Protect & Survive Miami: End of Watch
- Thread starter wolverinethad
- Start date
You know what inspired me (partially) to have the idea for this TL set in Protect and Survive? It was this story by @varyar: https://www.alternatehistory.com/forum/threads/blood-moon-over-miami.415138/#post-14682084
After reading that story, I started thinking about Miami Vice (which, incidentally, premiered in the fall of 1984) and how Crockett and Tubbs would handle this, and this caused me to have the idea for a Protect and Survive story set in South Florida (which you expanded on very well)...
After reading that story, I started thinking about Miami Vice (which, incidentally, premiered in the fall of 1984) and how Crockett and Tubbs would handle this, and this caused me to have the idea for a Protect and Survive story set in South Florida (which you expanded on very well)...
Thanks, @wolverinethad...
On a side note, I did a nukemap casualty estimate (again, this is with today's numbers) for the San Juan and Vieques detonations (assuming the Hotel-class sub had the SS-N-5 missiles, which were in use in the Soviet Hotel-class submarines from 1963 to 1989; they were 800 kilotons) and about 145,000 or so people die in San Juan and Vieques, with about 365,000 more injured (I'm estimating with 1980s numbers); many of those are fatal...
IMO, I'm probably off in my assessment of casualties but, even so, the death toll and damage from this will make Hurricane Maria look like a small shower in comparison...
On a side note, I did a nukemap casualty estimate (again, this is with today's numbers) for the San Juan and Vieques detonations (assuming the Hotel-class sub had the SS-N-5 missiles, which were in use in the Soviet Hotel-class submarines from 1963 to 1989; they were 800 kilotons) and about 145,000 or so people die in San Juan and Vieques, with about 365,000 more injured (I'm estimating with 1980s numbers); many of those are fatal...
IMO, I'm probably off in my assessment of casualties but, even so, the death toll and damage from this will make Hurricane Maria look like a small shower in comparison...
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I haven't run the numbers yet, but based on Census data for that time, I think you're probably correct. I don't know whether Puerto Rico had better medical care at the time or not, either (the Cold War meant more soldiers on the island, and proper care facilities in an area where a Cold War adversary was located nearby would be important). I'll run with that when I come back to it. Meanwhile, this now makes two carrier groups that have survived, but the second is so far away from CONUS that it might as well be in Brazil or somewhere else far away.
The 1990 FEMA study (NAPB-90, Nuclear Attack Planning Base) for Puerto Rico, unfortunately, says data will be provided separately. Some of you may have seen this, but here are the data for Florida:
Total population: 11,883,346
Blast map: Annex A, Page A-31
Blast greater than 10 psi (most people die): 2,457,768
Blast 5-10 psi (some people die): 1,587,622
Blast 2-5 psi (occasional deaths): 2,485,369
Blast 0.5-2 psi: 2,094,563
No blast: 3,258,024
Fallout map: Annex B, Page B-63
High fallout risk: 4,566,549
Medium fallout risk: 675,092
Low fallout risk: 6,641,705
Interesting that a good 5-6 million Floridians are in the lowest risk categories. Even so, FEMA's fallout map shows the state cut in two just like ITTL.
I wonder how these figures compare with a NUKEMAP run...
Total population: 11,883,346
Blast map: Annex A, Page A-31
Blast greater than 10 psi (most people die): 2,457,768
Blast 5-10 psi (some people die): 1,587,622
Blast 2-5 psi (occasional deaths): 2,485,369
Blast 0.5-2 psi: 2,094,563
No blast: 3,258,024
Fallout map: Annex B, Page B-63
High fallout risk: 4,566,549
Medium fallout risk: 675,092
Low fallout risk: 6,641,705
Interesting that a good 5-6 million Floridians are in the lowest risk categories. Even so, FEMA's fallout map shows the state cut in two just like ITTL.
I wonder how these figures compare with a NUKEMAP run...
I ran a couple of NUKEMAP sims for the purposes of creating "maps" for the governor to review. They're embedded in a couple of my chapters, including the first post-Exchange one, IIRC. That all said, the FEMA maps literally went with the worst case scenario, doubling the number of warheads used in Tampa-St. Petersburg, and adding Bradenton and Sarasota for really no reason at all (neither city has a target worth the nukes, IMO). I think I took a realistic approach, but regardless, it ain't good.
Summoning @CalBear....
Is there a reason the "save draft" feature seems to be especially buggy lately? Lost two parts of posts I wrote in here to save for when I got to my home computer and they both vanished....
Is there a reason the "save draft" feature seems to be especially buggy lately? Lost two parts of posts I wrote in here to save for when I got to my home computer and they both vanished....
James G
Gone Fishin'
I don't know if this will help, it probably wont TBH, but the issue with drafts was discussed the other day here: https://www.alternatehistory.com/forum/threads/just-me-or-do-the-drafts-not-work-at-all.434464/
Maybe, hopefully, CalBear can help but from what Burton said, that doesn't sound good hope wise.
Maybe, hopefully, CalBear can help but from what Burton said, that doesn't sound good hope wise.
I'm with BKW on this. Long posts I prep in Word and copy/paste.
One little thing - trade winds! Trade winds generally blow from east to west. This means during normal conditions, any fallout from groundbursts in O'ahu will get blown to the west, not the east. The state of Hawai'i is within the trade wind belt, which lies within roughly 25 degrees of the Equator.
One little thing - trade winds! Trade winds generally blow from east to west. This means during normal conditions, any fallout from groundbursts in O'ahu will get blown to the west, not the east. This is why the northeastern sides of the Hawai'ian islands tend to get a lot more rain than the other side, like Honolulu and Kona. The state of Hawai'i is within the trade wind belt, which lies within roughly 25 degrees of the Equator.
As well, I'm actually headed to Maui this Sunday for a week.
One little thing - trade winds! Trade winds generally blow from east to west. This means during normal conditions, any fallout from groundbursts in O'ahu will get blown to the west, not the east. This is why the northeastern sides of the Hawai'ian islands tend to get a lot more rain than the other side, like Honolulu and Kona. The state of Hawai'i is within the trade wind belt, which lies within roughly 25 degrees of the Equator.
As well, I'm actually headed to Maui this Sunday for a week.
One little thing - trade winds! Trade winds generally blow from east to west. This means during normal conditions, any fallout from groundbursts in O'ahu will get blown to the west, not the east. The state of Hawai'i is within the trade wind belt, which lies within roughly 25 degrees of the Equator.
One little thing - trade winds! Trade winds generally blow from east to west. This means during normal conditions, any fallout from groundbursts in O'ahu will get blown to the west, not the east. This is why the northeastern sides of the Hawai'ian islands tend to get a lot more rain than the other side, like Honolulu and Kona. The state of Hawai'i is within the trade wind belt, which lies within roughly 25 degrees of the Equator.
As well, I'm actually headed to Maui this Sunday for a week.
Well, shit, I was wrong on that. Thanks, @Canadian Dragon, and may you avoid any for-real text alerts of death.
FWIW, I watched Atomic Blonde tonight, and that movie is so amazing. The soundtrack was perfect, so I assembled it into a Spotify playlist, put on my new Sony wireless headphones, and I'm writing the next chapter. So much of that soundtrack never happens ITTL. What a damned shame.
Chapter 49
Chapter 49
Fort Myers, Florida
March 5, 1984
0701 hours
Jan Klima pulled on the headphones of the Sony Walkman to get the morning alert status without disturbing everyone. As the days had passed inside their 940 square foot shelter, crammed with over a dozen people, most everyone had taken to sleeping more and more, something that made sense to Major Simmons' wife, a retired nurse. She'd talked to Jan and her husband about trying to keep everyone from becoming deeply depressed, which was met with shrugs from both men. What could we do? The world pretty well ended. Jan remembered that talk as he tuned the radio to the proper frequency. What he heard caught him off guard, as it wasn't the monotone voice of the FPR anchors or the twang of Red Barber (who'd handled the early afternoon broadcasts as a gesture towards normality), but something else entirely.
"Good morning, Fort Myers, this is Chet Reynolds here on 1240 AM, WINK. The government of Fort Myers, in conjunction with the regional commander of the Florida National Guard, has decided to resume local broadcasting, after which we play Florida Public Radio updates. We will broadcast hourly updates so that you may be informed of developments that affect Fort Myers and other nearby areas. There are several items of importance, which we will address now. The mayor and National Guard commander have decided that danger of fallout or attack appear to have passed, so residents are able to resume activity outdoors. For safety, you are advised to limit the time spent outside in the next few days as we begin organizing for the next few months. Beginning tomorrow afternoon, residents will meet at designated locations to receive ration cards, with distribution to begin within days. Locations will be announced by noon today during the hourly broadcast.
Since we have our own power plant and water treatment plant, we will resume limited distribution of power to residents. We strongly urge residents to limit their consumption of power to necessities only, such as cooling fans. Water should not, repeat, not be used for anything but toilet functions. While we do not see an immediate danger, the possibility of fallout or bacteria in the system is quite possible, and these limits are for the safety of residents. If shutdown of power or water facilities becomes necessary, we will broadcast it at the top of the hour on this station if possible. Now, here is Florida Public Radio..."
"Good morning, this is Florida Public Radio. Fallout levels remain dangerous for the following counties: Escambia, Santa Rosa, Okaloosa, Walton, Holmes, Washington, Bay, Jackson, Calhoun, Gulf, Franklin, Liberty, Gadsden, Wakulla, Duval, Nassau, Clay, St. Johns, Volusia, Seminole, Orange, Lake, Sumter, Citrus, Hernando, Pasco, Hillsborough, Polk, Osceola, Brevard, Manatee, Miami-Dade, Broward, and the Keys. Do not leave your shelter if you live in these areas. For counties not listed in the warning, you will be receiving instructions from your local authorities today." "No shit," Klima muttered.
The announcer continued on with the usual updates for a few minutes before signing off for the morning. Klima turned off his Walkman and put the headphones down. Normality was something that had been too difficult to contemplate for a good two weeks, now, something approximating it was returning. Who are we kidding? Nothing will ever be normal again. Jan turned as he heard a creak. It was Mrs. Simmons. "Good morning, Jan," she said, "Another day in the dark lying ahead?" "No, ma'am, we get to go outside. All of us." Mrs. Simmons' mouth opened as if to speak, but no words came. Instead, tears began spilling from her eyes and she threw her arms around the much taller man in a mixture of relief and joy. Well, I guess it's a start, Jan thought.
*****
Aboard the USS Independence
Five miles south of Ponce, Puerto Rico
0842 hours
“Okay, we’re here,” the commanding officer of USS Independence, Captain Robin Harkness, said. “How do we get the men off the ships to shore? This place has docks for pleasure craft and fishing boats, and a port that doesn’t have enough space for a damned carrier and escorts. We also need to keep a standing watch, especially on the carrier. For all we know, we’re the last carrier standing in this part of the world.” A clearing of throats. No one spoke. They had survived a nuclear war, and found a place relatively unscathed. It just didn’t have big enough port facilities for them to all tie up. The commander (CAG) of Carrier Air Wing Six, Captain Mike Rollins, raised his hand. Vice Admiral Metcalf saw it and asked him to speak. “Admiral, Robin, we could use our transport plane to ferry people, but that’d take a lot of flights, and a lot of fuel. The airport isn’t near the port facilities at all. Okay, scratch that idea.”
The XO of the Independence blurted out, “What about the Mark-8s?” Everyone looked at him like he was crazy. The XO pushed on. “Look, I know it sounds dumb, but we can radio the docks, ask for the fishing boats to come out, and we can use the Mark 8s to ferry people as well. We just have to move closer to shore, and then the escorts can dock and unload there. When it’s time to bring people back, we can be more organized. We’ll only unload half, with the other half taking the watch for a day, and then we’ll rotate, and we can use choppers or something to effect the switch. It's not a great option, but maybe Roosevelt Roads has a couple of transport planes to help us out."
Metcalf looked at them. "Men, I know we're tired and you're trying, but why wouldn't we just radio Roosevelt Roads for transports in the first place? If that airport isn't that far, we can land transports here. Hell, if we send ours first, then we can land one while the other heads back, and just loop a few times. Hell, if they have a couple of Hercs, we can do it even faster. This carrier was designed to be able to land and take off the Herc, so let's see what we can do before we go put a life raft armada into the harbor. We will pull in closer to shore, though, no sense taking any more risk than necessary. Let's make sure we stay oriented the right way, remember, the winds are blowing east to west down here."
Vice Admiral Metcalf headed into his quarters. He was going to suit up and fly in first on an S-3 Viking as the TACCO (tactical officer). It'd be a way to check the area out first, including patrolling for any random Soviet subs that might be hanging out in the harbor. He doubted it, but better to check. Three other Vikings would be coming with to scan the rest of the area before the carrier moved closer inshore. A Seahawk helicopter was flying a patrol as well to back up the sonar on what was left of the task force. Independence, Moosbrugger, the USS Virginia (a nuclear-powered guided missile cruiser), the USS John Rodgers (another Spruance-class destroyer), USS Silversides (an early Sturgeon-class attack submarine for carrier protection), the USS Samuel Eliot Morrison (a fast frigate for antisubmarine patrolling). The Briscoe and the USS Clifton Sprague (another FFG) had both been sunk by Soviet subs since the war's commencement. On the whole, it was still a formidable force, and best of all, only just over half of the ships required fuel. Virginia and Silversides were nuclear-powered and could theoretically sail forever. If Ponce's port wasn't able to fuel all of the ships, then maybe Ceiba would be able to.
All suited up, Metcalf headed to the flight deck to board the Viking. He had been an officer who did nothing but move straight up the ladder, commanding all sorts of ships, and he knew antisub systems, guided missile controls, ship piloting. He was as well-rounded a surface naval officer as any, and he loved learning, so he’d picked up how to work the controls of the Viking’s torpedo systems. I almost hope we find one of those bastards, Metcalf thought to himself. It’d feel fantastic to drop a torpedo right on their goddamn heads for sinking two of my ships.
Minutes later, Metcalf’s Viking took off, followed by three others, headed towards Ponce Harbor. Metcalf picked up the radio microphone. “Ponce command, this is Vice Admiral Joseph Metcalf, do you copy, over?” “Yes, Admiral, this is Chief Fabian Cortez. I’m the chief of police for Ponce. How can I help you, sir?” “Chief, we have a flight of four aircraft inbound for your airport. Are there tower crewmen there to guide us in?” “Yes, sir, we have three Orions from the naval station they sent to help patrol this area. A tower crew is there as well.” “Thank you, Chief Cortez. Can you and any other authorities for Ponce meet us there? We’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.” “Yes, sir, we’ll be there to meet you. We’re glad to have you here.”
The short flight was uneventful, thankfully (Metcalf didn’t truly want there to be Soviet subs around, and it sounded like things were well in hand if Orions were there to patrol). The Vikings didn’t pick up a single blip on their sonars. The pilot of Metcalf’s S-3 landed it perfectly, and it taxied towards a small cluster of jeeps. The admiral picked up his hat after removing his flight helmet, and fairly ran down the steps. This is one of those rare times I’m actually happy to be on shore. Only took a nuclear war to make me grateful for that. The chief was in a uniform that looked like it could’ve used a wash, but his posture was ramrod-straight, and he saluted Metcalf crisply, which the admiral returned. Then they shook hands.
“Admiral, welcome to Ponce. I’m sorry we’re dirty, but it hasn’t been an easy time the past couple of weeks,” Cortez said. “I brought a few of my men, along with our mayor, Pedro Durán.” The chief gestured to the mayor, who stepped forward, shaking the admiral’s hand, but his eyes were…..faraway. Metcalf wondered what had happened to the man. He made a note to ask about that later. “I’m happy to be here. It is good to know that some part of America has survived relatively unscathed. Certainly better than Florida…..” The admiral’s words trailed off.
“Admiral, we completely understand. We were scared to death when we saw the cloud from San Juan, and then the bomber came, and we all thought we were dead, but they defected! The pilot radioed us and asked for permission to land…” Cortez was interrupted by the blurted “Holy shit” that came from one of the Viking pilots, earning him a sharp glance from Metcalf. “Please continue, Chief,” the admiral said. “Yes, as I was saying, we had some brave men who were on rooftops with high-powered binoculars watching, and they told us in our basement that we had a bomber inbound. We all began praying, but then our radio crackled, and suddenly a Russian sounding voice is asking permission to land. No one was at the airport, so I told him he’d have to come in visually, and he agreed. We thought it had to be a ruse, that he was going to nuke us all to ashes, but the minutes passed and nothing happened, so I had one of my sergeants drive to the airport with two cars of men, and the crew of the bomber climbed down a ladder with their hands up. The pilot is the only English-speaker amongst the crew, but all of them knew a bit of Spanish, so we’ve been able to talk to them. They decided it was pointless to bomb us and they wanted to live. Ponce, apparently, isn’t real high on their target list, and these men knew it, so they chose to live. They flew a Backfire all the way from Russia just to say the hell with it. Anyway, I’m hoping your men can help secure the damn thing. The pilots and crewmen from the naval station don’t know nuclear bombs, but I imagine some on your carrier do, Admiral.”
Metcalf was so stunned at the story that he didn’t answer, until Cortez repeated the question. He shook his head. “Sorry, Chief, I’m a little slow on the uptake, I guess. Yes, we do. We’ll need those Russians to help us remove them, probably, but we can safely store them. Now, I have a question. How’s Ceiba? We almost decided to go all the way there, but our contact with Roosevelt Roads was sporadic, and we had a better connection with you. All the nukes have really played hell with our radios.”
“Sir, Ceiba is fine and the base is fine, but the fallout from Vieques drifted right past it at sea, with some landing on the southeast corner of the island, so the only way for you to get there safely would be to take the long way around the east side of that island after going well south, and then loop back to the base, but that’s assuming nothing happened to the Virgin Islands. We’ve had no contact with anyone outside of the island, and Ceiba is who told us about Vieques. They’re pretty buttoned down, no one has gone in or out of that base, but the naval station has been running regular patrols around the island waters to make sure there’s no threat out there,” Cortez informed Metcalf.
“How’s your fuel situation at the docks? I’d like to at least get my destroyers or the carrier topped off if possible…we weren’t assigned an oiler, so what we have for fuel is all we have. My cruiser is nuclear-powered, at least.” Metcalf didn’t mention Silversides. Better to keep the sub’s existence quiet. He decided they could send it to Ceiba once they were all in harbor. Fallout is rapidly diminished in water, and was probably at the bottom now. The sub wouldn’t be affected at all.
“We don’t have a great amount. We’re using what we have for our small craft, because they can fish and help feed us, sir. We need to keep that.” Cortez knew the admiral could take it all if he wanted. He had a lot more weapons than Cortez did. “No, Chief, it’s fine.” Metcalf replied. “Unless we can establish contact with CINCLANT or some other authority that outranks me, I’m planning to stay here. How are you talking with Ceiba?”
“We’re using landlines. We have a telephone exchange here, and we’ve been able to talk with the south side of the island. We called some people in Humacao, and they worked with Ceiba to help reroute their exchange to us, because it ran through San Juan before it got blown up. Initially, we were using shortwave radios and it was difficult to maintain conversation with all the interference, so I’m glad they were able to fix it. It’s a good connection. We are very fortunate. The only things we are short on is oil and fuel. Electricity is sporadic, because we don’t have a lot of fuel left for our power plant, sir.”
“Okay, well, maybe we can help with that a little bit. Let’s go inside and I’ll call Ceiba, and then we’ll figure out how to get my men on shore. We can bring some food with us if you need us to,” Metcalf told Cortez. “No, sir, as long as they like fish, we have plenty of it, and I’m sure they wouldn’t mind some rum, either, after what you’ve been through,” Cortez responded, grinning. “Hell, Chief, I definitely wouldn’t mind having some rum myself. If you can get some cases rounded up, we’ll bring the ice.” The small party turned and walked into the tower for the call to Ceiba.
Fort Myers, Florida
March 5, 1984
0701 hours
Jan Klima pulled on the headphones of the Sony Walkman to get the morning alert status without disturbing everyone. As the days had passed inside their 940 square foot shelter, crammed with over a dozen people, most everyone had taken to sleeping more and more, something that made sense to Major Simmons' wife, a retired nurse. She'd talked to Jan and her husband about trying to keep everyone from becoming deeply depressed, which was met with shrugs from both men. What could we do? The world pretty well ended. Jan remembered that talk as he tuned the radio to the proper frequency. What he heard caught him off guard, as it wasn't the monotone voice of the FPR anchors or the twang of Red Barber (who'd handled the early afternoon broadcasts as a gesture towards normality), but something else entirely.
"Good morning, Fort Myers, this is Chet Reynolds here on 1240 AM, WINK. The government of Fort Myers, in conjunction with the regional commander of the Florida National Guard, has decided to resume local broadcasting, after which we play Florida Public Radio updates. We will broadcast hourly updates so that you may be informed of developments that affect Fort Myers and other nearby areas. There are several items of importance, which we will address now. The mayor and National Guard commander have decided that danger of fallout or attack appear to have passed, so residents are able to resume activity outdoors. For safety, you are advised to limit the time spent outside in the next few days as we begin organizing for the next few months. Beginning tomorrow afternoon, residents will meet at designated locations to receive ration cards, with distribution to begin within days. Locations will be announced by noon today during the hourly broadcast.
Since we have our own power plant and water treatment plant, we will resume limited distribution of power to residents. We strongly urge residents to limit their consumption of power to necessities only, such as cooling fans. Water should not, repeat, not be used for anything but toilet functions. While we do not see an immediate danger, the possibility of fallout or bacteria in the system is quite possible, and these limits are for the safety of residents. If shutdown of power or water facilities becomes necessary, we will broadcast it at the top of the hour on this station if possible. Now, here is Florida Public Radio..."
"Good morning, this is Florida Public Radio. Fallout levels remain dangerous for the following counties: Escambia, Santa Rosa, Okaloosa, Walton, Holmes, Washington, Bay, Jackson, Calhoun, Gulf, Franklin, Liberty, Gadsden, Wakulla, Duval, Nassau, Clay, St. Johns, Volusia, Seminole, Orange, Lake, Sumter, Citrus, Hernando, Pasco, Hillsborough, Polk, Osceola, Brevard, Manatee, Miami-Dade, Broward, and the Keys. Do not leave your shelter if you live in these areas. For counties not listed in the warning, you will be receiving instructions from your local authorities today." "No shit," Klima muttered.
The announcer continued on with the usual updates for a few minutes before signing off for the morning. Klima turned off his Walkman and put the headphones down. Normality was something that had been too difficult to contemplate for a good two weeks, now, something approximating it was returning. Who are we kidding? Nothing will ever be normal again. Jan turned as he heard a creak. It was Mrs. Simmons. "Good morning, Jan," she said, "Another day in the dark lying ahead?" "No, ma'am, we get to go outside. All of us." Mrs. Simmons' mouth opened as if to speak, but no words came. Instead, tears began spilling from her eyes and she threw her arms around the much taller man in a mixture of relief and joy. Well, I guess it's a start, Jan thought.
*****
Aboard the USS Independence
Five miles south of Ponce, Puerto Rico
0842 hours
“Okay, we’re here,” the commanding officer of USS Independence, Captain Robin Harkness, said. “How do we get the men off the ships to shore? This place has docks for pleasure craft and fishing boats, and a port that doesn’t have enough space for a damned carrier and escorts. We also need to keep a standing watch, especially on the carrier. For all we know, we’re the last carrier standing in this part of the world.” A clearing of throats. No one spoke. They had survived a nuclear war, and found a place relatively unscathed. It just didn’t have big enough port facilities for them to all tie up. The commander (CAG) of Carrier Air Wing Six, Captain Mike Rollins, raised his hand. Vice Admiral Metcalf saw it and asked him to speak. “Admiral, Robin, we could use our transport plane to ferry people, but that’d take a lot of flights, and a lot of fuel. The airport isn’t near the port facilities at all. Okay, scratch that idea.”
The XO of the Independence blurted out, “What about the Mark-8s?” Everyone looked at him like he was crazy. The XO pushed on. “Look, I know it sounds dumb, but we can radio the docks, ask for the fishing boats to come out, and we can use the Mark 8s to ferry people as well. We just have to move closer to shore, and then the escorts can dock and unload there. When it’s time to bring people back, we can be more organized. We’ll only unload half, with the other half taking the watch for a day, and then we’ll rotate, and we can use choppers or something to effect the switch. It's not a great option, but maybe Roosevelt Roads has a couple of transport planes to help us out."
Metcalf looked at them. "Men, I know we're tired and you're trying, but why wouldn't we just radio Roosevelt Roads for transports in the first place? If that airport isn't that far, we can land transports here. Hell, if we send ours first, then we can land one while the other heads back, and just loop a few times. Hell, if they have a couple of Hercs, we can do it even faster. This carrier was designed to be able to land and take off the Herc, so let's see what we can do before we go put a life raft armada into the harbor. We will pull in closer to shore, though, no sense taking any more risk than necessary. Let's make sure we stay oriented the right way, remember, the winds are blowing east to west down here."
Vice Admiral Metcalf headed into his quarters. He was going to suit up and fly in first on an S-3 Viking as the TACCO (tactical officer). It'd be a way to check the area out first, including patrolling for any random Soviet subs that might be hanging out in the harbor. He doubted it, but better to check. Three other Vikings would be coming with to scan the rest of the area before the carrier moved closer inshore. A Seahawk helicopter was flying a patrol as well to back up the sonar on what was left of the task force. Independence, Moosbrugger, the USS Virginia (a nuclear-powered guided missile cruiser), the USS John Rodgers (another Spruance-class destroyer), USS Silversides (an early Sturgeon-class attack submarine for carrier protection), the USS Samuel Eliot Morrison (a fast frigate for antisubmarine patrolling). The Briscoe and the USS Clifton Sprague (another FFG) had both been sunk by Soviet subs since the war's commencement. On the whole, it was still a formidable force, and best of all, only just over half of the ships required fuel. Virginia and Silversides were nuclear-powered and could theoretically sail forever. If Ponce's port wasn't able to fuel all of the ships, then maybe Ceiba would be able to.
All suited up, Metcalf headed to the flight deck to board the Viking. He had been an officer who did nothing but move straight up the ladder, commanding all sorts of ships, and he knew antisub systems, guided missile controls, ship piloting. He was as well-rounded a surface naval officer as any, and he loved learning, so he’d picked up how to work the controls of the Viking’s torpedo systems. I almost hope we find one of those bastards, Metcalf thought to himself. It’d feel fantastic to drop a torpedo right on their goddamn heads for sinking two of my ships.
Minutes later, Metcalf’s Viking took off, followed by three others, headed towards Ponce Harbor. Metcalf picked up the radio microphone. “Ponce command, this is Vice Admiral Joseph Metcalf, do you copy, over?” “Yes, Admiral, this is Chief Fabian Cortez. I’m the chief of police for Ponce. How can I help you, sir?” “Chief, we have a flight of four aircraft inbound for your airport. Are there tower crewmen there to guide us in?” “Yes, sir, we have three Orions from the naval station they sent to help patrol this area. A tower crew is there as well.” “Thank you, Chief Cortez. Can you and any other authorities for Ponce meet us there? We’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.” “Yes, sir, we’ll be there to meet you. We’re glad to have you here.”
The short flight was uneventful, thankfully (Metcalf didn’t truly want there to be Soviet subs around, and it sounded like things were well in hand if Orions were there to patrol). The Vikings didn’t pick up a single blip on their sonars. The pilot of Metcalf’s S-3 landed it perfectly, and it taxied towards a small cluster of jeeps. The admiral picked up his hat after removing his flight helmet, and fairly ran down the steps. This is one of those rare times I’m actually happy to be on shore. Only took a nuclear war to make me grateful for that. The chief was in a uniform that looked like it could’ve used a wash, but his posture was ramrod-straight, and he saluted Metcalf crisply, which the admiral returned. Then they shook hands.
“Admiral, welcome to Ponce. I’m sorry we’re dirty, but it hasn’t been an easy time the past couple of weeks,” Cortez said. “I brought a few of my men, along with our mayor, Pedro Durán.” The chief gestured to the mayor, who stepped forward, shaking the admiral’s hand, but his eyes were…..faraway. Metcalf wondered what had happened to the man. He made a note to ask about that later. “I’m happy to be here. It is good to know that some part of America has survived relatively unscathed. Certainly better than Florida…..” The admiral’s words trailed off.
“Admiral, we completely understand. We were scared to death when we saw the cloud from San Juan, and then the bomber came, and we all thought we were dead, but they defected! The pilot radioed us and asked for permission to land…” Cortez was interrupted by the blurted “Holy shit” that came from one of the Viking pilots, earning him a sharp glance from Metcalf. “Please continue, Chief,” the admiral said. “Yes, as I was saying, we had some brave men who were on rooftops with high-powered binoculars watching, and they told us in our basement that we had a bomber inbound. We all began praying, but then our radio crackled, and suddenly a Russian sounding voice is asking permission to land. No one was at the airport, so I told him he’d have to come in visually, and he agreed. We thought it had to be a ruse, that he was going to nuke us all to ashes, but the minutes passed and nothing happened, so I had one of my sergeants drive to the airport with two cars of men, and the crew of the bomber climbed down a ladder with their hands up. The pilot is the only English-speaker amongst the crew, but all of them knew a bit of Spanish, so we’ve been able to talk to them. They decided it was pointless to bomb us and they wanted to live. Ponce, apparently, isn’t real high on their target list, and these men knew it, so they chose to live. They flew a Backfire all the way from Russia just to say the hell with it. Anyway, I’m hoping your men can help secure the damn thing. The pilots and crewmen from the naval station don’t know nuclear bombs, but I imagine some on your carrier do, Admiral.”
Metcalf was so stunned at the story that he didn’t answer, until Cortez repeated the question. He shook his head. “Sorry, Chief, I’m a little slow on the uptake, I guess. Yes, we do. We’ll need those Russians to help us remove them, probably, but we can safely store them. Now, I have a question. How’s Ceiba? We almost decided to go all the way there, but our contact with Roosevelt Roads was sporadic, and we had a better connection with you. All the nukes have really played hell with our radios.”
“Sir, Ceiba is fine and the base is fine, but the fallout from Vieques drifted right past it at sea, with some landing on the southeast corner of the island, so the only way for you to get there safely would be to take the long way around the east side of that island after going well south, and then loop back to the base, but that’s assuming nothing happened to the Virgin Islands. We’ve had no contact with anyone outside of the island, and Ceiba is who told us about Vieques. They’re pretty buttoned down, no one has gone in or out of that base, but the naval station has been running regular patrols around the island waters to make sure there’s no threat out there,” Cortez informed Metcalf.
“How’s your fuel situation at the docks? I’d like to at least get my destroyers or the carrier topped off if possible…we weren’t assigned an oiler, so what we have for fuel is all we have. My cruiser is nuclear-powered, at least.” Metcalf didn’t mention Silversides. Better to keep the sub’s existence quiet. He decided they could send it to Ceiba once they were all in harbor. Fallout is rapidly diminished in water, and was probably at the bottom now. The sub wouldn’t be affected at all.
“We don’t have a great amount. We’re using what we have for our small craft, because they can fish and help feed us, sir. We need to keep that.” Cortez knew the admiral could take it all if he wanted. He had a lot more weapons than Cortez did. “No, Chief, it’s fine.” Metcalf replied. “Unless we can establish contact with CINCLANT or some other authority that outranks me, I’m planning to stay here. How are you talking with Ceiba?”
“We’re using landlines. We have a telephone exchange here, and we’ve been able to talk with the south side of the island. We called some people in Humacao, and they worked with Ceiba to help reroute their exchange to us, because it ran through San Juan before it got blown up. Initially, we were using shortwave radios and it was difficult to maintain conversation with all the interference, so I’m glad they were able to fix it. It’s a good connection. We are very fortunate. The only things we are short on is oil and fuel. Electricity is sporadic, because we don’t have a lot of fuel left for our power plant, sir.”
“Okay, well, maybe we can help with that a little bit. Let’s go inside and I’ll call Ceiba, and then we’ll figure out how to get my men on shore. We can bring some food with us if you need us to,” Metcalf told Cortez. “No, sir, as long as they like fish, we have plenty of it, and I’m sure they wouldn’t mind some rum, either, after what you’ve been through,” Cortez responded, grinning. “Hell, Chief, I definitely wouldn’t mind having some rum myself. If you can get some cases rounded up, we’ll bring the ice.” The small party turned and walked into the tower for the call to Ceiba.
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Thank you for a great update & a great story. However with apologies for the nitpicking USS Independence is not nuclear powered.
Good chapter.
At least everyone can go out in Fort Myers now; what I suggest the law enforcement officers do (as soon as they are able, of course) is go to the Fort Myers Police Department and offer their services to the Fort Myers PD (or, failing that, the Lee County Sheriff's Department or the Florida National Guard). They might be able to use it; OTOH, every officer who has evacuated from other cities to Fort Myers is probably thinking the same thing...
Like that we're getting more on the situation, and it's a lucky thing that the Soviet crew defected; I'd shudder to think at their fate if they hadn't (and Ponce's, for that matter)...
At least a lot of the surface force here survived...
Waiting for more...
At least everyone can go out in Fort Myers now; what I suggest the law enforcement officers do (as soon as they are able, of course) is go to the Fort Myers Police Department and offer their services to the Fort Myers PD (or, failing that, the Lee County Sheriff's Department or the Florida National Guard). They might be able to use it; OTOH, every officer who has evacuated from other cities to Fort Myers is probably thinking the same thing...
Like that we're getting more on the situation, and it's a lucky thing that the Soviet crew defected; I'd shudder to think at their fate if they hadn't (and Ponce's, for that matter)...
At least a lot of the surface force here survived...
Waiting for more...
And now, a brief look back in time
West Berlin
February 21, 1984
90 minutes into the Exchange
Corporal Robby Page could hardly believe he was still alive. It'd been a long day, ever since the Eschwege nuke, and then the one in Kassel. The Soviets and NVA (National Volksarmee) had thrown a ton of forces across the Wall three days before, and it had been a continuous running battle since. Page's grandfather had been here, flying in the Berlin Airlift in 1948, and had told his grandkids about the rubble and the devastation that still marked this city three years after the war. Berlin had been rebuilt, and they were all smashing it to pieces once more. The West Berlin population had done their level best to flee before the war broke out, but once Tempelhof Airport was shut down on the 16th, there were still hundreds of thousands of West Berliners, currently hiding in bunkers, subway tunnels, and God knows where else, all while the Allies and the Soviets were busy reprising 1945.
It was a bit different now, though. The Berlin Brigade of the US Army, along with the UK's Berlin Infantry Brigade and the French Forces in Berlin (a terrible name no one had bothered to fix), had fought for over 84 hours now, holding off Soviet and NVA forces numbering three times their strength. The Allies had one armored division between the three nations, and the Soviets and NVA had an armored division and two motor-rifle divisions trying to pry this piece of real estate away from them. It was always feared, during the Cold War, that Berlin would've been the match to light the tinderbox of World War III, and indeed, Corporal Page remembered the night when the students protesting by the Wall were murdered by the Stasi, and the gunfire that briefly erupted on both sides. Now, months later, here he was, somehow alive, manning the main gun of his M60A3 Patton tank, sitting in an alley at a predetermined point, waiting for the next thrust by the Soviets they'd been playing hide-and-seek with since yesterday evening.
"Christ, why are we still doing this, anyway? You heard the radios! They're nuking everything in sight, and instead of us trying to run for it, we'll still fighting these fucking Russians!" Private First Class Sal Moscone was the loader, and as a native New Yorker, he knew the moment that missiles started flying that his family and home were gone forever. Every time things got quiet for a minute, he progressively got louder. "Moscone, that's the fifth time you've said something in the last two hours, and while I understand your point, for reasons beyond all comprehension, everyone has decided to leave Berlin alone while they're turning the rest of this country into a goddamn burning lake. Because of that, we still have to fight if we want to live, and right now, we're fucking alive, and maybe you should appreciate that fact!" Lieutenant Stevens was a good tank commander, Page thought, and he was glad he told Moscone off finally.
His thoughts wandered back home. A native of West Palm Beach, Florida, he wondered if it had survived, somehow, wondered how his parents and his sister Jackie were doing. Would they make it? Would it even be worth it for them? He also remembered the girl he'd met about ten days ago, the last night he'd had off and probably the last night anything fun happened in this city. He was at a club, drinking whiskey and praying the Soviets backed off, when he spotted her. Tall, blonde, very leggy, she had a baggy t-shirt on with one shoulder exposed, tight Jordache jeans, and stiletto heels. She was dancing with energy and grace, and Robby was taken. He finished off the whiskey, moved to the dance floor, and in his best high school German asked if he could buy her a drink. Maybe it was the world situation, maybe it was his decent looks (Robby wasn't a movie star, but he wasn't ugly or acne filled, either), but she accepted, and after two hours of dancing and drinking, she took him back to her flat on Guerickstraße, and he had the best sex of his 20-year old life. He'd had to leave sooner than he would've wished. He didn't even know her last name. All he knew was Emma.
He was jolted out of his reverie by the sound of tracks coming his way. He steadied his hands on the gun. "Easy, men, we'll let the first one pass, then pull out and nail the second one right in the lips before we shoot the first one in the ass," Lt. Stevens said. The T-72 came into view, not even noticing the M60 in the darkness. As soon as the first one cleared, the driver shot out of the alley and Page quickly swiveled the turret and fired off a sabot round directly left of the T-72's cannon. Moscone loaded a HEAT round this time, and Page turned 180 degrees and put one into the engine of the lead T-72, causing it to explode and sent a turret flying onto a car inexplicably still parked on the side of the road. The M60A3 took off north, past the burning wreckage, with the trailing Soviet tanks in pursuit, but slow to respond, so jarred they were by the ambush. Page exulted in his mind at the kills he'd gotten. As they turned a corner, his gunsight filled with a brilliant light.....and then all of Berlin disintegrated under a five-megaton nuclear warhead, along with Page's tank and the Soviets in pursuit and the NVA and the British and French. There would be no third act for Berlin, no city to rebuild again. This was The End.
February 21, 1984
90 minutes into the Exchange
Corporal Robby Page could hardly believe he was still alive. It'd been a long day, ever since the Eschwege nuke, and then the one in Kassel. The Soviets and NVA (National Volksarmee) had thrown a ton of forces across the Wall three days before, and it had been a continuous running battle since. Page's grandfather had been here, flying in the Berlin Airlift in 1948, and had told his grandkids about the rubble and the devastation that still marked this city three years after the war. Berlin had been rebuilt, and they were all smashing it to pieces once more. The West Berlin population had done their level best to flee before the war broke out, but once Tempelhof Airport was shut down on the 16th, there were still hundreds of thousands of West Berliners, currently hiding in bunkers, subway tunnels, and God knows where else, all while the Allies and the Soviets were busy reprising 1945.
It was a bit different now, though. The Berlin Brigade of the US Army, along with the UK's Berlin Infantry Brigade and the French Forces in Berlin (a terrible name no one had bothered to fix), had fought for over 84 hours now, holding off Soviet and NVA forces numbering three times their strength. The Allies had one armored division between the three nations, and the Soviets and NVA had an armored division and two motor-rifle divisions trying to pry this piece of real estate away from them. It was always feared, during the Cold War, that Berlin would've been the match to light the tinderbox of World War III, and indeed, Corporal Page remembered the night when the students protesting by the Wall were murdered by the Stasi, and the gunfire that briefly erupted on both sides. Now, months later, here he was, somehow alive, manning the main gun of his M60A3 Patton tank, sitting in an alley at a predetermined point, waiting for the next thrust by the Soviets they'd been playing hide-and-seek with since yesterday evening.
"Christ, why are we still doing this, anyway? You heard the radios! They're nuking everything in sight, and instead of us trying to run for it, we'll still fighting these fucking Russians!" Private First Class Sal Moscone was the loader, and as a native New Yorker, he knew the moment that missiles started flying that his family and home were gone forever. Every time things got quiet for a minute, he progressively got louder. "Moscone, that's the fifth time you've said something in the last two hours, and while I understand your point, for reasons beyond all comprehension, everyone has decided to leave Berlin alone while they're turning the rest of this country into a goddamn burning lake. Because of that, we still have to fight if we want to live, and right now, we're fucking alive, and maybe you should appreciate that fact!" Lieutenant Stevens was a good tank commander, Page thought, and he was glad he told Moscone off finally.
His thoughts wandered back home. A native of West Palm Beach, Florida, he wondered if it had survived, somehow, wondered how his parents and his sister Jackie were doing. Would they make it? Would it even be worth it for them? He also remembered the girl he'd met about ten days ago, the last night he'd had off and probably the last night anything fun happened in this city. He was at a club, drinking whiskey and praying the Soviets backed off, when he spotted her. Tall, blonde, very leggy, she had a baggy t-shirt on with one shoulder exposed, tight Jordache jeans, and stiletto heels. She was dancing with energy and grace, and Robby was taken. He finished off the whiskey, moved to the dance floor, and in his best high school German asked if he could buy her a drink. Maybe it was the world situation, maybe it was his decent looks (Robby wasn't a movie star, but he wasn't ugly or acne filled, either), but she accepted, and after two hours of dancing and drinking, she took him back to her flat on Guerickstraße, and he had the best sex of his 20-year old life. He'd had to leave sooner than he would've wished. He didn't even know her last name. All he knew was Emma.
He was jolted out of his reverie by the sound of tracks coming his way. He steadied his hands on the gun. "Easy, men, we'll let the first one pass, then pull out and nail the second one right in the lips before we shoot the first one in the ass," Lt. Stevens said. The T-72 came into view, not even noticing the M60 in the darkness. As soon as the first one cleared, the driver shot out of the alley and Page quickly swiveled the turret and fired off a sabot round directly left of the T-72's cannon. Moscone loaded a HEAT round this time, and Page turned 180 degrees and put one into the engine of the lead T-72, causing it to explode and sent a turret flying onto a car inexplicably still parked on the side of the road. The M60A3 took off north, past the burning wreckage, with the trailing Soviet tanks in pursuit, but slow to respond, so jarred they were by the ambush. Page exulted in his mind at the kills he'd gotten. As they turned a corner, his gunsight filled with a brilliant light.....and then all of Berlin disintegrated under a five-megaton nuclear warhead, along with Page's tank and the Soviets in pursuit and the NVA and the British and French. There would be no third act for Berlin, no city to rebuild again. This was The End.
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They don't even have that. IIRC the US brigade had two small tank companies, the British brigade had a single squadron of approx. 18 tanks and the French something similar. All three did have a variety of APCs and other AFVs, but were in the main light infantry.
@wolveinethad and @JN1, here's a link to the forces stationed in West Berlin until the end of the Cold War: http://western-allies-berlin.com/
The French tanks aren't mentioned, but the other two countries' tank forces in Berlin are...
The French tanks aren't mentioned, but the other two countries' tank forces in Berlin are...