers. He could have died last week. He
could have died last year. One look around the valley and you were staggered to understand how he got
there. For over 10,000 years the little seal had watched with dead black eyes.
They did not have to go far to find the Russian Spetznaz Warrant Officer. Face down his body
floated and bumped down the stream towards them. His throat had been cut, by an expert too.
Whoever was out there, the Spetznaz officer realized was a professional. Rabik had been a legend in
the force. Not a man to be taken easily. This was going to make for an excellent hunt.
Further up the valley the four-man team Nabialok had dispatched to the C130 crash had discovered
two survivors, the rest of the crew and passengeres burned. Both survivors were injured and the
spetznaz had to drag them down the slope from the crash site. It was a tough job. They had packed
stretchers for such an event, but this was no rescue mission. The stretchers were to get them to a place
to stabalise them, get them to talk and then kill them. The team leader spoke briefly on his radio. Far
below Nabialok smiled. He tucked the radio back into its carrier.
Hamilton waited. For an hour he combed the surrounding slopes with the rifle's scope. Nothing
moved. He waited longer. Finally he was rewarded for his patience; higher up on the northeastern
slope he could see dust. It must have been two thousand yards away. He hunkered down and waited.
He could see they were dragging two stretchers. That could only mean there were two survivors. But
not for very long if the Spetznaz had a chance.
The VSK-94 Vintorez, Brian thought, was a very nice weapon, really light, well balanced. The
scope was brilliant. The shot was 1,000 yards, extreme range for the weapon. The first round found its
target, slamming into the back of the neck of the lead trooper. He fell flat on his face. The other men
reacted fast. The second round took out another as he dropped the end of a stretcher. Return fire came
quickly. It now came down to a matter of time. Other Spetznaz would arrive. Brian knew that. The
two wounded were in the open. Brian was no longer on the defensive. He knew who his enemy was
and they would use the wounded Americans as bait. As soon as he had fired the second shot, he rolled
back into the creek and was quickly carried along the thin channel of water, dug in and concealed from
the view of the two surviving Spetznaz who were still figuring out what was going on. Minutes later he
was below them. Already the cold was biting back into muscles, slowing them down. He crawled
back on to the dry dusty valley surface, the VSK-94 poised in front of him. The two surviving Spetznaz
were well trained. They realized they were blind to the flank and exposed to the rear. Hamilton had
hoped to chance upon an undefended flank. Instead, they were prepared, with one facing in his
direction as soon as he became exposed. 7.62mm rounds impacted the sand so close to his head he
could feel the breeze from the bullets.
He fell back into the water, drifted for twenty feet and mustering all the strength in his cramped
muscles pushed hard and fast from the creek bed, the VSK-94 already up to his eye as he crested the
bank. The Spetznaz was quick, his weapon swinging quickly to him, the flash of the muzzle suppressor
telling Brian he might be too late. There was a heavy punch to Brian's shoulder as he lunged forward,
his own weapon barking in response. The Spetznaz jerked violently from the headshot. Brian kept his
momentum, jumping over the still-twitching body, looking for the surviving trooper. He was
committed; he kept moving. The surviving trooper reacted to the fire fight, spinning quickly to face the
threat. He only saw a blur as a dark figure rushed over him. That was the last thought he had.
Hamilton released the Spetznaz trooper's head, letting the body fall to the ground. Without
pausing he put the riflescope back to his eye, looking back down the valley. Far below he looked into
another set of VSK-94 scopes pointing back at him. For a moment both men looked at each other,
Nabialok and Hamilton, both of them mentally squaring off against each other; neither bothering a shot
at the extreme range. Hamilton was sure the man was smiling.

*****

The problem was the injured men. There was no way he could move them. Looking back at the
Spetznaz team on their way up the valley he figured he had at best 15 minutes. They were running and
he knew they would not stop until they started shooting. It was a trap. There was nothing he could do
with the two wounded men except save them a protracted death. He slid his knife from his sheath
wishing he were anywhere else but here.
Even for the fittest of the fit, it was a hard run in sand, all uphill. The sight of their comrade's
bodies floating face down in the stream only pushed the Spetznaz troopers harder. They wanted
vengeance.
The two bloodied Americans lay on their stretchers shot in the face. The Russian Colonel
wondered: the act of a coward or a ruthless professional. If it were the latter he would make an
excellent Spetznaz. He paused for breath as his men quickly worked to secure the area. There was
nothing. The unseen foe had run, leaving nothing but the dead. This man had already killed half his
force.
It was the white T-Shirt that bothered him. It clung to the creek's edge. Bloodied and torn. It was
out of place. Nabialok stood there, something snapping and biting on the edges of his brain. Then it
came in a rush. The cigarette dropped from his fingers as the cold realization fell upon him. He
opened his mouth to scream a warning. But even as the sound came out there was an enormous
explosion that lifted him off the ground and threw him thrashing and struggling into the bitter cold of
the creek.

*****

With the last of his strength Brian pulled the injured men ashore. These men were not trained like
himself. Yet they had floated down the river without a breath for nearly two minutes, severely injured
and freezing. They were all hypothermic. Brian's gunshot wound to the shoulder was numb, but at
least the cold had slowed the bleeding. The enormous effort of pulling the two wounded men's bodies
though had finished him. He lay spread eagled on the sandbank, the two Americans now dressed in
Spetznaz cold weather clothing next to him.
Master Chief Andrew Wilkins was in a bad way, broken ribs, punctured lung and severe
concussion. Despite that, he looked across at Hamilton, a frigid white face attempting to crack a smile.
"You think we are screwed?" he said weakly.
Hamilton could only nod. His speech was slurred by cold, barely comprehensible.
"Maybe not" the Chief managed to say. His hand partially opened, the red light of an emergency
radio locator beacon flashing between his fingers. It featured two-way speech facility and provided
homing signals to assist search and rescue operations. The beacon was picked up by a U.S Naval
helicopter which was already responding to the crash locator beacon from the C-130.
The rescue helicopter was fighting its way into the crash site against some extreme weather.
Despite the still tempestuous winds that would normally ground most aircraft, U.S. Marine Pilot
Lieutenant Michael Jeffries found himself blown all over a sky he would much rather have viewed
from the sidelines. The twin jet engine, 22,000lb UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter bounced violently at
the mercy of the Antarctic's powerful winds. The Black Hawk, nose down and with the pilot pulling a
lot of collective, had to fight for its fragile purchase in the air. Jeffries looked at the cold green water
of McMurdo Sound 200 feet beneath him. Strewn with broken ice, heavy swells smashed themselves
against the towering white cliffs of the Ross Ice Shelf. It wasn't at all conducive to swimming. It made
him wonder what could be so important that the U.S. Government felt it warranted risking a highly
skilled pilot, crew and multi-million dollar chopper.
There was a transition zone maybe a mile long, where the ice met the hard-pack and then Piedmont
Glacier at the foot of the Valleys. Jeffries entered the valleys just east of Marble Point through a saddle
and into a course local pilots call "The Labyrinth." The dark brown walls of Wright Valley towered
above him 5000 feet high, streaked with pressure marks from a past no one was around to remember.
The Black Hawk raced up the valley tracking the distress beacon, hoping it wasn't another trap. Within
minutes they were pulling on board what looked like two nearly dead Spetznaz soldiers and a civilian.

*****

McMURDO STATION. Brian came to with a start, smashing the hand away from his body and
rolling off the table and into a crouch. It was purely defensive. Unfortunately for the nurse, it broke
her hand. The doctors and Marine security detail all took an immediate step backwards. The nurse was
screaming, adding to the confusion. A frightened Marine pointed the barrel of his weapon in panic at
Hamilton. This was getting boring, Hamilton thought. Before the startled Marines could even think,
they found themselves facing one of their own weapons. After releasing the clip, Hamilton handed it
back, tapping the inside of his jacket at the same time. The stick was still there. The nurses, doctors
and security detail were all still looking at him.
"Get me a phone," he said loudly. "NOW!"
"The phones don't work," one of the Marines said. He pointed up. "Satellites are down or off line,"
He shrugged. “and the weather of course.”
Hamilton grunted a response, still feeling pretty sore. There were a lot of satellites that serviced
Antarctica. GOES-4, INMARSAT, LES and MARISAT to think of just a few. There were four
INMARSATs in a geosynchronous (GEO) orbit over the equator at an altitude of 36,000 km. This
meant that any key survellience and communication satellite linked to Antarctica had been targeted or
disabled somehow.
"What about radio?" He asked.
"Jammed," the Marine said. “We seem to be suffering severe jamming.”
 Some one was obviously very well prepared. The hardware and systems to achieve such a black
out weren’t readily available unless deliberately positioned with an intent to use them. They, the
Russians or Chinese, were preparing an attack, Brian thought. But if normal communications were
down it was likely that some airborne relays would be positioned to intercept and pass on
communications. "Weather balloons?" he said. "There must be weather balloons here. Can you find
one?"
The Marine had decided Brian was one of the good guys. "Yes Sir!" He moved under Hamilton's
arm and helped him up.
The patch took a while to setup. Hamilton was right, beyond or above the weather homeplate had
setup some relays. He also knew there would be only so much time to communicate. The balloon was
moving away fast meaning weather and jamming would soon overwhelm the link.
"Alex, it's Brian. No doubt you know what's happened down here." He could visualize the man
nodding on the other end. There was a garbled response; he guessed it said yes. "Okay, can you get
some imagery on Vostok?" he responded.
"Are you kidding me?" Alex said. "Even the President is getting in the queue for that one."
"Alex, it's important. I want you to compare two shots several hours apart of the Vostok wellhead.
It's melting down. Down to the goddamn oil lake beneath." The image of the fuel bladder burning a
hole in the skiway played in his mind, overlaid by the thought of the much fiercer fire of the Vostok
wellhead. Brian had been in Kuwait during the first Gulf War and had seen first hand how they
burned. Oil under huge pressure rocketing from the ground in a massive tower of flame so hot you
could not stand within 150 yards of it, the constant roar of the fire like the sound of big jet engines. Of
course the Vostok flame was many times larger than any of those in Kuwait.
There was a pause on the other end. "You there....?"
The other man stuttered. "Its burning...oh shit"
"Big time now, massive blaze hundreds of feet into the air. Well at least it was. I guess it's sunk
beneath the ice and is closer to the lake now."
The sudden realization and enormity of the situation hit Alexander Blake like a hammer; he was
running on the spot. "Damn … of course. How do I reach you?"
"Not so easy to get Sat Phones or mobiles down here. My last one broke. I'll have to……." The
communication dropped out. Active jamming, Hamilton thought. Brian quickly scribbled a note and
gave it to the Marine. "However you have to do it, Morse code, pigeon, whatever, get this through to
ADF. They will know what to do." The Marine nodded. Brian didn't notice, he had passed out again.
 *****

AVALON. Victoria Australia. Three F-111 crews were dead and a Chinese capital warship had
been sunk. Under normal circumstances that would have been diplomatically disastrous. But the cruise
missile strike and the ignition of the Vostok wellhead had cast the episode in a completely different
light. On top of that, Hamilton’s explanation of the shoot down of the other three aircraft in his flight
illustrated the aggressive nature of the Chinese incursion into Australian territory and the assistance of
Russian fighters.
With the situation deteriorating rapidly there was little time to waste thinking over such matters.
The politicians would have to deal with that. Right now Hamilton was fixated on working up the rest of
the aircraft and aircrew as well as getting as much time as possible on the F-111S simulator.
The strike groups aircrew had a little over one week’s work up and training under their belts. It
was hardly enough, but it would have to do. The crews were all experienced, most with thousands of
hours under their belts. It all came back very quickly. They spent endless hours in the F-111 simulator
as well as in the air. The skies over Avalon rattled 24 hours a day to the sound of Pigs thundering in
and out of the airfield in a seemingly endless procession of sorties. They were the only assets that could
provide any air support that far off shore. Ready or not, if the call came, they would have to go.

*****

Media. Int.
For Immediate Release
Australians Sink Chinese Warship
By Vincent Gray, Media Int. Press Writer.

The Chinese warship Taizhou has been sunk by Australian fighter jets in the Southern Ocean.
This adds to an already explosive situation in which the Russians and Chinese have accused the U.S. of
trying to take Antarctica's Vostok Station by force.
Australian Defense Force Headquarters issued a brief statement midday claiming the aircraft
were acting in self-defense. There was no confirmation that three F-111s were lost in the same
engagement. The Chinese have been quick to lay the blame for the current crisis at the feet of the U.S.
and Australia.
The Chinese Ambassador to the UN was uncharacteristically emotional when responding to the
news, saying, “This was a cowardly and unprovoked attack on one of our vessels in international
waters. A surprise attack by aircraft, that the Taizhou was led to believe were friendly, giving them no
chance to defend themselves. This action reinforces our belief that the U.S. and Australia are working
together to gain control of Antarctica's oil wealth through the use of military force.
“China asserts its right to free passage and movement over international land, sea or airspace; it
will vigorously defend itself against the recently aggressive U.S. forces."
A Chinese defense analyst speaking off the record warned that Australia, with a significantly
smaller military, was bent on "self-destruction by twisting the tiger's tail." Australia should not play
"gunboat imperialism when they had little better than popguns," the analyst said.
The message from the UN has also done little to relieve the international pressure on the
Australian and U.S. governments. The UN Security Council was quick to condemn the action and
asked both Australia and New Zealand to respect the neutrality of Antarctica and remove their forces
immediately; the UN also demanded unreserved apologies from the U.S. and Australia.There was no
mention of the cruise missile strike on Vostok station. The Secretary General added weight to the
world body's message by re-stating the UN position that Australia, New Zealand and other claims to
Antarctic territory were not recognized. China, Russia and Germany, indeed "all friendly nations"
were fully entitled to protect and defend their personnel operating in Antarctica, he stated. – End

*****

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia, December 6 0600 UTC. Stringer pressed the phone hard
against his ear, unconsciously speaking out loud because he found it difficult hearing the other end.
"The Tandems sensor suite can't see that far yet, not as far as Vostok anyway." He said into the phone.
"What are you saying about the well head?" he shouted. He could barely hear Blake; his cell phone
would drop in and out.
"I said we think that in seventy-two hours the burning well head will reach the lake below. The
result could be catastrophic," Blake shouted back.
"What do you mean `catastrophic?"
"A blanket of choking smoke over the southern hemisphere for decades, maybe even the entire
planet. That and melting ice caps rising in ocean levels, you get the picture. All the available data we
have on the lake paints an ugly picture," He paused. "You don't have to be a mental giant to figure out
the basics. Heat melts ice. At thousands of degrees it turns into vapor almost instantly. For the record
Dave, I'm saying the best-case scenario is seventy-two hours."
There was no answer from the other end. "You there David?" Blake asked.
David Stringer stared at the phone in his hand. That did rank as catastrophic. His mind was racing.
The logic was plausible. "You happy to share your work on this? Other people are going to want to
look at how you came to this conclusion." Blake agreed. Stringer would have to get his own analysts to
validate the hypothesis, but his gut told him Blake had a case. "Blake, don't go away, I'm going to need
to speak to you."
"Okay, but David?"
"Yes?"
"Don't take too long, it's now three days to zero." He hung up.
Stringer cradled the phone. Blake's finality was unnerving. David's next call was directly to the
Director, Chauncey Gray. He quickly relayed the information.
Gray sat back in his chair listening. What a fucking mess Finn and Miles have left. "So what's the
deal? What do we need to do?" He asked.

*****

SCOTT/McMURDO Bases, December 7 0100 UTC. The sea ice had closed over. A flat white
landscape as far as the eye could see. Beneath that, the black hull of TK-20 pushed quietly through a
veiled ocean, hidden from the rest of the world. The massive and sinister shape of stealth had driven
submerged through the Ross Sea, McMurdo Sound and finally to Erebus Bay. It was a feat in
navigation made possible by years of experience in hiding from the west's hunter-killer subs.
Silently she had drifted closer to the coast. As the bottom gradually shelved up closer to the
sparkling roof of ice above, the big submarine had coasted to a stop. There was no cover of darkness,
just the shroud of silence that had kept her hidden through thousands of miles of ocean. She rose up
gently, the large sail punching easily through twelve feet of ice, shrugging off chunks big enough to
crush an elephant.
Even before the last piece of ice had slid down the side of the hull to fall on the surrounding sheet
of white, the Typhoon's large forward hatches flew open. The wet steel deck became a hive of activity
as men and equipment swarmed over it and onto the surrounding floe. Within 30 minutes the hatches
were closed again and the mass of titanium and steel slid back beneath the ice sheet.
TK-20 was the largest submarine in the world and one of the most feared weapons of the Cold
War. The Russian Type 941 Typhoon, a massive ballistic missile boatwhich had for decades patrolled
the deep ready to lay down a nuclear holocaust on her enemies. The submarine could carry over twenty
long-range ballistic missiles delivering more than 200 nuclear warheads. She boasted two separate
pressure hulls, the inner one made of titanium. The submarine's robust design allowed it to travel under
ice and through it, the sail hardened for ice breaking, with bow planes, periscope and other masts
retracting into protective housings in the hull.
Despite her size, TK-20 had driven at more than 25 knots half way round the world pushed by two
large seven-bladed props fixed to two pressurized water reactors generating over 50,000-horse power
each.
Forward of the huge sail, the missiles were gone along with their silos and launch tubes. The
cavernous space that once housed nuclear destruction was now the temporary home to a full company
of elite Russian Marines moving into the operational phase of their mission.
The Marines, black dots against the vast backdrop of white, were already on the move as the sub
slipped away. Hand picked from the Northern Russian Naval Command, they were used to operating in
a world of ice, having spent most of their lives in the frozen wastelands of Siberia and the Northern
Arctic. Dressed in white camouflage 'freezers', their small fleet of specialized fast-track armored snow
vehicles accelerated easily over the smooth flat sheet. To their left the imposing white mass of Mount
Erebus towered above them; in front of them, thirty miles of nothing and then Ross Island, their
objective.
It took nearly an hour for the Russian Marines to cover the distance. When Hut Point came into
view, they split in two groups, some turning into Blackwater Bay and the pier, while the others
continued past Observation Point and onto Scott Base and Williams Airfield.
McMurdo was by far the largest station on the southern continent. Built on bare volcanic rock,
which was exposed in summer, the station was not a pretty picture: a scattering of bland buildings
against a backdrop of dirt and snow. It was the primary logistics base for U.S. Antarctic operations.
The station was essentially a small city at the end of the earth with over 85 buildings, 3000 resident
scientists and support staff, and all the luxuries, including stores, clubs and fancy stuff like sewers and
power lines.
The arrival of the Russian Marines was barely noticed. The dock maintenance crew heard them
first. The sound of the revving engines powering the specialized armored snow tracks stopped them for
a moment as they watched in curiosity. They shrugged and kept working.
The Russian assault team leader gave the signal for the first squad to detach and secure the ship
and pier. He took the rest of the assault team and headed directly towards the Field Operations
Communication Center, which operated satellite, radio and data communications. The Ham radio
shack was not forgotten either. The instructions for that were simple. Level the building.
The armored snow tracks drove with a purpose. The Russians knew exactly where they were
going. They had planned and practiced the mission for more than three weeks. The officer
commanding the first assault team tasked with securing McMurdo drove directly to building 167, the
USAP operation and administration center. The Russian Major stepped purposefully from his tracked
mount and strode into the chalet, passing without a glance the stunned administration personnel staffing
the front desks and walking directly into the office of the Senior U.S. Representative in Antarctica - a
National Science Foundation official. It was over quickly.
Fifteen miles away the second team had a potentially tougher job - securing Williams Field. On
their way, they dropped troops off to prevent any communications or trouble coming from Scott Base
and pushed onto the permanent airfield. There was not a single shot fired. On the ground were a C130
and C17 transport. The Marines rounded up the stunned crew quickly, preventing them from utilizing
the aircrafts' communications equipment to alert anyone else.
It took less than 15 minutes to secure the two stations, ship and airfield. The Russians knew there
would be others still outside their net, but that was not a problem; they would have to come in from the
cold sometime. The primary mission objective was to secure the airfield since there were Russian
support aircraft due in less than 30 minutes, waiting for clearance to land. The Russian commander
transmitted an all clear.
On schedule, the deep thunder of heavy jets could be heard as Russian Ilyushins code named
'Candid' by NATO, approached Williams Field. The Russian Marine Major looked at his watch, right
on time he thought with satisfaction. The Il-76MF(TF) was a high winged, four-engine transport ideally
suited to cold and rough field operations. The Candid could carry 50 ton of cargo, including armored
vehicles, artillery and other hardware, over thousands of miles. The first aircraft to touch down had
barely stopped before the rear ramps dropped to the ground to disgorge more men and equipment that
quickly fanned out over the airstrip to prepare for the aircraft behind them. One after the other they
landed on the airstrip and were directed by the ground force.
Back at McMurdo the typhoon had made her way to the pier. The docked U.S. icebreaker had
been hurriedly backed out under emergency diesel power to make way for the typhoon and her sister
ship as they broke through the pack ice to the wharf.
The huge submarines, having discharged their first responsibility were now ready for the second
part of their mission. They still carried a lethal load of torpedoes and cruise missiles and were now free
to go on the offensive.
 At the same time at Scott Base, Brian was recovering consciousness. When he finally opened his
eyes the doctor and the nurse he had seen previously were gone, replaced now by a Russian Marine
who guarded the door. His initial hunch had been right; the Russians had taken the base. He wondered
whether his message had got through to the right people. The Russians wouldn't know about the Dry
Valley incident yet he reasoned. No doubt they were having troubles with communication as well, so
even if something did surface, it would be a while to put two and two together. He noticed his arm was
in a sling. The Russian guard looked at him.
"You are awake." The guard said in Russian.
Brian didn’t appear to understand, he made a snapping gesture with his hands and pointed to the
arm, he moaned something unintelligible. The guard came closer, and bent over to try and hear what
he was saying. With his good arm Brian smashed his palm into the guard's solar plexus, the man
collapsed to the floor. Brian examined the body, he was still breathing. There was no point in killing if
you didn't need to. However, the guy could wake up at anytime.
Brian looked quickly around the room and found the answer to that problem as he rifled through
the drugs cabinet; Benzodiazepines, an anaesthetic with a useful property of inducing sleep and
amnesia. The Russian Marine would wake up with a sore head and not a clue about what happened.
After injecting the unconscious soldier, Brian carefully shaved and then quickly swapped clothes. He
poked his head out of the door. There was another guard at the end of the hall. He hoped like hell
these guys were not well acquainted.
He stepped into the hallway. "Эй, я нуждаюсь в моче." Brian said in Russian saying he needed a
piss.
" теперь! Что относительно заключенного?" The Russian asked about the prisoner.
"Da, заключенный является не сознающим.” Hamilton replied telling him the prisoner was
unconscious."
Okay be quick the other guard said.
Brian walked straight out of the clinic and onto the main road of the station. That was when he saw
her again. Holy shit! She looked at him in surprise; the three marines escorting her looked at him as
well.
"I know you northern marines are desperate, but three guys to pick up one woman?" He said loudly
in fluent Russian, a well placed regional accent in his practiced rendition. “It’s been that long?” The
men escorting her all laughed.
"I just use Vodka" He said laughing with a skulling motion, the other hand in the sling suggesting
something else he did. They laughed louder. He dared not look at her. The recognition in his eyes
would be too obvious and he couldn't trust her reactions; not only that, every time he saw this woman
the world went to hell. He kept walking.

Natasha Braithwaite was nothing less than pole axed. The Russian soldier walking across the road
looked exactly like Hamilton. He spoke heavily in Russian and all of the men laughed. She had no
idea what was going on. Hamilton, she was sure it was him, turned as he laughed with the rest, and
walked away with a casual wave. He never looked at her once.

*****

JOCHQ BUNGENDORE Australia December 6 1400 hrs UTC, midnight local. The Chief of
Joint Operations (CJOPS) closed the connection of the recently installed NSTS Secure Telephone
System. From the pan into the fire, he thought. This was a term that would come back to him in a way
that could not be imagined. The CJOPS looked across his desk to his senior staff officer. "The shit is
truly going to hit the fan. One of our guys has just spoken to Stringer. He - Stringer, that is - you
remember the guy, big fellow."
The staff officer nodded his head. He vaguely remembered some large fellow that was part of the
U.S. intelligence network.
"He thinks the burning oil head at Vostok will reach the oil lake in less than 70 hours from now.
Unfortunately it matches our own early estimates. Worst-case scenario, we understand, is a possible
global catastrophe; at the very best, Australia, New Zealand and our other southern partners will be in a
cloud of choking smoke for the next hundred years. A cloud so thick it will kill every sun-reliant
organism that exists."
"Bugger." It made a nuclear winter or Krakatoa event sound like partially cloudy days.
"Precisely … bugger." He paused. "Set up an urgent meeting with the Crisis Management Team
and EMA within 60 minutes." He thought for a moment before coming to a decision. "Declare a Civil
Emergency and put our entire defense force on alert. Issue a full call-up of Reserves and get every civil
rescue, fire fighter, doctor, dentist and person able to help (Protected occupations managed at state
level), on standby and ready to go." The CJOPS looked out the window. He wasn't giving the Prime
Minister much choice here. But time was definitely not on their side. He would rather be fired for
getting it wrong than damning the nation to oblivion. "The Prime Minister," he continued, "will be
declaring a national emergency. Every television station, radio station, newspaper and every media
outlet will be directed to broadcast any communication we deem necessary. If anyone stuffs around,
the AFP are ordered to arrest those responsible on the spot.
"Last, but most important, get COG, the Combined Operations Group, to begin a plan to visit
Vostok with FABs, courtesy of Mister Stringer, within 48 hours."

*****

Australian Defense Headquarters Canberra December 6. 0630 hours UTC.

The senior intelligence-briefing officer didn't waste time. "As a result of the recent intelligence
estimates, we have a New Threat Upgrade. We are cross-referencing the numbers now but have issued
REDCOMS to all defense units. We think Colonel Hamilton is right. His guys have given us some
pretty interesting calculations. According to them we have less than seventy-two hours before the
wellhead fire reaches the oil lake and ignites it.
“So we are designating that event three N-Days from now (N-days are days before D-Day). We
have in motion a plan that can potentially extinguish the flame; I will get to that in a moment. Before
we can do anything about the wellhead, we have to deal with the entry of the Russian and Chinese
fleets into the theater of operations. We have to get past them. They are now close enough with the Han
AFB and tanker support to project air power over almost the entire region.
“The Chinese fleet is considerable, including its aircraft carrier and more than 40 plus modern and
highly capable surface combatants, not counting submarine and air assets. If you look at your little
electronic notepads, you can see the list of hardware we are facing." The staffer waited a moment while
the audience scanned their notepads.
"Our AOPs are between 60° and 130° east, which is on the border of the French claim. We
understand the Chinese AOPs are about the same. With the fleet, TU95s, H-6Ms and Backfires on
round the clock operations, they have effectively drawn a metal fence between Australia and
Antarctica.
“Within the last few hours we have also lost all contact with Davis, Scott and numerous other
stations." Most of the assembled already knew this, but that didn't stop them from muttering beneath
their breaths. "The Chinese and Russians claim they know nothing about it…naturally. But they have
issued a communiqué that says any aircraft attempting to fly to the magnetic South Pole or Vostok
Station will be shot down and that any vessel attempting to land near Zhong Shan or any of the two
country's respective stations will, given recent events, be assumed hostile and a threat to their
legitimate presence in Antarctica.
 “Global Hawk via our surviving Tandem flights have identified numerous air defense missile
batteries in and around these stations." He pointed to the large multi-functional command and control
screen, which showed a map of the entire theater of operations overlaid with friendly and enemy assets.
"How the hell did they get that equipment in?" someone asked.
"It looks like the French let the Russians unload the equipment off the ice breaker Arktika at
Dermont D'Urville and forward position it. The Chinese used the resupply ship Xue Long to load into
Zhong Shan. Both these vessels are large. Big enough to land a brigade's worth of heavy equipment
each onto hard ice. While we can't see much below the sixtieth with satellites, we have seen a lot of
transports flying into the area; obviously fortifying their positions. These have been flown from Martin
de'Vivies and Argentina.
"U.S. Defense Intelligence believes the Chinese and Russians will attempt to land more ground
forces near Vostok; probably on the strip that Colonel Hamilton built with the polar base crew to get
the extraction aircraft in. Both the Vostok and original magnetic polar base skiway were wrecked by
the Russian cruise missiles.
"The Russians are playing it safe and avoiding any conflict going in. Their Pacific fleet is headed
through the Tasman Ocean to the edge of the Amundsen ice pack and the Russian research station at
Russkaya, outside of Marie Byrd Land. All of this is unclaimed territory. They still have that huge
icebreaker down there so they could potentially use that to carve a channel closer to the coast. The
Russian Atlantic assets are probably headed for Novolazarevskaya, a base they have in the Norwegian
claim.
"The Chinese, on the other hand, are pretty pissed off about losing the Taizhou and look like they
might push their main fleet past the sixtieth parallel into Australian Territory to make for their base at
Zhong Shan. From there, with air support from Zhong Shan and heavy equipment off the ships,
including lots of defensive fire power, they will then go for the skiway at the Magnetic Pole and to
Vostok from there."
"What are the options?" one of the officers asked.
"In less than two hours we will face off the main Chinese fleet at the sixtieth parallel. We can
make an argument of it or let them go through. You can see on the display the position of all our
current assets here."
"What about waiting till they get to Zhong Shan? All bottled up there it will be like shooting fish
in a barrel."
"We thought about that. They will set up a defensive perimeter of mines, subs and airpower that
has the advantage of concentrating firepower. They will have little to no threat from the interior and
therefore only have to look north. It would be like walking into a bear cave in the dark. The Chinese
Naval force is currently due east of the Heard and McDonald Islands, approximately 150 kilometers
from the sixtieth parallel and Australian Territory. We expect them to try and cross the 60th."
"What about the Americans?" The Commander of Joint Logistics asked. They were already
working over time on the anticipated logistic requirements.
"Everybody is still blaming them for starting this whole thing, which is why we are trying to get
Colonel Hamilton back here ASAP. Apparently he is carrying evidence that proves it wasn't the yanks
that threw the e-bomb."
"Does he say who did?"
"No. No, he didn't say that."
The CJOPS stood up and took the podium. "It will take us 24 hours to recon Vostok Station and
launch the Daisy Cutter mission. It's all of our jobs to make sure we are ready to go. Time spent in
planning means less time wasted later when lives are on the line."

*****

AVALON VICTORIA. The ‘call’ came before anyone expected it. Such was the urgency that not
just normal precautions, but any precaution that got in the way of the slated mission was ignored. It was
to be a maximum effort, the magnitude of the threat so grave that virtually any risk that had even had a
smidgen of a chance was worth taking. Buck Shot’s plan had him using just one Pig to go to Vostok.
Buck Shot decided it would be an F-111S, A8-272 aka the Bone Yard Wrangler. The least reason of
which, she boasted a forward landing gear assembly that would be a necessity for what he had planned.
The others would sortie with the F-111C’s. No one else had enough time, any time in fact, on the F-
111S to effectively use them.
From that moment forwards A8-272 was his personal ride. Along with Jake his systems operator,
they would task and continually test themselves and the aircraft. Every moment he was not needed on
the ground, he was in the air. The rest of his training would have to be conducted on the way to the
target.

*****

Media. Int.
For Immediate Release.
 Australian Ambassador and diplomatic staff expelled at gunpoint
By Vincent Gray, Media Int. Press Writer.

Dec 6 0500 Hours UTC. Adding to the deepening rift between Australia and China, early this
morning the Australian Ambassador and the entire diplomatic staff were expelled at gunpoint from
their embassy offices and taken to Beijing's international airport with nothing other than the clothes
they were wearing. In a statement issued by the Australian Prime Minister Dennis Gordon today, he
stated his government has and is making repeated requests to Beijing to resolve the current crisis
through dialogue and to avoid conflict at all costs. Australia re-issued its regret for the loss of the
Taizhou and its own F-111 crew but did not apologize for the incident as the UN has requested,
pointing out that the aircraft were protecting the integrity of Australian territory and had acted in self
defense after being fired upon.
There has been no response from the Chinese government.Gordon also notified the UN, Russia
and China, of Australia's recent declaration of a state of emergency in relation to the threat of the
burning oil head at Vostok Station. Environmental analysts have strongly suggested that if the fire
melts down to the massive lake, the result will be catastrophic. 'This situation is alarming; and
apocalyptic would better characterize the event,' Gordon said. 'I believe we should all be far more
worried about the wellhead fire than making grabs for land or oil."
The Russian President has dismissed the Australian claims. 'This is a futile attempt to regain
control of the Vostok oil field, even after using electromagnetic pulse weapons to try to achieve the
same result through force with their allies the U.S. This typifies the shotgun approach to international
diplomacy these coalition countries use when they are unable to get their own way though dialogue or
negotiation. They refuse to play by the umpire's rule when it doesn't suit them."=
Within the last hour, Prime Minister Gordon had made a personal plea to China's Secretary
General to hold back its South Pacific fleet and allow Australian emergency teams to put out the fire,
inviting the Chinese to join the effort. China dismissed this recent overture, issuing a statement to
China's leading daily newspaper in which it accused Australia of an "unprovoked attack" on the
Taizhou while repeating the Chinese government's intention to protect Chinese nationals "wherever
they may be." End.

*****

THE 60TH PARALLEL, December 6 0830 UTC. 1800hrs local. It was still daylight at the 60th
parallel, an invisible line in the sea, oblivious to the naked eye. But to the electronic brains on the
Chinese and Australian warships, it was measured to the foot.
The tension in the command center of each warship was palpable. Running at an even speed, the
countdown to crossing was precise; one hundred and fifty eight seconds.
"Battle stations, battle stations," rang out on every ship.
The ANZAC, Adelaide Class Frigates and Hobart Class Destroyers stood back from the line by
20,000 yards, giving themselves room to fire and maneuver. It also meant that as the Chinese crossed
the line, nearly all the surface combatants were within each other's range.
Admiral Wen Jinsong stood on the bridge of the Chinese aircraft carrier Shi Lang, watching the
Captain direct last minute preparations for combat. While the carrier was much smaller than its
American counterparts, it carried the powerful Granit (Shipwreck) anti-ship missile system that had a
range of over 350 miles, not to mention some other surprises that the Admiral wondered if he would
have a chance to use, hopefully not. Glancing to the port side he could see the PLAN ship Haikou
plough through the southern swells the water raking past her bow and over the huge 171 number on the
side of her hull. She was a Luyang-II class Missile Destroyer which featured an indigenously
developed four-array multifunction phased array radar (PAR) similar to the Aegis AN/SPY-1 equipped
by the U.S. Arleigh Burke class and Japanese Kongo class DDG. The ship was also armed with the
indigenous HQ-9 air defence missile system comparable to the Russian S-300F/Rif in performance, and
the newly developed YingJi-62 (C-602) anti-ship cruise missile (ASCM). Also out there, he knew,
were the Lanzhou, Harbin, Hangzhou and others, the latest in Chinese Naval development. Behind
these were many older but reliable missile frigates and below, the Han, Kilo, Yuan and Shang class
submarines. All of them ready for a fight. Would the Australians have the balls, he wondered? The
digital counter showed 60 seconds.
Already launched were the carrier's air wing of SU-27 and SU-33 Flankers, the Yak-41Ms and
seven Kamov Ka-27 anti-submarine helicopters, not counting those helicopters launched by the missile
frigates.
On the other side of the 60th parallel, Wen's counterpart, Rear Admiral Kenneth Sullivan, watched
the large combat screen in front him. The screen projected every visible surface and subsurface asset
overlaid with the ship ID, direction, and speed. Also programmed in and visible was the 60th parallel
with an estimated time of arrival. Less than 45 seconds. The Admiral listened intently to overhead
communication, waiting for a cue from HQJOC. While he could defend the fleet, he was not yet given
permission to start a war. The seconds wound down.
Every missile operator on every ship, both Chinese and Australian, was intensely alert. Opposing
ships were already locked into the firing and targeting systems. It would be a battle of who could shoot
first, fastest and most accurately. Five seconds to go.
Rear Admiral Kenneth Sullivan looked around the bridge of the guided missile frigate HMAS
ANZAC. The ship's Captain looked calm. There was nothing else to say now, this is what his men had
trained for; they knew what to do and would do it well.
The first Chinese ship reached the line. Sullivan knew his superiors at Joint Forces Command were
watching the same screen as himself. The expectation was intense. The Luhu Class destroyer crossed
over the line. On every ship the combat operation officers held their breath, mikes in hand ready to give
the orders; the combat system operators tracking the targets waited for the order, their hands poised to
initiate and launch their missiles.
On the bridge of the HMAS ANZAC, every nerve sang in the anticipation of the phone ringing.
The seconds ticked by. The next Chinese warship moved up and crossed over the line. In each combat
operations center, on every bridge and on every weapons and tracking system, the crew, so mentally
geared up for action, began to give each other nervous glances. Gradually the entire Chinese taskforce
crossed the line. The phone remained silent. Finally the order came.
"Stand down, stand down all systems." And to steering: "Steer course 180 south"
The orders were given and the ships of the Joint Australian and New Zealand Task Force heeled to
starboard as they moved to increase their distance between themselves and the Chinese fleet.

*****

CHINESE TASK FORCE, December 6. 1830 hrs.

"So they backed down," General Chen Jianguo
"So they backed down," General Chen Jianguo responded acidly to the news. "As I said they
would. Honor and the Chinese people will demand heavy payment for the Taizhou. But for now, the
fact they have faltered allows us to get on with business."
"It appears that way Sir. But these are not people to back down. I think there is more to it." Wen
said speaking to the General over the PLAN Video Communication Network.
"You are a pessimist Wen. They know they are outgunned. Without the U.S., they blinked when
they knew we meant business. They know we are angry about the Taizhou and that any provocation
would invoke an immediate response. Indeed, they probably knew we were hoping to have the excuse
to fire on them. They are not stupid."
"Yes, I agree with that General. But I still feel we are missing something."
 The General bristled slightly. The Admiral was becoming annoying. It was obvious. The
Australians had buckled when confronted with a superior force. Why wouldn't they? Most smart
military commanders would back off and fight another day. Why did Wen find this so hard to
understand? "All the more reason to be vigilant." He dismissed the concern and went to the reason for
his call. "We have declared a 200-kilometer protective security zone around the fleet. The UN is
conveying that message to the Australians as we speak. If any foreign ship infringes that, sink it.
These orders are being sent to you in writing now."
The implication to Wen was immediate. "This means the security zone will be an ever moving
line."
"Yes, and you must vigorously enforce it," he said forcefully.
Admiral Wen Jinsong realized that the CMC had decided on engagement as part of its strategy.
Now with every turn of the big ship's screws, the closer his task force would come to that moment.
The new security zone if enforced was the key to bringing the opposed forces to blows; it would
inevitably envelope other naval forces at some point, providing a trigger to Chinese forces to take
defensive action. Accepting that, his decision to move his flagstaff to the aircraft carrier Shi Lang was
a good one; he would order his present flag ship, the supply vessel Nancang into Zhong Shan. If he
was going to get into a fight, the Nancang, while very comfortable, was not the ship to do it from.

CANBERRA, AUSTRALIA. 0900 UTC 1830 local time. It took less than 30 minutes for the
Chinese message to be relayed through the UN to the Australian diplomatic mission and then the PM.
Prime Minister Gordon was fuming. "A protective security zone! Not only that but it's a fucking
moving security zone!" he yelled, adding, "Filthy bastards." The PM never swore. He was either losing
control or very pissed off.
"They relayed the message to us through the UN," the Australian SECDEF said.
"So the UN has become a delivery boy for the Chinese now! This is a rather transparent ploy to
initiate a contact, so they then can blame us for the hostility through violation of their self-proclaimed
space. And the UN sanctions it. If we were off their coast and tried the same thing the UN would
laugh at us."
"Point is, they are saying it's not our coast," the SECDEF said, not wanting to disagree.
"We have a damn sight better claim than they do. It's akin to us going up there and claiming
Taiwan or the Spratley Islands. The Chinese didn't have any conscience taking those territories, as well
as Tibet and others, did they? Given the history of the Antarctic claim, the fact we are the closest and
only sovereign state, the ownership is hardly contestable. Indeed it is enshrined in the very principles
that the likes of Russia used to retain Chechnya, and China on Tibet, Taiwan and numerous other
territorial acquisitions. The most important distinction is that the Antarctic territory was vacant when
we claimed it, and in the case of Russian and Chinese claims in their own regions, we did not try to
occupy or send troops or support those territories in dispute. Yet here they are on our doorstep, all the
way from the opposite side of the planet. We damn well are in our rights!"
"But in the international press they can give their northern hemisphere argument a good run,
especially in Europe."
"I think it deserves one more shot diplomatically, but we aren't going to back down."
"You don't sound confident."
Gordon sighed. "I'm not. The Chinese aren't going to back down either. This security zone thing
was setup to deliberately draw us into a fight. We don't have any choice though, it's Vostok or bust."

*****

Media. Int.
For Immediate Release
Australia Demands Chinese Withdrawal
By Vincent Gray, Media Int. Press Writer.

Dec 6 09450 EST. The Australian Government has used harsh diplomatic language in its demand
for the Chinese to withdraw its forces from its claimed territory and Self Exclusion Zone in Antarctica.
The Australian claim is one that most countries increasingly believe to be invalid and that Chinese
forces are operating legitimately in international waters. The UN Security Council has met in urgent
session passing a resolution put forward by Russia, France, China and Germany to help resolve the
conflict. Australia risks the possibility of censure, economic sanctions and potential UN enforcement if
it fails to abide by its rulings. End.

*****

CANBERRA, AUSTRALIA. The Prime Minister looked at the press release in dismay, snorting.
"UN enforcement, the Undecided Nations? Where was that during every genocide they managed to
ignore in the last half-century? Now they get the balls. Now the permanent Security Council is the
cartel of three. I guess the greed factor is really kicking in, overcoming their normal complacency and
gutless inaction.
"It looks like half the UN has been bought off with the promise of cheap oil. They also obviously
think the Chinese will win this standoff while the U.S. is hunkered down in the Pacific."
"The Indonesians think so too," the SECDEF, said. "They were scared shitless the Chinese
territorial claims in the South China Sea could reach as far as the Natuna Islands." The islands guarded
the funnel to Java, and were the site of extensive gas fields. He waved a piece of paper. "They have
just withdrawn all military co-operation in favor of Russian and Chinese relationships. The Chinese in
return have promised not to attempt to resume ownership of the Natuna Islands and to provide military
aid.
"You can bet your left nut when they receive the rest of their Kilos, Luda class destroyers, Sukhois
and the rest of it, they will be breathing down our neck in the Timor Sea and all the way to the Barrier
Reef.” A prediction that would come back to haunt him. “What's the situation with the Chinese fleet
now?" Gordon asked.
"The bulk of the force is unloading on the coast. They have established several guided missile
destroyers as pickets with the bulk of the force standing just off the Amery Ice Shelf and heading east.
With the 200-kilometre exclusion zone around their ships we can't even get close. Trouble is those
bloody Shipwreck, Sizzler and Sunburn missiles. Well outside our envelope. Even our latest Block II
Harpoons on the ANZAC's don't have those sort of legs. Both the Harbin and Qingdao can also lob at
us from over 120 kilometers away, not to mention the capability of their other combatants. Point is we
are out ranged. There is no way we can attempt a surface engagement. We are against a superior force
that outnumber and outgun us. They also WANT a fight. They would love to bust our nuts over this.
At the moment, the Chinese, Russians and their Euro mates think they have this almost in the bag."
"Maybe they do?" the Prime Minister said.
"It sure as hell does look like it, doesn't it?" But his expression looked determined.
The Prime Minister thought of the men and women that made up the crews of the submarines,
frigates and aircraft that might have to go into harms way. He saw the Hamilton brothers, like the rest,
committed against all odds. "We are not quite out of the game yet," he said.
Thousands of miles south the Australian Task Froce steamed at a safe distance from their
adversary, shadowing their every move. In Avalon, ground and aircrews worked tirelessly, checking
and rechecking aircraft, preparing for a shooting war.

In the mind of the Rosenbridge Foundation's Alexander Blake, there was only one important
question: What was going on in Vostok Station? Stringer's request to include a close look at the
wellhead during an SRO flight over Vostok had been approved. The data was critical to confirm or
debunk Blake's worry about the wellhead. He now waited patiently to hear the outcome.
While he waited, on almost the other end of the globe, a high flying Global Hawk surveillance
aircraft had been orbiting the destroyed station for several minutes before turning north and heading
home. It would be a few more minutes before it could communicate with its mission control and send
its data payload from beneath the satellite blackout.
To the northeast of the Hawk's flight path, Russian SAM sites sniffed the air. Situated on a small
rocky outcrop, a BIG BIRD long-range surveillance and tracking radar had detected the SRO flight at
50,000 feet over 320 miles away. After several minutes the target was seen by the doppler target
acquisition radar and then the phased-array engagement radar. The Russian Major looked up from the
tracking screen. Global Hawk, he thought, obviously trying to communicate with any surviving forces
they might have had left in Vostok. He was seated in the battery command post and engagement
control center, one of the many tracked vehicles that made up the heavy S400 long-range SAM battery.
"Kill it," he ordered the missile operators. The command given, he looked out the vehicle's
windscreen at the cold forbidden ground of the Scott Peninsula. It looked very much like home. His
was the first unit to deploy here and the first he hoped to be credited with a kill.
From the vastness of the white landscape he looked back to the towering columns that were the
missile containers, elevated to the launch position. They were big: eight meters long and weighing
1800 kilograms. The Grumble missiles were mostly a one-shot, one-kill scenario weapon system, with
a 95-percent kill ratio against aircraft and almost 100 percent against cruise missiles. The left-most
canister's lid flipped open and the big missile catapulted from its container. The vertically launched
missile used a single-stage solid propellant rocket motor, which ignited in a massive plume of smoke
and fire that rapidly accelerated the missile to more than 5600 feet per second.
The Australian Global Hawk targeted by the Russian Grumble system was trying to communicate
with an RAAF Wedgetail, which was acting as an Airborne Communications Terminal much further
north, which in turn was able to feed through to satellite coverage above the 60th parallel. The Launch
Recovery Element and Mission Control Element for the Global Hawk's deployment were based in
Launceston, Tasmania.
Hunched over his controls, the pilot of the Global Hawk looked with concern at the incoming track
of the Russian missile. They were only just now beginning to get communications from the Hawk via
the Wedgetail, but it was still rough. They needed the payload of precious information before it got
killed.
"Locked?" the pilot asked the Payload Operator (PO).
 "Locked. Nothing much we can do there," the PO said tracking the event on his workstation.
"Have you got the payload?"
"Not as yet. Give me some time?"
"Roger that," the pilot replied, wondering how he was going to do that, considering that the
incoming missile was closing at a little less than two miles every second. "Sixty seconds," he said, the
impending death of his satellite aircraft already depressing him.
The Global Hawk was a Low Observability, High Altitude and Endurance UAV, or LO-HAE. Its
greatest defense was height against mostly smaller mobile systems.
"Forty seconds."
The Hawks other defense was its standoff distance from the threat, a defense traded for valuable
information. He hoped the data was good. It was from the start a risky mission. He had never lost a
bird before, but when the S400's target acquisition radar acquired them he knew she was history. "Ten
seconds."
"Almost done."
The almost two-ton missile dived into the car-sized Global Hawk at over 2000m/s, its proximity
fuse detonating the 230-pound HE warhead. The pilot didn't have to say zero. The screens fizzed.
"Shit!"

*****

THE GREAT HALL OF CHINA, December 6. 1200 UTC. The Central Committee Secretary
General, Yuen Xinghua, laughed at the Australian communiqué and demand. After their humiliating
back down on the 60th parallel their words were hollow and meaningless. But the sting of the sinking
of the Taizhou still irritated him. Handing the note to General Chen Jianguo, he said, "Read this! I
thought they might have learned a lesson."
"It appears not," the old General said, pondering the note. "Naturally we will not consider their
demands to withdraw."
"Of course not. In fact I believe they still need to learn a lesson. You understand what I mean,
General, don't you?"
Yes he did. The operational plan was already well in motion. With his latest orders given, it would
just be a matter of time before they engaged the Australians.
On board the Chinese flagship, Admiral Wen Jinsong read his orders from the CMC a second time
before handing them to the Captain of the Shi Lang. The print out was the confirmation of orders from
Wen's earlier discussion and both the men knew what this meant; neither of them liked it.

*****

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

In Boston, Massachusetts, a small team of geophysicists and chemists had been working on the
wellhead problem. The last burst of data from the doomed Global Hawk had reached an orbiting
Wedgetail AWACS. The data analysis was not just confirming the earlier suspicions, but revealing
something even far more frightening.
It looked to be true then, he thought. The Vostok fire really was burning to hell on earth.
Alexander Blake ran his fingers through his thinning hair. They could be wrong. But three men,
renowned experts in thermal energies and fluid hydraulics, all working independently, had come back
with virtually the same numbers. And they all nearly mirrored his own calculations. Working from
satellite imagery and Global Hawk data, his small team had been able to measure the amount of energy
being released by the wellhead fire and its gaseous make up. From this they had constructed tables to
help explain the melt rate and subsequently the sink rate of the hole itself. Comparing data twelve
hours apart and using laser from the Global Hawk, they were able to accurately measure the depth of
the holes, and then cross-reference that with their other observations. Obviously, direct access to the
site would have been much better. But this was as good as they were going to get.
"A little less than four days then," he said holding the report. The men nodded in confirmation. It
was just a thin piece of white reflex A4 paper but it felt like it weighed a ton. "Margin of error, plus or
minus three to four hours." Blake's hand shook a little bit, but he took a deep breath and said, "All right,
now we know the nature of the beast, maybe we can figure out how to kill it. How long will it take to
get some ideas on controlling this thing?"
An hour later the small team had developed a short list of possible methods to put out the burn.
After removing those solutions that required men and equipment on the ground, they were left with just
one.
"Fuel air bomb," NASA's atmospherics and combustion expert said. "But it would have to be in the
range of 55,000 pounds to put this bastard out and would have to detonate inside the hole, but before
striking either the sides or the bottom. The hole will be greater than 300 feet wide at its base and up to
half a mile wide near the surface. It will be anywhere between 4500 to 9000 feet deep."
"Why not a heavy conventional round, like a cruise missile?" Blake asked, looking for something
simple.
"Nope," he said shaking his head. "We also need massive over pressure. The fuel it is burning uses
a lot of stored oxygen. At the same time we extinguish the flame by suffocation we have to stop the
continual inflow of the lake water."
"Nuke? An air or ground burst?" That got some eyes rolling followed by more shaking heads.
"Nope. We ran simulations on every piece of ordnance we had and then turned to some more
fanciful ideas like large lasers, flooding it, capping the hole - you name it and then some. Always came
back to one simple answer, a fuel air bomb. Only that has the capacity to suck air out, provide over-
pressure while not generating shock waves that might cause even greater problems. Daisy Cutters, I
think is what they were nicknamed - FAB's."
"Yes, I know what you mean, MOAB's; mothers of all air bombs."
"Good. So we can arrange this and put it out, right? We have bases down there?"
Blake shuffled the papers in his hand absent-mindedly. "I better make some calls."
"Will anybody listen with all that's going on?" one of the men asked.
"I don't know; we have to make them listen," Blake replied. A few minutes later he dialed the
CIA's David Stringer and said flatly, "I'm afraid our original assessment was a little off target."

*****

GREAT SOUTHERN OCEAN, December 7. The Commander of the South Pacific Fleet,
Admiral Wen Jinsong, separated his force into three packages. He ordered the older diesel subs to
operate on the surface in order to increase the fleet's spread and its subsequent 200-kilometer security
zone. It was not a plan to his liking, forced upon him by the CMC. The spread of the fleet
compromised the ability for each warship to protect the others, leaving gaping holes in the defenses.
General Chen had laughed at Wen's concerns. The U.S. fleet was still in the northern Tasman Sea
and the Australians had no way of threatening China's vastly superior naval force. Wen was not nearly
as confident but said nothing.
The Chinese task force, after escorting the transport vessels to the edge of the ice pack near Zhong
Shan, had turned around and were steaming east beneath the 60th parallel.
Ahead of the fleet, the Captain of the Lin San Liu, an improved Kilo-class submarine, looked
closely at the sonar display panel. He could sense the operator beginning to work a contact. Making
way just a few feet beneath the surface, the diesel electric submarine with the hull number 366 idled
through the water at just three knots. She was deadly quiet, just her optics, communication and ESM
mast protruding to the surface.
"Captain, ESM room, new priority contact on bearing 117. Identifying new contact as airborne
radar, strength increasing."
"ESM, do they have a return on us?"
"Negative. Range is still too great. At current closing rate new contact will have a return on us in
five minutes."
"Secure antenna, drop all masts," the Captain ordered. "Weapons, Control, prioritize target as 02."
The Kilo-class sub did not carry any anti-air capability. So there was nothing the Kilo could do about
the aircraft other than report it.
"Target prioritized as 02," Weapons responded. The Watch Officer also replied, confirming that all
antennas and masts had been retracted.
The sonar operator suddenly bolted upright in his seat, the pallor on his face unnoticeable in the
reddish light of the sonar room. Despite the reliance on visual scanning, he had still slowly scanned
back and forth, listening for unusual sounds. The faint "splash, splash, splash, splash" he had heard to
their port side was all too familiar.
"CAPTAIN, SONAR. SPLASHES IN THE WATER TO OUR PORT SIDE," he bellowed into his
headset's mike.
Sonar buoys? The Captain thought, probably directional frequency and ranging types commonly
used by the RAAF PC3 Orions. "Tell me more sonar," the Captain said, a little annoyed.
"Four splashes, Captain, from the same direction as the aircraft."
"Get ready to raise the ESM and communications masts." It was unlikely the aircraft had detected
them, the Kilo Captain reasoned. It was worth the risk to get the information of the aircraft's location
and activity back to the task force.
"Communications, prepare to send a report to fleet. State: type, range, position and heading of
target 02. Report when communication confirmed. Raise the ESM and communications masts."
Once again the communication mast was raised, but for less than five seconds. The ESM room
quickly took down the aircraft's track information and handed it to communications, which then fired
the information off to the Chinese flagship.
"Receipt confirmed," the radio room reported.
"Drop all masts. Ship control, change depth to 400 meters, deep angle, speed three knots, rig for
silent running. Steer course nine zero east," the Captain said, running a course adjacent to the PC3
Orion's last known heading.
Back on the fleet's flagship, Admiral Wen Jinsong read the report from the Lin San Liu. The
Admiral ordered the Luhu-class destroyer ranging to the front of his task force to head directly towards
the aircraft contact. At the same time Wen ordered his northernmost destroyers to steer due north at
flank speed. He then invited the Captain of the Shi Lang to the big digital plot board that dominated
the center of control room, saying, "This is the location of the P3 Orion reported to us by the Lin San
Liu. I want you to position some Flankers north of that position. They carry medium range missiles,
Captain?"
"Yes they do."
"Excellent." The Admiral turned to his executive staff officer. "Order one of the Mings to the
surface." He pointed to the positions on the display. "That immediately places both this ANZAC frigate
and the surveillance aircraft within our security zone." He turned back to the captain of the Shi Lang.
"Once that is confirmed Captain, shoot down the Australian aircraft." If the General wanted retribution
for the sinking of the Taizhou, then he will have it the Admiral thought cynically. "Then send a ULF
message to the Lin San Liu to sink the Australian destroyer to its east.
The crew of the Australian AP-3C Orion believed they were well outside of the Chinese self-
declared security zone when they picked up the Luhu class destroyer turning towards them. While the
Orion was traditionally a dedicated sub hunter, its new AN/APS-137B(V)5 radar also gave it excellent
anti-surface warfare (ASuW) capabilities. Its long-range radar had already provided the eleven-man
crew a detailed picture of the area of operations, a picture that was fed in real time via satellite to the
HQJOC and any active RAN warships and aircraft. It had also momentarily detected a periscope, the
same information immediately available to the Australian warships deployed to cover the Chinese fleet.
When the pilot of the long range Orion aircraft came up to the 200-kilometer mark he turned due
east. It was then that Wen Jinsong sprung the trap. The old Chinese Ming Class submarine surfaced 50
miles in front of the Orion. The sub hunter immediately detected the surfacing Ming, turning north to
avoid any conflict.
The first indication something was wrong was when the the ALR-2001 ESM picked up a search
radar behind them, they were being hunted. The Su-33 Flanker pilot launched from the Shi Lang had
been cued by the fleets dispersed sensor systems onto the target and had fired up its radar. The pilot
went to burners quickly closing with the AP-3C Orion.
Two AA-12 Adder missiles dropped from the Flankers rails. The AP-3C's counter-measure
systems automatically fired off flares and chaff along with powerful jamming signals as the pilot
desperately threw the big airplane into a series of hard turns. But the actions were futile. The Adders
were well within range and highly maneuverable with active radar guidedance. The Amraamski, as
some called it, was capable of taking out cruise missiles and precision-guided munitions. The big slow
moving AP-3C was history before the engagement had even begun. Both missiles struck one after the
other, shearing one wing off and then the whole rear section of the aircraft. Most of the mission crew
were killed instantly, the remaining survivors pinned in their seats as the now flaming fuselage plunged
towards the sea.
The Orion however was not the main catch of the day. Back on the Chinese submarine they were
preparing a bigger dish, "Captain, new contact, prioritized as target 03. Single screw making turns for
30 knots. Adelaide Class; matches the Newcastle, bearing 274 west."
"Range?"
"Sixty Kilometers."
The 3000 tonner crept forwards at three knots; to its east, the Australian Adelaide Class frigate,
investigating the disappearance of the Orion, barreled in at over 30 knots. She knew that a Kilo was in
the area, but not exactly where. The captain of the Kilo had guessed that the new splashes they had
heard were debris from the Orion crashing into the ocean. The ultra low frequency message received a
few minutes previously informed the Captain that the frigate was now technically in their security zone.
Whether it was the frigate's fault or not, his orders were clear.
"Battle stations, battle stations." The red warning light flashed persistently with the command.
"Helm, Captain, all stop. Weapons, load tubes one and two with Ta Po and open outer doors." He
waited for the confirmation. "Come to periscope depth." Running at high speed, he knew the Adelaide
Class frigate would be nearly deaf. He also guessed they would slow down and go active once in the
area of the crash. He had to be ready to react. The minutes ticked by. They were coming straight down
the throat, a more difficult shot.
The periscope broke surface, water blurring the lens. The Kilo Captain trained the scope to the
east. He increased the optic power to maximum. The Adelaide Class destroyer filled the magnified
lens. He matched range, bearing and speed with sonar and then gave the order.
"Fire tubes one and two. Close the outer doors." There was the familiar hiss of the torpedoes
leaving the tubes. "Helm, 300 meters, deep angle, flank speed, steer 180 degrees." The deck of the
Kilo tilted forwards as it plunged into the deep. After being ejected with compressed air from the
forward tubes, the Ta Po's eight small rocket motors ignited rapidly, accelerating the 6000-pound
torpedo. At over 60 knots the large central rocket motor started pushing the rocket torpedo to over 200
knots. The Ta Po's were copies of the Russian Shkval, a solid-rocket-propelled 'torpedo' that achieved
incredibly high speeds through water by producing a high-pressure stream of bubbles from its nose and
skin, which coated the weapon in a thin layer of gas. The Ta Po flew underwater inside a giant
envelope of gas bubbles in a process called "super cavitation."
 The sound of these underwater rockets could of course be heard all the way back to China. The
targeted vessel having just slowed down heard them immediately.
"Torpedoes in the water, bearing 260. They look like Shkval's." The warning from the sonar
operator hit the ship's Captain like a hammer.
"Make maximum revolutions, steer eight zero degrees," the Captain snapped. He looked briefly at
his XO. He could tell he was thinking the same thing. It was too late; you could not outrun a 200-knot
torpedo.
Unlike many other torpedoes, the Ta Po was guided by an autopilot. The early version was too
fast to accommodate the usual guidance and homing systems. The autopilots were pre-programmed for
both the Adelaide and ANZAC Class frigates. Nearing the estimated location of the target, the
torpedoes slowed, re-acquired the target and entered their terminal homing stage. Designed to attack
the large U.S. aircraft carriers, the much smaller frigate FFG 06 HMAS Newcastle was literally torn
apart as both torpedoes struck. The 27-foot, 6000-pound weapons, traveling at nearly 200 knots
smashed through the frigates hull together. The forward torpedo knifed in below the Darwins's water
line near the bow and was exiting the other side of the hull before it detonated. The other Ta Po
penetrated into the engine room, exploding deep in the ship's bowels, ripping it apart. No one survived.
The Kilo Captain through his attack periscope watched the entire event, awe struck at the power of
the Ta Po. Surely there was nothing that could defeat them now.

*****

HEAD QUARTERS JOINT OPERATIONS COMMAND, HQJOC. In the ops center in

Bungendore Australia, the CJOPS was pacing the floor. "Any word from the Newcastle?" he asked.
"Sorry Admiral. Nothing. The last message was the notification they were being attacked by
torpedoes."
"What about the P3?"
"Nothing there either sir."
Admiral Nick Jansen studied his watch. He didn't really need to; he knew what the time was the
reality was just difficult to accept.
The other men in the room also looked grim faced. Rear Admiral Nick Jansen personally knew
many of the women and men that had crewed the Newcastle. He had met their families, gone to
barbeques with them and had shared their lives. Jansen pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind
and focused on the moment. The assembled senior command watched as he quickly scribbled a note
and gave it to his aide. "Send this. FLASH message." The aide quickly left. "If there is no
disagreement, I have recalled the Darwin and Melbourne with immediate effect” he looked to the CDF
who happened to be in the Command Centre when everything went off the rails.
General Morel nodded. "Agreed, get them both out of there Nick," Morel said. "Shkval's?"
"Yes that's what I think. Darwin and Melbourne hadn't received the UWW (Underwater warfare)
upgrade either. Against that level of threat they are vulnerable."
"That's three ships out of the picture." Not the best way to start the day or a war.

*****

CIA HEADQUARTERS. David Stringer listened to Blake's strained voice over the phone before
speaking.
"Is this like an 'oops, sorry' for causing an international crisis over a threat that doesn't really
exist?" Stringer asked, wondering, for a moment, whether to be wrong and create a diplomatic
holocaust was worse than Vostok actually going up in a big bang.
"I wish that were the case. If the oil fire reaches the lake …well, we're ALL dead, not just a lot of
Australians. This is the Armageddon. It’s so close to the biblical description of the apocalypse as to be
scary. We have to stop it at any cost." He waited for David to say something.
"Go on." David's voice was flat and neutral, but Blake had his attention.
"We requested the latest analysis on the water that had been extracted from one end of Vostok
Lake. This is the part we missed the first time, thinking it was similar to the other end of the lake.
Because of the massive pressure, the water has been unable to freeze. The weight of the ice on this
particular piece of the earth's crust has caused it to stretch to a point where the underlying strata have
been exposed. The water sits on top of this and has been in direct contact with oil and gas deposits for
the last few million years. It is saturated in gases, carbon dioxides, methane and large quantities of
oxygen. Under pressure these gases stay trapped in the water. The water in its current state, if exposed
to lower pressure and a flame, will explode. The other complication is that any pressure release will
allow the oil and gas bubble trapped beneath the lake to escape and add to the mix. David, the lake is
like one massive fuel air bomb!"
"Go on," Stringer said impassively.
"In a nut shell, the scenario is this: once the melt-hole gets close enough to the lake for the
remaining ice to blow out, the hole will of course become larger. Within seconds, it'll be several
hundred feet wide with temperatures hotter than the sun and will keep expanding exponentially. This
in turn creates a huge cavern under the ice, within minutes the ice dome collapses on top of the lake
throwing its contents miles into the atmosphere and the bottom half of the world explodes. We will all
either; burn, suffocate or be killed by the resulting shockwave or earthquake. Or we'll drown by a
sudden massive increase in the sea level heralded by a tsunami several miles high. However you look at
it, we are all very dead."
"Bloody hell." Stringer sounded exasperated. "I feel like I’m in some really bad B-Grade movie."
"I wish it was," Blake said. "We could rewrite the ending. What about the Russians and Chinese?"
he asked. "Why haven't they figured this out?" It only seemed logical they would be looking at the
same thing.
"This whole issue, their agenda, is being driven from the top down," David said. "Very little is
being fed back up the command and control channel, only those things they want to hear. Their
information channels pretty much work one way; I strongly doubt that anyone voicing such concerns
would receive an audience, aside from being too scared to say something in the first place. The top
brass don't believe a word we say. They now claim the artifact we recovered from the site is
contaminated and can't be trusted, even after trying to kill your guy to get their hands on it. I think they
really do believe we dropped a pulse weapon." Stringer paused, then asked, "What are the options,
Alex? Can we drop a battlefield nuke on it?"
"No, we looked at that closely, too much danger of fracturing the ice. Even an airburst nuke will
create too much of a shockwave. Ironically, dropping a fuel air bomb is about the only answer to
prevent the world's greatest fuel air bomb from killing us all. We need to know from you, how long
will it take to get this organized?"
Stringer worked the problem through in his head. It didn't look good. "We have been working on
this scenario; it meant sourcing the bombs and then an airframe to deliver it. Each scenario we created
ran out of time. In order to get to the wellhead, we have to fly through hostile airspace, over
exceptionally long distances and require a delivery platform that can carry something that heavy over
thousands of miles at high speed." The words were clipped and anxious. "You can't just strap any old
bomb to an aircraft and hope to deliver it accurately. FAB's were never designed as a weapon of great
accuracy. The precision bombing in this case requires laser designation or something equally as
accurate. An aerial designator wouldn't last two minutes, F22s, heavy bombers and stealth's are out of
the equation, which leaves us with a ground team designating the target. This has the added problem of
the flare from the burning well head obscuring the laser," He thought about that for a moment. “but if
the burner is deep enough, which it will be, that won’t matter.” At least that was one problem was
solved, a show stopper considering GPS probably didn’t work down there or at least was not reliable
with so many satellites out of action.
"So is anything being done?" Blake asked. "Surely we have some plan, even a long shot one?"
The Director of Central Intelligence Agency Operations consulted his electronic scheduler,
visualizing the countdown. Blake deserved to know? "Alright." It was Blake after all that was on the
ball while everybody else was asleep at the wheel. "As you know, when you first suggested this
possibility, I took it straight up the ladder. We then spoke to the Australians. They were coming pretty
close to the same conclusion. They came back and asked if I could arrange some FAB's - your Fuel Air
Bombs, Alex. I did. They are now on the Clinton in the Tasman Sea, two 15,000-pound dumb bombs.
The Australians have an aircraft that can deliver on target. They also have the ability to adapt the
bombs with precision guidance mechanisms. To back that up we are still putting our own effort
together, but it will arrive many hours later. As you said, this is a long shot, but the best one we have."
For a moment the connection was quiet. "The President is going to convene another NSC meeting
in a few hours. I will keep you posted," Stringer added.

*****

SITUATION ROOM CANBERRA, NSC Crises Meeting. Australia's National Security

Committee of Cabinet (NSC) was meeting in urgent session in the new Situation Room located in
Parliament House. Senior defense staff had joined the ranks of the NSCC to form a Crisis Management
Team (CMT) - a group willing and able to make and act on decisions quickly.
The large CCPDS overhead panel that dominated the Situation Room displayed a detailed map of
the Davis Station area. An RAAF Air Intelligence Officer stood in front of the digital projection with a
very long old-fashioned pointer in his hand. He had never felt comfortable sitting in the back pointing
with a red laser light.
"The current situation is that the Chinese task forces have entered Prydz Bay and have landed
troops and heavy equipment into Zhong Shan. At the same time we have lost contact with Casey,
Davis, McMurdo and Scott base, to name a few, and presume them to be overrun by Chinese or
Russian forces. This has only happened in the last 20 hours and isn't public yet. But it won't take long,
most of the daily communications from our bases are civilian, including a lot of media releases, the
satellite blackout had them running around like fire ants. The seizure of our Antarctic bases is part of a
plan to take Vostok and other potential oil fields.
"The Chinese task force, whose flag is now the Kuznetsov class carrier the Shi Lang, is setting up
an extensive patrolling pattern designed to deny U.S. and allied forces the ability to establish a forward
element or beachhead before they are able to consolidate their positions. They are working closely with
Russian and now other countries to keep us out.
"We face two well-armed carrier groups both complemented by ground forces and airfields.
Argentina has allowed the use of its airfields in Tierra del Fuego, enabling the Russians to forward
position troops into Druzhnaya and Amundsen Scott base, now under their control. The French are
allowing Russian and Chinese transports complete access to their field at Dumont d'Urville." He
checked the clock. "As of 20 minutes ago, we lost communication with ALL our assets in the
Antarctic."
PM Gordon interrupted, sweeping his eyes over the Committee. "We have lost a frigate and an
Orion, along with their crews. The Chinese objective either being pay back or to draw us into a fight.
The U.S. are hesitant to commit forces any further than the forty-fifth without due cause. The choice
we have is simple. We can either figure out how to run their Chinese asses out of there, or do nothing.
If we do the latter we will lose our claim.
"Can we do anything about it?" the Deputy Prime Minister asked. "I mean, are we able to?"
"Whatever we do will be risky and will result in losses, most likely heavy losses. We would have
to rely on the Americans coming in sooner than later and also risk triggering a nuclear exchange. The
options available are all bad and getting worse the longer we delay. However, it looks increasingly
likely that we have no choice. We might have to fight our way to the wellhead, regardless of the price.
General Morel can elaborate."
The Commander of the Australian Forces stood up and walked to stand in front of the main screen
and large topographical map of Antarctica. "The immediate challenge is that with Chinese and Russian
forces on the ground, we have to fight our way past them to the burning wellhead to extinguish it. The
fire is expected to reach the lake in less than two days and the Russians and Chinese are ignoring it,
Nick," The CDF said, referring to the CJOPS, "has developed some strategies to help dislodge the
Chinese. I don't believe the U.S. will tolerate their bases being overrun and will deal with the Russians
as well. This recent action may provide them the provocation and argument to act."
But even as the General spoke, and unknown to the crisis group, the Vostok prognosis was
spiralling rapidly into something far worse than any of them had possibly imagined.

*****

THE WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM

"George, we should now be at DEFCON ONE, correct?" The President asked.
 George Perelli, the new Secretary of Defense, nodded his head in the affirmative.
"Good. George, you said that David Stringer was responsible for this, correct?" He nodded.
"Okay, why don't you get him in here as soon as possible and also get that guy he's been working with,
what's his name?"
"Blake, Alexander Blake."
"That's right. And Sakrov. Get 'em all down here. We are going to need them. And," the
President added, "put both Blake and Sakrov on my Scientific Advisory Committee - the PSAC."
George began putting the calls through while President Blaire turned to his new Secretary of State,
Madeline Price, briefing her on what was going on. This was the Security Council's second meeting of
the day. After the urgent call from the Director of the CIA at 1:30 a.m., the President had convened the
crisis meeting to decide their course of action.
"George, I want you to give those Australians everything they need to get this mission done. It
appears our Plan B is pretty thin at this stage. We have everybody, and I mean everybody, working on
this problem. In the meantime the Australians are the only ones with a workable plan and doing
something about it." The President glanced across the room at the Marine holding the nuclear football.
"What about that?"
"We have targeted Vostok with several battlefield ICBM's, low air burst; they just need your
authorization code," Perelli said.
"Good, let's hope like fuck we don't have to use them. The last thing we want to do is initiate a
trade of nukes. Any success we have with Vostok might be undone in five minutes if we escalate to
that level. Even if the Australians manage to put it out, it will only take a firecracker to get it started
again. Any luck on the fuel air bombs?"
"We are currently scouring our entire inventory and delivering every FAB or MOAB we can lay
our hands on by fastest possible means," George Perelli said. "At the same time we have the best brains
available trying to mate these devices to any system capable of delivering them accurately to the target
in a high threat environment. But even at best estimates we are still outside Blake's time table."
"You never know, he could be wrong. Let's keep at it anyway; we could get a lucky break!"
President Blaire said.

*****

CANBERRA. In Australia, the NSC was still meeting. General David Morel looked up from
reading a Critical Intelligence Message sent FLASH via DISA-PAC. "Good and bad news," he said.
"The Americans have gone to DEFCON ONE. Thank god for that."
"About fucking time," Air Marshal John Norton said. "Just hope it's not too late."
"Assuming that's the good news, what's the bad?" Gordon asked.
The Australian defense chief got up from his seat and walked to the overhead display. "Can I
borrow your stick Squadron Leader?" he said to the Intel briefing officer, who stepped back to allow
his boss room.
“Get me a geographic map of the entire continent, will you?" he said to no one in particular. The
map behind him quickly changed and he placed the stick on East Antarctica near Vostok Station. "The
ice here above the oil lake that was discovered is several miles thick. The entire weight of that ice bears
down on the water, gas and the oil beneath. The pressure in the water/gas mix and oil is unbelievably
enormous.
“The borehole the fluid now blows through is just a few inches wide. The hole the burn is creating
is over one hundred meters wide. At some point, as the hole nears the lake, the ice will blow out
between the lake and the enlarged hole. The trapped water/gas mix, under massive pressure, will
explode out of a 100-plus meter hole at over 100,000psi, several trillion gallons per second. The sudden
decrease in pressure will cause a gas separation, instantly igniting into a massive fuel-air-and-water
mix, increasing the immediate temperature to something comparable to the sun's surface. This in turn
rapidly increases the size of the exit point, collapsing trillions of tons of ice into the hole, which simply
explodes in the heat.
“The process rapidly increases and within minutes, the entire ice dome, over a thousand square
kilometers of ice, 4000 meters thick, will collapse, throwing the contents of the lake tens of thousands
of meters in the air and releasing the oil bubble beneath it. The resulting explosion could be a planet
killer." He didn't need to pause for effect. Everyone already thought the situation was bad enough.
"We have really never had a choice about going to Vostok, and now neither do the Yanks, which is
why they are at DEFCON ONE. Fortunately our people have not been sitting on their asses waiting to
see where the chips fall and have been working on several alternative plans. Given what has
transpired, we have one plan that has been in motion for over 24 hours. It looks like the most likely
candidate to progress, unless someone can come up with something better."
He waited. There were no takers. "It is made up of several parts. The first being to neutralize and
keep busy our Chinese friends in their quest to invade the south. The second part is actually
extinguishing the wellhead fire itself. First of all I want our Chief Intelligence Officer to describe what
it is that our forces are facing down there. Then I will explain the rest. Go ahead Mack."
The Air Force Intelligence Officer took his turn behind the glass lectern. "Thank you Sir." He
worked the overhead remotes at the same time, bringing up an image of large missile canisters on the
big screen. "Before we can do anything in or around the Chinese task force, we have to neutralize the
SS-N-19 Granit threat. Until we do that, we are forced to stand off with our surface combatants to at
least 600 kilometers." Mack Thompson pointed to the standoff distance on the map. "Our CIWS and
guns are still not proven against real missile threats. The Granit, or Shipwreck missile, is a mature and
proven weapon we don't know enough about. They have also upgraded its capabilities; what with we
don’t quite know.
“We do know it's a supersonic, long-range winged missile against which most surface combatants
have few means of protection. The missile can be fired from surface vessels and submarines. It has a
range in excess of 540 kilometers. It is over 10-meters in length and weighs in at seven tons. It cruises
at 2800 km/hr and is capable of carrying numerous warheads including nuclear. The missiles are
capable of classifying and distributing targets according to importance and then they select the best
tactics and plans for the attack.
"The onboard computer holds information to help it outsmart radar systems, as well as the tactical
methods for outwitting air defense capabilities. They are equipped with the means to out maneuver
attacking anti-missiles. After knocking out the main target in a group of ships, the remaining missiles
attack other ships in order, excluding the possibility of two missiles hitting the same target. Even if the
Granit is hit by our anti-missiles, it's so heavy and fast, it will be able to preserve its initial velocity and
reach its target. The kinetic energy, even without the warhead, will split ANZAC or Adelaide Class
ships in two." There was silence in the room. "Until that puppy is put to bed, we don't have much of a
plan. The Shi Lang has sixteen of these plus reloads, the cruisers and the other support carrier, mount
these batteries as well. The next biggest threat to our ships comes from the Sizzlers, the Brahmos,
Sunburn missiles with a range of 160 klicks and the Luzhou class Type C-602s with a range of 300
klicks."
"What about an air attack to take them out?"
"Their air and missile defense is excellent. They have numerous improved HongQi 9 (HQ-9)and
Yezh SA-21 Grizzly with ranges up to 200 kilometers. The Grizzly is able to guarantee hits against six
targets flying simultaneously from different directions and at different altitudes. The HQ-9 surface-to-
air missiles provide them multi-target handling and engagement characteristics; a capability against low
altitude targets with small radar cross-sections such as cruise missiles; as well as a capability against
tactical ballistic missiles, and possibly a potential to intercept some types of strategic ballistic missiles."
The briefer paused, catching his breath for a moment. "The Air threat is also formidable," he continued.
"The Shi Lang is unusual in that it boasts an air wing as well as an offensive anti-ship missile
capability. The air wing, as far as we can tell, is made up of 12 navalised CV Flanker variants, 16 Su-
34 Fullbacks, four Ka-29 Helix anti- submarine choppers, 18 Kamov PLOs and two Ka27-S rescue
choppers. Many of the task force's destroyers and frigates also carry helicopters.
"The Sukhois, two of which we have already splashed, care of Squadron Leader Hamilton, are
capable of carrying both air-to-air and air-to-surface missiles, specifically Moskits, presenting a long-
range anti ship capability.
"Almost the entire fleet enjoys the benefits of French Aegis-like command and control systems
ripped off by the French from the Americans and passed on to the Chinese. This means that between
their primary assets, the system can autonomously manage fleet defense to defeat incoming threats."
The politicians in the room were by this time looking deeply depressed. The shadow Minister for
defense looked stricken. "How could we let this happen?" he lamented.
The current Minister for Defence snapped back angrily. "We let this happen when you opted not to
invest in cruise missile defence despite ongoing public criticism by experts."
The Labor Senator went from stricken to mortified, the Prime Minister held up his hand to stop the
squabbling.
"Mack, please carry on."
"The main portion of the fleet is in the Davis Sea supporting the landing mission into Zhong Shan.
The supply and logistics ships are anchored in Prydz Bay. The Shi Lang and her escorts are running a
tight patrol to keep air cover and submarine defense readily available to the landing forces. It is a 2631
nautical mile flight from Hobart, 2469 from Albany, and 1454 from Scott. We haven't heard from
Scott or McMurdo bases and assume they have been overrun by either Russian or Chinese forces,
likewise, as you know with both Davis and Casey Stations. So we have no known airfields to deploy
from other than our home bases. Our destroyers, ANZAC and Adelaide Class Frigates are currently a
few hundred kilometers east of Heard Island, keeping out of reach of both Granit and airborne threats.
"Our Frigates and destroyers, with the exception of the two we have recalled, have an offensive
antiship range of 240 kilometers with the Harpoon, and defensive capability against any further attacks
from Shkval torpedoes from Chinese Subs, as well as the EMR HVAPFSDS."
"What the hell is that?" the Labor Senator asked.
"It's a High Velocity Armor-Piercing Fin-Stabilized Discarding-Sabot propelled by an
electromagnetic railgun," the AIO said.
"Should have guessed," the Labor Senator said, any other time it would have been funny.
The CJOPS took over. "I think we would all agree that we need to focus all our resources and
attention on a singular mission." He looked around the room, heads nodded in agreement. "Until that
wellhead fire is out, it's the only mission. Prime Minister?" Morel said deferring the final solution to
the PM.
"Agreed," Gordon said.
"That and we have to keep it out," Morel added. "There is no contingency plan that exists to cover
this scenario. We have to get past a superior force for a primary mission of putting the flame out. We
have to develop a Plan of Attack (POA), and very quickly. That POA to extinguish the flame requires
the delivery of specialized explosives that will momentarily rob it of oxygen. They need to provide
over-pressure for a brief moment of time to stop the explosive gas mix from pumping into the well
shaft, Nick?" the General said to the Naval Commander. "You guys have worked up a plan?"
The CJOPS Admiral Jansen leaned forwards. "We have worked up an operations plan based on
something like this happenning," he said. "As soon as we were notified of the possibilities."
"Let's see it Nick." The General sat down. It was usual procedure to produce alternative courses of
action.
"We based this on the same DSTO advice and it works with the current plan that is underway
headed by Squadron Leader Hamilton."

*****

JOINT INTELLIGENCE FACILITY, PINE GAP AUSTRALIA. As the CJOPS outlined the
proposed plan of operations to the Security Committee and CMT, Squadron Leader Lance Hamilton
was walking briskly into the Joint Intelligence Facility in Pine Gap Australia. From Avalon, Hamilton
had made the 1900km trip in just over an hour, supercruising the Wrangler at just under Mach 2.
The DIWO (Watch Officer) was bent over a Joint Intelligence Facility Workstation, hitting the
print button. A small printer next to the workstation rapidly spat out an A4 sheet of paper. He snapped
the paper from the tray, swung in his seat and handed it to Hamilton. It contained just one line of text:
LHcompHBBrbeer.
"It's from your brother, which is why we called you in. It was sent in the clear by HAM Radio, we
don't know what it means."
The Squadron Leader read the message. His brother was alive and kicking by the looks of it. "Yes,
it's for me." He looked around the large room filled with electronic and display screens. "We need a
map of the Ross Ice shelf, near McMurdo."
The General who had entered the room simply nodded to the Duty Officer who quickly brought up
the area of operations on the main monitor that dominated the command and control center. The
Squadron Leader walked up to the screen and pointed to an area just northwest of McMurdo. "Zoom in
here and overlay the names."
The picture quickly zoomed in and feature names painted themselves over the map. "Dell Bridge."
He pointed to a spot on the Ross Ice Shelf over 50 kilometers from McMurdo. "Brian's saying he's
going to try for Dell Bridge; that will be the DZ/LZ. The computer he has is a Dell. We have argued
Mac versus PC for years. He has always bought Dells. The 'Br' is just an abbreviation for Bridge, not
too hard. Beer means beeroclock, 5pm local time, so that will be our NLT (No later than). The HB is
the scary part. He's suggesting the human bomb."
"What's all this getting to Squadron Leader? The human bomb?"
"Dell Bridge is in the shadow of Erebus relative to McMurdo. It's also the Point of Closest
Approach to Vostok. Somehow Brian has cottoned onto the fact that the best way to snuff this flame is
with an FAE (Fuel Air Explosive or FAB) device. He's figured out someone has to designate because
none of our satellites can provide guidance or telemetry, and it looks like he's volunteered for the job.
He's provided us a relatively secure LZ, pickup time and an insertion technique into Vostok. It just so
happens, my brother is the only one qualified to use the Special Forces, Experimental Stealthy Delivery
package. The SFESDP."
"I thought we had run out of acronyms; how the hell could you remember that?"
"Most of the time I don't. Which is why we call it the Human Bomb or the HB pencil, and not
meaning to be smart, it's the Australian outback version of the British EXINT (Extraction/Insertion)
System."
"Got you. So go on. How can this help?"
"The HB has a range of 300 kilometers and is essentially a stealthy cruise missile gutted to fit a
man inside with basic steerage controls and equipment. Dropped from an F-111, it can get a man on the
ground undetected."
"I don't need to ask about your brother's capabilities, do I Hamilton?"
"No Sir you don't."
"He is becoming somewhat of a legend. I hope between the two of you that you add to that. Make
it happen Hamilton, and do it fast, we are flat out of alternatives."

A little over an hour later, Lance Hamilton, 10 Squadron, 82 WG, read the brief they had just
received from David Stringer before tucking it back into the Combat Mission Folder. He was still
unzipping the front of his flight suit to let some blessed cool air in after the return flight from the
Australian interior. The MOAB information had been secreted into the rest of the blurb that made up
the Daily Intelligence Summary Cable. He had instructed the duty intelligence officer to watch out for
it. The MOABs or FABs would be aboard the USS Clinton. David said Brian would know the skipper.
Hamilton looked at the name; Captain Chris McKay. Sundog you old dog he thought, it was nice
having familiar names around.
"What about the Daisy Cutters?" Jake asked. Like Lance, RAAF Squadron Leader Jake Purcell,
Hamilton's Weapons Officer, was also shedding some of his flight gear and stowing it in his locker.
"Ready to go it appears, but I don’t know about us," he said.
"I don't get you; why not?" Purcell asked.
"Our two 15,000 pound FABs are being modified with an upgrade from the Israelis." This turned
FAB’s standard iron bomb casings into a stand-off delivery munition, enabling the attacker to keep at
least some distance from air defense systems, the Point of Impact, and then get out before the weapon
detonated. "But without any GPS or SATNAV assistance, we need laser guidance. The whole area
will be crawling with Russian ground forces and you can bet there will be more SAM systems around
than bristles on a brush."
"Okay, I'm still listening," Jake said.
"Target designation. With the loss of all of our bases and airstrips, we are running thin on ways of
getting in there to laser the wellhead. We need someone on the ground. Designation from the air won't
work either," Lance said.
"Why not use a cruise missile, or even a nuke?" Jake asked.
"That won't guarantee snuffing out that flame and could just complicate it. We only have one shot
at this," Lance said,
"The Russians are going to view this as a major escalation." Jake replied.
"I know. But I would far prefer to duke it out with the Russians or Chinese later than argue the
point as we get drowned by a tsunami, suffocated by a global cloud of smoke so thick you could walk
on it or simply blown to kingdom come."
"I see your point."
"It's a risk we have to take.
"So who's going to be the COLT on this mission?" Jake said referring to the Combat Observation
and Laser Team.
Lance was in the process of hanging up his helmet when he stopped in mid track. "Brian." He said
simply.
Jake thought about that a moment before speaking. "Well, while I wish it weren't your brother
mate, knowing how important this is, I wouldn't want anyone else on point." He smiled. "I know from
having a few beers with some of his SAS mates, that if you have to take a trip to hell and get back,
Brian is the one to get you back."
As the two men spoke, far to the south, Russian and Chinese forces were making their way to
Vostok with heavy air transports. In the Tasman Sea and southern oceans U.S. and Russian naval
forces were beginning to converge, preparing for battle. Time was running out. Lance's brother looked
at his watch, this was no time to waste time, he had to move.

*****

VOSTOK STATION,. December 7 0400 UTC.

"Prepare to jump."
"Jump!' On command, men and equipment streamed from the rear of the massive Condor aircraft.
In its second pass with its giant ramp dropped, the aircraft flew low and slow over the white vastness,
tracking between the ground flares set up by the path-finding team. With parachutes streaming from
the rear, the Russian version of the western 'hot extraction' pulled tons of heavy equipment from the
rear of the aircraft on specialized pallets that fell to the hard ice surface absorbing the shock of impact.
"Get those bulldozers going, quickly. The main force is just 40 minutes out!" the Russian Colonel
screamed into the wind. Mikolai Nabialok looked at the scene of devastation around him. The cruise
missiles had done a great job. But it wasn't just the wind that made him shout to be heard. It was the
infernal roar of the burning wellhead. You could still see the flames through the massive heat wave of
steam and smoke, making it impossible to get within 300 yards of the hole that it spewed from. That
was not his problem however. Building an airstrip in 30 minutes was.
Once again the Russian Candid proved it's worth, dozens landing into a hastily built and very
rough ice field carved out by just a handful of dozers in less than 40 minutes. Minutes later, in a finely
tuned dance of combat forces and logistics, supplies from the Pacific Fleet via McMurdo and Russkaya
flowed into Vostok station.

*****

HQJOC BUNGENDORE AUSTRALIA.December 8 Sat. 1130hrs UTC. Admiral Nick

Jansen, the Chief of Joint Operations was leaning on his elbows rubbing the back of his neck when the
idea came to him. He snatched the phone up and punched in the direct line to the CDF. He quickly
outlined the idea.
 "I think it's worth a shot. Buys us some time without committing our main force," the CDF agreed.
"Do it. But we are going to have to get permission from USACOM."
"I think they will agree. Since Blaire has taken over, we are getting co-operation plus, but we need
a decision fast. Longreach is near Darwin but heading south at flank."
"You're right, we don't have time. No time for the chain of command to process the request. Let
me call Perelli direct. I will call you back in a few minutes." The CDF hung up the call and from his
comms terminal dialed a direct line to Perelli. A few minutes later he called back the Australian JTF
commander.
"Yes Sir."
"Perelli is sending a direction to USSTRATCOM; the air wing will be temporarily transferred to
the theatre CINCPAC. The operational control to yourself," the CDF said. "They are all yours. Are we
going to be able to do this in time?"
"Yes Sir, even if I have to paddle myself."

*****

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

TASMANIA, AUSTRALIA December 8 0630hrs UTC. It was surprisingly cold. A large high
had settled over the Southern Ocean extending all the way to the southern states of Australia. While
the sky was cloudless, the big anticyclone had rotated the bitterly cold air from the Antarctic Ocean
into the waters southeast of Tasmania, Australia's smallest state, an island located beneath the southeast
edge of a continent that masqueraded as an island.
It was here that RAAF Squadron Leader Lance Hamilton had decided to launch the last minute
dash to snuff a flame that threatened human extinction. It was also the closest step off point to the
Clinton and the munitions they needed to finish the job.
It was without doubt a long shot. But he and the Australian command knew they were fresh out of
options. There were a whole bunch of things that could go wrong. Brian might not show up; the
carrier part of the mission was almost crazy; and whether they could even mate the damn munitions to
the F-111 on a bare piece of ice in the middle of the frozen wilderness with half the Russian Navy
breathing down their neck was insane. Was the ice field smooth enough? Would the HB work?
Like his brother, Lance hated complicated plans. They spelled disaster. This plan was not only
complicated, it was unrehearsed and unfortunately the only one they had. Most of the world was
oblivious to what was potentially the most catastrophic and destructive event in human history. Lance
looked into the night sky, they were lucky, the thought of what lay before him and the consequence of
failure made him sick to the stomach.

*****

Several hours later the Hercules C130 started engines and taxied to the end of the strip. In the dark
it took off. An hour later the F-111S also taxied to the end of the runway. In moments it was in the air
chasing the big bird before her.
A few minutes later the F-111S passed the Herc deep in the southern extremity of the Tasman Sea.
"Do we have something to land on yet?" Jake asked.
"You mean apart from water?"
"Well I hate to get fussy, but I was hoping for something solid. If I remember correctly, there is
nothing else out here but salty H2O."
"Theoretically there should be something out here somewhere - solid, smooth and long enough for
us to stop on without getting hurt. But that's just the theory."
"We really are landing this thing on the Clinton, aren't we? Of course you have all the
qualifications so I don't have to be a baby and cry uncontrollably right?"

*****

TASMAN SEA, U.S. SOUTHERN TASK FORCE, USS CLINTON.Saturday December 8

0930hrs UTC.
"Yes Sir." Captain Chris McKay of the USS Clinton hung up the bridge phone. "This should be
interesting." He said.
"The F-111?"
"Yes, it's definitely a go."
"Means we really are out of ideas then."
"Yep"
The Bridge phone rang again, the Captain snapped it off its hook.
"Chris," the voice on the other end said. "Forgot to mention, the mission leader on this is Squadron
Leader Lance Hamilton."
That stopped Captain ‘Sundog’ Chris McKay in his tracks. The last time he had seen Buckshot was
on the Reagans flight deck, standing beside a very broken Hornet.
"Hamilton's flying the F-111 himself," the voice continued. "His Navigator is Squadron Leader
Jake Purcell. I think you know him as well."
He certainly did. If anyone was to fly this crazy mission he couldn’t think of anyone better. The
day got more interesting every minute. The Captain of the Clinton put down the handset.
"Captain!"
"Yes?"
"FLASH message." The Comms officer handed him the transcript, which he read and smiled. "All
right then," he said, a gleam in his eyes. "Bring her about boys and give these Australians anything they
want. I mean anything!"
The carrier and her escorts turned into the wind. Across the deck, the urgent voices of the Air Boss
and his assistant boomed over the public address system amidst the chaos of sound and action. From
seven stories above the flight deck, the Air Boss looked out from his tower. Everyone was now aware
something special was happening. The dramatic re-spotting of aircraft on the carrier decks, the special
instructions to the arrestor crew and the clearing of all non-essential personnel from the flight deck
meant something was going down.
After making sure the Landing Signal Officers were on their platforms, the deck/safety crew ready
and plane guard helicopter overhead, The Air Boss and Mini Boss turned on the lights of the landing
system.
On the tower side of the deck the Air Boss was making no mistakes. A huge black man from
Alabama, Commander Peter Adams, was talking on his radio phone to the hydraulics operators on the
deck below who controlled the arresting wires, one of which would grab the big bomber, slowing it
down to zero speed in less than two seconds flat.
Ensign Junior David Beaumont, the duty Arresting Gear Officer, had already ordered the controls
set to withstand the Aardvark's 70,000 pounds slamming into the deck at over 160 knots.
The four arresting wires, each consisting of two-inch thick wire cables connected to hydraulic rams
below decks, drag landing aircraft going as fast as 150 miles per hour to a stop in less than 400 feet.
High in the island, the Air Boss and his staff coordinated the entire operation, which was also carefully
monitored from the flight deck level by the Captain on the ship's bridge. The deck was busy with rush
hour traffic as numerous crew in different coloured shirts went about their jobs. The various functions
of the flight deck crew are identified by the colors they wear: yellow for officers and aircraft directors;
purple for fuel handlers; green for catapult and arresting gear crews; blue for tractor drivers; brown for
chock and chain runners; and red for crash and salvage teams and the ordnance handlers.
 Beneath the landing deck and inside a busy office of valves pumps and hydraulics, Aviation
Boatswain's Mate Kenneth Martin of the USS Clinton, looked at the division's leading Petty Officer.
"Seventy five-thousand pounds! Damn, what are we landing?" The V-2 arresting gear division was
charged with the responsibility of pulling the big metal birds to a stop in a real hurry. Martin had
already trapped 2500 birds on this tour alone. The cables he was responsible for were set to stop each
individual aircraft at the same place on the deck, regardless of the size or weight of the plane. Four
1.375-inch-thick steel cables ran two to five inches above the deck at 35 to 40 foot intervals and
connected with a hydraulic cylinder below the deck, which served as a giant shock absorber.
As an aircraft approached, all four wires were set to accommodate that aircraft's weight. When the
aircraft's arresting hook snagged a wire, the wire pulled a piston within a fluid-filled chamber. As the
piston was drawn down the cylinder, hydraulic fluid was forced through the small holes in the cylinder
end, absorbing the energy of the aircraft and breaking it to a stop. An arresting wire can stop a 54,000-
pound aircraft travelling at a speed of 130-150 miles per hour in a distance less than 350 feet. When the
aircraft drops the wire, the piston is retracted and made ready to recover another aircraft in 45 seconds.
Today it was a 75,000 pound airplane they were about to trap.

Ten miles southwest of the carrier the F-111's weapons officer squinted into the distance. This was
going to be nerve wracking to say the least, Purcell thought. It was hard to tell whether Hamilton was
even worried, the pilot's hands on the stick and the throttles were steady as ice. His voice had been
calm, going about the business of landing on a carrier deck like they did it every day. The only
problem was, Jake knew an F-111 had not landed on a carrier deck for over 40 years. For good reason;
it was too damn heavy, he thought.
Landing any aircraft at sea, on a narrow, angled 750-foot-long pitching deck in the near dark
remained a critical test of skill and nerves for any pilot. That was assuming you were trained and
experienced to land a particular aircraft in the first place. Jake felt the Wrangler throttle down as
Hamilton banked to the left, feeling the familiar pull of the slowing jet working his shoulders against
the straps and the yaw of the aircraft.
Hamilton held the speed down to 280 knots indicated, and began a long turn with the airbrakes
extended and throttle up to give him extra power if he needed to dump them. The Wrangler heeled
over at an angle of almost 90 degrees, the engines growled behind them like beasts ready to tear
themselves through the fire wall. Lance could no longer see the carrier up ahead, the low wisps of
cloud obscuring his vision.
The big U.S. carrier and escorts were steaming into the wind. Squadron Leader Lance Hamilton
spoke again to the carrier's flight controllers.
"Tower this is Buckshot two three zero at eight miles." Again Hamilton eased back on the throttles
shedding more height as he began reaching for the deck ahead. At 1200 feet he 'dirtied up,' sweeping
the wings forward and lowering the landing gear, flaps and tail hook.
"Roger, Buckshot two three zero. Coming up on glide path. The deck is clear…we have you
visual, watch your altitude and line-up. Winds gusting to 30 knots, 38 plus across the deck and
occasionally cross winds over the deck from the southeast.”
"Roger tower…six miles."
On the carrier they were ready. "Standby for F-111, two minutes," the Air Boss said, earphones on
and yellow jacket standing out brightly against the dark background. He was yelling down the phone
to the hydraulics team below, his eyes sweeping the deck for even the smallest speck of litter that could
be sucked into a jet engine and spell disaster. Below the giant hydraulic piston was ready in position to
stop the 75,000 pound aircraft in what was not much more than a controlled crash onto the stern of the
carrier.
At the controller's "three quarters of a mile, call the ball" transmission, Hamilton looked up from
the AOA (Angle of approach) indicator and saw the yellow visual landing aid called the 'ball' on the
port side of the landing area. He took a quick peek back inside the office to make sure his rate of
descent was pegged and called "I got it" to the controller, who keyed his mike in response. The LSO
acknowledged the ball call.
"Roger ball call, decks steady 38 knots."
Back out on the exposed and windswept deck, the Landing Signal Officer radioed instructions to
the pilot and could see that F-111 301, call sign Buckshot, was about 45 seconds out. In all his years as
an LSO, he had never seen an F-111 touch the deck of an aircraft carrier. But there it was. Its wings
swept forward, the ugly undercarriage slung below and the triangular shape of its tail hook hanging out
from beneath the tail. As it got closer, the size of the aircraft made him shudder slightly.
The LSO, a lanky F18E fighter jock out of Oshkosh, Wisconsin, was now standing on the exposed
port quarter of the carrier, his binoculars trained on the Bone Yard Wrangler A8-272. The wind plus
the forward speed of the carrier created a constant 50-mile-per-hour blast of air across the flight deck,
snapping his green jacket hard in the wind. The F-111 pilot was good. He flew straight down the ball.
Hamilton held the big aircraft on the glide slope like it was welded to a rail. But inside, every
instinct was telling him to get ready to flare the airplane out. He guided the big airplane through the
turbulence behind the aircraft carrier and crossed the fantail headed for the deck.
"Groove!" bellowed the Air Boss to the hydraulic crew, a code word meaning, "She's close, stand
by."
"Short!" Another key command, meaning "everyone away from the machinery." And now, as the
Pig thundered in towards the stern, the Boss yelled, "Ramp!"
Every eye, from the deck to the top of the 10-story island, was looking at the hook stretched out
behind the aircraft. It was impossible to talk above the howl of the engines. At 160 knots indicated
airspeed the Wrangler's heavy undercarriage slammed onto the deck and right behind them the hook
grabbed the third cable, the cable rising from the deck as it took the weight of the big airplane stopping
it in its tracks.
The F-111 barely flinched as it was driven to the deck, catching number three wire in a perfect
ballet with the engines roaring under full power, spooling immediately to full thrust before being
throttled back once the trap was complete. It was standard procedure for pilots to throw their aircraft's
engines into full power so that if they don't trap a wire, they can fly around and try again. It was a thing
of beauty. Hamilton and his navigator were abruptly thrown forward into their straps as the hook
caught the arresting wire. Hamilton quickly pulled the throttles back to idle and killed the external
lights. On a signal from the taxi director to his right he raised the hook and swept the wings fully aft as
he rolled to his designated parking spot. He than yanked the engines to cut-off and watched the
instrument read outs wind down. He and the Navigator released their straps and climbed stiffly to the
deck. He looked aft over the fantail; it was time for the second act.
The general feeling among the flight deck handlers and officers was amazement. The last time an
F-111 had landed aboard an aircraft carrier was 42 years ago on the USS Coral Sea - most of the ship's
complement of some 6000 crew had not been born. The Landing Signal Officer (LSO) picked up the
hand set, clearly very impressed. "That's an OK3, 272. Pretty damn good!"
OK3 is a grade received by a navy aircraft carrier pilot for his or her landing. "OK" is an excellent
landing; the "3" referred to the arresting wire. Usually the pilot shoots for the three wire, the third of
the four arresting wires on the aircraft carrier deck. Catching the three wire means the aircraft's tail
hook landed right in the middle of the four wires, a very precise accomplishment. OK3 represented
utmost skill and precision in one of the most demanding environments that man places himself. The
LSO of course, assumed he was guiding a ‘current’ carrier pilot in, even if it was in a strange aircraft.
Even as the sound of the F-111's engines died away, the flight deck broke into apparent
pandemonium as the deck crew raced to haul the big jet into its parking space. The Air Boss shouted
into the phone to haul in the cables and clear the decks. Everyone except the LSO, selected yellow
shirts and rescue crew stayed topside. The LSO could feel the deck beneath his feet begin to tremble as
the aircraft carrier increased to flank speed. He looked up to the ship's center island. Ten stories up,
hidden behind the reflection of glass, he could imagine Sundog, watching with intense interest.
Like the F-111, the next aircraft was even less familiar with the deck of an aircraft carrier. Far out
over the wake of the big ship, the telltale wisps of kerosene smoke trailed behind the big airplane - too
big to land on an aircraft carrier. The four wisps of smoke were trailing behind four large Allison turbo
props. Fat Albert was designed to land on airfields not carriers. Images of the aircraft's wing slicing
into the ship's island, the fuselage on fire and sliding across the deck invaded the LSO's thoughts. Yet,
like the previous aircraft, this had been done once before, but not as heavy as today. Christ, he hoped
this guy was at least as good as the last, because he really needed him to be.
Still, it bore down on the carrier. The LSO faintly hoped to hear some one call it off. But the big
bird looked good. Could she stop in time? Instead of running straight down the approach deck, they
had cleared the forward deck to allow the big aircraft to land across the two and make the use of the
full length of the flight deck. If it went bad, it was really going to be ugly.
The LSO, the Captain and every man and woman watching the event, collectively held their
breaths as the huge airframe thundered over the rear of the deck. Australian C130 pilots had trained
hard over the years to master STOL operations in the worst of conditions; they were really good at it.
The C130, all 130,000 pounds of her that day, touched down hard and firm, just 70 feet inside the rear
of the aircraft carrier. Full reverse thrust and the antiskid brakes engaged as the first bit of rubber kissed
the carrier's deck, the four Hamilton Standard electro-hydromatic, constant-speed, full feathering
propellers, going to full power, bringing the trembling airframe to a stop in less than 280 feet. Like
their counterpart on the Marine Corps KC-130F landing aboard the USS Forrestal in October 1963, the
jubilant pilot and crew held up a small card against the cockpit window saying 'Look mum, no tail
hook!' a full 45 years later. There were huge cheers from the crew that had assembled to watch this
amazing spectacle. Those who could not get into a position to watch on deck, cheered below as they
viewed the deck cameras that were tracking the day's most exciting event, ensuring that wherever a
sailor was on the ship - the galley, engineering or logistics - they were all part of the team that made the
floating city that was a war machine, work.
Back on the bridge the Captain fidgeted. As quickly as they could, he needed that big Mother
Fucker of an airplane off his flight deck. It sat there, blocking the ramp and two catapults, a huge
impediment to deck movement. Carrier Captains coveted their deck space. If the shit hit the fan now
he would have to push it over the side. But Stringer and Shotgun deserved their chance. They were not
men given to lie or exaggerate. If they were worried, there was something to be worried about. Besides,
the Australians were already in the fight and the Captain of the Clinton knew they would be too before
the day's end. Not a matter of 'if' just 'when.'
 Both the Herc and the Aardvark were refuelled as quickly as possible. While below decks,
Commander Mike Duffy, the chief ordinance officer, checked the biggest conventional bombs in the
ship's arsenal that had arrived on board after many years of storage. This was a bomb he really never
thought would go anywhere, except perhaps a museum one day. He wondered who was going to be on
the receiving end. This was not the bomb so eagerly reported about in the earlier part of the first
decade. This was the streamlined version of the big MOAB, now called the BLU - bomb live unit. Not
anywhere near as catchy as the phrase 'mother of all bombs' but it was at least 5000 pounds heavier,
was laser guided, and the two of them weighed in at a humungous 30,000 pounds of war load.
All they had to do was load them on the C130 that was receiving a hot refueling on the deck above.
He and his team of red shirts quickly winched the monsters onto a weapons trolley, which was then
pulled by a small tractor unit to the forward elevator. A few minutes later and it was driving up the rear
of the C130. It looked to Duffy like he was about to lose a tractor unit in addition to the bombs.
After climbing down from the Wrangler and having a quick chin wag with some of the deck crew,
Hamilton was invited to the bridge.
"That was some fancy flying Squadron Leader," the Captain of the Clinton said evenly, eyeballing
the F-111 pilot. "And you have never landed one of these on a carrier deck?"
The Bridge went deadly silent. Did they hear that correctly?
"No sir," Hamilton said.
They had heard that correctly. Apart from the noise of the air conditioning, the bridge was
absolutely quiet.
Captain Chris McKay’s face broke into a broad grin. "Last time I saw you land on a deck it was
not a pretty picture! "For the benefit of those listening he pointed at Hamilton, "if it hasn’t clicked yet,
this is the buckshot from the Reagan!" For quite a few the penny did drop, they had heard of that
incident and looked at the Australian with even greater respect
Sundog smiled broadly. That was some damn good flying he had just witnessed. Hamilton made it
look like it was easy. He knew damn well it wasn't, especially with a 75,000-pound airplane landing on
a rolling deck a few hundred feet long in diminishing light. And Christ! What about that Herc driver;
that was one ballsy son of a bitch. If he had stuffed that up there would have been no go around for
him. No wires to catch and no safety net that would hold him. That was guts and nuts and some of the
best flying he had ever seen in his life. He walked up to Lance and spoke quietly. "You do that just to
make us look bad don't you?"
Lance Hamilton smiled. "No sir, just wanted to prove Pigs can float and fly!"
Leaning to look out of the angled windows, the Captain looked at the lethal outline of the F-111 on
the deck below. "Well I'll be damned if it doesn't." Suddenly the Captain was all business. "Sorry to
see you under these circumstances, Lance. Give my regards to your brother. While I would like to
crack a tinny with you, unfortunately I need your aircraft off my deck ASAP. But if you need some
gas…give me a call, I will deliver it personally." He extended his hand. As Lance left the bridge the
Captain called after him. "Buckshot! I'll expect that beer when you get back." He tipped his hand in a
salute.
Unlike the new DDG destroyers, the Clinton did not boast an all electric system, but she was not
far from it. The technologies driven out from the new generation of U.S. warships were frequently
small and easier to retrofit into older hull designs. Such was the case with the Electro Magnetic Rail
Catapult Launch System.
The old system relied on steam compression to power the catapult down the rail with an aircraft
attached. It had its limitations and was a complicated system to operate. Catapults were high-
maintenance, complex, high-risk pieces of equipment. Though the technology behind them was simple
enough, the size of the tubes and the magnitude of the forces involved made designing and building
them hugely difficult. This was why only the British and Australians opted to use the technology. Even
the arrogant French admitted they needed to buy them from the Americans to install in their new super
carrier Charles de Gaulle.
Outwardly, the new system looked exactly the same. The launch procedure had not changed nor
the experience. Where the steam rail used to be, there was now an "EMR," or electro magnetic rail,
which drew its electrical power directly from inertial generators driven by the ship's nuclear reactors.
Gone was the myriad of pipes and heavy steam pistons. The EMR was simpler, more powerful and far
more reliable, with virtually no moving parts other than the catapult shuttle itself locked to the nose
gear of the launch aircraft. Gone was the familiar scene of steam whipping across the desk with each
launch. Hollywood directors would really miss that.
Two sailors ran under Hamilton's jet and pulled the landing gear safety pins, rolling them and
stowing them in a small compartment under the belly of the F-111. Hamilton brought up some power
and taxied the big jet forwards. The entire flight deck and tower were lined with crew, keen to witness
something that they would probably never see again. Hamilton was motioned towards Cat 2. The red
light on the island signalled four minutes. Following the director's signals he eased onto the tracks and
stopped just over the humps of the turtle back shuttles. Behind him a green-shirted crewman ducked
under the airframe and attached the steel cable, or 'bridle,' from the shuttle to two huge hooks on the
fuselage near the wing root, while another attached the hold back to the rear of the plane. The light
turned to amber. A crewman crouching next to the fighter's nose wheel signalled the aircraft forward
and locked on the catapult wire. The shooter, his eyes fixed to the pilot, saluted, bending to his knees
and touching two fingers of his left hand on the deck.
The light turned green. The 'shooter', a Navy Lieutenant, kneeled against the wind across the deck,
pointed his right hand to the pilot, raised his left hand and extended two fingers: 'Go to full power.'
Then palm out 'Hit the after burners…' Hamilton rolled the throttles all the way forward to the indents,
released the brakes, checked his engine readouts carefully and formally saluted the Cat Officer, leaning
forward at the same time, tensing for the impact of the catapult shot. The shooter gestured 'Forward'
and a crewman kneeling on the catwalk just to the left of the bomber, hit the button on Catapult 2,
ducking as the EM rail hurled the F-111 on its way, screaming down the deck, engines roaring on full
afterburner, leaving a massive pulse of hot air in its wake.
Hamilton had seen the Cat officer's arm come down and then everything blurred with speed.
When the acceleration of the stroke ended, Hamilton reeled in the wheels and sucked in the flaps and
slats at the same time, commencing a right hand turn to clear the aircraft carrier. In the event of an
engine failure it was a bummer to survive a splash and then get run down by over 100,000 tons of steel
moving at over 30 knots. Ahead of them was their precious cargo, bombs and fuel, secure in the belly
of the C130, ahead of that a rather dodgy landing on the ice.

*****

HQJOC, Saturday, December 8. 1130hrs UTC. The senior duty office a J3 Navy Captain,
wanted a measure of the mood. The audience included key political decision makers and senior
defense personnel. Behind the Captain on the main screen, the Australian flag snapped against its
lanyard. It was real-time imagery of the flag flying above Australia's Parliament house.
"The Chinese Task Force is substantially superior numerically and is at least on par
technologically. However, because we are the attacker in this scenario, we have the initiative of
tactical discretion, while they are forced to defend a very large front. This allows us to concentrate our
forces and to feint." Behind the Captain the screen changed to show a large map of Australia and the
Antarctic.
"Unfortunately, neither the Russians nor the Chinese have taken seriously the Vostok oil fire
threat. They think we are lying. On the other hand this translates to a strategic advantage. We know
they will believe our force package will have the primary objective of getting men onto the ground or,
at the very least, to establish a beachhead or to retake our stations. … We will do neither. The clock is
ticking.
 "To take them head on, to be able to concentrate a force package to take and hold ground, will
allow them the opportunity of focusing their fire power. Doing this, we rapidly get ourselves into a
battle of attrition, which they will win. They are hoping we will do this. Because once we have
thrown ourselves on their swords, we are a depleted force. They will have achieved their objective and
their ambitions would barely go contested. What we propose is not without risk. There is full
expectation of heavy casualties. Squadron Leader Hamilton is now in the first phase of our operation.
The Americans have some backup plans that are rolling as well, but time isn't on the side of these
efforts. In the meantime the U.S. is going to give us all the support they can.
"The Joint Task Force's primary mission is to extinguish the Vostok wellhead fire. The second
part of that mission is to prevent it from restarting. This is made harder by the fact we are operating
well below the ISTAR threshold, but so are the enemy." ISTAR meant Intelligence, Surveillance,
Target Acquisition and Reconnaissance. A force's ISTAR threshold is the level of enemy activity it can
detect in a given environment. "We now find ourselves in a dis-aggregated, ambiguous, lethal and
highly complex battlespace. The operational plan underway includes substantial deception and
transition actions. At this point of time we have only two Fuel Air Bombs in theater available for
deployment. These are to be strapped onto the Squadron Leaders bird on the Ross Ice Shelf."
This last comment was met by surprised looks and murmurs around the table.
"Yes, it sounds and is pretty hairy any which way you look at it. The first part of the mission
required one of our C130s and the Pig to land on the deck of USS Clinton."
The room exploded with 'holy shits' and several "fucking unbelievable!" type comments. There
were obviously some pilots in the room.
"Both the landings went flawlessly. They will soon be in the air for the final part of the mission.
This is where we come in. Hamilton will be the main shooter. Our whole concentration will be to give
him the greatest chance of success. We have to keep the bad guys away from his ground support,
knock out any anti air and ground threat in front of him and, with the Americans, keep the fighters off
his back. This precludes an immediate direct attack, which will just advertise our intentions. The
deception plan involves drawing the Chinese fleet's attention elsewhere, where they expect it."
Checking the time again he referred back to the map. "This part of the operation kicks off with
HMAS Longreach." He pointed to the north of the Chinese fleet. "She is now moving into a position to
launch a UAV strike package on the easternmost Chinese task force led by the Shi Lang."

*****
 HMAS LONGREACH, SOUTHERN OCEAN. The HMAS Longreach was virtually invisible
to the thousands of electronic eyes that continually scanned the southern ocean. Capable of over 50
knots fully loaded, the wave-piercing HSV catamaran was already 1200 nautical miles south of
Western Australia, a little over 800 nautical miles from the Chinese fleet. RAN Lieutenant Commander
Michael Hudson didn't need to walk outside to know it was cold. He was still wearing his tropical
uniform, as was half the crew. The fast cat, after receiving her operational orders, had raced from
Darwin to Perth. There she had quickly on loaded the mission equipment and supplies and got
underway again.
The huge vessel had looked out of place among the small yachts and sailboats in the shallow water
of the Swan River. Neighborhood folk on their morning jogs and dog walks looked amazed at the
towering 130-meter HMAS Longreach. Most wondered how the 20,000-ton behemoth could be
moored so close to the riverbank. A look down at the depth mark on one of the vessel's unique-style
catamarans showed it was floating in less than nine feet of water.
The inside of the Longreach was cavernous, designed to carry a fully armored brigade, she was the
epitome of ready reaction capabilities. It was just this characteristic, the big flat heavy roof and her
speed, which made her ideal for the mission.
Unlike most of the navy's latest combatants, whose command and control centers were buried
protectively in the bowels of the ship, all the work on the Longreach was still done pretty much from
the bridge. The HSV was a fast transport; the space aged bridge sitting on top of the upper deck stood
20 meters above the water. From there Commander Hudson had supervised the loading of what he
hoped was going to be a bad surprise for the Chinese.
Packed into the lower deck was the 11th Reconnaissance Squadron, 57 Wing, from the U.S. Air
Warfare Center - a U.S. Air Force Unmanned Aerial Vehicle (UAV) team, expert in their deployment
and operation.
Now, after a full and very quick resupply, they were rushing towards the southern extremity.
Weight wise the big cat was virtually empty, her cargo barely noticeable. With a belly full of fuel, she
easily paced along at nearly 50 knots, the two Allison gas turbines producing over 65,000hp, driving
four massive water jet-propulsion units. Hudson once again thought what a lucky son of a bitch he was
to get such a command. He stood near the rear of the expansive flat roof of the Longreach, with
Colonel Paul Cyrus, U.S. Army. The stern was just a few meters behind them. The wind tore at their
clothing. The Southern Ocean rapidly sped past them either side, a long boiling white wake left behind.
"It's huge!" Cyrus shouted. "Perfect in fact."
"Reinforced heavy gauge aluminium." Hudson thumped the roof with his foot. He was standing on
it.
The area was large enough for a Sea Predator to launch from. This was made possible by angling
the launch track and extending it like a carrier to one side of the ship.
Below deck the group's maintenance wings were rapidly assembling the UAVs. The group was
split into three operational units, each operating different aircraft.
The Air Operations Center (AOC) for the UAV tasking was based on the middle upper deck of the
Cat. It looked like chaos, organized chaos. From the AOC, Cyrus also controlled his Global Hawk and
Dark Stars, seconded as part of his command to the Southern Ocean Joint Task Force, the SOJTF.
Both Global Hawks and Dark Stars needed to operate from land bases with long concrete runways, the
systems and airframes not suited for EM catapult launches. Because of the Joint Defense Information
System called JDISS, really the same and part of the GIG (Global Information Grid) Cyrus was able to
manage the Global Hawk and Dark Star assets in real time from his location on the Longreach. This
would also extend Global Hawk coverage below the 60th parallel.
While the officers on the HMAS Longreach went about their jobs, in the combined forces
headquarters in Australia, their respective commanders were discussing both Cyrus and Hudson.
"They tell me Cyrus is pretty good, true?" Admiral Jansen said.
"And them some; what he doesn't know isn't worth pissing on. He has a lot of operational
experience to fall back on as well." The U.S. Pacific Commander replied. "If you don't mind me asking,
what's your operations procedure going to be on the deployment of the UAVs?"
Jensen knew what the General meant. "Both the Longreach commander and the Colonel have their
mission briefs. Unless that changes I'm leaving it up to them to decide how best to achieve their
mission objective."
"Good call, Admiral," the big American two-star general replied. "A lot of command folk become
very possessive about this stuff. I can see I am going to like working with you."
"Cyrus always ride shotgun on missions like this?"
"Not always. This one really counts though. It's what I would be doing."
The Australian Commander believed he would too. The two-star had a hell of a reputation. He
wasn't wrong, the American General had to constantly fight down the urge to run out of the command
center and jump the first transport to take him into the middle of where all the 'real' stuff was
happening.
Back on the Cat, USAF Colonel Paul Cyrus was busy pulling his command together, getting it
ready to fly. The space on this thing was enormous, he thought; the Air Observation Posts looking like
a bunch of forgotten boxes and supplies left in the middle of an aircraft hangar. But as they progressed
in setting up the equipment they were able to soak up the room and make sense of it. Still, when
finished, they occupied less than a quarter of the deck, and in the big steel shell their voices would
resonate in the empty hollow space. He almost felt guilty not using it somehow.
On top, the 51st Air Wing's maintenance specialists had teamed with the Australian engineers to
install phased array radar and multiple satellite communications to plug them securely into a Joint
Defense Information System. No one waited for orders. Everyone knew what he or she was doing.
Both the Australian and American teams worked together seamlessly. So well in fact that Cyrus and
the ship's Captain had to be careful not to get in the way. But still, it felt good to make a few
suggestions here and there.
After barking out some orders the two COs retired to work over the operational plan once again,
knowing the preparation was in good hands. Cyrus looked across the chart table to Lieutenant
Commander Hudson.
"The Tactical Air Control (TAC) is based here out of Pine Gap facility. We run our own AOPs and
the upper deck facility acts as the Flight Control Center. The Pine Gap TACS will coordinate the F-
111 Group, RAAF Orion assets and ourselves. This is going to bring the Longreach within the range of
either or both the Chinese fleets Shipwreck missile system's as well as aircraft-delivered threats. That
could be either a Sukhoi or one of the many choppers that carry antiship missiles, not to mention T-95s
and 142 maritime strike aircraft out of Martin de'Vivies."
"Understood. We anticipated that," Hudson said.
"From our own recent Intel we believe they have a measure of electronic protection, but nothing to
the level we currently possess. But we don't expect to blind all their systems. To achieve that, we have
to get close. This time we just want to keep them looking our way." He checked his watch. It was close
to briefing time. He could swear the Australian was almost smiling.
"You point, we'll drive, Sir," Hudson said. "Just let me know where you want us to be and at what
time." Cyrus nodded. He would enjoy working with these Australians. They had balls.
The Longreach was a Fast Combat Support Ship. For that reason she lacked many of the sensor
suites and radar capabilities one would normally find on a combatant. Temporarily she was
transformed into a Fast Fighting Catamaran. The top deck was now a flight deck. Numerous GCSs,
mobile container-like contraptions with command and control systems, were distributed throughout the
ship. One had been welded to the top of the bridge. It didn't look pretty, but it was a great position for
the ship's Flight Control Center.
There hadn't been time for a full briefing before the Longreach lifted its ramps and wound the huge
turbines up. That was left for once they were underway. The ship's senior NCOs and officers now
gathered to get a better understanding of what their mission was about.
USAF Colonel Paul Cyrus, the Wing's AOC, introduced himself briefly but quickly handed over
the briefing. "This is Major Mike Mitchell, Commanding Officer of No 11 Squadron, 57 Air Wing U.S.
Air Force," he said. He motioned the Major forward. This was going to be their fight and he wanted to
give them the maximum opportunity in the small amount of time available to blend themselves as some
sort of team.
"This has been a rapid deployment, so we are making up a lot of the mission planning as we go,"
Mitchell said without hesitation. "Before I go into the operational stuff, I first of all want to brief you
all on what we have brought along for the trip; the hardware.
"Essentially, we operate three systems, which includes Global Hawk. These are being operated
out of the mainland but controlled from the operations center here. The two systems we are operating
from the Long Reach are what we call Tier II and Tier III systems; Tier II being the MQ-9 Mariner and
Tier III the MQ-15 Shadows.” The Mariner project had recently been re-instated as a maritime armed
reconnasiance UAV.
"This," the Major said, pointing at a serious looking console with lots of lights, switches, controls
and screens, "is the Reaper and Shadow Ground Control System, GCS for short. It provides command
and control of the vehicles and their payloads. It can also disseminate intelligence directly to the
ground system or battlefield Net.
"The MQ-15 Shadows can take off from here, but we can't land them. We can tanker them to get
them back to the main land. The same goes for the Boeing QF45s. Both the Shadows and QF45 will be
launched using the electromagnetic launch system being installed on the top deck.
"We communicate with the birds once they have flown the coup, through airborne sensor suites.
The ground segment components interact through satellite and line-of-sight links to maintain command
and control and sensor data communication paths. If any of these are broken the aircraft resorts to a
pre-programmed mission profile. This may occur in our mission due to the satellite blackout below the
60th. We have Global Hawks on station to act as communication relays.
"Now, I could rabbit on for some time about their vast capabilities in gathering intelligence and
how they link into our, and your, command and control networks. But what you really want to know
is; can they blow shit up?" He paused. "The answer to that is a big yes. They are capable of carrying a
wide range of munitions, including the Harpoon.
"We have four mission commanders, who are either pilots, navigators or similar, but all are
experienced in electronic warfare, intelligence or weapons. The mission commanders are responsible
for receiving the mission tasking and executing the mission objectives. The MCs job is to maintain
situational awareness, evaluate survivability, mission plan feasibility, and coordinate the air vehicle
operations. Individual aircraft are flown by the Air Vehicle Operators.
"As you know, these toys come packed with a serious bunch of intelligence gathering electronics.
Supporting the AVO we have specific sensor specialists, imagery analysts and communications
operators and technicians."
While the briefing continued and despite the horrible conditions outside, a small army of welders
and fitters were crawling across the Longreach's roof, turning it into a flight deck. Even as the last spot
welds were burned into place, the first CUAV was rolled into the elevator.
The Mariner fitted with folding wings for carrier deployment was the size of a small Cessna
airplane. It had evolved a lot since its original introduction to service in the 1990s. Now nearly thirty
feet in length, it had a long thin wingspan of a little over 50 feet, a V-tail with vertical fin underneath
driven by a powerful rear mounted turbofan jet engine. The Mariner could stay airborne for over 36
hours and cruise between 100 and 230 knots. It was stealthy, smart and most importantly, could take
off from the top deck of the Longreach. One after the other, the MQ-9 Mariners were elevated to the
top deck, wings unfolded and then rolled into position. It was time to rock and roll.
Normally requiring over 1800 feet to take off, the measly 250 feet of flight deck in front of the first
unit to launch looked impossible. Under normal conditions it would have been. However, the 50-knot
speed of the big cat, combined with a 35-knot head wind, meant the Sea Predator was able to take off
with a full load unassisted. Improvisation by the naval engineering team had worked wonders in
building the tie downs and installing the electromagnetic rail that would be used for the faster CUAVs
that would be launched later.
The big Cat slowed while the aircraft were positioned one behind the other for launch. Once the
aircraft were tied down and secure, Lieutenant Commander Michael Hudson ordered the Longreach to
two thirds. The aircraft's ground crew, working with their remote control equipment, started the
CUAV’s engines. Just like on the deck of an aircraft carrier, the launch sequence became a small
ballet.
The upper deck was completely covered with small airplanes, two across in neat rows, wings over
lapped between. Deck handlers moved amongst them in preparation for launch.
"Initiate launch sequence."
"Start em up!" The vague whine of jet engines confirmed the start-ups. The panel showed green
from one zero to ten.
"Engine starts confirmed, engines to idle. Please follow the directions from the deck manager.
Only listen to him and follow his instructions to the letter."
 "This is the deck manager. We will launch one at a time from zero one through to zero one zero.
Then we will prep zero one-one through to zero two zero. Do not reply at this time." The wind was
screaming across the open top of the catamaran's upper deck. The deck officer and his crew, all new
positions invented in the last 48 hours, braced themselves against the bitter 70-knot gale. The deck
officer spoke loudly into his mouthpiece.
"Okay zero one, ready, comply."
"Zero one ready," The deck officer stood over the hold down strap.
"Zero one, power up!"
"Roger, deck zero one power up," the AVO said, the engine howling at almost full power as the
AVO ran the throttle forward, straining against the hold-down strap. The holding restraint was a long
and strong piece of carbon fiber strap that reached behind the airframe. Being a pusher prop it meant
that the handler, on releasing the restraint, was only just behind the propeller. Not ideal but far better
than being run over by it.
"Zero one release!" With that, the deck handler punched and released the hold-down shackle
separating the strap. The Mariner surged forward and with the wind speed across the deck exceeding
the aircraft's stall speed, the Mariner climbed almost vertically from its position, the AVO powering the
engine to prevent it from backsliding into the other UAVs behind it. It was dangerous.
"Deck, zero one roger, released."
"Roger zero one, zero two, deck ready," the deck officer said moving to the next aircraft. Across
the opposite side of the deck his partner had joined in the launch sequence, sandwiching his own
launches in between.
Below deck, housed in numerous container-like constructions, 30 young men and women sat
intently in front of rows of monitors, their hands working quickly between keyboards and small
sophisticated control sticks festooned with a multitude of buttons and switches. It looked like they
were playing some pretty serious video game, which wasn't far from the truth. The real difference was
that people could, and probably would, die as a result of how well they played. Each of these remote
pilots or AVOs controlled a Mariner.
With the launch completed, they could for a moment relax, as their charges headed further south.
The UAV pilots operated from CARS - 30 feet long, streamlined, self-sufficient containers with
environmental systems, pilot and payload operator workstations, and more. These were similar to the
system used by David Stringer nearly ten years previously in Afghanistan. Most of the Air Vehicle
Operators were ex fighter/bomber cockpit crew. In the past the AVO would have used a line of sight
method for take off but were now completely enclosed in a helmet system that provided an enveloped
virtual reality system, fed directly from the aircraft's sensor suite. He or she still used the traditional
stick and rudder when they decided to override the system, but most of the time they and the sensor
operator were very busy analyzing the data that was being projected into the pilot's helmet display and
the sensor operator's terminals. Another significant difference was that all the aircraft could if required
carry out the entire mission autonomously, without any input from the AVO’s.
The Mariners had longer endurance than the QF-45s but were slower. So they took off first,
several hours in advance and climbed to over 40,000 feet. Some carried carried as many as fourteen
AGM-114 Hellfire missiles or two Harpoons. They Hellfires were not ship killers, but were armor
piercing and could create some real problems when they hit. The Mariners joined up and flew towards
their objective over 620 miles ahead.
The Lieutenant Commander looked around. It was a pretty ideal ship for what they were doing -
fast, big payload, could carry a lot of fuel. They could carry the equivalent of a whole air wing of
UAVs.
A few hours later the electro magnetic launch rail was charged up and ready to go again. The deck
crew and pilots began the launch preparation for the faster UAVs. Once again the Longreach turned
into the wind, cutting through the heavy swells, her decks barely moving.
The QF-45s were the latest highly stealthy Aggressor CUAVs developed by Boeing. They had
come aboard in containers and were all hooked up to a central computer system to 'prep' and pre-flight
them before they were even out of their boxes. They were the same size as the original scaled down X-
45 but still big, along with the others, the central deck elevator was required to bring them up from the
lower storage areas.
Then the temporary 'Cat Officer' who seemed like he was having far more fun than he should have,
fired the birds off towards the southern horizon.
Above the water, the Longreach was a mere shadow, almost invisible to anything outside of 40
miles. Below the waves was another story. With twin turbines driving over 60,000 horses, pushing a
cavitation enhanced hull though the water in excess of 50 knots, it was noisy. At high speed, she was
acoustically a bright beacon in a pitch-black night.
The Chief of the ship Warrant Officer (WO) Dan Sanders, Lieutenant Commander Hudson and
Lieutenant Mathers were seated in the skipper's cabin after all the birds were launched. The cabin was
not big by destroyer class standards, but tidy and comfortable. For Hudson it was a Command; not
many Lieutenant Commanders got a Command. Mathers had done well with the launch, acting as deck
officer with one of the ship's two Midshipmen helping him. They were trying to work the best
defensive strategy that might keep them alive in an ocean full of enemies.
 "So we have launched 20 of our total of 40 CUAVs. The plan is to close the gap to less than 250
miles," which to a sailor was always nautical miles, “and then launch the rest. The first flights are
programmed to spread out and approach from different directions. The second flight will circle and
come back from the south of the fleet. By this time we will be well into the missile envelope of the
Chinese; which means if they see us we are dead. But unless a sub spots us, it's highly unlikely they
will have a clue we are here. We will slow to 25 knots at a range of 500 miles." Hudson looked around
the cabin. It wasn't that part that worried him. The Longreach would be hard to see, let alone catch.
"What concerns me is that running at this speed we are noisy as hell. We are also blind as bats. We
have no passive sonar; we could have a Shkval torpedo headed at us right now and the only indication
we would have is when our lights go out."
The Chief of the ship, a veteran of over twenty years, nodded his head in agreement. "That's the
part that's been worrying me as well. Do we get any support along the way? You know, some of our
subs, Orion's or something?"
Hudson frowned. "Nope, nada; they are all tasked. As for our subs or anything else, we are simply
too fast, which puts us out on our own."
"So we just hope like hell no one hears us then."
"That's what it's looking like."
Josh Mathers had been working on the same problem. "Maybe not," he said quietly, still looking
off at an invisible point in space. He pulled a thick sheet of papers from the folder he was carrying.
"This deployment all happened so fast we had little time to inventory everything. We didn't check all of
it; just loaded it on board…quickly."
"Go on," Hudson said.
"Well it seems logistics was out thinking us." He was scanning the documents. "They were
thinking of all contingencies." He stopped half way down one of the sheets and underlined some items,
handing the sheet to Hudson.
The ship's Captain looked at the sheet intently. "You think we can work that?" Hudson said
handing the sheet onto the chief. "What do you reckon Chief? Possible?"
The Chief paused, his eyes a little wide in surprise. "Why not? We've gone this far. Sounds like
sci-fi crap, but I can't see why it wouldn't work, as long as those kids downstairs can manage it."
The Captain looked back to the young Lieutenant. "So according to this Josh, we have four of
these plus a whole bunch of sonar buoys and Mark 50s?"
"Yep, ADAR's AN/SSQ-101 Air Deployable Active Receivers plus some monitoring units. It can
also be fed back through the operational command network and to the air control center."
 "The kids downstairs," the chief said again.
"Yes. The buoys weigh 39 pounds and according to the spec sheet the Sea Predator can carry 30
of them."
"Fan-fucking-tabulous," the Captain said, a broad grin stretching across his face. "We at least
won't be sub bait for the whole trip." He was sure Mitchell would go for it. "Okay Josh, good work.
Why don't you work out a plan with the Air Wing Ops officer to see if you can fly one of these out in
front of us to make sure we don't get shot in the face by Kilo or Akula. If we know where they are we
can avoid them. Those boats are fast, but not as fast as us!"
"Chief, can you get your guys together, get all this gear out of the glad bags and ready to work? It
also looks like we will need to look at the retrieval system we talked about. We are going to want these
ones back."

*****

THE PLAN SHIP SHI LANG, GREAT SOUTHER OCEAN

"Sir, the AWACS report possible tracks of aircraft, bearing 035, looks like F-111 aircraft at very
low altitude."
The Chinese Fleet Commander mused for a moment. Not strong enough yet for the system to
classify, but the AWACS crew had done a good job in getting him information on time. The AWACS
was a KJ-2100 Beriev-A 50 Mainstay. It was among China's latest AEW upgrade programs. Capable
of guiding 30 aircraft and tracking 300 hostiles at distances of over 231 miles, it was providing the
Chinese Task Force Commander situational awareness in advance - something they had lacked for
many years. He had positioned two of these aircraft 120 miles north, covered by Sukhoi and MiG
fighters. This meant the approaching force was still well over 340 miles northwest from the main fleet.
But that didn't mean he wanted to lose any of his northern pickets either, several of which would soon
come under the incoming enemy's missile envelope.
"RC, say thank you and let me know when you can confirm."
"Jinuan," he said to his 2IC, "begin a steer of three of the CAPS to cover these potentials. Keep
the others orbiting further south, I have a feeling the Australians will try something very shortly." They
would not, he thought, wait too long to act, allowing his forces the luxury of digging in deep. No, they
would have to try soon if they really wanted to regain the ground. IF they wanted to regain the ground,
he thought. Never take anything for granted.
The digital plot system identified and allocated targeting procedures on the incoming flight of F-
111s as soon as the system's wide aperture arrays picked them up.
"Incoming flight of four. Plotting from the Noshi, inbound 240 kilometers."
That still meant they were 186 miles from the main force. That would put them in range to drop
their Harpoons at any moment.

*****

On board the Longreach, Cyrus was watching the progress of his deployed UAVs. The six Scarab
324 UAVs were low and fast. Despite being just 18 feet in length with raked wings 18 feet wide, on
radar they looked very similar to the signature of the F-111 and matched their speed and mission
profile. The six Scarabs now heading towards the Chinese task force were unarmed surplus production
models built for the Egyptian Armed forces.
They were travelling at over 558 miles an hour, capturing incoming radar signals and returning
something that looked a little bigger and nastier. Painted all black with low mid-body mounted wings,
twin fin tail, single air intake on the spine and a Teledyne CAE 373-8C turbojet pushing it along, the
Scarab looked menacing. It was however a wolf with just a whisper instead of teeth. And to the
watching radars of the Chinese AWAC's and destroyer pickets, they looked just like the wolves they
had been expecting - F-111s on the hunt. This time the AWAC's operator thought, we are ready. We
shall send our own wolves out to stop you.
The sensor operator on the lead Scarab looked up from his console. The AVO could see the same
thing. "Sir, we have a radar lock from a pulse doppler source. Looks like the type an Su-33 uses. We
are also getting emissions from something I am not too familiar with, nothing I can ID. Maybe Irbus
E."
That was unusual, Colonel Cyrus thought. They had pretty much everything catalogued on the
system. The passive sensor system was now smart enough to combine the radar emission
characteristics, source profile and other factors to make an accurate assessment of the platform. They
were obviously missing one. He wondered whether it made a difference.
"Systems automatically logged the contact Colonel."
"Thank you." He turned to the Mission Commander. "Major Kelly!"
"Yes Sir."
"What do you think?'
"Snow Leopard, from either Su-35, 34 or MiG-35, this is smart radar with really long range and
deception capabilities. The aircraft have reduced radar cross section which combined with their radar
range is why we have nothing on any of our sensors yet, with long range missiles they have great stand
off distance to attack from. Even our stealth Global Hawks can't see them yet. Perhaps if the Hawks
were closer we could pick em up; we certainly see them when they go active with the Doppler."
The 51st Air Wing boss pondered that for a moment. "No, let's keep them out of the picture for the
moment. If the Chinese see the Hawks or get too annoyed with them, they might try to take them out.
If they’re using the 34 or 35’s that could be a real problem."
No shit, Kelly thought. But he wasn't about to say so. His boss knew what he was doing.

*****

At 45,000 feet, the lead Chinese pilot of the flight of three Sukhoi fighters called the pop up.
"Looks like they are preparing to launch!" Thinking he was looking at F-111s.
The pop up maneuver performed by the CUAV’s had surprised the lead who immediately rolled
in. "Lead will take the first two, Hu right, Pei left." There were two squawks in response. Fifty five
miles out the lead got a good lock on both targets. He squeezed off two Alamo active radar-homing
AAMs that immediately split, separating to attack from slightly different angles amd making it far
more difficult for the targets to evade.
His wingmen followed suit with the other targets. After the launch the three Sukhois kept their
noses onto the target to watch the countdown and to make sure the missiles retained a good acquisition.
The time of flight took less than 60 seconds, and with a closing speed of over 2500 miles per hour the
missiles obliterated the prey, leaving just small smudges of smoke to mark where they had been.
Back on the Longreach the lead Scarab's AVO suddenly sat back. "Damn, didn't even see that
coming." The other Scarab AVO's quickly followed suit, pulling off their helmets.
"Do you think they had visual?"
"No, the radar was way beyond visual range. The attackers were still 60 kilometers away after
closing subsequent to the launch. They might have seen the bright flashes of the hits."
"Good."
The flight lead of the Chinese Flankers grunted in response. This was his first real kill. He was
elated, two kills and one each for his wingmen. Like the F-22, the Su-35 Flankers enjoyed a super
cruise capability and could cover great distances with good fuel economy. The flight controller
congratulated him and confirmed his request; keep hunting. They still had plenty of fuel, could re-tank,
and there was nothing out here today he thought, that could touch them.
Back on the Chinese flagship, the Admiral had taken over the C2 Command and Control System, a
replicate of the Shi Lang's main control room, which allowed the carrier Captain to do his job while
Wen was able to direct the displays in the C2 Center to provide him fleet-wide situational awareness to
manage the unfolding battle. Much like the American allied network, the real-time information that he
enjoyed as a combat commander on the spot, was also being observed and analyzed by his superiors in
China. That was the downside; they were nightmare backseat drivers.
"Admiral Wen." The teleconferencing command console came alive. The Admiral felt like pulling
the plug on it. It was the Chief of Staff. "As we expected the Australians are making a last minute
attempt to dislodge us," the General said, the picture a little grainy. "After making a crude attempt to
take the oil fields by force, the United States is finally realizing that trying to do so by proxy was
stupid."
Wen Jinsong nodded. "Perhaps you would like me to take this in my wardroom?"
"No need Admiral," the General said sharply.
The Admiral looked around the control room. His flag staff and the operators were smart enough
to pretend they were not listening. But he was betting their ears were burning.
"I commend the efforts of the pilots in shooting down the F-111s," the General said. What makes
you think they were F-111s, the Admiral thought? "Which means having lost five, they barely have
another six F-111s to mount any sort of attack.”
And where did you get these numbers?
“The Americans are still in the Tasman Sea about to tangle with the Russians. So Admiral, all you
have to do is worry about squashing a small force of Australian natives with some antiquated aircraft.
We have positioned a sideways looking satellite to keep in touch. We are interested in your progress
and wish you the best of luck."
"Yes Sir." If only it were as simple as that, Wen thought. But it never was. The Australians had
never struck him as being stupid. They enjoyed a beer, but when you looked in their eyes they were
sharp as tacks. He turned to his XO
"Did we get a visual on those F-111s?" the Admiral asked.
"No Sir." The XO answered.
"So we don't really know whether they were F-111s."
"The pilots and AWACS were fairly confident that the signatures were that of F-111s on a low
level ingress."
"But they did not see. They assumed. Walks like a duck, quacks like a duck and even flies like a
duck. Doesn't mean it's a Pig though, does it?"
The XO looked perplexed. The English term of pig escaped him. Pigs and ducks, what did they
have to do with F-111s?

330 miles to the east and further behind the first flight of UAVs that had been destroyed, three
other Ryan-built craft, BQM145As, all plastic composite construction, flew unnoticed and
unchallenged. They looked very similar to their Scarab cousins except they were a little stealthier, had
two air intakes and larger engines. The other difference was the HPM payload they carried.
From the opposite direction, three Boeing QF-45s approached the task force. A stealthy tail-less
aircraft, it also had a mid-body mounted wing. These were swept back with a straight leading edge and
a saw tooth trailing edge, all with 45-degree sweep angles. It was as big a Ford pickup, featured an
F124 turbofan and thrust vectoring exhaust to help compensate for the aircraft's lack of a tail assembly.
Unlike the Ryan designs, the QF-45 could also carry munitions inside its fuselage, over 2240 pounds
worth, as well as an advanced HPM actuator in the nose. There was also another difference. The QF-
45 was super stealth and virtually invisible to all normal radar.
Orbiting west of the Chinese fleet was a KJ-2100 Mainstay AWACS, operating out of the newly
acquired Davis Station airfield. The AWAC sported a version of the Phalcon AEW phased-array radar,
reverse engineered from the Israelis and the AWACS was able to scan an area 600 miles in diameter.
"Incoming UAVs, bearing one seven zero," an operator said. The Mainstays AESA radar had
picked up the small signals the Ryan's used to fly with, looked at the emission profile and identified
them as UAVs.
"Multiple incoming targets, multiple tracks, each track locked, designated as MQ-9 Reaper air
craft."
Admiral Wen Jinsong watched patiently. Behind him, an operator blurted, "Possible contact.
Bearing two seven zero. Very stealthy, picked up on the Bing Qing J-321," This meant 'Ice (crystal)
clear', also the code name of the operation plan. This was a Metric Wave radar, which, combined with
the ship's high powered computers, was able to discern disruption in television or cell phone signals to
locate moving bodies. The QF-45s were no longer invisible.
The J-321 data was fed directly to the AWACS, which, able to track over 100 targets at a time and
guide over a dozen fighters in all weather day and night, quickly vectored available aircraft to intercept
the incoming threat to the fleet. The task force commander watched the intercept as the data was fed
real time into his command and control center.
At a range exceeding 120 miles, the Mariner CUAVs dropped their missiles and turned tail. The
AWACS picked up the launch, feeding the data directly into the fleet's TAVITAC system.
"Missiles! Inbound!"
 Three SU-34s fitted with the Feng (Pheonix), Ranets-E radio frequency cannons and high powered
AESA, closed on each of their designated groups of incoming harpoon targets. The radio frequency
cannons and radar fired high-powered microwave emissions, which fried the brains of the missiles.
Within seconds, the missiles terminal homing disrupted, radar incapacitated and shocked by the
focused HPM bursts, the would-be Harpoon killers spiraled out of control.
Escaping to the northwest, the Mariners were targeted by four Chinese EMG missiles. These were
licensed Chinese versions of Russian Explosive Magnetocumulative Generator or coil weapons,
another way of producing powerful electro magnetic pulses with a wide area of influence. None of the
Predators escaped. The Ryan's operating systems hardened to withstand EMP were not affected and
kept flying.
Still inbound the Boeing QF-45’s were highly evasive and making it hard for the Chinese sensor
systems to keep track, but it was the older Ryan's that struck first. Target selection was no accident. In
terminal phase the Ryan's confirmed targets by their own radar emissions, the Ryans closed, popped up
and fired directed, high-powered microwave bursts. The electronic sensors on the missile ships the
Putian, Guilin and Nanchang were momentarily blinded. Behind, the Boeing QF-45s closed to six
miles before dropping two Harpoons on each target. The three ships were defenseless. The Luda Class
ship the Guilin, hull number 164, took two hits and sank immediately. Her sister ship the Nanchang
took a hit in the stern and the Jiangwei-II Class FFG Putian took a heavy hit in the super structure,
killing everyone on the bridge.
This isn't what he had expected, Wen thought. They hadn't even tried for the carrier. There was
something very deceptive about what was going on. He had expected an all-out fight. No, they were
doing something else, but what? The logic was that they would try to create a beachhead. Everything
else they had done so far supported that. This flowed from the coalition's initial attempt to take over
Vostok. It was the logic that dominated his understanding of the enemy's tactics.
The control room was very calm. Wen ordered an immediate search and rescue operation, but kept
the fleet at speed covering the wounded ships by air. He then ordered an all out effort on anti submarine
operations, plus a full effort on air defense detection. He wanted his commanders in the best-protected
part of their ships - the command and control centers. Unlike years previous, the warships were not
managed from the bridge, but from the CCS. Well protected, the French-built CCS Thompson system,
using technologies given in good faith to the French by their U.S. allies at the time, was now being put
to good use to fight the U.S. and her current friends.
The French were clearly no longer allies but adversaries to the Americans. They had, in fact, sided
with those that had wished to conquer the French in the past - the Russians and the Germans. The
efforts by the U.S., who had saved her twice from occupation, were forgotten. But clearly that was the
way of the French. They might love romance, but loyalty was not one of their great assets; they were
fickle, were not good in a drawn-out fight and essentially could not be trusted. They were Wen Jinsong
thought, a legend in their own lunchtime; he really didn't like them. Anyone that could mistreat a
proven friend like they did the Americans, were dishonorable and distasteful. But at the end of the day,
the technology was badly needed by China in its attempt to gain ground on America's seemingly
endless capability to invent. The French were simply handing them American technology. For the life
of him, Wen could not understand why the Americans hadn't pole axed the dim witted French assholes.
The Admiral at least respected his adversaries, the Australians and the Americans. These were
distasteful times, but there was always, he believed, a place for honor and integrity.

*****

One of the advantages Wen had in his defensive planning was to know there was very little threat
from the south. He was right. They had to get past him to get there. He was therefore able to focus his
resources on the northern approaches. The AWACS, CAPs, destroyers and frigates formed an in-depth
defense against anyone trying to penetrate the main force. He was now getting close to the western
extremity of his AOPs, the two other Chinese naval task force units behind him. The attack had been
launched from the northwest, as might a follow on attack attempting to penetrate past weakened
defences resulting from the first attack. He wouldn't feel safe until he knew where these attacking
forces were coming from.
Wen Jinsong sent new orders to his western most task force, led by the Mistral Class LHD, the
Chee, a ship almost as powerful as the Shi Lang. This force supported by the cruiser Qing Yuan
commanded a unique and deadly weapon within its ranks, the progeny of what many called the Caspian
Sea Monster. Called the Hong, this was a sea skimming flying monstrosity and was just what Jinsong
needed.
After receiving the Admirals orders, the Russian pilot of the Hong had run the throttle levers all
the way forward, his Chinese copilot holding his left hand on top of his, the same way as their western
counterparts did in the take off procedure. This practice ensured that there was no accidental retarding
of the throttles at the crucial moment of taking to the air. Loss of any power meant plunging into the
waves and certain death.
Six jet engines in the nose and fuselage directed airflow over and below the wings of the monster
craft, providing immediate lift. Two big tail engines then surged the beast forwards, the heavy craft
rising on the air compressed beneath its body and short wings. Once up to speed the pilot shut down the
six starter engines, the forward speed providing enough air compressed between it and ice to hold it
level. The ice then disappeared beneath, replaced by the longer rollers of the ocean. At over 450 knots,
the WIG (Wing in Ground Effect) 600 ton ship killer traversed Prydz Bay from its land base at Zhong
Shan to join the third task force and its first combat mission.
The pilot looked out of the cockpit at the sea just a few feet below. It was a long way from flying
the single seat, 160 horse power piston ekranoplan on the shores of the Caspian he thought. He had
never imagined for a second it would lead to piloting this leviathan into battle in the Antarctic oceans.
He listened to the radio as more instructions were issued from the Chinese task force commander.
They were to search and destroy any enemy ships close enough to fire on the Chinese fleet. His crew
plotted an intercept with the approaching allied ships and search pattern for the hidden vessel that
launched the UAV strike.
Satisfied the Hong was on its way Admiral Wen Jinsong then ordered the fleet to turn around
unaware this is exactly what his enemy wanted him to do.

*****

CANBERRA AUSTRALIA
"Three ships?" the Prime Minister exclaimed.
"Yes, their HPM capabilities were a whole lot better than we thought. We don't know the damage
assessment yet, but in this instance it doesn't matter; the fleet turned west which is what we wanted."
"Now we just have to worry about the rest of the plan," the PM said; there was a long road ahead
yet.

*****

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

THE ROSS ICESHELF. Saturday, December 8. 1530hrs UTC. The Australian SAS Colonel,
sitting on his 'borrowed' snow ski, had spent several hours scouting the best spot that would require the
least work to prep for the F-111.
It was with relief that he finally sighted the C130 as it came in low, having flown the last 100 miles
at less than 50 feet over the ice shelf. Hamilton had marked the landing zone with red and green dye
markers, vivid splashes of colour that were hard to miss on the white background. Homing in using
good old fashioned navigation, the C130 crew were ready; they saw both Hamilton's initial marker and
the rest of the line, chopping the throttles and flaring the aircraft to touch down within 10 feet of the
first marker.
This was where trust came in. The Aircraft Commander did not circuit the LZ; he flew straight in
blind, too low to see the condition of the ice ahead of him. If Hamilton did not know what he was
doing, had incorrectly marked or just simply picked a bad place for an aircraft the size of a C130 to
land, it would all be over in a matter of seconds.
Designed for rough field landings, the C130 hit the reverse pitch as soon as the wheels touched, the
aircraft disappearing behind clouds of ice thrown high into the air. Once slowed it was able to use the
engines to steer across the slippery surface to the marker on the ice. The back ramp dropped and a
large metal matt slid from the rear of the airplane to drag across the ice. The matt was in fact a rake.
The hundreds of small metal blades attached to the rake chopping off the numerous icy outcrops and
smoothing the surface. The pilot had the engines back up to power to overcome the heavy drag. It
wasn't perfect, but it was all they had.
Hamilton watched in fascination as the Hercules dragged the steel mesh rake backwards and
forwards over the piece of hard ice that was the runway for the inbound F-111.
After preparing the ice for the F-111, the C130 pilot retarded the throttles back to the rear indents
and cut the switches. He then pulled his Nomex flight gloves off and wiped the perspiration off his
face. It might have been cold outside, but he had definitely been working up a sweat that day.
Now it was the turn of the bomber. Like the Herc, it drove in low and fast but using its AESA
radar homed on a narrowly focused beam which could see the Herc from miles away, too easily.
Visually confirming the sight of the C130 parked at the threshold of the temporary ice field, the big
jet's wings swept forward, flaps and gear dropping and the nose lifting as the aircraft flared. There was
a collective sigh of relief as the airplane touched and the gear took the weight. They were down and
safe. So they thought. Then, in slow motion, things went bad. The aircraft began to go sideways, a slow
spinning pirouette that sprayed clouds of ice into the air as the airframe ploughed through small
powdered rough spots on the ice.
"Hang on! This looks like we are going for a ride!"
The bomber was simply too heavy to be pulled straight by the rudder, and the front wheel was just
skidding uselessly with absolutely no steerage. Without the power of the engines she was just 75,000
pounds of unguided metal on ice. Rough ice too. The pilot and weapons operator were bounced and
thrown around violently as the aircraft skidded helplessly, skating sideways, backwards and every other
direction but forwards.
"Shit," was all Hamilton could manage. He had his hands closed hard over both throttle levers,
every instinct telling him to push them forward and get back in control. He gritted his teeth and hoped
the Wrangler would survive the punishment.
The design of naval aircraft, of which the F-111 was initially supposed to be, started with the
airframe and landing gear because they had to withstand the tremendous shock each time the aircraft
launched or landed on an aircraft carrier. So, despite the undulations and rough spots that would have
ripped the legs out from under most other airplanes, the Pig's heavy undercarriage stayed together. And
after what seemed an eternity, the bouncing, spinning, skidding and out-of-control airplane finally
came to a stop. The engines were set to idle as the canopy came open and the pilot and navigator
sucked in the super cool air.
The Hercules had brought with it a full complement of ground crew. Within minutes the crew
chief and his team were all over the airframe, snapping in safety locks and securing the ejection seats.
Once this was done, the pilot and weapons office lifted their sorry butts from the aircraft and climbed
down the stairs, a strange luxury in the middle of nowhere. In the distance they could see the white
pillar of Mount Erebus, standing high against a foreground of endless flat ice.
Lance and Jake tested their legs, the dusted ice crushing loudly beneath their flight boots. They felt
the cold immediately; the flight suits held some back but not all. One of the C130 crew rushed towards
them with heavy jackets and gloves. It was all well thought out, including the cold weather mittens for
the crew while they waited. But despite that, the Squadron Leader knew his operational plan, delivered
on such short notice, had more holes in it than a colander. Success or failure depended on mission
planners at home anticipating every need, logistical, and operational. They weren't letting him down.
They did their jobs very bloody well.
The little tractor borrowed from the USS Clinton came in handy. Once the ramp was lowered, it
pulled out the ordnance trolley with the first of two weapons that the F-111 would carry to the target.
While the first weapon was being fitted, the little tractor pulled the rest of the supplies off, including a
large bladder of fuel.
Stepping from the bottom of the ladder, Lance was immediately looking for his brother. Brian had
waited until both Lance and Jake had put on their jackets and gloves. Lance couldn't see him. But he
did hear him.
"Damn it! I call for the cavalry and get my little brother!" He feigned a look of dismay. "Aren't you
supposed to be retired or something?"
"Aren't you?"
 "Touché," Brian said, turning to the navigator. "How are you Jake, long time no see." He shook his
hand. "Here to look after my little bro?"
"Keep him pointed in the right direction anyway, make sure he doesn't lose the keys," he said.
"That sort of stuff." He noticed Brian flinch. "You alright?"
"Banged my shoulder in the Dry Valley, just bruised." He lied.
Lance looked at him questioningly. He knew when Brian was lying. Brian quickly changed the
subject. "Obviously you got my message, I had a feeling you might turn up."
"So what happened?" Lance asked.
Brian gave him the unedited version of what had transpired, leaving out the getting shot part. They
quickly updated each other on the last few days' events. It was the first time, Lance suddenly realized,
that his older brother had ever talked about his field activities, always cloaked in secrecy. Lance and
Jake were awestruck. When it came to their turn to talk, Brian's blood chilled as he listened to Lance's
experiences over the last few days. Still, he could not help smiling. His brother was still alive, and a
goddamn hero again to boot. Ironically, heroism or bravery was never a thought he translated to
himself. It always just seemed like a battle to survive, what choice did you have? Fight or die. He was
scared shitless most of the time anyway. It never seemed brave.
"I thought you might need this." Lance threw the heavy kitbag at Brian. It was his personal kit.
Brian caught it with his good arm.
"You didn't have to come all this way just to give me this," Brian said mockingly, but smiling at
the same time.
"Yeah, well," Lance said. "I was worried whether you had changed your undies. You know how
mum was about those things. If you have an accident and they see those stained and stinky ones you're
wearing, we'd all have to disown you."
Jake rolled his eyes listening to the two.
"Almost show time," Brian said finally.
"Yeah," Lance said, scanning the massive expanse of ice. "It's the waiting that gets me. Hurry up
and wait, ever since I joined the service."
"Amen to that," Colonel Hamilton said, unzipping the bag, quickly rifling through the contents in a
rapid stock take.
"The guys have also brought you some other nice surprises," Jake said. "When they heard you
were down here, they ransacked the joint to get your favorite toys, plus some extras by the looks of it."
They had too. Brian was starting to become very focused. He looked up at Lance and then at the
procession of equipment rolling out of the back of the C130. He then leaned forwards to his brother
while Jake turned to inspect the progress. "I just hope like fuck we don't disappoint all these guys," he
said quietly into his ear.
Lance looked at his older brother in surprise. It was the first time in his life he had ever heard him
sound less than absolute. It made him more human. "Me too bro….me too." He said.
Brian turned back to examine his equipment. He pulled the ground sheet out first and laid it on the
ice. He then pulled out items one at a time and placed them carefully on the sheet, after a few moments
the sheet was covered with a whole assortment of weapons, clothing and sophisticated electronic
devices. The Colonel lifted a dull black helmet, examining it for cracks. He could remember the
cumbersome night-vision, infrared goggles they used to have to wear on their helmets.
Within his short two decades of service, he had witnessed some amazing developments. He spun
the light Special Forces Combat Helmet between his fingers. The night vision, thermal sensors, day-
night video cameras, and chemical and biological sensors were all fully integrated within the helmet.
The visor also acted as a 'heads-up display' equivalent to two 17-inch computer monitors in front of his
eyes. He placed that to one side and picked up the clothing and immediately started to change, turning
away from Lance and Jake to conceal a spreading bloodstain. The uniform system he now struggled
into was an ECW or Extreme Cold Weather multi-function combat suit that worked from the inside
out. It incorporated physiological sensors that allowed him and his field controllers, who were sitting
comfortably in an air-conditioned room near Alice Springs, to monitor his blood pressure, heart rate,
internal and external body temperature, and caloric consumption rate. Field controllers could access the
information through the tactical operations network. All useless of course until the satellite
communications came back online.
It was called the Objective Force Warrior system and also boasted a built-in microclimate
conditioning system. The private climate-control system used "spacer fabric" that was a little bit thicker
than a regular cotton T-shirt. The garment had "capillaries" that blew hot or cold air through the
system. The system's functions were powered by small ultra light high tech fuel cells, cell phone
batteries on serious steroids.
The climate-control feature eliminated the need to carry extra clothing. The outer garment had
some biological and chemical protection capabilities also reducing the need to carry extra protective
gear. A driving force of the new technologies was to try and reduce the total weight load a soldier
carried into combat. Despite that, the warrior in the field was like a woman's handbag. As soon as you
did away with one thing, there was always some new weapon or device to keep the space filled up,
more ammunition, communications or multi mission capability.
In addition to the kit Brian was quickly assembling, he also noticed they had brought his 'ass
kicker', a robotic Mule, fully loaded with goodies. Anything that was mission-essential, but not built in
to the individual soldier system was carried on the Mule. Better still, the Mule (Not to be confused
with the car sized US UMV) could be deployed as a remote controlled recon unit and even had
offensive and laser designation capabilities. It was three feet high and six long, but instead of wheels
used fast tracks.
It also acted as a recharging battery station and a weapons platform. It had day and night thermal,
infrared and forward-looking imaging systems inside the nose of the Mule, as well as chemical-
biological sensors. The Mule could communicate with unmanned aerial vehicles to give him a true 360-
degree image of the battlefield. Just like the animal kind, the Mule was a follower, and unless
instructed otherwise would always be within hand reach of where the Colonel was.
In another case that had been dropped next to him was the centerpiece of Brian's mini arsenal, his
TCS3 Tactical Combat System, essentially, a really tough looking laptop, an upgraded version of his
TACTERM that he used in Papua New Guinea. The TCS provided support for mission planning,
navigation, situational awareness, target acquisition and engagement. The system interfaced with the
Wideband Global Satellite (WGS) communications system as well as any other friendly network node
in range to establish large-scale networking. The RTC linked to standard combat net radios to access
the network and transfer data between the network's units. The TCS, like a lot of the kit fitted neatly
onto the Mule.
On this trip the Colonel also got one other useful asset: the Possum Autonomous Observation and
Target Intercept System, developed by the Australian Defense Industry. The Possum was another type
of unmanned security vehicle (USV), which could be operated from a rather nifty remote control that
interfaced with his helmet's head-up display. Like controls used by the the CUAV pilots it was very
much like playing a sophisticated computer simulation game. It could carry out routine patrols and fire
suppression missions, holding attacking forces back in the event of detection to allow time to escape. It
was almost the same size as the Mule, three feet high, three wide and six foot in length but operated on
six lightweight all rubber tyres.
Like the Mule, the suspension on the Possum collapsed for transport, which meant they could
travel in specially adapted underwing pods fitted to the F-111.
The Possum was equipped with an automated tactical positioning system and could operate
autonomously on and off road, at speeds over 50 milers per hour and could carry payloads of up to 700
pounds, including a light armour shield to protect vital systems. The Possum USV could carry a wide
variety of sensors, including video and thermal cameras, with auto-target acquisition and capture,
sensitive microphone, powerful loudspeakers and two way radio. The vehicle was equipped with a
lethal rapid-fire cannon and Maverick III missiles. Given the amazing level of preparation, Brian had
no doubt the Possum was also programmed with the Vostok tactical area definition, namely, flat and
white with black spots and holes where the cruise missiles hit.
"So how are you going to designate?" Lance said, breaking into Brian's concentration for a
moment.
"This," he said holding up something small in his hand, "Or this," gesturing to the Possum. "I'll
have to figure that out when I get there, if it all arrives in one piece."
"In addition to you, we have two other full pods that will follow your insertion and land within 100
meters of you, just to make sure you don't have a train smash before even starting the mission."
The two men sat beneath the white camouflage netting reviewing the data on the Tactical Combat
System.
"There was no other way we could do this," Lance was explaining after a few minutes. "Out of
time, we had to do a lot of the work on the way down here, in the Herc, to make these big bastard fuel
air bombs fit the F-111. Firstly, they weren't ready and secondly it was too far to fly with them hooked
up. With those on board I would not have considered for one second landing on the ice. It was bad
enough dry weight. Besides, I would have had to unhook them again to load you."
"Sold me on that one," Brian said. He had seen the landing and could easily have imagined what
the skidding F-111 would have been like with another 30,000lbs of FABs, probably a big hole in the
ice by now. "I'm going to need time to get in position," Brian continued, looking at the map display.
"Their troop positions and anti air assets are all over the place."
"That's what we figured. It's why we are doing this in two parts. It's also why we set it up this
way," Lance said, gesturing to supplies around them.
Brian looked at his little brother. This was a long way from playing football barefoot in the red
dust in the back of Burke. It appeared Lance had become a master planner. From a small text message
he had quickly put a difficult plan together, anticipating most contingencies, and so far had made it all
work. Brian would not have been at all surprised if no one had turned up at the RV point. Lance was
still talking.
"There is no way, once in the air, that I can land the Pig with those huge bombs stuck to it. If I
drop these anywhere on anything hard," He threw his arms open, “Kaboom.”
Brian was listening intensely. He normally had something to say. This was new. "Once I take off
with them. I either drop them or lose them and that will be our last and only chance at putting that
flame out. It's risky, but I believe it gives us an overall better chance if we do this in two parts. If I
tried to do both at the same time there are too many things that could go wrong, besides the weight
configuration would be all wrong."
Brian thought about that. He was right. Dropping him with the pressure of having the weapons on
board, unable to land, having to loiter with an ever-diminishing fuel supply was a bad scenario. Better
he had the time to get in position and Lance arrive with a healthier fuel load. "I'm with you, sounds
good."
Brian suddenly sniffed the air. "What's that smell? Smells like sausages," Brian said, somewhat
mystified. They all stopped for a moment sniffing the air. “It is sausages!" he said standing up, it felt
like a long time since he had a cooked breakfast, even though it had been just a few days.
"It was the Crew Chief's idea.” Lance said. "Hey, we can't go off saving the world without a snag!"
If they were all going to die, let’s do it on a full stomach he thought.
The Breakfast while nice was eaten on the run, the Herc crew were in a hurry to leave. The C130
stood out on the ice like a huge neon sign. With Russian air assets on the rapid increase not far to the
west it would inevitably be seen, it was quickly back in the air flying low to remain undetected. Brian
had no doubt fighter aircraft were also on the way to help secure Russian held McMurdo. The unloaded
stores were covered with plastic igloos and ice to conceal them from the air.
The ground crew left behind by the C-130 would have to fend for themselves for the next day. But
they were essential to the success of the mission ahead. The small knot of men in their issue EWCs
huddled out of the wind behind the only shelter for miles. For Brian and Lance, the next few hours
would prove pivotal to the very survival of their country and possibly the world. Like the stores, the
Wrangler was also covered under a white shroud that made it difficult to see unless you were almost on
top of it.
They were all intently aware that they were at the mercy of the weather. The igloos and shrouds
were not protection against weather, just camouflage. 'Can't see me, but sure can wet me.' It was an old
term that Brian remembered from his days at officer training in Portsea, training for jungle warfare in
the middle of winter in Southern Victoria in sleet and snow. They were forced as cadets to wear
camouflaged tropical coats that became completely soaked and stuck to the skin in minutes, freezing
your ass off. He still wondered who the fuck knuckle was who made them do that and who purchased
the stupid fucking things.
They were now on the final and most dangerous part of the plan, for all of them. First of all the F-
111 crew would be required to drop Brian into position near Vostok station. It would then return back
to the ice runway to be refueled and loaded with the two huge bombs that now hid beneath the
camouflage.
The crew chief checked his watch and smacked his hands together, replacing his gloves. "Time to
move!"
It was amazing how many things could and might go wrong to scuttle what was an already
complicated plan. Would the GPU start, Lance wondered? If it didn't, they were all stuffed. There
was simply no other way of getting the Pig going. Not wanting to look worried as he carried out his
own housework in preparing for the mission; his ears though, intensely tuned to the sound of the
machine starting up. It coughed once and fired. He looked up to see his brother staring at him,
smiling. He could swear the man could read his mind at times. Brian gave him a little thumbs-up,
speaking loudly over the now noisy GPU.
"See, nothing to worry about. A little Aussie beauty that. Scared you might have to push start the
Pig?"
Lance smiled back, if they could get it up to well over a 100kph to turn the turbines...maybe? It
was a little later as final preparations for the insertion took place that Lance voiced his doubts about
some of Brians planned activities in the operation. "Are you sure about this? This isn't exactly proven
technology." He was referring to the SF insertion unit they called the HB.
"Got another plan?" Brian said.
No he didn't. He just needed to say it. He noticed Brian check his watch. He frowned, clearly
worried about the little time left to get this right. If one thing went wrong, they would be too late. He
wondered what it looked like when several gazillion gallons of fuel ignited. Brian's voice broke into his
thoughts.
"It's the only way. Now that they have ground assets there, and air cover, there is no way you are
going to be able to designate the target from the air," Brian said. “And from that angle the thermal flare
will obscure the pointer.
Lance nodded, he was right. They walked over to the unit in question. "So this is it, the poor mans
version of the British Special Forces insertion unit." Lance patted the casing. "The great Australian HB
(Human bomb)"
Brian grunted, he hated that name, didn't like the idea of being part of a bomb. The big unit still
looked menacing, except all things going well he hoped it didn't blow up. It was a big cruise missile
that had pretty much been gutted with the exception of its navigation equipment. It was easily large
enough for a man to fit into, was pressurized and fitted neatly under the wing of an F-111. Most
importantly it could be launched several hundred miles from the LZ, meaning the delivery platform
could get out of Dodge before everyone started shooting.
After launch, two small wings unfolded from the somewhat flat, coffin like fuselage. Powered by
a small jet, the HB would cruise at over 500 miles per hour, just feet above the ground, navigating
using a pre loaded course verified against terrain and its own internal mapping system that continually
referenced its position to the foot. Like its delivery platform, the SFIU was terrain following coupled
with exceptionally stealthy design characteristics. Compared to iron bombs and missiles that the
Wrangler normally carried, the HB was positively light. Considering that the F-111 could carry tens of
thousands of pounds of ordinance, stacking six H-bombs under its wings was a walk in the park, at
least for the driver and weapons officer.
The Australian HB was experimental and had pretty much been shelved, leaving the research to
the British. But desperate times needed equally desperate solutions. This was the only way. There was
no more time to try to conjure up another solution. They were committed. With his team of one,
himself, he would drop far enough from the target to not be detected and make the rest of the way by
foot. It was his job to designate the target for Lance, when he returned with the Fuel Air Bombs
(FAB's). There was only one shot, so they had to get it right the first time around.
"You ready?"
"I'm ready." The nose of the HB lifted up to allow Brian to grip the rack that held it and swing
himself into the unit. It was like climbing into a coffin. The front of the cruise missile casing was
made up of the same stuff used for F-22 canopies, allowing the occupant a view to the front and below.
As the nose was closed over, there was an almost immediate feeling of claustrophobia. There was very
little room to move.

*****

VOSTOK STATION, December 8, 2230hrs UTC. While the Australian designed SF insertion
unit was nothing like the super tech toys deployed in Dale Brown's novels, it was functional, worked
and, most importantly, was available now. However, small details like how to stop had not been
refined.
The landing was Brian's favorite part, because this thing didn't land. It crashed. In the last few
moments Brian would actually take over the controls and belly the small cruise missile onto the ice. At
the moment of touching down a large drag chute deployed from the rear which would stop the small
missile with a man on board from going end on end, bringing it quickly to a stop. But it would be
rough, really rough. Unlike other models that had deployed chutes to land, this model just had the drag
chute. Not big enough to land the whole thing safely. But it would have to do, like so many other
things on this mission.
"You hear me brother?" Lance said from the Wranglers cockpit after strapping in. He looked down
from the cockpit to the nose of the human missile slung beneath his port wing.
"Yes brother hears you loud and clear." Brian replied, not a lot of cheer in his voice. He wasn't too
sure he wanted to see out the front of the damn thing.
"Sweet. Shall we rock and roll?"
"Sooner the better, this thing is already cramping my style." Surprisingly, if he craned his neck, he
could actually see the helmeted head of his brother in the cockpit.
The dark visored helmet turned towards him and gave him thumbs up. He could then feel the
rumble of the engines through the airframe as the APU fed air into the Pig's turbines and the igniters
did their job of starting the fires that would turn kerosene into noise and speed. And noise it was.
Brian squeezed the little yellow earplugs and pushed them into his ears. Even that didn't stop it,
the rolling thunder of the afterburners drove through his entire body making his teeth chatter and every
bone in his body vibrate. He was sure everything was going to come apart. Beneath him, the ice had
turned into a trembling blur as the aircraft rapidly accelerated; the hard surface seemingly inches from
his face. He made a mental note to request business class next time, this really sucked. The vibration
increased as the big jet ploughed at high speed through the ice bumps. Just as quickly as it started, it
stopped. The wheels left the surface sucking up into the airframe, Lance cutting the burners. As the
aircraft's speed increased, the sound was left further and further behind. He unplugged and put his
headset back on.
"You know when you said come fly with me; this is not what I had in mind." Brian said over the
internal intercom.
The head in the cockpit turned around and pushed up the visor. The eyes were smiling. Lance was
still amazed there was a person sitting in the bomb hanging off one of his wing pylons. "You didn't
actually think I was going to let you anywhere near the controls did you? Remember how many times
you made me sit in the back of Mossies Commodore while you were busy up front!"
Brian smiled at that. He was right. He would tell Uncle Mossie that he was taking Lance for a
drive, and did. But he would pick up his girlfriend Jacky on the way. He would make his younger and
very annoyed brother sit in the back. They would then park, and while he and Jacky went for a walk
and had some fun, Lance would sit bored shitless in the car, trying in vain for a radio station and music,
a luxury in those days that did not exist, not at the way back of Burke in nowhereville Australia
anyway.
"Yeah, but I never made you ride on the roof or outside." Lance could hear Brian chuckling.
While talking to Brian, Lance never for a moment stopped his eyes from looking at both the large MFD
and the ground in front. The bomber was flying low and hard. The view from Brian's little office must
have been something else he thought. He would have to try it one day; it looked exciting. With the
weapons panel armed, he let the aircraft's system update the telemetry of the cruise missiles before
release.
"Well, consider this payback for all those lonely nights," he said after a pause. His voice became
more serious. "Okay, we are coming up on drop point. Get ready….good luck, I will see you in four
hours."
"Thanks bud. Luck to you too. Shoot when you are ready."
"Coming up on my mark."
"Mark."
Brian's stomach had lurched as the explosive bolts had fired and the HB dropped from the rack.
There was the sickening feeling of free fall as the HB dropped off the wing pylon and he wondered for
a moment if the damn thing was going to fly or just keep falling.
"Missile away and running fine," the Pursell confirmed.
"Let's go." Lance Hamilton initiated a low and hard turn, reversing direction, leaving the small
cruise missile with his brother on board, speeding towards a lot of uncertainty.
The HB began to vibrate and wobble. For a terrible moment there was no noise and nothing
happened. He couldn't see, but could hear the wings unfold. At least he assumed that's what the noise
was. Immediately the wobbling smoothed out and the little ship began to steer. He felt before he heard
the cruise missiles engine rpm wind up and start delivering thrust. It felt good.
But if he thought the F-111 flew low, the cruise missile was something else. For 20 minutes it sped
at a mind-numbing speed a scant few feet above the surface. The ice came and disappeared beneath the
cruise missile so fast it was just a blur. He gave up trying to focus because it was making his head spin.
The small digital monitor in front of him showed his proximity to the DZ. To confirm what he was
already thinking, he felt the power come off the engine as the missile slowed as part of its pre-
programmed ingress to the target. Vostok he knew was now 10 miles off to his starboard side.
It could hardly be called flying, but after over riding the system's autopilot, Brian grabbed the poor
excuse of a control stick, slowing the missile down by punching a button on the console much the way
you did with a computer game, when all you had was the keyboard to fly your simulator. The missile
hit the ice at over 100 miles per hour. The chute immediately deployed, preventing the impact from
turning into a messy metal-crunching crash. But it was still violent and completely knocked the air out
of Hamilton, banging his head hard against the top of a heavily padded cabin. Even after the missile
had skidded to a halt, he was still reeling, small pinpoints of light swimming across his vision.
The urgent desperation of the job at hand helped brush aside the haze. Triggering the front latch,
he pushed the nose cone open and pulled himself out. Standing up he was surprised to see that the
cruise missile showed virtually nothing of its rough landing. Considering how it had felt he was almost
disappointed, like having a small cut hurt like one that should have been 10 times larger. Maybe he was
just getting too old for this shit.
His small bag of tricks had been packed behind him. He retrieved them and a custom-made white
camouflage net with which he covered the missile. He did the same with the other two missile
containers once he had relieved them of their loads, most importantly the Mule and the Possum. He
was impressed that in the short notification and breakneck speed in which the plan had been slapped
together, they were able to get them ready to ship like this. After moving 50 feet away he realized that
it would be almost impossible to see the containers unless you tripped over them. He looked to his
east. Ten miles away there was Vostok.
He sat down and conducted a quick equipment check, looking for any damage that might have
occurred during the landing or crash. By far the most prized possessions in the storage packs were the
small-unmanned aerial vehicles (SUAV). They looked like incredibly flash model airplanes, which in
some ways they were. But unlike their civilian counterparts, they were quiet, stealthy and very smart.
Potentially they could be controlled from anywhere in the world; however, experience showed that the
split seconds in lag time could be fatal in controlling them effectively. In addition to the
reconnaissance Microstars, Brian also packed a few dragonflies, capable of hovering and sitting, the
same as he had used in Papua New Guinea. They could be useful. These were later models
incorporating a synthetic muscle tissue that flexed with electric impulses and developed a more natural
and efficient wing beat.
His first objective was to get a good look at what was going on in and around Vostok. Brian
powered up his laptop. The military called it a TCS, or Tactical Control Station. Brian called it one
tough son of bitch of a laptop; because they looked the same size and had a keyboard and screen. In
reality it was a lot more. Brian's TCS incorporated the control hardware and software for the UAVs. He
plugged in a small joystick into the hardened side of the units casing especially designed for such
devices.
He then selected one of the small Microstar reconnaissance UAVs. It was light as a feather. Made
up of carbon fiber and solid circuits, the only real weight was in the battery. The Microstar had an
amazing two-hour endurance and was whisper quiet. Hamilton fed the co-ordinates into the control
console and after checking the ID number, selected the aircraft from a pull down list and started its
power unit. The suitcase control module was based around an ultra high-resolution monitor. The data
from the unit was fed back directly to the console as well as the satellite feed to Pine Gap, if it got back
online.
He did this while holding the small craft in his left hand. The small control stick included a
throttle lever, he ran the power up on the small engine and with a small throw the tiny airplane was
airborne and on its way. He turned back to the control console and selected the nose camera. The
visuals were amazing in their clarity. He flew the Microstar low and slow. The first indications that he
was coming up on target were the craters. These were dug out by the numerous cruise missiles fired
from the Blackjack bombers. They were an excellent marker of the outer boundary. Not far away he
could also see the pillar of smoke that marked the oil fire, the target.
The biggest challenge from his current position was the lack of high ground. There was none. The
whole area, apart from that torn up by the missile attack, was one big white flat pancake. Within 60
minutes he needed to have that oil fire designated. It was easy to hide here, but not if you wanted to get
close and personal. In this environment the only thing that hid you was the earth's curvature. It was
light 24 hours a day and you could easily be seen for miles, standing, walking or crawling. How the
hell to get closer, he thought. It was then the Microstar UAV flew over a field of sastrugi, anthill like
mounds of blown ice and snow. He would go for them.
But before he had even moved, he could hear the faint sound of an engine, probably a patrol he
thought, he. He waited, training his field glasses into the distance. As the Russian patrol came into
view he knew straight away they were Spetznaz. A shiver ran down his spine. That made his job
harder but was expected. He was just hoping for a break. They were still a long way off. After they had
left he moved out towards the sastrugi field, like obedient huskies, the Mule and Possum followed him.
An hour later he was in a better position; both the Mule and Possum were dug in, hard work done
courtesy of the Mule, which was fitted with a small blade. He and his electronic team were buried in
the whiteness that surrounded them. He had spent another full hour smashing the ice they had dug up
and spreading it around into something that looked like snow berms adding to those that already
existed.
Another two-man patrol appeared on snow skis. Unless they drove right over the top of him, the
bad guys couldn't see him; unless, he suddenly thought, they were using thermals. That was a worry,
looking through his IR field glasses that didn't seem the case. He hunkered down until he heard the
engines of the two snow skis rev as they moved on. Thank Christ. Now for the next stage: the advanced
Microstar Dragonfly.
Everything was called advanced nowadays, Hamilton thought. He used the tough little laptop
(TCS) to bring up the operating system on two of his Dragonflies. They made no sound other than the
beating of tiny wings. From the palm of his hand they took off towards the large crater, flying low and
erratically. The cruise missile attack by the Russians had one positive affect, it had created lots of small
craters and mounds, things that something as small as a hovering Dragonfly could hide behind or sit on.
While Brian went about the process of setting up target designation, Lance Hamilton's F-111, call
sign Buckshot, was once again stretching out its heavy undercarriage as it returned to the ice shelf and
waiting air crew, ready to load the FABs. The round trip was over two thousand miles. They had
avoided using the drag chute on the first landing, which was a mistake. Not this time though, the
landing was still scary but mostly pointed in the same direction. The first priority was to tank the bird
in the event they had to move quickly.
Lance kept the turbines idling, parking close enough to the fuel bladder for the hoses to reach.
Once again the little tractor from the Clinton proved its worth. The PTO on its rear end fitted neatly
into the fuel pump attached to the bladder and after just a few turns of a wrench, they had fuel pumping
into the Wranglers tanks.
While the refueling occurred, the two bombs, with the help of a small team of technicians that had
traveled on the Hercules, were gradually winched up onto the inboard pylons and locked into place.
The bombs had been flown to the USS Clinton just in time with the help and quick thinking of David
Stringer. In flight the two weapons received a hot fix to be able to attach them to the RAAF's F-111S.
BLU-85A’s were advanced versions of the BLU-82 Daisy Cutters - 15,000 pound fuel-Air Bombs
(FAB), which exploded just prior to hitting the ground at a height of one to six feet, killing everything
within a square-mile radius of the impact point. They are the largest conventional bomb the United
States military has in its arsenal. The Conventional F111 was not supposed to carry them and even the
F111S was marginal, threatened by the development of an uncontrollable rolling moment. But there
was no other choice.
This type of weapon was introduced in 1970 during the Vietnam War as a method for instantly
clearing sections of jungle to create helicopter-landing zones. The weapon worked by squirting out
ethylene oxide and then ignited the fuel vapour creating a massive pressure wave, which sucked
oxygen out from the surrounding area. This created a powerful vacuum effect. And it was this effect
the Pig crew was hoping would snuff the fire out.
The bombs in their basic casing, even if fitted to the F-111, were useless to the task, lacking the
guidance and accuracy required for such a delicate 'one shot' mission. The interim and heated
discussion had decided on two things. Instead of one 35,000lb monster they would go for two 15,000lb
bombs, this made it easier to fit on the F-111 and to get to the Clinton. The second part was a real fast
play in getting a hold of a pair of smart kits. These were developed by the Israelis and strapped onto the
bomb cases after ripping off the fins and other exteriors of the BLU or FAB casings, depending on
what you referred to them as. The smart kits gave the bombs autonomous Electro-Optical and inirtial
guidance with satellite feed (If available) and laser guidance. You could preload it with several target
images, and it would then compare the targets to a real-time Electro-Optical image, which is acquired
by the bomb's Electro-Optical seeker. The bomb could locate the target autonomously, prepare its flight
course and hit it with absolute precision. Which was great when the entire landscape wasn't white and
featureless and you knew what the target was going to look like. In this case the target shape was
changing, albeit still a big hole in the middle of white nothing. The system also employed GPS
guidance, in case the Electro-Optical sensor could not acquire the target for some reason. That also
assumed satellites, which were no guarantee. Laser designation was the best solution but might not
work since the 1.066 micron band infrared brighness of the blowhole flare would blind any laser seeker
from miles away. Inertial was the next best option but much less accurate.
"The bombs have to fly down the throat of the hole and both detonate half way down at the same
time," the guys at Rosenbridge had theorized. "Not on the side, not near it, but inside. That's why we
need to be sure with the laser designation."
The Israelis were brilliant engineers; after making the necessary changes to the casings on the trip
in, the bombs fitted like gloves to the standard pylon fittings on the F-111. Better still the software was
developed with a generic communication interface that came online within moments of powering up.
Things were going so well, Lance was starting to get worried. There was a real nasty bastard
surprise around the corner. There was no such thing as a dream run; he preferred the bad news
elements spread out in smaller doses. It was the big dose he felt coming that now worried him. He
wouldn’t know until he got there whether the fires were burning deep enough in the hole to use the
laser designation.
As he ran the throttles forward, the world behind him turned white with the jet wash over the ice.
"Shit I hate that," His navigator said.
"Me too, you gotta be able to see that for miles."
The Navigator looked back over his shoulder at the rapidly shrinking knot of men and equipment
alone on the ice shelf. "When's the Herc due back?"
Lance looked at the cockpit's readout. "Fifteen minutes."
"I have to say, man, I don't know whether it's scarier going where we are, or waiting helplessly on
the ice."
Lance Hamilton knew the F-111S would handle like a loaded Mack truck without power steering
or hydraulics. But it was a whole lot worse than he had imagined. His hands holding the throttles
rattled and shook. With full afterburner and the extra weight, the incessant shaking and hammering
from the rough ice running through the airframe made him wonder just how much punishment the bird
would take before losing some feathers. He sighed inwardly as the vibration suddenly ceased, the
heavy bomber clawing her way into the air.

*****

McMurdo's new station Commander, Pavel Kondrat'ev syn Khudiakov, a Russian Colonel from
the Northern Fleet looked up from his new desk. "Are you sure?"
"Yes sir. They said a jet took off from the ice. They were too far away to identify what it was. But
it headed inland."
"Tell them to investigate immediately. Have a team ready to back them up. I want to know what's
going on. We have no aircraft operating over there, nor do the Chinese." Not enough information to
jump to conclusions, but enough to tell him to investigate. Throwing on his jacket, he walked quickly
out of his new office. "Get me my chopper now."
Back on the Ross Ice Shelf the Russian patrol that had made the report, made up of a group of four
snow skis and a tracked carrier, closed on the point where they had heard the thunder of the jet and the
rooster tail of ice particles in its wake. A katabatic wind stirred across the white surface. The first
wind there for two days. The Russian officer in command of the small patrol squinted and looked
inland. The wind would freshen quickly. Looking back across the ice, over a mile away, he could
make out a small contingent of men huddled beside boxes and other equipment. Through his field
glasses, he couldn't see anything particularly threatening. The scattering puffs of ice particles were
starting to haze the conditions.
"What do you think?" the unit's commander said to his senior NCO.
"I think to be safe; we blow them up. We should get close enough to use the anti-tank gun and
mortars. Hit them now."
"Tempting, but I'm thinking we should wait. They are waiting for something, possibly another
aircraft. If we take them out, we are not going to find out what it is. If nothing turns up in fifteen
minutes we will hit them with the mortars, unless, of course, they start shooting first."
The Russian Sergeant grunted. "As usual Petroski, your superior logic and wisdom is a shining
light in an army of ignorance."
Petroski shook his head; the Sergeant was a real wit. The edge of sarcasm and flattery heavily
blurred. It was his way of adding some humor into otherwise long and tedious days. "Well Sergeant,
let's have the mortars ready then, eh?" Did they want to take prisoners or play safe?
 The Australians had picked up the Russian patrol with a small portable ground radar. "You think
they have seen us?" the Loadmaster asked, operating the unit.
"Without a doubt, you would have to assume that. But they have not fired at us, which is curious."
"Bugger." The C130 Loadmaster swore. He would have to call an abort. He picked up the radio.
No need for radio silence now, he would warn off the inbound herc bird.
"Lumberjack this is ground, you copy?"
"Ground we copy, loud and clear." The copilot gave the aircraft commander a quizzical look,
calling in the clear meant trouble.
"Lumberjack, ground, we have an abort, copy. Say again it's an abort."
"Ground, copy; we are still inbound five clicks."
"Lumberjack, we have a Russian patrol one klick southwest of our position, small arms, probable
anti-air, currently static perhaps waiting for backup."
"Copy that ground. Hang in there; just tell the guys to keep their heads down. We will be there in a
minute."
The Loadmaster didn't like the odds. The F-111 was still engressing the target; it wouldn't help to
let the bad guys know in advance by getting themselves and C130 captured. They would quickly figure
it all out. He looked at the small deep hole in the ice. Most of the equipment that might have revealed
the nature of their mission was now in safe keeping, sitting on the bottom of the Ross Sea. He spoke
softly to one of the men. "Wally, pack the hole with ice… quick, but don't be obvious." If they were
captured he could say they were part of a rescue team, the last ones out. That's if the Russians were of
a mind to take prisoners.
Four miles out and still inbound, the skipper of the inbound C130 stretched and flexed tired
muscles. It had been a real long day. This would in fact have been one of the longest missions in Wing
Commander Graham's entire life. From the landing on the carrier to the RV on the ice shelf, and now
this final extraction mission before going home. Graham looked at his copilot. "You want to turn
round?" The copilot shook his head. "You guys?" he said to the rest of the crew that had crowded the
flight deck's door. They all shook their heads. "Good, get strapped in. This is going to be the roughest
ride of the day. I'll be buggered if we leave anyone here." He looked over the copilot's console. "Phil,
when I call for that," he pointed to the newly installed console, "keep it going until I say stop."
"I can tell you, my hand will be stuck on it until we get home!"
"Ground, this is Lumberjack."
"Ground."
"You better have saved some of those prawns, you bastards, and they better be warm otherwise
there will be shit to pay when we get back home."
"Roger that Lumberjack. There's enough heat here at the moment to fry anything!"
With the Hercules about to show, the Russian patrol commander just two miles south was looking
intently through his field glasses, noticing an increased pace of activity. He dropped the glasses as his
Sergeant was yelling something.
"The Colonel is on his way now. He told us to hold!"
"Great," was all Petroski said. The sound of a helicopter could be heard in the distance. He looked
through the glasses again. The chopper he realized wasn't the only inbound aircraft. Scanning the
horizon he spotted the transport. "Look!" He pointed towards it and handed the Sergeant his field
glasses. Low on the horizon the Russian NCO could make out the shape of C130. "I guess that's
answered your waiting question."
The sound of the helicopter coming from their southwest grew louder.
"Get the mortar teams firing!" Petroski ordered.
The Sergeant spoke over the unit's internal communications. Seconds later there was the sound of
mortar rounds leaving their tubes, the first ones landing well short of the men and equipment waiting
on the ice. A quick correction brought them a lot closer.
The Loadmaster could see the Hercules coming in low. They had ignored the abort. He had
mixed feelings; he wanted to be saved but this was stupid. Mortar rounds began to impact around them.
Ice showered down on top of them as they dived behind whatever cover they could find. He looked
back at the C130, instead of flaring to land it kept coming; maybe after they saw the impact of the
rounds they had decided to abort after all. Its shape got bigger and bigger until it flashed overhead,
climbing and banking heavily. Another volley of rounds landed close.
The ice shook and much heavier pieces of ice crashed into the ice surface around them. The next
lot would land on top of them. Through the flying white snow and ice, the Loadmaster they called Mr
Bean saw the three Grail shoulder launched missiles snake out from the Russian troop's position. He
also saw Russian backup just arriving in one of those double rotor jobs, flaring to touch down. The
C130 was dead he thought, the missiles moving too fast, and turning into the big airplane's circle. It
looked like they would all hit.
The C130 copilot called the launches, punching chaff and noting the position of the Russian troops
as well as the helicopter landing.
On the ground the three soldiers who had fired the SA-7ds, shoulder-mounted man-portable air
defense systems, watched with a great deal of satisfaction as the missiles homed in on the target,
ignoring the chaff and decoys the aircraft was furiously ejecting.
 The C130's missile-warning sensor was warbling incessantly. Watching the approaching missiles
bright exhaust's colors against the white, the copilot's finger was poised firmly on the button.
The pilot picked just the right moment. "NOW!"
The aircraft's missile-warning sensor knew the location of the missiles and trajectories. The anti
missile microwave system fired, flooding the region of the sky where the missiles came from with
microwave energy. The concentrated microwaves, the same technology we all use to heat food,
penetrated the missiles metal skins. The missiles electronic brains were swamped with the energy burst
and momentarily disabled, losing control resulting in drastic changes to their flight trajectories. This
rapid change of attitude immediately produced multiple mechanical failures in all the missiles, quickly
becoming catastrophic because of the high "g-force" turn they were all in.
The sudden change in direction and obvious loss of control of the missiles was the first indication
to Petroski of something going wrong. The loud explosion of the Kamov 27 helicopter behind him
quickly followed as it crashed into the half-track transport. None of it was making sense.
He picked up the radio to speak to his Sergeant who had run forwards to find out what had gone
wrong with the SA-7 missiles. The SA-7 team looked like they were trying to set up another shot. The
radio was dead. He next tried the ignition of the nearest snow ski, which just a few moments ago had
been running. It was dead as a doornail. "Shit," he said to himself. The mortars had stopped firing. He
then looked at his digital watch. There was no readout. He finally understood. Nothing was going to
work. Welcome to 21st century warfare. If they had been a common infantry unit, some of their
equipment would still have been working. This was the best stuff though. All modern and all fucking
computerized, using some tiny microprocessor even if it was just to count the range or time, now all as
useless as his watch. He took it off in disgust and threw it on the ground.
Broken ice now separated them from the Australians. The Russian patrol, unable to communicate
with anyone, watched helplessly as the C130 landed, boarded the ground team and disappeared to the
north.

*****

VOSTOK STATION. December 9, 0234hrs UTC. Normally the wind would blow constant at
five mile per hour from the southwest, cold air sliding down the contours of the interior towards the
coast. For the moment it was calm. It was always daylight at that time of the year; there were no trees,
no vegetation and in the interior no living organisms. Usually the constantly blowing snow meant that
anything left in the open was quickly buried. This at least would be helpful in concealing his
equipment and hide Hamilton thought. The wind would return, which is why he planted a marker post
next to his hide, to stop him losing the exact location.
To the southeast of the Vostok Station where he was currently lying, there were long shallow snow
dunes that at least afforded him some protection from ground observation. These were punctuated with
berms and sastrugi, snow formations created by the wind, a little over a foot high.
The Russian forces would be monitoring the area for any sort of electronic emission, which meant
it would be impossible to use any emission signal to talk to, or watch what the miniature UAV was
doing, which is why he now opted for another Microcraft product only six centimeters long and
powered by a silicon micro turbine fan. At the micro scale level, silicon made an excellent structural
material, superior to super alloys or titanium. It had low density and thermal expansion, and was very
stiff. The tiny jet engine weighed less than 80 grams. Installed into the vertical take off Microcraft
airframe, it had 100 times more thrust-to-weight ratio than its larger cousins, and spun the tiny turbines
at an incredible 1.2 million times per second. With a range of 90 miles and a forward speed of
100mph, it used propane gas, consuming just 25 grams per hour.
Back in his hide, Hamilton removed the heavy outer gloves so he could manage the keyboard
mouse and control stick. Specialized under-gloves, heated by his suit's power pack, kept his hands from
freezing in the insanely cold temperature. Unlike normal radio controlled model aircraft, the MUAV
Microcraft flew itself unless you overrode the system. Normally you pointed to places on a map, set
altitudes or even just used the touch screen to select points in space. These instructions were transferred
either by microwave emissions or cable.
The Dragonfly, as good as it was, wasn't powerful enough to drag a cable and fly at the same time.
For this part of the mission, not being detected was paramount. The micro-fiber control cable was
gossamer thin and virtually invisible to the eye close up. Hamilton sent the small MUAV vertically to
2000 feet and rotated the small airframe to point the camera at the target. The imagery came through on
the HUD within his helmet. Over three miles away he could see the hole, nearly 500 yards wide at a
guess. It was black for miles around. Because of the tremendous noise, flames and smoke, he guessed
the Russians had based themselves at least a mile away. A quick scan revealed anti aircraft batteries of
numerous types spread out in a wide perimeter and in depth. There were moving from the central
location of the skiway as he watched. He flew the little MUAV fanjet carefully so as not to tangle the
cable. If the cable were cut unexpectedly, the little jet would make its way back home or continue on an
alternative pre-programmed mission.
He steered the MUAV west of the outermost air defense units. They were mostly tracked and
included both medium and long-range missiles. That was really bad news. There was, from what he
could tell, a single Grumble unit that had over 16 missiles with a range of 200 miles, plus numerous
Gadfly, Gremlin and Gopher carriers that reached anywhere between 10 and 60 miles. Lance and his
F-111, already on their way in, had to penetrate to within 25 miles of the target itself. Some of these
anti aircraft units were stationed at least eight miles west and south of the target. He could also see
several mobile gun systems, two Tungustas at least.
Brian knew Lance was a sitting duck to a concentrated barrage of anti air missiles like this. There
was no way with his small electronic warrior force he could take all these units out. But he had to
make sure at the very least he created a corridor for the bombs, otherwise it was all over.

*****

The Pig, with Squadron Leader Lance Hamilton urging her on, slugged low and fast over the
Antarctic interior. Like a fine needle, the F-111 threaded its way between the valleys and peaks of the
Trans Antarctic Mountains, then over Victoria Land and the super snow dunes that dominated that area.
They were coming up on target.
"Okay, Jake, let's look at our LLEP so we make sure we get home."
"Right," He replied. Jake computed the bombs-away time for their target and then backed up on
the numbers to arrive at their Low Level Entry Point and, hopefully, an air-refueling control point
many miles north.
Lance took a quick look at the TIME TO DEST readout on the primary display window he had
setup and shoved the throttles forward to almost full military power. He then hit the HEADING NAV
on his autopilot, which put the Pig into a steep turn before rolling out on its approach heading. The
time over target was almost nonexistent.
Following inirtial guidance back by optical target recognition, the system knew the exact location
of the target, but not the potential missile threats until they were lit up or picked actively by their own
radar.
"Whoa," Jake said suddenly. "We have S-Band search radar, F-band director for some Gadfly
missiles and some X-Band from cannon. Nothing locked on but we are starting to get in the Grumbles
missile range." They were still 100 miles out but on the deck.
The approach called for a final pop up, to let the missiles 'see' and lock the target in. This
maneuver would also make them visible to any long-range missile defense assets the Russians might
have placed.
On the emergency frequency they picked up a challenge from the Russian ACS. "Неопознанный
самолет 130 км к югу от Востока, прекратите ваш подход пока не разрешено."
Hamilton ignored the challenge. "Arm them up Jake," he said. Jake had already picked up the
weapons status on the master function display Window, selecting the control to ALL receiving good
lights from both weapons. "All weapons check, both selected."
"Неопознанные самолеты оборачиваются немедленно!" The heavily accented voice was
becoming more strident telling them to turn around immediately.
"80 to go," Jake said.
"Time to play," the pilot said, pulling back on the power and transitioning into a steep descent.
Jake cried out, "SA-10 one o'clock!" The rapid descent took them off the radarscope. "Lost lock."
The immediate threat passed. "Fifty," He said
"Popping up." Hamilton responded.
"We are being swept by multiple bands of radar. Both missiles have telemetry."
"Launch when ready," Lance said.
Jake reached touched the weapons array changing the launch switch from OFF to MANUAL and
pressed the pickle button. The computer took over. It took a few moments for the smart bomb kits to
communicate and validate their systems and positioning while the F-111 hung in space with what
seemed like every missile in the southern hemisphere looking at them. Both bombs punched off the
pylons at the same time. The sudden loss of 30,000 pounds of dead weight caused the F-111S to surge
forwards. Once sure he was clear of the dropping cargo, Hamilton rolled the bomber on its back and
headed back to routing through terra firma.
Jake depressed the jammer switch lights on the display panel and the forward XMIT light came on
immediately. The SA-12 and several others were locked on to them solidly.
"We have multiple missiles launches, multiple tracks."
"Gimme chaff." Hamilton rolled the plane again taking her out at the best escape angle to the
missiles before turning back into them and presenting the thinnest profile possible. Skimming low over
the ice he moved the stick up and down to create a 100-foot oscillation and sideways rolling motion.
There wasn't much else he could do.
The missile plumes were visible ahead. The airplane would die in seconds.
"Any good?" He asked Jake.
"No good, to many solid missile locks. We won't make it."
"Bombs?"
"Look good"
"Excellent. Let's go then. Eject, eject," he said, and pulled the ejection handle. The rocket motors
in the escape capsule ignited and propelled it upwards, the heavy gee forces pressing both Hamilton
and Jake hard into their seats. They were less than 700 feet away when the first big missile ploughed
head on into the Wrangler, obliterating it amongst a volley of other missiles that homed into the same
space.
Brian was making decisions quickly. There was no time to ponder, the outer northwestern unit
would be first, its Grumbles and other missiles the primary threat. He could see massive tongues of
flame and smoke appear as missiles left their launchers; they were onto the Wrangler. He hoped the F-
111 was close enough to drop the bombs. But the problem was, it was not just the aircraft, but also the
Fuel Air Bombs that could be taken out by the deadly accurate Russian missiles. He had to do
something about that quickly and then designate the target.
Up until now, the little fanjet Microcraft had done a great job. But what was required next was
something a little bigger. The switchblade was aptly named. Imprisoned in a small tube, it was fired in
the same way as a shoulder-launched missile. He had two of these. They must have had a fire sale at
the UAV factories, he thought. But he wasn't complaining.
Like the other units he powered the capsules up and selected the individual units on his laptop
control and programmed their flight co-ordinates. He then picked up both, walked out of the hide and
fired each into the air. A small charge ejected them from the capsule. Once ejected the wings, like
switch blades, flicked out and the unit's small pulsejet took over. While batteries could have sustained
these units in flight, the pulsejets provided extra power to the units small but highly focused microwave
emitters.

*****

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

HQJOC BUNGENDORE.December 8 11:30hrs. The Commander of the Australian Forces took

a deep breath before turning to his audience, there had been little opportunity to sleep in the last few
days, and now each minute seemed more urgent than the previous. He unconsciously played with the
folded edges of the printout, flattening the pages out before speaking.
"In just the last few hours, the Longreach has succeeded in drawing Admiral Wen Jinsong's Carrier
strike taskforce away from the eastern flank, also sucking away the Chinese AWACS and surveillance.
This created a breach in their defense which allowed Squadron Leader Hamilton's F-111S and
companion C130 to break through to the ice shelf." He paused, picking up the last sheet of his notes
and looking at the time. "Right now, the F-111 should be refueled and prepared for the next two stages
of the operation."
Communications were not possible with Hamilton's Vostok strike team that far south, so the JOC
was aware they were hoping for the best. He looked at his audience. There was no clapping, but he
hadn't expected that, there was however comfort in some of the faces knowing at least they might still
be in the game. He continued from his notes.
"The Longreach and UAV engagement demonstrated greater Chinese capability than previously
realized. This includes HPM weapons, laser and other technologies operationally deployed on many of
their ships and being effectively used to defeat our Harpoons and UAVs. Early warning via AWACS
and over the horizon radar are also a real problem.
"What does that mean in English?" someone asked.
"It means with the satellite blackout that affects both of us, the Chinese can still see us coming,
night or day." The General folded his briefing notes.
"That sounds like we are screwed?" the same voice asked.
Morel stood back from the lectern. "If at this stage we were trying to defeat them, yes. But that
isn't the mission; inflicting damage was not the objective. We targeted the lead task force because of its
proximity to our penetration route to kill that damn well fire. We not only succeeded in keeping them
busy, we also got them to turn around. Now we actually have a shot at doing what we set out to."
"What does this mean for the second strike package?" This time it was the deputy Prime Minister.
The JOC looked at his watch. "The second strike is on its way." He looked at the Chief of Air
Force who nodded in confirmation. "And somehow we have to try and fool them again." It would be a
lot harder this time. None of it would matter a damn of course, if Hamilton's team failed in delivering
the FAB's on time and on target.

*****

CIA HQ LANGLEY. David Stringer looked closely at the recon image. "How did we get this?"
"Mariner from the RANS Longreach. But it's several hours old. We had them launch a couple with
a full sensor load. They were unable to transmit any data until they came back from below the satellite
blackout. You know what it is?" The Intelligence Officer said looking at the satellite image.
"You heard of the Caspian Sea monster?" Stringer asked in reply.
"Vaguely."
"Well this is her big brother."
 "Bigger?" That was kind of difficult to believe.
"Unfortunately yes. Much larger than the Airbus A380; we are talking 550 plus tonnes flying in
Wing In Ground effect (WIG), the same as the Manta landing craft. They both exploit the effect of air
compressing beneath a wings surface close to the ground, the same affect that causes many aircraft to
'float' above the runway while trying to land. The only difference here is size. This thing is big enough
not to worry about the southern rollers. She flies 50 feet above the waves at over 400 knots. The
Chinese version is stealthy in design and includes active radar cancellation, making her pretty much
invisible unless you are standing next to her."
"Where do you think she's headed?"
"Towards the Australian fleet -- let them know. I will talk to Vince." He walked out of the control
center in the Situation Room to Vince Kippers office. "We have to find her before she kills any of our
ships."

*****

CHINESE SOUTHERN OCEAN TASKFORCE. The penetration of Vostok Station by Brian

and Lance was at best a fleeting moment. It was of little consequence to the Chinese Armada; two
brothers were not going to change the course of a war already started. Made up of three separate task
forces supported by Zhong Shan and the HAN AFB, the Chinese task force was formidable. Not just in
size but in capabilities.
The Russian and Chinese efforts to develop weapons to specifically combat US Carrier task forces,
had delivered systems that were more powerful, with longer range and smarts than most western
equivalents. The purchase of technologies by the Chinese from the west, mainly France and Germany,
had saved them years in development. The French systems, many derived from US technology were
especially useful. Of course the French didn't mention the fact they were on-selling the technology to
the Chinese.
At the same time as Chinese defense research and development multiplied its efforts, the U.S.
effort faltered. The fiscal drag of the great recession and supporting so many traditional ground troops
in foreign operational deployments had redirected defense funds from research, development and new
weapons. As a result, U.S. investment in new technologies slowed. This provided the Chinese and
Russians an unparalleled opportunity to catch up to the U.S. in the acquisition of new weapons
technologies. Neither wasted time in exploiting the U.S. weakness.
None of this was on the Chinese Fleet Commanders mind, with his powerful fleet punching
through huge foaming southern rollers, he was instead feeling frustrated. Sitting in the ships bridge, he
looked over the bow, waves hurled by gale force conditions smashed themselves against the steel to be
whipped and stolen by the wind in frenzied streams of spray. The ferocity of the weather seemed to
mirror the Admirals frustration that the Australians would not engage. The moment was he realized
historic. Beneath and around him was an armada of naval force rarely ever seen. No one had ever
generated this much naval firepower in a singular fleet deployment. It was of the same significance as
Midway. Compared to Second World War naval forces, the Chinese Task Force carried multiple times
the firepower of the entire U.S. Navy in those days.
Nearly all the Bing Qing operational objectives had been met, but the Australian's still bothered
him. They had backed down at the 60th after making a big noise about stopping him there. He had then
ordered the sinking of one of their destroyers and the shoot down of an Orion. The Australians in turn
had attacked with UAVs sinking three of his ships. In the scale of events this was a small effort. He
had hoped for a decisive engagement. Instead, the Australians refused a decisive meeting of forces but
still nipped and tugged at his ankles before running away again. The occasional bite hurt, but not
much, what did hurt was not being able to bite back hard. The mainland territories were strictly off
bounds, which meant he had to play this cat and mouse game, but soon they would make a mistake.
As the hours dragged, so did Wen Jinsong's patience. With no satellite coverage available in the
Southern Ocean, his fleet fumbled through the dark following waving compass headings. He knew the
Australians and Americans were able to track him. He was after all sailing in waters they believed to be
their own. He had rightly assumed they would possess some SOSUS equivalent and would be
monitoring his movements. This didn't bother him greatly because of the huge numerical advantage he
possessed. It also took the guessing out of what EMCON (emissions control) state he should apply to
the fleet.
There were three EMCON states, A, B and C. A meant no emissions, B were limited (no unique
emissions), and C unrestricted. The Chinese fleet with the exception of the sub force was active and
unrestricted.
In each task force Wen had established layers of defense designed to give maximum protection to
the fleet's high value units (HVUs), the carriers and cruisers. Furthest out in each fleet were the picket
ships, Combat Air Patrol (CAP) craft and Early Warning Aircraft (AEW). These units operated 200
nautical miles from the main body, extending early warning out another two hundred from there. The
units of Wens outer screen operated between 12 and 25 nautical miles from the carrier or cruisers and
the inner screen within 10 miles of the HVUs.
Wen knew a deadly strike could be launched at his task force from more than 600 nautical miles
away. This was a huge area to scout. A missile launched on a passive fix from over-the-horizon was
deadly. With the fleet active on all fronts, it provided his force early detection of threats, considerably
reducing the enemy's advantage of surprise.
The Admiral had ordered the three task forces to travel in echelon, an effective anti-submarine
formation. The ships headed in the same direction were staggered. In each task force, the carrier and
cruisers were in the middle of the pack with the destroyers and frigates at the ends. Parameter escorts
ringed the groups. When the formation zigged, all the ships made a simultaneous turn, changing the
dynamics of the echelon (an echelon right will become an echelon left, etc.). This made solutions very
hard to obtain for enemy submarines.
The Admiral also allowed his pickets and escorts to turn at their own pace and counter rotate. This
threw a real unpredictable curve ball at any attacking submarine.

*****

On the decks of the fleet carrier the Shi Lang, a Chinese J-11N, a Chinese redesigned version of
the Sukhoi Su-27SK was in full after burner, the big twin Saturn-Lyulka AL-31F turbofans delivering
over 55,000lbs of thrust between them. The pilot had released the brakes giving the big Sukhoi its
head. Like the French and Russians, the capability to manufacture reliable steam catapult systems had
eluded them. Instead, they used raw horsepower and a ski ramp at the end of the carrier's deck to
overcome the inertia and gravity that wanted so badly to force heavy metal objects into the sea.
The Chinese Admiral watched the bright glow of the big fighters after burners light up the sky as it
leaped from the deck, climbing rapidly to join the continual rotation of aircraft that extended the fleet's
protective zone to hundreds of miles. Early detection and tracking of anything approaching his fleet
relied almost entirely on the fleet's own sensors and their AEW aircraft. TU95s were on continual
rotation out of Han AFB scouring the vast ocean for any sign of the enemy. Early detection was not just
defensive; it also meant he could exploit his superior range in firepower, while maintaining a safe
distance from the enemy.
He pondered the UAV attack. A reaction from the Australian's was to be expected. The question
that bugged him was where the UAVs came from? The three Chinese ships lost were not critical, which
begged another question, why they were targeted and not the carrier? Surely the carrier was the biggest
threat and therefore the most fruitful target. He knew instinctively there was something out there he
could not see. Submarines could not deliver the large and fast UAVs that had attacked him, destroyers
did, and aircraft carriers did. But he would have seen any destroyers or aircraft carriers out to at least
750 miles. Something had launched these inside the 400 mile envelope he thought. It was still out
there. What else did they have that he could not see? That problem aside, there was also the question of
them knowing his fleet's location.
Just then he heard the buzz of the CMD Video phone, it was General Chen Jianguo. He put him
on screen.
"You wanted to speak to me Admiral." Chen Jianguo asked.
"Yes Sir. Vostok. We have information from Zhong Shan."
"Yes." Chen interrupted. "President Petrov has just informed us that Australians forces are
attacking Vostok."
With what, Wen thought? Didn't the General say earlier the Australians had few F-111's left and
their offensive capability depleted? "Are the Russians going to be able to hold on to it?" Wen asked.
"Kazakov assured me himself. But he also blamed us for letting the attacking force get through."
The Chinese Admiral let that remark pass. Unfortunately Wen thought, that part could be true. The
UAVs were a deception that drew him away from the ingress route. But that still didn't explain what
they were doing?
"I don't understand General what it is the Australians are trying to achieve with this token gesture."
"Neither do I," General Chen conceded. "None of this makes sense. If they were trying to take
back Vostok surely they would have to get a larger force past you, not just two or three aircraft."
"Yes, my thinking exactly." At least they agreed on something.
"Did they land any ground forces, try to retake the station?"
"We still don't know yet. Kazakov informed us immediately the station came under attack. They
are aware of only one jet, which has been shot down. The bombs fell short exploding harmlessly in the
well shaft.
Fell short? The Admiral asked himself. "What if they are aiming for the shaft?"
The Chinese general couldn't bring himself to believe in the U.S. and Australian propaganda,
deception was an art in warfare, an art the Chinese were good at. "Why? Surely you don't believe in
their blatant propaganda. No, it looks like a Special Forces operation gone wrong. The Russians are
chasing them down as we speak. In the mean time they have asked us to redouble efforts to prevent any
more forces penetrating past our defenses and into Antarctica. Keep me posted Wen."
"Yes Sir." The Admiral closed the connection and sat back in the Flag Chair, pondering the great
map of Antarctica displayed on the main screen. Maybe they were telling the truth about the fire? He
was far from sure though. Whether Chen was wrong or right, it was still logical to assume that there
would be a follow on force. Given the huge distances, the shortest route to Vostok was through his
fleet's line of defense. He decided he would pull in the western most task force and close the iron
curtain. There would be no gaps this time.
After hanging up with the Chief of Staff he patched in his next call. "Get me the Operations
Commander at Han Air force Base," he ordered his communications officer. "And schedule a Vidcon
with the task force commanders in ten minutes." He planned to focus the forces maximum firepower on
the anticipated corridor the Australians would attempt to penetrate through, if and when they and the
Americans decided to try and retake the ice continent. At the same time he also needed to figure out
what to do with the small bevy of Australian Frigates and Destroyers that were still yapping at his
heels.
Twenty minutes later he was summarizing his strategy with his task force commanders. "We need
to pull in the outer escorts and ensure that our COIL and HPM weapons overlap. It also appears the
Australians are deploying a high velocity gun with a range of at least 200km. Clearly not all of their
ships possess that. That's an assumption not fact," he added.
"Sir!"
Wen swung towards the excited voice.
"We have an updated fix on the Australian fleet. Bearing due north, range 800 kilometers, closing
at approximately 30 knots."
Wen looked up at the situational screen, which now showed the position of the Australian
Warships. They were closing at flank speed. The Chinese Admiral did not intend to let the Australians
get close enough to present a threat. He quickly completed the delivery of his orders and dismissed the
meeting. He then looked forward of the Island's bridge, six stories below at the rows of large hatches
that housed the aircraft carriers deadly shipwreck missiles. Even at flank speed, the Australians were
still some time from being able to bring their weapons into range. That limitation didn't apply to him;
he was now in range.

*****

Racing south, the small Australian fleet were led by three RAN destroyers Hobart, Brisbane and
Sydney and the USS Zumwalt. The three Hobart Class Navantia F100 air warfare destroyers were built
by Tenix systems in Adelaide Australia, they were fitted with upgraded weapons and pushed out as
almost all electric warships. Under the orders of the JTF Commander, Admiral Nick Jansen, the
Australian fleet was closing with the Chinese Task Force in a deliberate attempt to draw their fire.
The Australian Captain of the HMAS Brisbane was only too aware his ship was lit up like the
proverbial firecracker next to the stealthy DDG-1000 USS Zumwalt. He paced the control room. It
would start soon; the Chinese would know they were coming.
Hundreds of miles south the Chinese Task Force Commander gave the order. The lids of the
twelve Granit anti ship missile launchers flipped open. Smoke and flame began to belch from the
containers almost blanketing the deck despite the wind. The bright exhaust flames made the smoke
glow a bright orange as the SS-N-19 Shipwreck missiles rose on long tongues of fire, accelerating
quickly, disappearing into the low overcast cloud. Speeding at over two and half times the speed of
sound, the Shipwreck missiles took just minutes to close the gap to their targets. As they penetrated to
less than one hundred miles the missiles went active, looked at the multiple targets, prioritized them,
apportioned one to each missile and computed attack strategies for each individual missile. Weighing
over one and a half ton each, with almost a half ton of warhead weight, each missile was capable of
delivering a death stroke to its target.
The rush of missiles to the Australian and U.S warships were not the only threat. Directly below
the flight of missiles, positioned in front of the rushing fleet of Australian warships was the Qinzhou, a
Ming class type 035G diesel electric submarine which was barely making headway as it waited for the
enemy warships to come within firing range. The outer doors of the boats six forward and two rear
533mm torpedo tubes were already open. The Captain stood at the plot watching as the intercept
progressed.
'Control, sonar, 10,000 meters making 30 plus knots.'
Weapons reported back to the Qinzhou's Captain. "Six minutes."
Far behind the control room, the boats two Xiangtan alternators gently rotated the single shaft that
ran through the hull to its propeller, turning very slowly to push the hull through the water at just over
two knots.

*****

Twenty-five nautical miles to the east of the Qinzhou, the USS Greeneville hovered below the
thermal incline. She had bolted from her patrol area around Île Amsterdam to try and provide
additional coverage to the Australian warships. Her replacement was the latest Virginia class submarine
with a full compliment of Special Forces. Clearly, Turner thought, there were some plans afoot to
disrupt Han AFB. Good stuff.
The sonar operator held his hands to his earphones, listening hard and looking intently at the
acoustic read out. Conn, Sonar, new sonar contact, designate sierra zero three one, contact is putting
out a weak signal to noise ratio." There was a very faint rubbing sound, barely audible. "Single screw,
classify as Ming Class, contact now designated Master-3 can classify as the Qinzhou."
In the control room USN Commander Scott Turner looked intently at the BSY-2 fire control
console. He was still out of range. "Make our speed ten knots, depth 500, steer 095 west," Turner
ordered. At ten knots the Greeneville was quiet. Turner knew with the Australian ships making a flank
run towards his position from the North, the Ming was in a good place to shoot. He also had no doubt
that out there were also several other hostile submarines that would attack if they heard him. To his
south he could hear the active pulses of the dipping sonar from an Australian Seahawk anti submarine
helicopter. Too weak to pick up the Ming or illuminate the Greeneville. Within a few minutes he
would be in range of the Ming.
To Turner's southeast the Captain of the Chinese Kilo submarine, the Ting, also heard the dipping
sonar. It was close. He immediately ordered his boat dive deep beneath the layers to remain hidden and
position it to watch and wait, ready to attack.
The Greeneville heard the sudden move.
"Captain!" the sonar operator reported, "we have a new contact on the spherical array, intermittent,
moving between the convergence zone. Seven bladed screw making turns for thirteen knots, designate
contact as Master-4 classified as the Ting."
Turner knew this was one of their latest improved Kilo class subs. She had obviously dived fast to
remain hidden from the helo. But his joy in detecting the deadly Kilo was short lived.
"Conn, sonar, we have lost contact with Master-4," the sonar supervisor said.
Turner ordered the boat slowed to five knots and steered directly towards the Tings last known
position. He knew good diesel boats had an advantage over SSN's in stealth. Slowed or completely
stopped, they could run on their batteries alone, no moving parts or working machinery to give them
away, virtually impossible to detect. Whereas, a nuke boat was required to constantly pump coolant
into the nuclear reactor, to keep it critical and avoid overheating. If the Captain of the Ting decided to
stay still and silent, he would be extremely difficult to re-acquire. Turner guessed the Tings Captain
had brought his boat to a full stop. The Chinese Captain could listen intently to detect any approaching
submarines, free of the normal interference from the boats machinery and the hulls passage through the
water. This made the Ting a smart and dangerous adversary.
How many others like him remained out there ready to pounce? Intel briefings had informed him
the Chinese had sent a considerable number of their submarines south. But naval intelligence were not
able to tell him where they were. In the last two days those that had been detected on the surface had
dived.
 Unwittingly Greeneville's slight change in course took the LA Class SSN right across the bows of
another improved Chinese Kilo class boat, the Lin San Liu. Barely 2500 yards separated the two ships.
The Lin San Liu was quick to react. "Captain, sonar. We have a single screw LA class boat
crossing our bow north to south! Identified as the USS Greeneville."
"Have they seen us?" he asked. The young Chinese commander was inexperienced but made up
for that in ability.
"No Sir, I doubt it. I think they are following the noises we heard from the Ting."
"Excellent. Open all outer doors!" the Kilo Captain ordered. With its tubes already flooded, the
Lin San Liu with her sister ships, now eagerly awaiting the arrival of the Australian fleet. The sudden
appearance of the LA class boat was another bonus. To sink a new Hobart class destroyer and in the
same stroke, one of the long feared Los Angeles class hunter killers, would bring him great honor and
do wonders for his promotional opportunities and his family.
The Kilo's multi-purpose MVU-120EM computer allowed the boats fire control system to
simultaneously track both his target ships and the Greeneville at the same time. The targets course,
position and speed data from the Andoga navigation system fed straight to the combat data system.
"Target tubes one and two on the Greeneville, three and four on the Brisbane and five and six on
the lead ANZAC frigate," the Captain ordered. He watched the evolving firing solution. He wanted the
Australian surface ships a little closer on his nose but was mindful of the Greeneville's increasing
separation. All the forward tubes of hull number 366 were loaded with Ta Po.

*****

From the Shi Lang's control center, PLAN Admiral Wen Jinsong considered the large situational
display feed from the ships Tavitak command and control system, which was in turn fed and updated
from the entire fleets command and sensory systems. Unlike the restrained littorals and shallow water
environments of the South China Sea, they were operating in a world it seemed of a limitless and
hostile ocean. As a result, the plot showed the position of his submarine assets to be spread over a wide
area. The Admiral decided to maintain the fleets westerly heading to draw the Australian ships out,
giving time for some of them to converge on the Australians course. The Captain of the Shi Lang
interrupted his thoughts.
"Sir, we are ready to launch our air strike."
"Very well." Wen said looking down at the now congested flight deck, his mind wondering. I
know where my submarines are. But where are theirs? The gale force winds had for the moment
reduced to a barely acceptable level for flight operations. The deck still heaved beneath his feet and he
did not envy the pilots trying to come back to land. He had ordered all the fleets anti submarine
helicopters into the air spreading them in front, to the side, and to the rear of the fleet. He was taking
no chances.
"Missiles on terminal guidance," one of the operators announced. The shipwrecks were about to
strike the small Australian fleet.

*****

RAAF 82 WING, SOUTHERN OCEAN. Group Captain Laurie Wilkie, Officer Commanding
82 Wing, pushed the nose of his big jet towards the water. This would rank as one of the toughest
flights in his life. The TFR (Terrain Following Radar) was switched off and every other emitting
electronic device. It was dark and the only visual was the ghostly infrared vision projected into his
helmet display. Thank god for that. He couldn't have handled the old goggles for long.
The UAVs from the Longreach had given them a chance. Fore warned, fore armed. In addition to
the Bing Qing, AESA phased array radar and doppler systems, the Australians and Americans now
also suspected the Chinese had deployed a laser countermeasure device, capable of picking up almost
any laser emission. Even simple altitude measurements, which they had been using to replace the
radio-based devices, could be detected. At this point of time, Wilkie knew his biggest assets were
sitting behind and beneath him, bloody big engines and a super fast and tough airframe.
Utilizing the same tactics as Hamilton, the flight of F-111's was hard on the deck, flying between
the big southern swells, pigs on the hunt, their pilots flying virtually blind, navigating by paper and
compass. "TOT five minutes!"
"Rog. Lets go ARC," Wilkie said, turning on the Active Radar Cancellation.
A few hundred miles south, one of the KJ-2100 Mainstay AWACS operators noticed occasional
blips to the north. "Here!…what is this?" he exclaimed. His fellow operator dialed the focus on the
radar to the 'detect', but nothing happened.
"Birds," he said "It happens all the time. The systems are so damn sensitive they can pick up
seagulls having lunch!"
Back in the F-111, the airframe literally thumped as it punched through the turbulent sea air at over
500 knots, just feet from the water. The ride was that hard the 82nd Groups Wing Commander had
great trouble switching between modes on the main screen. His weps officer was working furiously.
There were none of the normal inputs. With satellites down below the 60th, including NAVSATS, and
unable to radiate a transmission of any sort, they weren't just blind, but deaf as well.
"ARC charged," the weps replied. The adapted Grumman ZSR-63 defensive aid came online. The
attacking F-111's sported small antennas separated by the length of the aircraft. The antennas emitted
electromagnetic waves half wavelengths out of phase with any reflected radar signal, effectively
reducing its intensity, making the aircraft virtually disappear from any radar screen. However, they
were a long way from being fully effective. But at the height and speed the Pigs were flying, they were
lost amongst the clutter. The Bing Qing, as good as it was, could also not make sense of such low fast
objects.
Like the British in the Falklands, the Chinese systems were advanced and looking for sophisticated
adversaries. They had for years developed their systems to take on and defeat U.S. carriers and air
threats. They were not expecting this; low, mach plus, zero emission aggressors, with human hands on
the wheel hiding amongst the waves.
On board the lead F-111, Wilkie armed the system; at least he thought he was still the lead. "We
are hot," he said to the navigator. He had no idea how the others were doing. It was darker now; there
were no visuals and no communication, no radar, no location devices. They were all on their own.
"Ready for pitch up!" he said looking to the TOT and estimated release point.
"Now!"
"Punch, punch now!" The airplane jumped.
"weapons gone," the weapons officer announced.
Wilkie pushed the plane back to the deck. With the F-111's wings almost skimming the waves, he
stood the bomber on its wing tips, eight gees of force pressing the two men hard into their seats,
reversing course. They both grunted to keep themselves from blacking out. The RAAF Wing
Commander dropped the F-111 so low the big turbines ploughed water while he fire walled the
throttles into the indents gritting his teeth. "Let's get the fuck out of here!"
Flying at mach one plus, the F-111 rapidly exited the area, the shockwave throwing a thrashed wall
of water 100 feet high behind them. The minutes ticked by, both of them watching the RHAW, fully
expecting it to start screaming. Nothing happened. "Fuck me," the Nav eventually announced. "I bet
we only ever get to do that once!"
"Damn right," the Wing Commander said, not believing their luck.
The radar operator on the northern most picket of the Chinese task force tapped the screen. There
was something out there. But it was very weak and kept disappearing.
"New Contact, very weak, is bearing 010."
The second packet of F-111's popped up and released their missiles.
 "MISSILES inbound, we have missiles inbound," the radar operator yelled. Almost immediately
the close in defense system started to automatically engage what were two harpoons, attempting to
throw up a wall of lead that the incoming missiles would have to fly through. Unlike its sister ships,
the Jinan had not received the HPM upgrade. Only a handful had the close in laser defense system.
The older CIWS, normal cannon, had little chance in stopping the two sea skimming, fast weaving
AGM-158D JASSMs.
Both missiles struck hard on the water line. The ship immediately settled in the water. As the cold
seawater began to flow over the forward deck, the F-111's thundered over the stricken vessel fanning
out as they prepared to attack the other radar pickets. The lead nudged his stick to avoid hitting the
sinking destroyer's communication masts that still protruded from the water, pigs on the hunt, the smell
of blood in the air.

The Chinese fleet, like the U.S. and Australia, was linked together by a large wide area networked
combat and control system. The system was well aware of the Jinan's defense status and its sudden
disappearance from the network.
"Sir! The Zhou Task Force appears to be under attack. We have a dropped link to the Jinan," the
communications operator announced.
"What? What did you say?" Admiral Wen Jinsong asked in surprise.
"We just lost contact with the Jinan!"
Wen Jinsong knew the Jinan was assigned to the task force immediately to his west. So much for
the reduction of the Australian F-111 strike capability he thought angrily. "Captain, where the hell is
that fighter CAP?" Admiral Wen growled, and why he thought, could neither the AWAC's or other
sensors have seen them coming? Radar cancellation he told himself, combined with their ferocious low
and fast attacks, obviously now without their TFR, otherwise they would have seen it. They must be
peeling seaweed off these things they were so damn low. "If I am not mistaken we have some F-111's
almost on top of us," Wen said.
The Captain visibly paled. After a problem with the forward elevator he had momentarily stopped
flight operations until it had been fixed. And with the destruction of the F-111's earlier on he had
assumed there was little threat, General Chen had said so himself.
"Get whatever you have into the air immediately!" he said to the Captain, turning back to look at
the missile plot. "What's the status on our missiles?"
"Fifteen seconds," the missile director said.
The Chinese Fleet commander leaned over the central digital plotting table located in the center of
the control room. His middle task force was under attack by an F-111 strike group. It looked like the
prelude to a 'best push' by the Australians. The American carrier forces were still too far away to help.
He knew the Australian destroyers and frigates charging towards him were using up most of their
surface combat capability, as did the attacking group of F-111's, which were their only potent long
range anti shipping strike capability. There were a few items from their register still not accounted for.
But he was sure they would show up. What was annoying him however was that despite his forces
superior firepower, the Australians were taking the initiative. But that would change.
As the Chinese Admiral had begun to grapple with the F-111 strike, the inbound sea skimming SS-
N-19 Shipwreck missiles fired by Wen's task force were picked up by the Australian fleet less than 60
miles out.
"Incoming!" the Brisbane's radar officer announced from within the ships control room.
The Captain of the Brisbane sat up abruptly in his chair almost throwing his coffee across the
room. "What do we have?"
"Low, fast supersonic by the looks of it, twelve, from numerous directions. The system is fully
locked and automatic," the air warfare officer said.
"Thank you," the Captain said, his face expressionless.
Several miles in front and to the beam of the advancing Australian Warships, the commander of
the kilo Class submarine hull number 366, the Lin San Liu, was poised and ready to strike. He had the
Greeneville and two Australian ships dead in his sights. He gauged the moment. He opened his mouth
to issue the order but was suddenly cut off by a loud directional ping that reverberated through the hull
of Kilo number 633. The blood chilled in his veins. In a fraction of time, a thousand thoughts raced
through his mind. He knew he had made a fatal mistake.
"Torpedo in the water!" the Chinese sonar operator cried.
There was only one course of action. "Fire tubes one through six and reload!"
Turners mouth was dry. After passing and almost missing the unknown Kilo, the keen ears of his
sonar operators had detected the sound of outer doors opening. The Kilo had him dead to rights, any
second he expected a shot he could not escape from. The seconds had ticked by in agony. Turner had
concluded quickly the Chinese commander wanted both the Greeneville and the surface ships and
believed the Greeneville had not detected the Kilo. He also knew with his boat sitting in the target
frame, it was far better off not to provoke an immediate response, every yard gained was closer to
living.
Just three minutes later and a few hundred yards and the tactical situation had changed.
"Cut the wire, shut the door and reload," Turner ordered just before the ADCAP Mod 7 had gone
active. "All ahead flank steady course 185, cavitate, make your depth 600. The Greeneville accelerated;
her towed array already reeled back in before the torpedo went active.
"Torpedoes in the water," Sonar announced. "Two bearing 190, active and homing!"
That was expected. The Greeneville's top speed exceeded forty knots. The two torpedoes chasing
her were doing in excess of 200 knots. It was how much in excess of that number that had Turner
wondering. They were fast, but short ranged.
"Conn, sonar, the Kilo has just picked up speed, turning directly towards us, making twenty
knots."
The skipper of the Greeneville admired the guts of the Chinese commander. He was going to go
down fighting. But could he get another shot off? As Greeneville sped up, her listening skills
diminished. He wouldn't know until he slowed down again. The Kilo would take five minutes to fire
another salvo. It was all a matter of maths.
At flank speed the Greeneville was making a lot of noise. She was letting anyone know in a very
loud way, exactly where she was. Worse, she was almost completely blind herself. Greeneville
thundered through the water at nearly fifty knots. Turner made some rapid calculations in his head,
there had been no time to pump them into the computers, and by the time they had typed them in it
would have been too late. This is what he was paid for, to make decisions. But by running from the
Shkval, he was headed straight for Master-3 and Master-4 with a bull's eye on his head. They were in
front of him, could hear him, and he was racing blindly in their direction. Every second taking him
closer to a point they could shoot at him and he wouldn't know.
"Helm, ten knots," he ordered suddenly. "Maintain heading, stream the long array."
The boat slowed quickly. "Captain, we still have two torpedoes closing rapidly, 1500 yards." The
sonar operator said trying to keep the edge from his voice.
Turner was sure he had the math right. He was going to tell sonar to look for the other contacts but
stopped himself. He walked to the sonar stations. They were of course on the ball and doing exactly
that, trying to re-acquire and establish firing solutions on the other contacts.
"Captain, we have loud breaking up noises to our aft," the operator announced. "We have lost
contact on both Chinese torpedoes; looks like they went dead in the water!"
Turner could see the relief on the operator's face despite him trying to hide the fact. He respected
the professionalism to contain it, because he felt exactly the same way. He slapped his hand on the
young sonar man's shoulder and smiled, heading back to his seat in the control room.
"Conn, sonar, we have Master-3, making cavitation noises and speeding up. There are also sounds
of surface explosions and break up noises near the fleet."
 Damn it, Turner thought. Was it one of those torpedoes he did not stop in time? He didn't know.
He wouldn't have time to ponder either.
"Conn, sonar! Two torpedoes bearing 010. Chinese Mk46 copy-Mod 4, range 23,000 yards."
Turner looked at the plot and decided to ignore the torpedoes, both fired in an attempt to distract
him.
"Give me the ranges to Master-3," he asked, already knowing the answer but keeping to the
process.
"23,000 yards for the Ming." They were within range of the MADCAPS.
"Keep looking for Master-4, she is still out there and knows where we are." He immediately
initiated firing point procedures on the Ming. "Torpedo room, fire control, make tubes two and three
ready in all respects and open outer doors."
The order was acknowledged and then confirmed.
"Sonar, conn, stand by."
"Conn, sonar standing by."
"Match sonar bearings and shoot tube two."
Seconds after confirmation of the order "Tube two fired electronically." The boats combat system
operator reported.
Turner turned to his XO. "Reload number two and swim the torpedo in tube three out quietly
towards the last position we saw Master-4, the Ting." Turner wanted a few moments to re-evaluate
while the XO took care of the last orders.
The Ming and the Ting. They rhymed. Stupid thing to think about now! The MK 46s were fired
out of range. His calculated decision to run from the shkvals, had still kept him short of the firing
range of the other Kilo and Ming, that and all the noise from the shkvals had helped. Assuming of
course they had not moved far and hoping like hell there were no other immediate surprises. He had to
be ready for those other surprises; they were surely out there.
"Conn, sonar, number two has acquired Master-3," the combat system operator reported. The
MADCAP had found the Ming with its own sonar and didn't need any more guidance from the
Greeneville's fire control system.
"Cut the wires and shut the outer door, reload tube two," Turner ordered.
"Conn, sonar we have one explosion bearing 192." There wasn't time to get excited. They were
still knee deep in alligators.
"Helm, conn, steer 270." Turner ordered a 90 degree right-hand turn to allow the sensitive towed
array to get a good look to the rear without executing a full 180 which might fowl the wires on the
ADCAP, still looking for the missing Kilo the Ting.
It picked up another chaser immediately. The sonar chief called from his forward station. “Conn,
Sonar, new sonar contact designate sierra one bearing one six zero. Contact is putting out a medium
signal to noise ratio on a single pump jet propulser. Contact classified as submerged warship,
classification Russian Akula II fast attack submarine.”
"Conn, sonar, contact designated Master-6 the Shaminski, making turns for 48 knots directly in our
baffles."
"Snap shot, match sonar bearings, shoot tubes one and four and reload."
The two torpedoes left the tubes, their Otto fuel engines coming to life and powering their
powerful pump engines. The Alpha, an incredibly powerful and fast attack boat in the hands of an
expert was lethal. Unfortunately its skipper did not know a good time to lay back and wait, and when to
use its speed, because it was noisy as hell. He had hoped to race up behind the LA boat while it was
sprinting and shoot it in the back, hiding in its baffles. The Alpha was blind while it raced to catch the
Greeneville. The two MADCAPS acquired it immediately.
"Cut the wires and close the outer doors. Helm steer 190, speed four knots."
"Conn, sonar, we have two explosions in our baffles and breaking up noises," the sonar operator
reported quickly. There was no glee in the voice. The thought of the frigid ocean plunging into the
hull, and the death dive to the ocean floor 12,000 feet beneath their keel was a fate that could visit all of
them.
While all of this was going on, ahead of the Greeneville the MADCAP was executing a very
stealthy and precise search procedure. The new MADCAP was instructed to use passive sonar to sniff
her prey, silently closing on the last known location of Master-4, the Ting.

At the same time as the Greeneville and Lin San Liu had exchanged shots, from the other side of
the fleet another Chinese submarine that had waited in ambush fired its own torpedoes, adding to the
freight train of rocket torpedoes headed towards the Australian warships.
The Australian warships immediately heard the explosive sounds of numerous shkval rocket
engines rushing towards them.
"Control, sonar, torpedoes in the water, high speed high cavitations, probably Shkval!"
The Commander of the HMAS Brisbane quickly looked back at the warfare officer.
"CGs (Cavitation guns) have acquired with strong FC (Fire Control) telemetry," the warfare officer
said, referring to that part of the AEGIS Fire Control system that was responsible for tracking and
destroying the inbound sub surface threat. Fight fire with fire he was thinking.
 The commander unconsciously held his breath and watched the progress of both missiles and
torpedoes targeting his ship.
"Sonar, high speed torpedoes inbound 1000 meters, running shallow." His voice was excited.
"Control, missiles 7000 meters."
The Commander said nothing, calmly watching the screens. The torpedoes at over 200 knots
arrived a few seconds before the missiles. The small cannons mounted in hull turrets beneath the ship
started hammering. Even inside the control room it was hard to miss the reverberation. The RAMICS
CIWS (Close In Weapons System) cannons were no ordinary CIWS. Mounted on Hobart, Canberra
and some ANZAC Class ships, they were capable of firing super-cavitating 'Kinetic kill' bullets. This
was the first time they had ever been used operationally.
"1000 meters."
"500 meters."
The Captain felt the RAMICS modified rapid gun firing below. The incoming torpedoes were
making more noise in the water than a four-trailer road train towing metal pipes, the ship's sonar having
no problem in acquisition and targeting. The rounds from the RAMICS CIWS were spread out in the
water five hundred yards from the ship directly in the path of the incoming torpedoes. The guns
specialized 30mm flat nosed projectiles barely slowing before slamming into the torpedoes 60 feet
beneath the surface. None of the Chinese modified Shkval got past the 450-yard mark. The muffled
explosions of some of the torpedoes ran through the deck, sonar confirming the kills. But there was no
time to celebrate.
"Radar!"
"Still incoming."
"Thank you," he said. Actually he felt like saying a lot more. Like, was the system working, you
sure? That type of thing. But if he had to ask that, they were all fucked anyway. So he kept his mouth
shut.
A familiar vague shudder in the hull and slowing of the ship alerted him first. Massive feeds of
power from the ships almost all-electric system were delivered to three heavy and rapidly spinning
kinetic compulsators that sat beneath the ships two gun turrets. The compulsators were basically large
alternators designed to produce fast massive electrical pulses, converting stored rotational energy into
electrical energy. Once up to speed a switch within the system sensed the desired polarity and
amplitude and closed the circuit.
Twin barrelled railguns pivoted in their gimballed turrets on the aft and forward decks, their square
barrels sniffing the air guided by the ships targeting radars. The guns were linear electromagnetic
accelerators utilizing Lorenz Forces from a high magnitude electrical impulse to propel an armature
down two parallel conducting rails.
An automated rapid-fire breach loading mechanism inserted the armature and a specially designed
five-pound tungsten fin-stabilized round seated inside an aluminium sabot cradle that contacted the two
parallel rails. Forced in by hyper velocity gases an optical sensor triggered the switch in the
compulsators for just 10micro seconds releasing 20 million amps.
The current flowed up one rail, through the armature and down the other rail resulting in a
magnetic field between the two rails and an intercepting field by the armature. The rails repelled each
other and both repelled the armature to produce an evolving magnetic field that expanded in
approximately 200 nanoseconds to reach several million atmospheres pressure. The aluminium sabot
cradle that carried the tungsten projectile accelerated up the rails leaving the barrel at over 14 miles per
second, twenty times faster than a bullet.
On leaving the barrel the sabot exterior parted leaving the aerodynamically stable tungsten
projectile to steer towards its target. Within five seconds another had been fired, the gun hammering
out twelve super high velocity rounds a minute, the kinetic energy of each round many more times
powerful than the HE effect of a tomahawk warhead. With a range of 250 miles, the projectiles easily
reached the incoming shipwreck missiles in less than a heart beat of leaving the barrel.
"Forward gun engaged." He could almost feel the ship slow a little.
"Rear gun engaged. Telemetry is good."
The ships Aegis combat system had to make but a small calculation in targeting of just seconds to
steer the super high velocity five-pound tungsten darts on target. With a combined impact speed of
nearly ten times the speed of sound the incoming missiles were stopped in their tracks, almost
completely vaporized by the kinetic hit.
Back on the ship several very loud explosions could be heard, but nothing that shook the hull. The
overhead tracking display showed an almost 100 percent kill rate, almost. Without those railguns the
shipwrecks would have made mince meat of most of the Australian ships. The three Hobart Class ships
were the only ones to possess them.
"All ahead flank!" he ordered. ""One nine zero." Without these ships in front, the Australian
Destroyer Commander realized the rest of the fleet was extremely vulnerable. "Get Hobart and Sydney
to form on us ASAP XO!" This wasn't his job but they were in the heat of battle. He was at the front
and could see what was happening best.
"Confirm?"
"Confirm!" the task force commander said.
 "Still one missile inbound! Can't target it," the weapons officer said, stress creeping into his voice.
"The Tennant is in the way!"

*****

Shipwreck missiles were called that for a reason. They were really big, incredibly fast and
virtually nothing could stop them. The Hobarts railguns were hammering smart iron into the air when
suddenly the forward gun failed. The other close in support weapons kicked in hard throwing up a wall
of lead, but it wasn't stopping the incoming missile. The Aegis system compensated by re-allocating the
targets to other weapons in the fleet.
In the control center of the Hobart the Captain looked at the red warning light of the gun that failed
and realized he was in deep shit. He knew the sea skimming ship killer was approaching from the
forward port side, shielded from Hobart's other gun and the rest of the fleet by the ships hull. The
Shipwreck missile ploughed into the forward section of the ship at over Mack two, completely blowing
the bow off the destroyer. She sank in minutes. No one survived, not in that cold water.
The Captain of the HMAS Sydney felt the hull tremble from the shockwave of the blast. "Get our
Sea Hawk on that immediately XO, make sure the others cover us to the front," the Isa's skipper
ordered.
The two remaining Hobart Class destroyers and the USS Zumwalt surged ahead, their wakes
frothing as they rushed towards the Chinese. Three small destroyers followed by Adelaide and
ANZAC class frigates in the face of an overwhelmingly more powerful navy.
The Hobart’s systems that failed were made up of two parts. First, active rounds, and secondly hull
mounted emission systems. They failed because the software froze when configuring the radar system
with the railguns, a unique set of numbers it wasn't expecting. Not a big deal, two lines of code. But
there was no time to fix the code and no one knew how big the problem was. Just the fact it didn't
work and several hundred Australians had paid the price.
With the two Hobart Class destroyers and the USS Zumwalt barricading the front gates from the
big missiles, the fleet continued to close on the Chinese Armada. Beneath the surface a completely new
game was being played out, a mix of new and old rules.

*****

CHAPTER NINETEEN
 USS GREENVILLE. Greeneville had started the battle with a full load out of weapons; twenty-
six weapons including four in the torpedo tubes. That load out was becoming depleted very rapidly.
Turner knew that the Shkval at close range was a killer. He had been lucky. If the Lin San Liu had
fired earlier, the Greeneville would be headed to the deep with the Alpha and the Ming.
His adversaries were very capable. Many of them enjoyed entirely digital and superior non-hull
penetrating systems, much like the Virginia class. The quiet diesel boats could also now stay
submerged for days at time, powered by Air Independent Propulsion systems. There was little chance
of an easy kill in this knife fight. The fact he could not find Master-4 was proof of that. But he knew
the Chinese boat was either aware of him, or worse, hunting him.
Master-4 was a lot closer than Turner would have liked. The Captain of the Ting crept forward
very quietly, closing the distance to the Greeneville. He would not make the mistake of using a rocket
torpedo on the Greeneville. The Mk 46, which the Chinese had copied and modified, was slower than
the Shkval, but had a much greater range. The tubes were flooded and the outer doors opened. The
firing solution would be any moment.
Was it instinct? Turner didn't know. But the hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he felt a
cold shiver run down his spine. What he did next would have, under any normal circumstance, been
construed as a bad decision. "Sonar, conn. Give me one active ping in the direction of the Ting." The
loud pulse propagating through the water, the response from sonar was quick.
"Captain, the Ting is on our bow making turns for seven knots, 14,000 yards!"
This was quickly followed by something even more distressing. "Torpedo in the water 10,000
yards to our heading, looks like another MK46!"
"Snap shot, match bearings and shoot tubes one." Turner waited for the confirmation of the shoot,
before the next order.
"Helm, right full rudder, all ahead flank. Cavitate, make your depth 500." The Greeneville heeled
into the heavy turn. "Cut the wires," he ordered, knowing the chance of the MADCAP acquiring the
Ting was greatly reduced. "Release a noise maker." It was time to clear the datum and get some space
to come back and re-acquire. There was no way the Kilo could keep up with the Greeneville, nor her
copycat torpedoes.
A few minutes later sonar reported more torpedoes in the water. But they were over 60,000 yards
away. "ADCAPs and RTP's," he said.
Probably the Jimmy Carter Turner thought. He was right, the Jimmy Carter had fired the U.S.
version of the rocket torpedo sinking the Changzheng, a nuclear powered Han Class Attack boat. The
other sounds were Australian launched ADCAPs from the HMAS Waller and Farncomb, each claiming
another Chinese Hull number. This was quickly confirmed when he looked at the updated combat
control systems situational display. Between the four U.S. and Australian boats combing the area,
combined with the active searches by helo's and ship sonar, they had sunk six enemy subs with no
losses. The immediate underwater realm in front of the Australian and U.S. ships looked clear. The
HMAS Hobart was shown as destroyed by missiles. He knew the familiar sick feeling in the gut would
come later, when he was not responsible for so many other lives and had time to think.
"Make your depth 200, one nine five zero and turns for five knots." He waited for the response
then turned to the Watch Officer. "You have the conn." A little while later he returned to the control
room. The XO was there even though it was not his watch. The communications officer appeared at
the same time.
"Captain, we have an URGENT message over the LC." The communications officer was referring
to the recently deployed Laser Based Underwater Communicator. This exploited an optical window in
the blue-green part of the laser spectrum, which enabled transmission to penetrate the ocean at
substantial distance. The tactical improvisation of the laser meant, airborne, satellite or ground based
emissions in conjunction with a space-based mirror delivered data transfer rates well over 300 times
greater than the ELF (Extremely Low Frequency) system. The device also continually updated
Greeneville's situational plot.
"Send it through," Turner said. It was quickly directed to his personal display situated on the
Captain's chair. It was lengthy. After reading it he decided not just the officers, but the entire crew
needed to know the contents. It was his choice.
A few minutes later the officers were once again crammed into the small wardroom of the USS
Greeneville. Commander Scott Turner had decided to address the full crew over the internal Vidcon. It
was important to him that they understood what was transpiring in and outside of the boat. If they were
prepared to put their lives on the line they damn well deserved to know what for.
"The Russians, Chinese and French governments have submitted a UN resolution requesting a
security zone around Antarctica led by China and Russia. This was vetoed by the UK because as you
know the U.S. is no longer a member of the permanent Security Council. Let me read this part to you.

'Russia, China, North Korea, Germany, France and several other countries within the UN security
council, have sponsored a proposal to establish an iron fence around Antarctica in order to prevent any
further territorial aggression by the US and Australia over a continent whose ownership is still in
doubt.'
 "That's the transcript. Other nations assisting this new coalition also include defense elements from
Spain, Iran, Pakistan, Malyasia, Indonesia, Argentina and Italy." Turner switched the main overhead
display to the situational map.
"Argentina, controls a huge area of the Antarctic Peninsula. We can presume they have negotiated
with the Chinese and Russians to preserve their claim and get some of the spoils. The joint forces call
themselves the 'Wei' coalition." Turner spelled it out. "It means rose or valuable in Chinese.
"The enemy blockade is spread across a huge area and is only achieved through the support of
several countries. Jinsong's task has been to prevent any Australian or U.S. vessel or aircraft breaching
the containment line.
"The Chinese and Russians have recruited the North Koreans, Germans, Italians and even some
Iranian forces to both make their stand look internationally legitimate and, more importantly, to plug
the holes in the iron curtain they have been trying to draw down over Antarctica.
"The AOP for the Chinese appears to cover Cape Adare to Casey Station. The force Commander
we believe to be Admiral Wen Jinsong, an experienced and capable naval officer.
"Admiral Wen has split the combined force package into three parts. The first led by the Shi Lang,
which we think is the Flagship, the second is led by the French designed, Foudre class landing
platform. The third groups center piece is the Mistral class LHD Command and Control ship, the Chee
(Qi) and a Russian Slava Class Cruiser refurbished and renamed the Ching yoo-awn. (Qing yuan).
"Each of these Task forces has to patrol over 1000 kilometers of the iron line they have
established. They have the added resource of air assets from Prydz Bay and Han AFB to cover up to
Davis Station and overlap near Casey. These include H-6AII, TU95's (Range 12,500km) and Backfires.
The Chinese and Russians think this is a battle of oil and land and have completely ignored our
warnings. We now know this is a battle for our existence that we cannot afford to lose. To lose means
we are all dead. This is gloves off time. The only carrier near our AOP is the Clinton. As you know
she is neither fully commissioned nor up to strength. She is waiting support from the Stennis and
H.W.Bush carrier groups who are at flank speed to get here.
"The Clinton has been keeping the Russki's busy and their heads down, but with the other group's
offensive capabilities coming into range, will have to go on the defensive. The Centurion, Connecticut
and Jimmy Carter have been working with the Clinton battle group and we have been informed,
making good measure against Russian Akula, Shang and advanced Kilo class submarines.
"Our job as part of the overall effort has been to clear the approaches for the Australian ships and
the USS Zumwalt." He paused, letting the information sink in. "Now we have new orders. Now we are
going after the big money." The officers looked at each other. It was more fun to hunt than play screen.
 "I'm also told the Australian task force supply ship has a fresh load out for us as well." That was
welcome news. No one liked going on the hunt with the possibility of running out of shot in the middle
of a firefight, or food for that matter.
"So," The XO said, having waited ages to crack his joke. "It's all the Wei or bust?" He laughed at
his own joke; the others groaned.

*****

Admiral Wen Jinsong believed correctly that the U.S. and Australian submarines were among his
most dangerous and immediate threats; they had already proven that. But Jinsong had the advantage of
numbers, despite the losses. And now the small flotilla of Australian ships was about to breach his
submarine screen.
"Where's the boundary layer?" he asked.
"Thermocline is 112 meters sir. We have VDS (active variable depth sonar) arrays above and
below the layer," the ship's sonar operator reported. "There are no contacts at present."
"Thank you," he said. He studied the overhead plot, looking carefully at his own submarine
deployments. He knew some were already missing. The Australian fleet had already passed the first
submarine picket. Unfortunately, the subs that had survived could at best do twenty knots submerged.
They would have to catch up as the battle progressed.
He turned to his communication officer. "Send a message to the Sub Fleet Commander. I want to
concentrate our attack subs here." He indicated on the display with a small laser pointer. "This is where
the Australians must go through to get to us." He looked hard at the display again. They were playing
a game. He knew it. The Sub Fleet Commander was a smart man. "Tell him to advise me what units he
will allocate and those he wants to leave in protection of the fleet."
"Order the entire fleet to turn about!" he said. The Australians were trying to sucker him again.
"Get me the Russian fleet commander online ASAP."
"Yes Sir"
"What else can we get in front of the fleet to flush out enemy subs?" he asked.
His operations commander looked up from his console. "We have several long range ASW Bears
on the AOP right now."

Unlike the Australian Diesel submarines, the Yuan and Song class subs were equipped with AIP
systems, Air Independent Propulsion. This meant they could remain dived for up to twenty days. The
Shang Type 093's were nuclear, meaning the entire Chinese sub force could remain stealthy.
Wen had wisely allowed his hunter killer subs to act independently, the down side to this was a
lack of co-ordination. Communication was critical. North east of the fleet Wen had situated a long-
range ELINT/EW aircraft, a Shannxi Yun-8 (Y-8) turboprop, copied from the Soviet Antonov An-12,
NATO codename Cub. The aircraft's mission was to enable submerged communications. VLF waves
propagate almost a quarter of the globe, which meant the entire Chinese sub force in the Southern
Ocean would receive the messaging even when submerged.
The Cub's powerful 210KW transmitter provided VLF transmissions similar to the way the US
TACAMO (Take Charge And Move Out) did. The Cub flew with a trailing wire antennae nearly 10km
long with a drogue parachute at the end. During transmission the aircraft flew in a continuous tight
circle, which resulted in over 70 percent of the wire hanging straight down and acting as a relatively
efficient vertical antenna. This was supported by an Ilyushin IL-76MD (Candid) B-4037, 34th Air
Division from Nanyuan AFB, Beijing an air refueling squadron now operating out of Han AFB at
Martin de'Vivies.

*****

While the main force was rushing into the jaws of the massive Chinese fleet, two large LHDs
(Landing Helicopter Dock) closed from the North West. The lead ship was the 231-meter HMAS
Adelaide followed by her sister ship HMAS Canberra.
At a range of 400 miles to the Chinese fleet, they slowed and dropped their stern ramps. Between
them, seven Lockheed Martin, 60-foot CHARC attack boats were launched. These were Covert High-
Speed Attack and Reconnaissance Craft, ideal for operating in the Southern Oceans large sea states.
Looking more like something out of Star Wars, these were an innovative cross between an attack
helicopter and a stealth boat. At speed, the CHARC would rise high out of the water, standing on two
submerged torpedo like hulls that performed faster beneath the surface than above. This gave the
CHARC the ability to run down just about anything else in or on the water, in any weather. The two-
man cockpit stood high on top of the two legs that unfolded beneath them. At the bottom of the legs
were 60 foot long round hulls, each containing a powerful gas turbine that propelled the killer boat
through the water. The design combined the lethality of an attack helicopter with endurance and stealth.
With a crew of two, the CHARC was capable of patrolling or loitering for days at a time. In a chin
turret beneath the cockpit was housed the main weapon, a railgun, powered by the CHARC's all
electric system. The small 60 foot long CHARC carried more firepower than most traditional
destroyers.
Once in the water the CHARC's extended their hulls and powered up the engines. They swiftly
rose out of the water and at over sixty knots, they sped south cutting easily through the big seas. As the
CHARC's sped south, the first Chinese air strike package was drawing close to the Australian fleet.
The Shi Lang's J-11 and Su-33UB Flankers were still 200 miles out but quickly approaching the
release point for their 3M-80EA missiles, air launched versions of the SS-N-22 "Sunburn" slung to the
bellies of the big jets. The jets, both long range strike bomber versions of the SU-27 had a range of over
1500 nautical miles. The fact none were on the way to visit the two Australian LHDs was just plain
luck.
The strike package of four jets was spread out in a loose four finger formation looking to deliver a
comfortable but precise stand off attack. The lead jets RWR - Radar Warning System, flashed brightly
on the pilots HUD. An Australian Wedgetail had picked them up, he thought. Too bad; I will deal with
him when I am finished with this. There was nothing the Wedgetail could do anyway. The air was
clear of aircraft and missiles, just the annoying Wedgetail radar. There was nothing out here the
Chinese pilot thought which could reach them. Not at this range, which is why the trailing Sukhoi was
so surprised when the first three jets, including the idly thinking lead, suddenly exploded. The tail end
Charlie's quick reactions saved his life. Jamming the stick into one corner he kicked the rudder hard
left and threw the fighter into some hard jinking turns, punching off the big antiship missile, which was
making the aircraft hard to handle.
The tungsten rounds fired from nearly two hundred miles away had taken less than 12 seconds to
arrive on target. At such speed it was impossible for them to compensate their trajectories to catch the
evading Flanker. The first three jets that were flying in a straight line were easy targets. The surviving
Chinese Pilot had no idea what had hit them, but all the way back to the carrier he never steered a
straight line.
The Chinese submarine commander of the Jianguo had listened intently to the sounds of the attack.
He had heard the run out of the powerful Ta Po's from his sister ships and had waited expectantly for
the crashing explosion of the underwater missiles as they impacted the enemy ships and detonated.
"What is that?" the sonar chief exclaimed.
It sounded like a hiss over the speakers, it was followed by mute explosions and crumpling sounds.
These were not the sounds of Ta Po's pulverising their targets the Kilo Captain thought. None of the
torpedoes had reached their targets. This meant just one thing.
"The Ta Po's have somehow been destroyed on the run in to the target," he stated simply, looking
across from his position in sonar to his XO. The other man nodded. His thoughts reflected.
 Between them, listening intently to their sonar, they witnessed the crushing defeat of their fellow
submariners.
He motioned his 2IC to the plot table in the middle of the control room. Leaning over he spoke
quietly.
"It appears that they have some sort of CIWS that is destroying the torpedoes."
"Hull mounted cavitation guns," the XO said. Chinese intelligence had suggested such but they did
not know they were operational.
The Captain looked up. "Yes, I think you are right, the tonals sounded to be just that.
Recommendations?"
"Program the torpedoes to approach deep and in the terminal phase go shallow and attack from the
stern." He reasoned that the Australians would avoid shooting off their own propellers and rudders.
The Captain of the Jianguo nodded. He had already come to the same conclusion. The other
torpedoes had used shallow terminal homing to the target mostly attacking from the beam. "Swim out a
CUUV with an ELF warning the other boats."
"Aye," the XO of the Jianguo said, passing on the orders.
While the Jianguo considered its next move, the Australian fleet commander was revisiting his
own. Missiles were not going to be the deciding factor, he thought. Their own UAV strike on the
Chinese fleet and the subsequent missile and air attack proved that both sides possessed ships that were
capable of defeating most missile threats. This changed strategy dramatically.
To his south, Chinese Task Force One, with the fleet flagship, was steaming west deliberately
keeping distance from the Australians to figure out what to do next. The Australian fleet was bow on
to the chase, with the rail and cavitation equipped ships to the front. Despite the lessons in usage of
missiles, the Admiral was willing to bet that like themselves, only a few Chinese ships were equipped
with all the latest technologies. The tactic of swamping the target with so many missiles that some had
to get through wasn’t as simple as it looked any more. The Chinese had tried that from the air
combined with surface to surface missiles and torpedoes, but the rail and cavitation guns had decided
the outcome.
"Sonar."
"Aye"
"Do we have a complete disposition yet?"
"Coming in now." The underwater surveillance system, similar to SOSUS, was passive and
stealthy. Communications were relayed by underwater cable to Naval operations and back to fleet. The
Chinese fleets tonal signatures were fed into a database and each ship identified.
 "Show us on the main screen."
The overhead map display came up with real time ship positions of the Chinese fleet by name and
type. "Yowzer," someone in the control room said. "That's a lot of ships."
"That's TF1. Target the following," the Admiral said, indicating each ship, ignoring the carrier and
a handful of others. "Relay that immediately to the strike package." The Chinese Commander was
smart, the Admiral thought; he was deliberately biding his time to understand what was going on; he
suspected something. And so he should, He was willing to bet the Chinese Admiral would have
surrounded his high value assets with his best defense. The targets he selected were just outside of that
and vulnerable to missile attack.
After its first engagement, the HMAS Longreach was racing northwest to keep out of trouble. As
the Longreach cut through the southern swells, the knife edged bows seemed to effortlessly part the
waters. She sped unaware, directly into a trap.
Hudson happened to be in the ACC when the call came in. One of the PLO's looked up from his
DEMPC terminal. "We have picked up a fast submerged contact, bearing 290." Looking at the screen
and holding his earpiece he suddenly looked surprised. "Torpedo! We have a torpedo in the water!"
Even as the PPO was talking, Hudson was already speaking into his communicator. "Flank speed
NOW! Steer 290°."
"Flank speed it is, steering 290°," the Helm replied. Hudson could feel the big Cat accelerate and
begin a hard turn. Like the Captain of the Greeneville, Hudson knew when to run.
"Range?" he asked
"Range 15000 meters, speed 200 knots."
Hudson thought about it. It had to be the Chinese Ta Po or Skvall; he had three minutes. "Mathers
you there?" Seconds passed, another few hundred meters closer. 5000 meters per minute, almost 100
meters closer every second.
"Aye!"
"Mathers, open those bloody cavitation exhaust manifolds."
"Aye sir. Emergency power and cavitation manifolds opened."
Hudson almost expected some sort of resistance about the manifolds not being ready. But there
was none. The engines surged and the deck began to tremble heavily.
"12,000 meters!"
Unlike the destroyers and frigates the Longreach had no defense against torpedoes other than her
speed. Below the water line, large diverters near the end of the turbine exhausts redirected gases under
pressure into chambers in the large bulbous bows. Once there they were further pressurised and
injected through the flat nose. The result was instantaneous. The ship became almost slippery, the
speed increased to over ninety knots. The vibration and trembling of the hull as it cut through the
swells was violent.
Propelled by jets of water the sudden cavitation from the front of the bows and down the side of
the hull in the heavy the sea conditions, combined with the speed were over stressing the hull.
"Captain?"
"Yes?" Everyone he noticed was hanging on to something bolted down, including himself.
"We are getting stress sensors going off all over the hull." Mathers, who was in engineering, had
never been so scared in his life. They were flying through the water at a speed that left him dizzy,
racing so fast into the swells; he barely had time to register their size before the ship went through
them. But behind them, trying to crawl up their ass was a bloody big fast torpedo. He didn't know
which was worse.
Hudson looked across the deck of the bridge. There were a lot of frightened faces. Most of them
were looking at him. He smiled and looked at his watch, he made a show of counting numbers with his
fingers. "It will be DIW in less than sixty seconds," he said loudly, before sitting casually at a spare
PPO station next to him, capturing his coffee from the non-spill container before it flew across the
deck, taking a careful sip. The Control Room staff visibly relaxed a little, but not a lot. While slower
than the torpedo, the Longreach had forced the weapon into a tail chase. The weapons closure was now
only one hundred knots. It had limited range. The seconds ticked by.
"DIW!" the PPO yelled who had been monitoring the buoys. "She is dead in the water!" A cheer
went up in the control room.
"Stop cavitators!" Hudson snapped, ignoring the cheers. The hull instantly slowed. "Engines two
thirds!" The heavy vibration ceased, replaced by the usual whine of engine turbines and hull noise.
"Steer zero one zero." Hudson hadn't looked at a map but kept a 3D situational picture in his head.
The threat was still out there. They had to act fast. USAF Colonel Paul Cyrus was already moving,
yelling orders and getting his men moving. Within minutes two Mariners left the deck.
"Fly them straight down the throat of that launch and then drop an active pattern in a two kilometer
spread!" He turned to Hudson. "I'm betting that mongrel is going deep and slow." He was right.
The Mariner buoys hit the water and immediately sank, streaming a small wire pinging all the way
as they penetrated through the layers the sub might be hiding in. The wire, attached to a smaller buoy,
relayed communications on the surface. "We have him," the PPO announced excitedly.
"I'm in!" The AVO of the second Mariner armed with two Mk50 torpedoes steered towards a
release point that his own PPO was quickly calibrating. The release signal flashed in his headset and on
the screen. "Weapon released," he said.
The PPO turned on the external Mike. They could hear the sonar on the torpedo and the buoy
pinging into the deep. "Torpedo has gone active" The pinging suddenly increased in tempo and then
stopped. "That's a hit," the PPO said, pulling his head phones off. This was followed by a vague thud
against the hull confirming the kill as the explosive shock wave propagated through the water.
Cyrus waited until the excitement had died down. He then walked over to the Longreach Captain
and tapped him causally on the shoulder. "That was pretty darn impressive Commander. You have
anymore surprises like that?"
Hudson looked at Cyrus chuckling a little. "No, just the fact I didn't shit myself." He had pretty
much worked out the scenario in his head to the last foot and second. The part that Hudson did not
know, Like Scott Turner, was exactly how long the torpedo had been active when they picked it up,
and was their intelligence correct on its capabilities? That part could have killed them. "You know," he
said "Without those sonar buoys, we would have had no idea it was coming."
Cyrus smiled. Well those two birds can stay up there almost another day and they both have
munitions left. "I reckon we keep those in the air for a while, what you think?"
"Absolutely, Colonel," Hudson replied. "Abso-bloody-lutely."

*****

VOSTOK STATION. There was sudden activity in the Russians' positions. This was the end
game, Brian thought. He had the two switchblades flying a wide orbit around the Russian base. Far
enough away so they would not see them. At least that's what he thought until one of the returns
blanked out.
A few miles away a Russian NCO snorted in satisfaction as the smoke curled away from the barrel
of his favourite shotgun. That is how you deal with sneaky little UAVs he thought. It was the shadow
that had given it away; there were few moving shadows at that end of the world. The small Russian
patrol he led had been positioned well out in front of the main body. It was only chance that it was
situated under the UAV's flight path. As good as the UAVs were; if you could see them, you could
shoot them.
"A drone?" the Spetznaz officer asked.
"Something like that Sir -- small, very fast.
Colonel Nibialok didn't have to figure too hard to know what it was. But was there a whole
regiment behind it, a Company, perhaps just a few specialists? Or maybe just one man. It was that
bastard Hamilton, he knew it. "Its just one man!" he said finally.
"How can you be so sure Sir?"
"I know. I also know who it is. Stand by, I will have further instructions." Immediately after
terminating that connection he called in his new 2IC. "Somewhere out there," he said, gesturing to the
white wide expanse, "is probably just one, but maybe several U.S. and Australian Special Forces
spotting our positions." He looked hard at his junior officer. "I want him or them dead. And I want their
bodies here at my feet in thirty minutes. Understood?"
The young North fleet marine officer shuddered. They had all in a very short time learned how to
fear the Spetznaz Colonel. Since they were not part of the elite force he treated them with something
akin to poison.
From his hide Brian was watching the readouts on the surviving Switchblade. They had spotted
one of the UAVs, Brian realized. That was a problem. They now knew he was there. Right then the
two inbound FAB's showed up, forty klicks out. There was no sign of the F-111. It was then he also
picked up the distress beacon. They were down. But with the two massive Fuel Air Bombs inbound,
Brian had to leave that problem to later. With the Switchblade, he designated the southernmost missile
batteries where the two bombs' flight trajectories would take them.
As he did this he felt a heavy vibration; he looked down. The ice quivered a little beneath his feet.
Christ, they were over time. Armageddon could happen any second. This wasn't good; the Russians
had destroyed the F-111 delivery platform and would now have the inbound FABs on radar ready to
destroy them before they reached the wellhead. While he worried about this he could hear the sound of
the Russian mechanized transports. They were getting closer. He watched his FCC screen to make sure
the Microstar Switchblade was still doing its job and keeping the anti-air missile batteries shut down
and that some other deadeye shot gun enthusiast hadn't wiped it out. The idea now was to get the tiny
Dragonfly situated near the wellhead and lasered to the target while he escaped and evaded. If the flare
was too great the missiles would use inertial guidance and home in on the Dragonflies. With the
Microstar and Dragonfly on flying their programs he started to move.
Then shit happened. The incoming guided bombs pinpoint telemetry was completely reliant on the
Dragonfly UAV and its small laser that designated the target. The centimeter-sized piece of electronics
was hovering within the jaws of hell and having major problems staying on station. Hundreds of feet
below a massive chunk of ice cleaved off the side of the shaft, falling into the intense heat and
exploding. The shock wave rose up through the ice crater's flume causing the Dragonfly to suddenly
spin wildly out of control, smashing it into the wall.
The result was immediate: five miles from target the incoming FABs guiding to the Dragonfly
started to become erratic, wandering off course. The SAS Colonel stepping from his hide turned just in
time to catch the bombs lose track on the laptop screen and the loss of the Dragonfly. He dived back
into the pit, the sound of choppers almost on top of him. It was too late to run now. There was cannon
fire to the front; it was the Possum and MULE. He had programmed them both to attack the main
position and distract the Russians' attention while he crept away; he wondered now how long they
could hold out. He threw the last Dragonfly out the front of the hide and sent it straight up and then
down into the ice crater. He would have to monitor it until the bomb's point of impact. He settled back
down to watch the FCC and prepare for the inevitable fight that was to come. It wasn't a fight for his
life, because he couldn't win it. But fight he would.
It was that Russian Spetznaz officer, the one he saw in the Dry Valleys. He felt that in his bones,
this feeling he didn't understand, but it was always right. He had seen a glimpse of his face; he had seen
that face before somewhere. The Australian SAS Colonel was now certain he would die that day. But
he would take that bastard Russian down as well.
The surviving CUAV Microstar Switchblade was flying on the northeastern flank of the station.
As far as Hamilton could tell now, the Wrangler's bombs had no target designation and the southern
anti air batteries were getting ready to shoot the bombs in flight. The bombs would either miss the
wellhead or get destroyed.
At the same time, many miles south, the Microstar hunted the emissions of the Russian Radar and
launch systems. It was now ready to perform a neat trick that made up for its small size; it called for
help from its big brothers. Three QF-45C’s, bigger versions of the stealthy QF-45A combat UAV, had
just arrived on station honing in on their little mates signal. Needing no rest they were ready to do
business as soon as they arrived. The small Switchblade lased multiple targets, a signal was sent to the
bigger UAV’s who dropped their warloads. The UAV’s distributed the bombs between the targets and
the Switchblade’s lasers guided them in. The bombs didn’t hit the targets but detonated above them.
The explosions and noise were not spectacular but the resulting EM pulse was enough to destroy hard
circuits with a medium sized voltage spike, blinding the big S300 anti air units, disabling their tracking
and targeting systems at a critical moment. The little Microstar quickly worked through its list of
SAMs and Anti-Aircraft gun units.
As the Russian radar units dropped off the air, Brian's tiny Dragonfly MUAV had dived into the
center of the burning well head and began radiating. The smart bomb kits attached to the in bound
FAB’s picked up the beacon and steered back towards the bomb point.
Unable to determine the exact nature of the strike, Nibialok was on the move; there were bombs in
the air, he knew that, his instinct correct. Not content with the preparations of his given staff, he was
intent in removing the threat to his responsibility that he knew lay out there somewhere. It was only
this that saved his life. The two FABs after being thrown from the doomed Wrangler, flew in perfect
synchronization, pitching high and then vertically into the craters mouth, following the laser beam and
signal from the Dragonfly. They plunged headlong into the hole, falling over 3000 feet inside before
the smart bomb kit's electronic brains matched the location and altitude parameters and detonated the
warheads.
The two weapons dispersed their cargo simultaneously, the fuel air mix immediately combining
with the rising hot air within the flume. A fraction of a second later the mix detonated. The resulting
explosion and over pressure from the blast killed everyone within 1500 feet of the oil shaft, either from
the blast effect or asphyxiation. For a fraction of a second the explosion robbed the immediate
environment of its oxygen and extinguished the burning oil flame.
The shock wave knocked Nibialok to the ground and for precious moments left him gasping for
air. The concussion caused his ears to ring and it was a while before he realized the constant roar of the
inferno had ceased. He had expected an attack but was momentarily confused when the target
appeared to be the well shaft itself. That didn't make sense. But obviously his enemy was still out there
and he was determined to find him.
For Brian, the real problems immediately materialized. The Russian forces, after recovering from
the shock of the explosion, were all still in one piece and like a nest of disturbed ants were running
everywhere. It would only be moments before they came looking for him. Up until that point the plan
despite astronomical odds, had worked. Nobody really thought it would get this far, so the extraction
program was a bit thin. At the moment it consisted of 'don't move and wait for the cavalry' or run like
hell. If he ran now, he would be seen for miles and hunted down by Russian gun ships.
Nibialok didn't waste time. He made his way to the airfield looking for something to begin the
hunt with. This was personal; fortunately a gun ship was already turning its rotors, the hot exhausts
shimmering against the background. Nibialok took the gunners position in the back seat. The Russian
Mil attack helicopter was fitted with the latest optical and helmet sensory devices. Any thermal
signature on a background of such cold stood out like dogs balls. The big gattling gun under the cockpit
was slaved to Nibialok's helmet sighting system because he had taken the place of the weapons officer.
He directed two other gun ships and began a methodical search of the entire area out to 20,000 yards.
Brian saw the gun ships, like sporting dogs begin their pursuit. They were coming for him. It was
times like this he thought, that he should have watched more of McGyver. His two pack animals as he
thought of them were gone, the Possum to lay down some fire and the little Mule on a rescue mission.
Far from being just a packhorse, the Mule was fast. Within moments of sending it on its mission,
Brian, through his helmet projection was steering the MUV through the numerous ice blown stragis at
over 50 miles per hour.
Like the small UAV he had deployed previously, Brian had elected the cable control for the first
part of the MUV runout. He wanted to try and communicate with Lance because he could see the F-
111s locator bleeping regularly on his field unit control screen.
He looked again at the distance to the emergency radio locator beacon. Encrypted or not, someone
would pick it up fast. Hamilton had stripped the MULE of the stuff he needed before sending it off
before punching in the co-ordinates to the F-111 beacon. No one else in the world knew what was
going on down here, nor could they help. The whole effort would all be pointless if he started a big
firefight that might re-ignite the wellhead.
There was the sound of heavy cannon fire in the distance. While the MULE ran, his Combat
Unmanned Vehicle the Possum was operating autonomously and was keeping everybody's heads down.
It was obviously doing a good job because it kept firing for ages. There was a dull explosion followed
by silence. Damn, that was the end of the Possum, but it had done its job; the MULE was well on its
way.

*****

VANDENBERG AFB. Almost at the other end of the world, the 30th Space Wing at Vandenberg
AFB, part of the US 14th Air force, had ever since the confirmation of the Chinese parasite satellites,
been preparing the United States' greatest space lift effort in history. Located on California's Central
Coast the 30th Space Wing was responsible for all the launches to polar orbits. They had the priority
that day over the 45th Space Wing at Patrick AFB and Cape Canaveral Air Station, on Florida's Central
Coast, responsible for launching to equatorial orbits.
NASA, the USAF and U.S. defense forces had known for 36 months they had to replace satellites
they suspected were infected by parasitic nano-sized satellites. With virtually the same logic as the
Chinese, they had waited before revealing this fact, looking for a place and time of their choosing,
secrecy being the backbone of security. Now was the time.
Down under in Pine Gap Australia, the control room was crowded after receiving a warning order
from the Space Wing. It deliberately neglected to warn them of what they were there for. That part
would become obvious.
"What's going on," someone said. "Why are we all here?"
"Wait," one of the senior technicians answered holding up his hand. Something was happening.
 "Christ, will you look at that!" The Duty Officer turned to look at the CO who had just arrived.
The monitor covering the west and east coast seaboards of the USA was lit up like a Christmas tree.
"That must be, what, twenty…no thirty, forty launches." He looked confused. "What's going on?"
The CO looked at the screen. He felt like a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. "I bet
we never see something like this again in our lifetimes," he said. He then quickly explained what was
occurring followed by what they needed to do. "Of all the birds getting into orbit, the most important
are the south polar reconnaissance satellites." He read out the priority list. "The clock is ticking and so
is that ice bomb, we need those polar birds badly."
A few minutes later the center's Duty Supervisor quickly conducted a communication and systems
check with a new low orbit polar Imagesat, cutting through many normal procedures to command the
cameras to look at the Antarctic interior, zooming in on Vostok Station. They could easily see the
Russian transports and ground forces. More importantly they could still see the smoke and flame deep
inside the crater. The satellite control center was deathly silent. They were acutely aware of the time
schedule.
"It’s not out," someone said.
The time was overlaid on the screen in the bottom left hand corner. Next to this, a flashing number
counted the minutes and seconds that had expired since the predicted time of the event. It was well
overtime. Still, the center's CO reasoned, it was after all an estimate. The screen was showing a lot of
movement on the ground.
"Something is going on. We are tracking missiles in the air and have gunfire and explosions on
the ground," the sensor technician reported. The screen suddenly flashed white. The infrared monitor
showed a massive thermal flare. This quickly died away.
"Jeez, that place is cold as hell isn’t," the IR sensor operator said. Residual thermal effects of
blasts were normally visible for sometime. The extreme environment of the Antarctic interior stole that
thermal energy in seconds. "It's out!" The IR sensor operator suddenly announced. There was a cheer
in the control room.
The CIC (Station Commander) let them have their moment. After the cheer died down his deep
voice resonated through the room. "It's out for the moment," he reminded them. His mind was still
with the second part of the mission and the men and women that made it possible. "We still have
people down there; those bombs didn't get there by themselves. Find them!"
"Sir! We have an EPIRB; it's the F-111."
"That means they are down and need any help we can give them," he said. Down, but obviously
not before delivering their bombs, he thought. "Okay listen up, we have a crew down, and our
designator Colonel Hamilton is stuck between hell and a hard place. We will assume he is alive."
Instead of jubilation, the General's eyes were as hard as flint. "What you are all going to do now is
move heaven and earth to get our people back and keep that flame out. Understood?" Once again his
granite look swept across the room.
"Get to it people. I don't care who we piss off; I don't care whether we all get fired tomorrow. But I
do care that we bring our people back!" Under his breath he said, "If anyone gets in our way, I will kill
the fucker myself." Having served half his life in Special Forces, the General's words were not empty.
As he walked away he didn't realize the last remark had been picked up, everyone believed him. But to
the last person, after watching the unfolding conflict through their digital sensors, they were all
committed to getting their guys out of hell.

*****

RUSSIAN SOUTH PACIFIC FLEET. Vice Admiral Vyacheslav Popov knew the moment had
arrived. He had driven his fleet down the Pacific through the Tasman into the Southern Ocean and to
the very edge of the Amundsen Sea pack ice. From there he had flown missions around the clock to
establish a base just north of the South Pole on the Vinson Massif in central Antarctica.
To his west flank were the Australians and the Kiwis, now engaging with Chinese and Russian
forces, and to his east the now allied and friendly Chileans and Argentines. Apart from the
disorganized Americans to the north, there were no other threats. He mused, The Kiev class carrier
Novorossiysk which supported his Flagship the Krechyet, would be a surprise to the coalition who
thought the Krechyet had been turned into scrap.
Surrounding the two large carriers were a thick screen of cruisers, destroyers and submarines. He
knew the Chinese Admiral, Wen Jinsong, was attempting to comprehensively engage both Australian
and U.S. forces. Russian intelligence suggested the coalition was increasing their operational intensity
to retake Antarctica. President Vladimir Petrov had been very succinct in his instructions. Stop them.
Popov intended to do exactly that. Short of using nuclear weapons, he was not going to hold back.
As Popov considered his next moves, the Captain of the USS Clinton looked at the recent satellite
photos of the Russian Admiral's fleet. Captain McKay was not happy; they were now involved in the
beginnings of a heavy gunfight with a very capable force. This would be the first time since Korea that
the U.S. had to meet an equal in terms of combat technology and systems.
The Australians and some U.S. naval units were already in the thick of it, the fight like a wild fire
spreading rapidly across the ocean. It had turned into a shooting war with no resolution in sight.
McKay picked up the deck phone and patched a call directly through to the USS Blue Ridge.
The conversation was short. On the other end of the phone the U.S. Commander of the Pacific
Fleet (USACOMPACFLT) hung up after talking to McKay and paced up and down the space that
accommodated the Tactical Flag Command Center located on the USS Blue Ridge, a dedicated
Command Ship. His task force was at flank speed to provide support to the USS Clinton. He didn't
question McKay's capabilities. But the ship had not even been signed off from trials yet; Sundog had
diplomatically pointed that out. No one liked to admit they were not up to the job, but only a fool
would rush into battle unprepared. There were still civilians on board and a whole lot of green recruits.
His thoughts were interrupted.
"We have a message over the six," the comms officer reported. He meant the SSIXS, which was
the Submarine Information Exchange System.
The Admiral nodded.
"Texas Sir. POSSUB contact, bearing 083 120nm."
Damn he thought; the Russians and Chinese were being very aggressive. "Prosecute the contact,"
he ordered. "They have a weapons free."
"Aye Sir," the man said, rushing off to pass the orders.
The Admiral looked at the feed from the RORSAT, Radar Ocean Reconnaissance Satellite. "The
Stennis?" he asked.
"Air operations commencing as we speak sir."
Good he thought. They could at least project some defensive airpower to help her. Every minute
brought them that little closer.
At an ordered depth of 1000 feet the Captain of the USS Texas read the reply direct from
USACOMPACFLT. He didn't smile, but there was a sense of satisfaction in doing the job he had been
trained for. He looked around the control room. Unlike LA class and others before them, the Virginia
Class had eliminated the traditional helmsman, planesmen, chief of the watch and diving officer,
combining all of them into a small two person watch station. The Chief Electronics Technician and
Senior Chief Machinist's Mate, the pilot, operated the ship's control panel. The pilot flew the Texas
underwater using a control stick. The commander issued his orders; they were about to show the
Russian boat drivers what a Virginia Class submarine could do. There was about to be one less Russian
attack boat.
On the roof of the Pacific, the helmsman of the USS John C. Stennis (CVN 74) steered the 97,000-
ton carrier into the wind. On the deck far below the bridge where he stood, flight operations were in
full swing. At the same time in the bowels of the ship, operations specialists monitored the radar
screens on the Strike Control System in the Combat Direction Center (CDC), ready to support the
strike package on the deck above. On the flight deck itself, the center-deck hatch operator signaled to
the "Shooter" that the catapult steam pressure was at the proper levels for launching a Super Hornet
assigned to the "Blue Diamonds" of Strike Fighter Squadron One Forty Six (VFA-146). The hand
dropped and the catapult officer fired the attack jet off to join its brethren.
With the Stennis and soon the USS George Bush entering the AOP, Captain McKay steered the
massive bulk of the USS Clinton in a tight turn at flank speed, the hull heeling hard to port as she
pointed her bow south, closing the distance with the Russian Fleet.
Captain Chris McKay's job was to prevent the Russians joining up with the Chinese. The opposing
forces he knew were lost in the subtle difference in what the Americans and Australians were actually
doing. The Chinese and Russians believed they were trying to invade the continent. This was an
advantage. They would be expecting large forces, concentrated with substantial support to force a
wedge through their defense and regain a foothold on the ice.
The Captain of the Clinton would help keep that mistaken belief alive. Even a thousand miles
apart, the two forces began moving their chest pieces across the board in an effort to take the initiative.

*****

The sun streamed through the perspex of the sleek fighter. Out there the pilot thought, it's was
minus fifty-three degrees. He would hate to punch out at this height. The pilot and his companion
aircraft made up a loose finger-four formation as they cruised north.
The aircraft were Su-51's. To the west it used to be known as the T-50, deliberately led by Russian
intelligence to believe the project stalled, an operation headed by Colonel General, Sergey
Nikolayevich Lebedev. After the merging of the Russian Mikoyan (MiG MAPO) factory and the
Sukhoi stable, the shelved technology from the MFI multi function fighter, known as Mikoyan article
1.42, had been dusted off applied to the T-50 PAK FA and eventually rolled out in production as the
Su-51.
Like its Chinese counterpart that had been developed from the same Russian technology, the Su-51
was a bad hair day for any pilot on the other end. Like the F22, it boasted super cruise, super stealth
and an extended range.
With refueling, it could go anywhere. In the flight's lead aircraft, Colonel Nafaniel Logvinoch
steered the small yoke with his fingers. He enjoyed the luxury of setting the control stick sensitivity to
suit the user. At 45,000 feet he sailed under a deep blue sky, confident that aside from visual detection,
he was invisible to electronic ears. He wondered amongst all the madness that was happening, where
his friend Lance Hamilton was. He hoped his Australian friend Hamilton was not flying an F-111.
Against this, his Su-51, Lance would stand little chance. The fifth-generation fighter boasted powerful
AESA that exceeded the Snow Leopards capabilities. It was a marriage of the best technologies from
the two famous Russian fighter stables, Sukhoi and MiG.
Logvinoch tapped the stick and pulled back from the refueling probe. The socket unplugged and he
could see the parachute basket swing to his left. He was the last to refuel, they were flying CAP for the
Russian task group, and he already knew the Clinton was both heading south and into the wind
launching aircraft.
In the Russian fleet below, Rear Admiral Popov was considering his strategy. He didn't believe in
going into a fight half cocked. He liked to take the initiative. So once again the big Blackjack bombers
from Engels Air force Base were in the air. The American attention was focused to the south, so the
Blackjacks would give them a bad surprise.
On board the lead Blackjack, Ivan Grigor'ev Nagoi looked outside of the cockpit; he flew the same
aircraft as in his previous mission to the south, numbered 07 named after Aleksandr Molodchii. These
were long missions, but the Blackjack was at least big and comfortable.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Ready, we have eight in the green," his copilot said.
"Targeting?"
"Set."
Nagoi looked at the weapons panel. Sitting in the rotary launchers were eight Moskit/SS-N-37 Sun
Blinder missiles. These were the sons of Sunburn missiles, badder, bigger and with a greater range and
a lot smarter.
"Do we have target telemetry?"
"Da."
"Missiles hot?"
"Da." This meant the missiles were receiving and responding to data being fed from the aircrafts
computers, satellites and any other inputs.
"It's the Clinton?" This time the copilot looked at him and nodded.
Nagoi armed the weapons panel, selected the missiles and with his copilot went through the pre-
launch procedures. Then, in an almost anti climax, he hit the attack button. The system took over,
controlling not just his, but also the other six aircraft in the flight. The pilots monitored the automated
weapons launch, waiting for their rotary launcher to eject the missiles before very happily turning and
burning to follow their lead back home.
Logvinoch in his Su-51 switched his large central control screen to the situational mode. He could
see that heavy stealth missiles were now in the air heading towards the Clinton, the U.S. carrier
unaware of the approaching threat. The missile attack by the Blackjacks was in play. He knew that
there would also be TU-22s out of Tierra del Fuego about to do the same thing. Unlike the failed
Chinese missiles, he knew these were a different kettle of fish; he felt sorry for their prey.

*****

The Sun Blinder missiles took just minutes from launch to target acquisition, their on board radars
activated in the terminal phase and were immediately detected by the Clinton and their escorts. The
U.S. fleet's highly evolved anti-air systems began to counter attack. But the Sun Blinder's were stealthy,
fast, accurate and especially good in evasive maneuvers. The missiles were like pissed off snakes on
cocaine. The CIWS rail guns on board the Clinton and her escorts were having trouble targeting. The
missiles never flew a straight course, their entire flight telemetry an unending change of directions.
Coupled with active radar cancellation they confused the carrier groups targeting radars. Despite that,
the sheer volume of defensive measures delivered from the carrier group wore down the attackers.
Most of the attacking missiles were destroyed. All the missiles that dived in their final approach were
destroyed, but three weaving sea-skimming missiles struck the USS Clinton one after the other,
massive explosions blowing out from the side of the carrier. The forward elevator took a direct hit, the
blast blowing through into the hangar deck incinerating 76 men and women instantly. The ship
shuddered from stem to stern but kept going. Smoke billowed out from the bowels of the ship spilling
into its wake. The Clinton was hurt badly. Any other ship would have been dead.
The Clinton was still afloat for a good reason. While the Russians had been making better missiles,
the Clinton had also been made tougher than her predecessors. She was designed for just this type of
attack, to absorb and spread the shockwave of a blast while at the same time containing its thermal
effect. Only 300-crew were killed in all, instead of several thousand. More important the ship could
still fight.
Standing in the CDC, Captain McKay took in the chilling casualty and damage reports. He picked
up the overhead mike.
"What shape are you in?" USACOMPACFLT on the flag Ship USS Blue Ridge asked.
"Not great," McKay said "We still have some fires going, the forward elevators out, the hangar
wiped out and we have some pretty big holes in the side. You know where that strike came from?"
 "Blackjacks out of Engel's AFB."
From the north, damn it. McKay was furious, but bit his lip. They should have been warned of
them beforehand. Obviously the satellite replacements still had some bugs in their coverage. "Well, I
don't think we could stand another set of hits like that."
"Hang in there Mack. You should have confirmation any minute that the Australians have snuffed
that flame out. We just have to keep these bastards busy so it doesn't get fired up again and we get
them talking."
Great, McKay thought. Keep shooting until someone talks. He wondered who thought of that
strategy.

*****

Colonel Nafaniel Logvinoch monitored the next strike. This time it was comprised of Backfire
bombers which carried the same Sun Blinder missile system. The Clinton must have been hurt from
the last attack. This one should finish it off. The loss of their most prized carrier would shock the
Americans, perhaps make them hold back and reconsider. He could understand Popov's logic. The
situational display showed them minutes away from their release points. On orders from the fleet flight
controller, Logvinoch steered the Russian fighters to an intercept to cover the bombers. That was when
the shit hit the Russian fan.
The clean lines of the HMS Queen Elizabeth, a British 65,000 ton aircraft carrier, steamed past the
Chatham Islands at high speed into the Southern Ocean. Nearly 1000 feet long she was one of a kind,
stealthy and very fast. She boasted the same onboard all electric technology as the Clinton. As soon as
she was within operational range she launched every asset that could make the distance.
The result was a sound the Russian pilot thought he wouldn't hear on this sortie. The Sukhois
threat receiver blared and the red flashing light made it all too real. From nowhere his flight was not
only under attack, but locked onto by enemy missile systems!
"Archangel has acquired and initiated attack," the British F-35 VSTOL pilot said calmly, he could
have been serving tea. He was 150 miles west of Logvinoch and from his F-35 helped steer a flight of
eight UCAV AVPRO Archangels, a nearly all wing, tailless, canard-configured airplane. It was
stealthier, smaller and more nimble than its piloted counter part, which is why they operated far
forward. Logvinoch and his entire flight went evasive, waiting for the inevitable missile launches.
There were none. The British Archangels, barely visible, blew past and launched on the attacking
Backfire bombers. Logvinoch rolled out at 20,000 feet and instinctively went for the controlling F35's.
It saved his life. He pulled up, the F35's were squawking to control the Archangels; he acquired and
sent four missiles their way, before breaking off and going for the deck.

*****

CHAPTER TWENTY

VOSTOK STATION. Still in his hide, Brian could see the attack helicopters getting closer. Like
a beagle's nose, he could see the barrel of the gattling guns slung underneath the Hind's, swivel and
turn, almost sniffing the wind as they followed the eyes of the shooter in the cockpit. In ten minutes
they would be on him.
Hundreds of miles away, Global Hawks and more CUAVs that had flown from the Clinton joined
the Combat Rescue Mission, peeling off from their assigned orbits and heading towards Vostok
Station. The launch bay doors on the bigger Global Hawks opened, the launchers rotating and ejecting
high yield ebombs. QF-45C’s identified their own targets, dispersed from the main group, and between
themselves rationed the Russian targets and began their approach.
Hamiltons mind was elsewhere, trying to get the rest of his body to the same place as quickly as
possible. The Hind MI48 gunship looked as menacing as the first day it preyed upon the deserts of
Afghanistan. Equally at home in the cold, the lethally upgraded predator was on the hunt. This is what
it had been made for. Its impressive digital sensory array meant that nothing was invisible on the
ground. Nothing could hide from this bird of prey. The pilot swung the heavily armoured gun ship over
the ice. The gunner, in this case Nibialok, had slaved the weapons to his helmet sights. Where he
looked, the sensors and guns looked. It was always just a matter of IF not WHEN.
"There!" the pilot said; the Hind's infrared and EMR sensor had combined to locate Hamilton's
position.
"I see it, keep going, keep going, and don't let it look like we have seen," Nibialok said, almost
finding it hard to breath. This was Hamilton, he felt sure of it.
On the ground Brian felt the heavy wash of the Hind's blades as it passed almost overhead. They
were on to him he was sure. He tensed and prepared himself.
"You have it locked in?" Nibialok said.
"Da."
"When we turn I want both the cannon and the missiles placed on the target." In response, the pilot
grunted. Nibialok armed the missiles, registered the heat source and allocated the target to both the
guns and the missiles. The helicopter pitched hard to the right in a 180º degree turn, on levelling out
the missiles locked and launched, followed by a steady drum of cannon fire.
The last thing Hamilton saw as he ducked for cover was the plume of the missile exhausts and the
flash of the gun as it kicked in over 4000 rounds per minute of depleted uranium. Both the missiles and
the rounds smashed into his hide destroying everything.
Nibialok smiled in satisfaction. The well-camouflaged bivouac was torn apart, small secondary
explosions and pieces of metal flying off in all directions. The Hind swept over its prey, small wisps of
smoke struggling out of the hole that was once the sanctuary for someone to hide.
"Take it down," Nibialok ordered.
The pilot pulled the Hind into a hard turn, flared the machine and settled it next to the mess they
just made. Nibialok was almost joyful as he leapt from the cabin. He wanted to see the corpse.
In Pine Gap, the operators were incredibly impressed with the sharper and more precise images
from the new satellites. But what they now showed wasn’t what they wanted to see. They could see so
much but do so little. They witnessed the cannon and missile fire from Nibialok, which must have
been devastating. The fire was out, but they had lost their man.
It was close. The smash of gunfire and rockets made his ears buzz and vision swim. But it quickly
passed. He looked up again in time to see Nibialok jump from the chopper. Half buried in a sastrugi,
Hamilton had lowered the temperature of his outer garment to avoid thermal detection. From his
position he calculated the distance to the Hind.
Nibialok was standing near the mouth of what used to be Hamilton’s hideout, gloved hands on
hips. Behind him the chopper's blades were still rotating, the collective in neutral, the pilot watching
the Russian Colonel. Hamilton began his move. He was up and running hard, shrugging off the piles
of snow that had covered him. He was almost to the chopper when the pilot turned and saw him. No
point shooting yet. Armour glass and metal plate would stop the rounds. The big gattling gun started to
rotate towards him. He dived towards the open door and fired. The single shot missed the armoured
backrest by millimetres driving hard into the pilot's helmet; a cascade of blood flowed from the helmet
and the pilot fell forwards against his straps. Nibialok was still looking at the hole, even fiddling
around with some of the debris, the sound of the gunshot lost behind the heavy whine of jet turbines
and spinning blades. By the time he looked back, the pilot was on the ground, Brian had fire walled the
throttle levers and was pulling the collective for all it was worth. He knew Nibialok would have a
weapon.
Nibialok did, and pulled the AK47, his favourite for such events. It was old but it pushed a
7.62mm round that could stop things. He fired repeatedly at the chopper.
 Brian Hamilton pulled the Hind back hard, offering the belly to Nibialok's shots. For good reason
- the belly was heavily armoured. Nibialok emptied his clip. While Hamilton didn't count the shots, he
knew Nibialok had emptied the magazine and was searching for another. He quickly dropped the nose
of the chopper, pulled his head gear off and smiled at him. He hoped the man would rot in hell. He
thought for a moment about giving him a squirt with the gun as the man stood in front of the hovering
machine. But he hadn't figured out how to use that yet. Instead, he lowered the nose and once again
pulled the collective as the machine hauled itself forwards, the big blades almost cutting the Spetznaz
officer in half, leaving him flailing in the snow in anger.
Thirty miles further south Lance and his navigator were extricating themselves from the F-111's
capsule, just in time to see the plume of some huge explosions many miles away. They both hoped it
was the fuel air bombs on target, but at this distant it was too hard to tell. They only wandered around
for some thirty seconds before diving back into the capsule and pulling the canopy shut. The capsule
was their lifeline. In the severe temperatures of the eastern plateau, they would die within minutes
without its protection.
Despite the protection of the escape capsule, the bitter freezing temperature quickly robbed them
of any warmth. The Squadron Leader and his Navigator were fast succumbing to the cold; Lance knew
it would not be long. He wondered whether the bombs had done the job. That was the bad part. He
would never know. The minutes dragged by. The cold sapped their life away.
As he began to fall into cold induced sleep, the RAAF pilot was vaguely aware of heavy wind
buffeting the small capsule, his tomb. It seemed to pick up in ferocity. With some difficulty he looked
at his Navigator and wondered whether he was breathing. His Navigator was expressionless and white.
Ice particles covered his mouth and nose. The buffeting outside got worse, rocking the capsule; a small
part of his mind that still wasn't totally consumed with the cold noticed that the wind had stopped. Was
that knocking he heard?
Minutes later, the Squadron Leader gradually opened his eyes again. There were the familiar
sounds of chopper blades and the whine of jet engines; at least it was familiar to him. Lance could hear
someone talking, it sounded like his brother but his head felt like it was in a vice and getting his mind
working like trying to swim in quicksand? He must be getting delusional, he thought. The voice
sounded so much like Brian. He felt someone was moving behind him.
It took a moment to move his head, but he could feel the blood returning to his extremities within
the heated cabin. He managed to look behind him. The cabin of the chopper was unfamiliar, he could
see Brian hefting his still unconscious Weapons Officer into the rear troop cabin. Brian closed the rear
door and climbed into the seat behind him.
 ""About time,” He jerked his thumb pointing to the back, “he's in a bad way, but he should be
okay." Brian looked at his brother and smiled. He had the temperature control running at max and he
was sweating, Lance was pumping his hands and arms to loosen them up.
It would have been nice to have chat and congratulate themselves on still being alive. But if they
wanted to stay that way it was time to exit stage left and talk later. Brian was thinking as he settled into
weapons system. Was there a plan to retake Vostok? He had no idea. He waited ten minutes for Lance's
circulation to return to normal, or at least to a point he could hold the stick and collective and move the
pedals.
"Let's go," he announced.
"Who's driving?" Lance asked.
"You toot I'll shoot bro. We aren't out of this by a long shot; you good to fly?"
"Yep," Lance said, feeling the energy coming back. "Fact is, never felt better,” That was somewhat
of a lie but not being dead definitely felt great. “thought I was all over red rover!"
"Me too!" Brian replied. "I had to follow the MULE to find you; if it wasn't for that little gadget
we would all be stuffed."
"The bombs worked?" Lance asked.
"Yep." He leaned forward and smacked his brother over the head lightly. "Damn good shooting
little brother. The flame is out…for now anyway."
Lance shook his head. "Damn, if people knew how desperate that plan was, they wouldn't need a
catastrophe to kill them, the heart attack would."
Brian smiled. "But the bad news is we have to keep it out. That huge crater is now soaked with an
oil and gas mix." He paused as he finished strapping in. "We went past the calculated time for the
crater to collapse and blow the lake," he continued. "The way I figure it, a sneeze would set that off and
rupture the ice casing, triggering the event."
Lance looked at the aircraft instruments. "You know what any of this writing means?" Lance
gestured to the panel and displays in front of him. "All the electronics are in Russian."
"Yes…I do, firstly, see the big red Russian writing near your right hand?" He spoke the name in
Russian, which meant nothing to Lance.
"It means DON'T PULL THIS KNOB."
"Really?" Lance asked a little surprised.
"Really," Brian replied. "It shuts down the engines in case of fire." Dumb place to put it, he
thought; they must have had real engine problems in the past. “Lets switch.”
They swapped seats. The gunship, a Mi-24M (Upgraded Hind Mi-24) was a two-place helicopter
with a glass cockpit, helmet-mounted sights and "hands on collective and stick (HOCAS)" controls.
Brian was now sitting in the forward weapons system, Lance taking the pilot's seat higher and behind.
Looking forward as the MiL's engines spooled up, Lance could see his brother pressing numerous
buttons with the strange Russian writing on them. What they did he had no idea, but he conceded,
everything seemed to sound fine, generally speaking from his aviation experience, that was a good
thing. Bad things were normally preceded by loud noises, big bangs, scraping, rasping, screeching; the
type of sounds generated by tortured metal or out of control explosive forces. So things must be okay,
the cockpit wasn't in flame, the rotors above seemed to work and the jet turbines while noisy were
respectable, for a helicopter anyway, all positive signs. The primary flight gauges were familiar, more
so because of his MiG-29 experience.
"Let's get out of here bro," he said.
"Roger that!" The controls, while still feeling a little unusual, quickly slipped into the Squadron
Leader's hands and he hauled the Russian iron bird off the snow.
Down below, the faithful little Mule turned around and followed the gun ship back to Vostok.

*****

Nibialok was running hard. The twin rotors of the Ka-50 Black Shark helicopter were already
spinning. Code-named Hokum by NATO, but known by others as Werewolf, the high-performance
combat machine was probably the most lethal helicopter in the world. Nibialok leaped into the side seat
yelling at the pilot to get moving. They were after the hijacked Mi-24M Hind. The Hind was an older
design, but still very fast and powerful.
The Werewolf pulled up hard and pitched forwards, rapidly picking up speed.
"I've got him," Nibialok announced, referring to the incoming Hind. He ordered the pilot to
intercept.

*****

As the two choppers sped towards each other the Australian Prime Minister was in discussion with
the U.S. President by videophone.
"As you know the wellhead fire has been extinguished, just minutes ago," the Australian PM said.
"Yes, I was in the Situation Room; we managed to get the satellite imagery just in time," said
Blaire, still a little astonished at what he had seen. "I can't believe it." He shook his head, "that your
guys actually pulled that plan off. It actually worked! I think those boys of yours on the ice need the
biggest pats on the back your country can give them, because for damn sure, with your permission, we
will."
"We will. It was a complicated plan from hell, but what made it work was a team effort, everyone
from David Stringer, the Clinton, to your staff and yourself. Not forgetting those Rosenbridge guys.
We wouldn't have been able to even get there without that help."
The President nodded. "Thanks Dennis, I appreciate that, as will the rest of the team." But it was
still without doubt the scariest plan to save the world he had ever seen. Actually he had never seen a
plan to save the world, but when it was required, this hair-brained inspiration was the only one
available, he thought.
The Australian PM, his mind moving past the friendly back patting, looked serious again. The
smile disappeared and behind the glasses the cool blue eyes squinted in concentration as he verbalized
his thoughts. "What has happened is fantastic, but it's only part of the job. What we need to do now is
get Hamilton back." He corrected himself. "Both of them."
"I don't understand?"
"Brian Hamilton is one of our retired SAS commanders, he first raised the alarm and subsequently
triggered the operational plan and target designation. His brother, an F-111 Squadron Commander,
delivered the warload."
"Brian is the one with the artifact?"
"Correct, if he is still alive. We need to get that back, it might explain whats going on down there."
Yes, the President thought, that's right. The artifact, with all that was going on, he had almost
forgotten about that. A bizarre twist in a deadly tale.
The PM continued. "We are going to be placing a lot of trust in Colonel Hamilton, believing that
what he is telling us about this artifact or evidence is correct. We have a choice of an all out
confrontation because they believe we tried to attack, or we can prove the whole episode was driven
from an understandable confusion over who did what."
The President of the United States looked over to his defense and national security team. The
large digital screen over the fireplace was filled with the image of a relaxed but very resolute looking
Australian Prime Minister, the knees and shoulders of his staff just in shot. Likewise the Australians
saw a similar image of the U.S. Security Council.
"Vince?" The President asked turning to his NSA. "What do you think?"
"I agree with the Prime Minister. But now that we are generating some real combat power we are
no longer playing from the bottom of the deck. We are in a better position by the minute to decide the
issue by force. I believe much of the Chinese and Russian political strategy was based upon a U.S.
mindset established by Finn, a belief we would capitulate afraid of casualties."
"George?" Blaire asked
"Same. We have the WGS back with the satellites, which are crucial to complex combat operations
and we have mobilized major resources to apply to the battlefield that will put us back on the front foot.
But," Pirelli qualified, "its not overwhelming superiority."
"Yes," Kipper conceded. "There would be a high price to pay. But either way, I don't believe this
country can afford to allow the Chinese and Russians to usurp Antarctica by force."
"No we can't, regardless of what other countries may think. That isn't going to happen." He
thought for a moment. "We have to show we are prepared to meet them head on. I'm sure they have no
desire to get into a major scrap either if they could find a way out of it."
"Hobson's choice again, Mr President," the PM said. The President looked confused. "It means no
choice basically," the PM explained, "we try for a negotiated settlement based on the evidence we have,
but continue our generation and deployment of forces."
The President agreed. "We stay at DEFCON ONE. But yes I agree, I think we owe it to the guys to
give them a shot at bringing the evidence back. They will have a hard job convincing them; the recent
action will have only firmed Chinese and Russian resolve that we are trying to take over the oil
resource for ourselves."
"Yes, nothing much we can do about that. Getting him out isn't going to be easy." If he is still
alive, he thought. "We will have to break through the Chinese naval force again; I believe our JOC is
working on that right now." Morel nodded the affirmative, as did Perelli on the other end.
"We have an agreed course of action then. Get Hamilton and the evidence out of Vostok, Keep the
flame out and maintain the military pressure on the Russians and Chinese until we see the result of
Colonel Hamilton's efforts." He wondered what the hell it was that this SAS Colonel was carrying. He
hoped the poor bastard hadn't flipped his lid under the stress. Many men would have with what he had
been through in the last 72 hours. But since he had probably helped saved the world he was willing to
give him the benefit of the doubt. "If that fails we both need to be prepared to go the next step."

*****

HQJOC BUNGENDORE.
"Our fleet is situated south east of Campbell Island over 3000 kilometers from Vostok." The
CJOPS marked the locations on the overhead display with a pointer. "A direct flight from Australia's
most southern extremity is over 5000 kilometers. To give the CSAR team some real firepower, we
have to get our own units close enough to utilize the railguns.
"The Clinton TF will engage the Russians North of Scott Island to keep them busy. The CASR
objective is to drive between the first and second task force. In our way will be some Air Warfare
Destroyers, Chinese fighters and a Russian Mainstay. We will continue to try and draw or hold the
Chinese battle group further to the west. From Tasmania, our F-111's are going to fly to here, 70S by
150East, and then direct to Vostok."
"That takes you straight over French claimed territory," someone said.
"Can't be helped."
He looked at the map. To fly a westerly route to Vostok would put them in reach the Chinese
Carriers J10's and Sukhois. "We cross far enough inland to exceed most of the air defense assets in
Dumont d'Urville."

*****

500 nautical miles west of Macquarie Island and 900 directly south of Tasmania, the 28,000-ton
LHP HMAS Canberra was into the wind. 14,000 tons heavier than the Aircraft Carrier HMAS
Melbourne she was the biggest ship of her type in the South Pacific and second only in size to the
Wasp and Tarawa-class amphibious assault ships of the U.S. Navy. She was brand new. Her sister ship
HMAS Adelaide followed in station a mile behind. Between them they could land an armoured force
of 1800 troops, equivalent to a full Marine expeditionary force.
On the deck of the HMAS Canberra, three V22 Osprey's ran their engines up to full power, the big
tilt rotors pitching slightly forward, giving the aircraft a small run before leaping into the air. Climbing
to 25,000 feet the V22's formed up with two C130 gun ships. Called the 'Sons of Spectre' the two
C130's carried enough firepower to destroy an aircraft carrier.
Back on the ship's deck, heavily loaded STOL F-35 jets thundered down the Canberra's deck,
launching from the forward ski jump on the bow followed by long-range strike UAVs provided by the
U.S. Navy. Together, the aircraft flew south towards Victoria Land. 500nm north of the Antarctic
coast they joined with an RAAF KC-767 air refueling aircraft. Watching over all of them was an
RAAF Wedgetail AWAC's flying large orbits of the area with two USAF 747-400 ABL systems.
From the north a package of F-111's joined to complete the formation of the combat search and
rescue package, making it one of the heaviest and most powerful CSAR missions ever flown. But they
first had to get past the Chinese naval perimeter. There the F-35’s had to turn back lacking the range to
target.
Commander Turner lay back on his bunk replaying the last few hours in his head. What would he
do if he were the enemy? By now the enemy would be aware of the rail and cavitation guns. What
strategy would they employ to defeat those defenses? What would he do in their position? He thought
about that for a moment. Go deep, program the torpedoes to dive deep and come up vertically beneath.
Pretty simple really, he had to stop them.
The Greeneville was crossing the South East Indian ridge and into the South Indian Basin. It was
deep, nearly four miles deep and covered thousands of miles. The Australian and U.S. warships had a
while to go before their guns came into range. How could he be in two places at once? Once again he
gathered his officers together in the wardroom. He switched on the fleet wide area situational map and
relayed the latest news and intelligence and then the boats new orders.

*****

While Turner spoke to his crew, the CSAR flight headed directly to the middle space between the
two forward Chinese task forces. The fleet had turned about and was heading east. Within minutes
CSAR flight started to pick up active search radars from the fleets northern most pickets. Somewhere
out there were enemy fighters, stealthy and deadly. Raptors joining the mission went high and wide
looking for the enemy.
The Luyang II Missile destroyer pickets, equipped with Dragons eye phased array radar capable of
tracking 300 aerial targets and engaging ten simultaneously were quick to pick up the inbound bogies.
The information was fed directly into the Chinese Fleet Air Area Defense (FAAD) system.
"Enemy aircraft."
The Chinese Admiral looked at the plot. "Get some fighters on them."
"Aye."
The Admiral watched the plot and the symbols representing the small Australian fleet still pushing
down towards him. He was not going to wait all day to deal with them. The tactics still did not make
sense, their objective unclear. If he knew what their mission was he could anticipate their next moves.
The logic was that in concert with the Americans, they would try to regain ground or just punch it out
with them. But what was happening now was neither.
Not far north of the Chinese fleet, a Shang Class submarine Captain looked at the readout from his
UUWV or Unmanned Underwater Vehicle that was cruising many miles in front of his boat, connected
by a thin communication wire.
 "Collins Class," his sonar director confirmed. The UUWV had been silently searching while its
mother ship remained absolutely silent.
"Swim out tubes five and six." Two Yu-7 torpedos, copies of the 324 mm Mk-46 Mod-1, swam
silently out from the attack boat directed by the information supplied by the UUWV that still trailed the
hapless Collins Class submarine. Minutes later the torpedoes went active. The Australian submarine
accelerated but it was too late.
The sound of the HMAS Rankin breaking up as it plunged 15,000 feet to the ocean floor below
was heard by attack boats and ships on both sides. The joy of the Chinese crew was short lived.
One of those who heard the contact was the U.S. Virginia Class submarine Jimmy Carter, the most
sophisticated hunter killer ever to roam the seas. The noise of torpedoes leaving the tube and the sound
of the Captain issuing the orders were immediately isolated. Too late to save the Rankin, the Jimmy
Carter closed the range quickly, the onboard attack system able to resolve a firing solution from a
single heading. Moments later a MK48 ADCAP detonated just below the Shang's sail. The break-up of
the Shang Class boat joined that of its victim plunging into the deeps below her. But just like the
Shang, another Chinese sub detected the Jimmy Carters attack.
"Captain, we have some one in our baffles!" the sensor operator on the Virginia announced. "Type
093!" he added moments later, giving it the designation of Master 12.
"Report!" the Captain ordered.
"20,000 yards, five knots." The Captain played the strategy through his mind. Behind, close to
launching a torpedo up his ass was a Chinese Nuclear Attack submarine. It looked like it was wall-to-
wall submarines down here. This was not a time to panic. He didn't want to make any noise launching
his own torpedoes and announce his position. He decided. "RVC Conn"
"Aye."
"Attack procedures, Remote One, Master 12."
"Conn RVC, aye, attack procedure with Remote One, MK-50 Master 12."
Thousands of yards behind the Jimmy Carter and on each flank travelled two specialized
Unmanned Underwater Vehicles (UUV's). They were twenty-five feet in length, incredibly quiet and
communicated with the mother ship by a streamed cable; each UUV could travel under its own power,
but while connected to its parent vessel, drew some power through the cable. Both were equipped with
a MK-50 torpedo and sensor suite that worked in unison with the parent, they were simply named
remote one (Port side) and remote two on the starboard.
The UUV's replaced the equipment in the SEAL bay normally used for littoral or shallow water
operations and Special Forces deployment. The housing was a small hump behind the boats sail. The
job of the UUV's in deep-water operations was to monitor the flanks and protect the baffles of the
Virginia Class submarine. A strategy they now knew worked.
"MK-50 launched."
"It’s gone active! The Type 093 is making turns, cavitating!"
The Chinese submarine Commander was dumbfounded at the proximity of the sudden torpedo
attack. He ordered flank, released noisemakers and tried to create a knuckle in the water to hide him
from the attacking submarine. He might yet escape it.
"Attack procedures, number one, MK-50," The Jimmy Carter's skipper ordered. The same
procedure was repeated.
The Chinese submarine detected the torpedo as soon as it powered up. "Sir, another torpedo,
directly on our bow, one thousand meters!" The distress was clear in his voice.
Back on the Jimmy Carter, they continued to monitor the information being fed from the two
UUV's.
"Conn, RVC, number two has acquired," the RVC, or Remote Vehicle Controller reported.
Seconds later there was the now ugly but familiar crump of an underwater explosion.
"Conn, sonar, explosion and breaking up noises on Master 12."
The Captain acknowledged and ordered his boat to quietly clear the datum. The Jimmy Carter
reeled in its two guards to give them the single reload they carried in the SEAL housing, preparing for
the next confrontation, which was surely not far away.

Above the water, one thousand miles south of the Great Australian Bight, A single TU-95MS Bear
H from the 31st PLAN Heavy Bomber Regiment was flying along the border of the Australian
Maritime Zone. The Bear-H was a long range reconnaissance and strike aircraft specifically designed
to attack shipping. With a range of 12,500km, six Kent missiles in its rotary launcher bay and several
more antiship missiles on wing pylons, she was very dangerous, able to launch missiles long before she
could be retaliated against, enabling her to escape to safety.
"Surface contact, we have two Adelaide Class destroyers north east, bearing 324 500km's," the
radar operator said, directing the Bear's long-range attack radar to look at the targets.
The weapons operator acknowledged, slaving the big missiles that hung under the bombers wings
to look at the targets as well.
Why these Australian ships were so far north the Chinese Bear crew had no idea. Why the vessels
were headed away from the fight was also puzzling. But they were coalition ships and that made them a
target. Moments later the TU95M's volley of eight anti-ship missiles dropped from their racks and
began heading for their target. The four-engine bomber then banked hard, heading back to Île
Amsterdam and the safety of Han AFB.
The targets were the HMAS Darwin and the Melbourne, travelling in convoy, heading across the
Great Australian bite towards Tenix Marine Systems in Melbourne for urgent upgrades. They thought
they were out of the fight. But they were wrong.
The Kh-55 Granat (ранат) missiles were faultless in performance. Hugging the waves at super
sonic speeds, like wolves they were on to the two lone vessels before the ships had a chance. The
Adelaide Class Sea Sparrow Missile Defense and CIWS systems accounted for three of the incoming
missiles. But the surviving Shipwreck missiles shared the targets between them; three hit the HMAS
Darwin and two the HMAS Melbourne. Without the combined Air Warfare Defense provided by the
later built or upgraded ships, they had no chance. The sea boiled on the where spot they both
disappeared, the airwaves still filled with frantic calls from HQJOC, no one was going to respond,
nobody survived.
If it was any consolation to the lost crew, the Australians were not the only ones on the bad end of
a shooting match.
"Pigs!" The Chinese radar crews were becoming rapidly familiar with the F-111.
Wing Commander Wilkie spoke loudly into his mask. "Go, go go!" The strike package of Pigs
split and turned in opposite directions. Travelling at over 500 miles per hour they rapidly closed the gap
with their respective target task force.
"Ready." There were several responses as the other pilots acknowledged with presses of the
comms button.
"Drop!" In unison the jets dropped part of their war load, but this time they were not Harpoons.
"Split!" The F-111's in both groups stood on a knife-edge and plugged their burners for all they
were worth, heading north.
The missiles flew low, none of them following quite the same route. Each missile had its own
mission and knew what it was doing, looking forwards, evaluating threats and adjusting flight profiles
to avoid them. None of the missiles struck a single ship. But one after the other they exploded
amongst them.

In the flag room on the Shi Lang, Wen Jinsong was examining the fight closely. "What are these
aircraft doing?" He was looking at the small group still heading south between the task forces. He
could see a portion of the force that had not turned into the attack as he had expected.
The numbers of aircraft were not large enough to possibly retake any of the main stations or
runways. As he pondered this, the communications suddenly cut off and hissed loudly, the numerous
monitors and screens turned to snow. He sat back abruptly, his nostrils flared as he waited.
Were they under nuclear attack? If they were, the crushing pressure wave he expected would be
any second. The entire control room froze in time. Moments passed. Nothing happened, but still the
screens fuzzed. His close-in weapon systems and sensors appeared fully operational, which meant they
could defend against incoming missiles, but he now realized he was blind to what was happening in the
vast ocean between his task forces.
The situation was exactly what the coalition forces had hoped to achieve. Behind the F-111's, in
the screen of the jamming, a flight of B1's rose up from the deck and emulated the F-111's. Several
more flights followed.
As soon as the first EMP weapon detonated, the pilot of the lead C130 in the combat rescue group
pushed the nose of his aircraft to the deck, gouging the oceans surface with the wash from four big
curved props. The F-111's then reversed course, heading back south again racing to catch up with the
strike package as it moved towards the Antarctic coast.
On the Shi Lang the screens eventually cleared. Wen looked at the monitors, the aircraft that had
been there before were now all gone, he was furious, he knew what had happened. In the electronic
darkness of the continual EMP explosions, coalition forces had fled through his ranks. Even his fighters
had lost all contact in the maelstrom of electromagnetic interference. What their mission was still
eluded him. Were they going to attack the bases? The force still seemed woefully small to attempt
such an undertaking.

*****

Australian Government Press Gallery - Canberra.

The briefing officer looked around the room now filled with media that were almost rabid in their
attempts to get a better sound bite than everyone else. The media could be both helpful and dangerous
and he wondered which one of these they would be today. He remembered a few years previously
when he was in Afghanistan, a Newsweek reporter had reported on the rumour of a Koran being
desecrated by American soldiers. This was only an assertion, not proven. But the result was chaos and
nearly a hundred killed in subsequent riots and hate demonstrations against the U.S. All over something
that may never have happened. But the journalist got his headline. The briefer had learned that the
excuse of journalistic integrity might be just another term for greed and recognition in the world of
writers. He hoped those gathered before him had greater integrity and understood compassion. The
news he was about to deliver was a shock, but could not be delayed. He started reading from his notes.
"We have just received news that we have lost two ships, the HMAS Darwin and Melbourne.
Both sunk, we think, by Chinese missiles. We also believe the ships went down with all hands." That
was bitter news; search and rescue had found nothing bigger than a plastic coke bottle. Quite
surprisingly the pressroom was quiet. The briefing officer took a deep breath. His brother had been on
one of those ships.
"The Prime Minister will address you later, please keep your questions till then. My job this
morning is to brief you on the effort to put out the oil fire at Vostok, what we are doing right at this
moment." He went on at some length and then got down to basics; the government wanted ordinary
Australians to understand what they were facing. "It’s called Fleet Air Area Defense. FAAD, We are
talking Luyang II Missile destroyers with Dragons eye phased array radar capable of tracking 300
aerial targets and engaging ten simultaneously, ship mounted MINERAL-ME over-the-horizon
targeting (OTHT) with a range of about 240nm, complimented with SS-N-22 and SS-N-27B and
modern C3 systems."
The reporter from the Australian News looked a little confused. "With this type of threat, why
didn't the Americans use one of their aircraft to drop the fuel air bombs?"
"Because the closest U.S. Carrier Task Force (CTF) led by the Clinton was on a shake down
cruise," the briefer explained. "None of the aircraft available could carry the bombs or were equipped
to handle the targeting kits we used. The Americans have despatched the Stennis Carrier Task Force
and are now flying in more operational units to the Clinton."
"What about stealth aircraft?"
"There are no stealthy aircraft that can carry the massive FAB's internally. The only platforms in
the U.S. inventory able to deliver the FAB’s we used are B52's and B1's. B1's were out, wouldn't be
mission ready in time. (Due to cuts, but he didn't say that.) B52's were sitting ducks in that threat
environment, which pretty much left us zip. The F32's couldn't carry the weight, neither could the
Super Hornet; we had nothing in the Naval inventory that could. It was the Pig or nothing. Both the
F15E and the F117 would need more tanker support than we can muster or safely deliver." He was
pissed off he had to explain that. "I think you should be thanking the men and women who just saved
your lives, not acting like this."
"Okay. But how can we believe that this threat really existed?" one of the journalists asked
critically.
He looked the reporter dead in the eye. "My brother died today, he was on the Darwin. Do you
think I would be standing here right now if I thought this was bullshit?" The reporter went beetroot red,
and the rest of the room immediately went quiet.
"We have one strategy, to blow a hole through the iron fence to allow our rescue and strike
package to reach Vostok. More Australians and Americans will put their lives on the line to achieve
that."
"When do you propose to do this?" someone else asked.
The briefing officer checked the time; he wouldn't be briefing the press before the fact. "It's
already happening. I don't think I need to tell you we are not in a position to take these guys on head to
head. Not yet. Our objective is to kill the wellhead fire. Earlier today (Dec 8), at 11:30 hours, we
began operation Mass Distraction, the mission objective being to draw the Eastern Chinese Naval Task
Force and air defense assets away from the F-111 strike route. We needed to create a temporary
window to get them through. This has been successful. At the same time we began a program designed
to confuse and distract the enemy forces.
"Phase three is the exfil of the strike team on the ground at Vostok. To achieve that we needed a
powerful combat search and rescue mission to once again break through Chinese and Russian defenses
and get our guys out of there."
As he spoke the combat search and rescue mission was nearing the next phase of it mission. Once
clear of the Chinese task force, several medium sized unmanned refueling UAVs from the Clinton
arrived to top up thirsty fuel tanks. Hours later, as the package penetrated deep into Antarctica, just a
few hundred miles north east of Vostok, the Spectre gun ships and fighters moved their throttles
forward. It was show time.

*****

PARIS, FRANCE. The Salon Doré (gilded salon), the office of the President of the French
Republic, situated on the first floor of the Faubourg Saint-Honoré oozed in its European arrogance. The
U.S. Ambassador had been brusque. "Mr President, it is my duty to deliver this message to you in
person." His voice, normally diplomatic, was edged with anger. He did not disguise it.
This was incredibly unusual. "President Blaire has asked me to convey verbally that the U.S.
Administration is coming to the point of view that France is acting as an enemy of the United States.
Subsequently," the Ambassador handed the French President a letter, "we view the current activities of
France in Antarctica as hostile. Good day Sir!" he said, turning on his heel and leaving the French
President's office, no pretence to politeness. He had wanted to do that for years. It felt good. He would
tell his grandchildren of this moment.
 The French President was too surprised to answer. The Ambassador's exit had left him with his
mouth hanging. He read the tightly worded cable and blanched.
'Any hostile act committed or supported from French territory will be viewed by the United States
as an act of war. Any such act will result in an immediate reprisal using any such weapon the US
forces see fit against any and all French assets below the 60th Parallel.'
They had pushed the Americans too far. With America at DEFCON one, the U.S. Defense Forces
were sitting on a hair trigger. This time they were clearly not playing diplomacy. They meant it.
Still, he was not about to lie down that easily. He considered the request by the Chinese for access
to the French polar surveillance satellite. French industry benefited heavily from the Chinese
purchasing defense technologies. Granting the request would help the Chinese locate and track U.S.
and Australian targets. He picked up the phone.
"Les dire nous donnerons leur accède à au satellite. Nous enverrons les codes d'accès tout de
suite," the President said, authorizing the access and the delivery of the codes.
"Oui, ils ont attendu d'urgence," the French Ambassador to the Chinese replied.
The President hung up the phone. baiser les Américains, he thought. Get fucked.

*****

In Antarctica the combat rescue team was closing to its target. Ranging in front of the package
were Boeing QF-45C and Northrop Grumman QF-47 Pegasus UCAV's. These were split into two
missions: the first to attack SAM positions and the second any enemy aircraft on the ground or in the
air. The UCAV's were super stealthy, both in design, material and precision active antiradar
technologies. They were completely autonomous, using flight telemetry and commands fed to them
from an ultra high altitude flying ELINT UAV guarded by dedicated Airborne Borne Laser aircraft.
The wind in the last few hours had completely died away. The day was crystal clear. The coalition
had a lucky break.
"Let's move up the schedule on the Spectres," the mission commander said. "Priorities are the long
range SAM systems first; we will work back from there."
The pilot of the lead Spectre gunship moved his throttles up to full military power. While his and
other aircraft were all flying in passive mode, they were constantly fed situational battlefield data and
instructions from the ELINT UAV and satellites.
"We need some bait," the mission commander said after a few more moments. "We need to flush
those long range systems out. Move up the F-111's, get them squawking."
 Flying at over 600 miles per hour, feet above the deck using their terrain following radar (TFR)
systems, the RAAF Pigs plugged in the burners and gained some altitude to deliberately increase
visibility. Russian balloon based radar picked up the F-111 flight and took the bait. The data was fed to
S400 SAM Batteries, which unlike the S300 could launch their missiles without activating attack
radars. Thanks to the French, they were also getting some target telemetry from satellites.
This was a dangerous game. The threat panels on the F-111's remained silent, but the Russian
missiles were tracking them. Unseen by the F-111's, the S400 missiles were launched and were steering
towards them.
Behind the F-111's and higher, the two spectre gun ships had banked west to allow their MTHEL
systems or Mobile Tactical High-Energy Lasers, a chemical deuterium-fluoride laser, to target the
missile threat. They had waited for just this moment. While the lasers were still too far out to target the
Russian missile launcher platforms, the infrared search and track sensor system, a development from
the F-14 Tomcat fighter, quickly locked onto the hot exhausts of the big long range anti aircraft
missiles. Once the missiles were acquired, precise targeting was performed by a small 10-kilowatt
laser mounted in the chin of the spectre gunship. The targeting laser calculated the range and its
reflected beam to analyze the air turbulence between the aircraft and the target. This data was used to
control the systems "adaptive optics" that adjusted a matrix of precision pistons attached to the back of
the lasers focus mirror, modifying the shape of the mirror slightly to keep the beam intensity on the
target constant even in the presence of atmospheric turbulence.
Once charged, they fired. The combined shots from the two laser cannons were dead on target and
fried the electronics on the incoming missiles. The missiles were destroyed without the F-111 crews
knowing anything had happened.
Pulling up the rear of the CSAR mission was a Wedgetail Eagle under heavy Escort by F35's. In
between were the ELINT UAVs, coordinating the strike and rescue package.
Aware of the total number of shots available and the balance of the mission requirement, the
mission commander shared the missile shots carefully between the gun ships and orbiting 747-400 and
B52ABL systems.
The F-111's were now less than 300 miles to target and closing. Not far behind them V22, gun
ships and above F-22's. The attacking force had established positional data on the S400's launch units
and missiles in flight.
It was time to force the Russians to deploy their own high-energy weapons to defend themselves.
As soon as the missiles launched from the F-111's closed on their targets, the Russians activated their
own COIL based anti missile defense. As soon as they did, an orbiting B52ABL hundreds of miles
away responded with its anti-laser system.
The entire package was closing on the Russians. Wearing down the long range SAM batteries, the
Spectre gun ships were ready to deliver their most powerful punch. In place of the 120mm howitzers
were airborne railguns. Firing a smaller projectile than the naval versions, the one-pound round was
still an awesome kinetic killer, a single round, capable of destroying an aircraft, missile or tank. With
precise targeting data, the guns went into action.
The Russians didn't know what hit them. There was no warning. The sudden massive explosions
caught them by surprise, the entire launch platform of one of the S400 units disintegrated. With a time
of flight of less than 10 seconds and travelling at 14 miles per second, the kinetic energy of the railgun
round, fired from one of the Spectre gun ships and headed downhill was transferred to its target. A few
seconds later another launcher exploded. There was panic. No one knew what was hitting them, but
the precision and lethality made anything like a truck, launcher or trailer a coffin. Men spilled from
their vehicles running in all directions. Any direction as long as it was away from the hardware and
weapon systems.
The Spectre gun ships methodically moved through the target list. Anything, including missiles
that revealed themselves were dispatched. The railgun, within range, had become the decisive
battlefield weapon. With the protection of the orbiting B52ABL to handle the enemies laser weapons,
there was nothing the Russians could shoot, launch or fire that wasn't immediately destroyed by the
railguns.
In front, the F-111's released a cluster of HPM missiles, which, unchallenged, flew deep into the
Russian defensive system detonating and completely destroying the enemy's communication and
remaining weapon systems with several enormous electromagnetic pulses.

*****

As the CSAR package approached Vostok, Brian and Lance were ducking lead. There were
several heavy thuds in the airframe and the Mi-35M Hind kicked sideways as the snow and ice in front
of them exploded from canon shells fired from the Russian helicopter gun ship behind.
"Shit, we have some friends."
"No kidding!"
More cannon shells sprayed the snow in front.
"Why didn't he just fire a missile?"
The SAS Colonel thought about that.
 "It must be Nibialok the insane bastard. It's personal."
Lance was throwing the big gun ship around making it as hard as possible for the pursuing attacker
to get rounds on the target.
"He's backing off!"
"He's giving up on guns and going for a missile shot."
Nibialok, frustrated, had finally decided to play it safe; he selected missiles while his pilot opened
enough range for the missile to arm and acquire.
Lance wheeled the chopper into a steep turn and put his nose onto the attacker. The chin mounted
gattling gun followed the helmet-mounted site.
"Brian, give me guns and then a missile."
Lance thumbed the firing button on the switch releasing a stream of canon shells. He punched off
a missile. It was way to close for the missile, but the other gun ship had to immediately go defensive.
Lance could hear Brian on the radio, transmitting in clear on the guard channel.
"Cease fire, cease fire!" the CSAR mission Commander said urgently over the command channel.
The weapons operators on board the Spectre gun ships closed the 'ARM' switches on the guns, bringing
the firing sequence to a halt and allowing the two Russian helicopter gun ships they were just targeting
to escape to the west. He wondered what the deal was there?.

*****

Nibialok's pilot recovered quickly from the attack. They were now fighting amongst the snow
dunes, long undulating waves of snow sixty to three hundred feet high.
Anticipating the next move, Lance estimated the spot where the Russian would be and charged his
gun ship over the brow of the dune to get behind Nibialok. He thumbed the cannon. There was the
satisfying recoil of the guns followed by a disturbing quiet whirring sound as the barrels of the gattling
gun spun, out of ammunition.
"Oops."
"Ooops all right, we have no missiles left either," Brian said, reading the Russian warning lights.
Just as quickly as dropping in behind the other gun ship, Lance Hamilton hauled his own airrcraft
high before skidding low and to the left.
Nibialok smiled. For a moment he had braced for the impact of cannon fire. But then it had
stopped and the attacker had peeled away. "He is out of ammo. Let's take our time here Yuri," he said
to the pilot. "Let us make every round count."
 Gaining height, Nibialok's aircraft looked down at the helicopter carrying the Australian called
Hamilton, desperately trying to evade him in the maze of hills and gullies that had been created by the
drifting snow. From his vantage point he thumbed the button releasing another missile. The missile
tracked quickly, detonating and severing the tail assembly.
Lance felt the heavy impact of the explosion and sudden loss of the tail rotor. Without lateral
control he instinctively rode the spinning machine into the snow dunes before he lost it completely. The
Mil crashed heavily, falling on its side.
Both Brian and Lance were stunned by the crash but the accumulated snow near the bottom of the
dune had absorbed a lot of the Mi24's impact energy. His head still groggy, Brian wasn't about to give
up. There was something in the back cabin he wanted. He fell out of the cockpit and into the snow. It
was hard to think, to focus, but he could hear the approaching killer, sniffing the air and tasting the kill.
Nibialok was ecstatic, now he wanted to see the man who had challenged him die. He directed his
pilot to hover near the crashed machine. The prey was down and at his mercy. Someone fell out of the
cabin and onto the snow. It was just this moment that he loved. He began to squeeze the trigger when
there was a sudden flash.
Brian had scrambled half blind to the rear door of the chopper; he had seen it earlier, but almost
forgot it. It was the RPO-A Shmel ("bumblebee"), a single shot, disposable, lightweight, shoulder-fired,
recoilless "rocket" launcher. The Shmel was a prepackaged, ready-to-fire system. Brain snatched the
cotter pins that separated the individual launchers and cocked them. He fired, but not at the attacking
chopper, just below it.
The 93-mm caliber RPO-A projectile was a thin-walled, burnished aluminum, aerodynamically
shaped cylinder, fin-stabilized for long-range accuracy. The projectile hit the snow dune, the two-
kilogram thermobaric ignited, resulting in a massive thermal effect. The Shmel was essentially a
portable Fuel Air Explosive; they seemed to be gaining in popularity. The massive over pressure from
the blast followed by a momentary vacuum of air caused the attacking chopper through it to drop,
plunging it into the dune.
The Werewolf was a tough chopper hitting hard but not exploding; the rotors flailed wildly,
shattered and then came to a stop as the chopper rolled on to its side. The seats in the gun ship were
especially designed to protect the pilot and gunner from a fall in excess of 60 feet per second, the very
same seats that had saved Lance and Brian. Nibialok looked to his pilot who was unconscious. No help
there. Like Brian, he kicked the door open and fell into the snow.
After the violent chase it was suddenly quiet. There was just the sound of the wind and the hiss of
billions of minute slivers of ice sliding over each other. No sign of Hamilton. He was sure he had seen
him fall out of the cockpit. It was just one hundred meters. He slugged through the heavy snow.
Brian was gasping for breath. His wound had opened again and he had clearly smashed some ribs
in the crash. After the bumblebee shot he had fallen back down the dune. It was cold, really cold, he
was lying on his back snow almost covering him. He struggled to his feet, which in hindsight was
bloody stupid. But then he wasn't really feeling or thinking that well.
It was the red that caught his attention. Nibialok was well trained; but the blood trail would have
been easy for a five year old. Then Hamilton suddenly stood up in front of him, clearly dazed and the
Russian was ready.
Hamilton knew he was in trouble as soon as he saw the barrel of Nibialok's gun, already pointing
at him. The gun barrel erupted in flame and he felt two massive punches to his chest.
Nibialok had dropped to one knee and fired. Hamilton flew backwards. Got the bastard, he
thought, but not the headshot. Hamilton wouldn't be dead until he put a bullet in his brain. He followed
through, stumbling until he was on top of the man.
On his back, trying hard to drag air into his shocked lungs, Brian struggled to move. The jacket
had stopped the bullets, but the impacts had taken his breath away. He could see the Russian Spetznaz
officer closing on him, coming to finish him off; he was paralyzed, unable to answer his attacker.
At last, Nabialok thought as he stood over Hamilton. He put the barrel against Brian's head and
squeezed the trigger; there was a tremendous crash.
He knew, that finite moment before death. He couldn't really tell where he was hit, but he knew he
was dead. As he rolled over, no longer in control of his body, he saw images of snow.
Lance staggered backwards. He had never killed anybody up close before. The explosion of red on
white reeled his senses. He looked at his brother floundering in the snow. The bastard was actually
smiling. He dropped the gun, it was becoming cold, and he knew if he held it any longer his skin would
stick to it. "Jesus H Christ!" Lance said. "I tell you, you have just got to make better fucking friends
next time. This guy really sucked!" The Spetznaz officer lay sprawled at his feet.
A few minutes later a V22 skimmed over the top of the dunes to pick them up. Once again they
were thanking their stars to still be alive. But they knew both knew until they were standing on aussie
terra firma, they were not yet safe.
Thw V22 along with the rest of the CSAR team headed back to Vostok to RV with the ground
attack forces. From the north the Alaskan based Snow Hawks had parachuted into the station along
with ten Ospreys carrying a detachment from the Australian SAS regiment.
They had no sooner arrived at the station when they had to leave, not even disembarking but taking
on fuel. They could hear the Osprey pilot yelling over the noise of the engines as he transitioned the
aircraft from the vertical to horizontal flight leaving Vostok Station behind them. "The Chinese are
launching a major strike to take the base back. We still have no control over any of the coastal bases
and to get out of this joint we still have to fight through them and then the fleet defenses. The Chinese
and Russians think we are trying to retake and hold the base. Except we aren't interested in a pissing
contest, we just wanted to put the flame out and keep it out, thanks to you two guys," he said, "they
also still hold a lot of our people on the other bases, which prohibits a direct attack. So, the bottom line
is, we were only ever able to hold Vostok temporarily. Overhead we have two-geo synchronous killer
satellites equipped with both COIL and kinetic weapons. Their job is to kill anything that even thinks
it will get close to the wellhead. That’s why we have to leave." He paused for breath. "We also have
four CHARC's under our control, just in case we have to leave any of these aircraft near the coast."
"CHARC's?" Brian asked.
"Yes Sir."
"Son of a bitch." He looked at the tilt rotor pilot. "Could you land me on one?"
"Piece of cake," the pilot said.
"Sweet." Brain looked at the map display. "Can we reach the coast?"
The pilot did some quick calculations. "Yes, but if you don't mind me asking sir, wouldn't it be
easier to ride home with us?"
"I'm not going home yet. I have to pay someone a visit."
The conversation was fast, but Antarctica was big. It took several hours to reach the coast. A
broken white line of ice separated the ocean from the interior. As they crossed over the last sheet, the
sea became a confusion of large waves and frothing white caps driven by bitter southerly winds.
"There they are!"
"I see it," the pilot said.
The CHARCs rode easily through the southern swell, making just enough way to keep steerage.
The tilt rotor transitioned from flight to hover. Twenty feet above the lead CHARC, the cargo door of
the V22 swung open.
"You ever done this before?" Brian asked his brother over the noise of the engines and wind.
"No."
"Its fun," Brian said, launching himself away from the airframe, the rope running through his
hands while he dropped at an alarming rate to the pitching roof of the CHARC below. Lance followed
suit but not quite as quickly. Once on the vessels roof they un-dogged the top hatch and dropped into
the CHARC's cockpit, giving the V22 crew a thumbs up. The Osprey pitched forwards, the engines
rotating to the horizontal as it picked up speed and headed north.
 "Holy shit!" Lance exclaimed. "What's with all the gadgets, it doesn't even fly." It was a complete
glass cockpit.
"Want a bet!" Brian said smiling. He firewalled the two throttles, the CHARC surged forwards,
and Lance fell backwards. Brian laughed as his brother picked himself up from the floor. "Look to port
and starboard," Brian said, concentrating on the controls.
Lance looked out the cockpit windows. There were three other CHARC's following them. "They
are unmanned, like this was before we climbed on board. This is the lead boat. They go where we go
and from the weapons console we direct the firepower for the full group."
"Awesome."
"Swap seats," Brian said. The two men switched. "You are now driving, I'm working the guns, get
used to it because we are going to have to fight this thing. It's a jet, two engines, one in each hull, all-
electric, so don't panic when I press the guns and the boat slows down. Just means the power is going
to the shot." Brian pulled up the situational display, he pointed to it. "It looks like we have a full on
engagement between Chinese and Australian forces and now the U.S. and Russians as well. This is
getting uglier by the minute and we have to stop it."
Lance was still enthralled by the CHARCs cockpit. "This is one sweet piece of gear, but I can't see
how we can possibly stop a scrap that big?" Time seemed to slow a little as Brian thought about the
question. He handed his brother the artifact.
Lance examined it. "That's the evidence you picked up from the center of the burst?"
"Yes."
He was staggered. "You're right, this is certainly intriguing, but will they buy your story?"
"I don’t know, I’m hoping so and it still might be the key to unravelling this mess. If we don’t try
this we will have a real bloody tragedy on our hands. The Vostok crater is still an accident waiting to
happen. It will take very little to re-ignite the wellhead. As we talk now, both the Russians and
Chinese are laying in strikes to overcome what they see as an attempt by us to retake the station."
"Cruise missiles?"
"Yes, and probably Backfires, Bears and whatever other assets they have. We have to use
everything we have here." He pointed at the weapons console. "To delay that until we can get close
enough to force a meeting with Admiral Wen Jinsong."
"Oh shit, I was afraid that's what you were going to say. He's the force commander right. You
know him?"
"Know of him yes. I hear he's a pretty decent bloke. I’m sure if we can get to him so we can
explain the risk of the well head burning again and let him see the artifact he might reason we are not
invading Antarctica, have left Vostok and stand the next strike down."
Lance looked at his brother. There were a lot of ‘Ifs’ in there. If he were wrong about his
assessment of Jinsong...well it would be bad to say the least. "This plan's scarier than our first one."
"Got another?"
"No." He wondered what the odds were about succeeding in two bad complicated plans.
"Let's do it then." Brian pulled up a direct link to tHQJOC in Bungendore Australia. Once the
visual link came up and he had stressed the urgency of the situation, he pulled out the artefact. It was
like dropping your pants at Sunday school and taking a pee on the piano, there was just no doubt about
it, that little rod was a real show stopper. With the exception of jaws dropping, the other end of the
communication was for a moment silent.
"The Chinese and Russians are currently laying in heavy strikes on Australian and U.S naval
forces, as well as Vostok. Naturally they are convinced we have been retaliating to repossess the
station."
"What about our killer satellites?" Lance asked.
"They have limited shots. To use them on the coast would compromise Vostok. We are saving
shots to prevent anything getting close to the wellhead. We can't afford to go offensive with them. If
the fire starts again, we are all stuffed." In between talking to Lance he was also talking to HQJOC via
the boats videophone. "Which is why we have to visit the Shi Lang," he was saying. "You know Wen
Jinsong Sir. What do you think his reaction will be to the artifact?"
The CJOPS simply nodded. "Do it. We will provide whatever coverage we can. At the same time
I will instruct a communication through diplomatic channels. But they will probably just see that as
some sort of shifty coalition plot. Your best chance is direct."
"That's what I thought Sir." He went to work on the command and control station. The CHARC,
hooked into the Global Information Grid (GIG) provided Brian an immediate view of the Chinese task
force. He focused on the flagship.

*****

CHINESE FLAG SHIP THE SHE LANG.

"New Contacts Sir. Moving fast. 60 plus knots."
The Shi Lang's Captain directed aircraft to intercept. Wen looked at the unusual engagement. This
was indeed strange.
"Sir, we have a communication from the incoming vessels."
 "Put it through."
Brian spoke quickly in Chinese.
You learned something everyday, Lance thought. His brother spoke fluent Chinese.
"Admiral Wen."
"This is Admiral Wen.'
"Thank you for speaking to me Sir."
"Who are you?"
"Sir, my name's Brian Hamilton, Colonel, Australian RAR. I carry with me something I think is
important for you to see, something that shows what we have been saying about Vostok Station is fact."
The Admiral was listening, but it sounded like nonsense. "Your people have sunk several of my
ships and submarines today, shot down aircraft and have killed many of my men. Why should I believe
you, even listen to you?"
"Our only objective was to extinguish the flame at Vostok. Now we just want to keep it out. You
can see we are leaving there. If you lay in a strike and restart the fire the result will be catastrophic for
all of us. Ask yourself why I would take this chance wanting to face to face with you, what do I would
have to gain. I could be home now having bacon and eggs; instead I’m risking my ass wanting to have
a cup of tea with you. The decision is yours but take a moment t6o examine whats happening, does it
really look like we have projected enough force to over run the place?"
The Admiral considered. What was this game? He brought up the French satellite again and
looked at Vostok station. Indeed the flame was out.
Hamilton could tell by the tone in the Admirals voice he wasn’t yet convinced. He looked at the
large situational screen and then the imagery from somewhere on the GIG which looked at the Chinese
fleet.
"Admiral!"
"Yes."
"See the Sukhoi on the stern ramp."
The hairs on the back of the Admirals neck stood on end. The Admiral looked at the sleek jet
parked on the rear of the carrier. Satellites, he thought, or maybe a UAV or perhaps this man was just
guessing, there were nearly always Sukhois on the deck. But he would play the game. "Yes."
"Is it empty?"
"Yes, it is empty."
"Excellent." A heart beat after the Australian had said those words the big jet fighter disappeared,
obliterated in flames and sliding off the side of the deck into wake of the big ship leaving nothing more
than a scorch mark on the deck.
"The next shot could be right where you are standing Admiral. No disrespect Sir, but I'm not
going to fuck around here. I don't want anyone to die. But if that has to be the case, it is your people
that are going to die in big numbers as well, all because you won’t talk to me."
The Admiral looked at the scorch mark.
Another Sukhoi launched from the bow ramp. Barely twenty feet from the end of the ramp it
exploded. The Australian wasn’t bluffing. Hamilton held his breath, he was bluffing, the small pack of
CHARC's he commanded had limited munitions, and using precious shots to kill the Admiral would
leave them little to be able to defend themselves against a whole fleet. Killing the Admiral would
destroy any chance of negotiating with the Chinese force. It was a Catch 22; Brian knew he was giving
up the opportunity to put a hole in the Chinese command structure.
On board the Chinese flag ship the Admiral watched the Tavitak display; he knew missiles were in
the air targeting the small Australian vessel and its companions. Surely nothing that small could
threaten a whole fleet. The system also picked up the heavy sound of rocket torpedoes speeding
through the water toward them. He wasn't about to throw up his hands because of a little magic show.
The Australians would be dead in minutes, but he had to admit, they had given him a bad fright.

*****

On board the CHARC, things became complicated. "We have torpedoes in the water…..and,"
Lance paused. "We have missiles in the air." He looked at his brother. "I'm hoping you know how to
use this thing right?"
"Damn right I do," he said
"Thank god for that."
"Push that lever all the way forward." Lance did as he was asked.
"What does it do?"
"Charges the cavitation guns." Brian then hit a switch, which started an active ping from the boat's
forward sonar.
Brian leaned across and hit the 'Automatic' button on the weapons console. "Get ready for some
shockwaves. The cavitation gun is great, but it's short range." Brian then picked up a helmet from under
the control panel. "Put this on."
Lance slid the helmet over his head. "Holy shit!" he exclaimed. "This is better than what we have
on the F35." The helmet's internal HUD provided real time 3D situational awareness. After the
CHARC's active pulse, the head up display in the helmet visor showed three-dimensional views above
and below the water. He could see the submarine, the torpedo and the incoming missiles.
The scene was surrounded by clumps of numbers, which he quickly deciphered as target telemetry.
These were joined by small cross hairs that attached themselves to the target joined by an alphanumeric
designation, which he guessed was the weapon assigned to shoot it. It was all happening very quickly,
the scene changing rapidly as the CHARC sped along at over sixty knots.
He found that he could switch modes and view points. The missiles were supersonic and closing
rapidly. He could see the chin turret swivel its railgun and begin firing in unison with the other
CHARCs. The units combined combat system sharing the targets between them.
The CHARC slowed as the railguns dragged the power, firing one-pound projectiles at over 22,000
meters per second towards the missiles. They were the same size as those fired from the spectre gun
ships. They impacted each missile with the force of a Mack truck. The missiles disappeared.
Torpedoes were next. The outer ring of the Chinese defense barrier consisted of layers of Kilo,
Ming and Song submarines; they were passing through that now. Even as the attacking missiles were
killed, the second barrel on the chin turret began firing, joined by another mounted on the rear of the
cockpit. These were super cavitation guns. Unlike the distant demise of the missiles, the experience of
this close in defense weapon was a lot more interesting and far more personal. The cavitation guns
needed to wait until the rocket-propelled torpedoes were within 750 yards before opening fire. This
meant that when the torpedoes died and detonated just 350 yards away, the shock wave would resonate
loudly and painfully through the hull and anyone seated inside.
Suddenly the CHARC to the left heaved in the water, lifted by a huge convulsive bubble that
speared the boat on its nose, breaking the legs off and smashing the cockpit into the sea.
Magnetic mines Brian thought with alarm. "Magnetic mines!" he yelled. He slammed the throttles
back to the stops. "Range?"
"160," Lance replied. He meant nautical miles. "And we have satellite and GPS feeds."
"Almost out of shots!" Lance announced. "No more cavitation rounds left. Next torpedo sinks us."
Suddenly, flying low and fast, three Su-34 Fullbacks fell onto the small formation of CHARCs.
They were jinking hard to avoid railgun shot; with each alternate jink they would spray the attack boats
with heavy cannon fire. One of the jets exploded, tumbling directly into one of the CHARC's, both
disappearing in a ball of flame. The cockpit of the Hamilton's own CHARC exploded with multiple hits
from cannon shells, the two brothers thrown to the floor as the heavy rounds smashed through the side
windows and walls.
The two injured CHARCs retaliated and both remaining jets were hit as they tried to escape, both
slammed into the sea. But the damage was done.
Almost out of ideas, Brian thought. Almost out of any luck that might have existed. We have to get
to the Shi Lang! Somehow?
Lance had advanced the throttles again, but there were obviously some real problems with the
engines, the control panel looked like a set of Christmas tree lights, but there were more red than green.
Brian looked at the battle grid. It was full of symbols and numbers, all moving and changing. He
looked at one in particular. "We need help..."
"No kidding!"
"Lance!" he yelled over the commotion of firing guns and explosions too close for comfort.
"What?"
Brian indicated to the grid panel. For a split second Lance looked down; he nodded. Brian got on
the horn and started speaking quickly.

*****

Scott Turner ran down the corridor to the control room. "Flank speed! Steer one nine zero five."
The order was answered. The Greeneville's CO took the conn and steered the ship at best speed
towards the engagement zone.
Fifteen minutes later. "Slow to 15 knots, clear the baffles." The Greeneville did a complete figure
eight.
"Load tube one with Mk32." This was a decoy torpedo. Turner pulled his XO aside and explained
his plan. The XO liked it.
"Open outer door on tube one." He waited till it was confirmed.
"Swim the fish out XO," Scott said, wanting to avoid the extra noise of compressed air exploding
into the ocean.
The MK32 swam out from the tube, and like other torpedoes, its control wire unreeled behind it.
About the size of an ADCAP, The MK32 Decoy carried no explosives. It had one job, to act and sound
like a Los Angeles class submarine.
While the MK32 was steered to its area of operation, Scott reloaded tubes one and two with the
remaining Orlovs and three and four with two of the new endurance torpedoes, designed to hunt and
kill on their own. The UAVs were launched followed by the two torpedoes that slowly followed the
same path as the decoy. Turner was responding to a desperate request from the CHARC's to clear the
front gate of any enemy submarines.
 The Greeneville was in position and running silent.
Up ahead, the Captain of the Chinese type 093 Nuclear Attack Submarine the Majong, was closing
to intercept and attack the charging pack of CHARC's above him. The torpedoes would attack from
deep beneath the small craft, giving the cavitation defense weapons little chance of targeting them. He
didn't know they were no longer operational. But that made little difference.
"Contact! Nuclear attack submarine, Los Angeles class, classified as the Greeneville," The
Majong's sonar operator announced.
The Majong's Captain who was finalizing firing point procedures on the CHARC's stopped what
he was doing.

*****

It was obvious to the Australian Joint Fleet Commander that the CHARCs were in trouble. One by
one they were disappearing from the GRID. He didn't know what their plan was, but unless they drew
some fire away, the plan would cease to exist.
The stealthy USS Zumwalt was almost fifty miles in advance of the main body. So it was with
complete surprise to the Chinese when she opened fire. The frigates and destroyers to the rear of the
Chinese fleet started to take hits immediately. Unlike the missiles, there was little they could do to stop
the railgun shots travelling at over 14 miles per second from hitting them.
"Order the fleet to flank!" Wen Jinsong commanded. He looked at the plot. He would put the
attackers on his stern; make it harder for them to target the carrier while he worked a plan to deal with
them.
The Chinese destroyer Shenzen, hull number 167, was taking evasive action. She was receiving
multiple hits, some going straight through the super structure and out the other side. Holes would just
appear as if by magic. The ship's Captain compressed his lips, he was slowly losing his command to an
enemy he could not see and could not defend against.
Using the position of the rear pickets, the Chinese Admiral drew a 200-mile circle, somewhere on
the edge of that was the culprit. The railguns he now knew were as good in air defense as they were on
ship or shore. He ordered any aircraft to keep a minimum distance of 200 miles from the attacker when
they found her. Damage reports kept flooding in from his fleet as piece-by-piece the attacker chipped
away at him.
The kinetic energy weapon was a real problem. He couldn't stop the rounds but he could do
something about the platform. The first of class USS Zumwalt surged forward and supported by the
Hobart Class air warfare destroyers Sydney and Brisbane began to lay down more lethal fire. The
Chinese ships were taking a hammering. But just when the U.S. and Australian ships thought they had
taken the advantage, the Chinese Admiral was ready to deliver another curve ball. He enquired on the
position of the Hong, while the Australians were attacking the two eastern Chinese task forces, Wen
Jinsong had sent new orders to his western most task force, still out of the fight. Led by the Mistral
class LHD, the Chee, it was as powerful as the Shi Lang task force. Supported by the Slava Class
Cruiser the Qing Yuan, the third force steered the Hong towards its targets.
Out of range of the coalition railguns, the sea monster was about to begin delivering its own
medicine, a mixture of air launched shkval torpedoes and a new antiship missile, highly evasive and
intelligent.
"Shit what is that?" the Intelligence Officer said looking at the satellite image. It was several hours
old.
"You heard of the Caspian Sea Monster?" Stringer asked in reply.
"Vaguely."
"Well this is her big brother."
"Bigger?" That was hard to believe.
"Unfortunately yes. We are talking 550 plus tons flying in wing in ground effect (WIG), the same
as the Manta landing craft. They both exploit the effect of air compressing beneath a wings surface
close to the ground. The same affect that causes many aircraft to 'float' above the runway while trying
to land. The only difference here is size. This thing is big enough not to worry about the southern
rollers. She flies 50 feet above the waves at over 400 knots. The aircraft was developed out of the
Russians KM-8 ekranoplan."
Much larger than the A380, this was truly the fast monster of the seas. "The Chinese version is
stealthy in design and includes active radar cancellation, making her pretty much invisible unless you
are standing next to her."
"Where do you think she's headed?"
"Towards our fleet, let them know. I will talk to Vince." He walked out of the control center in the
Situation Room to Vince Kipper's office. "We have to find her before she kills any of our ships."

Colonel Brian Hamilton looked out the port window and down at the two hulls below. They were
full of holes. One engine was shut down. In seconds they would be dead. The instrument panel for the
second engine was all in the red. He pulled the artifact from his jacket and secured it inside the long
zipper pocket on his lower trouser leg. He then pulled the throttle back on the remaining engine and the
CHARC slowed, rapidly developing a list to port, the hull already submerged. She would capsize any
second. There was no possibility of jumping for their lives; the freezing water would kill them in
minutes.
"The legs! Retract the legs!" Brian slapped the lever that controlled the cockpit elevation as far as
it would go. The cockpit immediately telescoped on its legs to sit on the two hulls. It didn't stop the
CHARC from sinking but reduced its top-heavy attitude, which was about to flip it over. With the port
hull submerged, the cockpit quickly followed, rapidly filling with ice-cold seawater that penetrated the
cabin.
"Now what!" Lance yelled. He had already unstrapped, the frigid water almost to his waist. The
small vessel was dead and from what Lance could see, so were they.
Brian went to unlatch the hatch in the roof above them but it was stuck. They were stuck. The
CHARC was settling in the water quickly, the cockpit windows already beneath the water, and the dark
of the endless deep looking way to close.
Brian ran at one of the cabins roof struts, grabbing it and swinging his legs up, smashing the heels
of his boots hard into the hatch. It popped and flipped open. The CHARC was slipping deeper into the
water. The two men scrambled through the hatch to stand on the roof, surrounded by an angry sea.
"Jump!" Brian yelled, the roof of the CHARC sinking into the water beneath their feet. Both the
men jumped for their lives.
With seconds to spare and no time for procedure the two brothers made a leap of faith across the
cold water towards a wildly swinging rescue cable lowered from the open doors of a helicopter. With
both of them already suffering from the onset of hypothermia if they missed they wouldn’t last more
than a few minutes in the water. The CASR crew had identified the predicament as they flew in and
had already dropped the cable before reaching the sinking Charc. They could see the two men standing
on its roof sinking into the water. The chopper hadn’t even come to a full hover as the two men below
leaped towards the cable.
The two Hamiltons prayed they had timed their jump correctly to catch the rescue cable as it
swung past them. With numb hands they managed to grab the cable which for a moment dragged them
both through the water before the winch crew quickly started reeling them in. The problem was could
they hang on that long. Lance, still recovering from his earlier ordeal and Brian with his own injury
both locked hands and feet around their lifeline and hung on for grim death.
Immediately above them hovered a massive 50,000 lb MH-53M Pave Low IV, the largest, most
powerful and technologically advanced transport helicopter in the US inventory. The Kadena based
MH-53M was a long way from home but was doing what it did best, combat search and rescue.
Supposedly retired it had been urgently enlisted into the fight bolstering badly stretched resources. The
Pave Lows state-of-the-art terrain following radar, infrared sensors and the ability to operate in bad
weather had allowed the helicopter to penetrate Chinese defences at ultra low level in a marathon 1100
mile rescue bid without support.
The choppers electronics suite provided instant access to the total battlefield situation, through
near real-time Electronic Order of Battle updates and detection avoidance with real-time threat
broadcasts over-the-horizon, so the crew were able to avoid defeat threats. Australia’s new southern
facing Jindalee over the horizon radar, with a range exceeding three thousand kilomtres had been able
to provide the crew real time data on anything still or moving bigger than an albatross.
The winch process seemed to take forever and as the two Australian officers were almost level
with the door, they both failed at the same time falling back into the ocean 60 feet beneath them. Brian
and Lance hit the water going deep, struggling to swim back to the surface as their already battered
bodies succumbed to the cold. Neither of them made it, consciousness slipping away as their struggle to
survive slowed and stopped, their brains starved of oxygen, their muscles cramped. The last thought
Brian had was the about the rod.
As the bodies of the two Australians disappeared into the water, two more figures leaped from the
chopper following them down, the rescue divers not hesitating for a second in their single minded
objective of saving the two men.
In just moments they had grabbed the drowning men and secured both bodies in rescue harnesses
and had them winched back up again. During this process the two divers had to wait for the return of
the rescue cables; chilled to the bone in rough seas. It was dangerous work, but for these men, the
rewards out weighed the risk.
After some immediate medical attention both Australians were dressed in dry clothes and wrapped
in specially designed warming blankets. It took some time for them to regain consciousness. Lance
eventually stuttered between chattering teeth, "Are we there yet?"
For a brief second, a smile flickered across Brian's face, before being immediately extinguished.
He spotted his wet clothing and asked the crew chief to pass him his wet trousers.
The Pave Low, nose down to the water skimmed the waves making 160 knots as she raced back to
friendly forces. The pilot had already sent a message through confirming a successful extraction via its
Interactive Defensive Avionics System/Multi-Mission Advanced Tactical Terminal or IDAS/MATT.
On receipt of the message the coalition forces disengaged from the action, their immediate objectives
achieved. All they needed to do now was figure out how to get the Chinese and Russians out of
Antarctica without another full on war that could risk a nuke exchange.
 A little over three hours after extraction the MH-53M Pave Low IV touched down on the deck of
the HMAS Canberra, a 27,000 ton large amphibious assault ship. The Canberra’s Captain had been
instructed to get the two rescued ADF officers back to the mainland as quickly as possible.

THE CHINESE FLAG SHIP THE SHI LANG. The Chinese task force commander leaned back in
his chair and reviewed the video footage. It had been sent at the last minute by the Australian before his
vessel sank. He was watching something he had never expected to see anywhere else in the world,
especially not here, not now. What did this mean? His head spun as he struggled with this completely
unexpected twist. This mystery however would have to wait, but it did prove the Australian was not as
they say…full of shit. He looked at the situation screens. He could see that the coalition forces had
turned about and had apparently ceased hostile action, exiting the area of conflict at high speed. This
was confirmed by his unit commanders who advised they were no longer taking fire. Wen considered
the options; he could pursue and force them to re-engage, which would draw some of his forces closer
to Australian waters, or he could disengage, cease fire and maintain his blockade. He decided on the
latter. He called off the Vostok strike, he now believed they had indeed left and pursuit would achieve
no strategic objective, just more blood letting. He gave the order, making sure the stubb winged
monster the Hong immediately confirmed in case it fired on the coalition fleet and re-ignited the battle.
The guns fell silent but unknown to Wen or anyone else, a new threat was emerging that would make
the damage they could inflict on each other look like childs play.
The fire was out but deep beneath Vostok Station something was moving and the doomsday clock
was once again ticking.

*****

Glossary
ABL Airborne Laser
ACS Airborne COMINT System
ACC Air Craft Control Center
ADF Australian Defense Force
ADFHQ Australian Defense Force Head Quarters
AEW Airborne Early Warning
AEE Automated Emergency and Escape/Evasion (Procedure)
 AEGIS Airborne Early Warning/Ground Environment Integration Segment
AFSPC Air Force Space Command
ARC Active Radar Cancellation
ALP Australian Labour Party
AGI Assholes gathering intelligence
AOP Area of operations
APU Auxiliary Power Unit
ASAT Anti-satellite
ASW Anti-Submarine Warfare
AWACS Airborne Warning and Control System
BOP Blow out Preventer
CCP Chinese Communist Party
CCPDS Command Center Processing and Display System
CINCPAC Commander In Chief Pacific
CINCPACFLT Commander in Chief, Pacific Fleet
CIWS Close-in Weapon System
CJCS Chairman Joint Chiefs of Staff
CJOPS Commander Joint Operations
CMC Central Military Committee
CMT Crisis Management Team
CNPC China National Petroleum Corporation
COLT Combat Observation and Laser Team
CONSTIND Chinese Academy of Sciences and the Commission of Science, Technology and
Industry for National Defense
COMNAP Council of Managers of National Antarctic Programs
COMSUBPAC Commander/Command Submarine Force Pacific Fleet
COMSTHPACFLT Commander, South Pacific Fleet
CPR Cardio-Pulmonary Resuscitation
CUV Combat Unmanned Vehicle
CUWV Combat Underwater Water Vehicle
CUAV Combat Unmanned aerial Vehicle
DEW Directed Energy Weapon
DEMPC Data Exploitation, Mission Planning, Communications
 DFAT Deptartment for Affairs and Trade
DSTO Defense Science and Technology Organization
DIWO Duty Intelligence Watch Officer
DZ/LZ Drop zone or landing zone
DIW Dead in the Water
ECW Extreme Cold Weather
ELF Extra Low Frequency
EMA Emergency Management Authority (Australia)
EMCON Emissions Control
EMR HVAPFSDS High Velocity Armour-Piercing Fin-Stabilized Discarding-Sabot propelled by
an electromagnetic Railgun
EMR Electro-Magnetic Radiation
EPIRB Emergency Position-Indicating Radio Beacon
EWC Electronic Warfare Center
EWR Electronic Warfare
FLASH Message of extreme urgency, Brevity is mandatory.
HPM High power microwaves
HUMINT Human Intelligence
HSV High Speed Vessel
HUD Head Up Display
HVU High Value Units
IA Information Analyst
IAWS Improved Analyst Workstation
INR Bureau of Intelligence and Research (State Department)
ISR Intelligence, Surveillance and Reconnaissance
ISTAR Intelligence, Surveillance, Target Acquisition and Reconnaissance IR Infra Red
LLEP Low Level Entry Point
MILSTAR U.S. Military Communications Satellite Program
NLT No Later Than
NOAA National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration
NSA National Security Advisor
NSC National Security Council (USA)
NSCC National Security Committee (Australia)
OOD Officer of the Deck
POA Plan of Attack
PD Periscope Depth
PPO Pilot and Payload Operator
PLA Peoples Liberation Army
PLAN Peoples Liberation Army Navy
PLAHQ Peoples Liberation Army Head Quarters
RANS Royal Australian Naval Ship
RHAW Radar Homing And Warning
RO Reactor Officer
RPM Reactor Plant Manual
SPICE Stand-Off Precision Guidance Munition (PGM) Kit
SCAR Standing Scientific Group in Antarctica
PBSC Political Bureau's Standing Committee
SOAR Support Office for Aero Physical Research
SOJTF Southern Ocean Joint Task Force
SAR Search and Rescue
SOSUS Sound Surveillance System
TCS Tactical Control System/Screen
TOF Time of Flight
TOT Time Over Target
UAVP Unmanned Aerial Vehicle Pilot
USAP United States Antarctic Program
USSTRATCOM United States Strategic Command
USACOM United States Command
UUWV Unmanned Underwater Vehicle
VIPERS Virtual Integrated Planning and Execution Resource System
XO Executive Officer