by Dale Brown
The Flighthawk had dropped below fifty feet, and the computer gave him a warning as he came out of the turn.
“Thanks, Mama,” he told it.
A message flashed on the Flighthawk control screen:
INDECIPHERABLE COMMAND. PLEASE REPEAT.
“Never mind,” Starship told the computer.
The warship filled his viewer, the superstructure looming in the right quadrant. The cursor flashed yellow, then red.
Starship pressed the trigger, watching as the bullets tore into the metal.
“TWENTY SECONDS!” SHOUTED THE COPILOT AS THE ENEMY missile approached.
Dog counted off five more, then yanked the stick and fired off more chaff, trying to roll the Megafortress out of the way.
It worked—kind of. The missile sailed toward the spot the Megafortress had been, and then, sensing it had missed, ignited. The Wisconsin was far enough away to miss the main force of the explosion, though a ripple through the controls and a red warning light on the panel told Dog they hadn’t escaped completely.
“Damage to the right stabilizer,” said McNamara, monitoring the system status screens at the copilot’s station. “Not critical.”
Dog had his hands full for the moment, steadying the big plane as a fresh volley of missiles were launched upward from the amphibious vessel.
“ECMs,” he told the copilot. “Let’s put a little more distance between us and them.”
“ECMs active. Harpoon one has its target—impact!
We’ve got it.”
“Bastian, are you there?” asked Storm on the Dreamland circuit. His face appeared in the video screen; it was rounder than Dog had expected, younger as well, but the scowl seemed familiar.
“Missiles headed your way,” said Dog.
“Yes, we’re taking evasive action. Where are you?”
“We’ve fired two Harpoon missiles at the Oman ship,” said Dog. “He’s fired surface-to-air missiles and we’re taking evasive action.”
“Good,” said Storm.
He started to say something else but it was drowned out by an explosion. The image shook; Storm fell to the side and then the screen blanked.
“We’re flying east, Starship,” Dog announced over the interphone. “Stay with me.”
“More missiles coming off the ship!” said Starship. “A whole barrage! Looks like they’re launching everything they’ve got! The front of the ship’s on fire!”
“Exocets,” said the copilot.
“Better warn Storm,” said Dog.
Aboard the Abner Read,
Gulf of Aden
0121
AS STORM FELT HIMSELF FALLING BACKWARD HE REALIZED THE close-in guns had somehow missed one of the Exocets. He hit the side of the holograph table before he could brace himself, and saw black as he fell to the deck of the bridge, floundering there for a moment before managing to roll over and get to his knees. He glanced across the bridge and saw that the helmsman had strapped himself into his seat and remained at his station.
“Damage control, report,” said Storm, pulling himself to his feet.
There was no answer, or at least none that he could sort out through the cacophony of voices over the open intercom.
He punched the control pane on the holographic display for the ship’s system report. The Phalanx close-in gun had actually struck the missile, but it had done so very close to the ship and the explosion had sprayed the Abner Read with shrapnel from the warhead. They had taken several hits amidships and there was a fire in the seamen’s quarters be-lowdecks. Propulsion, Weapons, and Guidance were all operating normally.
“We’re fighting a fire,” said a garbled voice, presumably one of the firefighters.
The damage wasn’t that bad.
Storm pulled the headset off his ears, still partly dazed.
He tapped the hologram’s controls, bringing the image back to the bird’s-eye view. One of the forward guns began firing outside.
There were three patrol boats, all running like hell toward the coast. The Abner Read was pointed in the other direction.
“Helm, come about,” said Storm. “Pursue those ships.”
“Captain, there are missiles in the air,” said the ship’s executive officer, who had come up from Tac to make sure Storm was all right.
“Pursue those pirates!”
“Aye, Captain. We’re tracking incoming missiles.”
“Shoot them down, don’t track them!” snapped Storm.
“Cap, the Dreamland aircraft pilot is trying to contact you,” said the communications officer. “They want to know if we need assistance.”
Storm went over to the captain’s chair, pulling up the handset. “Bastian?”
“We’re en route. They’ve barrage-fired several missiles at you, firing everything they have. We’ve hit them twice.
They’re on fire.”
“Help me pursue these patrol boats. There are three of them left. They’re beyond our radar range.” Outside, the Phalanx close-in antimissile gun began clat-tering, trying to ward off the missiles.
“We are en route. Be advised those patrol boats are in Somalian coastal waters.”
“You want me to call Washington and ask permission to sink them?”
“I just want to make sure you know where everything is.
Bastian out.”
Gulf of Aden
8 November 1997
0121
ALI SAW THE SHELL LAND IN THE WATER A FEW HUNDRED yards away. It streaked from over his shoulder, a ghost in the air.
“To port,” he told the helmsman. “You’re steering closer to their fire.”
The helmsman didn’t answer. The boat continued to run in the general direction of the shells. Ali turned and reached to physically move his helmsman’s hand. It was only then that he realized the man had been killed and was being held up only because he had strapped himself in place.
Ali took his knife and cut the belt, pushing the man aside so he could take the wheel himself. He angled toward the dark shadow of land to his right. Satan’s Tail had never followed them this close to land before—but then, he’d never made such a bold attack before. They weren’t going to give up now, territorial waters or no.
The missiles must have missed. Another failure.
He turned and shouted to his crewmen at the rear of the vessel. “The mines. Unleash the mines. Then the smoke. We will hide beyond the Prophet’s Rocks. Signal the others.”
Aboard the Abner Read,
Gulf of Aden
0123
BUILT BY FRANCE, THE EXOCET GAINED FAME AS AN air-launched missile, but it was originally designed as a shipboard weapon. The MM38 family—which included the versions launched at the Abner Read—had a range of sixty-five kilometers, or forty miles, and were designed to sink a good-sized warship. After launch, the missile entered what was called an inertial phase, flying in the general direction it had been aimed. A radar altimeter aboard the missile kept it at ten meters above the waves. The relatively low altitude made it difficult for some radars to detect and harder to intercept.
As the Exocet neared its target, an active radar seeker in the head switched on, looking for the biggest bull’s-eye it could find. At the same time, the missile tucked downward to about three meters above the waves, greatly increasing the difficulty of shooting it down. The MM38 had been superceded by newer designs, but the missile was still potent, especially when a number were used and programmed to attack from different directions.
As the missiles approached the Abner Read, the ship’s Advanced Close-In Weapons System (ACIWS) prioritized each missile and directed its Phalanx guns at the threat, opening fire at a little over fifteen hundred yards. The Abner Read‘s ACIWS succeeded the earlier Close-In Weapons System (CIWS) standard on most American vessels. Among other improvements, the ACIWS activated “hot,” which meant that the system was ready to fire as soon as it was turned on, not needing the sixty-second activation time required by the CIWS. The ACIWS also di
d a better job identifying threats. Its guns, however, were exactly the same as those controlled by the older system—the venerable M61
Vulcan six-barrel Gatling design. The cannon had been used by American forces in one shape or another since 1958, when a pilot in an F-105 Thunderchief wrote his name on a test target with one. Despite a number of improvements in the associated systems and innovations like tungsten bullets, the gun itself had been virtually unchanged, a testimony to the hard work and solid engineering of its original inventors.
A stream of bullets spit into the air toward the first Exocet, hosing the missile down into the water. As a cannon rotated toward a second missile, the Exocet disappeared from the radar system, swallowed by the waves as its guidance system malfunctioned. The ACIWS interpreted this as some sort of electronic trick and rallied its weapons into the space it thought the missile was hiding in. The hiccup caused the system a second or two of hesitation before it could focus on the third and fourth missiles, which were skimming toward the destroyer’s stern. One was destroyed at approximately five hundred meters from the ship; the last, however, was less than a hundred yards away when it detonated. This was of little consequence to the Abner Read, but it was very close to one of the Shark Boats, which had inadvertently maneuvered close to the mothership. Part of the missile smashed through the superstructure of the small vessel, destroying the embedded radio mast and a good portion of the baffling system that lowered the infrared heat signature coming from the smokestack. It also killed three of the Shark Boat’s crew and sent one overboard, the ship stumbling in a spray of steam and smoke.
Storm couldn’t see the strike from the bridge, but Eyes saw it on the board in the Tac Center, and immediately lost contact with the craft.
“Three‘s been hit,” he told Storm.
Storm clicked into his preset. “Boat Three, this is Storm.
Kelly, what’s going on over there. Kelly?”
“Radio’s out, Cap,” said Eyes.
“How bad are they hit?”
“System’s still evaluating.”
Unsure what the damage was, Storm realized his people were his top priority. The pirates would get away once more.
He slammed the side of the holographic display in frustration.
“Bring us into position to help Boat Three,” he ordered.
“Eyes!”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Where are those pirates?”
“We’ve lost them close to shore, Cap.”
“Dreamland, I need you now,” Storm said, punching into the Dreamland line. “Where are those patrol boats?”
“We can give you headings from the last-known GPS locations, but at the moment they’re hidden in the clutter of the shoreline,” said McNamara, the copilot aboard the Megafortress.
“Give my weapons people whatever you have,” he said.
“Eyes—get with the flyboys and target these pirates. I want them sunk! Get Boat One into position to follow them. Have Boat Two stand by with us to render assistance to Shark Boat Three. We’ll join One once we’re sure of the situation here.”
“Mines ahead,” warned the computer, giving the helmsman a verbal warning as well as flashing it on his heads-up screen. Storm turned around and looked at the hologram, where the mines were popping up as small red triangles. The detection system could “paint” the location of the mines in the HUD, but the Abner Read had to slow down for the system to work properly. And the Shark Boat could not proceed on its own through a minefield.
“Eyes! Some sort of minefield ahead. Warn the Shark Boat.”
“Sent a warning to them already, Cap.”
“Do you have the target data?” asked Storm.
“Working on it, sir.”
“Bastian, it’s now or never,” Storm said, though he was not hooked into the Dreamland line. “Now or never.”
Khamis Mushait Air Base
0128
ZEN EMPTIED HIS CHAIN GUN ON THE LAST OF THE PATROL boats. He was now into his fuel reserves, and had to land or risk losing the Werewolf. He spun the aircraft back in the direction of the American ships, which were now nearly forty miles to the west.
“I’m out of fuel and out of lead,” he said over the Dreamland circuit, hoping the Abner Read had tied into the circuit by now. “I have to land.”
“Who are you?” asked a voice.
“This is Major Stockard. I’m flying the Werewolf. It’s the helo that brought the communications gear to the Abner Read. I’ve been shooting at your pirates for you but I’m running on fumes. I need to land.”
“What assistance do you need?”
Landing lights would be nice, thought Zen, but under the circumstances that was a bit much to ask.
“I don’t need anything,” he said. “I just want you to know.
Don’t fire on me. I don’t want the hassle of trying to duck your Phalanx gun system.”
“OK, we understand. We understand. You’re inbound. We see you on the radar. We’re passing the word.” The words FUEL EMERGENCY flashed on the screen.
Pass it quick, thought Zen, settling into a hover over the ship.
Aboard the Wisconsin
0133
STARSHIP COULD SEE A LIGHT GLOWING IN THE DISTANCE AS he approached, and realized it was the Werewolf Zen had been flying.
“Hawk One to Dreamland Werewolf,” he said. “Hey, Zen, I’m approaching you from the northwest.”
“Werewolf,” acknowledged Zen. “Starship, they have a Shark Boat that’s been struck by a missile. They may have people in the water.”
“Roger that, Werewolf. I’ll do a low and slow and turn with the infrared cameras.”
“Werewolf. Be advised, I’m into my fuel reserves.” Dog broke into the circuit. “Dreamland Werewolf, are you landing aboard the Abner Read?”
“That’s my intention, Colonel.”
“All right. Starship, take the circuit around the stricken boat and assist with the rescue efforts. Then continue east and help us locate the pirates.”
“Roger that.”
Starship could see the robot helicopter veering to his left, skimming in an arc and landing on the nearby ship.
“Starship, do you have the location?” asked Zen.
“Roger that, Werewolf. I’m coming— Shit!” The air in front of him erupted with 20mm shells. Starship hit the throttle and pushed the Flighthawk’s nose toward the water, but he’d been caught entirely by surprise. The left wing of the robot aircraft had been chewed severely by the Phalanx’s 20mm cannon.
“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” yelled Zen.
“Friendly fire! Friendly fire! I’m on your side! I’m on your side!” screamed Starship.
His systems screen lit, showing so many problems that the display looked like a solid splotch of red. Starship struggled to compensate for the mangled wing surface, leaning to the right with the joystick, as if his body might somehow help keep the tiny aircraft alive. He leveled off for a few seconds, but the Flighthawk’s forward airspeed had dropped below one hundred knots and wouldn’t come up. The computer began to push up the forward leading edge on the left wing for some bizarre reason. Starship had to override it with a direct voice command. He got an altitude warning but stayed with the aircraft, starting to build momentum. Then a second hail of bullets swarmed in front of him and the Flighthawk screen went dead.
He was so angry he smashed his fist in the middle of the control panel, breaking several of the keys.
Aboard the Abner Read,
Gulf of Aden
0134
“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON!” DEMANDED STORM. “WHERE did that missile come from!”
“No missile—it was the Dreamland flight,” said Eyes.
“What? The Megafortress?”
“No, Storm, a Flighthawk. He was trying to locate our people in the water. The ACIWS read it as a missile.”
“Turn it off, damn it!”
“I did, sir, I did,” said the defensive weapons operator.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Rescue party, prepare to render assistance as needed,” Storm said.
“Cap, you’re being hailed on the Dreamland channel by Colonel Bastian,” said the communications officer.
Storm switched over to the Dreamland circuit. “Bastian?”
“You hit one of my planes.”
“I’m sorry. What the hell was it doing that low?”
“Taking a low level run to look for survivors from your boat damaged by the missile.”
“Do you need assistance?”
“It’s an unmanned flight.”
“Right. Find those pirates.”
Aboard the Wisconsin
0145
DOG RAN THROUGH THE DIAGNOSTICS AGAIN, REASSESSING the damage to the Wisconsin‘s tail. According to the computer, shrapnel had ripped up the skin of about a fifth of the starboard stabilizer but its structural integrity had not been threatened. The damage did not appreciably limit the aircraft’s maneuverability, though Dog knew he should be gentle until the plane was inspected on the ground.
Unlike a standard B-52, the Megafortresses had a V-shaped tail. The leading and trailing edges of the tail surface were adjusted by the flight computer automatically to improve the aircraft’s flight characteristics. The adjustments were “transparent,” or invisible to the pilot, with the computer interpreting what he wanted to do and adjusting all of the plane’s control surfaces to do it. The flight control computer had no trouble compensating for the damage to the control surfaces on the tail; it also prepared an assessment of how much trouble it would have in more demanding circumstances, deciding that the Megafortress could perform at “ninety-four percent efficiency.” Dog smiled at the assessment—computers, and the engineers who made them work, always wanted to put a number on things.
“We just can’t find the patrol boats, Colonel,” said Dish.
“Faded into the coastline.”
“All right,” said Dog.
“We have to work on the systems recognizing those ships and filtering out the clutter from the coast,” added Dish.
