The Victoria Stone

by Bob Finley

  In less than a minute the straining aircraft was assaulted by violent buffeting, trying to fly in a half-dozen different directions simultaneously. Jackie grabbed the top edge of the seat in front of her and held on, thankfully without screaming a death threat in the pilot's ear. Even Jerry opened his eyes. And then...she caught a glimpse of jagged rocks, the plane leveled out, and the sound of the straining engine almost died away.

  But before she could breathe a sigh of relief, the plane stood on its nose and she was looking almost straight down a four-thousand-foot roller coaster. She heard someone gasp, realized dimly that it was herself, and in spite of her most resolute intentions, let a long crescendo of a moan escape as the plane's speed escalated in geometric proportions. She was suddenly shocked to hear an eerie keening noise just behind her that stood the hair up on the back of her neck.

  "Yaaaaaahoooooooo! Take us to warp speed, Scottie!"

  Jackie whirled to find Jerry leaning forward, face alight and thoroughly enjoying himself. She bit off a retort, clamped her mouth shut, and tried not to look out the windscreen at their headlong plummet down the sheer face of the Serre De Monchique. The wind sang in a rising frenzy against the comparative silence of the idling engine until they finally leveled out and flashed across the beach like a bullet. In the dense air just above the wave tops, the engine powered up again and she had a fleeting thought that they must have sounded like an Indy 500 car whipping over the rooftops of the few fishing huts along the beach.

  "If you're trying not to attract attention, don't you think scaring those poor fishermen half to death back there might defeat the purpose?" she accused.

  Enrique-the-pilot surprised her by chuckling. "No, senora. My cousin, he lives in one of those houses. I was just saying ‘hello’ to him."

  Jackie turned toward Jerry, who had leaned back contentedly. "I don't suppose that bothered you any?" she asked.

  He shrugged. "Not half as bad as falling out of a helicopter did, on my last assignment."

  "You fell out of a helicopter?" she said in disbelief.

  "Yeah. But it didn't hurt the camera."

  She just looked at him. He seemed to be serious. She shook her head. "This is a strange business I'm in," she thought to herself.

  She leaned toward Enrique. "How much farther?"

  "Ohhhhh...if the wind is kind, about...forty minutes. Okay?"

  She looked out at the sun off their right wing. They'd be pushing it. But she nodded anyway. There was nothing more she could do but wait. They were flying so low there was a haze around them from the sea spray.

  "He must really be good at this smuggling thing," she admitted. Behind her, Jerry was finally coming to life. When she looked back there was camera equipment all around him and he was doing cameraman things. She shut out the others and began to concentrate on what she would say when...if...they actually found a pot of gold at the end of this rainbow.

  Chapter 63

  The Hawkeye, with its big radome on top, had been in the air twenty minutes and was almost halfway to target when the four Harrier jump-jets cleared the Washington's flight deck. They'd been semi-launched by "cat" to give them more air time because of the extra fuel required for vertical take-off. The lead time allowed the twin-prop Hawkeye enough altitude gain to establish a wide umbrella of radar surveillance to give the faster attack jets more warning in case of trouble.

  Fifteen minutes after takeoff they made a high-altitude pass over the coordinates of Centinela Seamount. In the lead aircraft, Major Keller keyed his mike.

  "Ironman, this is Fishhawk. How do you read?"

  "Fishhawk, this is Ironman. Read you five by five. Go ahead."

  "Ironman, we have a visual on the target. Cameras are rolling. We're in a high peripheral sweep of the area. Nothin's shakin'. How's the reception on the cameras?"

  "Roger the visuals, Fishhawk. Signal strength's pegging the red line. Do you see anything at all in the target zone?"

  "Not sure, Ironman. Wait one." Keller worked the stumpy joystick that controlled the camera, zooming in for a close-up. Preprogrammed with the target's coordinates, the digital video camera had acquired the target zone as soon as they'd arrived and was being force-fed positional updates five times per second by navigational satellite link. It would stay locked on as long as the aircraft's attitude kept the camera pointed in the general direction of the target.

  "Request permission to descend to Flight Level one thousand for a closer look."

  "Stand by, Fishhawk."

  Keller let his flight of four aircraft loaf along in its four-mile-wide turning circle while they waited.

  "Fishhawk, this is Ironman. Permission granted for one aircraft to descend to Flight Level one thousand. Remainder of the flight to maintain high cover."

  "Roger that, Ironman. Streaker, do you copy?"

  "Affirmative, ‘Hawk," confirmed his wingman.

  "Okay, I'm going down for a quick pass."

  "Roger, we gotcha six."

  Fishhawk rolled out of formation and dropped his nose in a long, curving dive that brought him in a thousand feet over the target zone at four hundred miles an hour. As he roared over, he spotted the tower for the first time. Pulling back on the stick, he climbed a thousand feet and ran out a couple of miles before leaning into a tight turn to port.

  "Ironman, did you get that?" he called.

  "Roger, Fishhawk. It looked like some kind of tower sticking up out of the water. What about you?"

  "Yeah, it was a tower, alright. But what's it doing our here in the middle of the ocean? I thought there was supposed to be a ship or something out here."

  "Fishhawk, we're running an instant replay in ‘slo-mo’. Wait one."

  Keller thought hard about what he'd seen, sure there was something that he'd missed. He couldn't quite bring it to the surface. Completing his turn, he began a slow glide back toward the tower. He eased back on the throttle. Something was gnawing at the edge of his consciousness. He instinctively began to rotate thrusters as the big Harrier slowed toward stall speed. He wanted a closer look at that tower and the one sure way to get it was to do what the Harrier did best...hover.

  The aircraft's forward speed dropped below its ability to stay in the air. It was no longer flying. Without its massive jets vectored down toward the sea, it would have fallen like a rock from the sky. Keller had eased his ponderous albatross to a forward speed of only thirty miles per hour and was only two hundred feet off the waves. He'd closed to a hundred yards from the strange tower standing defiantly in the open sea when his radio came to life with an urgency that startled him.

  "Fishhawk, Fishhawk! This is Ironman! Abort! I repeat...abort, abort! That tower is a twin Mk-30 SAM site! Break off! Break off!"

  "Fishhawk! Get outta there! Get outta there! Do it!" came his wingman's shout over the radio. At three thousand feet overhead and two miles out, they were too far away to help him. They both knew it.

  "Of course! That's what it was!" he realized, chastising himself for failing to recognize the tubes for what they were on his first pass over them. " What an idiot! What a stupid..." And now he was looking down the throat of forty-plus surface-to-air missiles.

  He desperately slung his aircraft around and slammed it into full jump, knowing it was too late, but knowing he had to try. It was difficult enough to outmaneuver a SAM when an aircraft was in full flight...it was impossible when you'd let yourself become a sitting duck.

  The Harrier roared in protest but gave it all she had anyway, dipping and weaving, and all the while straining for speed, clawing for sky, dumping chaff for decoys. The video footage would later show the SAMs tracking his every move. On approach, they'd never lit up his radar warning system, so they hadn't been hot. But they'd somehow known he was there. And he'd been theirs for the taking, he knew that. But, had there been any doubt, it vanished as he wallowed the big jet into a panicky about-face. His missile warning system erupted with a heart-stopping warble and he tensed, waiting for the point-blank detona
tion that would end his life. After thirty seconds and a mile-and-a-half of high-gee terror, he understood. His bare backside had been soundly spanked, as a warning. But now, with four dozen surface-to-air missiles hungrily eyeing the sky, the SAM installation was declaring itself off-limits. The message was unmistakable. The next intruder wouldn't be so lucky.

  Chapter 64

  By the time the George Washington had recovered the full flight of birds, the live video received on direct-feed from the aircraft had been through the mystical processes of image-enhancement. Several points quickly settled to the bottom of the analytical centrifuge. Admiral Cochran leaned casually against a tracking console in the Combat Information Center in view of the camera that would transmit his comments to all ships simultaneously and dryly summarized them.

  "Obviously this is an unusually well-equipped terrorist group. Unless I'm out of touch, a personalized SAM battery is not among the accessories of a well-dressed terrorist these days. Nor is a nuclear arsenal, if the claims are to be believed. However...and just as obviously...we could have been stung but weren't. The way I see it, we've been sent a message: "No trespassing. Violators will be shot on sight." He looked directly at flight leader Keller. "I must say, we're relieved to have Major Keller safely back aboard." Keller had the good grace to hang his head. Jake Cochran had no doubt that the display of humility was real. He'd made a mistake or two himself along the way and knew the feeling. But that was immaterial just now.

  "This display of force...or the potential for it...along with the restraint shown on the part of the terrorists in not downing one of our aircraft, changes the complexion of things. It had been our intent to ride into town with our guns blazing and put the fear of God into the bad guys. It seems, though, that the bad guys have some big guns of their own. And it's certainly possible that they're willing to use them. So we're going to regroup. Until we can better assess their resources, and possibly establish communication with them, we're going to mount a perimeter blockade. Nothing in, nothing out. If they'd hoped for re-supply by surface ship, they're out of luck. All ships in the battle group will take up positions in a clock-wise perimeter rotation at a range of five thousand yards and maintain a five-knot steerage headway that parallels that of the Washington. We'll want an air canopy at all times that includes surveillance as well as attack craft. All ships and aircraft will maintain a constant state of readiness until further notice. We have to be air and seaworthy at all times in order to respond with maximum effect should we be called upon to do so. Fortunately, Major Keller's almost stepping on that hornets' nest out there gives us some idea of what we're dealing with. Otherwise, we'd have blundered into it with our whole fleet." He grinned in Keller's direction, who managed a lop-sided one of his own. He wasn't fooled for a moment. The Old Man was publicly letting him off the hook. The Admiral yielded the floor to Captain Carruthers with a lazy nod of his head.

  Jerry Carruthers took his cue and moved smoothly into camera view without missing a beat. A head taller and ten years younger than his superior officer, his calm demeanor, thinning hair and pale blue eyes conveyed strength and elicited trust. His men and officers considered him by-the-book but fair and, when it mattered, compassionate. He rationed his gaze between those in the CIC and those several thousands who saw and heard him only by closed circuit television aboard his and the other ships.

  "We'll be on station in about a half-hour. There won't be much to see...apparently the terrorists' operation is all under water except for a hundred foot tower that's on the surface. We now know that the tower is heavily armed and is equipped with an older but very effective version of the same radar array that we carry. We suspect that it's remotely manned and that, of course, requires remote-sensing cameras and whatever other toys they might have come up with. The point I'm making is this...though we will have the target zone under close scrutiny at all times, we have to assume they'll be looking back at us, too. So let's don't do anything dumb within sight of the enemy." He coughed softly and cleared his throat. "Once we're on station, we'll communicate by laser-focused compression microwave signal. We'll operate in repeater mode so that a signal generated by any ship in the group will automatically relay to the ship ahead. Assuming reasonably calm seas, I'm told that the signal should come completely full circle in under five seconds. At no time will a signal cross the circle from one ship to another. That would put the terrorists' tower in direct line with the signal and we're not giving away any freebies. Understood?" He gave them a moment to mull over the communications protocol. "It may become necessary from time to time for the Washington to break formation to launch or recover birds. Depends on winds and timing. If so, maintain position. Leave the slot open so we can drop back into position when flight operations are suspended. And, speaking of suspended...I'm afraid all shore leave is suspended for the duration. Our landing craft don't get good enough gas mileage for a two hundred mile round trip to the Riviera." The room filled with laughter. The Captain looked around the room. In a quiet, firm voice he said, "Ladies and gentlemen, we don't know what's coming. But let's go get ready for it. Dismissed."

  Late afternoon sun bathed the E-2G Hawkeye in yellow light where it looked down from its station-keeping patrol seventeen thousand feet above and just ahead of the approaching battle group. The 24-foot-diameter saucer-shaped rotodome mounted slightly aft of midships spun at a slow 6 rpm's, its radar arrays searching hungrily for any target within a hundred-plus miles in all directions. The co-pilot noticed a shift in the lineup of ships as the formation broke to begin its encirclement of the enemy position below. He could see the white wake of the carrier even from this altitude. It dwarfed the rest of the ships in the group. At their current speed, he figured they'd be circling the wagons in about fifteen or twenty minutes around the tower he knew was there but couldn't see.

  "Heads up, ya’ll! I’m paintin’ a pinball. Bogey, low and slow," he heard the radar operator call out.

  "What've you got?" the combat information officer immediately asked.

  "Don't know yet. Inbound, heading twelve degrees and four-zero miles out. It's down in the mud, but it's there. If they get any closer to the water, they'll be laying a wake."

  "What speed?"

  "Looks like about a hundred and sixty knots, but it's hard to say. I'll know in a short-short. They're headin' our way."

  "Roger that. Don't lose ‘em," the air control officer cut in. "Ironman, this is Eyrie. We have unidentified air traffic at twelve degrees. Range four-zero miles and hot."

  "Forty miles! How'd they get that close undetected?" demanded the Tactical Coordination Officer aboard the Washington.

  "Don't know, Sir. But we're normally flying a ceiling that's twice what we're at now. Otherwise we'd probably have had them a lot sooner."

  "Roger, Eyrie. Can you identify the aircraft?"

  "Negative, Ironman. They're on the deck. But the IR scan is cool, so jet traffic is negative. They're out of commercial air traffic lanes, though. Could be running contraband."

  "Roger, Eyrie. Uh, wait one...uh, Eyrie, we're scrambling a pair of Tomcats. Stand by."

  "Aye, aye. Eyrie standing by. Out."

  The co-pilot looked out his window into the haze. In less than thirty seconds he saw two tiny white stilettos streak away from the carrier and turn in their headlong rush toward the unknown intruder.

  "We have two friendlies airborne," intoned the air control officer.

  "Roger, I have them," acknowledged the radar operator.

  "Whoever it is out there," the copilot thought, "they're about to get some very heavy company."

  Chapter 65

  With windshield wipers intermittently slapping away the salt spray caused by an altitude so low the altimeter wouldn't even record it, Enrique announced his intention to pop up for a quick recon. Any word with the letters "up" in it was just fine with Jackie Darlington. At a hundred eighty miles per hour, the view through the windshield reminded her of an old film she'd seen once in school of a simulated sp
eed-of-light trip through the Panama Canal. And Jerry's nonchalance toward their flirt with death just heightened her irritability.

  With a tug on the stick, the thrum of the engines changed and they rocketed up to a thousand feet in just a few seconds. Enrique leveled off.

  "Uh oh," he said.

  "What, ‘uh oh’?" Jackie demanded, alarmed.

  In answer, the plane's nose lurched toward the sea and her stomach floated like riding an express elevator. Jackie thought for sure they were going in, but he finally goosed it back to level just in time. She was also sure they were closer to the water than before...if that were possible.

  "What are you doing?!" she yelled in his ear. He flinched involuntarily.

  "There's a lot a radar up there. A lot of radar! What's going on? What are you getting us into?" His voice had risen in pitch and volume.

  "How do I know? You're the pilot!"

  "What do you mean, you don't know?! You're paying the bills, I'm just driving the plane. If you don't know, who does?!"

  There was a moment when no one said anything. From the looks on their faces, they were both thinking hard.

  "Look, all I know is, I got a call that said, 'Forget what you're doing, grab a plane and a camera and hurry!' They told me some nut's blown up half of Africa and is threatening to blow up some more. They gave me some numbers...the ones I gave you...what do you call them...?"

  "Coordinates."

  "Yeah, coordinates. Keith said to think of it as a terrorist's address."

  "Who is this ‘Keith’?"

  "Doesn't matter...he's going to owe me when I get back, though, you can...anyway, there's supposed to be some kind of international terrorist at these...coordinates."

  "Address?"

  "What?"

  "You said 'terrorist's address'."

  "So?"

  "In the middle of the ocean? How can this be?"

  "Well...that's what he said. I don't know."