Anvil by Dirk Patton

Force
uniform.
    “Working on
it, sir.  The enemy has multiple rotor-wing assets and anti-air that are
keeping them back.  We’ve lost four birds already and are trying to get
fighter support to clear a path.”
    I’d seen
enough.  Turning, I reminded Rachel and Irina to stay close to Blanchard
before running to where ten Rangers had set up a security line between the
front and the command post.  I ignored the cries from both Rachel and
Blanchard.
    “You five
with me,” I shouted, pointing at them as I ran past.
    None of them
hesitated to leap to their feet and follow.  It didn’t really surprise
me.  Rangers prefer being on the offensive to the defensive. 
    We ran a
wide circle to avoid the heat from the burning Apache.  As soon as we were
far enough past to turn west towards the front, without roasting ourselves, we
headed for the base of the low line of hills the helicopters had been hiding
behind.  To my left was a cut in the terrain and I angled towards it, the
five Rangers on my heels.
    Slowing as I
entered the break, I cautiously approached the high spot.  Motioning them
down, I dropped to my stomach to crawl the final few yards.  There was a
battle raging on the other side of the crest and it’s generally not a good idea
to silhouette yourself against the sky when entering a fight.  If the
enemy doesn’t see you and blow your ass off, there’s a good chance of friendly
fire taking you out.  Suddenly popping up isn’t a good way to stay
healthy.
    Taking
advantage of the cover afforded by a small rock resting on the lip, I peered
around and grimaced.  There weren’t just a lot of Russians, there were a
LOT of Russians.  And the battlefield was massive, spread across the
horizon as far as I could see in either direction.  Dozens of light and
heavy armor vehicles belonging to both sides sat burning, black smoke billowing
into the sky and creating a hellish pall.
    Farther out
were multiple locations where aircraft had been shot down and crashed to the
ground, adding to the haze.  The sound of small arms fire was constant and
larger, vehicle mounted guns were firing, adding to the din.  Helicopters
buzzed over the fight, engaging each other as well as ground targets, while
higher up I could see the trails of missiles as the fighter jocks tangled.
    Mortars were
firing, both sides using them to keep troops from advancing.  The only
thing missing was heavy artillery, which I didn’t understand as I’d seen a fire
battery notated on the map. 
    The screams
of men fighting and dying.  The smell of munitions and spilled
blood.  The choking smoke from burning machines and expended
ordnance.  This was truly hell on Earth, and with a wave to the Rangers
behind me I stood and ran directly into it.

14
     
    Admiral
Packard stood in Pearl Harbor’s shore based Combat Information Center, staring
at multiple monitors.  The four largest displays were satellite images of
two Carrier Strike Groups (CSGs) operating in the north Pacific Ocean.  The
remaining two were zoomed on Russian naval facilities located near Vladivostok
and on the Kamchatka Peninsula.  CSG Nine with the USS George Washington
super carrier at the center was positioned three hundred miles due west of
Portland, Oregon.  CSG Eleven, with the USS Nimitz, was one hundred miles north
of the Washington.
    All but one
of the remaining displays monitored Russian naval and land based activity
within the striking range of the two fleets.  Finally, he checked the last
screen, unhappy with the heavy losses the Marines and Rangers were taking in
the land battle with enemy forces in southern Idaho.  He didn’t understand
why the Kremlin had committed so many ground troops to a tactically valueless
chunk of the country, but in doing so they had divided their forces on the
ground in North America.
    Shifting his
attention back to the looming naval engagement, he nodded in satisfaction when
he noted the ships of the CSGs where in the proper