Commander Busby felt his gut tense when he saw the look on Ellison’s face. He had been pleasantly surprised to find out that his temperament and that of the petty officer were closely matched, despite the disparity in their physical appearances. He was nurturing the young man along, hoping someday soon he would apply to one of the number of college education programs the Navy sponsored.
“Biological weapons,” Ellison said as he passed the message to Busby. “Medium-confidence report.”
That was all Busby really needed to know, but he scanned the message anyway for the details. This particular weapon came in the form of a two-ton truck abandoned in the middle of the desert, discovered by an Army patrol that had inspected the contents. In it, they had found twelve bodies, black and swollen in death, the features distorted. A bit of canny work by an intelligence specialist had given the warning before the situation could become disastrous — and later, blood samples taken from the patrol who’d investigated it brought terrifying news.
The black plague. Certain death in the Middle Ages, somewhat treatable these days by modern methods, but by no means always curable. It spread rapidly from airborne exposure, symptoms coming on quickly, its victims almost immediately debilitated by raging fever and painful muscles and bleeding.
“They caught them in the chow line,” Busby said softly, horror in his voice. “My God, the close quarters — they must have infected another fifty people, minimum.” He scanned the remainder of the message, looking for the details of the evacuation plan, and saw that anyone exposed to a member of the squad was currently on a large transport headed for the States. But for some it would be too late.
A buzzer sounded, capturing their attention. Busby picked up the red phone on his desk, the one that connected him directly to TFCC.
“Intelligence, Combat. We’ve received a Warning Order, sir. We’re to stand by to conduct precision strikes again suspected Iraqi biological-weapons sites. They’re requiring a preliminary plan within the next six hours.”
“Roger,” Busby responded. “Assemble the rapid-response team in the admiral’s conference room. I’m on my way.”
He pulled out the folder that contained the contingency plans already drafted, thankful that they had done their homework. The bare bones of such a mission were already sketched out, accompanied by a floppy disk containing the details formatted as a message. Manning, missions, cycles, and requirements — it was all laid out, merely waiting to be tinkered with to fit the particular targets designated. He silently thanked Senior Chief Armstrong’s foresight, since he had been the one to make sure all the plans had been updated.
By the time he got to the conference room, the rest of the team was assembled. Strike, operations, supply, maintenance, and representatives from each squadron, generally the squadron commanding officer. There was a brief flurry as they discussed the message among themselves, and then a sharp, “Attention on deck,” that brought them all to their feet as the admiral walked in.
“Carry on,” Coyote said immediately, indicating they should return to their seats. He walked to the front of the room, passed a scribbled piece of paper to the operations officer and said, “These are the initial targets from JCS. This is being handled at the highest level. I don’t have to tell you that the intelligence that brought us this information cost several lives.” He glanced over at Busby, as though he might have additional information on the deaths. “So, let’s get on it. I’d like to see strike details in an hour and have the completed answer ready to go out half an hour later. Any problem with that?” He glanced around the table, confirming that there was not. “Very well.” He turned and stalked out of the conference room, barely giving them time to come to their feet again.
It took the team only forty-five minutes to put together the first draft of the plan. Exactly 106 minutes after they had received the initial order, their response to the warning order left the ship.
To their credit, the watch team at JCS was no slouch, either. After a brief phone conference with Fifth Fleet, the response came back: Execute.
Tomcat
1600 local (GMT +3)
Fastball and Rat’s argument was interrupted by word of a possible mission. It had not come over a radio circuit from the Air Boss or over the 1MC. Instead, a young airman had climbed up the boarding ladder, motioned to them to undo the cockpit, and filled them in on the details. The more informal channels moved far faster than the official ones.
From the moment he heard the news, Fastball was ready to go. Rat, the more experienced, began her preparations as well.
Finally, when the order came, they were ready.
“We’re going first,” Fastball crowed as he increased power to the engines and waggled the control surfaces for a final check. The catapult officer stepped forward and made a motion with his hands, indicating that Fastball should cycle all of his control surfaces. He did so, circling the stick, and was rewarded with a thumbs-up, indicating that all control surfaces appeared functional. There were a final few details on the radio, and then the catapult officer snapped off a sharp salute. Fastball returned it, immediately dropping his hand back to the controls and increasing the engines to full military power. Seconds later, a massive force shoved him back in his seat.
The bone-rattling run down to the end of the catapult always seemed to go on for far longer than it actually took to launch that much metal into the air at a speed capable of sustaining lift. As they shot off the bow, the Tomcat sank momentarily, fighting to remain airborne. Fastball dealt with the familiar clutch of panic that he always suffered at this point as he contemplated the possibility that insufficient pressure at the catapult had given them a soft cat shot and insufficient airspeed.
Seconds later, the Tomcat caught the air, fought her way back above the bow, and gained speed steadily in response to the full throttle. Fastball heard Rat’s sigh of relief and echoed it. He let the Tomcat gain more speed and made sure they were going to continue flying, then slid her into a steep climb. She was now fully under his control, responsive to the slightest twitches of his fingers, a melding of man and machine. In the back, he heard Rat grumbling, but he ignored her. Later, when they had targets to destroy, what she had to say might be important. For now, she was just a passenger.
CVIC
1620 local (GMT +3)
“All flights airborne,” a voice over the speaker announced.
“Good hunting, ladies and gents,” Lab Rat said softly. “Good hunting.”
Fastball’s Tomcat
1621 local (GMT +3)
“Skeeter, get over here,” Fastball ordered. He heard a sigh over the circuit he shared with his wingman, and then the other Tomcat slid snugly into position.
“That close enough for you?” a slow drawl asked.
“That will do. Now stay there,” Fastball ordered. “Rat, give me a vector.”
“First target, bearing three-two-zero, range forty-five miles,” she answered. Even as she spoke, Fastball was putting the Tomcat into a hard turn, coming to base course.
It was a site they knew well, one that they had briefed countless times. It had been on the top of their list of potential biological-weapons facilities for the last month, and small bits of information continued to increase the probability that that was what it was.
And why do we wait until people die to destroy it? We knew what it was — why didn’t we take it out?
He shrugged, putting the question out of his mind. Those decisions were made way above his pay grade, but someday… Fastball viewed their failure to destroy this target as the sort of cowardly behavior that he’d come to expect from most Administrations. Maybe they were afraid they’d hit a baby-food factory instead of a real biological-weapons site. Maybe they did know more than he did about the targets, about what could go wrong with a preemptive strike. Well, to hell with them. When he was senior enough to be making the calls, he’d call the strikes like he saw them.
“Two,” Skeeter acknowledged, following suit at Fastb
all’s command. His Tomcat appeared to hang motionless in the sky at exactly the right distance from Fastball.
Five minutes later, Fastball announced, “Feet dry. Visual on target.”
The facility was located just off the coast, a complex of concrete buildings and piping that resembled a refinery. Rat had studied its outlines hour after hour, committing its shape from every angle to memory. Now, as she craned forward to get a look at it, she felt a reassuring sense of familiarity.
“Concur, target,” she acknowledged. “Descend to angels two on approach.”
“I know, I know,” Fastball muttered. “Didn’t we brief this enough times?”
“Just follow the checklist, Fastball,” she said wearily.
“Why don’t you just leave the flying to me? If you want to do something useful, watch for antiair missiles,” he said sharply, putting the Tomcat into a sharp descent.
There was always a wild card, wasn’t there? Intelligence could do a lot, but they could not keep up with every single movement of small weapons on the land. There was no intelligence about fixed antiair weapons sites, but there was every possibility that there could be a man stationed on the roof with a Stinger tube or a mobile air setup. Even a few machine guns could exact serious damage if they manage to connect with the fuel tank. No bombing run, not even the ones conducted at the training range, was ever entirely safe.
Fastball kept his gaze fixed on the target, at the exact position that he wanted to nail. He absorbed the information displayed on his HUD unconsciously, integrating it with what his eyes told him and correlating the two pictures.
“Five seconds,” Rat announced. “Four, three, two — mark!”
The heavy jet jolted upward as the five-hundred-pound bomb left the wing, lofted into the air on a trajectory destined to take it right into the center of the complex. Moments later, Skeeter released his weapon as well, and the two Tomcats peeled away from the approach path in opposite directions to avoid mutual interference. They went buster at right angles to the target for a few moments, gaining maximum distance, and then converged back on base course.
“Good hit,” Rat shouted, turning around to watch the fireball behind them. “Secondaries, too, I think.”
“Nice job,” Skeeter’s RIO agreed.
“Then it’s back to the barn, boys and girls,” Fastball announced, self-satisfaction in his voice. “I think we earned ourselves the couple days off Alert Five.”
USS United States
1625 local (GMT +3)
“I want some answers, and I want them now!” Admiral Jette swore, slamming his fist down on the heavy conference room table. “Jefferson’s got her strikes already launched, weapons in the air, and you people haven’t even finished up the answer to the warning order. Anyone mind explaining this little discrepancy to me? Is there a really damn good reason that we can’t be first off the mark?”
No one spoke. Every officer seated at the admiral’s table knew the answer, but they had learned from hard experience that the emperor did not appreciate being told he had no clothes on.
“What about it, Strike?” the admiral asked, directing his comments to the air strike officer. “What’s your excuse?”
Of all the officers there, Strike was the most experienced. He’d been on numerous cruises in this area, served on Fifth Fleet battle staff and as the force operations officer on board a command and control ship, and had forgotten more about the Middle East than most of the others had ever learned. Additionally, he had just decided to retire. His oldest daughter, age ten; had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis and was not doing well. In all good conscience, as much as he loved flying, he could not leave his wife to bear the burden alone. This was his last cruise, although no one knew it yet.
“The problem is, Admiral, that we weren’t ready,” he said bluntly, locking his gaze on the admiral’s angry eyes. “If we had a notional flight schedule ready to go, if we left a little bit of flexibility in our plans, then this whole thing would have run much more smoothly.”
“Are you telling me you can’t do your job?” the admiral demanded, his voice low and menacing. “Would you like me to relieve you now or shall I wait for a court-martial to decide your incompetence?”
“I’m not incompetent, sir. With all due respect, I’m probably the most competent strike officer you’ll ever see. And it is my considered professional opinion that the staff is not up to speed.” Strike’s voice was firm as he spoke. He could feel the waves of shock and apprehension surging out from the other officers, but he ignored them. Sure, he could have used some moral support, but why ask them to sink their careers along with his? They were good men and women, most of them, and the Navy would need them to balance out idiots such as the man wearing the stars in front of him.
“I want aircraft in the air within thirty minutes,” the admiral said. “No excuses. Thirty minutes.” He held up the two sheets of paper he’d been handed, the staff’s first cut on their commander’s plan. “I am releasing this. You want flexibility, you’ll get flexibility. Get those aircraft in the air now and you can make changes as need be while they’re en route. Think your pilots can handle that, or do they need to have their hands held all the way to the target?”
“My pilots can handle anything,” the senior commanding officer present said. “We’re ready, sir.”
And fuck you, too, buddy, Strike thought. Go ahead, suck up. But see who has to pull your ass out of the fire. And in the end, you won’t be the one that suffers. Your pilots will, and God help them all.
The admiral’s answer came back just as promptly as Coyote’s had, although with a cautionary note to verify all intelligence prior to launch. Fifteen minutes later, the first of the Alert Five aircraft of United States launched.
Tomcat 101
1645 local (GMT +3)
Commander Lauren took the first flight himself. His motivation was not an avid desire for attaboys or a greedy grab for more stick time. Lauren had had more than his share of combat missions, and was second only to Strike in number of traps on board a carrier. He chose a less experienced pilot-RIO team for his wingman.
Lauren was a tall, stocky man with a shock of silver hair that made him easily visible in any crowd. A sprinkle of freckles across his nose, coupled with bright blue disingenuous eyes, often led people to underestimate him. No one who had ever served with him or flown with him ever made that mistake more than once.
“States, this is Renegade Leader,” he said, toggling his mike on. “Be advised we are feet-dry and ten miles from designated target. You have any intel updates for me?”
“Renegade One, States. We’re working on it, sir. If there’s a modification, we should have it to you in about five minutes.”
Five minutes. Thanks, fella. I’ll already be in range if there are any new antiair sites in the area. “Roger, States, acknowledged.” But I’ll be damned if I let you hear me sweat it out.
A small red symbol began blinking on his HUD, and the ESM warning gear in the rear seat simultaneously erupted with incessant beeping. “Fire control radar,” his RIO announced. “I think we got a SAM site dead ahead.”
“It figures,” Lauren said. Generally, you could detect a hostile radar at about one and one half times the range that the radar could detect you. They gave him some time, if not a lot, to try to turn and make his way around the edges of the radar’s detection envelope. “That’s it, bearing zero-six-zero?”
“Affirmative. I think if you—”
“Already on it,” the pilot said laconically, swinging the Tomcat ninety degrees off base course. “Let me know when we start losing signal strength.”
“Roger.” The ESM beeping stopped as the Tomcat opened range from the site.
“Renegade One, States. Be advised there’s a possible SAM site to the northeast of your current location.”
“Roger, got it.” Thanks a lot, guys. Too little, too late. “Interrogative our target status?”
“Renegade One, new target design
ation to you.” And a new symbol popped into being on his HUD, labeled with bearing and range information. “Intelligence confirms probable biological-weapons site, with possible warhead capabilities. No known antiair defenses in the area.”
“No known? That’s not very reassuring.”
A new voice came on the circuit, one he recognized immediately as the admiral’s. “Nothing about combat missions is supposed to be reassuring, mister.”
Just what I need, him sitting in TFCC and micromanaging the final run. Wonder if he’ll give a weapons-release countdown for me?
“Got it,” his RIO said. “Come right to about ten degrees. That shit is coming in from the side. We can make a hard turn, come in right over it, and get out of that radar’s range before they get a handle on us. The range should be long enough for a spoof to work.” The ESM system had active countermeasures, ones that could intercept a targeting radar and transmit a return signal that would convince the threat radar that its target was somewhere else.
“In theory, at least,” the pilot noted.
“Yeah. In theory.”
I remember this target. Not a lot to look at. It’s on the side of a hill, built back into it. A helluva target for a five-hundred-pound dumb bomb. Something like that, we need a daisy-buster. But it’s a come-as-you-are fight and what we have will have to do. Maybe we can damage the entrance enough to hole up anybody back in the buried part of it.
“Commencing final run,” he said, turning the aircraft to put it on the path indicated on his HUD. From here on in, it was a matter of coordinating electronic information and visual, using his experience to release the dumb bomb exactly at the right moment to loft it onto the target. Sort of like throwing a softball, he mused. And in this case, he would have to rely on his eyes and experience to tell him what alterations in the flight plan he had to make to compensate for the hill. The plan called for him to nail the center of the target, but that clearly wasn’t going to work. He needed to strike near the entrance.
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