“What the hell?” the TACCO said, as his head slipped out of the radar mask and hit the back of his headrest.
“SAMs! Shut up for a minute, and let me get us the fuck out of here!” Rabies snarled.
He’d seen the intelligence reports, but had never seen a report of an operational surface-to-air missile on a submarine. Facts and figures flooded into his mind, gleaned from countless intelligence briefs and his own extensive studies. It was estimated that some of the Kilos carried a follow-on to the S/A-Grail missile, a shoulder-launched or small-launcher-controlled anti-air missile. With its infrared guidance system, the submarine version of the SAM was a fire-and-forget weapon. The missile probably had a range of no more than six nautical miles, he knew. It could probably do at least Mach 1, or about six hundred knots. The S-3B could do 440 knots on a good day. Downhill.
Rabies poured on the speed, not bothering to seek altitude. It wouldn’t help. If he couldn’t outrun it, then his only hope was to wait until it got close, and try a hard braking maneuver with chaffs and flares, hoping to coax the missile into overshooting its intended victim or going after the decoys.
His copilot was talking in clipped, short sentences to CDC, ignoring the frantic demands from the DESRON for information. With a missile on his tail, Hunter 701 needed to talk to other aviators, not the surface officers who were nominally in control of her operations. Rabies leaned forward against the straps that held him in the ejection seat, as though he could force more forward speed out of the jet by sheer willpower. They were too low to eke out a few more knots by trading altitude for speed. Irrelevantly, it crossed the pilot’s mind that there was a damned fine song in those words somewhere. Now if he could just live long enough to write it.
1745 local (Zulu -7)
Combat Direction Center (CDC)
USS Jefferson
“Get those alert five Hornets off the deck! That Hoover needs some missile cover. And get the alert S-3’s rolling, too,” the TAO snapped at her assistant. She reached for the microphone that would put her in touch with the officer of the deck, six levels above her on the bridge of the carrier. Before she’d finished, the TAO heard the 1MC blaring, “Flight quarters, flight quarters. Launch the alert five Hornets. Now, flight quarters.” The sound of Hornet engines turning immediately thrummed through the ship, as the alert fighters waiting on the catapult prepared to launch.
CDC was the nerve center of the carrier. Originally called Combat Information Center, or CIC, the new name was a reflection of the changing ways that a carrier battle group controlled the ebb and flow of war at sea. The main compartment was dominated by a wall-sized blue screen that displayed every contact held by every sensor in the battle group. The CDC officer and the Tactical Action Officer, or TAO, sat side by side at desks in front of the display. Around them, enlisted technicians monitoring aircraft manned radar and data consoles. In a separate room immediately behind the TAO, another group of watch standers managed the ASW problem, coordinating their tactics over the bitch box with the DESRON five decks above their module. At one end of the compartment, two parallel rows of consoles were reserved for Tracker Alley, the group of Operations Specialists that correlated and deconflicted the radar inputs from every ship and aircraft in the battle group.
“What’re they loaded with?” the TAO asked, as she watched the Hornets power up on the catapults.
“Two Sidewinders, two Sparrows, plus a cluster bomb on the Hornets. Harpoon only on the alert Vikings, although the airborne Viking has two torpedoes. We’re out of luck if 701 loses him and the sub dives,” the watch officer replied.
“That S-3 is out of luck if she doesn’t. And the Hornets aren’t going to be wild about going in, either.”
Suddenly, the speaker over the TAO’s head came to life. “Homeplate, Hunter 701. Looks like the SAM has fallen off. We’re RTB.”
Twenty-two people in CDC simultaneously let out the breaths they’d been holding. Freddie, the traditional handle for the operations specialist controlling an ASW aircraft, answered for them all, relief evident in his voice. “Roger, Hunter 701. Say state.”
“Four thousand pounds. We’re fine, Freddie, enough gas for a couple of passes.”
“Hunter 701, contact Pri-Fly,” the OS said, adding the flight control frequency.
The speaker hissed as Hunter 701 left that circuit to contact the Air Boss who would control its return to the carrier. “Close one,” the TAO muttered.
“Too close,” the CIC watch officer responded. “I guess now we know what launched those other two attacks.”
Maybe. And maybe not, the TAO thought, glancing at the surface warfare officer who was her assistant. Never heard of a SAM being targeted at a land-base or a ship. SAMs are anti-air weapons. Still, it might be possible, so better safe than sorry.
If the submarine had launched the other two attacks, the mystery was solved. And if it hadn’t — well, the carrier still had something to worry about.
CHAPTER 5
Thursday, 27 June
1100 local (Zulu +5)
The United Nations
Battle-ax, thought T’ing. He’d just learned the meaning of the word from one of his aides. It suited the ambassador from the United States. She was two inches taller than he was and twenty pounds lighter, but her iron demeanor and uncompromising insistence on the American view of the world made the word fit her too perfectly. Pity that American women don’t age more gracefully. A Chinese woman is perpetually of a certain age, until she suddenly grows old and dies. That is the way it should be with women. The American compulsion to thrust them into every arena ages them too quickly.
Still, battle-ax or not, Ambassador Sarah Wexler was the only opponent that concerned him on the Security Council. The little charade he was about to play had been carefully crafted for her alone.
“it is regretful that I must make this complaint on such short notice, but events leave my peace-loving country few alternatives,” the Chinese ambassador said silkily. T’ing paused for a moment and surveyed the members of the Security Council.
The Russian ambassador already knew what China would say, the result of a carefully worded briefing earlier that day. Both countries had played political games with the United States for too long not to understand the rules.
“The Council understands that sometimes circumstances require immediate action. Please, continue,” the Russian ambassador, currently chairman of the Council, said solicitously.
“Very well. It is our hope that this distinguished body can intervene immediately to short-circuit what appears to be an escalating state of affairs immediately off our coast.” T’ing kept a careful watch on the ambassador from the United States. Surely she must have some hint of the subject he was about to broach! But her face wore the carefully schooled blank look of polite attention so characteristic of professional diplomats.
“At approximately eight o’clock yesterday morning, American forces conducted an unprovoked and completely unlawful attack on Chinese land located in the South China Sea — the area the United States refers to as the Spratly Islands. This action resulted in the deaths of two Chinese servicemen, as well as the destruction of government property.” A murmur filled the room as the aides to the various ambassadors conferred in whispers with their bosses.
Ah-ha! That got her attention, he thought, as he watched the American ambassador’s color deepen. She opened her mouth to speak, then paused as an aide tugged on her jacket from behind.
“Mr. Chairman,” the American ambassador began, her eyes blazing as fury flooded her face.
“I am not finished, Mr. Chan,” T’ing interrupted smoothly. “The rules do entitle me to complete my complaint before the aggressors are allowed to respond, I believe?”
“Of course, Ambassador T’ing. Ms. Wexler, please hold your comments until the ambassador is through,” the Russian chairman said blandly.
“Since there is always the possibility that the American forces are carrying nuclear weapons, we have ta
ken the precaution of declaring an exclusion zone in the South China Sea. This action is necessary to protect Chinese lives and the security of our good neighbors who border this historic bay.” And take that, Madam, he thought viciously.
“I have in my possession radar data and other military information that will show the necessity of this action. At the time of the attack, the only military forces in the area were from the American warships. We believe that a circling fighter aircraft, known as an F-14 may have been the launch platform. Naturally, portions of these documents are classified, but I have taken the liberty of making as much of that data available to the Council as is consistent with our national security,” T’ing concluded.
“A horrible story, Mr. Ambassador, and one you can be assured the Council will investigate thoroughly,” the Russian said. “Ms. Wexler, has the United States any possible excuse or explanation for this blatant imperialistic attack?”
The American ambassador stood, slowly unfolding her lanky frame from the chair. She glanced at some notes written on small cards and then tossed them on her table. She surveyed the faces around the room — one friendly, two decidedly hostile, and the remainder as carefully bland as her own had been minutes earlier.
“Mr. Chairman, fellow delegates, the ambassador from China is sadly misinformed. It is true that an American task force was in the area, exercising its freedom of navigation on the high seas. The South China Sea, despite China’s claims, is not subject to the whims of one nation’s control, nor is there a basis for this supposed exclusion zone that China wishes to impose.
“I received this morning,” she continued, “a report forwarded from the on-scene commander. He states that there was an explosion in his vicinity yesterday morning, probably the result of an undetected cruise missile fired at an island. A thorough search for survivors was made, as well as for the source of the missiles, and none was found.”
“How kind,” China’s ambassador said viciously, “to first annihilate a target and then go through the motions of looking for survivors!”
“If I may continue?” she snapped, glancing at the Russian, who nodded abruptly.
“Neither the United States nor any force or unit under her control was responsible for these attacks. Mission tapes and displays will be made available to the Council to support that claim, to the same extent that China makes her data available.
“Finally, no American force deployed anywhere, other than ballistic missiles submarines on routine patrol, is armed with nuclear weapons. This includes the task force in the international waters of the South China Sea. The United States deplores the existence of these weapons throughout the world, and is in full support of and compliance with all arms limitations treaties. China has no reason to doubt our assertions in this regard.”
“Just one reason, Madam Ambassador,” the Chinese ambassador said, pitching his voice low to capture the attention of the audience and still the ever-present whispers. “And that is the best reason of all — past experience. Of all the nations in the world that possess nuclear capabilities, the United States is the only country ever to have used them.”
Satisfied, the ambassador from China leaned back in his chair, a look of deep concern and outrage carefully pasted on his inscrutable features. Of all the charges, both false and true, that could be made against the Americans, that one fact was irrefutable.
Somehow he thought most of the other nations might see it the same way.
1600 local (Zulu -7)
Pri-Fly
USS Jefferson
“Ugly fuckers, aren’t they?” the Air Boss said to his assistant, the Mini Boss. The two were seated in their large elevated chairs in Pri-Fly on the 0-10 level, directing the careful symphony of actions it took to get any aircraft on board the carrier. Tensions — and interest — were running high, and the tower was crowded with looky-loos wanting to get a first glimpse of the two modified F-14 JAST aircraft.
“Bigot,” replied the Mini Boss mildly. The Air Boss was an F/A-18 driver, and his ribbing almost automatic. “If you flew a real fighter like the Tomcat, you’d have some basis for comparison. Nothing about your Hornets that would make any man’s heart beat faster.”
“Ask the MiG pilots about that,” the Air Boss drawled. “Seems to me I remember bailing out a couple of Tomcats not long ago.”
The Mini Boss studied the aircraft taxiing away from the wire seven decks below him. The first JAST F-14 had taken one touch and go, and then gracefully slammed to a stop on the first approach, catching the three-wire handily. There’d been a moment of concern when the second JAST bird had boltered its first pass, touching too far down the flight deck to snag a wire. Still, the pilot had snagged the two-wire on his second pass. Not too shabby — there wasn’t a pilot in the air wing that hadn’t boltered from time to time. Even the eminent Carrier Group Commander, Rear Admiral Tombstone Magruder, had had his share of bad passes.
At first glance, the JAST aircraft looked like any other F-14. A closer look revealed small but significant differences. First, the radar dome. It was larger, extended further under the belly of the aircraft. The Mini Boss squinted and then picked up his binoculars. He followed the aircraft down the flight deck toward the catapults. “Different antennas, it looks like. And the pitot tubes look funny — longer, a little skinnier maybe. And the skin. She looks like she’s rippled, almost.”
“Supposed to be low observability. I read that those shallow-angle variations reflect radar off in funny directions. Composites just under the skin absorb some of the radar energy, too. But most of the differences are in the black boxes. If JAST can do even half of what the contractor claims, it’s a good deal,” the Air Boss said.
“If it can! They claim the avionics are practically sailorproof. Maintenance ought to be happy about that.”
“Nothing’s ever been built that a sailor can’t screw with,” the Air Boss replied. “Besides, I’m pretty happy with the Hornet as it is.”
“It’ll be a great fighter — as soon as they come up with an AVGAS hose long enough to keep it permanently plugged into a tanker.” The Mini Boss smirked. The Hornet had a much smaller fuel capacity than the Tomcat. While the reduced weight gave the Hornet added maneuverability, the constant whining of Hornet pilots for tankers was a standing joke that the Tomcat drivers invariably found hysterically funny. The Hornet aviators weren’t as amused.
“We’ll have our chance to check these babies out pretty carefully. If they can solve this mystery about the cruise missiles, that’ll be enough. My stereo likes staying dry, and I don’t want to think about what a new cruise missile can do to our happy little home here.”
“You’re not feeling safe and secure with Aegis nearby?” the Air Boss said casually.
The Mini Boss shot him a sharp glance. They hadn’t discussed it, but every senior officer on the ship knew that Rear Admiral Magruder was less than happy with the Aegis cruiser. Rumor had it that the CO had received a serious ass-chewing on his last visit to the carrier. Even the mess decks were abuzz with gossip concerning the disappearance of ice cream from the flag mess.
“If Aegis doesn’t see it, it isn’t there,” the Mini Boss said finally. “Isn’t that what they claim?”
“Then I guess the last attack was just spontaneous combustions, because Aegis sure as hell didn’t see what caused it,” the Air Boss replied. He raised his binoculars and pointed them at the passengers disembarking from the COD. “Well, will you look at that! That COD’s got more modifications than the JAST birds!” the Air Boss exclaimed. The Mini Boss followed his line of sight, and then trained his binoculars in the same direction.
“Not bad,” he said grudgingly. “But anything looks good halfway through deployment. Any woman that’s not an aviator,” he amended hastily.
“That’s one of the reporters,” an enlisted air traffic controller, or AC, offered. “Saw her listed on the manifest for the COD.”
“Reporter, huh? Wonder what brought her out here, the JAST birds or
the tactical events? Hey, what’s her name? Anyone we’d have heard of?” the Mini Boss asked.
The AC picked up a clipboard, and ran his finger down the list of names. “Here it is. Pamela Drake, from ACN. I’ve heard of her.”
The Air Boss and Mini Boss exchanged a telling look. So had they, but not from watching television. Unless they were completely mistaken, Miss Drake was Rear Admiral Magruder’s long-standing heart-throb. Rumor control, monitored by the petty officers that handled all mail going off and coming on the carrier, said that the two were no longer an item. Speculation had run rampant on the mess decks about the future of the relationship.
“If you thought things were getting interesting out here before,” the Air Boss said quietly, “just stand by.”
CHAPTER 6
Thursday, 27 June
1700 local (Zulu -7)
Admiral’s Cabin
USS Jefferson
A light tap sounded on Tombstone’s door, the one that led to the flag briefing room and TFCC. The chief of staff, usually referred to as COS, stuck his head into the admiral’s quarters. “the new birds are on deck. Thought you’d want to know.”
“Come on in, COS. I saw them coming in on the Plat,” Tombstone replied, referring to the closed-circuit TV that monitored the flight deck. “Sounded like plain old Tomcats landing to me.”
COS pushed the door open and entered the combination office/living room of Tombstone’s cabin. He glanced at the paperback book open on the coffee table. “Didn’t know you were a Western history buff, Admiral.”
“Ah, that. My boss gave it to me at my going-away party. He said that since my call sign was Tombstone, I ought to know a little about the story of Tombstone, Arizona, and the shoot-out at the OK Corral and all. That was Wyatt Earp’s last fight, you know.”
“I do know that, actually. When I was a kid, I read everything I could get on the Old West. It was an escape, I guess. Growing up in Chicago, there wasn’t that much open space. Somehow, the idea of going for days without seeing another person, riding across the ranges with your trusty horse and six-shooter, seemed like the best life in the world.”
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