by Tom Clancy
Four seconds out from their targets, the SM-2 missiles received terminal guidance signals from the SPG-62 illumination radars. It was too sudden, too unexpected for them to jink clear. All four fighters were blotted out on massive clouds of yellow and black, but they’d managed to launch six antiship missiles.
“Vampire, vampire! I show inbound missile seekers, bearing three-five-zero.”
“Okay, here we go.” Kemper turned the key another notch, to the “special-auto” setting. Aegis would now go fully automatic. Topside, the CIWS gatling guns turned to starboard. Everywhere aboard the four warships, sailors listened and tried not to cringe. The merchant crews they guarded simply didn’t know to be scared yet.
Aloft, the F-16s closed on the still-intact flight of four. These were also antiship-missile carriers, but they’d looked in the wrong place, probably for the decoy group. The first group had seen a close gaggle of ships. The second hadn’t yet, and never would. They’d just turned into the signals of the Aegis radars to their west when the sky filled with down-bound smoke trails. The four scattered. Two exploded in midair. Another was damaged and tried to limp back northwest before he lost power and went in, while a fourth, missed entirely, reefed into a left turn, punched burner, and jettisoned his exterior weapons load. The four Air Force F-16s had splashed six enemy fighters in under four minutes.
Jones got one of the sea-skimmers on the way by, but none of them had locked into her radar return, and the resulting high-speed crossing targets were too difficult to engage. Three of four computer-launched attempts all failed. That left five. The destroyer’s combat systems recycled and looked for additional targets.
They’d seen Jones’s smoke and wondered what it was, but the first real warning that something was badly wrong came when the near trio of cruisers started launching.
In Anzio’s CIC, Kemper decided, as O’Bannon had, not to launch his decoy rockets. Three of the inbounds seemed aimed at the after part of the formation, with only two at the lead. His cruiser and Normandy concentrated on those. You could feel the launches. The hull shivered when the first two went out. The radar display was changing every second now, showing inbound and outbound tracks. The “vampires” were eight miles away now. At ten miles per minute, that meant less than fifty seconds to engage and destroy. It would seem like a week.
The system was programmed to adopt a fire-control mode appropriate to the moment. It was now doing shoot-shoot-look. Fire one missile, fire another, and then look to see if the target had survived the first two, and merit a third try. His target was exploded by the first SM-2 and the second SAM self-destructed. Normandy’s first missile missed, but the second nicked the C-802, tumbling it into the sea with an explosion they felt through the hull a second later.
Yorktown had an advantage and a disadvantage. Her older system allowed launches directly at the inbound missiles instead of forcing the missiles to turn in flight before they could engage. But she could not launch as fast. She had three targets and fifty seconds to destroy them. The first -802 splashed five miles out, killed by a double hit. The second was now at its terminal height of three meters, ten feet over the flat surface. The next outgoing SM-2 missed high, exploding harmless behind it. The following missile missed as well. The next ripple from the forward launchers obliterated that one three miles out, filling the air with fragments that confused the guidance of the next pair, causing both to explode in the shredded remains of a dead target. Both of the cruiser’s launchers swiveled fore and aft and vertical to receive the next set of four SAMs. The last -802 passed through the spray and fragments, heading straight into the cruiser. Yorktown got off two more launches, but one faulty missile failed to guide at all, and the other missed. Then the CIWS systems located on the forward and after superstructure turned slightly, as the vampire entered their targeting envelope. Both opened up at eight hundred yards, missing, missing yet again, but then exploding the missile less than two hundred yards off the starboard beam. The five-hundred-pound warhead showered the cruiser with fragments, and parts of the missile body kept coming, striking the ship’s foreright SPY radar panel and ripping into the superstructure, killing six sailors and wounding twenty more.
“WOW,” SECRETARY BRETANO said. All the theoretical stuff he’d learned in the past weeks was suddenly real.
“Not bad. They’ve launched fourteen aircraft at us, and they’re getting two or three back, that’s all,” Robby said. “That’ll give them something to think about for the next time.”
“What about Yorktown?” the President asked.
“We have to wait and see.”
THEIR HOTEL WAS only half a mile from the Russian embassy, and like good parsimonious journalists, they decided to walk, and left a few minutes before eight. Clark and Chavez had gone a scarce hundred yards when they saw that something was wrong. People were moving listlessly for so early on the start of a working day. Had the war with the Saudis been announced? John took a turn onto another market street, and there he found people listening to portable radios in their stalls instead of moving their wares onto the shelves.
“Excuse me,” John said in Russian-accented Farsi. “Is something the matter?”
“We are at war with America,” a fruit vendor said.
“Oh, when did this happen?”
“The radio says they have attacked our airplanes,” the fruit seller said next. “Who are you?” he asked.
John pulled out his passport. “We are Russian journalists. Can I ask what you think of this?”
“Haven’t we fought enough?” the man asked.
“TOLD YOU. THEY’RE blaming us,” Arnie said, reading over the intercept report off Tehran radio. “What will that do to the politics in the region?”
“The sides are pretty much drawn up,” Ed Foley said. “You’re either on one side or the other. The UIR is the other. Simpler than the last time.”
The President checked his watch. It was just past midnight. “When do I go on the air?”
“Noon.”
RAMAN HAD TO stop at the Maryland-Pennsylvania line. A good twenty or so trucks were waiting for clearance from the Maryland State Police, with the National Guard in close attendance, and they lined up two by two, completely blocking the road at this point. Ten angry minutes later, he showed his ID. The cop waved him through without a word. Raman turned his light back on and sped off. He turned on the radio, caught an all-news AM station, but missed the top-of-the-hour news summary and had to suffer through all the rest, largely the same thing he’d been hearing all week, until twelve-thirty, when the network news service announced a reported air battle in the Persian Gulf. Neither the White House nor the Pentagon had commented on the alleged incident. Iran claimed to have sunk two American ships and shot down four fighters.
Patriot and zealot that he was, Raman couldn’t believe it. The problem with America, and the reason for his mission of sacrifice, was that this poorly organized, idolatrous, and misguided nation was lethally competent in the use of force. Even President Ryan, he had seen, discounted as he was by politicians, had a quiet strength to him. He didn’t shout, didn’t bluster, didn’t act like most “great” men. He wondered how many people appreciated just how dangerous SWORDSMAN was, for that very reason. Well, that was why he had to kill him, and if that had to come at the cost of his own life, so be it.
TF61.1 TURNED SOUTH behind the Qatar Peninsula without further incident. Yorktown’s forward superstructure was badly damaged, the electrical fire having done as much damage as the missile fragments, but with her stern turned to the enemy, that didn’t matter. Kemper maneuvered his escorting ships yet again, placing all four behind the tank carriers, but another attack was not forthcoming. The result of the first had stung the enemy too badly. Eight F-15s, four each of the Saudi Air Force and the 366th, orbited overhead. A mixture of Saudi and other escort ships turned up. Mainly mine-hunters, they pinged the bottom in front of COMEDY, looking for danger and finding none. Six huge container ships had been moved off t
he Dhahran quay to make room for Bob Hope and her sisters, and now three tugs each appeared to move them alongside. The four Aegis ships maintained station even sitting still, dropping their anchors fore and aft, mooring five hundred yards off their charges to maintain air defense coverage through the unloading process. The decoy force, having suffered not a single scratch, pulled into Bahrain to await developments.
From the wheelhouse of USS Anzio, Captain Gregory Kemper watched as the first brown buses pulled up to the tank-carriers. Through his binoculars, he could see men in “chocolate-chip” fatigues trot to the edge, and watched the stern ramps come down to meet them.
“WE HAVE NO comment at this time,” van Damm told the latest reporter to call in. “The President will be making a statement later today. That’s all I can say right now.”
“But—”
“That’s all we have to say right now.” The chief of staff killed the line.
PRICE HAD ASSEMBLED all of the Detail agents in the West Wing, and gone through the game plan for what was coming. The same would be repeated for the people in the White House proper, and the reaction there would be pretty much the same, she was certain: shock, disbelief, and anger bordering on rage.
“Let’s all get that out of our systems, shall we? We know what we’re going to be doing about it. This is a criminal case, and we’ll treat it like a criminal case. Nobody loses control. Nobody gives anything away. Questions?” There were none.
DARYAEI CHECKED HIS clock again. Yes, finally, it was time. He placed a telephone call over a secure line to the UIR embassy in Paris. There, the ambassador placed a call to someone else. That person made a call to London. In all cases, the words exchanged were innocuous. The message was not.
PAST CUMBERLAND, HAGERSTOWN, Frederick, Raman turned south on I-270 for the last hour’s worth into Washington. He was tired, but his hands tingled. He’d see a dawn this morning. Perhaps his last. If so, he hoped it would be a pretty one.
THE NOISE MADE the agents jump. Both checked their watches. First of all, the number calling in came up on an LED display. It was overseas, code 44, which made it from the U.K.
“Yes?” It was the voice of the subject, Mohammed Alahad.
“Sorry to disturb you so early. I call about the three-meter Isfahan, the red one. Has it arrived yet? My customer is very anxious.” The voice was accented, but not in quite the right way.
“Not yet,” the groggy voice replied. “I have asked my supplier about it.”
“Very well, but as I said, my customer is quite anxious.”
“I will see what I can do. Good-bye.” And the line went dead.
Don Selig lifted his cellular phone, dialed headquarters, and gave them the U.K. number for a quick check.
“Lights just came on,” Agent Scott said. “Looks like it woke our boy up. Heads up,” she said into her portable radio. “Subject is up and moving.”
“Got the lights, Sylvia,” another agent assured her.
Five minutes later, he emerged from the front door of the garden-style apartment building. Tracking him was not the least bit easy, but the agents had taken the trouble to locate the four closest public phones and had people close to all of them. It turned out that he picked one at a combination gas station/convenience store. The computer monitor would tell them what number he called, but through a long-lens camera he was observed to drop in a quarter. The agent on the camera saw him hit 3-6-3 in rapid succession. It was clear a few seconds later, when another tapped phone rang, and was answered by a digital answering machine.
“Mr. Sloan, this is Mr. Alahad. Your rug is in. I don’t understand why you do not call me, sir.” Click.
“Bingo!” another agent called over the radio net. “That’s it. He called Raman’s number. Mr. Sloan, we have your rug.”
Yet another voice came on. “This is O’Day. Take him down right now!”
It wasn’t really all that hard. Alahad went into the store to buy a quart of milk, and from there he walked directly back home. He had to use a key to enter his apartment house, and was surprised to find a man and a woman inside.
“FBI,” the man said.
“You’re under arrest, Mr. Alahad,” the woman said, producing handcuffs. No guns were in evidence, but he didn’t resist—they rarely did—and if he had, there were two more agents just outside now.
“But why?” he asked.
“Conspiracy to murder the President of the United States,” Sylvia Scott said, pushing him against the wall.
“That’s not so!”
“Mr. Alahad, you made a mistake. Joseph Sloan died last year. How do you sell a rug to a dead man?” she asked. The man jerked back as though from an electric shock, the agents saw. The clever ones always did when they found out that they had not been so clever at all. They never expected to be caught. The next trick was in exploiting the moment. That would start in a few minutes, when they told him what the penalty was for violating 18 USC § 1751.
THE INSIDE OF USNS Bob Hope looked like the parking garage from hell, with vehicles jammed in so closely that a rat would have had a difficult time passing between them. To board a tank, an arriving crew had to walk on the decks of the vehicles, crouching lest they smash their skulls into the overhead, and they found themselves wondering about the sanity of those who’d periodically had to check the vehicles, turning over the engines and working the guns back and forth so that rubber and plastic seals wouldn’t dry out.
Assigning crews to tracks and trucks had been an administrative task of no small proportions, but the ship was loaded in such a way as to allow the most important items off first. The Guardsmen arrived as units, with computerized printouts giving them the number and location of their assigned vehicles, and ship crewmen pointing them to the quickest way out. Less than an hour after the ship tied up, the first M1A2 main-battle tank rolled off the ramp onto the quay to board the same tank transporter used shortly before by a tank of the 11th Cav, and with the same drivers. Unloading would take more than a day, and most of another would be needed to get WOLFPACK Brigade organized.
THE DAWN PROVED to be a pretty one, Aref Raman saw with satisfaction as he pulled into West Executive Drive. It would be a clear day for his mission. The uniformed guard at the gate waved hello as the security barrier went down. Another car came in behind him, and that one went through as well. It parked two spaces from his spot, and Raman recognized the driver as that FBI guy, O’Day, who’d been so lucky at the day-care center. There was no sense in hating the man. He’d been defending his own child, after all.
“How are you doing?” the FBI inspector asked cordially.
“Just got in from Pittsburgh,” Raman replied, hefting his suitcase out of the trunk.
“What the hell were you doing up there?”
“Advance work—but that speech won’t be happening, I guess. What are you in for?” Raman was grateful for the distraction. It allowed him to get his mind into the game, as it were.
“The Director and I have something to brief the Boss about. Gotta shower first, though.”
“Shower?”
“Disinfec—oh, you haven’t been here. A White House staff member is sick with this virus thing. Everybody has to shower and disinfect on the way in now. Come on,” O’Day said, carrying a briefcase. Both men went through the West Entrance. Both buzzed the metal detectors, but since both were sworn federal officers, nothing was made of the fact that both were carrying side arms. The inspector pointed to the left.
“This is a treat, showing you something in the place,” he joked to Raman.
“Been in a lot lately?” The Secret Service agent saw that two offices had been converted into something. One marked MEN and the other WOMEN. Andrea Price came out of one just then, her hair wet, and, he noted as she passed him, smelling of chemicals.
“Hey, Jeff, how was the drive? Pat, how’s the hero?” she inquired.
“Hey, no big deal, Price. Just two rag-heads,” O’Day said with a grin. He opened the MEN door and we
nt in, and set his briefcase down.
It had clearly been a rush job, Raman saw. Some minor functionary had had the office, but all the furniture was gone and the floor covered with plastic. A hanging rack was there for clothing. O’Day stripped down and headed into the canvas-enclosed shower.
“These damn chemicals at least wake you up,” the FBI inspector reported as the water started. He emerged two minutes later and started toweling off vigorously. “Your turn, Raman.”
“Great,” the Service agent griped, removing his clothing and showing some of the lingering body modesty of his parent society. O’Day didn’t look at him and didn’t look away. Didn’t do anything except dry off, until Raman was behind the canvas. The agent’s service pistol, a SigSauer, had been set atop the clothing rack. O’Day opened his briefcase first. Then he pulled Raman’s automatic, ejected the magazine, and quietly worked the action to remove the chambered round.
“How are the roads?” O’Day called.
“Clear, made great time damn, this water stinks!”
“Ain’t that the truth!” Raman kept two spare magazines for his pistol. O’Day saw. He put all three in the lid-pocket before unwrapping the four he’d prepared. One he slid into the butt of the Sig. He worked the action one more time to load a round, then replaced it with a new, full magazine, and two more for the agent’s belt holder. Finished, he hefted the gun. Weight and balance were exactly the same as before. Everything went back in place as O’Day returned to dressing. He needn’t have rushed. Raman evidently needed a shower. Maybe he was purifying himself, the inspector thought coldly.
