Target Lock

by James H. Cobb

  “Anything wrong, ma’am?” Lane asked, glancing across from the pilot’s station.

  “Nothing, Steamer,” she smiled. “Not a thing in the world. Stand on.”

  Captain Stonewall Quillain stood six foot three in his custom Danner Fort Lewis combat boots and was shouldered and muscled to look mountainous instead of merely tall. He considered Valdosta, Georgia, to be the best place in the world to be from, just as he considered the United States Marine Corps the best profession a man could have.

  His features were an accumulation of blunt wedges assembled in a way that could never be called handsome, a scowl settling onto them far more readily than a smile. In fact, it was said among his Sea Dragons that “the skipper never actually looks happy, just less pissed off.”

  Still, though no one would dare accuse him of it to his face, Captain Stone Quillain had a broad streak of sentimentality in his makeup. Neither he, nor the unit he commanded, had any direct role in this night’s operation, but he had people he called friends who did. Accordingly, he would see them home.

  The guts of the Carlson rang with concentrated sound, like the interior of some gigantic brass horn. Quillain had to press the earphones of his command headset closer to his skull to make out the words being passed through it.

  “Hangar bay, level two. Prepare to receive and spot hovercraft.”

  Below him. at the foot of the interior vehicle ramp, the Queen of the West reached the head of the boarding bay. Voluminous though it was, there was spotting room for only two of the three hovercraft gunboats on the lower entry level. Accordingly a deft piece of deck-ape choreography was required.

  As Stone looked on, two seamen dropped down from the overhead gantries onto the Queen’s broad back. Safety-lined against the tug of the lift fan intakes, they pulled the locking pins at the base of the swept-back snub mast just aft of the cockpit bulge, folding it flush with the Sea Fighter’s deck.

  Simultaneously, another handling team dared the air blast boiling from beneath the plenum skirts to hook a heavy steel cable into a pad eye in the Queen’s stubby bow. Hauling clear, they gave the high sign to the winch operator in the bay overhead.

  With the whir of its electric drives buried in the turbine howl, the cab of the traveling winch drew back along its tracks. Still riding on her air cushion, the Queen was cranked up the vehicle ramp into the midships hangar bay, a grade too steep for the hovercraft to climb under her own power.

  In a Baseline San Antonio, a pair of garage decks would have occupied this space, storage for the trucks and AFVs of a Marine expeditionary unit. Aboard the Carlson, however, bulkheads and overheads had been removed and restructured to stretch the parking “foot” for the Sea Fighter squadron.

  Stone pressed back against the bulkhead, holding his headset in place against the warm tornado blast of the Sea Fighter’s lift fans. Moving with ponderous deliberation, she squeezed past between the deck guide curbs, her bulging plenum chamber skirts and outwardly sloping underhull looming above the Marine and squadron service bands.

  The Sea Fighter was painted in a mottled camouflage pattern that would show as a dusty low-rez gray in normal light. All, that is, except for the phantom-outline lettering of her name and hull numbers and for the black snarling shark’s jaws painted across the full face of the bow and the two leering eyes just below the stubby forepeak.

  The pressurized skirts sagged as the Queen’s nose lifted above the curve of the ramp lip, the air pad partially collapsing as she “burped the cushion.” The top of the cockpit almost brushed the overhead winch tracks, then the Sea Fighter flumped level again, bobbling slightly as she eased onto her parking slot behind the single, standard Landing Craft Air Cushion assigned to the task force.

  A few moments later her lift throttles were closed, and the Queen sank down with a whining metallic sigh, her deflating skirts making a crumpled nest of black rubberized Kevlar.

  Quillain nodded approvingly. The Sea Fighters weren’t his particular area of expertise or authority, but he could appreciate any kind of military evolution well and smartly done.

  Below, in the main landing bay, the Manassas and Carondelet completed recovery. Creeping to their tie down spots, they, too, powered down in sequence. The sudden silence seemed perturbingly empty—so much so that the voice that thundered over the MC-1 circuit was almost startling.

  “Hovercraft recovery completed and stern gate secured. All hands, stand down from recovery stations. Be advised, ear protection is no longer required in the hangar or recovery bays.”

  The bay lighting snapped from night red to standard white and the service hands moved in.

  Like an aircraft, each sea fighter had two crews responsible for her: the onboard conning crew, who actively handled the hovercraft at sea, and an equally vital team of base service personnel who looked after her technical well-being.

  Tie-down hands belayed the Queen to deck hard points, while access gangways swung out from the bayside gantries to her weather decks. Grounding wires were connected, auxiliary power cables were plugged in, and refueling hoses were hauled across the deck to filler points. Not an instant was wasted in readying the big war machine for its next call to arms.

  Stone could appreciate that as well.

  Keeping close to the bulkhead and out of the way of the bustling service hands, the Marine walked forward along the flank of the hover craft to the midship side hatch.

  It swung open just as he reached it.

  “Good morning, Stone,” Amanda called down from the open hatchway.

  “How did it go tonight, Skipper?”

  “As per the mission profile,” she replied. “We had a brush with a coastal patrol, but things never went beyond swapping electrons.”

  Without waiting for the portable ladderway to be hooked in place, Stone’s redheaded (well, pretty much redheaded; there was some brown and blond in there that made an exact color hard to call) CO made the five-foot jump down to the antiskid decking. Sinking almost to her knees on landing, she accepted Stone’s extended hand to help lift her to her feet again.

  Once, to Stone’s chagrin, there had been a time when he’d been extremely dubious about accepting this lady as a commander and a comrade.

  That had been in West Africa. He’d wised up considerably since then.

  Steamer Lane thumped to the deck a moment later, another veteran of Africa and another proven friend.

  “And how’d the flying saucer do?” Quillain asked.

  Amanda glanced up toward the Queen’s weather deck. Lieutenant Selkirk was already out of the cockpit hatch and hard at work examining the docked Cipher drone.

  “The sensor pods are on the ground and Mr. Selkirk indicates that they seem to be working as advertised. From here on out, it’s in the hands of our friends in the NSA.”

  Quillain’s perpetual frown deepened. “I guess remotes are all well and good, but I still think I should have taken some of my boys in there for a real look around.”

  Amanda arched her eyebrows. “Be careful of what you wish for, Stone. It may come to that one of these days. If the Syrians get serious about their plutonium play-pretties, we might have to do a covert plug pulling on that operation. Neither the Israelis nor the Turks would take a Syrian bomb attempt casually, and the last thing this corner of the world needs is another excuse for a war.”

  At that, a corner of Quillain’s mouth quirked up, just slightly. Stone could appreciate many things, but none more than a challenge, “Now, that,” he said, “could be a real interesting job of work. There are things this old boy could do with an atomic reactor … or to it.”

  Lane chuckled and aimed a thumb at Quillain. “You know, ma’am, this guy scares me sometimes.”

  Quillain did smile then, a grin that could only be described as wolfish. “Only sometimes?”

  Amanda Garrett laughed and stretched luxuriantly, working the mission tension out of her muscles. “I’m sure our Mr. Quillain will try harder, Steamer. Now, would you gentlemen care to join
me in the wardroom for a cup of coffee before—”

  The MC-1 speakers cut her off.

  “Now hear this. The TACBOSS is requested to contact the bridge immediately. I say again, the TACBOSS is requested to contact the bridge immediately.”

  Before the amplified voice of the quartermaster faded, Quillain had snatched off his command headset, passing it to Amanda. Holding one of the earphones to the side of her head, she adjusted and keyed the lip mike.

  “Bridge, this is Garrett. Go.”

  Lane and Quillain looked on as Amanda’s features underwent the subtle transformation from relaxed comrade to alert and wary commander.

  “Understood. You may inform the captain I’ll be joining him immediately on the bridge. In the meantime, bring the task group to general quarters.”

  As the overhead Klaxons began to squall out the call to battle stations, she passed the headset back to the Marine. “Gentlemen, we may have underestimated the Syrian’s level of irritation. We’re being sharked by an unidentified aircraft. Steamer, get your crews back aboard the Little Pigs. Stand by for a combat launch. Stone, set your point defense procedures. Let’s move!”

  “TACBOSS on the bridge!”

  Amanda brushed past the light curtain, entering the star- and telescreen-lit dimness of the LPD’s bridge. As with everything else aboard the Carlson, this, too, was of cutting-edge sophistication.

  The helmsperson, lee helm engine controller, and duty quartermaster sat at computerized workstations in comfortable airliner-style seats. A score of additional repeater monitors glowed in a double row above and below the broad bridge windscreen. Continuously updating, they kept the officer of the watch apprised of ship’s operations, the status of the surrounding environment, and the developing tactical situation.

  Lack of information was no longer a problem. With a single sweep of her eyes, Amanda could access more information than she could ever dream of gaining from a ship’s phone talker. The new naval officer’s challenge was not in accessing. but in assessing and using this wealth to build a true situational awareness.

  The input flowed in not only from the Carlson’s sensors, but from the Cunningham’s as well. The two warships were symbiotically connected via the multiple data links of their onboard Cooperative Engagement Battle Management Systems.

  Cybernetically speaking, the task group was a composite fighting entity, capable of reacting to any perceived threat as a single focused force. Should it be necessary to launch Sea Fighters, LAMPS helicopters, or RPVs, they, too, could be merged into the Cooperative Engagement net, magnifying their fighting capacity.

  Commander Lucas Carberry, the Carlson’s commanding officer, looked up from the central tactical display, his pink-jowled face underlit in the graphics glow.

  “Captain,” he stated formally, “the task force has been brought to general quarters.”

  Over the prior month of deployment, Amanda had come to find Carberry a bit too formal for the likely propagation of a real friendship. Likewise, she found his personal command style a touch too autocratic for her tastes. However, she did acknowledge the chunky, dapper little officer to be a master of the unique and highly specialized field of amphibious warfare.

  Effectively driving a “gator freighter” is not a task for just anyone. In addition to requiring both a capable naval officer and a superb ship handler, the position demands an individual who has the nerve and the cold blooded steadiness required to take his vessel and crew into a high-risk situation and keep it there until the task at hand is accomplished.

  Amanda had ascertained Carberry to be such a man, and she could forgive him a great deal because of it.

  “Very good, Commander,” she replied, joining him at the tac table. “What’s our situation.”

  “The Cunningham is currently our actively radiating vessel and is defense coordinator. Commander Hiro reports we have a single aircraft coming in from the southeast.” Carberry’s blunt fingertip indicated a yellow graphics track crawling up the display toward the blue task-force hack in the center. “He is requesting instructions, Captain.”

  Amanda nodded. The Duke, with her more potent radars and weapons systems, usually served as the task force’s stalking horse, permitting the more vulnerable Carlson to run emission-silenced and fully stealthed, the link between their Cooperative Engagement systems maintained via intercept-proof laser com.

  “Put me through to Commander Hiro.”

  Carberry glanced at the battle-management specialist standing by silently at the far end of the tac table. Snapping his fingers softly, he pointed to one of the overhead screens. The enlisted woman’s fingers danced briefly over her keypad, calling up the hot talk-between-ships channel.

  The flatscreen filled with the image of Amanda’s former executive officer, lounging back in what had been her captain’s chair in the center of the Cunningham’s Combat Information Center.

  The seat suited the stocky Japanese-American, as Amanda had known it would. It was very much non-reg for an officer to directly move into the command slot of a ship he had served aboard as an exec. However, when Amanda had been called to serve with the Sea Fighters, she had pulled the strings required to ensure her ship would be left in hands she approved of.

  “Good morning, Ken. What do you have for us?”

  “Morning, ma’am,” he replied, nodding back. “We have an Aegis contact. A slow mover. Speed one hundred and forty knots. Altitude fifty feet. The Bogey is running under full EMCON. No IFF transponder. No radio. No radar. We have no absolute target ID at this time but we’re getting a rotor flicker off him. I’d call it a big ASW helicopter, maybe a Syrian Super-Hip.”

  “Um-hum.” Amanda glanced down to the tactical display, studying the bogey’s track. Sub-hunter helos could be a threat to more than submarines. They could also carry antishipping missiles—big ones. “Any chance this fellow could just be passing through?”

  “I would doubt it, Captain. He knows we’re out here and he’s coming for us. Shortly after he popped over the horizon, he turned onto a direct bearing with the task force. As he’s not radiating himself, he must be homing in on our radar emissions.”

  Amanda looked up again, this time at the low-light television monitor covering the Carlson’s foredeck. One level below the LPD’s bridge, the hexagonal box launcher of bow RAM (Rolling Airframe Missile) system was autotracking on the approaching aircraft, guided by the targeting relay being received from the escorting cruiser. Farther forward, in the sixteen-cell Vertical Launch System inset into the main deck, a silo door had swung open, revealing the dark plastic water seal over a quad pack of Enhanced Sea Sparrow Missiles. Farther forward still, at the peak of the Carlson’s forecastle, a Marine missileer team crouched, the gunner holding the tube of a Stinger shoulder-launched SAM at the ready.

  Beyond that, the nonreflective shadow of the Cunningham could be made out occulting the stars along the horizon. A look at yet a third screen verified that the cruiser’s bristling Standard IV batteries and five inch mounts were also on line and armed to fire. All told, her task force could throw up a five-layered defense against any air-launched attack.

  Still, trusting implicitly in a line of defense, no matter how formidable was an act of military imprudence Amanda Garrett had long ago grown beyond.

  The unknown was crossing the twenty-mile line on the tactical-display range scale. Who or whatever he was, there was no time left for dithering.

  “Gentlemen, if our friend out there is listening to us, let’s give him something impressive to listen to. Commander Carberry, bring up your fire-control radars. Ken, have the task force designate the bogey. All effective systems.”

  A yellow targeting box blinked into existence around the bat-shaped air target hack.

  The threat boards on the approaching helo must have screamed in agony as the interlocking guidance beams of multiple gun and missile radars fixed onto the aircraft. In the international military lexicon, it was a demand, succinct and unmistakable.

&
nbsp; “Account for yourself! Now!”

  A few seconds later, a double line of transponder coding blinked into existence beside the outlined target hack. The tactical systems operator tilted her head, listening to the voice within her headphones. “CIC reports Contact Able is now emitting both Israeli Air Force and NAVSPECFORCE IFF codes.”

  “NAVSPECFORCE,” Carberry murmured in puzzlement. “Captain, are we expecting a rendezvous with anyone out here?”

  Amanda shook her head, frowning. “I certainly wasn’t.”

  The SO tilted her head again. “CIC reports Contact Able has established voice radio communications. The pilot identifies his aircraft as an Israeli Air Force CH-53 operating under their special operations executive. He states he has a VIP passenger aboard for us and he’s requesting approach and landing clearance.”

  “That would explain the wave hugging and the EMCON,” Hiro commented from the overhead screen. “An Israeli special-ops helicopter operating alone off the Syrian coast wouldn’t want to be obvious.”

  Carberry stared balefully down at the target hack on the table display. “But what would one of our people be doing trying to come aboard like this?”

  Amanda shook her head. “Gentlemen. I haven’t got an answer for you, but I intend to get some. Commander Carberry, notify your AIRBOSS that the Israeli is cleared for landing. Put your ship across the wind and stand by to recover aircraft.”

  “Very good, ma’am.” Carberry lifted his voice: “Watch officer! Aviation stations! Clear the helipads and lay to all aircraft-handling details. Inform the tactical air control center they are to bring that helo aboard on the double!”

  “Shall we secure the task force from general quarters as well, ma’am?” Hiro’s screen-filtered voice inquired.

  “No … not yet, Ken. Cease targeting designation but keep the group at battle stations. I want to find out a little more before we stand down.”

  The LPD’s commodious flight deck, capable of handling half a dozen VTOL aircraft simultaneously, took up the full rear third of the Carlson’s topside length. Turning ponderously, the big amphib put the prevailing wind across deck at the prescribed forty-five-degree angle for a helicopter approach. Night vision-filtered strobe lights began to pulse at the corners of the helipad, beckoning the newcomer aboard.