Cobra tsf-4

by David E. Meadows

  “Captain, for target zero zero one, I recommend two two missile firings; extended-range Standard Missiles with each of the pair fired at five-second intervals. Second pair to be fired ten seconds after first pair.”

  Buc-Buc nodded. “Okay, Commander.” He glanced at the clock on the wall.

  They still had one minute until their weapons systems would be within range of the launched missiles. “Whatever happened to fire two, wait, watch, and then fire two more?”

  “Captain, we are at max range for our missiles. If those missiles have biological or chemical warheads and one hits Algiers, we are going to have a lot of dead Americans and Arabs on our hands. If we fire two and wait until we see whether they hit or not, we will have insufficient time to fire the second pair.”

  Buc-Buc nodded again. “Good argument, Commander. Make it so.” He nonchalantly waved his right hand at the TAO as he said it. It always made him think of Jean-Luc Picard of the starship Enterprise whenever he said that. “Second target?”

  “Second target already assigned to USS Spruance, sir,” the TAO said, knowing that in most ships, the TAO would never make a unilateral decision like this without the skipper’s permission. But the captain of the Hue City was no ordinary skipper. He expected his officers to be able to perform both independently and as a team.

  “Good work, Commander.” Buc-Buc surveyed the CIC, searching for anything that needed his personal tweaking or involvement. A sense of pride in ship, sailors, and officers who manned her flooded his body. This, coupled with the electronic warfare decoy and shootdown of the Algerian Exocet missile two days ago, would bond the crew and the ship even more strongly together. He nearly grinned before immediately remembering they were in a combat situation.

  “Well, let’s get on with it and show the airdale Navy the value of a good black-shoe surface ship, shall we?” he asked in his normal, low, monotone voice. It was common in the military to share information on commanding officers. The number-one shared comment on Buc-Buc was to watch his lips and listen closely, because he rarely raised his voice above a normal conversation level. Buc-Buc nearly stood up as the excitement of the SAG actions beckoned him to take charge. The only thing he wanted right now was to shove the TAO out of the way—

  although the officer was doing everything he should and doing it right — and take charge. He lifted his hands off the arms of the chair to keep from pushing himself up.

  “Yes, sir.” Anxiety washed over the TAO, who wanted to shout his orders in the microphone and who also fought to keep his feet still. Knowing the skipper was sitting calmly in his seat, acting as if this was another training exercise, and relying on the TAO to respond accordingly, the last thing he wanted was to let the Old Man see him get excited.

  The TAO pulled his headset down and lowered the microphone. Buc-Buc picked up his and put it on under his helmet. A flip of the switch on the left arm of the chair allowed him to speak to all the major stations on the ship: the bridge, engineering, TAO, medical, and even the mess decks and navigation.

  Buc-Buc looked at the clock for the umpteeth time, noticing the second hand had moved nearly halfway around the large Navy-issued timepiece.

  Time seemed to slow during combat. He spun the chair to the maximum forty-five-degree angle to better see the AN/SLQ-32(V) electronic warfare system installed against the forward bulkhead. Several round symbols identified surface vessels in the area, but no fast-moving V-shaped airborne symbols followed by a dotted trail showed what would indicate an inbound or passing aircraft. Of course, the AN/SLQ-32(V) had to be hit by the radar or telemetry signals for it to activate, and ballistic missiles had no radar. The internal gyroscope guided most of them. Cruise missiles had radar to permit use of topography guidance systems, but these were ballistic missiles. He knew that, but still he looked. The last thing he wanted was for one of their SAMs to accidentally take out an airliner.

  “Captain, starting countdown,” the TAO said. He flipped the microphone down. “All ships Tango Foxtrot, stand by for missile launch.”

  Buc-Buc loved it. Two ships sailing in tandem still calling each other with proper Navy tactical call signs. He would be hard pressed to explain to his high school buddies why he did it or how come he loved it. Tango Foxtrot stood for Task Force, and Task Force could be anything from one unit to multiple units.

  The TAO looked to the captain a last time, even as the countdown entered the single digits. Buc-Buc smiled slightly, winked, and nodded. The TAO turned so he could watch over the shoulder of the missile-launch operator. From the chair, Buc-Buc watched the numbers hit three — two — one, and then the operator turned the key. The Hue City shivered slightly as the first extended-range Standard Missile blasted out of a vertical launch tube located on the other side of the forward bulkhead where the AN/SLQ-32 was located. Five seconds later, the muffled echo of another blast shook the ship as the second missile left its launching pad. Two United States Navy surface-to air missiles were on their way.

  Buc-Buc remained quiet, listening to the TAO direct the action in the Combat Information Center as the ship prepared to launch the second set of missiles. On board the Spruance, their CIC would be doing the same thing: tracking and preparing to fire against the northbound missile.

  Buc-Buc flipped the switch to connect himself with engineering.

  “Chief Engineer, Captain here. Are we at condition Zebra?” he asked, knowing they were. Condition Zebra referred to the tightest water and airtight condition on board the ship. Hatches dogged, doors shut and secured to effectively seal inside those who fought the ship from anything outside. Only the topside and bridge watches remained exposed to the outside elements. If combat damaged the bridge, an officer and sailors manning an aft bridge station belowdecks could take over control of the ship.

  “Captain, we are fully secured.”

  “Chief, make sure that all ventilation is fully secured. We have a target heading our vicinity. We’re not its target, but it may have a biological warhead, so set Condition William.” “Masks and CBW suits, sir?” Buc-Buc had not thought of going that far. The suits were hot, uncomfortable, and the masks complicated clear communications. Chemical biological warfare was seldom exercised, but even though the war against terrorism had eased somewhat over the past few years, the threat of another anthrax or chemical attack still existed. He had exercised against the threat several times since they had sortied at maximum speed directly from their workup exercise off the Virginia Capes. It seemed so long ago. The USS Stennis, his ship, USS Ramage, USS John Rodgers, and the aging auxiliary ship Concord conducting a routine battle group workup. The USS Seawolf joined them halfway across the Atlantic. A routine workup allowed them to test their individual weapons systems and learn to work and fight together as a battle group.

  With only two days remaining in the ten-day exercise, the Libyans had sunk the USS Gearing, whose survivors eventually drifted in the Gulf of Sidra for nearly a week before an American submarine rescued them. He remembered the chills racing up his arms and how he shivered slightly in the ninety-degree ocean sun when he read Captain Dick Herman’s message refusing to return to Norfolk as the skipper of the aircraft carrier USS Stennis ordered the battle group east, toward the Mediterranean.

  And the fighters had arrived. Air Force KC-135s staged from Langley provided refueling zones along the route so additional squadrons of F-14 Tomcats and F-18 Hornet fighters could reach the USS Stennis halfway across the Atlantic. He rubbed the top of his nose. The USS John Rodgers. He nearly made the same decision Warren Spangle did when those Exocet missiles were inbound against USS Stennis. It was only then he fully appreciated what Spangle had done.

  The low noise of CIC changed slightly as the air launch operator began marking the countdown to intercept by the first pair of missiles.

  “Sir, masks and suits’?”

  Buc-Buc flicked the switch to respond to the repeated question that had caused him to recall the events leading to the Hue City being here at this precise mom
ent to execute this precise mission. Maybe fate was something that always waited at the end of the tracks, and you never quite knew what you were going to encounter along the trip until it approached and passed.

  “Yes, Chief Engineer. I don’t want to, but we should. Be prepared to activate the water wash down system.” The water wash down system was designed to spray salt water over every exposed part of the ship to wash away radiation following a tactical nuclear blast. It also served a purpose of cleaning away biological and chemical hazards.

  “Captain, we tested it a few weeks ago, and it worked.”

  “Good. Once activated, I want it to run continuously until I order it turned off.”

  After receiving acknowledgment from the chief engineer, he flipped the switch to the bridge. “Officer of the Deck, Captain; your bridge wing doors shut?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Shut them, and I want all hands topside to don CBW equipment ASAP.”

  “Yes, sir. It will take a few minutes until—”

  “Lieutenant, you may not have a few minutes. Hurry.” Bucbuc flipped him off before he had an opportunity to answer. Stay calm. Show calm. Use it, don’t lose it. He caught the TAO’s eyes glancing at him for a moment. They are watching, and how you perform, Buc-Buc, is how they will react.

  “Captain,” the TAO said, pointing to the scope. “One minute to impact.”

  “Attention all hands!” came the call through the IMC announcing system.

  “Now don chemical-biological warfare gear. I say again, don CBW gear, and set Condition William throughout the ship. Report to Damage Control Central when William set.”

  “Hue City, Spruance’, this is the Charlie Oscar. Is Captain Mcteak available?”

  Buc-Buc leaned forward and flipped the switch. “Go ahead, Louise.”

  “Captain, our surface search radar is showing two fast moving ships heading our way, bearing two eighty, range sixty nautical miles. They had been masked by Lampedusa Island and are CBDR,” Commander Louise Edwards, Commanding Officer USS Spruance said. CBDR was Navy short talk for constant bearing, decreasing range, which revealed that a contact was on a collision course with the detecting unit if either one or the other failed to maneuver.

  The Hue City TAO took several quick steps to their surface search position. The young petty officer manning the console pointed to the two new contacts.

  Buc-Buc glanced at the AN/SLQ-32 console and saw no ELINT reflections in that direction.

  “Any thoughts on what they are?” he asked the CO, USS Spruance.

  “Yes, sir. Our cryppies in the OUTBOARD electronic detection suite identify them as two Libyan fast-attack patrol craft coming out of Tunisia. Weapons systems include the older Styx missiles as well as Exocet.”

  “At sixty nautical miles, they are still out of launch range and out of our Harpoon range. Let’s open up our distance, Louise. Settle Spruance back, and take station ten miles astern. If they fire, I don’t want either one of our Close In Weapons Systems to hit each other.”

  “Roger, sir. Do you want us to take them as targets?”

  The distant whoosh of a missile engine overlaid the low level of conversation in the Hue City CIC. Buc-Buc looked up at the TAO, who was deep in conversation on his intercom with another station and failed to notice his inquiry.

  “We are firing the second one now,” Louise Edwards relayed.

  Five seconds later, the same whoosh sound rolled through CIC.

  The Hue City TAO walked up to Buc-Buc. “Sir, we have firing solutions on the two approaching fast attacks. They are within Tomahawk range.”

  He nodded. “Louise, go ahead and prepare to take them out. We’ll take them for now. You’re backup. Your primary mission is to shoot that ballistic missile down before it reaches Sicily.”

  “Roger, sir. Spruance out.”

  Buc-Buc reached for the switch and was going to advise Spruance to don CBW gear, but he stopped himself. “TAO, have Spruance execute CBW procedures.” Better to act through the tactical path than have the two COs give the impression they were lighting this action by themselves.

  Remain calm, act involved, but let the crew use its training. They know what they’re doing. He crossed his fingers. At least he had confidence that they remembered their training, he told himself. All you have to do, Buc-Buc, is remain calm and show confidence.

  “We have video merge, Captain,” the TAO said, referring to the radar blips of their surface-to-air missile merging with the radar blip of the Libyan ballistic missile. Tactically, that was good. It indicated a direct hit. A few seconds later, the video return on the air search and fire control radarscopes disappeared.

  A cheer went up in CIC. Buc-Buc unconsciously raised his hand and motioned downward to quell the cheer. The need for a quiet, professional CIC was more important. The battle wasn’t over yet.

  Over the southern landmass of Tunisia, the debris from the shootdown of the Libyan ballistic missile fell. The warhead shot outward, landing several miles from where the heavier parts of the two missiles scattered. Split open by the explosion, the warhead tumbled nearly fifteen thousand feet before impacting in the fields of an Arab farmer who was gathering eggs from the few chickens he had penned near his small one bedroom hutch.

  He dropped the basket and, stumbling over the roughly plowed rows, ran to the smoking, fourteen-foot-wide crater where tendrils of smoking metal stuck out. Cautiously, he touched one of the hot metal fragments, only to jerk his hand back, shaking it. Carefully avoiding the tangled warhead, the Tunisian farmer squatted to look at the empty hold where the day before, the Russian scientists and the Hungarian agent had removed the anthrax canister. He hurried back to the well to grab water to pour over the metal to cool it. If he got the metal out before whoever lost it showed up to claim it, he could sell it as scrap to a dealer in the market. A few extra coins would be welcome.

  * * *

  “Mr. President,” said Secretary Of State Bob Gilfort on the telephone.

  Bob nodded to Roger Maddock, the secretary of defense, sitting across from him alongside General Jeffrey Eaglefield, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “Sir, we have reached an agreement with him.”

  Bob nodded to the unheard comments of President Crawford on the other end. The three men sat in the Command Chambers of the secretary of defense, behind three-inch-thick steel walls and vacuum-sealed doors designed to protect those inside from electronic espionage or unauthorized observers.

  “Yes, sir. He readily agreed to all our demands. I recommend, Mr. President, that you authorize the secretary of defense to implement Operation Tangle Bandit.”

  The faint voice of the president could be heard through the receiver, but as hard as Roger and the general tried, the words were too garbled to understand.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. President.” Bob handed the receiver to Roger. “He wants to talk with you.”

  Roger took the receiver, holding it slightly from his ear so General Eaglefield could listen.

  “Roger, are the forces in place?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. President. The initial phrase of Operation Tangle Bandit started over three days ago. The forces are within one hundred miles of the objective, and according to General Stanhope, director of NSA, and Farbros Digby-Jones, director of CIA, they remain undetected.”

  “Roger, I don’t want another Jimmy Carter Iran rescue fiasco.”

  “Decades ago, sir. Different military, different readiness focus.

  They’re ready, and I have complete confidence in them doing the job.”

  “What does the chairman think? I haven’t seen General Ea glefield today.

  When I saw him yesterday at our round table in the Oval Office, he echoed what you are telling me. Does he have the same confidence?”

  General Eaglefield nodded and waved his finger in a circle, indicating he was ready to give the go-ahead signal.

  “Mr. President, Korea is rapidly deescalating. The North Koreans are on the run. I have already detached two c
arrier battle groups to the Mediterranean. We don’t need those forces in the Sea of Japan. We can now focus on resolving the North African crisis. I agree with Bob. Issue the order, and in twenty four hours—”

  “Roger, enough of our fine men and women have already died in North Africa and in Korea. I’m as concerned now as I was yesterday over this operation. I think it’s very dangerous, and if any one item goes awry in its execution, then we will have a major catastrophe on our hands.”

  “Mr. President, that is why they train and train and train. Eventually, every military person has to go in harm’s way. It’s why we have a strong military; to go in harm’s way, execute national policy, and have the best chance for survival and victory. Sir, now is the time. The forces are in place. The KC-135 Air Force tankers are already on station. It is either now or never, sir. With all due respect, sir, you need to make a decision,” Roger said, his voice rising slightly, “and I recommend a “Go.’”

  Bob raised his finger and shook it slightly. Confronting Crawford could backfire. The president, for all his capacity for intellectual thought, never forgot a slight.

  There was silence on the other end. After a few seconds, President Crawford replied softly, “Okay, Roger. I pray that everything you and the chairman proposed goes according to plan.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President. You won’t be disappointed.” As the seconds lengthened, waiting for a reply, Roger envisioned the president tapping his pencil on the desk at the other end, looking at Franco Donelli, his national security advisor.

  “Mr. President?” Roger asked.

  “Yes, I am still here, Roger. I hope you are right. Go ahead; execute Operation Tangle Bandit, and keep me up to date as it progresses. Tell me about the missiles launched by the Libyans. Have they been destroyed?”

  Roger Maddock nodded at General Eaglefield, who slid his chair back, nodded to both men, and rapidly departed the secure compartment. By the time he stepped into the E Ring of the Pentagon, the general was running, his aide and bodyguard jogging alongside to keep up. The dim corridors seemed bright in comparison to the streetlights across the Potomac River that lit the near-vacant streets of the sleeping capital.