“Sir, are you authorized to establish rules of engagement?”
Peters did not even blink. “Absolutely. Definitely. You can check with CNO. But for now, you have your orders, Commander Paglia. Acknowledge.”
“Uh, yessir.”
“Fine. Call me back as soon as you know about the Hornets.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Robbins appeared at Peters’s side. “How bad, Terry?”
“The Oscar Sierra Factor just kicked into afterburner.”
A low whistle escaped the LSO’s lips. “What else can we do?”
Peters slumped into his swivel chair. “Wait.”
“What do you think about Miramar? Will they scramble or will that O—4 go through channels?”
Peters tipped back his cap, biting his lip. “I don’t know, Rob. He seemed like a good kid, but …”
“But his career’s on the line in a situation that’s not covered in the Watch Officer’s Guide.” Robbins folded his arms, leaning against the thick glass overlooking the flight deck. “And initiative’s been bred out of the system. The ‘zero defect’ mentality just stifles risk taking, doesn’t it?”
Peters closed his eyes. “It doesn’t get this way under good leadership.”
“Yeah,” Robbins replied, “and look who’s been ‘leading’ us recently.” He etched quote marks in the air with both hands.
“Bridge, Radio.”
Peters leapt to the console. “Captain speaking.”
“Captain, we just heard from Papa One.”
“Yes?”
“Sir, they can’t find the target.”
Twenty-two
An All-Up Round
In Papa One, Zack Delight ran his precombat checklist, still savoring the memory of the kick in the small of the back as the catapult threw him off the deck, accelerating the A-4 from zero to 120 knots in three seconds. He confirmed the mil setting on his sight, ensured that his master arm switch was off, and scanned his gauges in one practiced sweep of his eyes. He was, as he liked to say, an all-up round.
Delight raised his right leg and withdrew the chart. After nearly a century of powered flight, the human thigh remained the best map holder yet invented.
The Los Angeles area navigation chart was folded to show Penang Princess’s most likely location, given her expected arrival time. Delight had bounded the search sector in red crayon—a twenty-mile-by-ten-mile rectangle beginning five miles offshore. At two thousand feet altitude, he could see fifty-five miles in any direction, haze and smog permitting.
Delight glanced down again, taking in the multitude of ships and vessels approaching or departing the Middle Breakwater. Even allowing for the possibility that her company’s green hull and beige deck had been repainted, none of the aged thirty-thousand-ton freighters matched his target’s configuration.
With a rising flush of ambivalence, Zachary Delight felt frustrated and proud. I’m like Wade McClusky at Midway, he thought. I’ve got Heinemann-designed airplanes at my back, looking for a target that’s not at the briefed intercept point. The kinship he felt with the Enterprise air group commander nearly sixty years before was diluted by the growing doubt that the mission could be accomplished—and bandits were inbound.
He made a decision and keyed his mike. “Papa Three, look north and west of the track. I’ll swing south and west.”
“Roger.” Ozzie’s voice was crisp, professional. He eased into a right bank, leading Liz Vespa parallel to the coast.
The cell phone buzzed and Peters whipped it out of the pouch. “Talk to me!” Whoever you are!
“Terry, it’s Jane.”
“You okay?”
His wife’s response was delayed a fraction longer than he had grown to expect in twenty-nine years. He had time to wonder if he had hurt her feelings with his abrupt tone.
“We’re still all right. I wanted to tell you that Skip’s been on the phone to Washington. He called the Pentagon—he has a cell phone—and now he’s talking to somebody at NavAir.”
“Rocky Rhode?”
“I don’t know, honey. It’s … awful … confusing …”
“What about the Flankers?”
“What?”
Peters closed his eyes, forcing composure upon his growing anger and frustration. “Jane … honey … I asked, what about the Flankers?”
There was no reply. Peters lowered the handset from his ear to look at it, willing the inanimate thing to explain itself. He raised it again and spoke slowly, clearly. “Jane, this is Terry. Do you hear me?”
The line clicked twice and went dead.
Delight and Thaler completed their sweep down the east side of the search area, again coming up empty. Zack’s cockpit scan took in his fuel state: twenty-four hundred pounds. Enough for a little while, he thought. Then we’ll have to abort. At his altitude, necessary to ID the target, fuel was going fast.
Decision time, Delight realized. Either we continue trolling this area or we look elsewhere. He waggled his wings, signaling Eric Thaler that they were heading east to hunt along the coast. He motioned for Psycho to spread out, expanding the visual limits of their horizon.
“Do you know any satisfying profanity?”
Robbins wondered if Terry Peters would recognize Walter Brennan’s line from Task Force. The LSO sought any method of easing his friend’s gnawing concern about his wife, if only for a few seconds.
“Lots of profanity, Rob. None satisfying.” Peters bit his thumbnail and stared northward, as if trying to see inland thirty miles to El Toro from fifteen miles at sea. The uncertainty, the concern, the growing fear all eroded his cultivated composure. Aviator cool was one thing—the modulated voice during an in-flight fire or engine failure. Standing here, feeling 280,000 horsepower throbbing impotently beneath his feet, was an appallingly new experience. He paced a few steps back and forth, hardly noticing that he forced Odegaard and Mei out of the way.
“Why the hell haven’t we heard from AirPac or Miramar?”
“I don’t know, Terry. Shall I give ’em a call?”
Peters spun on one heel, his face eerily alight. “I should’ve thought of it before, Rob! The Chinese A-4s!”
Robbins shook his head. “What about ’em?”
“They probably know where the Penang is! So would the Flankers. If ATC …”
“I’m gone!” Robbins seemed to vaporize as he exited the bridge.
“Captain?” Odegaard stood near the helmsman, wearing a querulous expression.
“I should’ve thought of it before!” Peters smiled for the first time in an ephemeral eternity. “If air traffic control can break out those A-4s and track them, it’ll tell us where the target is!”
The watch officer nodded. “Mr. Robbins is talking to ATC?”
“No, Mr. Odegaard. I suspect he’s screaming at them.”
Twenty-three
Whiskey Tango Foxtrot
“Peters, what the hell is going on out there?”
Nice to hear from you, too, Rocky. “I don’t have much time, Admiral. Tell me what you know and what you can do to help.”
A continent away, Rear Admiral Allen Rhode nearly sputtered at the flippancy from a retired captain. Instead, the Vice Chief of Naval Operations gripped the phone harder and fought to control his anger. “Mr. Lieu just called to tell me that Santa Cruz has been taken over by a bunch of Chinese dissidents, that they’re going to bomb merchant vessels, and you’re helping them!”
Peters almost gasped. So Lieu’s behind it! Why didn’t Wei tell us?
Rhode was back inside Peters’s ear. “Then Skip Ottmann called. He says you and Wei are going to sink a Malaysian ship with nukes, that he’s trapped with your wife at El Toro, that A-4s are taking off, and the goddam Russians are loading goddamn AA-11s on their goddamn Flankers!”
“Okay, Admiral. You got the picture, right? Lieu’s the fly in the ointment, and Wei’s with us. Now, what’re you doing to keep those Flankers off my guys? Hell, they’re probably gear up by now.
”
Rhode’s voice came back more modulated. “Yeah. I heard from AirPac that you need a scramble from Miramar.”
“Well?” So Rob called it. Paglia’s a wimp.
“Terry, the Marines don’t maintain an alert. At best it’d take them a half hour to upload ordnance. I’ve given the order, but this’ll be over by then.”
Peters’s heart sank. Maybe Paglia’s not such a wimp. “What help can you get us, then?”
Rhode paused, and Peters uncharitably imagined N-88 calculating the odds of how best to play the hand. “Listen: the Boorda’s headed for the SoCal Operating Area. Most of the air wing just flew aboard from Lemoore; they deploy in two days.”
Peters’s mind raced. The new Nimitz-class CVN with Air Wing 18 would be even closer than MCAS Miramar. “A really tactical guy like Baccardi Riccardi might have a couple of Toms or Hornets on Alert Five.”
“Hook, I already made the call. I don’t know their deck status, but they’ll be talking to you directly. It’s best if I stay out of the loop, you know …”
Yeah, I know, Rocky. If anything goes wrong … “Thanks. I’ll try to keep you informed.” Peters hung up, then turned to the speaker. “Radio, this is Peters.”
“Aye, Captain.”
“Rob, tell me something.”
Robbins’s voice shot back. “Terry, I’m talking to ATC at LAX. They’re working the problem, but I think they’re more concerned with diverting commercial traffic than finding our bogeys.”
“Any joy at all?”
“They had a couple low-level skin paints out around Tustin but nothing definite. The A-4s aren’t squawking, of course.”
Peters bit his lip. The Chinese interceptors naturally would stay low to evade radar while avoiding transponder identification. “Rob, we need a Hawkeye or another AWACS—something that can break a bogey out of the ground clutter. I need to talk to Boorda.”
“Rog, boss. I’ll keep after the feds.”
Peters straightened up, and Odegaard approached him. “Excuse me, Captain. I was just wondering—couldn’t our own radar pick up the Chinese?”
“Not over land—too much background clutter. Over water, maybe, depending on their altitude and distance. Otherwise …”
“Santa Cruz, Santa Cruz. This is USS Boorda.” The power of the transmission was such that Mei turned down the volume on the bridge console.
Peters answered in person, speaking bridge to bridge. “Lima Delta, this is Santa Cruz, Captain Peters speaking.” He used the CVN’s generic call sign to demonstrate his knowledge and authority. “Good thing we worked with these guys at Fallon,” he explained to Odegaard and Mei.
“Ah, yeah, Terry. This is Ben Spurlock. Listen, I’m putting you through to CAG Riccardi in strike ops. Call sign Chainsaw. You copy?”
Peters grinned. Captain Spurlock had been Lieutenant Commander “Spurs” Spurlock in Peters’s air wing. “Hey, Ben. Sure thing, put Baccardi through.”
“ … ardi here, Terry. You read me?”
“Affirmative, Chainsaw. I guess you know our situation?”
“I understand you have four A-4s on a SinkEx for a Malaysian freighter hauling nukes, that a couple of Chinese A-4s are looking for them, and one or two Flankers are involved. Right?”
“That’s right. As yet we haven’t found the target, Tony. Now, I’m not worried about the Chinese A-4s ’cause that’ll be a straight-out gunfight that my guys will win. But the Flankers …”
“Concur. They’re the threat. Terry, I’m launching two Hornets right now with a couple Toms several minutes behind them. I’m also trying to get an E-2 up, but that’ll take longer. Probably too long.”
“That’s okay, CAG. Just be sure they know that they shouldn’t shoot any A-4s. The odds are seventy-five percent that they’re friendly.”
“Consider it done. Chainsaw, out.”
Peters turned to Odegaard and Mei. “At least there’s something going right. Now if …”
“Bridge, Radio.” It was Robbins’s voice.
“Rob, what’ve you got?”
“LA Center has been in touch with Dougherty Field at Long Beach. Between them they’ve got a plot on two low-level fast movers headed offshore.”
Peters’s eyes widened. “Send it!”
Twenty-four
Bogies
“Papa One, this is Santa Cruz. Over.”
Delight’s pulse spiked. God, I hope they have something for us. “Papa One here. Go.”
“Pure, this is Rob. Listen, amigo, LAX and Long Beach both got fixes on two low-level fast movers. They’re feet wet at Anaheim Bay.”
Delight did the geometry in his head. From El Toro, the Chinese Skyhawks had to overfly the Seal Beach naval weapons station and the wildlife refuge. They’ll get FAA violations fershure, Delight mused. He pressed the mike button. “Roger, Robo. I’m northbound.” He paused for two seconds. “Break-break. Papa Three from Lead. Over.”
“I heard it, Lead.” Ostrewski’s voice came through crisp and clear. “We’re inbound.”
“Papa Lead, Robo here again. The bogies are climbing, orbiting the area around Island Chaffee. Your signal is Gate.”
“Roger.” Delight glanced over at Thaler, nodded briskly, and shoved the throttle almost to the stop—“through the gate” as it was known in the propeller era. Almost immediately Thaler called, “Lead, gimme a percent.” Delight nudged off a skosh of throttle to allow his wingman to keep up.
In a fast climb, Delight led his section toward one of the four small islands in San Pedro Bay. He marveled that Penang Princess could have come so far so soon, apparently to drop anchor virtually within sight of the pier from which Santa Cruz had sailed the night before. Subconsciously checking his A-4’s vital signs, he began thinking ahead in time and space.
Let’s see … if they’re climbing, it’s because they want to intercept us before we roll in. They’ll be waiting at twelve thousand feet or higher, probably a little south of the ship. He punched the button again. “Papa Three, Lead.”
“Three here.”
“I’m going in high, Oz. If you see we’re engaged, ingress below the fight. We’ll buy you some time.”
“Three copies. Out.”
On the bridge of his hijacked aircraft carrier, Captain Terry Peters rubbed his chin, staring north into the Los Angeles Basin’s perennial smog and haze. Emotionally he was split between his friends, airborne and about to engage in an old-fashioned gunfight and dive-bombing attack, and his wife, who was—what? He began allowing himself to consider the possibility that he might no longer have a wife.
“Captain?” Odegaard was at his side.
Peters was startled by the intrusion. He visibly flinched. “Yes?”
“Well, sir, Mr. Mei and I were looking at the chart. The only way the Princess could have got this far north was if she’d been running about three or four hours ahead of schedule. I mean, there wasn’t a specific arrival time, but it was a pretty narrow window if they were going to off-load as planned.”
Peters felt himself growing short-tempered. “Yeah. So what’s your point?”
“Well, sir, presumably the Chinese didn’t have time to divert the freighter because they only learned about us this morning. And they couldn’t follow their original plan because they know that their leased facility at Long Beach is compromised. But here they are, still one step ahead of us. That means, either they intentionally built this fudge factor into the equation, or …”
“Or what?”
“Or they planned to transfer the nukes to other boats all along.”
Peters shook his head as if avoiding a nettlesome insect. “What are you saying?”
Mei stepped forward. “Captain, we don’t know how long the Princess has been offshore. It is possible the backpacks are not aboard her anymore.”
Peters slumped in his chair, chewing on his thumbnail, pondering the prospects of his watch officers’ assessment. He felt that he should have considered the likelihood himself, and he knew w
hy he had not. Jane, where are you?
Finally, he shook his head. “Negative, I don’t think so. Otherwise, there’d be no reason to scramble the A-4s and cap the freighter. We’ll know more once Zack gets a visual.”
Odegaard was dubious enough to press his point. “Skipper, I think we’re obliged to notify the Coast Guard or the harbor patrol. At least they could board the Princess and …”
Peters shot a laser glance at Odegaard. “No, absolutely not! If the nukes are still aboard, the crew is bound to resist, and there’ll be casualties. And if there’s a patrol craft alongside, more innocent people will get killed. No, Mr. Odegaard. We have to play it out.”
Odegaard’s eyes widened. “You mean, you’d order the attack even with a Coast Guard vessel right there?”
“I mean that Zack Delight and Ozzie Ostrewski will hit their target unless I call them off. And I won’t do that.”
“Captain Peters, I wish to object. I still think we have options to …”
“Noted. Log it, and I’ll sign it. You too, Mr. Mei.”
The Chinese officer. exchanged glances with his American counterpart. “You mean, Captain, you are accepting full responsibility?”
“It goes with the territory, son.”
Peters swung his chair outboard, slightly surprised to find that he cared very little about what happened to Penang Princess. Jane’s face came to him at the same time as Robbins’s voice.
“Terry, I’m still in Radio. I’m hitting Baker Channel.”
Psycho Thaler’s voice was high-pitched in alarm: “Bogies, one o’clock high!”
Twenty-five
Bandits
Zack Delight had seconds to decide his tactics. Psycho’s call told him all he needed to know—the Chinese had altitude on him. He could split the section, relying on his A-4F’s superior performance to hold off the hostile Juliets while Thaler bombed, but Delight was the one with flares to deceive heat-seeking SAMs. Or he and Thaler could jettison the two tons of weight penalty they each carried, shoot it out with the bandits, and buy time for Ostrewski and Vespa. Four Mark 83s could sink the ship, but six or eight offered far better prospects. Then there were the Flankers to consider …
Combat Page 78
