This Mighty Scourge

by Adam Yoshida

  "Perhaps, but they are doing it nonetheless," replied the Flight Lieutenant.

  USS Cape St. George (CG-71), One Hundred and Forty-Seven Miles Southeast of the Falkland Islands

  "You know," said Captain Gilmer, "eventually you're going to have to answer to the Navy Inspector General for this. Never mind the insurance implications for the merchant ship."

  "Most maritime insurance policies don't cover acts of war," replied Admiral Collins.

  "Well," said Gilmer, "someone is going to have to pay."

  "Bridge, CIC," came the weary voice of the TAO over the intercom, "we have a further twelve targets incoming. Designating as Raid-1."

  "Acknowledged," replied Gilmer, before turning to order, "steady as she goes."

  The timing of these manoeuvres was going to be extraordinarily delicate. The supply of anti-ship missiles over at RAF Mount Pleasant was, for all intents and purposes, infinite at least in the sense that it seemed as if it exceeded the supply of surface-to-air missiles in the magazines of Task Force 47.

  "Vampire! Vampire! There are twenty-three missiles incoming," called out the CIC.

  "Very well," said the Captain, "proceed with the pre-agreed fire plan."

  In the CIC the TAO shuddered as he directed the launch of twelve SM-6s against the twenty-three incoming supersonic anti-ship missiles. Launching fewer counter-missiles than those that were incoming was, of course, contrary to any sort of standardized procedure. However, given the small size of the escort force that was with Task Force 47, there was a great deal of sense to it.

  "Ten hits," reported the radar operator, "two misses. Thirteen still incoming."

  "Hold your fire until the range closes to forty km or less," ordered the TAO.

  "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck," repeated the radar technician as thirteen Perseus missiles raced towards the fleet at three times the speed of sound with their final targets still unknown.

  "Hold," repeated the TAO, speaking very softly as the range ticked down. The missiles were just fifty kilometres away now. Then they were forty-five away.

  "Ok," ordered the TAO, "open fire."

  Thirteen Evolved Sea Sparrow Missiles leaped forth from the cells onboard the Cape St. George and began moving towards their new targets as the entire personnel of Task Force 47 held on with white knuckles.

  "Nine vampires destroyed. Four still incoming," reported the radar operator, "range is now twenty kilometres."

  "Hold and engage with point defenses only," ordered the TAO, his voice shaking slightly as the range between the fleet and the missiles closed quickly.

  Within ten seconds, the range closed enough for the four warships of the Task Force to open fire with their Rolling Airframe Missiles. The short-range SAMs reached out and destroyed two of the missiles instantly, even as the final two continued towards their targets. The process was almost automatic now. The Phalanx CIWS onboard the Cape St. George automatically turned and engaged the threat. The Phalanx fired off a stream of bullets that contacted and destroyed the missile at a range of just over three hundred feet.

  The final missile continued its course unabated, moving too fast for the RAMs launched by the automated SeaRAM system onboard the Coronado to catch up with it. It slammed into the MV Emma Mærsk , a massive container ship that had been pressed into service as part of the Fifth Fleet in order to meet the transportation needs of the Third Army. The single missile was hardly enough to sink the 170,000 ton monster, but it was more than enough to kill members of the crew and set fires.

  The Tactical Action Officer didn't have the bandwidth to immediately concern himself with the fate of the cargo ship.

  "Launch Tomahawks, per the firing plan," he ordered.

  With the press of a few buttons two of the RGM-109E Tomahawk Missiles carried in the Cruiser's tubes launched and headed off towards their targets.

  .

  From the bridge of the Cape St. George , Admiral Collins watched the fires burning onboard the Emma Mærsk .

  "Can she still sail?" asked the Admiral of the damaged merchant vessel.

  "There are at least seventeen dead," reported the communications operator, "and they say that they're having trouble with the fires."

  "We can send them help by helicopter if we must," said Admiral Collins, "but I need to know if they can still make speed. Otherwise we are going to just have to leave them behind."

  The operator spoke into the radio and then listened for a few moments.

  "They say that they can do it, Admiral," he said.

  "Well then, signal the fleet to maintain course and speed," said Collins.

  Over RAF Mount Pleasant, Falkland Islands

  "Negative, 9N1," called out the Air Traffic Controller, "you do not have permission to land. The field is not secure."

  Hennessy's squadron was orbiting the Falklands air base as the crews on the ground struggled to deal with the damage caused by the two American cruise missiles that had beat the squadron back home.

  "Well," Hennessy replied, "I'm either coming down in a secure landing, or I'm coming crashing down when I run out of fuel, so you'd better figure out something."

  "Standby," called out ATC.

  The Wing Commander puzzled over the sudden and seemingly rash decision by the American Navy to turn towards the Falkland Islands, rather than running at high-speed to try and get out of range of his Typhoons.

  Perhaps, he thought, the Tomahawks were part of it - they hoped to bombard the air base out of existence and, indeed, to reduce the threat posed by his fighters (or perhaps to eliminate them altogether) by closing to such a close range that it would be impossible for them to even take off from their base without being fired upon the by the long-range surface-to-air missiles carried onboard the American AEGIS Cruiser.

  "Ummm... 9N1," came a further call from ATC, "we have further hostile fire inbound. Stand by to divert."

  Fuck this , thought Hennessy to himself. He took a second and took a breath to steady himself.

  "ATC, how far away is the inbound fire?"

  "Two more Tomahawks, about one hundred and twenty kilometres away," replied ATC.

  "ATC," he radioed, "the squadron is landing."

  "You are not cleared to land," repeated the controller robotically.

  "Fuck you," he replied, "we're landing always. You can court-martial me later."

  The Americans, thought Hennessy, must only have a handful of cruise missiles, not enough to actually take out the airfield. So instead they're firing them off a few at a time in order to try and keep us from landing and launching further strikes against them. However, the Tomahawk, he knew, a slow air-breathing cruise missile. If those missiles are one hundred and fifty kilometres away, that meant that the RAF squadron had fifteen minutes.

  "Land in sequence," he ordered the squadron, "minimum intervals between landings. We have about ten minutes."

  "You are not cleared to land," repeated ATC.

  "Well, we are," replied the Wing Commander.

  USS Cape St. George (CG-71), One Hundred and Fifteen Miles Southeast of the Falkland Islands

  "Admiral," reported the radio operator, "MV Tallahassee Rain reports that they've suffered a mechanical breakdown of their primary generator. They're not going be able to maintain speed. In fact, their engineer reports that they were shortly be adrift."

  "Order them to prepare their lifeboats," ordered Admiral Collins.

  "It's not that extreme, let me be clear," said the operator, "they've just had a breakdown. The ship isn't in danger of being lost."

  "We can't stop right now," said Collins, "order them to prepare to abandon the ship in the event that we observe DU aircraft or missiles heading in their direction, as we cannot come to their aid at the moment."

  "Yes Admiral," said the radio operator.

  "Keep up the speed," said the Admiral, rapping the console in front of her with her knuckles, "just keep up the speed."

  RAF Mount Pleasant, Falkland Islands

  Wing Commander Da
vid Hennessy checked his watch the moment he felt his Typhoon come to a complete stop. He had begun to unstrap himself even before that.

  "Tow this thing to a fucking shelter now!" he ordered the ground crew as soon as he stepped out of the cockpit.

  "Wing Commander!" an outraged Brigadier General charged out onto the airfield.

  "Sir," said Hennessy, "I understand that you are upset, but there are missiles incoming."

  He stepped off the side of the aircraft and jumped to the ground.

  "We were preparing a diversion to a civilian airport!" shouted the General, "this rash and dangerous act was wholly unnecessary!"

  "General," said Hennessy as he began to move off the runway at a swift pace, "have you considered why the American ships have turned in our direction so suddenly?"

  "They have several Corvettes with them. I suppose that they intend to put this airfield out of action by means of naval gunfire," said the General, as he began to follow Hennessy.

  "Perhaps," agreed the Wing Commander, "that's one possibility."

  "But, as I have said already Hennessy," said the General, "there are multiple usable airfields here, even for Typhoons."

  "I know that," said Hennessy, "and surely the Americans must know that as well."

  "So?" said the General.

  "Their ships only have a limited number of anti-aircraft missiles. If they continued on their way, we'd be able to bombard them from a distance until they ran out of defensive weapons, and then we could smash them," said Hennessy.

  "Disrupting our flight operations might - might - give them a chance to get out of range," said the General as they entered a nearby protective bunker.

  "Possibly - but that's not a certainty. I know what I would do if I was the commander of the American fleet."

  "And that would be?" said the exacerbated General.

  "I would turn this way and seize this airfield and, indeed, the islands themselves," said Hennessy.

  "That would be mad, Hennessy," said the General, "I've seen the reconnaissance photographs of the American fleet - they sent all of their amphibious landing ships north with the main body of the fleet."

  "Yes," agreed Hennessy, "but they still have helicopters. And, beyond that, it's amazing what sort of damage one might do with improvised weapons so long as one has no regard for whether the thing you are using will work thereafter."

  As Hennessy spoke an explosion shook the bunker, rocking both the Wing Commander and the General.

  "How quickly can you rearm for another strike?" asked the General, his voice low.

  A second explosion sounded in the background.

  "By the time I'm done taking a piss," he said, "the ground crew boys should have us ready to go back up and into the air."

  USS Cape St. George (CG-71), Seventy-Four Miles Southeast of the Falkland Islands

  "There is air activity over the British base," reported the radar operator.

  "Make and type?" asked Captain Gilmer.

  "Unknown," said the operator.

  Captain Gilmer turned to face Admiral Collins, as if to say, "this is your show."

  "Elements of the fleet within range are cleared to fire at anything over the Falkland Islands," ordered Admiral Collins. The Captain gave her a glance.

  "The moment that they began to use this island as a base of operations, the entire region became a war zone," said the Admiral crisply.

  "Launching," came the call from the TAO.

  Typhoon FGR4 9N1, Falkland Islands Airspace

  As soon as the alarm sounded in his cockpit, Hennessy turned to evade and kicked in the afterburners on his Eurofighter, seeking to put as much distance between himself and the American SM-6s as physically possible.

  It was too late, realized the Wing Commander as he took his fighter into a quick decent in an effort to get away from the Surface-to-Air missile that was pursuing him. A quick check of his heads-up display revealed that most of the rest of the squadron were engaged in exactly the same process. They had barely even gotten into the air before the Americans had fired upon them.

  "Boys," he said, broadcasting in the clear, "we've done our best, but I have no desire to die fighting the United States. Do any of you?"

  The channel was quiet for a moment.

  "Fuck no!" called out one of the other evading pilots. His sentiments were repeatedly echoed in the seconds that followed. Hennessy paused for a moment to collect himself before he broadcast again.

  "U.S. Navy formation," called out the Wing Commander, "this is the commander of the British fighter squadron broadcasting in the clear. Come in U.S. Navy."

  After a pause of nearly thirty seconds, during which time one of the Eurofighters was struck and destroyed by one of the American missiles, a female voice came over the line.

  "This is Commander, Task Force 47," said the voice.

  "Commander TF 47," said the Wing Commander, "this is Wing Commander David Hennessy. The force that I command is no longer capable of effectively engaging your force, so long as it remains in such close proximity to our own base of operations. Therefore, respectfully, I request your terms."

  "Jettison all ordinance and then standby and hold your position," replied Admiral Collins.

  "Message acknowledged," replied Hennessy. He and the other ten surviving Eurofighters dropped their remaining missiles off their pylons, allowing them to fall harmlessly into the ocean below. Then, for two long minutes, they sat in silence and waited.

  "RAF Squadron Commander," came the voice of the Admiral over the radio, "you are to proceed directly to Port Stanley Airport and land there. If you deviate from such a course, you will be fire upon. Once you have landed, I will have it upon your honour as officers and gentlemen that you will not engage in further hostile action against the United States until exchanged and paroled."

  "Acknowledged, Commander TF 47," replied Hennessy as he guided his fighter into a slow turn, "you have our word."

  RAF Mount Pleasant, Falkland Islands

  "We should shoot the bastards down ourselves," said the General as he watched the radar track of the Typhoons heading towards Port Stanley airport.

  "I don't think that we could ever go home if we did that," said the Air Defense Officer quietly.

  "Nonsense!" shouted the General, "we are dealing with mutineers... traitors even. The sternest response and punishment is merited."

  The General stormed over towards a radio console.

  "Wing Commander," he spoke into it, "I am ordering you to turn around and engage the enemy. I am ordering you in the name of His Majesty."

  For a moment static filled the open channel.

  "Fuck off," came the reply.

  The furious General stormed back toward the station where Flight Lieutenant who served as the post's Air Defense Officer was standing.

  "Lock your firing control radar on the aircraft headed towards Port Stanley," he ordered.

  "With respect, General, I cannot do so," said the Flight Lieutenant.

  "That is a a direct order, Flight Lieutenant," said the General stiffly.

  "That being so, I nonetheless cannot."

  "MP!" shouted the General, pointing towards the Air Defense Officer, "please place the Flight Lieutenant under arrest."

  Two MPs who were waiting nearby moved over towards the Flight Lieutenant, who stood calmly and placed his hands behind his back.

  "Alright!" continued the General, clapping his hands together, "now who can lock in our radars and prepare to fire?"

  The men who stood around the computer equipment that controlled the SAM battery remained still and silent.

  "Well?" asked the General, "let's have at it."

  "Sir," a young enlisted man volunteered, "only the commander had the correct codes to fully activate the system."

  The Flight Lieutenant, being escorted out of the room, suppressed a smile and deliberately avoided turning towards his men.

  "Surely one of you has the ability to operate this machine," said the General incr
edulously.

  "That has been a problem," one of the other enlisted men volunteered, "we've been meaning to fix that. But we hadn't gotten around to it quite yet."

  "Damn you," said the General, as he stormed out of the room.

  USNS Medgar Evers (T-AKE-13), Shallow Water Near the Falkland Islands

  The USNS Medgar Evers , a Lewis and Clark -class dry goods ship had been chosen for this particular mission on account of its poor physical condition. Over the last few months it had been one of the ships to break down most frequently and to hold up the fleet the most. In addition, when Admiral Collins and Captain Gilmer had conducted a quick review of what most of the ships of Task Force 47, the cargo remaining onboard the ship had proven to be of the least value, the provisions that it carried having already been heavily drawn upon.

  Based upon this survey, Lieutenant Commander Dave Taylor was ordered to do something that would normally end his career: to beach his ship.

  The Admiral hoped that it wouldn't be enough to destroy the vessel altogether and that she could be recovered and put back into use after the war, but they were also more than willing to run the risk that a grounding off the shore of the Falkland Islands would be the end. The ship had also been chosen because she had a large deck that allowed a lot of helicopters to back a thousand volunteers from two infantry battalions onboard the ship, along with ladders and other gear that would allow them to quickly dismount the grounded vessel. The anti-submarine helicopters of the fleet were pressed into action as pseudo-attack choppers, moving just ahead of the ship as it moved towards the islands themselves. Cape St. George remained slightly in the distance, holding onto its last missiles lest there be some other hostile aircraft somewhere in the islands that might attack the fleet. The Coronado and Sioux City were closer to the shore, prepared to use their limited gunfire capabilities to support the Army soldiers if necessary.

  "Well, here we go," said Taylor from the bridge of the Evers.

  "Slow us down to five knots, but keep going," he ordered as the twenty-thousand ton ship moved ever closer, "the most gently that we bottom out the better this is going to be."

  Onboard the deck of the Medgar Evers , just short of a thousand soldiers stood at the ready, clutching their personal weapons in their hands, waiting nervously for the first signs of resistance as the massive ship edged towards the shore.