Major Alice Dennison was studying the maps of Calgary as she listened to the Special Forces company commander on the ground just north of the city issue his update.
The Stryker Brigade Team from Fort Lewis was in the city, and evacuation operations were well under way, along with the systematic targeting of at least ten Spetsnaz strongholds. Power had already been restored in several areas except downtown.
That was the good news.
The Russians had kept their word and aborted all sorties currently under way into Canada, while their ground forces continued operations to put on a show for the Green Brigades.
Dennison was now faced with a serious request from the commander: a call for a kinetic strike on the Russian mechanized force heading south down Highway 2 from Red Deer.
Within thirty minutes that force would reach the Country Hills Boulevard overpass, then roll right toward the downtown area. The SEALs and Special Forces already had their hands full, as did the Stryker Brigade.
She told him to stand by and took the request up to General Kennedy, who in turn wanted to discuss the matter with the president.
Within a minute, Dennison once more found herself speaking directly with Becerra.
"Hello again, Major. The general has briefed me, and I have to say I've already turned down a similar request from General Bankole. The collateral damage is just too severe."
"I know, sir, but our people on the ground tell me they can't stop the Russians. Engineers could bring down the overpass and block the road to buy some time, but the Russians will breach fairly quickly. Our air assets won't reach the battalion in time. The Russians will already be rolling into Calgary, and if you're worried about collateral damage, well . . ."
"Where are those Russian forces now?"
Dennison went over to the touch-screen map table, tapped the appropriate commands, then sent the map's images to the president as she brought up real-time streaming video from one of their drones.
The long column of vehicles lumbered steadily south, gun tubes held high like chins in defiance. In a window next to the video, the computer created a sophisticated graphic showing the convoy's estimated path and probable attack plan, dotted lines flashing red.
"As you can see, sir, they're rolling down Highway 2 right now, but the surrounding terrain is mostly slight hills and extremely rural along this eighty-seven-mile stretch. Now is the time to strike, when collateral damage will be at a minimum."
"General Kennedy?" called Becerra.
Dennison shifted back to her station, where the screen had split between the general and the president. "Sir, I concur with the major," said Kennedy. "We should take out those ground elements before they near the overpass."
"Very well. General, tell those platform commanders to stand by for my order to launch."
"Yes, sir."
The president regarded Dennison with a polite nod. "Excellent work, Major."
"Thank you, sir."
"And Major, I'd like to speak to you after the strike. I have new information that I'd like you to share with Colonel Doletskaya."
"You do?"
"Yes, and I'm curious to see his reaction."
"All right, then."
He nodded, and the screen abruptly switched to the call log report.
Dennison leaned back in her chair, wondering what the new information was. Deep down it excited her, and she hated herself for that.
Because the excitement wasn't professional.
She would get a chance to see him again.
THIRTY-SIX.
After sinking the Russian task force, Captain Jonathan Andreas had taken the Florida Florida to the Dolphin and Union Strait, where he and his crew had continued to patrol silently and swiftly, listening with all their electronic ears for ships coming through the choke point. to the Dolphin and Union Strait, where he and his crew had continued to patrol silently and swiftly, listening with all their electronic ears for ships coming through the choke point.
They had poked their nose up every two hours to receive text messages from COMPACFLT- And their most recent one sent Andreas's pulse bounding. He had even taken the risk to call back Admiral Stanton. That conversation had been interesting-to say the least.
They now had orders to return to Coronation Gulf. "Are you going to tell me, sir, or keep me in suspense?" asked the XO as he stood in Andreas's quarters.
"Have a look." Andreas was seated at his desk, where on his computer he had pulled up some photos and schematics of High Level Bridge in Edmonton-not to be confused with the small town of High Level much farther north of that city.
The bridge spanned the North Saskatchewan River and was located next to the Legislative Assembly of Alberta. In the summer months, a waterfall created by artist Peter Lewis dropped one hundred and fifty feet off the side of the bridge, casting mist and rainbows across the waves. It was a beautiful piece of architecture and a significant landmark in Edmonton.
"High Level Bridge," said the XO with recognition. "I've actually driven over that."
"Yes, and it seems a large Russian ground force is looking for the same experience."
"Oh no."
"Oh yes. And you know what they want us to do."
"They can't be serious. What about collateral damage, aren't they worried about-"
"The Euros asked for a kinetic strike."
"That would take out the surrounding buildings-including the legislature. Couldn't engineers rig the bridge?"
"I'm told that was the first plan, but they realized they can't get it done in time."
"I see."
"So we're going to deny the enemy that avenue of approach, but we'll need to do it like surgeons. If we're successful, Enforcers Corps troops on the ground will continue the delaying operation. I get the impression from the admiral that something even bigger is going on down there and that it's imperative we do our part."
"Well, he can count on us, sir."
"My words exactly. So we're under way for the Gulf. And XO, the second we're in our firing position, I aim to let our Tomahawks fly and destroy that target."
The XO nodded. "The crew will happily oblige, sir."
In 1703, Peter the Great laid the cornerstone of the fortress he named St. Petersburg, in honor of the guardian of the gate of heaven. He later built a shipyard across the Neva River from the fortress.
In 2015, Pyotr Alexeyevich Romanov, Pyotr Alexeyevich Romanov, a Project 955 Borei-class submarine was launched to honor the great tsar. a Project 955 Borei-class submarine was launched to honor the great tsar.
Five years later, Captain Second Rank Mikhail A. Kolosov was given command of that sub. Kolosov was thirty-nine, never married, and known by his colleagues as a pensive loner. He was a graduate of the Tikhookeansky Naval Acadamy and the Paldiski nuclear submarine training center.
His first assignment was as communications officer on a diesel-electric Foxtrot class. Next he was an engineering officer aboard the last remaining Alpha nuclear attack sub. He later served four years as XO onboard a Typhoon-class SSBN until it was sold to the Chinese.
Despite eighteen years in submarines, Kolosov was still the youngest officer to be given command of the Romanov Romanov, and he was now on the mission of a lifetime.
Just two days previously, the Romanov Romanov had slipped her moorings at Severodvinsk's Sevmash shipyard, transited the Neva River, and disappeared under the polar ice. Kolosov knew that JSF spy satellites had photographed had slipped her moorings at Severodvinsk's Sevmash shipyard, transited the Neva River, and disappeared under the polar ice. Kolosov knew that JSF spy satellites had photographed Romanov Romanov's empty berth and that her movement had triggered a worldwide alert.
Now they were about to pass through the Dolphin and Union Strait, bound for the Coronation Gulf, utilizing their shaftless propulsors called RDT-rim-driven thrusters. The super quiet, all-electric Romanov Romanov did not require noisy main reduction gears to convert high-speed main turbine rotation into low-speed propeller shaft rotation, and Kolosov was certain that he and his crew of 110 would pass unnoticed into the Gulf, carrying their full complement of twelve R-30 Bulava (SS-NX-30) ballistic missiles. did not require noisy main reduction gears to convert high-speed main turbine rotation into low-speed propeller shaft rotation, and Kolosov was certain that he and his crew of 110 would pass unnoticed into the Gulf, carrying their full complement of twelve R-30 Bulava (SS-NX-30) ballistic missiles.
Kolosov reached into his breast pocket and removed the picture of Dimitri. He stared at it a moment, then rubbed the back for good luck, a ritual he had performed countless times. His older brother, twelve years his senior, had died back in the mid-nineties.
Dimitri had been working on the clean-up of the 70 MWe and 90 MWe pressurized-water training reactors in Paldiski, Estonia, and had suffered radiation poisoning while constructing the two-story concrete sarcophagus that now encased the two reactors. Officials and administrators had been grossly negligent, and Kolosov had lost his brother because of them. Dimitri's death was a devastating blow to the family, one from which his parents had never recovered. They had gone to their own graves grieving his loss.
Kolosov returned the photo to his pocket and regarded his executive officer.
"It won't be long now, sir," said the younger man. "Today will be a great day for the Motherland."
Kolosov averted his gaze. "Yes, comrade."
Sergeant Marc Rakken and his team moved up the Calgary Tower stairwell, climbing farther into the uncertain darkness. The Spetsnaz troops had gassed the entire stairwell but to no avail. Rakken and his squad were masked up and determined. Another squad was coming up behind his, with two more in the other stairwell.
The staircase seemed to go on forever, the teams' lights shining up until they seemed to run out, beams clogged with the still-lingering gas.
Every man on Rakken's squad was now equipped with a concave-shaped Ferrofluid shield behind which they could duck in the event of a grenade being tossed into the stairwell. The shields also protected them from incoming rifle and rocket fire, though a significant explosion's concussion would send them tumbling back down the stairs. If the blast didn't kill them, the fall might.
Real-time video from the drone showed two heavily armed Spetsnaz troops posted on the landing outside the main door to the observation deck. Both were staring down into the stairwell with digital binoculars pressed to their masks. They resembled darkly clad aliens, armored and deadly. A third troop appeared and reached into a satchel.
"Grenade!" one of Rakken's men cried over the radio.
Rakken already had an image from his point man's helmet camera. The grenade had been dropped at an angle intended for their landing, but it flew wide, and plummeted toward the very bottom- Two seconds later it exploded, the staircase and railings reverberating.
"Sparta Team, they still can't get a decent angle on us. Let's pick up the pace!" Rakken cried.
However, every man on his rifle squad was already breathless, including himself.
And they were only halfway up the tower.
"Incoming, shields up!" yelled Rakken's point man.
Dozens of rounds began pinging and ricocheting down at them, and Rakken crouched down behind his shield, feeling the vibration of several impacts as the shield's liquid outer layer grew hard, absorbed the blow, then returned to its fluid state. The Russians were simply delaying them now, and Rakken wouldn't stand for that.
"Sparta Team, I don't care about that fire! Move out!"
Not two heartbeats after Rakken gave the order, the entire tower began to shake, as though from some massive earthquake.
"Sergeant!" cried one of Rakken's team leaders. "What the hell is that?"
Major Alice Dennison was riveted to her monitors. She had just watched the Rods from God platform commanders line up for their shot. Then the rocket-and-fin-equipped tungsten rod had streaked away from the cylindrical platform, its engine glowing as it reached a speed of nearly 36,000 feet per second-about as fast as a meteor until retro rockets kicked in to prevent it from burning up. The rod was nearly twenty feet long, one foot in diameter, and its heat-shielded nose cone had grown cherry red as it had vanished into the atmosphere.
The rod had all the destructive effects of an earth-penetrating nuclear weapon without all of the radioactive fallout. It relied upon kinetic energy to destroy everything in its path.
Dennison had views from several cameras on the ground when the rod slammed into Highway 2, directly in the middle of that long convoy of Russian vehicles.