Hellfire c-20, page 22
part #20 of Carrier Series
Pamela stared at the ocean, which had seemed closer just moments before. Now it looked dangerously distant. How far was it, anyway? Fifty feet? Thirty feet? She had no idea. Her fingers were already moving over her harness, making sure she could get it off quickly.
“Seahawk, incoming!” the circuit shouted.
“Now!” The pilot shoved the collective forward, dropping them down until the skids seemed like they must be cutting through the waves. He slammed the hatch open. “Go now!”
The brief maneuver had taken them measurably closer to the water. Pamela bolted out of her seat, stepped forward, and, without bothering to consider what might wait for her below, jumped. She cleared the skids by two feet, and the fall seemed to take no time at all. She plunged into the ocean, the impact driving the breath out of her lungs, as did the cold current below the surface.
For a moment, there was peace. Bubbles drifted past her, and the silence underwater was pure and clean after the noise inside the helicopter.
Almost immediately, her lungs started to hurt. She kicked hard, grabbing water with cupped hands and forcing herself back up to the surface.
The emergency inflation ring — where was it? Her already chilled fingers reached down the lanyard and yanked. Immediately, the gas canister expanded the life jacket around her. That done, she looked around for the helicopter. It was far above her, continuing to ascend. As she watched, there was a flash of silver in the air, heading straight for the helicopter. Then the explosion — deafening at this range, orange and yellow flames shooting through black smoke, an immediate vaporization of the aircraft. She let out an involuntary scream, and resisted the impulse to dive back into the cool, deep silence of the sea.
“Pamela! Over here.” She barely heard the pilot’s voice over the noise of the explosion. He was swimming toward her, cutting clean, short strokes through the sea, dragging a package behind him. Ten feet to his right, the co-pilot executed a smooth breast stroke. Once they got to her, they hooked a line on their air vests through a loop on hers, securing the three of them together. Then the pilot activated the auto-inflation lanyard of the package he’d been towing. There was a sharp hissing sound, and the package unfolded immediately and began assuming the shape of a life raft.
“What happened?” Pamela asked. It was a stupid question — what had happened was obvious. But the pilot knew what she meant.
“Once you were clear, I hauled back on the collective so she’d gain altitude and jammed the throttle open. Then we bailed down. We weren’t much higher than you were, but it was still a long way down.”
Drake choked as a small wave slapped her in the face. “We had a raft?”
“Complete emergency survival gear is required by both the FAA and the Navy for flights over water. I never thought we’d use it, though.”
“There they are,” the co-pilot said, speaking for the first time. He pointed to the horizon. Three small black specks just barely above the surface of the ocean were heading for them. “That’s our ride home.”
“If they can get here,” the pilot said. There was a sudden blast of noise from overhead and two Forgers streaked by. “It looks like the Russians may have some thoughts about that.”
“They wouldn’t strafe us,” Pamela said. “Tell me they wouldn’t.”
Neither man answered her. She knew a moment of despair, then looked back at the helos.
Surely the Jefferson wouldn’t — no, they wouldn’t. Overhead, she saw Tomcats and Hornets forming a protective bubble around the rescue helicopters. Whatever else was going on, the cavalry had arrived.
USS Jefferson
1600 local (GMT-9)
Lab Rat raced across the flight deck as soon as the rescue helo touched down. Before the rotors had even come to a complete halt, he was standing by her hatch, waiting, a look of anticipation on his face. For a moment, Pamela felt a flash of irritation. Clearly, he had no concern about their helo, about the Russian missile shot, or about her own condition after jumping out of the helo. All he could think about was the government in her pocket.
Drake fumed. The plane captain finally approached, tapped Lab Rat politely on the shoulder, and motioned for him to move away. Lab Rat moved back just far enough to give the plane captain access to the hatch. Then, undaunted, Lab Rat leaped into the small passenger compartment as soon as the hatch was open.
Without a word, he held out his hand. As she fished around in her pocket, a smile broke out on his face. Finally, she withdrew the crystal and placed it carefully in his hand.
“Thanks,” he shouted as he leaped out of the helicopter. “You have no idea what this means. None at all.”
Oh, yes, I do. It’s my ticket back into the inner circle.
Later, after she had been checked out by medical, had a long, hot shower, and changed into fresh clothes, she felt the weariness hit. It came on so suddenly she staggered, then stretched out on her rack. Waves of blackness swarmed over her, forcing her eyes shut. She was already dreaming when she heard a rap on the door.
For a moment, she considered pretending she wasn’t there. Or shouting at them to go away. But that seemed like so very much trouble. Before she could decide what to do, the doorknob turned and the door opened. Tombstone stood framed as a dark figure against the red lights out in the passageway.
“Can I come in?” he asked.
With a groan, she shoved herself up on an elbow. Thank god she was still fully dressed. “Sure, OK. I’m not promising I can stay awake, though.”
He pulled the metal chair away from the drop-down desk, turned it backwards, and straddled it. He crossed his arms on the back and rested his chin on his hands. “It’s official. You’re no longer in purgatory. You did a good thing today, Pamela. A very good thing.”
“Thanks. I could have done without the part about the missile, though.”
“Oh, I think that will play out all right, too.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” She was unable to suppress a jaw-cracking yawn.
“You’ll see.” Tombstone fell silent, and Drake couldn’t summon up the energy to engage in polite conversation. She felt herself drifting off, even sitting. She heard Tombstone stand up, the chair scraping across the tile.
“I’ll go now. I just wanted to pass on my thanks. I know you’ll hear it from the rest of the Navy later on — maybe not so much in public, because a lot of this will still be classified. But we remember who our friends are. You know how that works.”
Suddenly, everything was all right. Tombstone, the Navy, her career — everything was just fine. She smiled up at him, then said, “We’ll talk later when I’m awake. And thanks for coming by. That means a lot to me.” She was asleep before the door shut behind him.
NINETEEN
USS Jefferson
TFCC
1800 local (GMT-9)
Coyote watched as the messages scrolled across the screen. Almost immediately, the data from National Assets began merging with the tactical picture in TFCC until the area on the screen between Jefferson and the Russian cruiser was crowded with the symbols. It was a sight he hadn’t seen since the days of the Cold War when U.S. forces routinely war gamed the possibility of a massive first strike from Russia.
Around him, there were muttered explanations as the younger officers tried to cope with what they were seeing. It seemed inconceivable, but their military experience was focused primarily around smaller conflicts, ones that involved regions in the Middle East or isolated islands. Oh, sure, they knew about the Cold War and they’d contemplated the possibility of large-scale conflicts with China or Korea. But those were distant, theoretical scenarios, ones that they had never even considered might really happen. Even Korea was considered merely a regional conflict. But this, though — this was worldwide devastation in the making, destruction on a scale they had never contemplated.
“Focus, people,” Coyote shouted, breaking the uneasy mood. “Our attacks — how long until we have everything we’ve got in the air?”
His question seemed to snap his TAO out of his stunned trance. “Five minutes, Admiral,” he said, his voice still slightly distant as he stared at the screen. Then, with the shake, he was back in the game. “A little less.” His voice sounded more confident. “There is one tanker in the air already and we’ll launch another as soon as the fighters clear the deck. Two SAR helos are airborne with three more on alert five.”
“What about Air Force tanker assets?” Coyote asked.
“The Air Force has rogered up, sir,” the TAO said. “They’ll have gas in the air and on station in four hours.”
Four hours, Coyote thought. Too long from now to make much of a difference, unless this fight goes a lot more rounds than I think it will. There’s too much offensive and defensive weaponry in this part of the world, and I just can’t see it taking that long. Still, it’s nice that they offered.
“Wait,” the TAO said, listening to a voice in his headset. “Correction, Admiral — the Air Force has one KC-135 en route to our location now. He’s escorted by Air Force fighters, but they’d like to know if we can take over his defense once he’s in the area.”
“No,” Coyote said. “Ask them if their fighters can remain on station for a few hours. We can send them back then, but I need every fighter on the front lines right now.”
“Aye-aye, sir,” the TAO said. Coyote turned back to the screen.
The front lines — and just where were those anymore? With the extended range capabilities of every ship, as well as global positioning and targeting programs, there was simply no part of the world that wasn’t potentially on the front lines.
Another wave of Backfires appeared in the air. It looked like this flight would pass to the north of them. And where were they headed? The mainland U.S.? Apparently so.
“If they stick to their normal way of doing business, sir,” a quiet voice said from beside him, “we can expect missiles launched from land-based ballistic missile sites when the Backfires are approximately one hour off the coast. They like to hit with overwhelming force, wave after wave of offensive weapons. There’s nothing surgical about the classic Russian attack.”
Coyote turned to look at Lab Rat, who was standing just to his right. “I know. That’s what they’re going to do, isn’t it?”
Lab Rat nodded. “I’d be willing to bet on it. Unless we can find a way of unraveling this mess, Admiral, we’re going to see a full-scale war between Russia and the U.S. And, unless our analysts are way off base, it will go nuclear very quickly.” Lab Rat looked at the admiral, his eyes bleak. “There’s no reason not to, is there? If they don’t destroy our theater ballistic missile facilities, then mutually assured destruction no longer make sense. They have to take them out and take them out now. Before they are fully operational, before we can destabilize relations.”
“First things first,” Coyote said once again. “Our short-term objective is to stay alive. After that, we can worry about the rest of the free world. Now, how operational are all our theater ballistic missile defenses?”
“It’s a close call,” Lab Rat said wearily. “Sometimes they seem to work perfectly. Other times, they don’t.”
“Make this one of the times they do,” Coyote said firmly. He turned back to the screen.
USS Jefferson
Flight Deck
1810 local (GMT-9)
Tombstone and Jeremy Greene were third in line behind the catapult. As they waited their turn, surrounded by the furor on the flight deck, Tombstone contemplated the odds. So far, it didn’t look promising. This might be the last time he would be on this flight deck. Even if Jefferson managed to survive, the odds of Tombstone and Jeremy themselves returning from what was about to happen were small.
On one channel, a soft, flat voice rattled off the composition of the incoming forces. So far, the Russian strike consisted of three waves of Backfires, each carrying the Sunburn missile. The Sunburn anti-surface missile had a range of well over three hundred nautical miles, and current intelligence said there were versions designed for land attack that were capable of well over one-thousand-mile ranges. The Sunburn was loaded with nuclear warheads. And that, well — it changed everything, didn’t it?
There was no doubt that the Russians were prepared to use nuclear weapons preemptively, at least according to their doctrine. There had been rumors of nuclear and chemical weapons used in Chechnya, but no one had been able to confirm that. Even in Afghanistan — yes, if the Russians had nuclear warheads on those Backfires, they had already made the decision to use them.
“It’s not supposed to be like this,” Jeremy said suddenly. “These days — this is all supposed to be over.” There was a lost, forlorn tone to Jeremy’s voice. He was part of the generation that had grown up believing that the possibility of nuclear war was something that belonged in the past. Rational people didn’t behave like that, not knowing what nuclear weapons would do to the rest of the world. They just didn’t.
“Steady, now,” Tombstone said, his voice reassuring. “One step at a time. Let’s get this turkey off the deck then get in position to do some damage. They’re still out of range. This may be just a feint.”
“Maybe.” Jeremy was not convinced. For that matter, neither was Tombstone.
“How many false targets can we generate?” Tombstone asked.
“Around fifty — and at that level, we start to get some overlap. No more than thirty if you want to be really convincing.”
“Then here’s what we’ll do. We fly north, head off from the rest of the fighters. As soon as all the fighters are off the deck and headed for the Backfires, I want you to go active with the spoofing. I want the Russians to see forty or fifty fighters heading north, looking like they’re going to come in behind them and ambush him. That ought to draw off some of the fighters from the main thrust and even up the odds for Jefferson’s fighters.”
“If it works,” Jeremy said. “It’s a gamble.”
“It will work,” Tombstone said confidently.
It has to work, doesn’t it? Because that’s the only way I conceived of that we have any chance. We’re way outnumbered, and if those Backfires get within range of the U.S., then there’s no stopping them. No one has enough sense to back off and take a real look at what’s going on. Not their people, not ours. And if there’s a strike on the continental U.S., then there will be no stopping it. Not ever.
TWENTY
Hornet 102
1900 local (GMT-9)
Thor’s Hornet smashed through the thin clouds like his namesake’s hammer. The clouds streamed over the canopy, blinding him for a moment like a shroud. Then, as he continued to ascend, they peeled off in sheets and then thin strands that disappeared as he rose above him.
“One zero two, on station.” Thor announced his arrival at the position indicated for the Hornet sponge, and waited. Every ten seconds, another Hornet was rippling off the deck below him, and the air would soon be thick with the small, nimble fighters. A quick tank, topping off his fuel, and then they would form up their wing and head out to meet the Russians.
That the odds were heavily stacked in the Russians’ favor didn’t bother him. Hell, they were used to being outnumbered, weren’t they? If it had been a fair fight, the Navy could have handled it on their own.
The waves of Russian fighters and bombers showed on his HUD as small red symbols. They were still some distance out from the carrier, far enough not to be a problem. Then even as he watched, they edged closer, covering the airspace at what seemed to be a snail’s pace but was just a reflection of the expanded range of the screen.
“One zero three, on station.” A flurry of tail numbers followed, each pilot confirming as he joined on the sponge. Thor listened with only half his attention as he maneuvered his Hornet up behind the Air Force tanker, intent on topping up his tanks. Soon the others would be taking their turns, slipping in smoothly for a top up before they re-formed.
Finally, they were done. “Devil dogs, on me. Make every shot count,” Thor ordered. He peeled away from the sponge formation, and Hornets lined up in ascending altitude behind him, forming a classic attack V. Each one was locked in place as though held there by an invisible ruler, the formation’s impeccable precision a reflection of their skills. That wouldn’t last long.
“Okay, listen up,” Thor ordered. “No plan survives first contact with the enemy. Except this one. On my order, call your target, break off, and take some Russians out. Simple enough. You get low on fuel or Winchester, talk to the Hawkeye and get a vector clear. Other than that, stay on them until they’re gone. By the time we leave, I want to see nice, sweet clear blue sky with nothing in it but Hornets and Tomcats. Any questions?”
A chorus of yells and cheers, punctuated by the traditional Ooooraaaah! answered him. The boys and girls were fired up, the blood lust running hot in their veins, and just for a moment, Thor pitied the Russians.
Tomcat 101
1905 local (GMT-9)
After the normal, heart-stopping moment when the Tomcat seemed to hang in the air just forward of the carrier, they were airborne. Tombstone poured the power on, ascending rapidly, and headed for the Tomcat sponge. Fifteen Tomcats were already there, with eleven more expected. But their plans for the engagement weren’t Tombstone’s, and he intended to do all he could to even the odds. Tombstone headed north.
“One zero one, interrogative your intentions,” a puzzled voice said from the Hawkeye. “We seem to have a processing malfunction of some sort. I hold two of you airborne.”
Tombstone cut him off by squelching the radio signal. “Roger, Hawkeye, I know what you’re seeing. Guys, there’s no reason for concern. Just keep track of us and our flight.” Tombstone hoped desperately the Hawkeye understood what he was getting at. The communications circuits were supposedly secure, but the last thing he needed was some Russian with the daily codes who had enough smarts to figure out that everyone was seeing a damn sight more aircraft in the air than had actually launched. “We will all see you on the way back. How copy?”
