Guarding Savage

by Edlund, Dave;

  “It’s the most efficient way to find us. The grounds are even larger than the palace.”

  Jade was trembling. “Are you okay?” Peter asked.

  She nodded. “Yes, just scared.” Her voice was quivering.

  “Me too. Stay close. We have to run from one garden to the next so we are not in the open any longer than necessary. I’ll be right beside you. You can do this.”

  She took a deep, calming breath, and Diesel rubbed her leg with his head.

  “We have to get to the gate. From there, we can escape into the city traffic and make our way to the embassy. That’s the only way. We have to do this.”

  Three guards appeared at the corner of the building. “We need to get moving,” Robert said. “It won’t take them long to find us if we stay here.”

  Bending over at the waist so as not to be exposed above the hedge, they ran for a fountain surrounded by lush lawn. The fountain was constructed in a star pattern, with jets of water shooting up and splashing into the water-filled pool.

  They made it to the fountain without being seen. The sun beat down on their already overheated bodies. Diesel’s tongue was flushed pink and hanging low. The sound and smell of the water was a strong attraction, and he jumped over the foot-high ledge and into the water, lapping to slake his thirst. Fearful of making a commotion, Peter allowed the pitty to drink.

  Voices emanated from the distance, followed by rifle shots. Bullets splashed the water, almost hitting Diesel. Peter sighted over the edge and observed the same group of three black berets. They were standing rather casually as if they didn’t realize the Americans were just on the other side of the fountain. Perhaps they thought the dog had strayed from the group in search of water. Peter thought he heard laughter and watched as the three guards stood side-by-side and took aim, acting like they were at a carnival shooting gallery.

  “Diesel, on me,” Peter said, his voice firm, while he aimed his rifle.

  As Diesel hopped over the ledge, the guards fired. And so did Peter. The black berets missed… Peter didn’t. One of the guards fell, mortally wounded.

  The remaining two guards dove for cover behind the boxwood hedge.

  Robert fired a short burst from his rifle at the location he thought the guards to be. The bullets shredded leaves from the thick hedge and broke woody stems but otherwise failed to do any damage. “Go!” he yelled.

  Peter and Jade dashed for a large banyan tree. The branches stretched out for 100 feet from the main trunk, supported on many dozen trunks formed from air roots that had dropped years ago. He urged Jade forward. “Get in the center where the wood is thicker!” Diesel followed her, and Peter rolled to the ground, ready to fire on any pursuing guards.

  Seeing they made it safely, Robert jumped to his feet and sprinted. The guards from the hedge saw him fleeing and opened up with a withering volley of automatic fire.

  Bullets sizzled passed Robert; a few hit the ground to either side as he ran headlong for the protection of the banyan tree. He only had ten more yards, and his legs were pumping hard, his chest heaving to suck in air.

  Peter was shooting back at the guards, even though he couldn’t see them behind the hedge. In a couple seconds their rifles were empty, and he felt a wave of relief knowing Robert would make it to safety while they stopped to reload.

  The big man tumbled to the dirt in a controlled crash, stopping just short of Peter. He was winded and trying to catch his breath. “How much farther?” Peter asked.

  Robert’s face was answer enough. They still had to circle around the sprawling palace, and they’d only started, maybe completing twenty percent of the distance.

  Jade was at Peter’s shoulder. Robert had been her bodyguard for many years, and she knew him to be confident, strong, persistent. She read his expression with certainty. “We’re not going to make it, are we?”

  Chapter 39

  South China Sea

  August 26

  Admiral LaGrassa was incredulous for exactly three seconds. He’d just finished reading the priority message sent by Pacific Fleet Command. In his business, one didn’t have the luxury of time to ponder orders. Lives were lost or saved in a span of seconds.

  He picked up the communication handset connecting him to the air boss located high in the superstructure, overlooking the flight deck. “Get the alert-five Hornets in the air ASAP! And two more right behind them. Loadout for air-to-air.”

  “Yes, sir,” the air boss replied. He relayed the order, and seamen began scrambling to comply. “What are we hunting?” he asked the admiral.

  “According to Fleet Command, we have high-level intelligence that anti-ship missiles are about to be fired from ships disguised as fishing trawlers.”

  Standing on the bridge, slightly behind the admiral, Captain Healy easily overheard his order. “The escorts will take down any cruise missiles coming our way, and if by some freak stroke of luck a missile gets through, our close-in defensive systems will do the job. Not much chance of intercepting with fighters.”

  Admiral LaGrassa had a faraway look in his eyes. “That’s the damnedest part of this. According to the intelligence, they aren’t shooting at us, but at the Chinese task force.”

  “Who?”

  “The message didn’t say. Only that we are to intercept an unknown number of missiles at all costs. According to the intel, those trawlers are supposed to be somewhere in our vicinity, so it looks to the Chinese like we fired on them. Follow me to the CIC.”

  Captain Healy and Admiral LaGrassa moved smartly to the Combat Information Center to better direct the expected action, assuming the intel was correct. The admiral entered first. “Radar, what are we showing?”

  A technician answered without taking her eyes from her display. “We’ve got four surface contacts ahead and to starboard.”

  “Could be our trawlers,” Healy said.

  “Could be… or not. We won’t know for sure until they fire off the cruise missiles. Assuming the intel is correct.”

  The muffled roar of two Super Hornets launching off the flight deck drew the attention of Healy and LaGrassa. They already had two Hornets, designated Sentry One and Sentry Two, high overhead comprising the combat air patrol. One of the many improvements implemented in the new Ford-class of aircraft carrier was the electromagnetic aircraft launch system (EMALS) which allowed for much faster turnaround between aircraft launches. Getting more planes in the air faster was a huge tactical advantage in a combat situation.

  Healy looked at a video feed of the flight deck. Sailors were darting about in frenetic activity. “Two more are preparing to launch. They’ll be airborne in three minutes. Fortunately, the warhead just clipped the starboard edge of the flight deck. If it had hit closer to center and taken out the EMALS or penetrated through the flight hangar, we’d be out of business.”

  “We need a sharp set of eyes on those surface contacts,” LaGrassa said. “Have Bluebird monitor their activity.” Bluebird was their E3 Sentry early warning and surveillance aircraft. With a powerful radar and the advantage of altitude, the reconnaissance aircraft was the best tool to spot a missile launch. “Authorize the pilot to shift his position if needed to get a better look. I want to know the instant anything resembling a launch is detected. And then immediately direct the nearest Hornets on an intercept vector. The pilots are authorized to lock and fire at will.”

  Healy checked the location of the surface contacts again. “Shiloh is the nearest escort to that fleet of fishing boats. Maybe it would be prudent to have her load in a set of firing solutions, just in case one of them is our missile boat.”

  LaGrassa nodded. “Good idea, Jack. See to it.”

  The tension in the CIC was palpable. Although the damage to the Ford was minimal, the officers and experienced crewmembers knew that luck played a major role in their survival. Their defenses were completely ineffective against whatever this new weapon was. If it was used against them again, would they be as fortunate?

  “Probable mis
sile launch from surface contact,” the radar technician reported. “Contact designated Tango One.”

  Healy spun around to address the communications operator. “Tell Shiloh to take her down!”

  “Aye, aye Skipper.”

  “Second launch detected! Probable missile. Surface contact designated Tango Two.”

  “Order Shiloh to fire on Tangos One and Two,” Healy barked.

  “Bluebird reporting multiple launches.” This report from the communications station. “Five… make that six bogeys. Flight profile matches Harpoon anti-ship missile.”

  “Transfer targeting control to Bluebird,” Admiral LaGrassa ordered. “Get Eagle Flight vectored on those missiles!” As an afterthought he added, “And order the pilots they are to engage with guns or sidewinders only. No AMRAAMs! Can’t run the risk that radar lock is lost in the sea clutter and one of those missiles overshoots and hits a Chinese warship.”

  “Status on Tangos One and Two?” Healy said, his voice elevated to carry over the chatter.

  “Sir, both were just hit by Harpoon missiles fired from Shiloh.”

  Captain Healy looked at the video showing the flight deck. “Why are those Hornets still there? I want those birds in the air!” No sooner had the words escaped his lips when the roar of jet engines reverberated across the bridge. The pilots were forcibly thrust back in their seats as their aircraft raced off the flight deck into a bright tropical sky. They gained altitude rapidly and joined another pair of Hornets to make up Eagle Flight.

  s

  Lieutenant Alfred Dickerson was born and raised in Atlanta. He grew up with a brother and two sisters in a modest apartment. His grades were exceptional, and he enjoyed school. But his passion was flying, inspired by stories he’d read about the Tuskegee airmen. Once, he even met two of the airmen during a book signing event. Freddy, as his friends called him, turned down a scholarship to Brown University, much to his mother’s disappointment, to join the Navy and become an aviator.

  Behind the controls of Eagle Four, Dickerson was in his element. He believed this would be a fairly easy exercise. After all, unlike an enemy fighter, the cruise missile would not employ evasive maneuvers to avoid being shot down. And now he was racing at Mach 1.5 to close on two lead bogies. The other three Hornets in Eagle Flight were cleaning up the trailing Harpoons.

  Exactly following the vector he’d been given by Bluebird, he was expecting to close on his two bogies and be within range at any moment. The window to achieve a kill was now less than sixty seconds. Soon, very soon, he would be upon the Chinese task force—and he doubted they would perceive his aircraft as friendly.

  With his attention on the powerful search and targeting radar onboard the Super Hornet, suddenly blips representing the two missiles showed on his display. The targets were both at lower altitude, just above the sea, and somewhat staggered—one ahead of the other. He descended, wishing to come in behind the missiles to get a good thermal lock on the hot engine exhaust. The shot had to be good—he probably wouldn’t get a second chance.

  Flying twenty feet above the sea, the Harpoon cruised at 460 knots searching for target ships in its path using an internal radar. When located, it would then steer a course unerringly to the target, slam into the side of the ship just above water level, and detonate a 500-pound high-explosive warhead.

  “Bluebird this is Eagle Four. I have two bogies on my radar. Moving in to get a thermal lock.” Still five kilometers away, the missile was invisible to the naked eye.

  “Eagle Four to Bluebird. Can’t lock, moving closer.” Dickerson dropped to only fifty feet. He thought that if he descended any lower, he’d have saltwater splashing across his canopy.

  Skimming the water at 600 knots, he quickly shortened the distance to the first missile. “Bluebird, Eagle Four. Have infrared lock on Bogey One… Fox two.” A sleek white sidewinder missile shot forward from the wing pylon, a plume of white smoke trailing behind it as it accelerated toward the Harpoon cruise missile at supersonic speed.

  Dickerson continued to close on Bogie One for another three seconds. “Eagle Four, splash Bogey One,” came the confirming message from Bluebird. He immediately corrected his course, nudging the Hornet to the left until he was behind the second Harpoon. He was four kilometers away and had to get closer to ensure the sidewinder seeker was locked onto the target.

  The radio chattered with more confirmed kills. Eagles One through Three had all succeeded in shooting down their targets and turned safely back toward the Gerald Ford. Now it was up to Freddy Dickerson in Eagle Four to kill that sole remaining Harpoon before it impacted on a Chinese ship.

  “Eagle Four to Bluebird. I’m being painted by search radar.”

  “Uh, Eagle Four. You’re getting close to the Chinese task force. Time to splash that bogey. You’re within range.”

  “Negative Bluebird. Intermittent lock. I need to get closer.”

  Dickerson urged a little more speed from his engines. “Bluebird, Eagle Four has tone… Fox Two!” A second heat-seeking missile raced forward, chasing after the hot exhaust emanating from the rear of the cruise missile.

  Resisting the urge to turn his aircraft, Dickerson held his course low and directly behind the cruise missile until Bluebird confirmed the kill. “Splash Bogey Two.”

  “Eagle Four, roger that.” He pushed the stick left and entered a sharp turn, advancing the throttles to gain elevation and speed. Suddenly the warning alarm blared. “I’ve been locked! Ejecting chaff!”

  “Eagle Four, this is Bluebird. You have two incoming. Break right.”

  Dickerson ejected more chaff, bundles of aluminum strips to confuse radar guidance systems, and then he ejected flares to decoy heat-seeking missiles. He threw the stick hard to the left, and then to the right, rocking back and forth as the airframe turned sharply. He pushed the throttles forward to the stops, kicking in the afterburner, and pointed the nose skyward to gain altitude.

  The alarm was screaming inside the cockpit, warning Dickerson that his aircraft was still locked by guidance radar from an incoming missile. He pushed the stick forward and dived for the sea… and still the alarm refused to let up.

  More chaff and flares were ejected, and then, just as it seemed he would crash into the ocean, he pulled back on the stick. The G forces were tremendous, and he squeezed his abdominal muscles in continuous repetitions to force blood up to his brain. If he blacked out, he’d crash into the sea at 650 knots.

  As his peripheral vision faded to blackness, he focused his narrow field of view on the altimeter… 300 feet… 200 feet… 100 feet… he wasn’t going to make it.

  He pulled back harder on the stick… seventy feet… forty feet.

  Finally, the rate of descent slowed. At thirty feet it leveled off, and a heartbeat later the screaming alarm silenced, the two trailing missiles shattering on contact with the sea.

  Pulse racing, Dickerson allowed himself one deep breath and then Eagle Four climbed to a safe altitude, leaving the Chinese task force far behind.

  Chapter 40

  Istana Nurul Iman Palace

  August 26

  Diesel was circling, whining, yawning—all signs of heightened anxiety. Something was disturbing him, and Peter knew to trust the dog’s senses. “Look, we need to get moving,” he addressed Robert, but the message was also for Jade.

  Robert rolled near a banyan trunk and prepared to hold back their pursuers. He motioned with his head toward a large water feature that was connected to a main palace entrance via a wide stone pathway. On either side of the path were huge planters, also fabricated of stone, each six feet tall and overflowing with beautiful blooming bougainvillea. The water feature itself was a long rectangular pond with ledge stones two feet high. Spaced across the length of the pond were three ringed cones, taller than the planters. Water shot into the air from the top of each cone and splashed down over the circular rings. “That’s your best protection. Maybe a hundred yards. Think you can make it?”

  Peter looked t
o Jade, and she nodded. “Okay, I’m ready when you are.”

  “Listen,” Peter said. “We can’t just run in a straight line, we’d be easy targets. We need to zig and zag. Stay one step behind me and follow my lead.”

  “I think I see movement behind the hedge. It’s now or never.”

  Peter and Jade took off, Diesel following close. After covering a dozen yards, Peter abruptly turned right on a diagonal course, and Jade followed. Then he switched to the left, repeating this process randomly. Soon, the crack of gunshots split the air again.

  Fearing the targets running in the open might get away, the two guards fired—and Robert returned fire. At first he was uncertain of their location, but then he saw a muzzle flash from one of the M4 rifles, and aimed at that point, and then just slightly to either side. After a dozen shots, he connected, silencing one of the rifles.

  The remaining palace guard switched the fire select lever to full automatic and let loose with the balance of the magazine. A hailstorm of bullets ripped through the air. Peter heard the supersonic crack of a near miss, and then he heard what he’d been dreading. “Ahh!” He looked over his shoulder and Jade was tumbling on the turf.

  Peter turned back and in four strides was at her side. Blood was already weeping through the hole in her pant leg, a bullet having passed through the outer portion of her left thigh. “Put your arm around my neck!”

  He lifted Jade and they half hobbled, half jogged the remainder of the distance to the pond. Rifle fire had renewed just as they reached the stone ledge on the far side. Peter lowered the young woman, a bit harder than he’d wanted to. She landed on her side with a grunt. She’d be safe behind the long side of the pond.

  “Hold your hand here, over the wound, to stop the bleeding.”

  Peter laid his rifle on the ledge and started to fire in the direction of the hedge. He didn’t have a clear target, but he needed to provide some measure of cover for Robert.

  The bodyguard was running, and Peter squeezed off another six shots, still with no visible target. He ceased fire, thinking that maybe Robert had killed the remaining black berets. The gunfire resumed. As Peter searched along the hedge, a volley of shots came from a new direction off to the left. Several palace guards must have circled around through the outer reaches of the grounds, undetected as they stalked through the dense foliage. That’s why Diesel was anxious. He knew they were coming.