Hellfire c-20, page 11
part #20 of Carrier Series
Stupid young man. Your ego and your insolence are more dangerous here than even on the ground. “Withdraw — now!”
The Russian aircraft started to turn. The blip labeled as an American Hornet shivered on the screen as though it, too, were turning.
Too little too late. The general knew what was already inevitable.
The blips merged briefly, then separated. At the same moment there was a blast of ungodly noise over the aviation circuits. The green radar trace that was the Russian aircraft broke into four smaller blips that blossomed and merged into a cloud of noise in the sky.
Bolshovich arrived and absorbed the tactical situation in a glance. “Launch four more Forgers,” he ordered. “Vector toward the American fighters. They’re not going to get away with this!”
Gorshenko felt the crew respond to their captain’s leadership. He turned back to stare at the radar screen again, a sinking feeling in his gut.
Hornet 107
0228 local (GMT-9)
“Badger!” Thor shouted. “Answer me!”
“Huh?” The captain’s voice was woozy but audible. “I’m bleeding.” There was a note of wonder in his voice.
“Badger, listen to me. Are you hurt? Can you fly?”
“I’m bleeding.” A note of panic now as the pilot regained situational awareness. “The canopy.”
“You had a brush with the Forger — can you fly? Are you getting a Master Caution light? Report status,” Thor said, keeping his voice level.
“No. Two hydraulics, the cabin pressure alarm. That’s all. Over temp on right engine.” The pilot’s voice steadied up as his training kicked in.
Thor snapped open his own emergency checklist and began reading down the action items. His wingman’s responses came more and more slowly, his words slurred even over the static.
“Hornet 102, you are cleared priority for green deck,” the air boss said. “Badger, can you get her down?”
“Yeah. Maybe.” The pilot sounded as though it didn’t make much difference one way or the other to him.
Thor keyed his mike reluctantly. “Boss, 103. Sir, recommend 102 eject rather than risk recovery on deck.” He watched as the other Hornet rolled inverted, then sluggishly regained level flight. “He’s losing flight controls, sir.” And it’s only a matter of time before he loses consciousness, too. God help us if he blacks out on the way down to the deck.
“Roger. Wait. Out.” There was silence on the circuit.
As the silence stretched on, Thor watched as his wingman’s aircraft became more and more unstable. Hydraulic fluid was streaming out behind it, some of it perilously close to the engine air intake. Any second now—
The air boss returned. “Roger, 103, concur with recommendations. One zero two, descend to angels fourteen and initiate ejection. SAR will be standing by.”
There was no answer.
“One zero two, do you copy?”
“Badger! Eject, eject!” Thor shouted, hoping his familiar voice would penetrate the fog now descending on his wingman. “Punch out, Badger. Punch out!”
As if in response, the other Hornet banked sharply to the right. It began descending, and for a moment Thor had hope that his wingman had heard him and was descending in response to the air boss’s orders. His hopes were dashed when the Hornet’s angle of attack steepened and its nose drifting down and down and down until it was in a vertical dive.
“Badger! Eject!” Thor flashed out an urgent prayer to someone, anyone, who might have some degree of control over the universe: “Eject!”
Thor followed the Hornet down, shouting and praying, ignoring the equally urgent pleas coming from the air boss. Finally, at seven thousand feet, the last shards of the canopy peeled back from the aircraft. There was a flash of fire, then a long streamer of white parachute slashing across the sky.
“Chute! I have one chute!” Thor shouted.
“Roger, copy, SAR inbound!” The relief in the air boss’s voice was palpable. “Stay with him, Thor, mark on top. They’ll have a man in the water with him before his life jacket fully inflates.”
“Roger.” Thor moved out a bit, watching the parachute billow from a safe distance. It jerked his wingman up in the air as the Hornet continued its final descent. Oddly, a sardonic definition of a successful aviator from Flight Basic came to mind: number of takeoffs should equal number of controlled landings.
Well, Badger might not be a success according to that definition, but Thor would take what the universe offered up. If his wingman was still alive, if they pulled him out before he drowned, if he had survived the ejection without serious injury, then that would be enough.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, the chute and its cargo reached the surface of the ocean. Thor watched the improbably small splash, then moved away to allow the helo to descend.
Admiral Kurashov
0229 local (GMT-9)
“We’ve lost him,” Rotenyo said, his voice unbelieving. “That bastard shot our fighter down.” Without asking permission, his hand went to the switch that controlled the shipboard alarm system. The hard, insistent gong of general quarters pulsed in the general’s bones.
“No,” the general said. “It was not an attack. It was an accident.”
But Rotenyo was no longer inclined to listen to him. It was too late to stop what one Russian pilot had begun.
TEN
Tomcat 201
0300 local (GMT-9)
As Tombstone escorted the COD out to the carrier, the hours of boredom passed, broken only by moments of sheer terror during tanking. Tombstone stayed well ahead of the COD, scanning the sky looking for any problems. Behind him, Greene monitored the radar. There was nothing to see.
They refueled for the final time six hundred miles from the carrier, and Tombstone was carefully watching the COD’s position the entire time. Finally, when they had taken on enough fuel, Tombstone disengaged and turned back toward the carrier.
“Stony, this is Home Plate. Be advised four playmates inbound your position. You should hold them shortly.” The operations specialist’s voice was calm and professional. There was nothing in it to indicate that dispatching four fighters to escort an unarmed COD and a fighter flown by a civilian was anything out the ordinary.
“Roger, copy four,” Jeremy responded. He glanced back down at his scope and sure enough, four new contacts positioned directly over the aircraft carrier had just appeared. “I hold our playmates now.”
“Roger. Anticipate COD on deck in four zero mikes. The tanker will top you off, then we’ll bring you in after the COD and the playmates.”
“What’s going on, Home Plate? Why the playmates?” Tombstone queried. There was a moment of silence, static hissing over the secure circuit. Tombstone felt that uneasy twitch in his gut that always seemed to presage trouble.
“Be advised, Stony, that there was an INCOS incident approximately thirty mikes ago. SAR is currently on station. Possibility that there are two casualties.”
“INCOS?” Tombstone said incredulously. “What the hell happened?”
“I’ll brief you when you get down here, Tombstone,” a new voice said, and Tombstone recognized Coyote’s accent. “For now, just hold on to that Greyhound until your playmates get in position. We’ll bring the Greyhound in first, then the playmates, then you. You got enough fuel?”
“Roger, plenty of fuel, Admiral.”
“What the hell?” Greene muttered.
Tombstone said over ICS, “That’s in case I create a flaming datum on their deck. They’ll get the COD and their own aircraft on board and out of the way in case the old guy screws up.”
“Like that’s going to happen.”
“Not everyone has your confidence in me,” Tombstone pointed out.
Suddenly, Greene’s screen flashed bright green. He lost all contacts, even the COD, as the noise blanked out every other signal. “Jamming!” he snapped, and immediately began to try to filter it out. He was able to reduce it to four broad noise spikes, but couldn’t get the screen completely clear.
“All units, Home Plate,” a new voice said over tactical. “Be advised we have airborne and surface jamming, two Mainstays and the Russian cruiser. Attempting to reach the Russian commander for clarification at this time. Set general quarters. Hold fire.”
“Hold fire!” Jeremy swore. “Jamming! That’s a hostile act by definition.” A hostile act was considered an act of war and allowed for immediate retaliation.
“Right. Not our game, though,” Tombstone snapped, although Jeremy could tell he was deeply disturbed. Adrenaline was dumping into his system, and the hair on the back of his neck bristled. Flying through jamming was like flying blind. He had no idea what was in the air in front of him outside visual range.
“I’m closing on the COD. Put our playmates between the cruiser and the COD.”
Twisting around, Jeremy could see the COD now in visual range. He gave the other four Tomcats vectors to take station on the COD to avoid mutual interference.
“All units, all airborne units, set EMCON Alfa. Receive only on link. We have a clear picture, and will control targeting from here,” the carrier TAO ordered.
While the Tomcat was capable of firing any of its weapons on targeting data provided by another platform, no fighter pilot liked to hand over control to someone else. But there was no other choice right now. The cruiser and the carrier, working together, had managed to blank out most of the interference and were transmitting a solid tactical picture. Once Tombstone and Jeremy shut down their own radar, they would have a good picture not broken by noise.
“Stony, Greyhound One. Be advised I am turning north to come within the cruiser’s missile engagement zone.” The voice of the female pilot flying the COD was higher than normal. She was well aware of her own complete lack of defenses.
“Roger, Greyhound One. We’ll see you on deck.” Tombstone put the Tomcat into a hard turn, moving away from the COD. Inside the cruiser’s missile engagement zone, the COD stood a far better chance than under the protection of the Tomcat. While shooting down a missile with another missile was a particularly tricky evolution for a Tomcat, the cruiser’s Aegis system had proved itself up to the challenge many times before.
“Stony, One, be advised that the Russian carrier is launching its fighters. Condition red, weapons tight.” The admiral’s voice was calm and confident. His orders told each aircraft to be prepared to fire at a moment’s notice, and to maintain a continual tracking solution in all contacts, but not to release weapons unless attacked.
“Great,” Greene muttered, his head now buried in the hard plastic screen around his radarscope. This was what he hated most about flying in the backseat, having his attention confined to the radarscope and ESM gear and his actions limited to green pixels on-screen.
On his screen, there were ten symbols indicating hostile air contacts. They formed up just off the Russian carrier’s starboard beam, then turned as one toward the COD scampering for the carrier.
“No,” Jeremy said, not believing what he was seeing. “What the hell is going on?”
“I don’t know.” The tactical circuit was now a continuous stream of reports, commands, and information, as every ship in the battle group set general quarters and prepared for what looked like the beginning of a Russian attack. But it made no sense, did it? This was not the Russian way, to attack with just ten aircraft. There should have been waves of aircraft inbound, supported by land-based missiles. Not ten aircraft that stood no chance against the heavily armed battle group and airwing, none at all.
“Targeting radar,” Jeremy snapped, as the ESM warning device at his side began howling. “Tombstone, it’s got a lock on us!”
“Wait one,” Tombstone said, although he was clearly no happier about it than Jeremy was. “Where’s the COD?”
“On final,” Jeremy said, as he watched the symbol for the Greyhound One turn in toward the aircraft carrier.
“Launch indications, launch indications — we have a launch!” For the first time, the air traffic controller’s voice ratcheted slightly higher.
“Weapons free, all Russian platforms,” the admiral snapped immediately over the same circuit.
Four new symbols, each with an impossibly long speed leader, popped into being on Tombstone’s HUD and on Jeremy’s screen. Missiles, launched by the Russian fighters — and all targeted on the helpless Greyhound.
Greyhound 601
0310 local (GMT-9)
Pamela’s eyes snapped open at the change in the aircraft’s vibration. The pressure of the straps against her chest told her they were in a hard turn, far too hard for normal maneuvers. “What’s going on?” she asked, speaking loudly to be heard over the noise inside the aircraft.
“They didn’t say,” Jeff answered, his voice placid. “No announcements.” Not that they could have heard them anyway, given the noise level.
“They’re kicking her in the ass, aren’t they?” Pamela said. She leaned forward to see outside the window. It was still light outside, although she could see the first beginnings of sunset behind them. Off in the distance, sun glinted off metal. Their escort — probably Tombstone himself, she mused. And what the hell was going on, anyway?
She started to get up and step into the aisle, but Jeff grabbed her arm, holding her down in her seat. He gave her a measured look, and with a sigh, she sank back into her seat. There was really no point in trying to find out what was going on. If they preferred criminal charges against her for being out of her seat during the flight, she could kiss any more COD flights goodbye. Besides, whatever was going on, there was nothing she could do about it anyway.
Off in the distance, she saw the Tomcat peel off and vanish from view as it went toward their stern. The vibration inside the COD increased, as did the roar of the engines. Everything started rattling, and it felt like things were coming apart.
She kept her attention on the window, suddenly scared. Then she saw it, coming up on them from the back. It was a slender white speck against the sky, growing rapidly larger. The sun glinted off it, making it unbearably bright at times, transforming it into a swath of light.
“A missile,” she said, horror in her voice. Unbelievable — who would fire on a COD in the middle of the battle group? But a missile it was, there was no doubt about it.
Jeff had his head turned away from her and his eyes were shut. Surely he wasn’t going to sleep now, of all times? Now, that didn’t make sense — and then she saw it, a small plastic unit pressed between his ear and the hard foam back of the seat. She jabbed him in the side, then grabbed it before he could protest.
“Hey,” he said. “Get your own.”
She pressed it to her ear and listened. “Entering the cruiser’s missile engagement zone,” she heard, as well as a flurry of other reports.
“It’s like a police scanner,” Jeff said, no trace of apology in his voice. “Rigged it up myself. You can only listen to the unclassified conversations — that squeal, it means a circuit is encrypted. But even the unclassified circuit is more than they’re telling us anyway, isn’t it? Like things are really going to shit out there.”
“Weapons free. Break, JPJ engage incoming.”
“Roger, birds away, birds away.”
“Lead, break right! I got him.”
“Fox two, Fox two!”
The chatter on the circuit was heart-stoppingly familiar. Jeff leaned over, cracked his head against hers, then pulled the scanner between them so they could both listen. Pamela turned her neck uncomfortably, trying to simultaneously keep her ear next to the scanner while she watched the air through the battered window.
Far below them, the ocean was a dark, smooth surface, unusually calm even for this time of year. A few distant whitecaps broke the surface, but there were long stretches of almost mirrorlike swells. She saw three new missiles arrow up from the direction of the cruiser, head straight up, and turn slightly toward the missile behind them. As she watched, the distance decreased between them at an alarming rate.
There was no use in denying it. She was terrified. But there was no way she was going to show it, not now. No one else in the aircraft, aside from perhaps the aircrew, knew what was going on. As far as they knew, the COD was simply making a particularly ragged approach on the carrier. If the cruiser missiles did not intercept the ones launched by the Russian cruiser, they would die with no more than a microsecond of warning before the aircraft was ripped apart.
Would she see it coming? Would there be a moment when she stared out at a blue sky, saw metal shredded, saw the fireball race through the aircraft’s fuselage? For just a moment, she envied Winston’s complete ignorance.
Tomcat 201
0314 local (GMT-9)
The four Russian Forgers split apart into two fighting pairs. They achieved horizontal separation while maintaining the same altitude, and turned to each point directly at the hapless COD. But just as the COD entered the cruiser’s missile engagement zone, they broke off suddenly, as though they were listening to other communications. They wheeled west, ascended, and turned toward Tombstone and the four other Tomcats.
“What the hell are they doing?” Jeremy shouted. “Your dot, Tombstone,” he said, indicating that he’d selected a target and Tombstone was cleared to fire at will.
“Roger. Fox two, fox two,” Tombstone said as he toggled off the AMRAAM.
The AMRAAM was a fire-and-forget weapon, one that could be targeted directly from the Tomcat radar or from any other source. In this instance, the carrier’s targeting data, stripped of the jamming, was fed directly into that missile’s tiny brain. Once it was free of the Tomcat’s wing, it activated its own small radar and maintained an active track on the assigned target. Capable of achieving speeds greater than Mach 4, the AMRAAM could catch anything it was sent after. Other missiles proved more difficult targets than aircraft, not only because of their increased speed, but because the stealth technology resulted in an exceptionally small radar return. That, coupled with the sheer size considerations of the smaller target, made exploding rod or fuel-cloud warheads more effective than a simple explosive warhead. However, in this case, Tombstone’s Tomcat carried only standard anti-air explosive warheads.
