Combat

by Stephen Coonts

  As the LSO platform seemed to slide past him, Delight turned left, adding power to maintain 130 knots. Turning his head, he saw the mirror’s meatball halfway up the deck. He crossed the wide white wake, sucked off a bit of throttle, and stabilized his angle of attack with minute adjustments of the stick.

  Meatball, angle of attack, lineup, Delight chanted to himself. He knew that a good start and small corrections were the keys to success. He felt as if the A-4 were balanced on a pencil tip, and forced himself to fly smoothly—too much muscle meant overcontrolling that did bad things to landing grades.

  “Pure, this is Rob. Come back.” Robbins was avoiding standard LSO phraseology in case somebody was listening.

  “Read you, Robo.”

  “Lookin’ good, keep it coming.”

  Delight liked to fly his approach half a ball high. If he began to settle in close, he could catch it without a fistful of power, and it worked. He added a little power and the meatball stabilized nicely in the center. As his wheels impacted the deck he crammed on full throttle in case of a bolter—and was thrown against his straps as the hook snagged the four wire.

  Did it! he exulted. He retarded throttle, tapped his brakes, and raised the hook. Up ahead a yellow-shirted crewman was into his manic arm-waving routine, gesturing Hawk One to the elevator.

  Behind Delight, Psycho boltered, shoved up the throttle, and went around. Ozzie snagged the two wire; Liz flew a near-perfect OK-3. Thaler trapped the three wire on his next pass.

  The ordies began loading weapons on the hangar deck.

  Nineteen

  Face of a Stranger

  Zack Delight stood at the head of the ready room with the doors closed and guards posted outside. The passageways on either side were blocked with plastic tape, forcing anyone transiting the area to detour around the area.

  Delight looked over his bobtailed “squadron” seated in the first row: Ostrewski, Thaler, and Vespa, plus Robbins the LSO. Wei and Hu sat in the second row. On the board behind him was an overhead view of Penang Princess, carefully drawn to scale.

  Delight mussed his graying hair and grinned to himself. “Never thought I’d be in a ready room again, wearing Nomex and briefing a strike with live ordnance against a real target.”

  “Neither did we,” exclaimed Ozzie. He winked at Liz, who smiled back.

  “I never thought I’d brief a strike against a real target at all,” she added.

  “Okay, folks. Here we go.” Delight’s face seemingly morphed before his tiny audience, passing in one heartbeat from peace to war. Liz felt a tiny thrill somewhere deep inside her. She realized she was seeing a man she had never met before.

  Delight quickly passed through the basics: launch, rendezvous, and the route outbound. Then he addressed communications.

  “You have your UHF and VHF frequencies, but we need to run this thing under total EmCom if at all possible. If you do have to transmit, no names or call signs on the radio—no Zack or Pure or Ozzie. We are Papa Flight, for ‘Pure.’ I’m Dash One, Ozzie’s Dash Three and so on. The backseaters are Two Bravo and Four Bravo. The helos are Hotel One and Two.

  “If anybody has to abort, keep off the radio. That’s only for no-shit emergencies. Just rock your wings and break off. We’d rather not bring live ordnance back aboard, but if you can’t find a safe place to jettison your bombs, just be damn sure they’re safed. If possible, dog overhead the ship until everybody else is back aboard.” He paused. “Any questions?”

  Robbins waved a hand. “Zack, let’s play Oh shit, like we talked before.”

  “Right.” Peters looked from Robbins back to the front-row aviators. “Over the past couple of days, Terry and Rob and I discussed some of the things that might go wrong. For instance, suppose the guys on that ship know we’re coming. Maybe they’ll have SAMs or even Triple A. Well, two A-4s will have flare pods and chaff dispensers, and there’s no need to conserve them.”

  Ostrewski piped up. “What if the Penang doesn’t show up on time? Or we can’t find her?”

  “Well, in that case our part is over. We return to the boat or land at El Toro. You’ll have to recover ashore if you get a hung bomb.”

  Robbins spoke again. “You want to discuss SAR at this point?”

  “Coming to that, Robo.” Delight leaned on the rostrum, checking his notes. He picked up the paper and extended it to arm’s length, ignoring chuckles from the other pilots. “If anybody has to make a controlled ejection, try to get as close to the carrier as possible. We have two helos aboard, but only one is fully equipped for rescues, so be aware that we need to keep that one nearby as plane guard.”

  Thaler waved a pen. “Since the Boorda’s in the area, what about diverting to land on her?”

  Scooter shot a glance at Psycho. “That’s right, I forgot. I have a Pensacola classmate aboard, flying Hornets.” Vespa’s tone told the males that there was probably little love lost between the two women. Ostrewski, who had met slender, blond Lieutenant Commander Jennifer Jensen—“Jen-Jen” the ice princess and admiral’s daughter—knew that Vespa resented her rival’s influence in getting a coveted fleet assignment.

  Delight shook his head at Thaler. “Nope, not unless there’s something entirely unexpected. We’d rather you eject and write off a jet rather than show the U.S. Navy what we’re doing.”

  With no further questions, Delight turned back to the board. “Now, here’s the crunch. When we positively ID the target, we’ll conduct a dualaxis attack with roll in from about twelve thousand feet. Put 112 mils on your sight, and include that in your precombat check. I recommend that you pickle no lower than forty-five hundred feet. Like we practiced at Gila Bend: a five-G pull gets you level by three thousand feet.

  “I’ll take Psycho in from the bow. That’s the best way to attack a ship because it forces you to get steep, and we’ll be making sixty-degree dives. By attacking along the fore and aft axis of the target, we have a better chance of getting hits with shorts and overs.” He jotted pinpoints along the deck of the Princess with his Magic Marker, indicating random hits.

  “Ozzie, you and Liz will pull around to the stern. If there’s no opposition, wait until you’ve seen the result of our attack. The fuzes are one-tenth of a second delay, but there’ll still be smoke and probably flames. Otherwise, time your roll-in so you’re down the chute as we’re pulling off.” He scrawled two arrows breaking to port from their attack.

  “Now, if there’s opposition—either SAMs or Triple A—Psycho and I will try to strafe, time permitting. I’ll tell you what I’m doing. If we do this right, it’ll be the only radio call of the whole mission, because we want to stay zip-lip from startup to attack.” He scanned the audience, emphasizing his words with his tone.

  “When I roll in, I’ll start popping flares whether there’s any shooting or not. Ozzie and I in the A-4Fs both have enough flares in our pods to cover this short an attack.

  “Mr. Wei, Mr. Hu.” The two Chinese sat attentively upright in their seats. “You can help your front-seaters by keeping your heads moving the whole time. Let them know if you see anything unusual. When the attack starts, your video cameras need to stay on the target as long as possible. It may be the best damage assessment we get for a while.”

  “Except for Eyewitness News,” Ozzie ventured.

  Wei raised his hand from the second row. “Yes, sir,” Zack responded.

  “Mr. Delight, perhaps you should describe the return to port.”

  “I was just coming to that. As soon as we’re back aboard, all ATA personnel will jump in both helos and we’ll be flown to a vacant lot near Tustin. Two or three cars will be waiting there, and we’ll return to El Toro. From that point on, we don’t know nothin’.” He looked around the room again, noting each flier’s face. The Chinese were impassive, whether from temperament or familial trait he could not guess. Robbins was completely relaxed, a professional “waver” waiting to do his job. Ozzie fidgeted slightly; Delight attributed it to excess energy. As for Liz Ve
spa—well, she was smiling.

  Twenty

  Been There, Done That

  Terry Peters stepped into the ready room, unexpected and unannounced. Liz Vespa saw him first. Partly from impulse, partly from abiding respect, she reverted to naval custom. “Captain on deck! Atten-hut!”

  Almost in unison the green-clad aviators shot to their feet. Wei and Hu, untutored in such things, followed the example.

  Peters felt a warm rush inside him—something close to love. “Thank you, gent … ah, lady and gentlemen. Please be seated.”

  Striding to the front of the room, he collected his thoughts. A short speech is a good speech, he told himself. He exhaled, wet his lips, and began speaking. “I just wanted to say how proud I am of you guys—all of you. When we started this project, I had no more of an idea how it would turn out than anyone else. Now that it’s about to end, and considering what’s at stake, well …” He blinked away something and shook his head. “ … I wouldn’t be anywhere else on earth today, or with any other people.”

  “Neither would we, pard.” Delight’s eyes were beginning to mist over, too.

  “Damn straight,” added Robbins.

  “Well,” Peters concluded, “I’d better get back to the bridge. But first I want to wish good hunting to everyone here.” He trooped the line, warmly shaking the hands of his friends and colleagues, squeezing Liz in a bear hug, and solemnly greeting Wei and Hu. Then he stepped back three paces, standing erect. “This isn’t regulation the way we were brought up, but this ship is in our navy, isn’t it?” Peters brought his heels together and whipped his right hand to the brim of his ball cap in a slicing arc that might have left a vacuum in its wake. His aviators returned the gesture for the first time in their lives, as it was contrary to U.S. Navy practice when uncovered. Then he was gone.

  Eric Thaler began zipping his torso harness and survival vest while Robbins and Hu helped Wei with the unfamiliar garments. Ostrewski caught Vespa’s attention and motioned to the far corner in the back of the compartment.

  “How do you feel, Liz?”

  She arched her eyebrows. Now he thinks I’m going to wimp out! “I’m fine, Ozzie. Just fine. Why?”

  He glanced away from her and saw Delight’s head turned toward them. Equally quickly, Delight averted his gaze. Like Ward Bond in The Searchers watching John Wayne and his sister-in-law, Ostrewski thought.

  “Well, it’s just that this is the only combat mission we’ll ever fly together …” His reticence finally melted in a rush as he heard himself say, “Ah, hell, Liz.” He wrapped his arms around her, awkwardly pulling their bodies together despite the bulky flight gear. Her arms encircled his neck, compressing the collar of his flotation device.

  “Michael …”

  They kissed one another with a tender aggressiveness that trod the neutral zone between the foundation of friendship and the dawning of desire. It lasted an eternal four seconds.

  “Now hear this! Pilots, man your planes.”

  The squawk box on the bulkhead repeated the ritual command, focusing aviators’ attention and shattering peaceful thoughts.

  Ostrewski pulled back, locking eyes with Vespa. “I love Maria, Liz. I’m going to spend my life with her. But I needed to do that, especially today.”

  She patted the front of his vest. “So did I, Michael.”

  He managed a laugh. “Okay—been there, done that.”

  “Good,” she added. “Now, let’s sink us a ship.”

  The pilots emerged from the base of the island and strode onto the flight deck. Wearing helmets with visors lowered, they were unidentifiable to anyone who did not know them well.

  As the aircrew approached the yellow boarding ladders on four Skyhawks, each of the fliers paused to look at the thousand-pound bombs beneath each wing. Delight touched a kiss to one of his; Vespa ran a loving hand along the ablative surface of hers. Plane captains and ordnancemen scrambled with last-minute checks as catapult crews stood by.

  Lowering himself into the blue-and-white A-4F now called Papa One, Delight glanced up at the bridge. He saw Terry Peters’s face in one of the windows and perceived a smart wave. Delight tossed a nonregulation salute to the former deep-draft skipper who had missed his chance to drive a flat-roofed bird farm. Twisting slightly to his right, Zack saw the diamond-design Foxtrot flag snapping from its halyard, indicating flight operations under way. Higher up the mast, appearing in stark contrast to the striped banner he was accustomed to seeing, flew the jolly roger. The leering white skull with crossed leg bones on the black field sent an electric thrill through his body. Below it, expressing no less heartfelt a sentiment, was the light blue ensign of the Tailhook Association.

  Zack Delight clasped his hands over his head in a gesture of undiluted rapture. At fifty-nine years of age, he knew that he would never again feel as good as this day and this hour. He felt gleefully giddy as his mind defaulted to the frontier tales of his Southwest youth. Ya-ta hay! he exulted. It is a good day to die!

  Twenty-one

  The Oscar Sierra Factor

  The beeper sounded on Peters’s cell phone, pulling him back from the disappearing A-4s that had been the focus of his existence. He pulled the handset from the Velcro pouch on his belt, hit the button, and said, “Peters.”

  “Terry, thank God!” Jane was almost breathless.

  “Honey, what is it?”

  “Terry, I don’t know how, but the Chinese here know what you’re doing! They’ve roped off their hangar and they’re rounding up people and holding them inside.” She paused to inhale. “There’s been some shooting, and I saw two bodies on the ground. I think they were security guards.”

  Peters slid off the captain’s chair. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m okay. So’s Carol and everyone else I’ve seen.”

  “Jane, where are you?” He waited three seconds. “Jane!”

  “I’m, ah, I don’t think I should say over the phone, darling. We’re safe for now, and we’re keeping out of sight. But they’re guarding the parking lot.”

  “Have you called the police?”

  “No, I called you first.”

  “Jane, honey, there’s nothing I can …”

  “God damn it, Terry! Listen to me!” The venom in her voice silenced him like a piano smashing a Walkman. “Are you listening?”

  “Yes.” His voice was muted.

  “One of the ordnancemen is with us, Ron. He saw the Chinese loading ammunition in two A-4s, and we heard them taxi out.”

  “Oh, no …”

  “There’s more.”

  “They’re arming more A-4s?”

  “No, honey.” She inhaled. “The Russians kept the Flankers fueled, and Ron said they were hanging missiles on the rails.”

  Peters’s eyes widened, saucerlike. “Call me again in ten minutes.” He broke the connection, belatedly regretting not asking about Skip Ottmann, about the security men who might be dead—and not telling her that he loved her. But now, sorting priorities, he flipped the switch to the communications division.

  “Radio, this is the captain.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Call Papa Flight and tell them at least two A-4s are launching from El Toro with live ammo. Our people are to assume they’re hostile. Get an acknowledgment—to hell with EmCon.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Wait, there’s more. Tell them … tell them the Flankers are spooling up, too. And they’re armed with missiles.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Peters sat back in his chair, sorting through the phone numbers stored in his Powerbook. He scrolled down the listings until he reached NavAirPac, then punched in the number.

  It was forty seconds before he got a tone, and the phone rang four times before the watch stander finally answered. “GoodmorningComNavAirPacPettyOfficerStroudspeakingthisisanonsecurelinemayIhelpyou?” Peters barely understood the rapid-fire babble that seemed mandatory in the modern Navy. He wanted to scream, “Shut up, you bitch!” Instead,
he did a fast three count.

  “This is Captain Peters, commanding the aircraft carrier Santa Cruz, steaming off Long Beach. I am declaring an emergency and I need to speak with Admiral Paulson. Right now.”

  Petty Officer Stroud seemed taken aback; she had never heard of USS Santa Cruz and had no idea of the protocol involved in a ship declaring an emergency. “Sir, the admiral’s at a conference.”

  “Then I’ll speak to the senior watch officer. Immediately.”

  “Sir, what shall I say is the nature of the emergency?”

  “Listen to me, Petty Officer! You have about twenty minutes before a backpack ‘nuke’ detonates under your rosy red ass. Now, what part of ‘nuke’ don’t you understand?”

  “Lieutenant Commander Paglia. What is your emergency, sir?”

  “This is Terry Peters. I’m in command of the Santa Cruz, conducting CarQuals off Long Beach. Listen carefully, son.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I have four A-4s airborne with live ordnance, operating under orders from the national command authority. Their mission is to sink a Malaysian freighter carrying nuclear weapons into this country.” He paused for effect. “Do you understand, Commander?”

  Peters could almost hear Anthony Paglia swallow hard. “Yes, sir. Ah, may I request verification …”

  “Commander, I have no verification. And there’s no time for you to call the White House and get it. Is there?”

  “Well, I suppose …”

  “Fine. Here’s the situation. My flight is about to be intercepted by two Chinese-flown A-4s trying to prevent us from sinking the Penang. Okay? That’s not the problem—my guys can take care of themselves. But the Russians who’re here to CarQual their Flankers are loading missiles at El Toro this minute.”

  “Ho-ly …”

  “Right. So here’s what I need you to do, Commander. I assume there’s an alert flight on the pad at Miramar.” Please tell me there is! “I need you to scramble them, get ’em up here at the speed of heat, and contact my mission commander on Baker Channel. He answers to Papa One. Your flight can talk to me on 308.2. Tell your people that under no circumstance are they to shoot a Skyhawk. Any Flanker—I repeat, any Flanker in the air or on the ground at El Toro is a legitimate target. The ROE is: shoot on sight.”