Thursday, 11 May
The White House
0700 local (GMT –2)
Sarah Wexler gazed across the desk at the man she’d come to regard as a friend and mentor over the years. She could see the tension in his eyes, the toll this was taking on him. For a moment, she felt the surge of sympathy.
But hadn’t it been that way for them all? The waiting, knowing something was terribly terribly wrong, the eternal waiting — it seemed to her at that moment that waiting was at the crux of any career in politics.
The president was leaning back, his hand interlaced in front of him and resting on his stomach. He had gained weight since the college days, not much, but it showed in his midsection. The middle finger of his right hand was tapping out a rhythm against the knuckles of his left hand, and she tried to discern the order to it. The president was a particular fan of jazz music, and on occasions that she caught him humming in time to the tapping, she was generally able to recognize the song.
He caught her staring at his hands, and smiled sheepishly. The index finger stopped its tapping.
“What was it?” she asked. Because of their long friendship, the president knew exactly what she meant.
“Rhapsody in Blue,” he answered. “I can hum a few bars to help pass the time.”
Sarah shook her head. “No, it won’t be much longer now.” She was certain of that, although she could not have explained how she knew it. Perhaps it was from years of keeping her finger on the pulse of the communications between nations, of weaving these webs of intrigue and competing interests that made up the body politic. Whatever it was — call it intuition if you had to — she could feel things moving to a head. And so could the president. She could see it in his eyes, in the slight tensing of his muscles as he steeled himself for the decisions he must make.
“They’re all airborne,” she said softly, repeating the fact that they both knew. “It is just a matter of time.”
“Time for us. Fuel for them.” Suddenly, he seemed to reach a decision. He reached for the telephone on his desk, paused for moment, and looked across at her. “There will be hell to pay for this, you know.”
She nodded. “There always is.”
The president drew in a deep, slow breath, and punched in a two digit number. “Mr. President,” he said without preliminaries. “You have two minutes to order your forces to return to base. Otherwise, it is weapons free.” He listened for moment at the angry babble of words spewing out of the receiver. Then he moved the telephone away from his ear and replaced it gently in the cradle without further comment.
“When was the last time you hung up on anyone?” the president asked. “It’s been years for me.” He leaned back in his chair again, looking suddenly years younger. “I’ll have to try that more often.”
Devil Dog 202
1136 local (GMT –2)
Thor kept the Hornet in a tight spiral, heading up to assigned CAP altitude. To the south, clusters of radar returns merged, split apart, and then circled about each other. Gradually, out of what looked to be a massive circle jerk, the Greek aircraft were splitting off into pairs, transitioning from a bombing run formation into combat spread high-low fighting sets.
They had the right idea, he supposed. But they were damned slow about it. The possibility had been briefed, he knew, and the Greek formation ought to have been ready for it. After all, they had guys on the ground that knew what the hell was going on, that had to have known that this friendly joining of forces with the Americans was all for show.
And they’d shot down his buddy. That, more than anything else, made it personal.
“Hey, Thor, you’re going to screw yourself into the stars, you make that orbit any smaller.” It was Hot Rocks, riding wing on Lobo. “Pay attention, swabbie. I’ll show you how to maintain a CAP station.” Thor heard the double click of the microphone, signifying Hot Rocks had copied his last. For a moment, he wondered about Hot Rocks, then shrugged. Whatever problems Golden Boy had had during his first cruise, he’d worked them out. Or Lobo had beat them out of him — frankly, he wouldn’t put it past her to smack him around a little bit, if only to get his attention.
No matter. Kid was one hell of a decent aviator now, and that was all that mattered.
“Blue Flight, interrogative status?” Thor asked. One by one, in flight order, the Hornets checked. Each one was on station, had adequate fuel reserves, and was copying the LINK loud and clear. “Roger, Lead’s on station. Weapons tight for now — but don’t take the first shot.”
“Blue Lead, Green Lead,” Lobo’s voice said over tactical. “They’d be a fool to try anything right now, with everything we’ve got in the air.”
“Roger. I ain’t relying on their smarts, though,” Thor answered. “I seen men die for dumber reasons.”
Just then, the milling Greek aircraft formed into two waves of strike aircraft. Just for a moment, the lines of blips ran straight and true across the screen, then the pairs broke off and vectored off in all directions, but primarily heading north.”
“Like I said,” Thor said. “Blue Flight, take the western flank. Green Leader, you got the east?”
“Roger,” Lobo replied, and Thor thought he could hear the adrenaline beating in her voice. “We’ll clean up our set them come bail you out.”
“In your dreams, sweetheart.” Thor punched the Hornet into afterburner, let the sweet howl of the engines seep into his bones. It was time for some payback.
Macedonian Tomcat
1137 local (GMT –2)
“What are they doing?” the pilot snapped. “Ground, I need answers now.”
“Stand by — wait, out.”
“Wait, out, hell. What the hell are the Americans doing?”
“Weapons tight on American forces,” a new voice replied, and the pilot realized it was Xerxes. “All Greek forces are declared hostile, weapons free. But don’t target the Americans, not now.”
“They’re working with the Greeks,” the pilot howled. “They bombed us!”
“The rules just changed,” Xerxes replied, and his tone of voice indicated that the discussion was concluded. “I say again, weapons tight on American forces. Weapons free on Greek forces. God be with you, my men.”
Devil Dog 202
1138 local (GMT –2)
“I’m taking the lead.”
“Got it — I got the next one, over.”
“I’ll back you up on that.”
“Ready — Fox two, Fox two.”
Thor listened to the other aircraft in his flight announcing their targets and watched their decisions reflected in the symbology on his HUD LINK display. As each pilot designated a radar blip as a target and assigned a missile to it, the LINK reflected it.
Thor noticed a couple of leakers, an inbound pair of fighters veering off further to the west than most of the others. He thumb-clicked a target designation and waited for a split second for the screen to reflect his decision. As soon as it did, he peeled off toward it with his wingman in the high slot.
“Two, you got them?” Thor asked his wingman. “Sixty miles out, just over 600 knots. Looks like they’re going high-low.”
“That’s affirmative,” his wingman answered. “I’ll take the high, of course, then, give you a hand.”
“In your dreams.” And why the hell did everyone seems so convinced he needed any help, anyway? First Lobo, now his wingman. Thor had been killing MiGs long before either of them had strapped into their first ejection seats.
The sharp warning buzz of his ESM gear cut off the strain of thought. Lock, got a lock — not a chance at that range, he’s just trying to throw me off. Well, two can play that game. Thor designated the target and selected an AMRAAM missile. He waited until his fire control system beeped a cheery acknowledgment, then toggled off the AMRAAM. The light aircraft jolted upward as the missile left the hard point, then arrowed away as its own propulsion system kicked in.
Well, that will at least keep him busy. The AIM—120 (advanc
ed medium range air-to-air missile) was a follow-on to the Sparrow. It was capable of turning on an active seeker head after launch, at either a given time or distance, and guiding independently onto the designated target. It had a blast fragmentation warhead with a smart fuse, and could receive midcourse guidance updates to refine terminal honing track. It was capable of speeds of up to Mach 4, with a range of forty miles. The 345-pound missile carried a fifty-pound warhead.
For just a moment, Thor wished that his beloved Hornet was capable of carrying the Phoenix missile. With its longer range of over one hundred miles, the Phoenix might not always find its target, but it certainly forced the enemy into a defensive mode.
Thor waited until the missile began its approach on him, then he initiated countermeasures. Chaff and flares kicked out of the underbelly of the aircraft, rotating wildly in the air and doing their damnedest to present an attractive target to the incoming missile. Seconds after deploying countermeasures, Thor cut the Hornet into a hard breaking turn. He watched the radar screen, and saw the missile waiver for moment, then settle on the massive cloud of metallic strips and heat sources.
Nothing to it, he thought. The day they come up with a smart long-range missile is the day I’ll worry.
The make was now barely forty miles out, just at the outer edge of his AMRAAM engagement envelope. Take the shot now? Or wait a few minutes, give time to close to a distance with increased probability of kill.
But now the enemy Tomcat was climbing, and turning slightly away from him. He could see it in the distance now, fire spouting out of the tailpipes as it streaked straight up in the sky.
Not going to get me that way, asshole. You grab enough altitude, then try to sneak in behind me. Well, two can play that game.
Thor debated for a moment swapping targets with his wingman, and taking the other aircraft, which was now at a lower altitude than his original one. It made sense, since his wingman would have to expend less energy to match the other Tomcat altitude.
But dammit, this was personal. The bastard had fired on him, just like he fired on Murphy. And he was going to make them pay for it.
The heavier Tomcat he’d targeted was now below him, turning nimbly for an aircraft of its size. But while the Tomcat might be able to outlast the Hornet in the sky, there was no way the Greek pilot could put his aircraft through the same paces that Thor could with the Hornet. No way at all.
His prey cut hard to the south, sacrificing some altitude for additional speed and tightening the turn. Thor was on him in an instant, barreling down from on high to slip in behind in perfect targeting position. The Tomcat knew he was there — had to know — and started a desperate series of jinks and turns through the aerial killing ground, pumping out flares and chaff like there was no tomorrow.
And indeed there would be no tomorrow for this particular traitor, Thor thought, as he slid the weapons selector switch from AMRAAM to Sidewinder. Not at this range. Not with this weapon.
The nine-foot Mach-two missile exploded off the Hornet’s wing, streaking out for the Macedonian. The rollerons stabilized it in the air as the guidance system detected the irresistible lure of the Tomcat’s engines pumping heat out its ass. Thor pickled off another missile, wary of the first Sidewinder falling for the alluring flares now gyrating in the air in front of it, but there was no need for it. At this range, the first Sidewinder barely had time to clear Thor’s wing before it was trying to climb up inside the Tomcat’s tailpipe. Thor broke hard right, barely clearing the massive fireball of detonating warhead, unexpended aviation fuel and metal shards from the Tomcat. The second missile exploded inside the fireball itself, throwing the metal debris out at an even faster speed.
“Scratch one Greek,” Thor howled, breaking circuit discipline as well as Marine Corp cool to announce his victory. It was payback, and it felt good. Real good.
The harsh warning of his ESM gear broke off his Rebel yell in midcry. A radio call from his wingman confirmed the danger—“Thor, on your ass! Get the hell out of my line of fire.”
Thor dropped the nose of the Hornet down and headed for the deck. In his pursuit to wreak vengeance on the Tomcat, he’d forgotten the primary rule that every aviator learned early on, or paid for with his life — the scan. Even with the HUD, it was possible to get so fixated on a particular target that the pilot forgot to watch the rest of the battle or neglected to fly his aircraft. And Thor had done exactly that. While he’d been stalking the lead Tomcat, the other one had managed to slip by his wingman and turn into Thor, waiting until the right moment to slip in behind him.
“Get him off me, get him off me. He’s got a lock!”
“Thor on my mark — break right. Mark!” his wingman shouted over tactical.
Thor slammed the Hornet into the hardest turn he’d ever experienced, standing the Hornet on wingtip and continuing his downward path toward the ground. His HUD showed two missiles clobbering the air above him, their tracks marked with elongated speed leaders pointing directly at the Tomcat on Thor’s six.
Thor continued the turn through one hundred and eighty degrees, knowing there was no way the Greek Tomcat could keep up. As he reached the reciprocal of his previous course, he pulled the aircraft up. The ground was coming up far too fast, craggy and foreboding in this part of the country. Not that Marines minded flying nap of the earth — hell, they lived for close air support to the guys on the ground! — but doing it at damned near max speed on a steep angle of descent bordered on suicidal. He had to have some altitude, and had to have it now.
“Goddamn it, Thor, you’re right back — left, break left! You can’t shake him, but you can get the fuck out of the way!”
Suddenly, Thor was fed up. Allies that turned into enemies, allies shooting down Marine fighters, the ribbing from Lobo and his wingman — enough was enough. Yes, by gaining altitude, he’d put himself squarely back in the path of the oncoming Tomcat, right. His wingman should have taken the shot — Thor would find out later why he hadn’t. But since he hadn’t, it was time for a little on the job training.
“Back off, asshole,” Thor snarled. “Let me show you how this is done.”
“Thor, you can’t — he’s almost on you!”
“I said, back off!” Thor nailed the Hornet into the afterburner zone, then cut hard back to the right. The Tomcat — the HUD said it was right behind him, closing hard and fast. The ESM warning buzzer confirmed it.
NINETEEN
Friday, 12 May
Joint Chiefs of Staff
The Pentagon
Washington, DC
1005 local (GMT +5)
The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff stared down the folder on his desk. One last problem to wrap up with Greece and Macedonia — and one that should be fairly simple to solve. He turned to the chief of naval operations, who was sitting off to the side on a long, low leather couch that graced one wall. “You know what you have to do.”
“Dammit, I don’t like it,” the CNO said. “It sends the wrong message. We can’t have sailors disobeying orders whenever they feel like it.”
“Nor can we afford to look like complete and utter idiots to the rest of the world,” the chairman observed. He flipped quickly to the pages, searching for anything that would make him change his mind.
In theory at least, he agreed with the chief of naval operations. In theory. But when it came to getting things done in Washington, to managing the health and well-being of the armed services, to representing their interest to congress, to molding the forces into groups that could try to fight the wide range of missions they were given these days, all the while juggling the current perceptions of the American public — well, sometimes theories just didn’t cut it.
He knew the chief of Naval operations understood that. He had to, or he would not have risen to his current position. The CNO was right — it did send a wrong message, both to the American public and to the military in general.
But the alternative was even worse.
“This
youngster — Airman Smith — he’s come up absolutely clean on the extended background investigation I ordered. There’s no political agenda, nobody behind him. Not as far as we can tell.”
“I know. I saw the same report.”
“Then you understand why it has to be this way?”
“Of course I do. It’s just that I don’t like it. I don’t like it one damned little bit.”
“A good thing that’s not the requisite for this job. Liking everything we have to do, I mean.”
The CNO stood, sighed, and headed for the door. He paused, turned back to the chairman, and said, “One day this will come back to bite us in the ass, you know.” The chairman nodded. “Better an ass biting in the future than a castration at present, don’t you think?”
USS Jefferson
1500 local (GMT –2)
Airman Smith stood at attention in the flag passageway. He flexed his knees, trying to ignore the aching starting in his feet. His hands were down by his side, his thumbs along the seams of his dress white uniform. He stared straight ahead, in best boot camp tradition, holding his eyes locked on some point far off in the distance. He had been standing there for thirty minutes, studiously ignoring and being ignored by everyone that walked by.
They probably all knew who he was. They had to, didn’t they? He got mail from everywhere around the world, had seen his own face on CNN and ACN, and had read the carefully filtered reports that were allowed on-board USS Jefferson.
A hot sense of shame coupled with righteous indignation swept through him. Some letters bothered him more than most, and oddly enough, they were from people who were on his side. For the most part, they congratulated him on standing up to the evil empire that was the United States Navy.
They didn’t get it. They just didn’t get it. There was nothing wrong with the Navy, nothing at all. Given a choice — a choice he might not have now — he’d stand a Navy for at least twenty years. Hell, maybe even go for thirty. For one fleeting moment a few months back, he even entertained the idea of commission. Being an officer in United States Navy — now that was something to be proud of.
Enemies c-15 Page 22
