Hellfire c-20, page 20
part #20 of Carrier Series
“I’m well, sir,” he replied, silently swearing at himself for using such a formal tone of voice. Why couldn’t he relax around Tombstone like everyone else? “And you?”
Tombstone shrugged his shoulders, his gun metal gray stare elsewhere. “Okay, I guess. You know what’s up with all this?”
Lab Rat nodded. “Yes, sir. There are some changes in the composition of forces that you ought to know about.” He extracted the first photograph from the folder and passed it to Tombstone. The former admiral glanced at it, then gave it to Jeremy Greene. Lab Rat fought to keep a look of concern off his face.
Tombstone keeps saying he’s going to let the kid fly more missions, but he never does. I wonder if I ought to point that out to him. It’s not really my place, but I don’t know how many other people notice how unhappy the kid is. He’s not a RIO and Tombstone should treat him like he is.
“So what are these?” Greene asked, his curiosity getting the better of his mood. “It looks like a landing craft.”
“That’s exactly what it is,” Lab Rat said. “The latest and greatest in Russian landing craft. They’re built like hydrofoils, but these guys have ours beat six ways to Sunday. Larger carrying capacity, more power, better sea-keeping ability. There’s a retractable keel that stabilizes them up to sea state five. They’re completely enclosed and carry a lot more firepower — they’re armed, not just transports.”
“That wouldn’t be hard to do,” Tombstone observed. “That’s long been a problem with our landing forces.”
Of course he knows about them. He had to when he commanded the battle group. Sure, the Marines had primary responsibility for the landing force, but he was in overall command until they made it to the beach. Aloud, he continued, “They’ve been developing these for use in the Black Sea and other littoral areas. A variant of these is used in commercial transport all over their waterways. They’ve got a lot of experience with them in the depot-level spare parts supply chain. It’s not surprising that we’re seeing them deployed in open ocean.”
Green tossed the photo back on the table. “Sea state five is pretty impressive.”
Lab Rat nodded. “And look at this.” He turned the picture so it was right side up to the two men. “Quad canisters. This may be a version of an anti-ship and anti-air missile they’re testing. It’s like a Stinger, we think. Range, probably ten miles. A rudimentary guidance system, and maybe — just maybe — a seeker head in the missile itself. Primary purpose self-defense but that covers a lot of offensive operations as well.”
“Ten miles doesn’t buy you much,” Tombstone said.
“It might when I tell you the rest of it,” Lab Rat countered. “Intelligence shows that the top speed of these babies is around sixty knots. In sea state four.” He saw the look of surprise cross both men’s faces. “And they’re maneuverable at that speed, sir. Yes, you can target them from further out, but don’t count on them being where your missiles think they are by the time the missile gets there. Plus they carry countermeasures — lots of them. Small, tight electronics packages, and you know how small those are these days, along with the normal chaff and flares.”
Tombstone glanced at Greene. The Tomcat they’d flown out to the carrier was equipped with the latest in spoofing gear as well. It could not only deceive incoming missiles and aircraft, but it could also project additional images to trick the radar into thinking there were twenty aircraft there instead of one. By manipulating the incoming radar signals, he could even give the impression that the twenty aircraft were maneuvering independently. Flying in a precision formation was an immediate dead giveaway.
Worst case, the additional images would make targeting difficult. And best case, the enemy would believe he faced a lot larger force.
“If they can do that, what else can they do?” Tombstone asked.
“That’s what worries us. We don’t know.” Lab Rat extracted the next set of photographs and spread them out on the table in front of him. “The rest of it should be familiar territory. The Russian amphibious transport is the newest hull of its class. Packed with electronics, capable handling vertical takeoff fighters and helos. They’ve made some progress on deploying traditional catapults, but the word is that they’re still pretty unreliable.”
“Wonder why it’s taking them so long to get ahead on that,” Tombstone mused. “They’ve seen enough of our ships that they should have a good idea how it works.”
“It’s part of their mind-set,” Lab Rat said. “Despite their power as a blue water navy, the Russians have always thought like brown water sailors. Coastal defense, supported by land-based aircraft. Amphibious forces — now, that’s right up their alley. But a truly moderate floating aircraft fortress like ours? They can do it, technologically. But they don’t have the fire in the belly for it the way we do.”
Tombstone studied the last photo, worry evident on his face. “This part seems pretty routine, but those landing craft worry me now. We’re going to have to get close enough in to use the guns on them.”
“That’s the recommendation from Top Gun,” Lab Rat said.
“Okay, then.” Tombstone yawned. “I’m going to go find my stateroom and rack out for a while. Jeremy, let’s meet back here after evening chow, okay?”
As the two men started to leave, Lab Rat said, “Admiral? I wonder if I could speak to you privately for a moment?” He held his breath, hoping Greene would not cop an attitude. But the younger pilot simply flipped a hand at them. “You guys go ahead and catch up on the gossip. Me, I’m getting some sleep.”
Tombstone turned back to face him. “So, what’s up?” Clearly, the last thing the pilot wanted to do was sit down and talk.
“In my office, Admiral. Please.”
Tombstone drew back slightly at Lab Rat’s tone of voice, firm and professional. There was a spark of interest in his eyes, and some of the weariness seemed to drop away. “Like that, huh? Okay, you’re on. Surprise me.”
He just had to say that. Lab Rat led the way back to his office.
“Sit down, Admiral.” Again, that odd tone of voice seemed to come out of him automatically. Now Tombstone’s curiosity was definitely aroused.
“Spit it out, Commander.” The shift to formal titles indicated that Tombstone understood this was not a routine matter. And yet Tombstone was no longer an admiral. He was a civilian and Lab Rat was the senior officer present. Some said that admirals never gave up their rank when they retired — with Tombstone, his command presence permeated every atom of his being. Try as he might, he would never be anything other than what he was.
“Sir, I have some news.” Lab Rat groped for words for a moment then extracted a photograph and passed it to Tombstone. It had been digitally enhanced, and one corner held a blowup of a small section of the overall photo. Tombstone took it, smiling slightly, and then stared. The color drained from his face. For a moment, Lab Rat thought he would faint.
“When?” Tombstone asked, his voice hard and quiet. “When and where?”
“Yesterday morning,” Lab Rat said gently. “And yes, that is the amphibious transport twenty miles off our beam.”
Tombstone stared at the photo, his mouth working silently as he tried to force the words out through his throat. Finally, he simply looked up at Lab Rat with that cold, impassive face that had earned him his nickname.
“Yes, sir,” Lab Rat said, answering the question he knew Tombstone wanted to ask. “We’re certain. It’s her.”
Tombstone dropped his gaze down to the photo and held the picture with trembling fingers. “Tomboy,” he said, his voice unbelievably steady. “You’re alive.”
Just then, the door opened. Pamela Drake, escorted by Chief Abbyssian, walked in. She held out a sheaf of papers with sketches on them, then a roll of film. “I think you’re going to want to see this.”
EIGHTEEN
Sunday, July 6
CVIC
1400 local (GMT-9)
Drake looked at the hastily constructed mock-up. Where the Russian laser had been all sleek lines and gleaming metal, this training model was composed of cardboard and tinfoil. It was a caricature of the deadly system she had seen.
“Over here,” Lab Rat said, tapping on one end, “is the emitter. The crystal on the other end collects the light, focuses it into a coherent beam, and shoots it out. Everything else is just alignment and targeting. It’s actually pretty simple.”
“It’s actually pretty ugly,” Pamela observed.
Don’t let my chief hear you say that. He’d be heartbroken.” Lab Rat shot her one of his rare grins, and she was surprised to see how it transformed his face.
Commander Busby had been one of the most underestimated officers on board Jefferson. Physically, he was unimpressive, and his slight build encouraged people to dismiss him. But as she had learned in the past, there was nothing small about the intellect housed in that unimpressive body.
Perhaps to compensate for his physical shortcomings, Commander Busby had always adopted a stern, cool manner with her. Even after she had tumbled to the fact that he was deserving of a good deal of respect, she had never managed to penetrate his reserve. Long after the others had forgiven her for her conduct, Lab Rat remembered.
She studied him with renewed respect. He holds a grudge, does he? But what about? I haven’t offended him in particular, have I? No, no more than anyone else. Maybe it’s because we’re both in the same business — gathering information and getting it to the people who need it. But in my case, the people who need it are just average citizens. I wonder if you resent that, that your very best work will never be seen by anyone other than high-ranking officials and military personnel?
“As you can see,” Lab Rat continued, apparently oblivious to her scrutiny — but not, she suspected, as oblivious as he would like her to think—“getting the crystal out will be fairly easy. Once you have access and a little time, it should be a piece of cake.” He shot her a sharp look, as though confirming that she understood these two qualifications.
“Access shouldn’t be a problem,” she said. “Based on what they showed me last time, I was right up next to it. It’s the opportunity I’m worried about. I’m not sure about putting my cameraman in this position.”
“We could substitute one of our people,” Lab Rat offered.
She shook her head. “No, we’ve been over that again and again. Even if I can get one of your stiffs to relax enough to look like a civilian, the haircut would give him away immediately. They’ve seen my cameraman — they know what he looks like. And there’s no way any of you could ever pass for him.”
Her cameraman spoke up then, an annoyed tone in his voice. “What am I, chopped liver? I already told you I would do it, didn’t I?”
Lab Rat turned his cool, analytical gaze on the cameraman. He studied him for a moment, his face expressionless. “Yes, my apologies. You did say you would do it, and I have no reason to doubt your capabilities. God knows you’ve probably been shot at more times than I have.”
The cameraman seemed slightly taken back. “A few times,” he muttered, obviously a bit embarrassed. “It’s a challenge, you know.”
“I know.” Lab Rat studied him for a moment longer, then turned back to Drake. “He’ll be fine.”
And just what does he see in my cameraman? What is it that I haven’t noticed? If I had to, I’d say he’s a good guy. We’ve been in some rough situations, and he’s never backed down, but I wouldn’t have thought he was the type to volunteer for something like this. Not as much trouble as I have getting him up in the morning.
The cameraman was shifting uncomfortably now. He evidently sensed the question in Drake’s stare. He muttered a few words, then stopped.
“What was that?” she asked.
He sighed, now aggravated. “I know what you think of me. Especially after that stunt Winston pulled. I shouldn’t have let her do it. I should have come to get you. But it was just like — I don’t know, you’re always ordering me around and acting like I don’t exist sometimes.”
Suddenly, with blinding clarity, Drake understood. She had treated him like a piece of equipment, like furniture to be moved around to suit her taste. All those times when he had captured pictures at some personal risk to himself, when he came back with the story against all odds — she hadn’t really thought of him as part of the team, had she? He was just like — well, invisible.
He could have spoken up, one part of her mind argued. Told me off sometime.
No, he couldn’t. Nobody does that to Pamela Drake. Not and gets away with it. What would you have done if he had objected? You would have shit-canned him and got another cameraman, wouldn’t you?
Maybe. Or maybe not. I like to think I know a professional when I see one.
Then start treating him like one.
“I’m sorry,” she said simply. It wasn’t enough, not by a long shot. But for now it would have to do. She would find a way to make it up to him when they got back.
He was staring at the tile, scuffing his toe, looking for all the world like a ten-year-old caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Doesn’t matter. I just want everybody to know I can do my part.” Finally, he looked a bit better. “I’m an American, too, you know.”
“Have you thought about how to manage it?” Lab Rat asked, neatly cutting off the therapy session unfolding in front him.
The cameraman nodded. “I know exactly how I’m going to do it.”
“How?” Drake asked.
He shook his head, and grinned. “Can’t tell you. If you know it’s coming, you won’t look surprised and that will spoil everything.”
“But surely we should go over this,” Lab Rat said, tension creeping into his voice. “Two minds are better than one, you know.”
“I know. And I’ll tell you. But she,” he said, indicating Drake, “has to stay out of it. That’s the rule. If you tell her, I don’t go through with it.”
“Now, wait just a minute,” Drake said hotly, her earlier regret for her conduct swept away in her impatience. “I’m not going unless I know what you’re going to do.”
Lab Rat held up one hand to cut the argument off. “Do you trust my judgment?”
She studied him for a moment, then nodded reluctantly. “Okay, then. He’s going to tell me and I’ll decide if it’ll work. Then I will give you a go or no go. That’ll have to be good enough,” he finished.
Damn! They’re double-teaming me. She gritted her teeth and glared at the two of them. “Okay. But when we get back—”
“If we get back,” her cameraman corrected, “then I’ll owe you an apology.”
“Okay, okay,” Lab Rat said. “If we can break up the mutual apology club here, we need to go over this again. Drake, it’s going to take some neat sleight of hand to pull this off. You,” he continued, pointing at the cameraman, “watch, to make sure you can buy us enough time for this. Now, do it again.”
Again Drake practiced the motion of slipping back the housing, slipping her hand in, and quickly swapping the crystal for the fake in her hand. She did it again and again, every movement critiqued and analyzed by Lab Rat and her cameraman, until they were convinced she had it. By the time they were finished, the muscles in her arm were trembling with exhaustion.
“That will have to do it,” Lab Rat said finally. He didn’t sound entirely satisfied, more resigned than anything. “Okay, get a good night’s sleep. Come back here before your helo leaves and pick up the substitute. I’ll be standing there when you get back to take the real thing off your hands.” He turned away from them, dismissing them.
On the way back to her stateroom, Pamela couldn’t help thinking about her cameraman’s choice of word. If. He said if we get back. What does he know that I don’t?
The cameraman stayed behind to explain his plan to Lab Rat.
Admiral Kurashov
1500 local (GMT-9)
This time, as they approached the Russian ship, it looked ominous. Perhaps it had been the company of the other news helicopters waiting for their turn to land. Perhaps it had been the warm welcome, or her anger against the Americans, that had obscured the real situation. Now, flying in toward what she had come to think of as the enemy, with her Trojan horse in her pocket, Drake shivered.
The deck looked oddly silent. Perhaps the difference in circumstances, but she wasn’t so sure. The sailors looked more — well — military, the uniforms more severe, their expressions more forbidding. The aircraft and helicopters were lined up and tied down with a precision that bordered on obsessive.
In the center of the deck stood a lone plane captain, his hands held above his head. Everyone else was well away from the center, clustered around the edges.
“I don’t see our welcoming committee,” the pilot said, his voice betraying uneasiness. “You sure we’re expected?”
“Absolutely.” Drake tried to inject a note of confidence into her voice. “We’re getting an exclusive on this one.”
“Yes, well. In my line of business, an exclusive isn’t always such a good deal,” the pilot said. Drake saw him glance over at his co-pilot, and they exchanged a nod. “If it’s all the same with you, we’ll stay with our aircraft.”
“You mean our getaway car?” Drake answered.
“Yeah. Maybe.” The pilot fell silent except for some muttered self-encouragement as he approached the deck. He concentrated on his landing and brought them down as gently as he had before. As he opened his shutdown checklist, he turned back to look at her. Penetrating blue eyes stared out at her from under the decorated flight helmet. “You should know we don’t fly suicide missions unless we’re volunteers.”
“Who said anything about a suicide mission?” she snapped. Beside her, the cameraman grunted.
“We never fly a mission that’s not briefed. I mean completely briefed. Especially Intell. You get my drift?” His mouth hardened into a thin line.
So Lab Rat told him. That figures. It comes right down to it, that’s the way they do it.
