Billings turned to Captain Black. “We need a casualty report as soon as possible.”
“Yes, sir.” Black picked up the radio to call the Wasp.
Tucker and Dillon watched the advancing line of Marines penetrate the trees and head inland firing sporadically at anything that moved. But now there was mostly silence, although to Tucker’s left, at the west end of the beach, there were two loud unidentifiable pops. Tucker, Dillon, and the men strode cautiously but steadily inland until they were surrounded by deep foliage. The ground was wet and slippery, but firm. They picked up speed as they realized that the foliage was not impenetrable. Tucker checked their position on his GPS receiver against his rough chart of the island.
Dillon watched over his shoulder, completely confused, just trying to stay out of the way. He still felt sick after watching the Navy coxswain take a bullet in the neck. He tried to view the experience with detachment, but he couldn’t get the image out of his mind, the image of the sailor falling backward with blood spurting out of his neck.
Dillon was in good physical shape. He ran almost every day. But just coming ashore and going a few hundred yards exhausted him.
Tucker slowed and listened. He motioned Dillon to stay down while the Marines checked the trees for snipers and the ground for booby traps. Black smoke rose in the distance, and they walked slowly toward it. Their line was as straight as he could hope for as they worked their way silently through the jungle.
Suddenly the leaves were torn by bullets and machinegun fire. The Marines threw themselves onto the green moist ground and fired back. Bullets and tracers flew in both directions.
Tucker had heard fire like this before. This wasn’t twenty or thirty people; this was one hundred, or two hundred. It was the sound of constant, sustained firing of automatic weapons. The central company commander was right next to Tucker. Tucker yelled at him, “Call in the Harriers. Call them in on the smoke.”
The company commander grabbed the radio while Tucker signaled for the platoons on the left and the right of the bunkers to advance cautiously.
A second radioman handed Tucker the receiver. “Otter Seven is calling.”
“Otter Chief,” Tucker said.
“Otter Chief. Otter Seven,” the captain from the first helicopter said loudly over the radio. “We’re taking heavy fire on the north end of the perimeter. We have the smoke in sight, which we believe to be the bunkers. We’ve lost one helicopter and an estimated fifteen men, over. The smoke behind is from the downed helo.”
Tucker grimaced. “Roger. We’re on the other side of the same smoke. I’m calling in the Harriers. Don’t advance until I give you the signal. After the Harriers roll in, we’re in hot.”
“Otter Seven, copy, out.”
Tucker handed the receiver back to his radioman and looked up. The Harriers were two miles away. Tucker could hear them coming—a screaming jet noise. The Harriers popped up over the horizon from his left and climbed to about three thousand feet. They rolled in and Tucker could see for the first time how fast they were going—at least five hundred knots. The Harriers’ cannon was audible above the general din of the firefight. The first one pulled up sharply and Tucker heard, then felt, an enormous whump as two five-hundred-pound bombs exploded half a mile away. The second Harrier followed right behind and then two more. The shooting slackened. Tucker stood and gave the signal.
The Marines doubled their pace through the jungle, almost running. They were nearly reckless as they headed for the spot where the bombs had just landed. Their hunger for a fight increased. Some of them shot wildly as they moved, while others stopped to fire from their shoulders.
Suddenly the lead platoon broke into the clearing with Tucker right behind. Dillon ran hard to keep up. They threw themselves on the ground as they were met with a hail of bullets. The Marines stopped on the edge of the clearing and began encircling the area. Then, behind the firing came the sound of a rocket motor igniting. A large missile flew out of an area carved into the side of a hill. The fat, ugly missile flew over their heads, picking up speed as it went, a huge piglike projectile headed for the fleet.
The EA-6B prowler electronic warfare plane saw the electronic guidance signals from the Silkworm anti-ship missile about the time Tucker heard it launch. “Silkworm airborne!” the NFO from the Prowler warned the fleet on guard frequency. The pilot could see the smoke trail coming from the island. “You got a bearing for the HARM?” he demanded.
“Affirmative!” his NFO in the right seat answered. “Come starboard ten.”
As soon as the EA-6B was lined up it launched its HARM, the high speed anti-radiation missile, at the Silkworm site. It was faster than the Silkworm, but had gotten a later start.
“Park Bench 104, this is Long Bow, over,” the E-2 transmitted to the Tomcat.
“Go ahead,” Messer replied instantly.
“Vampire airborne!” came the immediate reply. “Vector 338 for ten!”
“104 coming port to 338. Say angels.”
“Angels unknown, but thought to be low.”
“Roger. Looking,” Messer transmitted. “Keep your eye out, MC. Should be twenty-five left. Low. Cruise missile. Headed out. We’ve got about a minute to find it and shoot it down. Shit!” Messer searched for the missile with his radar. “Why can’t the stupid Aegis take it?”
“Because the only Aegis ship is still with the carrier, and we’re in the way,” Caskey replied calmly. “Stay cool, Messer.”
“Sorry. Okay.” He leaned forward against his shoulder straps to look closely at the radar. “I got it! He’s headed straight for the Wasp. It’s really hauling, but subsonic. Come port to 291.”
Caskey slammed the stick to the left to bring the nose of the Tomcat in front of the Silkworm, a huge anti-ship missile the size of a small airplane.
“Master arm still on?” Messer asked, his breathing loud in the ICS.
“On,” Caskey replied as he watched the fast-moving speck that was the missile coming from the right. “We gonna try a forward quarter shot?”
“Yep. Buster,” Messer said, calling for maximum power without afterburners.
“Roger.”
The Tomcat picked up speed, but not fast enough. “Burner,” Messer demanded. “There’s too much drift. Come port hard! Hard as possible!”
Caskey wrapped the Tomcat into a ninety-degree left-hand turn to try to catch the missile.
“Descend to two thousand,” Messer said as they leveled their wings. “We’ve got a beam shot. I’m going to take it anyway.” He reached for the launch button by his left knee to fire an AMRAAM.
“Park Bench, new Silkworm airborne. 360 for 14.”
“Roger,” Messer replied. He pushed the red-lighted launch button with enthusiasm. The rocket motor on the AMRAAM missile fired and tore ahead of the Tomcat toward the Silkworm. Messer—like Caskey—had learned to fly intercepts with the AIM-7 Sparrow missile. If this had been a Sparrow, they would have been required to keep their radar trained on the Silkworm until missile impact. But not with the AMRAAM, a “fire and forget” missile. As soon as it was off the rail, Messer yelled to Caskey, “Come starboard to 360, MC.”
Caskey brought the Tomcat around hard, heading back north toward the island, which had smoke rising from it in several locations.
“Got it,” Messer said quickly. “Come out of burner. Set 500 knots.”
“Roger that. I’m going to check the other one,” Caskey replied as he quickly dipped the left wing to check the AMRAAM they had just fired. Caskey watched the missile approach the Silkworm, then go stupid and fly by the target and into the water. “Long Bow,” Caskey transmitted to the E-2, “missile failed to guide. Warn the Wasp that that Vampire is still inbound.”
“Wilco. Do you have the second?”
“Judy,” Messer said, annoyed.
“Tally-ho!” Caskey called as he saw the missile ahead, still below them.
“Good target aspect.” Messer studied the intercept on his radar. “Good
solution.” He waited. “Port five degrees,” he asked. The Tomcat streaked toward the smoking island at five hundred knots and two thousand feet.
“Any signs of those SAM radars again, Messer?”
“No,” he replied. “Stand by…” Messer pressed the launch button and the second AMRAAM came off the Tomcat and screamed toward the Silkworm. Caskey and Messer strained to watch as it guided directly to the Vampire and hit it squarely in the face. It was only four miles from their Tomcat when it exploded in a huge fireball and fell toward the warm ocean.
“Splash one Vampire,” Messer called, then lifted his head and looked around for other bogies or missiles. “Come around south, MC. Let’s get out of their SAM envelope.”
As they headed south again and climbed back up to a more comfortable altitude, Messer asked, “Who are these guys? They have fancy speedboats, SAMs, good tactics, and now surface-to-surface missiles? What the hell is going on here?”
“These aren’t your average terrorists,” MC answered. “They may not be very smart, but one thing is clear—they are well financed. I just hope that first Silkworm doesn’t get through to the Wasp.”
The first one was trying to do just that. There were no other air defenses between it and the Wasp. The Silkworm had unwittingly flown right down the corridor of least resistance.
The Wasp had been trying to clear the helicopters out of the area since being warned of the incoming cruise missile. Their best—and last—defense was the Phalanx, the point defense system—a Gatling gun with a radar mounted on the side of the ship to shoot down cruise missiles with good old-fashioned bullets. A lot of them. It was the same gun that the F-14 and F-18 had, but with a different radar. This radar was hungry for metal: it would find anything metal and shoot it. No discretion, no thinking. If it’s metal, shoot it. Which required that those in charge of the system clear all friendly metal out of the way before shooting. And that’s exactly what they had been trying to do.
The last helicopter cleared the deck of the amphibious carrier to the south as the Wasp went to automatic on its missile defense system. Robo-gun. It looked like a white R2D2 on the side of the ship. Its radar had a good return from the Silkworm and turned the six barrels of the Gatling gun toward the cruise missile as it closed on the Wasp. It jerked a couple of times, raised the barrels, and began firing. A steady stream of 20mm bullets ripped through the air toward the incoming missile. When the Silkworm was a mile away, small pieces of the tail began to fall away. Seconds passed as the bullets drew closer to the missile and finally caught up with it. The bullets tore the missile apart. It blew up and fell into the sea in thousands of pieces well short of the Wasp.
On the island, in the three minutes since the Silkworm launch, the Marines had advanced cautiously. They approached what they thought was the clearing Tucker had been heading for. They entered the perimeter carefully. Some knelt on the ground while others continued walking. Two smoking bunkers with thick concrete roofs stood on the left side of the opening, bigger than expected.
It looked like a small village, with dozens of huts. It was eerily quiet. There were several bodies, but no visible opposition. Yet there had been only minutes before.
“They must be in the huts,” Tucker said to the Marine to his left. “I don’t like this at all.” He glanced around with the skeptical look he had developed watching rash men die. “Check every hut. One by one. Watch for booby traps!” he said.
The Marines advanced toward the village with their rifles swinging left and right, while Dillon stood on the perimeter trying not to look as scared as he felt.
35
TUCKER STUDIED HIS CHART. HE WAS CONFUSED, and he didn’t like it. There was no place for the terrorists to have gone, but they had vanished. One minute there was furious automatic weapons fire from this village, and the next, it was empty. The Marines had the entire perimeter surrounded; the terrorists couldn’t have gone through the Marines undetected. And the company that had been dropped by the helos on the other side of the clearing had arrived and reported no activity in their direction at all.
Tucker looked up suddenly. His staff surrounded him, waiting for instructions and wisdom. He breathed a little harder, trying to understand his sense of danger. Something was wrong. He knew in the back of his mind the answer was obvious; he just couldn’t figure it out. Then he remembered the stories he had heard from Marines who had been in Vietnam. “A tunnel!” he yelled, starting to move quickly. “Check the floors of the huts!” he bellowed as he headed for the largest hut himself. Dillon trotted behind him.
The Marines approached the hut carefully with their rifles pointed at the door. Tucker gave the officer the sign to go in right now. They proceeded more quickly, but still with caution. One finally threw open the bamboo door and pulled back, waiting for some response. He was met with more silence.
Tucker wasn’t waiting any longer. He strode through the door with his 9mm handgun, ready for any movement. He noticed a bamboo floor mat over a large section of the dirt floor. The rest of the squad was in the hut, waiting anxiously for something to happen. Dillon instinctively pulled back as Tucker tugged gently on the bamboo mat to feel for any resistance: any wires, lines, or booby-trap triggers. He didn’t feel anything as he slid it slowly to one side. Tucker grimaced at what was underneath. He peered down the dark mud stairway and examined the wood supporting the sides. He noticed several wires in the darkness across the wide mouth of the tunnel. Nearly every step was booby-trapped.
“This isn’t even worth trying to clear,” he said to those in the room, who were relieved. Tucker stooped down to examine something on the third step. It was a strange device. It was sitting on a steel plate. Very odd, Tucker thought. He had never seen anything like it. Round, no markings on it, and about five inches high. It looked like a UFO.
A faint bell of recognition sounded in the deep recesses of his memory. He had read something about a device like this in the op report of the attack on the Pacific Flyer. “Everybody out!” he screamed. “Out!”
The Marines, hearing his tone more than his words, were out of the hut before he was. They ran for the trees. Others, standing in the clearing, sensed the problem and began running themselves. Dillon was slower to react. He made it out just in front of Tucker and Luther. The hut erupted behind them in an enormous explosion that splintered the bamboo walls. Dirt and debris were thrown a hundred feet into the air as the concussion threw the Marines still in the clearing to the ground. Dillon, Luther, and Colonel Tucker were slammed down onto their faces and lay still as rubble and splintered bamboo covered them.
“Commander Louwsma…” Admiral Billings said in that tone that made people cringe. He stopped as the video image on the screen erupted and the hut from which Tucker had just run exploded. “What the hell…?” Billings said, sitting forward. The Army officer in the corner turned a dial to back the video image from the Predator away from the burning hut so more of the island could be seen. The screen showed a large number of Marines looking at their colonel and several other Marines who were lying on the ground in the clearing. Those on the ship watched in horror as the situation became clear. The terrorists had disappeared, the main hut had been booby-trapped, and the central Marine force was either dead or wounded. Billings growled to Captain Black, “Get the colonel on the radio. I sure hope Dillon wasn’t in there. That’s all we need.”
Beth Louwsma stared at the screen in amazement. What had seemed like a walk-through was becoming a disaster. Her throat was dry. She stared at the small images of the Marines lying on the ground.
Colonel Tucker stirred and staggered to his feet. He knelt down to examine Corporal Luther, who got up as well. Next to them was a body with white tape on his helmet. The tape was slightly singed and blackened, but “Jimmy” was clear enough. “Oh, hell,” Tucker said as he dropped to his knees. “Corpsman!” he yelled. He put his face next to Dillon’s. “You okay? Dillon!” he yelled as the hut burned behind them.
Dillon’s eyes opened a
nd looked around wildly. He turned his face and saw Tucker. As he swung his left arm up to defend himself from some unknown threat, Tucker grabbed it. “Dillon! You’re okay. Can you hear me all right?”
“Yeah, I hear you fine.”
“Can you get up?”
“Yeah, I think so. What happened?”
“The place blew up. We got out just in time.”
Tucker and Luther hauled him effortlessly to his feet. Dillon’s knees bowed involuntarily, but he recovered his balance quickly. He took a deep breath and tried to rub the dust off his face, but his sweaty palms smeared it, giving him a muddy look.
Tucker put his 9mm back in his holster. “This looks clear,” he said to no one in particular. “They’ve gone somewhere else. Now we’ve got to find them. It’s a small island.” He began to walk toward his radioman and stopped to look at Dillon’s face. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.” Dillon scanned his body to look for any signs of injury.
Tucker smiled slightly. “Well, now you look like a real Marine. We don’t like pretty boys running around with clean uniforms.
“Come on, Corporal Luther. Bring Mr. Dillon and let’s get on with this.” The radioman walked up and Tucker grabbed the receiver.
“Beth,” Billings continued, “can you explain to me how these terrorists had Silkworm missiles and we didn’t know about it? And they actually launched two of them and almost got one of my ships? Can you explain that to…”
“Colonel Tucker on the radio, sir.” Captain Black handed him a telephone receiver.
“Brandon, what’s going on there?”
“Admiral, things are under control. We’ve captured the entire area, and the SAM launch sight and the Silkworm sights. Everything is disabled.”
Balance of Power Page 37
