by Dale Brown
"I know what they're doing," said Storm, butting in. "They've shot down half the Yemen Air Force. They don't need any help. Do you have Harpoons left?"
"Affirmative," said Dog. "Eyes, give them a target."
"That amphibious ship they saw the other day is about thirty miles north of us. It has another craft alongside it, possibly as a tug."
"Sink the bastard," cut in Storm.
"Your orders covering engagement prohibit me from doing that," replied the colonel coldly. "They've been in international waters since before the start of the engagement. And besides, I can't get close enough for a visual without leaving this area."
How could the Air Force flyboy remain so stinking calm when he had just lost several men?
"Damn it, Bastian — find a way to engage him. Your people in the other Megafortress don't seem to be having any problem."
"They were threatened and had to defend themselves." "A good plan for you. We're going after the submarine." "Wisconsin out." The feed snapped clean. "What's going on with those torpedoes that were launched at us?" said Storm.
"Two are still tracking, Captain."
The voices came in rapid succession as the different elements of the battle were processed.
"Bingo! We have another strike on the submarine!" said Weapons.
"One of the Libyan torpedoes has self-detonated." "We have the patrol craft zeroed in." "Second Libyan torpedo is going off course. We're in the clear."
Suddenly, one of the sonar operators shouted so loud his voice echoed in the space:
"I have sounds of a submarine breaking up!"
"Put them over the loudspeaker," said Storm. "Crew, we have sunk the Tango sub. We have routed the pirates from their base. We are in the process of breaking the terrorists' backs."
The crew began to cheer. This is what revenge sounds like, Storm thought.
The celebration was interrupted by a new warning, this one from the Dreamland EB-52 over the battle area.
"Missiles in the air — four — eight Styx missiles! Launched in the direction of the Abner Read."
Aboard the Wisconsin
0040
Dog had just told Zen to take Hawk Two toward the amphibious ship when the barrage of missiles sprang from it.
"Multiple launches," reported Dish. "They're all Styx missiles. We're confirmed on that."
"I have three of the missiles in view," said Zen.
"Can you take them out?" asked Dog.
"Not all of them," said Zen.
"Dish — can you ID guidance or the missile types?"
"Working on it, Colonel. S1 and S2 have MS-2A
seekers — radar, capable of home on jam. Active. Others are similar — may be a P-22 in there as well. That would default to an infrared if jammed. Guess here is that they had a location or at least an approximate location based on the Abner Read's radar and fired."
"I have S5 and S6," said Zen, singling out two of the missiles Dish had ID'd as having heat-seeking heads.
"McNamara, target the two closest to Abner Read with Scorpions," Dog said. "Once the air-to-air missiles are off, we'll sink the ship with the rest of our Harpoons."
"Working on it, Colonel. Going to need you to come to a new course."
"Lay it in."
"I'm engaging," said Zen.
Dog swung the aircraft into a better position for McNa-mara, shortening the distance the AMRAAM-pluses would need to take to intercept the missiles. No matter how it was guided, the Russian-made Styx was at its heart a flying bomb, a set of wings and an engine that could take its 480-kilogram warhead just over the speed of sound. In its most recent version, it could travel about fifty-four nautical miles.
"Opening bomb bay doors," said Dog as he swung into position. The aircraft shuddered as she opened her belly to the elements, exposing the antiair missile on her revolving dispenser.
"Locked on S3," said the copilot.
"Fire."
"Firing. Locked on S4." "Fire."
The missiles clunked off the rack, their sleek bodies accelerating rapidly. The standard AMRAAM could top Mach 4; the AMRAAM-plus Scorpion, a Dreamland special, went a hair faster but carried a heavier warhead, which, as on the standard version, sat just forward of the middle of the missile.
"Baker-Baker, this is Wisconsin—I'm afraid we have our hands full for the moment," he told Breanna, not wanting to let her think he'd forgotten about her. "We're engaging Styx missiles."
"We have it under control, Daddy."
He hated her calling him Daddy.
"Wisconsin, I need you to come west with me," said Zen. "Missiles are away," said McNamara. "Tracking." "Button up," Dog told him. "And hang on."
* * *
Zen pushed Hawk Three into a dive at the course the computer plotted for the Styx missile. In some ways, the ship-to-ship projectile was an easy target — it flew in a predictable path and couldn't defend itself. On the other hand, it was fast enough that he had only one real shot at it; if he missed, he'd never be able to turn and get another shot. The computer showed the course perfectly. Zen was moving exactly onto his mark. There was only one problem — the missile wasn't there.
Zen slid the throttle back, cutting down his speed. According to the sitrep plot at the bottom right of his visor, the Styx missile should be right in front of him. But neither the synthesized radar view nor the low-light video showed it.
Confused, he tucked the Flighthawk into a bank. The computer had Hawk Two—the control screen showed that it was nearly ready to fire. Realizing that he was unlikely to do any better than the computer in the encounter, Zen stayed with Hawk One.
"Strike on S3," reported McNamara, watching the AMRAAM-plus.
"Hey, Dish, they're foxing us somehow, confusing the radar with false returns," said Zen. "I just chased a nonexistent missile."
"Working on it — sorry, we haven't seen these ECMs before. More missiles in the air!"
Zen selected his infrared feed and saw two missiles within striking distance; he went for the closer one, putting several cannon shells into the rear and sending it spinning out of control. He glanced briefly at the radar and saw three other missiles there — all phony.
"They're still tricking us," he told Dish.
"Yeah," said the radar operator. "I'm trying to narrow down the units that have the counter-ECMs. Whatever they're using is good — maybe Indian modifications or something new out of Russia."
"Better alert the Abner Read to the false signals."
"Already have."
Northern Somalia
0045
The vessel loomed ahead, more a shadow on the water than a ship.
"Come," Ali told the others who had joined him. "Commend yourselves to God, and follow."
He stripped off his shirt and pants and slipped into the water, his only weapon the knife at his belt. Six others followed him, the best swimmers of his small force.
And then more — another dozen, eighteen, all of the men who had survived.
But after a few strokes, Ali faltered; the water was too cold and his arms too old to reach his destination.
Let me die if it is your will, he told his Lord.
Water swelled into his nose. He felt himself going down and thought of his son.
And then he was there, his hand touching the side of the ship — it felt like hard rubber, as if the entire craft were sheathed in a diver's suit. Ali didn't know where to put his hands. He had found his way to the flank of the enemy's craft, propelled entirely by God's will.
Allah had delivered this vessel so he could strike the Ark Royal. He wanted the devil's own sword wielded in the name of justice.
No one was topside. The ship was about as long as his own patrol boats, sitting low in the water on two knife-shaped arms. The deck held a small cannon forward of a sloped and angled wheelhouse, the broad fantail at the rear dominated by two long rectangular boxes.
A hand grasped him. The others had arrived.
"Wait until we are all abo
ard," said Ali. "God has brought us and will provide. We are in his hands and fight a holy war."
* * *
Danny walked down to the water, heart pounding heavily, afraid the grenade meant for him had killed or wounded the Marine hunched on the ground ahead. But the man wasn't hurt, at least not physically — he was throwing up. Danny knelt beside him and recognized the young man he'd been with earlier.
"I saw a head," mumbled the kid. "Oh, God." The Marine leaned over and puked again.
Danny gripped the jacket of the bulletproof vest. After a few more heaves the Marine straightened, and Danny helped him to his feet.
"I'm OK, sir. I'm OK."
"I know you are, guy. It sucks."
The Marine looked at him for a second. "Does it get easier?"
Danny thought back to the first man he'd seen die — or rather, the first one he'd realized was a man, not a faceless enemy in the distance. He'd puked too.
In one sense, it did get easier — he didn't throw up anymore. But in all the important ways, it didn't get easier at all.
"You'll get through it, kid. You're doing your job."
"Thank you, sir," snapped the Marine, a bit of his strength returning.
Danny rapped his arm gently with his fist, then went to check on the others.
* * *
The gun at the front of the enemy ship began to fire. The deck shook with it, and the boat started to roll.
The dark hatchway to the interior lay a few feet ahead. Ali could see the men moving inside, two of them — devil men with horns and spikes at their heads.
The knife burned hot in his hand.
"For the Glory of God!" he yelled, plunging into the darkness.
* * *
"Have Sergeant Liu take charge of securing any documents and equipment from the headquarters building," Danny told Dancer over the team circuit. "We ought to try to evacuate it out to the Shark Boat as soon as we can, just in case the natives get restless. We'll use the Navy SITT teams to conduct searches of the other buildings. They're trained for that stuff. But I want them to go slow. There's no sense tripping over more booby traps in the dark." "Agreed, Captain."
Something flashed in the sky overhead. A loud clap of thunder followed. There were two more bursts in rapid succession.
"Missiles," Danny told the Marine lieutenant. "Being intercepted. Big ones."
"Cap, Werewolf is trying to get ahold of you on the Dreamland circuit," said Boston. "The most beautiful woman in the world wants to sing in your ear."
"Boston, you would joke on the doorstep of hell," said Danny.
"Aw, been there, done that, Captain."
Danny clicked into the line. "Whiplash leader."
"Danny, I have to pull Werewolf Two back to refuel. It's going to be at least twenty minutes before I get back to you. Werewolf One is being refueled but it may take a while to get back in the air."
He could hear a lot of voices behind her on the ship, rushed, calm, nearly hysterical — the adrenaline-soaked sounds of battle.
"It's OK, Jen. We're secure here. What's your situation?"
"We've sunk the submarine, but we've been targeted by missiles. Gonna be a few minutes before it sorts out and I can land to refuel — have to go."
"Go."
Dancer had climbed down the cliffside and was standing before him with one of her Marines — the one who had just emptied the contents of his stomach on the beach.
"Danny, I'm going to take Luke here and check on the search of the Osprey wreckage as we'd planned. I think it's better to leave Liu and the others to help Boston sort out the situation in the hovel and then bring the papers or whatever's in the headquarters' stash down."
"You sure you're OK?"
"Hey, we're Marines," said Dancer. "Come on, Luke."
The Marine had to scramble to keep up with the five-seven lieutenant as she strode toward the dock where the small boats were tied up.
"Just that old woman up here, Cap," said Boston. "As far as the sensors can tell, no mines anywhere. And no more booby traps."
"All right. Sergeant Liu is organizing a team to take material out of the headquarters. If you're secure up there and there's manpower available, go down and help out. I'm going to see if I can find some sort of boat we can use to get the material out to the Shark Boat."
A fresh set of explosions in the distance shook the ground.
"Sounds like we're not the only ones having a party tonight," said Boston.
Aboard Baker-Baker Two
0045
Starship turned Hawk Three toward the lead MiG then jumped back into Hawk Four. He whirled the airplane toward the southeast, hunting for Baker-Baker Two.
"I have an idea, Bree," he said. "I'll hold them off with Three long enough to get a couple hundred pounds of juice into Four, then go back and finish them off."
"I don't know if we can complete a refuel under fire," said Breanna.
"I think it's worth a try," said Starship. "It's better than just running away and losing both U/MFs."
"Agreed," she snapped back. "Let's try."
Starship lined up Hawk Four, then told the computer to take the aircraft in for the refuel. The computer balked — its safety protocols would not allow it to refuel while the Megafortress was being targeted by the enemy. Both he and Breanna had to authorize the override. The extra step took only a few seconds, but by the time he got back into Hawk Three, the computer had missed its shot. Rather than breaking and going for the other aircraft in the pack — a human's natural choice, since there were no less than four targets within spitting distance — C3 had stubbornly stayed on the
lead MiG. It led it to the very edge of the connection range with Baker-Baker Two. The computer backed off and banked around, taking itself out of the fight even though it had been ordered to stay with the other plane.
It was the first tactical flaw Starship had found in the programming. It disappointed him somehow, as if the computer should have known better.
He'd figure out how to use it in the next exercise to try and beat Zen, something no one had ever done.
Kick would have loved that. He was always talking about beating the master.
Starship pushed the memory of his friend away as he took control of the Flighthawk. The sky before him was studded with fighters. The MiGs stoked their engines, trying to close on the Megafortress — apparently they were all carrying short-range heat-seekers and needed to get up close to take a shot. He pulled to a half mile of the nearest aircraft and lit his cannon, tearing a long, jagged line through the fuselage and back into the tail plane. He kept moving forward, barely letting up on the trigger before finding his second target, another MiG-21. Before he could fire, a missile sprang from beneath the enemy's wing. Cursing, Starship waited for the target cue to blink then go solid red.
"You better not hit me, you son of a bitch," he said, dialing the enemy into oblivion.
* * *
"Break right, you have to turn right!" Spiderman yelled to Breanna.
"We need to stay straight for the refuel."
"Bree! There's a MiG closing from your left and two heat-seekers coming from behind."
"Flares and Stinger," said Breanna calmly.
The decoys shot out from the Megafortress as the air-to-air missiles sped toward it. The cascade of flares were too inviting a target for the antiquated missiles to ignore — both tucked downward, exploding more than a mile away.
Which left the MiG-29 that somehow managed to elude everything else in the sky and was drawing a bead on their left flank.
"He's taking a cannon run," said Spiderman. "Starship, how's your fuel?" "Two more minutes."
"We don't have two minutes," said Breanna as the first slug from the MiG's 30mm cannon began crashing into the fuselage.
* * *
"Computer, my control, Hawk Four," said Starship, and in a breath he was falling past the Megafortress. He tilted his wing slightly to the left, feeling his way, not seeing, blind in the dark night.
Flashes of red sped overhead. He lifted himself and there was the enemy, dead-on in the middle of his screen.
"Now!" he yelled, and the black triangle hurling itself toward him turned golden orange. Starship flew through it, shuddering as debris rained in every direction. He climbed then circled back, looking for the Megafortress. As he turned he was jerked backward, away from his small plane. Disoriented, he blinked — then saw the flames coming from the top of Baker-Baker Two in the screen.
* * *
"Radar is offline," Spiderman told Breanna. "Least of our problems."
"Thirty percent in engine two. We may lose her." "Fire control."
"Fire control. Sounding warning."
A klaxon began to sound in the aircraft. "Everybody, make sure your oxygen is on," shouted Breanna over the automated warning.
The Megafortress had a system that flooded vulnerable areas of the aircraft to extinguish fires. It worked by denying the flames oxygen — which of course meant it would kill the crew as well.
"Do it," she told the copilot.
* * *
Starship put Hawk Four into a preset trail maneuver, pulled on his oxygen mask, then undid his restraints to check on Delaford.
"You really have to be tied in tight," Starship told him, snapping and then snugging the restraints on his ejection seat.
"Thanks," said Delaford. "We're not going out, are we?"
"Nah, not today," said Starship. He turned, then flew against the side of the seat as the Megafortress rolled hard on her right side.
The lights began to blink, indicating that the fire-suppression system had been activated. He pulled himself upright and slid in behind his controls as the Megafortress pitched forward. He tumbled against the bulkhead over the panel hard enough to rebound backward into the seat, and he lay there dazed for a moment, temporarily stunned.
Get your gear back on, dude. You're coming undone. Mask is out and where the hell is your helmet?
"Screw yourself, Kick."
You undid your mask. You can't breathe right.
"Screw it."
Come on.
Something or someone seemed to take hold of the mask and center it on his face. Starship had his helmet and cinched it — when had he put it on?
