It was there that the mating of the two products, which should have reacted with a predictable violence, began to do something very unexpected, though quite preventable.
The combination of UDMH and NTO, a standard fuel/oxidant mixture used in Russian and Chinese liquid-fueled rockets for decades, was ideal for the purpose because it required no ignition source. The two liquids reacted on contact with each other, in essence exploding in the confines of the combustion chamber, which contained and directed the energy of the reaction through the gimbled thrust nozzle at the missile’s base. As expected, the reaction occurred, spewing a massive jet of flame downward as the powerful engine began to push the Chinese-built missile upward toward the opening of Tower One. Everything was working perfectly. The guidance system was already reading the thrust level and minute attitude shifts, and began factoring the “actual” with the “planned” to correct any deviations that could alter its six-thousand-mile flight course to Moscow. Pumps were whirring robotically without care for the limited life they would have. All was as Anatoly Vishkov had seen to. All, that is, but one thing that he could not control, but that he had warned of. The sharply pointed nose cone was within a yard of clearing the confines of the tower when the unseen error of the fueling crew manifested itself completely within a fraction of a second.
UDMH and NTO, like all combinations of fuel and oxidant, require a precise mixture quotient to react at a level that is proper for their use in a set space—the combustion chamber, in this case. The concentration and amount are critical, and here they had been altered by the use of the contaminated NTO as a primer during fueling from the tank trucks. The nitrate infiltration that Vishkov had feared did happen when the rainwater filtered through the nitrogen-rich soil into the supercooled NTO. The water, in contact with the frigid gas in liquid form, instantly froze, creating a layer of highly crystalline ice atop the oxidizing agent. What nitrates had been held in solution with the rainwater then settled from the ice sheet and contaminated the NTO solution with salts of nitric acid, which again dissolved and upset the delicate balance needed for a successful and controllable hypergolic reaction. In effect the NTO had been diluted by the addition of stable nitrates to the solution, which meant that a higher than normal ratio of UDMH to pure NTO was reacting in the combustion chamber. What occurred when that ratio drifted past the 3 percent variance in favor of the UDMH was similar, though quite a bit smaller, than the effect the opposite end of the missile was designed to unleash.
In less than the blink of an eye the loss of equilibrium in the reaction caused the energy level to rise dramatically and instantaneously. The additional UDMH overtook the reaction, increasing the controlled explosion to a point where the design limit of the combustion chamber was surpassed. The chamber literally fractured into hundreds of sections as the force of the explosion pushed outward in all directions. Traveling upward, it destroyed the pumps, feed lines, and finally the lower tank of NTO. The upper tank of UDMH ruptured a fraction of a second later. Before the liquids could join, they were acted upon by the fireball rising upward and were themselves added to the mix, feeding the uncontrollable inferno. At that point the effect became that of a very large bomb, whose force searched for avenues of escape from the already failing cooling tower that contained it. One route was through the exhaust vents at the base, but the larger opening at the top saw most of the energy pass through it, rising from bottom to top, generating a force that propelled all things in its path skyward.
One of these was the warhead.
* * *
Lieutenant Duc had the Pave Hawk in a tight left turn when the night became day for a few seconds.
Joe strained against his belt to look out the open left side door as the helicopter reached a due-west heading. “No...”
The fireball was rolling into the sky, a mass of orange and black and yellow that curled outward and in upon itself. Joe followed the inferno to its source, looking for the structure from which it had come. But it was not there. Just a spreading sheet of flame and smoke lay where Tower One had been. And where those men were supposed to be.
Seven feet ahead, Lieutenant Duc was realizing the same loss when the net came alive.
“Raptor to Gambler, you have company. Sandman reports a bandit at your—”
The report abruptly ended as a burst of 30mm cannon fire ripped through the Pave Hawk from somewhere to port. It stitched across the cockpit, left to right, and continued back into the cabin, drawing a line of the inch-diameter rounds through the gun stations on both doors. Duc’s copilot received four hits, all traveling through his midsection before continuing out and through the helicopter’s windscreen, leaving gaping holes in front of the pilot. Other rounds impacted the metal structure between the cabin and cockpit, penetrating and ricocheting, one passing just an inch from Duc’s chin as it severed the line from his headset to the radio and intercom. Behind him both door gunners were dead, like his left seater, but Anderson had received only a superficial wound from a metal fragment blasted free by a 30mm round.
The lieutenant had a myriad of things assaulting his decision-making processes at the moment, the most important of which was that somewhere very close—too close—was something trying to kill him. Putting distance between his bird and whoever was out there was the first order of business.
“Hang on!” He screamed and would have been surprised to know that Anderson, himself wondering what the hell was going on, had heard the warning plainly above the cacophony of noise that seemed to be rising appreciably.
* * *
“A hit!” Guevarra yelled joyously. “Good shooting, Chiuaigel!”
“He’s running,” Montes said, watching as their target banked hard to the right, staying close to the earth as a fine stream of smoke began to trail from one of his engines.
Guevarra got his best look yet at the craft as it silhouetted itself against the light of the blast reflected off the buildings. It was a Blackhawk, and the way it was being flown could mean only one thing. “He is an American, Chiuaigel! Kill him! KILL HIM!”
Montes swung the cannon fully right as Guevarra followed his wounded prey. Falcon and pigeon, the sergeant thought, as he pressed the fire button a second time.
“High!” Guevarra screamed as the stream of fire passed over the banking helicopter. “I will get closer, then destroy him!”
* * *
The light of the nearby explosion reached the command bunker just before the awful roar. Sean and his team secured the one-room structure, making sure their targets were very dead, before stepping through the north door into the glow of the fireball rising from where Tower One had been.
“Bux,” Sean said softly, then reached up and keyed his mic. “Bux!”
There was no response.
“Maj,” Antonelli said, pointing up and to the east.
Sean forced himself to look away from the inferno. “My God.”
“Where did that come from?” Goldfarb practically demanded.
Sean watched helplessly as the Pave Hawk, a ribbon of smoke marking its path, sped away, a second helicopter right behind, its turret-mounted Gatling gun spitting fire and lead.
“Maj, what do we do?”
There was nothing they could do about the Pave Hawk, or for anyone on board. Including Anderson. Cho would have to run for cover, which meant that what remained of Graber’s team was on its own. “We do what we came here to do. Until we know otherwise, we have to assume the warhead is in there somewhere.”
“In that?” Goldfarb said skeptically.
“Until we know otherwise,” Sean repeated with authority.
“But what about...”
Quimpo’s words were cut off by Sean. “Listen! We have a mission to complete! You think I don’t feel like shit right now? Well, I do, but I lived through this before, and we sure as hell ain’t gonna run away like we did then!” The nightmare of Desert One seemed all too real at the moment. The fire. The drone of aircraft. The feeling of failure. There Delta
had hightailed it out of harm’s way before it could do its job. Men had died there. Sean looked to the fire, knowing that very good men, very good friends, had fallen here also. But there was no ducking this one. For the moment, at least, they were on their own, and there was still a job to do. “Two and three. Mikey, you guys work around to the east side, by those far buildings. Stay clear of the fire. We don’t know if there’s anything left in there that could blow.” Like a nuke? he wondered. “We’ll take this side. Stay in contact until our reinforcements get here.”
A series of small explosions echoed from the distance. Sean hoped it wasn’t the rebels getting bogged down in a fight. He desperately wanted some more firepower on the ground right now.
BOOM.
The distant explosions became a singular one very close as a rocket-propelled grenade fell short after being fired from the corridors between the reactor buildings three hundred yards to the northwest.
“Damn!” Antonelli cursed. “I’m hit!”
Sean and Lewis dropped low and sprayed multiple bursts in the direction of fire. The shots were met immediately by a volley of full automatic fire from the reactor buildings.
“Inside. Hurry.” Sean tapped two more bursts off, but the effective range of the suppressed MP5s was severely limited. They were close-in weapons, not battle rifles. He would have traded a year’s pay for a few M-16s right then.
Quimpo and Goldfarb dragged the big lieutenant back into the bunker. Quimpo went to cover the south door, while Goldfarb, the team’s medic, went to work on his comrade’s nasty leg wound. Sean and Lewis backed in and took cover as round after round peppered the beautifully thick concrete walls.
“At least the Chinese can build decent prefab,” Lewis joked.
“It won’t mean shit once they get around us,” Sean pointed out. They needed help fast. He switched his radio from the local channel, which allowed the Delta troops to talk freely without distracting communications from the net, to tactical. This linked him with the only assistance he could count on for the moment. “Raptor, this is ground. We need some help here.”
“Okay, ground, whaddya got?” Cadler’s welcome voice inquired.
“Unknown strength to the northwest of our pos in the bunker. Autos and RPGs. We have multiple casualties. Can you assist?”
There was no hesitation in the reply. “A-ffirmative, ground.”
* * *
“Launch! Launch!” The NORAD threat officer said loudly. Thousands of heat-sensitive receptors on a DSP satellite, looking down upon the Western Hemisphere from twenty-two thousand miles over Gibraltar, had registered a surge of energy from a single point, and the signal-processing computer had judged the event significant enough to warrant a FLASH warning to NORAD.
General Walker hurried down from the command center’s upper deck. “Where?”
“Central Cuba, thermal-launch signature.” The officer processed the information further, the expression on his face signaling that something was not right. “Very concentrated. Similar to a silo hot launch, but then it spread way out. Going from a thermal of three-thousand-point-eight on a narrow aspect to one thousand even on a wide one.
Walker’s heart was beating faster, enough so that he thought he could hear more than feel it. “Better location.”
A few seconds passed. “Cienfuegos, west of the city.”
“Damn.” CINCNORAD walked three consoles down to the position he would occupy during the real thing. Whether this was or not, he did not yet know, but he also could not wait to do what needed to be done. He picked up the tan-colored phone that sat away from the other communication devices before him. It was picked up immediately in the NMCC. “This is CINCNORAD. I am reporting a NUCFLASH event, central Cuba. Possible launch. This is not a drill.”
* * *
Yakovlev pulled the phone away from his ear, a puzzled look on his face. “Voyska PVO, sir. Urgent”
President Konovalenko saw Bogdanov rise slightly in his chair. “Put it on speaker.”
A raspy click sounded from the white box on his desk. “You fool! You send men here to arrest me, and now the Americans have done it!”
Konovalenko recognized the voice as Shergin’s. “Have done what?”
“Launched a missile at us, you idiot! YOU FOOL!”
Bogdanov’s head sank at the revelation. “You... You...”
“From where?” Konovalenko demanded, keeping his composure. “Exactly.”
“How do you expect an exact report? The Caribbean, idiot. Is that precise enough for you?”
“No. Is it from Cuba?”
“You are blind! There is a submarine out there that has just fired a missile at us! A Trident missile!”
“Could it have come from Cuba?” Konovalenko pressed the question.
“I cannot believe this!” Shergin practically screamed through the phone. “How much proof do you require?”
“More than you are offering.” The president released the line. “Igor Yureivich, suggestions?”
“We get out of here!” Bogdanov answered for the foreign minister. “Before the damned thing kills us all!”
Konovalenko ignored the outburst. “Quickly.”
Yakovlev refused to believe they had been wrong. They had come so far, building a trust with their onetime enemy. That trust had to continue. “Call the Americans immediately.”
* * *
The Communications Vessel Vertikal was running a circular course around the growing debris field, her foredeck covered with growing piles of material as her pilot boats continued to bring it aboard. Some of the more interesting items were already in the wardroom.
“Can you read it?” the captain asked. He knew enough conversational English to excel at his job, but the written word had never been his to master. His signals officer was doing those honors.
“A logbook. A captain’s log.” The officer carefully separated the waterlogged papers and laid them on the steel tabletop. He examined the cracked plastic holder that contained them. “A seaman’s folio. I have seen this in Spain before. During our port call last winter. It is normally waterproof and is made of a buoyant material. This is why it floated.”
“But from where?” the captain wondered. “Or what?”
“Pennsylvania,” the signals officer said.
“Hardly,” the captain replied, assuming his subordinate had made a joke.
“No, sir. The USS Pennsylvania,” he said, pointing to the stencil on the folio’s mangled cover.
Pennsylvania? The captain snatched the object from his signals officer and examined it himself. It said as he was told, but how could it be? There were no other ships in the area even searching, and surely.... Of course. There was a search under way farther north. Radio intercepts had indicated that. And they would have no way of knowing where to look, if this was true. A raket submarine. He looked again at the name.
“Go through these papers immediately. Find out all you can and say nothing to anyone but me. Is that clear?” The captain headed for the door.
“Of course, but where are you going?”
“To the radio,” the captain answered. “This is worthy of an immediate report.” And of a promotion, he thought.
* * *
“No radar track, no exhaust plume.” The threat officer looked up to CINCNORAD and the two Russians standing behind. “Whatever it was, it stayed on the ground.”
Colonel Belyayev leaned close and studied the data carefully. The survival of Motherland’s capital might be at stake. He could trust, as Marshal Kurchatov had shown him, but he must also verify.
“Colonel?”
Belyayev returned to upright. “I see nothing. Residual heat signature.”
CINCNORAD noticed that the exchange was in English. He thought it might have been otherwise at a time like this. The relationship truly was different. Not only between their countries but between the people. It was different, and refreshing. “Marshal?”
Kurchatov nodded. “I am satisfied. Let us contact
President Konovalenko.”
* * *
“Toolbox, mark your pos and keep your head down.”
Antonio looked up, seeing nothing but hearing the faint sound of engines as the AC-130U approached.
“Colonel! Stop the advance!”
Ojeda snapped his head toward the American. “What are you talking about, Papa? We are almost to the objective. These loyalists are paper-thin in numbers.”
Antonio knew he had little time to explain. “Maybe so, but farther on the American unit is pinned down, and someone is going to be laying some heavy fire on the area in less than a minute.”
Ojeda followed Antonio’s gaze upward. He heard the sound also. “Back! Fall back!” He reached for a termite grenade from an aide and pulled the pin. “Where?”
“Here. We’ll be safe on this side, then.”
Ojeda tossed the incendiary device around the building’s corner and trotted back the way they had come. A pronounced pop came a few seconds later.
* * *
“Gunners, we have a friendly marker west northwest. One click from the target. Check fire west of marker.”
The gunners aboard the AC130U noted the fire-control officer’s directions and prepared to make some noise. The forward weapons station consisted of a single 25mm Gatling gun, located just aft of the cockpit. Closer to the rear, just forward of the aircraft’s loading ramp, were a 40mm cannon and a 105mm howitzer. All the weapons fired to port, requiring the pilot to put the aircraft into a controlled orbit around the target.
“Ten seconds,” fire control announced.
Cadler keyed his mic. “Ground, take cover.”
All three stations would be used in this attack. The gunners already had the target located on their low-light targeting systems. With five seconds to go, the pilot gave the AC130U an additional five-degree bank, allowing the weapons to have free play on the target during the tight orbit.
“Commence firing.”
* * *
Fifty of the loyalist forces had just begun dashing across the open area toward the bunker when the ground around them turned to dust and sparks. It was the last thing any of them saw. Thousands of 25mm rounds showered the vicinity of the target with a show of dancing colors as the lead and steel shells impacted the concrete.
October's Ghost Page 42
