Payback wi-10, page 22
part #10 of WW III Series
Manowski, like Armstrong, could smell the astringent odor of jet exhaust fumes that had risen up over the jet-blast deflector behind Armstrong’s plane, the fumes driving off the bracing smell of sea air, and he saw that Chipper Armstrong and his shooter, who was hunkered down in the bump on the deck known as the “pod,” both signaled agreement on the green shirt’s chalkboard takeoff weight. Manowski, impatient to be airborne, watched the green shirts dash about Chipper’s Joint Strike Fighter, doing their last preflight check. With no problems reported, the shooter signaled Armstrong he was good to go. Chipper set his engine control to “afterburner” and gave the shooter a sharp, definite salute, remembering how McCain’s XO had grounded a nugget, a new pilot, for having given what Cuso had characterized as “a sloppy, indifferent wave” rather than a salute that was an “unambiguous signal” to the catapult officer. Seeing Armstrong’s no-nonsense salute, the pilot’s hands off his plane’s controls, the shooter pushed the launch button in his pod, ungating — that is, releasing — the pressure-driven pistons, jerking the fighter ninety yards down cat 1, hurling it aloft, the rapid acceleration from zero to 120 miles per hour in under two seconds shoving Armstrong’s eyeballs back into their sockets before he took hands-on control of the aircraft.
Ninety-five seconds later Manowski clipped off his salute and felt the tremendous rush that unfailingly gave him an erection, “like a pipe cleaner pulled through your ass,” as the pilot of the big twin-jet Viking sub chaser had indelicately described it to the newest member of his four-man crew, the S-3C being the latest upgrade of the original Viking S-3. As a precursor to this mission, the S-3C’s pilot unfolded his Viking’s wings aft of the jet-blast deflector on cat 2, waiting for the last two of the JSF quad who would protect his crew and the team of five in the carrier’s E-2F Hawkeye. Though the already airborne prop-driven Hawkeye was relatively slow, it was the eyes and ears of the American battle group, its long-range electronics and raised two-thousand-pound rotodome capable of detecting bogeys more than 250 miles away from McCain and the carrier’s shield of ships.
The ability of the Hawkeye’s three “moles”—radar operator, combat information officer, and air controller — to have their systems simultaneously track more than 654 targets, while controlling in excess of 45 strikers and interceptors, dazzled any newcomer, nuggets and deck crew alike. The flying “dish on a stick” Hawkeye was an awkward-looking aircraft with none of the sleek “you talkin’ to me?” assurance of a fighter, but its effectiveness as an airborne early-warning station was unquestionable.
Although the sub-chasing Viking was carrying Harpoon antiship missiles and retractable MAD — Magnetic Anomaly Detector — in its tail, and sonobuoys that could, like RS’s waterfall of black lines on a green surface, detect noise shorts and other sounds emitted by submerged submarines, McCain’s SES had already pinpointed the ChiCom HAN. It was assumed that the four Joint Strike Fighters swooping down through the bruising, bulky clouds of the storm front at Mach 1 plus would serve notice to the ChiCom skipper that he should indeed follow the Mandarin plain-language directive from Qingdao to withdraw post haste!
The problem was, as SEAL and RS “pilot” Eddie Mervyn told Freeman, the HAN had not moved.
“It’s still on the surface?” asked the general.
“Yessir.”
“Disobeying orders?” opined Bone Brady, whose black face, unlike the war-painted Choir Williams, Salvini, Freeman, Eddie Mervyn, and Gomez, Aussie, and Johnny Lee, needed little camouflage, only the lively gleam of his eyes visible in the RS’s redded-out interior.
“Son of a bitch could be disobeying orders,” Freeman conceded, “or this whole plain-language gig could be a setup to give us false confidence, encouraging us to move faster than we should, to surface and plane it flat out to the beach.” He thought for a moment. “Scope depth!” he ordered, and they could hear the ballast tanks releasing air for the RS to rise to sixty feet below the surface.
“Search or tactical, sir?” inquired Eddie Mervyn.
“Ah — search,” answered the general in what for him was a rare moment of embarrassment. His momentary pause had demonstrated that the legendary leader of conventional and SpecOp warfare perhaps hadn’t realized that the RS had two scopes, one for long-distance scanning, and the tactical scope for closer-in torpedo and evasive maneuvers. Or had the general, famous for his attention to detail, merely forgotten it in the tension, shared by all eight of them, caused by not knowing whether the possibly hostile HAN was willfully or unwittingly disobeying orders from Qingdao because of nothing more than a mechanical malfunction?
The SpecOp team heard the soft whine of the larger search scope sliding up through its sheath, Aussie watching the six-by-four-inch flat screen that was forward of copilot Gomez and pilot Mervyn, immediately to Gomez’s left.
“It’s raining,” said Gomez, his source of this information not the scope, which was only now breaking surface, but rather the RS’s foot-square sonar “waterfall,” the “fry wave” of the falling rain creating a narrow vertical band of static on the screen whose green color had been drained of much of its luminescence by the RS’s “rigged for red” lighting. The latter would help the team’s six-man hit squad once they landed—if they landed — on Kosong’s Beach 5, Eddie Mervyn and Gomez remaining behind on the RS for the exfil — exfiltration.
On the computer, pilot Eddie Mervyn could see nothing on the scope’s relayed computer-screen pix but a heaving rain-and wind-lashed sea of whitecaps as the Force 9 storm pushed south from Siberia.
On McCain, over a hundred miles east-southeast of Kosong, the SES’s meteorological screen clearly showed that the storm had rapidly picked up speed ever since its front had passed over the natural brake of the land situated a hundred miles west of Vladivostok, the storm now having only the unobstructed “flat” surface of the sea with which to contend.
The “Pan ’n’ D,” as the quick pop-up-and-down search-scope scan was referred to by the Navy submersible instructor who had trained SEAL technical specialists Gomez and Mervyn, confirmed nothing more than it was pouring rain in the darkness. The difference in temperatures between the rain and seawater was creating a crazy dance of phosphorescence and “rain-scratch” on the screen, Gomez assuming that the island of Ullŭng and McCain’s battle group southeast of Kosong were probably not yet hit by the full fury of the Force 9 gale winds.
“Waste of time,” said Freeman by way of apologizing for having risked a search-scope scan and thus the RS possibly being spotted by a fishing trawler, or even the HAN.
“Not really, sir,” Gomez assured him. “I mean, it wasn’t a waste of time. With our radio aerial breaking surface with the search scope, we’ve picked up clearer plain-language radio traffic between the HAN and Vladivostok.”
Freeman looked nonplussed. “You mean between the HAN and Qingdao?”
“No, sir. Vladivostok’s getting into the act. Seems that the Russian fleet there is getting ticked off with the ChiCom sub encroaching in their patrol zone.”
“Why?” asked Aussie. “The Russians go where they want. Why shouldn’t the Chinese?”
“ ’Cause,” said Salvini, “Russia still thinks it’s a superpower — like when it used to tell China and the Dear Leader that the Soviet Navy ruled the waves. Besides, Beijing and Moscow are having one of their tiffs.”
“Tiffs?” challenged Brady. “That’s a Limey word.”
“So?” said Salvini. “I must’ve picked it up from Aussie or Choir.”
“You’ve been hanging out too long with Brits and Aussies,” Brady joshed. “Tiff — you mean Beijing and Moscow are having a fight!”
“Yeah,” said Salvini, “a row. Flexing their muscles. Staking out their territory.”
“Their territory!” said Johnny Lee. “It’s international waters. And any further west, the HAN’d be within North Korea’s two-hundred-mile economic zone.”
Freeman ignored the others’ patter. The legal niceties of maritime law were fictions of academe insofar as underwater operations were concerned. Every man in the team understood this, and all of them had known at least one SEAL who, during the Vietnam War, had participated in the clandestine “officially deniable” missions into North Vietnam’s Haiphong Harbor. From the littoral, they had made their way undetected into the very sewers of Hanoi, where sudden unexplained explosions, suspected by NVA officials of being caused by gas leaks, occurred in the vast subterranean system beneath Hanoi.
The question now for Freeman was, had any vessel — warship, surface, or commercial—“pinged” the RS and alerted the North Korean coastal guard? One of the general’s better traits, as recognized by all who had served close to him, was his readiness to consult subordinates, his willingness to ask advice ironically only adding to his reputation as a leader who knew more than most. Aussie Lewis, Salvini, and Choir, who had served with Freeman the longest and so could read him quicker than the others, sensed that the general was wrestling with uncharacteristic indecisiveness. But they understood why — there was nothing quite as unsettling in an RS or any other submersible as the feeling of having been pinged by a possible hostile. It meant having your range of possible reactions thwarted by the fear of massive retaliation should you “jump the gun,” react too quickly. In so doing, you’d give your potential adversary the inestimable advantage of knowing your precise latitude and longitude, not to the nearest mile, as in the days of World War II, but, in a world of global positioning satellites, to the nearest foot.
“We’ve got state of the art in this tub, General,” said Aussie encouragingly. “I’d bet ten to one no one zaps us with their sonar. Shit, we’re no bigger’n a fucking killer whale. Fuckin’ rocks on the bottom are bigger’n us.”
Freeman nodded appreciatively, his impressive build seemingly bifurcated by the search scope’s sleek column. “Thanks, Aussie,” he said. “But you’d bet on it raining in the Sahara!”
There was a burst of laughter, more because they all needed to vent what some SpecFor types referred to as “impan-itis”—impatience anxiety.
“I wouldn’t bet on rain in the desert, General,” said Eddie Mervyn. “But I’m with Aussie on this one. This ‘tub,’ as he calls it, has gone through more SDTs than—”
“Speak fucking English!” cut in Aussie.
“What — oh, SDTs — sonar detection tests — out of Greenport. Scores of ’em, and not one rebound. Not one. This baby’s CR, composite rich. Not enough metal in her to fill your tooth.” Eddie’s exaggeration, gross as it was, nevertheless got the point across.
“I agree,” added Gomez, whose right eye was becoming irritated by a dab of camouflage paint that had worked its way into his cornea, causing his eyelid to blink, creating the bizarre impression that he was winking madly at Eddie Mervyn. He closed the eye momentarily, hoping to wash away the foreign matter and resenting the fact that all this “war paint” might be unnecessary if they didn’t execute the mission they’d spent so much short-time, high-pressure preparation on. In any event, Gomez’s usually even-tempered nature was aggravated by both the great decisive general’s present indecisiveness and by the fact that if they did go in to Beach 5, he and Mervyn would have to stay aboard the RS as the getaway drivers. So why the hell did they need war paint? “All dressed up and nowhere to go,” he muttered.
“What?” Freeman’s voice was sharp, unforgiving.
“Ah — nothing, sir. I — ah, just making a joke.”
“I’m not in the mood for goddamn jokes, Gomez. If you’ve got anything to contribute, contribute. Otherwise, keep quiet.”
Gomez swallowed hard, but surprised everyone by tapping the waterfall screen and immediately adding, “Sir, the weather topside’s so bad that even down here at sixty feet we’re still in subsurface turbulence. Even if that HAN, or anyone else, was pinging us — which I can’t hear at the moment — incoming sound waves are in ‘extra rinse’ mode. Everything’s scrambled — long as we don’t go deeper below the turbulence.”
Freeman nodded and placed his hand on Gomez’s shoulder. “Thanks. I think you’re right.” The general paused and looked around at his team, his gaze resting on Choir Williams. “One thing, Gomez—” The general grinned slightly. “If we’re still in subsurface turbulence, how come Mr. Williams here is not bringing up his breakfast?”
“He’s fuckin’ drunk!” joked Aussie Lewis, always one to press the humor envelope despite, or rather to spite, any official instruction not to.
Gomez indicated the four-inch-square data block left of the waterfall that showed all four retractable stabilizing fins not out to their full length but extending and retracting in response to the water flow probes that were sending a steady stream of data to the stabilizer’s computer. “It’s only a matter of nanoseconds,” Gomez explained, “between data inflow and stabilizer adjustment — so fast, our bodies don’t even register it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Gomez,” said Choir with mock solemnity. “And no, I am not inebriated, as my vulgar antipodean friend has charged.”
“Good,” said Freeman. “Then we’re good to go.” It was stated as a decision, not a question. Time to push all jitters aside. He had pitted his concern for his men against the possibility that the HAN or some other vessel knew of their presence, now only eight minutes away from what the computer’s chart told them was Beach 5’s surf line, and he was convinced that the HAN’s presence was merely coincidental. It was a big sea — bound to be other traffic. Even if NKA intel had got a heads-up of him and his team en route to Japan, even if somehow one of their field agents had been lucky enough, or “tinny” enough, as Aussie would have put it, to have spotted the Galaxy in Hawaii, what would they have reported? It was against this possibility that he had ordered the three foam-plastic mounts be duct-taped equidistant apart on top of the RS before it was shrouded in the opaque khaki helo wrap. Anyone spying this shape would most likely see the outline of a long Chinook-like chopper with forward and aft rotors and an engine mount in the middle. And the general would not let his recent obsession with the “damn onions’ ” low sulfur content and the relatively high sulfur content of Russian missile propellant stand in his way. He knew ever since his days as a young officer that human nature in war, just as in peace, often seeks reasons to postpone action rather than risk entering the unknown. A good leader knew when one should no longer take counsel of one’s fears, Freeman recalling how FDR had led his nation out of the dark with his fearless statement “All we have to fear is fear itself.”
“Beach, four thousand yards,” Mervyn said matter-of-factly, though he knew that they were approaching the point of maximum danger, when the general would have no option but to raise the search scope on infrared to see the beach. So paranoid was the Hermit Kingdom, the Dear Leader’s coastal defense troops had the unsettling habit — as long confirmed by SATPIX recon — of stopping their searchlight trucks along the coast road and sweeping the beaches and rocks with their 2,000-watt beams.
“Slow to two knots,” ordered Freeman, Gomez’s hand already poised to do so in accordance with the detailed plan that all eight men had only recently committed to memory, so much so that each of the six-man hit squad was confident that should the storm obliterate any chance of moonlight, he could still make his way from Beach 5 up the stem of the Y-shaped trail then turn left, following the southern branch to the warehouse, which, running north to south, lay at the top of the Y between its two arms, the north-south Kosong-DMZ coastal road just fifty yards west of the warehouse. Indeed, Freeman had insisted they all go through the mock-up without the benefit of night-vision goggles. The unknown factor, of course — the latest SATPIX intel notwithstanding — was how heavily the warehouse was guarded. Would the NKA’s night watch be your regular flashlight, check-the-door walk-by, as you might expect if the NKA wasn’t expecting location-specific attack? Or had there been an intel leak on Freeman’s side, and now a full-blown NKA reception awaited them?
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The sheets of rain drenching the fairly nondescript North Korean beach were both a “plus” and a “negative,” in Freeman’s words. The rain was so torrential, it would provide a veritable curtain between them and the beach during what the six-man hit squad, as well as Eddie Mervyn and Gomez, knew from personal combat experience would be the most vulnerable part of the mission. Exfil was tricky too, but you could always leapfrog each other’s position during withdrawal while your swim buddy laid down covering fire — if the enemy had detected your presence before you could get back to the craft.
The rain, of course, could be a negative factor going in, Freeman cautioned, adding that even the team’s thick-tread Vibram rubber soles could slip once rain-sodden earth and gravel filled the boots’ grip spaces.
For a moment Aussie was concerned that Bone Brady, preoccupied with loading his weapon, hadn’t heard the general.
“You asleep, black man?” he asked Brady in his typical upbeat, precastoff humor.
“Whatta you mean, milk face?” said Brody, palming in the chubby triangular box mag for his M-249 SAW, the hit squad’s automatic weapon, affectionately known by its operators as “Minimi.” “I ain’t been asleep, gringo.”
