by David Poyer
The XO nodded. “I heard, sir. I’ll get with him and supervise.”
“Well, I’d actually rather have you up here on the bridge. Have Mr. Jiminiz run the drills.”
“Whatever you say. I’ll pass that to the DCA.”
Dan sighed and sat back. Now what? He was about to ask when the red phone interrupted them. He snatched it out of the cradle. Waited for the sync.
It was Commodore Jen Roald. She sounded rushed. “You got the word about the bunker hit? Over.”
He swallowed. “Affirmative. Over.”
“It doesn’t make us look very effective, but on the other hand, their own defense systems missed it too. But be warned: there may be blowback.”
“I’m not sure what you mean, Commodore. Over.”
“You saw the message about coordination. Some will ask, why didn’t we do that before?”
“Um, I was wondering that myself, Jen.”
Her tone sharpened. “Congress imposes restrictions on release of BMD technology. And I understand that. But then, they ding us when there are adverse consequences. Don’t get me wrong. I know what you’re laboring under. But some people want a magic shield. And some of those are the same people who defunded … well, never mind. New subject.”
“Go.”
“Just got word from Strike Center. They’re ginning up verbal authorization for you and Pittsburgh to spin Tomahawks. A source on the ground has eyes on the hide sites for the rest of the Al-Husayns. Also, the green-door folks have something solid on the comm nodes. They’re going to the Sit Room to get authorization to clean that mess up. Copy so far?”
“Copy all,” Dan said. “Where do you want me?”
“Up in the east Med four whiskey grid. Pittsburgh is getting this from SUBOPAUTH as we speak. I’ll shift tacon to you once you’re both in your shooter box.”
Dan covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “Fahad, tell Bart to get all engines back on the line. We’re headed north to a Tomahawk MODLOC. Have Singhe and her strike team in Combat. I want to meet with them”—he checked his watch—“at noon.” As the exec wheeled away and began giving orders he asked Roald, “How many more have they got? Missiles, I mean?”
“Those numbers have always been squishy, Dan. There’s also the question of how many transporter-erectors they have left to fire them from. But here’s something that just came through: The one you shot down had a concrete nose cone.”
“Those are the chemical warheads.”
“Correct, with sarin and possibly VX. So if we can destroy them on the ground … you’re moving north to a launch basket in the vicinity of 35 east, 33-10 north. From what CAG and CVIC are telling me, you’ll get an MDU for the target set right about the time you hit your box. Shoot as soon as the missions are validated. My strike chief’s in with the APSDET helping them get everything expedited, so he’ll be giving you a heads-up over chat.”
So the data for their Tomahawk strike was on its way. Chief Van Gogh had come up silently to listen in. Dan showed him the launch box position, jotted on his palm with his Skilcraft. It was only about sixty miles away. Almarshadi had Main Control on the line and was passing the word to Danenhower. The OOD had them in a turn. Dan rubbed his face, heart rate accelerating again. “Roger. Coming north now. But … we could launch from here. Why are we…?”
“Look at the map, Dan. And let them have it good. We stomp these snakes in the nest, maybe more civilians won’t die.”
“Aye aye, ma’am.”
Roald signed off. Dan socketed the handset and swung down. The bridge was suddenly full of many more people, all busy. He debated staying, but his strike station was in Combat. Still, he stood over the chart for a moment, frowning. Then noticed the international boundaries, and suddenly understood.
If they launched from the position Roald had just assigned him, the low-flying cruises could follow the Lebanese-Israeli border east, allowing both countries to deny they’d granted overflight rights. Past that it got more complicated, with Jordan and Syria still between the sea and western Iraq. But Jordan generally cooperated with the U.S., and Syria might need the unmistakable threat a dozen missiles violating its airspace would provide.
All that was beyond his pay grade, though. The kinds of things he’d worried about when he was in the West Wing.
Past the bustle he caught a glimpse of Longley. His steward lifted a covered tray, eyebrows raised. Dan shook his head at him—not now—and brushed past.
* * *
HE was intercepted on the ladder down by the chief corpsman. Grissett was lugging a heavy black tome with a scarlet-and-gold-embossed cover. “Skipper, got a minute?”
“Not really, Doc. But if it’s important—”
“It might be. Yeah. I think it could be.”
“Quick download. We’re getting ready to launch a Tomahawk strike.”
“This won’t take long. We got an autopsy and lab reports back on Goodroe.”
Dan coughed into a fist, experiencing a bad second before he remembered who Goodroe was. Then it came back. A peaceful-looking, heavy-jawed face, nude chest. Dried foam at the corner of a livid mouth. A flaccid, purplish penis, and the thin tube of the catheter going in … And nobody seeming to have much idea why the sailor had died. It felt like it had happened months ago, but of course it had been only days since they’d helo’d the body out. Grissett said, “This is from Bethesda, but looks like they got Fort Detrick in on it too.”
Dan took a fast breath. Fort Detrick was Army, infectious disease. And not only that, biological warfare. He’d spent time there himself. Locked in a negative-pressure Maximum Biocontainment Patient Care suite while they’d waited to see if he, and the rest of the Signal Mirror team, would sicken and die. “Give me the—no, just tell me. It wasn’t drugs, was it?”
“No sir. No trace of any drugs.”
“The anthrax shot?”
“Probably not, although they can’t rule it out. They think it’s fungal.”
Dan turned at the landing and started down the next ladder, head turned to keep talking to Grissett, who followed. “Huh. Fungal? Not viral?”
“No sir. They list the organisms they suspect. Question is where he could’ve picked them up. Also, we got two more guys down.”
He stopped in the passageway, staring at Grissett. “Two more dead?”
“No sir, no—I meant, two more on sick call. Cough, elevated temperature, torpor. I dose ’em with cipro, but I’m stumped as to what we’re actually seeing.” The corpsman opened the tome, a heavy medical reference. Started to hold it out, then closed it again as Dan waved it away. “Actually, the cipro may not even be helping. Which might explain why some of them don’t seem to be getting better.”
Dan lowered his voice, though they were alone in the echoing narrow ladderwell that slanted as Savo rolled. “Are you saying there’s something infectious aboard? Something Goodroe died of?”
“That might be one conclusion.”
“Can it be bacteriological? I mean—obviously it’s bacteriological—I mean—”
“A deliberate attack?” Grissett looked grave. “If so, it’s too late to fend it off. I’m seeing cases all over the ship. At first just one. Now I’m getting four, five at each sick call. Not all bad enough to sick-bay. But it’s definitely building.”
“Christ.” He sucked a breath, then remembered where he’d been heading. “Give me the message.… Is it on the LAN? I’ll read it right away and get back to you. Is there anything we can do?”
The 1MC came on, hissed, then said, “Captain to CIC: Now set Condition Two, Strike. All strike personnel report to CIC.”
Grissett said, “Researching it, sir. Can I see you later with that?”
“Yeah, but if we need to take action, let’s do it before more of our troops go down.”
The corpsman nodded, and stood aside.
* * *
IN Combat, with the air-conditioning whooshing and the whole ship vibrating around them as they drove north at flank spee
d, Dan sighed. Someone brought him coffee. Without conscious thought he updated himself from the displays. The Iranian strike group was closer. Pittsburgh had left them behind, headed for the same MODLOC as Savo. The weapon-inventory summary, above the large-screen displays, showed his last two Block 4As operational again aft. The eight Tomahawks aft and eight forward, evenly divided among the C and D TLAM versions, indicated green mode, ready to launch.
Not the stuff of his nightmares, but rather, a ship ready to fight. He checked his watch: a few minutes before the strike team meeting at noon. Mills was in the TAO chair, talking urgently at the same time he typed. Apparently bringing Lahav up to speed, in both senses, on their sprint north. A glance at the surface picture told Dan the corvette was accompanying him.
The TAO saw him. “Captain’s in CIC. —Sir, TSC just called and told us to power up eight C3s and stand by for tasking. This came in unexpectedly—”
“Yeah, I just got a heads-up from the commodore. They got eyes on target and intel they think’s solid. We’ll get a short-notice update and shoot as soon as the missions are validated.”
Dan folded himself into his seat, reflecting on how much had changed since he’d coordinated the very first Tomahawk strike, for Operation Prime Needle. The “flying torpedo” had been an untested concept then. And a clumsy one, its targeting entailing hand-transporting bulky hard drives that contained the route points, and long hours spent hand-programming the seeker heads.
Now routes and targeting came down via satellite. The shift to GPS navigation meant he didn’t have to sweat the problems they’d had with flat terrain. Tomahawk was the cornerstone of the fleet’s ability to project power inland, either clearing the way for air strikes from the carriers or, the way they were going to use it now, to hit high-value command, control, and communications nodes, and possibly enemy missiles as well, before they rolled out on their transporter-erector-launchers and fanned out to fire.
He clicked from voice circuit to voice circuit, then spent a couple of minutes on high-side chat. Twisted in his chair to see who was at the Aegis console. He had to call three times before Wenck snapped out of his mesmerized fixation on the screen. The chief turned it over to Eastwood and ambled over, scratching until spiky blond hair stood straight up. “Sir?”
“Look like you need some sleep, Donnie.”
“You too, Skipper. Why’re we heading north? We’re gonna constrain our geometry.”
“We’re already constrained. But they’re pulling us north to spit some Tomahawks. See the message about high-level coordination with the Israelis?”
Wenck picked up Dan’s cup and drank from it. Dan would’ve been taken aback, except by now he knew the guy was totally unconscious of doing it. Donnie didn’t multitask, but his powers of concentration were terrifying. In the Gulf, he’d read binary code from the callout lights while it was loading into a Russian MVU-199 fire-control computer. “Yessir. We got a freq set up. But you know, it’s uncovered.”
“Uncovered? That’s not so good.”
“Better’n nothing. Actually it might be okay. At least for now. Long as we can say, ‘You take the one on the right, we’ll take the one on the left.’ Or whatever.” He looked at the cup. “Was this yours? Sorry.”
“Take it, since you started it. How’s that cooling-system problem? Did we get that taken care of?”
“Slaughenhaupt’s guys replaced the flow rate sensor couple days ago. Part came in on the chopper. You didn’t hear?”
“Probably somebody told me. But it’s been … whatever.”
“Yeah, I get you.” Wenck glanced at the rightmost screen, and winced at something Dan couldn’t even see. “Uh, I better get back. But you know, Dan—I mean, Captain—you got to sort of let go of some of this. Let us take care of business.”
“I thought I was doing that, Donnie. You think I’m getting too micro?”
“It’s not a criticism, sir. You saved all our fucking lives, there on K-79. At least here we got air to breathe.”
“Yeah, there is that.” Dan swallowed, remembering despite himself the terrifying hours beneath the surface in a sub they had to guess at how to run, unable even to read the labels on the gauges, with most of the Iranian navy trying to kill them.
Someone cleared her throat. He looked past Wenck to Lieutenant Singhe, who was tapping her foot. He glanced at his watch again. Five past twelve. “Okay, I’m gonna be with the strike team. Let me know if anything happens.”
“Okay, sir, and remember—every mile we go north out of the basket, the dumber we’re gonna look if Saddam launches again.”
* * *
WITH a reminder he really didn’t need ringing in his ears, Dan joined the team back by the nav table. Their Barcos, their consoles, were the entire center aisle; the little cleared area was a natural meeting place. Some perched in empty ASWS chairs. Others stood with arms folded. Singhe, shoulders sagging, braced herself against the nav table beside Dan. Matt Mills, the combat systems officer, grabbed a folding chair and dragged it over. He nodded to Dan, then gestured to the chair. Dan straightened, not pleased at the offer. He ran his gaze around the faces. Slaughenhaupt. Redmond. Crandall. He knew their names, but he didn’t know this team nearly as well as he’d come to know the Aegis gang. The admiral’s mast in Naples had hit the strike team hardest. Torn the guts out of it, in fact. Half the replacements were off Jen Roald’s staff; the others, fleeted up from lower-ranking enlisted. Neither Noblos nor Wenck had given them high marks. He half turned, to see Almarshadi fitting himself into the end seat on one of the RGN-651 consoles. Then faced front again as Singhe cleared her throat.
“Captain, we just got verbal direction to spin eight TLAM 5. I acked the message. The DesRon strike chief told us over chat we’re going to get some fast plan-and-shoot tasking.”
Dan nodded. “I got a heads-up from the commodore.”
Before she could answer, the red phone labeled TLAM C&R beeped and flashed. “Savo, Pittsburgh, this is Cutlass, over.”
“This is Savo, roger, over,” Singhe said. She had it on speaker, so they could all hear.
“This is DesRon Strike. Just wanted to pass on what you’re about to get MDU’d. The targets are suspected hide sites and C4I nodes in what’s being called the Western Complex, or Western Missile Sites. Where the launches last night came from. Strike will be coordinated with real-time intel. The idea’s to target any TELs which sortie from their pookas and attempt to set up and fire before the strike arrival.
“Break. Savo, how copy, over?”
Singhe glanced up at him; he nodded. “This is Savo, copy all,” she said. “Continue, over.”
“This is Cutlass. We’ll finish validation on our end in five mike, and start the MDU then. I show both shooters active in MIRC, so I’ll pass the MDU over EHF.”
“This is Savo. Works for us, over.”
“Pittsburgh. Good for EHF MDU here also, over.”
“Any problems, I’ll be on Coordination. Also, we tasked extra Charlies. Keep them powered up. The admiral may or may not keep you in the shooter box. Lot of discussion here. Your Charlie Oscar may be getting some questions regarding time and distance. Stay in the loop. Cutlass, out.”
Dan sat back, keeping tabs as Singhe finished the prelaunch brief. He felt uncomfortable with the way mission data was being passed on voice and over chat. This seemed to be a time-sensitive tasking, though, so he didn’t object.
“All missiles mode seven,” said one of the launch controllers.
Singhe said, “Copy mode seven.” She picked up the red phone and gave the Line India report.
The leading FC, who was on chat, said, “MDU inbound.”
“Get it down to TCR. Get it set up. —Captain, just got mission numbers and other data from Cutlass. Request permission to start planning.”
“Permission granted, but don’t execute until the strike controller tasks the missions.”
Dan got up and strolled a slow circuit, looking at each screen. He was settling ba
ck into his chair when the 21MC in front of him clicked on. “CO, OOD.”
“Go, Mr. Mytsalo.”
“Sir, report arrival at MODLOC. Request course from here?”
Dan leaned on both elbows, studying the surface picture. Clear, except for the single pip of Lahav off to the southeast. Far to the right, faint indications that might or might not be the mountain peaks behind Beirut. On the rightmost screen the saffron spokes of the search beam clicked steadily back and forth, still scanning the Al-Anbar desert.
Once the Tomahawks crossed the beach headed inland, Syrian air defense would have to recognize where they were aimed. If they passed that word on, whoever controlled the Western Complex would know they were on their way.
Mills said in a low voice, “Our course doesn’t much matter, sir. Whatever minimizes our roll, I’d say.”
“Mr. Mytsalo: Choose a course and reciprocal to mimimize roll.”
A pause, then a startled, “Aye aye, Captain.” Dan grinned, remembering how seldom he’d gotten to make a decision as an ensign. Then sobered. “Matt, what am I overlooking? Anything else we should be doing? We don’t have long until this launch window.”
“Going through the checklist, Captain.”
Dan reached under the desk, found the current NavSea manual for launch procedures, and ran down chapter 4. Amy would be backstopping her team, making sure they followed their own station checklists, but he couldn’t help surreptitiously making sure no one made any stupid mistakes. He knew the procedures. Some of them he’d designed, back at the Cruise Missile Project Office. But he’d actually launched Tomahawks only once before, aboard Horn.
He sucked a breath as he remembered the last-minute glitch in the nav system of one of those missiles, a shorted relay or fried circuit board. The launch code back then had been extremely restrictive. Unless it knew exactly where it was going, the missile would refuse the launch order. And since the system fired weapons in serial then, a hitch in number one meant none of the others would fire either. He’d had to execute a series of S turns, and reposition the ship exactly where the first missile’s gyro had frozen.
That had been three or four iterations ago. So that particular problem shouldn’t recur. But any others that popped up … He hoped the team was on top of this.
