Arsenal c-10

by Keith Douglass

  Unexpectedly, he thought of Callie. His relationship was fucked up, but at least he’d do something right something he was trained to do, something he’d practiced millions of times. And there was no chance the Cubans would send him a Dear John letter over this attack.

  0456 Local (+5 GMT)

  Fuentes Naval Base

  “Those are ours,” Sikes said, pointing up to the sky. “You can tell by the Tomcat engine.”

  Huerta nodded. “Are we clear?”

  Sikes shrugged. “I don’t know. It depends on how accurate they are.”

  They’d left the Fuentes Naval Base perimeter the same way they’d come in, dragging Pamela Drake through the hole in the perimeter fence.

  Suddenly, she’d seemed convinced of her own immortality, and had actually argued that she should remain in the compound during the air attack on the base. He shook his head. Women and reporters. No sense at all.

  “Let’s put a little more space between us and the IP,” he ordered. “I want to be on the beach in five minutes.” He turned to the Marine Corps pilot. “Think you can keep up?” he asked, deliberately ignoring Pamela Drake.

  The Marine major seemed to swell slightly. “I’m a Marine. You wanna race me to the beach?”

  Sikes shook his head. “No, the real question is this how well can you swim?”

  0457 Local (+5 GMT)

  Tomcat 201

  “Twenty seconds,” Gator said. “Almost there. Bird Dog we’re almost in.” The backseater sounded like a football coach calling a routine play. “And hurry up!” The RIO’s voice took on a new note of urgency.

  “We’ve got company.”

  Bird Dog’s head snapped up. He’d been staring down at the terrain, tensing himself for the moment that he would release the five-hundred-pound bombs. “Where? And who?”

  “Dead ahead. Ten miles. Looks like more it is. MiGs, from the radar.

  Bird Dog, we can make it. Hold steady on this course, dump the bombs, then we’ll take care of the MiGs.” Gator’s voice was insistently urgent.

  “How many?”

  “You don’t wanna know.”

  “How many!” Bird Dog heard Gator sigh.

  “About twenty so far. And the E2 says there’s a second wave behind them. It looks like the six inbound from the east were just a diversion.”

  Bird Dog toggled his tactical circuit on. “Red Dog Might, this is Red Dog Leader. You see it now, guys MiGs, dead ahead. We’ve got time just enough. Dump your ordnance, then combat spread. All flight leads acknowledge.” A quick flurry of acknowledgments followed.

  “No one flinches,” Bird Dog said, a hard, deadly tone in his voice.

  “We finish their base, then we finish them.”

  FOURTEEN

  Tuesday. 02 July

  0500 Local (+5 GMT)

  USS Jefferson

  “Damn it!”

  Tombstone slammed his hand down on the arm of his battle chair. “How the hell did they get away with that? And where did all those aircraft come from? That’s more than Cuba has in her entire inventory!”

  Batman clenched his fists and glared at the large-screen display.

  “Libyans. It’s got to be. Five years ago, you and I would never have fallen for that feint.”

  “Five years ago, we wouldn’t be on some wishy washy presence mission constrained by political considerations in our own backyard,” Tombstone snapped. “Damn it. Batman, we blew it. Face it.”

  Batman shook his head. “Not yet, we didn’t.” He pointed at the flight of Tomcats and Hornets inbound on their objective. “Do the time-distance problem. They’ve got time to dump their ordnance and engage. It ain’t over until it’s over. Admiral.”

  The use of his title snapped Tombstone back to reality. He shifted out of his emotional reaction to the sudden appearance to the inbound raid and focused strictly on the tactical scenario. What Batman said was true. And, with their ordnance dumped, he’d match his flight of tomcats up against any raid of MiGs.

  That the Cubans had surprised him frustrated him no end.

  Perhaps what he’d said in anger was true maybe he was too old to be in command of operational forces. God knows he’d certainly had his taste of combat, in missions ranging from fighting the Soviets during the Cold War in the skies of Norway to his most recent foray against them, repelling a missile launch crew from the Aleutian Islands. Maybe it was time to step down, give the younger men a chance.

  Maybe it was “Admiral Wayne. We need to talk now.” Tombstone drew his old friend aside to a quiet corner of TFCC. He steepled his fingers in front of him and gazed at his old wingman, his dark, unreadable eyes now backlit with frustration. “What’s the first principle of command.

  Batman?”

  “Lead from the front,” Batman said promptly. “Don’t ask your troops to do something that you aren’t willing to do yourself.”

  Tombstone nodded. “I’m glad you remember that. Maybe you won’t think I’m completely crazy, then. Listen, it’s your air wing can I borrow a Tomcat?”

  Batman’s jaw dropped. “Hell, no, you can’t have an aircraft! How long has it been since you’ve been behind the controls, anyway? Two years?”

  Tombstone shook his head. “Not that long.” He managed a grim smile.

  “A three-star draws enough water to catch an occasional refresher FAM flight, even in SOUTHCOM.

  Two weeks, max.”

  “But what the hell for?” Batman’s voice had ratcheted up three notes.

  What his old lead was proposing was crazy absolutely insane. Admirals didn’t fly combat flights they stayed in TFCC and kept the big picture, drawing on their experience and training to coordinate the many measures that could and often did go wrong in combat. “You’re of more value right here than you are in the air.”

  Tombstone shook his head again. “No. We’ve got two admirals on board as it is. You and I both know that I should never have been ordered out here as task force commander.

  You’re more than capable of running your own carrier group, whether or not it includes an Arsenal ship.”

  “But what do we gain by putting you in the air?” Batman asked, tacitly acknowledging the truth of Tombstone’s statement. “I’ve got a dozen pilots sitting in ready rooms ready to man up those birds. I hate to say it, old friend, but they’re a helluva lot sharper in the cockpit than you are now.

  You could have taken them back when we were both flying regularly, but not now.” Batman shook his head. “No. I can’t see any justification for this. With all due respect. Tombstone, no.”

  “Think about this. Batman.” Tombstone pointed back toward the large-screen display, then fished in his pocket and pulled out a laser pointer. He toggled it on and then circled the symbols for the incoming raid aircraft with a red dot. “We’ve got what looks like Cubans inbound, right?

  Only you and I both know that they’re probably Libyans.

  How the hell our satellite surveillance missed them is something we’ll puzzle out later. But for now, there’s a lot more on the line than merely air battles and losing aircraft.

  We’ve got a whole new foray by a foreign nation into our bathtub down here, and however this ends up, it’s not going to be pretty. I’m not having my men and women face it alone not when I can be out there with them. If there’s going to be some shit hitting the fan over this, it’s going to have to go through me to get to them. They’re all good pilots, every last one of them, and they don’t deserve to put up with the political bullshit that’s going to be falling out from this.

  That’s why I need to be there. I’m a shit shield, if it comes down to that in the aftermath.”

  Tombstone’s face looked hard, weary. He was making sense. Batman had to admit, but not in a way he’d ever heard a three-star make sense before. They both knew that fighting a war and winning it tactically was only half the solution. It was the news reporting and diplomatic interpretation of the battle afterward that really made American foreign policy. But still,
was the solution to risk a senior officer on a swan-song combat flight? He didn’t think so.

  Tombstone took a step closer to him. “I’m retiring after this tour.

  Batman. I’ve got three stars now, three more than I ever planned on.”

  His voice took on a wistful note. “All I ever wanted to do was fly.

  The promotions, commanding a carrier battle group that was the pinnacle.

  There’s just more paperwork, more D.C. tours after this. I’m going to punch out while it’s still fun.”

  “But Tombstone, there are other operational commands.

  And there’s always JCS.” Batman struggled to find more arguments to present to his old lead.

  “Not for me.” Tombstone’s voice and face suddenly lightened, as though some terrible tension had been released inside of him. “This is it-one final mission, putting it on the line one last time and hopefully doing some good for this country. I owe the country that and you owe me an aircraft.”

  Batman’s throat seemed to close up slightly. “What’s your mission?”

  “bda bomb damage assessment. We need a firsthand look at it, from somebody who’s got enough background to know what they’re seeing. And those missile launchers hell, these pilots are all too young to have seen the real thing. You and I would know what they were.”

  “I’ll go with you.” Batman was surprised to find how exciting the prospect was. to be back in the air, to feel the smooth surge of twin engines pounding under his butt, facing off against the adversary in a nimble, deadly fighter he wanted it, too.

  “You can’t. Someone has to stay in command here.” What might have been a smile tugged at the corners of Tombstone’s mouth. “And I’m senior, buddy. This is your battle group you stay here and command it like I had to do in the Spratlys. I’ll go out and get the BDA, help us plan our next move.”

  “Damn it. Tombstone oh, all right. But you’ll need a backseater.”

  Batman’s eyes looked unfocused as he considered the roster of naval flight officers on his staff.

  “I’ll go,” a quiet, feminine voice said. Both men turned and stared at the small figure standing a foot away from them.

  “Eavesdropping, Commander?” Batman said harshly.

  “Not a good way to get off to a good start with your new battle group commander.”

  She met his angry gaze levelly. “No, it’s not. Just about as bad a way as letting a three-star admiral fly off this boat without the best damned backseater available going with him. Do you know what happens to this grandiose plan if he gets shot down and killed? All of this self-serving bullshit is for nothing and you’re left facing the long green table.”

  “Better to be judged by three than carried by six,” Batman said.

  “Better if neither happens. If Tombstone’s taking a Tomcat on a strike or recon mission, I’m going with him.

  We’ve flown together before, and I know how he thinks. I might be able to keep him alive when no one else can.” Her voice was firm and insistent.

  “Following that logic, I ought to be on his wing,” Batman countered.

  “The admiral already shot down that idea,” she pointed out. “And he’s absolutely right your place is here with the battle group. Not for me.

  I haven’t relieved Henry yet, so I’ve got no formal role in this battle. My place as prospective executive officer is anywhere I’m needed. And right now, that’s in the backseat of his Tomcat.” She turned to Tombstone and shot him a withering glare. With all due respect Admiral, this is the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard you come up with. Sir.”

  “You’re not going,” Tombstone said. “End of discussion.”

  “Why?” she shot back. “Because I’m your wife? Damn it, Admiral Tombstone I was a helluva fine RIO before I ever met you, and I’ll be a damned fine one after you retire.

  But there’s one thing I won’t be, not at this age a widow.

  So if you’ve got good reasons for taking this flight yourself, you can just count me in. You got that? Sir?” She made a visible effort to rein in the temper that went with her fiery red hair.

  The two admirals looked at each other, each slightly surprised to find that he’d been outflanked by the diminutive commander. Finally, acceding to the inevitable. Tombstone shrugged. Batman scowled.

  “Well?” Tombstone asked.

  “Do I get my aircraft?”

  Batman nodded. “And my favorite RIO, as well. Take care of her, you old son of a bitch. I’ll kill you myself if she gets hurt.”

  Tomboy snorted. “If you’ve both just about run the gamut of your testosterone-laden self-recriminations, could we get on with it? I’ve got a mission to brief.” She turned smartly, then looked back. “I’ll be in the Ready Room when you’re ready to go. Admiral. I suppose you can still find the way by yourself?”

  “And I thought the Cubans were getting good at outmaneuvering me,” Tombstone said wonderingly.

  “I need to talk to you alone,” Batman said abruptly. He pointedly looked away from Tomboy, who shrugged and left immediately.

  “What was that about?” Tombstone asked.

  “Just something she doesn’t need to know about-hell, I wouldn’t tell you except that you outrank me and you’re going to be on the front lines out there. It’s about Arsenal.

  She’s carrying UAVs unmanned aerial vehicles.”

  Tombstone was stunned. “Since when?”

  “Since my last tour in D.C. I’ve still got sources there, Stoney. I heard about it from a shipmate who took the time to hunt me down last time I was there. They’re playing this Arsenal program so close to the chest that need-to-know evidently doesn’t even include me. But you can count on itshe’s got them on board.”

  UAVs one of the cheapest, most cost-effective assets in development.

  Tombstone had seen a few test films, had been impressed by the weaponeering and intelligence potential in them. Yet sadly, the program languished. Despite its tremendous benefits to all the services, there simply wasn’t enough money involved to garner the political support to keep it funded.

  At least not most of it. Evidently someone in Washington drew enough water to get them put on board the USS Arsenal.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Tombstone said. “Though I don’t know that it’ll make any difference right now.”

  0508 Local (+5 GMT)

  Tomcat 201

  Bird Dog was only two hundred feet above the ground, screaming across the landscape at 450 knots. The pucker factor involved in low-level operations was second only to trapping on the carrier at night, and particularly so when dawn had not even started to make its first appearance over in the east. Luckily he knew from studying the maps that there were no obstructions on their ingress route, and as long as he stayed on course and at altitude, he should be over his target without encountering a hard, immovable object. Like a mountain. Or a building. Either one of those was guaranteed to ruin an aviator’s day, along with the more minor hazards, less visible but equally deadly, of electrical lines and television antennas.

  “Ten seconds,” Gator said. “On course, on altitude steady, steady.”

  The comments were unnecessary but reassuring. Bird Dog glanced down at the target track indicator on his heads-up display, followed the red pip displayed there. He could see himself that he was making a perfect approach on the target. The only problem, as far as he could see, was the inbound raid of MiG-29s. And those wouldn’t be much of a problem as soon as he dumped the ordnance on his wings.

  “Five seconds,” Gator announced with all the emotional involvement of a stockbroker reporting an inactive share.

  “Four, three, two now, now.”

  Bird Dog had already shifted the weapons selector switch to the appropriate station. He toggled it sharply and felt the Tomcat jolt upward as a pair of five-hundred-pound bombs left the wings. His airspeed picked up immediately, as did his altitude. Bird Dog slammed the throttles forward, cut sharply to his right, and kicked in the after
burners. The increase in thrust slammed him back against his seat, and he heard a sharp, involuntary gasp from Gator. Bird dog grunted and tensed his stomach muscles, forcing blood out of his torso and into his head to insure he kept consciousness during the high-G maneuver. It wasn’t his preferred way to leave a target sure, get away smartly, but this insane coupling of maneuvering and speed brought its own dangers. Graying out right now, less than five hundred feet above land, would be fatal. There was no room for error.

  Still, there was no other option. With the MiGs inbound in a classical high-low combat formation spread, the Tomcat flight had to gain altitude. And fast. It would be an easier task for its lighter Hornet brethren, but the Tomcats would be the mainstay of any extended ACM.

  After the bombing run, heavily laden and traveling close to the ground, the Hornets would be burning fuel at an incredible rate. He figured they had no more than twenty minutes on station in ACM and violent maneuvering before they’d have to vector back to the carrier to tank.

  As formidable as the light aircraft were in ACM, easily outclassing the MiG in turning radius and maneuverability, their short legs were too often a fatal weakness.

  Bird Dog watched the altimeter spool up past angels two.

  He eased out of the turn and felt the aircraft begin to gain altitude even more quickly. Finally, at ten thousand feet, he cut the afterburners and eased back to military power.

  His wingman. Short Mahoney, was lagging behind. Bird Dog orbited, waiting for him to catch up.

  “Six minutes,” Gator announced in the same tone of voice he’d used to count down the bomb drop. “Within Phoenix range now.”