By Dawn's Early Light, page 19
The rangers knew what they were up against, and they knew that the SEAL team would try to make it back to the beach.
But they outnumbered the SEAL team by more than twenty-five to one. Added to that was the rangers’ superior firepower. There was one BTR coming down from the prison, at least two on the beach, and possibly more on the highway.
It could tend to make the Pakistanis overconfident, although their noses had been bloodied in the prison yard. And if they weren’t careful they would be getting another dose of the same medicine at the truck real soon.
Twenty-five meters from the seacoast highway the terrain dropped into a long, broad drainage ditch. There were times, especially during the monsoon season, when flooding would be a problem. The deep ditches took care of that.
Jackson motioned for them to spread out and take up positions just below the lip of the paved highway.
They waited for a break in what appeared to be a continuously circulating convoy of trucks and beat-up old Fiats, Russian-made Ladas, and American Chevy station wagons, all painted olive drab.
Terri scoped the opposite side of the road, and then gave Jackson the sign for all-clear, with a question mark at the end. She wasn’t 100 percent sure.
He nodded his understanding and signaled for MacKeever to go across first.
They had to wait a couple of minutes for the next break in traffic, and then MacKeever scrambled up onto the road and ran across, flat out, throwing himself into the ditch on the other side.
A minute later he popped up and signaled the all-clear.
A canvas truck filled with regular army troops ground past slowly as if the driver and lookout were searching for something. Or somebody.
Jackson motioned for Ercoli to go next. When the truck was clear he jumped up and raced to the other side, dropping over the edge about five meters west of MacKeever.
A few seconds later he signaled the all-clear. Jackson turned to Terri and was about to motion her across when there was a short, sharp explosion from behind them, on the hill. It had the distinct sound of a Claymore mine being tripped, its C4 explosive charge sending out a hail of steel ball bearings.
A moment or two later the second Claymore went off and almost simultaneously the Semtex wired to the truck’s electrical system blew with a very impressive bang that lit up the night sky above them.
Jackson looked over his shoulder at the fireball rising straight up into the sky. “Shit.” He had hoped that they would all be across the road first.
What little element of surprise they had going for them was gone. It wouldn’t take the rangers very long to realize that the booby traps were a diversion.
All traffic on the highway had ground to a halt. The nearest station wagon was about thirty meters to the east.
“All right, Lips, move it out,” Jackson called to her.
They scrambled up onto the paved surface together, but Jackson beat her across. He was about to jump down into the ditch when a heavy line of fire walked its way up the highway toward them.
Terri went down hard, her shoulder bouncing on the highway, her feet flying up in the air.
“Sonofabitch.” Jackson unslung his Colt Commando, flipped the selector switch to full automatic, and unloaded a fresh box magazine of thirty 5.66mm rounds into the station wagon.
The firing stopped immediately.
MacKeever and Ercoli jumped up and hosed the canvas-covered troop truck fifty meters to the west.
Jackson scooped the stunned Terri up by her web belt, slung her over his shoulder, turned on his heel and disappeared down into the ditch.
MacKeever and Ercoli caught up to him before he scrambled up on the other side. Ercoli took point and MacKeever took rear guard this time.
Without a word they raced as fast as they could through the low scrub brush directly toward the beach five hundred meters down a broad swale and then back up through a series of tall sand dunes that marked the limits of some ancient high tides.
Ercoli slowed down when they reached the trip wire they’d crossed over on the way up. He motioned for them to pay attention and delicately stepped over to the other side. He turned back and helped Jackson and Terri across, and then headed out again.
They held up above the two sandbagged gun emplacements they had passed on the way up. Ercoli and MacKeever took out their suppressed 9mm Sig-Sauer pistols and headed out: MacKeever to the east, Ercoli to the west.
Terri had been hit high in her left hip. She was coming around now, and she helped undo her trousers and pull them down. Jackson got a large pressure bandage from her first aid kit and bound up her wound. When he looked up she was gritting her teeth in pain.
“You’re down there to fix my wound, not look at my ass,” she croaked with a grin.
He returned her smile. “And a fine ass it is, Lips.”
He helped redo her trousers when Ercoli and MacKeever emerged from the gun emplacements and motioned the all-clear.
“You up for a swim?” Jackson asked her.
She groaned softly. “It’ll be better than being carried around like a slab of meat, and pawed by a sex maniac.”
“Hang on.”
Jackson picked her up in his arms and sprinted down to where Ercoli and MacKeever were studying the beach through their low-light binoculars.
But it was Jackson who spotted the BTR one hundred meters to the east and heading their way. Out to sea were the lights of at least a dozen warships, maybe more. Behind the beach, they could hear the sounds of a lot of soldiers bearing their way. And from somewhere inland they could hear the distinctive chop of helicopter rotors. A lot of helicopters.
“F/X?” Ercoli demanded urgently.
“The Seawolf,” Jackson said.
They sprinted across the beach toward the water’s edge fifty meters away. Before they got halfway, the BTR opened fire, bracketing them almost at once.
MacKeever turned, yanked an H&W stun grenade out of his vest, pulled the red ring, and tossed it toward the oncoming BTR. It was like going up against a Bradley with a squirt gun.
The grenade landed well short, but went off with a very impressive bang and a fireball flash that was not intended to kill anything, but merely to stun and distract the target with noise and light.
The BTR stopped firing immediately. Jackson and the others reached the water, pulling out their rebreathers as they ran.
Jackson gave Terri her mouthpiece first, then donned his own and submerged as automatic weapons fire from the beach sprayed the water all around them.
14
0427 LOCAL
SEAWOLF
The Seawolf hovered at sixty feet.
On the periscope platform Dillon waited for word from sonar that they were in the clear before raising the small attack scope for another snapshot of what was happening on the surface.
Sierra five and nine, both fast patrol boats, were excellent ASW platforms. They carried the British Mk 24 Tigerfish Mod 2 antisub torpedoes. So far they had come the nearest in the past forty minutes. Twice Ski had thought the Seawolf had been detected, but each time the Pakistani warships had turned away at the last possible moment.
The Tigerfish was loaded with only two hundred pounds of high explosives with a maximum top speed of only thirty-five knots. But she was one of the stealthiest torpedoes in anybody’s arsenal. Once she was in the water and running, she was extremely hard to detect and therefore avoid.
“Conn, sonar. We’re in the clear, skipper,” Zimenski reported.
Dillon glanced at the multifunction display as he raised the Type 3 attack periscope. They were in 175 feet of water under two thousand yards from the beach. The much larger search scope would have given him a better picture, but its radar signature was huge compared to the Type 3.
He did not want to get caught this close to shore. They had absolutely no maneuvering room. If they were detected here they would have a rough time of it. But so were the SEALs having a bad time of it topsides. The nearer to the shore the Seawolf could be positioned, the easier it would make the recovery operation.
He stopped the scope’s rise when the head was only three feet above the surface. The control room was lit red for action stations, surface, to help preserve their night vision.
“Conn, sonar. Skipper, I’m picking up faint underwater noises less than fifty yards out, bearing three-four-niner. Nonmechanical. Could be our swimmers.”
There was a lot of activity on the beach, but nothing in the water yet.
Dillon lowered the attack scope and raised the Type 20 search scope so that its head was still five feet beneath the surface. He dialed in the low-light feature and looked through the eyepieces.
At first he could make out little more than the dark gray of the water, but then he spotted what looked like a slow-moving shark. He increased the magnification, and suddenly he was seeing three, perhaps four, human figures heading in their general direction.
It was their SEAL team.
He sent three red flashes, followed by one, and then three more.
The figures immediately angled directly toward the Seawolf’s fairweather.
Dillon looked up at his XO. “Take the medic and four men aft to the escape trunk, Jackson and his people will be knocking on our door momentarily.”
“All right,” Bateman said, and he left the control room.
“Conn, sonar. They’ve got us,” Zimenski reported. He was excited.
“I need a few minutes, Ski. Our SEALs are on the back porch.”
“We’re not going to have much leeway, skipper. Sierra nine has us for sure. She turned inboard a half-minute ago, and sierra three and five are doing the same. Sierra nine is now at three-five-zero-zero yards, bearing one-seven-eight degrees at twenty-seven knots.”
“Are we clear either to port or starboard?”
“Negative, the other two are bracketing sierra nine.”
Dillon worked out the scenario in his head. Because of her jet drive Seawolf turned equally well either left or right. But coming in, he’d studied the chart. To starboard the water got deeper much quicker than to port.
“Which one is starboard of nine?”
“Sierra five.”
“Okay, stand by, Ski,” Dillon said. He glanced through the scope. The swimmers were below his angle of view. “Marc, I want you to target sierra nine and five,” he told his weapons control officer.
“Aye, skipper,” Jablonski replied crisply. He was in his element now.
“Chief of Boat, prepare to come to all-ahead flank with a sharp turn to starboard. New course one-eight-zero.”
“Aye, skipper,” Young repeated the order.
“Teflon, I want a best possible course out of here, considering the elimination of sierra nine and five. I want to hug the bottom all the way until we reach fifteen hundred feet.”
“Roger that, Cap’n,” Alvarez said. “I concur with an initial course of one-eight-zero.”
Dillon got on the growler. “Charlie, how’s it coming back there? We’ve got company.”
“The outer hatch is open,” Bateman reported.
“Tell me the minute they’re aboard and the hatch is secured,” Dillon ordered.
“Aye, Cap’n.”
“I have a weapons solution on both targets. The A cables are connected, both weapons are warm.”
“Firing point procedures,” Dillon ordered.
All the relevant data was loaded into the Mark 48 ADCAPs memory systems, the torpedoes were targeted, the tubes were ready in all respects, and they could be launched at any time on the captain’s order.
“Sierra nine’s speed and bearing are unchanged. Range, two-eight-zero-zero yards,” Zimenski reported.
“Conn, this is Bateman. They’re aboard, the outer hatch is sealed.”
“Hang on, Charlie,” Dillon warned. He turned to his crew. “Fire one, fire two.”
It was an act of war against a sovereign nation. A sovereign nuclear nation. Supposedly an ally.
“Acknowledge,” Jablonski responded without hesitation. “Tube one is fired. Tube two is fired.”
“Master Chief, get us out of here now,” Dillon said.
“Both fish have cleared the outer doors and are running hot and true,” Jablonski reported.
“Cut the wires,” Dillon said.
Under normal circumstances each torpedo would stay connected to the submarine via a thin, tough data wire. Guidance data could be sent back and forth to the weapon while it was en route to its target.
If the wire had to be cut because the submarine had to make a rapid change in position, the torpedoes automatically switched to internal guidance and targeting systems that at this range couldn’t miss.
The Seawolf suddenly dug her right shoulder into the sea, her decks canted sharply down and to starboard, and she accelerated like a shell fired from a cannon. Everyone not strapped into a seat or bunk reached out for something to hold on to.
“Conn, sonar. Skipper, sierra nine and five are turning port and starboard. They know that they are under attack.”
“How about the other surface targets?”
“They’re starting to scatter now, Cap’n. I don’t think that they counted on us shooting. It’s got to be a mess up there—” Zimenski cut it off. “Stand by. We have one, no, two contacts in the water. Inbound now at twenty-eight knots and accelerating. Bearing one-seven-eight.” Jablonski paused for a moment. “The sounds are very faint, but contacts are evaluated as torpedoes. Mark twenty-fours.”
Since Seawolf was accelerating away from the shore, away from shallow water, they were leaving behind a lot of disturbed water because of echo bounce off the bottom. “Release a bubble maker now,” Dillon ordered.
The torpedo-confusing device, which looked like a long, thin artillery shell without a pointed end, was ejected from the three-inch signal launcher forward from what was actually the boat’s pharmacy.
“Recommend that we stop our turn on a new course of one-zero-zero degrees,” Alvarez suggested.
It would maneuver Seawolf into presenting her starboard flank to the incoming torpedoes, but it would leave most of the disturbed water and the bubbles from the decoy well aft.
“Make it so,” Dillon ordered.
Seawolf immediately slowed her rate of turn, stopping precisely on the new course while still accelerating like a scalded cat, and diving to follow the bottom contour.
They all heard the distant explosion as the first Mark 48 found sierra nine. No one said anything. Seconds later they heard the second explosion as sierra five was struck.
“That’ll get their attention,” Jablonski said dryly.
“Talk to me, Ski,” Dillon said.
“Both fish are going for the bait.”
“Any other threats in the water?”
“Negative, Cap’n. We’re clear on one-eight-zero now.”
Dillon glanced over at Alvarez who was working out the angles and speeds in his head. “Recommend we remain on course for five seconds longer, then turn to new course one-seven-five.”
“Very well,” Dillon concurred. He keyed the growler phone. “Sonar, conn. What’s happening with sierra nine and five?”
“Both are good hits, Cap’n,” Zimenski came back. He was pleased. “Both targets are dead in the water. Sierra nine is sinking rapidly. I’m hearing hull compression and bulkhead failure noises. Sierra five is flooding, but not as fast.”
“Does five constitute a further threat?”
“Negative, skipper,” Zimenski said.
“Keep a sharp eye, Ski. We’re on our way out, I don’t want someone coming after us without me knowing about it.”
“Suggest we deploy the ’twenty-nine.”
The TB29 was a passive tactical sonar system that was towed behind the Seawolf. It was very sensitive, especially to long-range targets and to threats coming from their rear.
“Do it,” Dillon ordered.
“Skipper, they’re heading every which way except toward us,” Zimenski said. “They’re born-again believers.”
15
DAWN
KENNEDY SPACE CENTER
“T-minus ten seconds,” the voice of KSC blared almost everywhere throughout the space launch complex.
For Thoreau it was the same each time he got to this point in a countdown. There was very little for anyone aboard to do in the last few seconds except pray. And that he did. Silently to himself, thinking about the Columbia accident.
“T-minus nine seconds…”
As mission commander, Thoreau rode the right seat, while Susan Wright, the STS 140 pilot, rode left. Wirtanen, Conners, and Ellis rode in the seats behind them; at this moment actually below them.
“T-minus eight seconds…”
Thoreau glanced across at Susan and grinned. She gave him the thumbs-up, but he could see that she was just as unsettled as he was. It had taken eighteen months for the shuttle fleet to come off its post-accident grounding.
“T-minus seven seconds…”
Some missions started out as smooth as glass. Everything from conception to construction and from liftoff to touchdown went without so much as a popped circuit breaker. Others were nothing but trouble from the get-go: computer problems, mechanical and electrical problems and crew problems. It seemed never to end, so that by the time they got to this point on the launchpad everyone aboard was damned glad to finally be getting out of Dodge.
“T-minus six seconds…”
A few rare missions, though, were like this one. Challenger’s and Columbia’s last came to Thoreau’s mind, and he shivered. STS 140 had an odd feel to it. Starting with the change in mission orders, to the president’s call, to the parameters showing up on the Web, to the almost surly attitude among the crew, Thoreau had the willies.
“T-minus five seconds…”
The latest hitch was the six-day launch delay for no apparent reason. Scott Buzby, STS 140 mission director, had finally admitted that nothing was wrong with Discovery. The delay had been ordered from Washington.
“T-minus four seconds…”
Three times in the last three days Thoreau had almost pulled the plug and quit. But he wasn’t built that way. He’d already been told that if he or any of his crew stepped down, someone would take their place. But if one dropped out, all of them would be replaced.
