Nuke Zone c-11

by Keith Douglass

  There was nothing else that had even a chance of catching the missile at this point, not from a nose-on-nose aspect.

  Behind him, his backseater, a new guy he’d never even had a chance to talk to, muttered vector information and guidance. Skeeter followed the orders mechanically, watching the missile, relying on his eyeballs to warn him if the geometry got radically out of synch. So far, the backseater seemed to know what he was doing.

  “Recommend you fire now–now, now, now,” the RIO said finally.

  Skeeter toggled the missiles off–one, two–then made the Fox call over tactical. He could see the bright flares of the engines of his own missiles, tracked them readily as they dove down toward the incoming missile.

  “Skeeter–get the hell out of there,” he heard another voice say over tactical. He glanced back over at Bird Dog, as if he could see who was talking.

  “Skeeter, that’s Thor–Marine jar-head. He just took out the bastard that launched that missile.”

  Bird Dog’s voice was almost frantic. “Head for the deck, Skeeter–that missile’s probably a tactical nuke–you stay within range of it and you’re going to catch the EMP blast head-on. It’ll wipe out everything you’ve got, even if the buffet doesn’t knock you out of the air. You hear me? Get out of the way.”

  “I can’t–the Sparrows haven’t shifted to independent tracking. I’ve got to keep the radar lock on–got to.”

  Skeeter’s voice was determined. “If you think it’ll do some damage to me, just think what it’ll do to every aircraft in the air, not to mention the surface ships. I’ll get out of here as soon as I see it dead, not before.”

  “Skeeter!” Real anguish permeated Bird Dog’s voice. “The Sparrows will make it, they’re close enough now–get the hell out.”

  Skeeter bore on, following his missiles into their target. Finally, as the two tracks were intercepting, he rolled violently to starboard and dove for the deck. Seconds later, a hard wash of air buffeted the massive Tomcat like a boat bobbing in the water. He fought the aircraft, lost control, and the Tomcat spiraled down to the deck in a flat spin.

  Skeeter let the aircraft go, fighting with the controls to establish a stable flight attitude. The violent spinning slowed slightly, then stopped completely as Skeeter pushed the nose down and traded altitude for airspeed. The increased airflow over the wings, coupled with the manual extension of the wings, gave him back control of the aircraft.

  But they were close to the sea, so close. At one thousand feet, the Tomcat had broken out of its spin, but was still headed at a steep angle for the deck. Skeeter howled, yanked back on the yoke, not even bothering to warn his backseater about the maneuver. It either worked, or it didn’t.

  He suspected the man’s hand was poised over the ejection-seat handle–that is, if he could get to it under the driving G forces of their flat spin.

  At the last second, the Tomcat pulled out of the dive, returning to vertical flight a bare forty feet above the ocean.

  Skeeter howled again, this time in victory. He heard the backseater breathing raggedly over the ICS, and said, “What’s the matter, man?”

  His bravado masked the real fear he’d felt just a few seconds earlier.

  “Nothing–everything’s fine back here,” the backseater snapped. “There’s just one little problem–when we get back to the carrier, I’m gettin’ the fuck out of your cockpit and never gettin’ back in again.”

  “Now, now, now–didn’t I just pull us out of one of the nastiest spins you’ve ever seen in your life?” Skeeter inquired, recklessly confident with the adrenaline screaming through his veins. “What more could you ask from a pilot?”

  “The common sense God gave a gnat would do for starters.”

  With that, the backseater fell silent.

  1230 Local

  TFCC

  USS Jefferson

  “The air battle is still a standoff,” Batman reported to Tombstone.

  He sighed, feeling the weight of responsibility of sending young pilots out to die. They were the finest pilots in the world, flying the most capable aircraft, but air combat was still unpredictable. Most would come back–but some wouldn’t.

  “They don’t have a sustainable force,” Tombstone said shortly. “I notice there’re no tankers reported–that means they have to land to refuel. Lost time–we’ll take them eventually.”

  The Turks were proving to be surprisingly tenacious, remaining engaged against the American fighters even after a second wave of Hornets and Tomcats arrived from Jefferson, even after it was clear that the Americans were outperforming their adversaries in all categories of skill. One by one the Turkish F-14’s dropped into the water, either accompanied by billowing parachutes as their aircrews escaped or raining down on the water in a fireball. “Sooner or later, they’ve gotta quit.”

  Batman frowned. “There’s something else odd about it–that last wave of MiGs,” he said slowly. “They’re not Turkish–they’re Ukrainian. Oh, they’ve got Turkey’s colors painted on their tail, but it’s absolutely clear at this point that they’re not what they seem to be.”

  Batman turned to Lab Rat. “Isn’t that so, Commander Busby?”

  The senior Intelligence Officer nodded. “We caught one of them transmitting in the clear–otherwise, they stayed on secure lines. Definitely Ukrainian.”

  Tombstone tossed his pencil on the table, and leaned back in the chair. “Ukrainian–that explains it, I suppose.”

  He looked at the two men steadily. “So what do we do now?”

  Batman turned to Lab Rat. “Go ahead and brief him.”

  Lab Rat took a deep breath. “I’ve taken the liberty of preparing two strike packages. One is aimed against Turkey, the other Ukraine.”

  He passed over a large-scale chart with hastily scribbled pencil markings on it. “Here you can see the two command centers, one in Sevastopol and the other in Izmir. Shiloh can have her Tomahawks retargeted against either one of them in a matter of minutes. Once we take out command-and-control facilities, the fighters may become confused, pull back some while they wait for an alternate command center to take over with new orders. You know how dependent they are on their ground-control-intercept officers.”

  Tombstone studied the charts. He tapped the penciled target symbol on the Crimean Peninsula. “These bastards started it all–that first attack on La Salle. It looked like Turkey, but at this point I’m willing to bet it was Ukraine. That’s the first target. Let’s teach them a lesson.”

  “You’ll get flak from State over this,” Batman cautioned. “After all, we’re supposedly en route to their shipyards for technical assistance.”

  “I don’t give a fuck about State,” Tombstone blazed. “Their calls already got us into this–dammit, neither you or I would ever have been caught dead in this strait, not under these circumstances.”

  “I agree,” Batman put in. “Just wanted to bring it up. But to hell with them all.”

  He turned back to the Intelligence Officer. “You’ve got your orders–let’s retarget against Ukraine.”

  Busby nodded. “Just as well–I was afraid you were going to say both. That would complicate matters a bit.”

  “I can take out the command centers, but where does that leave us in the end?” Tombstone said, staring down at the chart. “This whole tactical scenario–dammit, one aircraft carrier is not enough. Shiloh’s doing her best, but we need an additional show of force, a battle group stationed with some air-power just off Turkey’s Mediterranean coast, while we quell the Black Sea. The U.S. Air Force base in Turkey at Incirclik is no help–they scrambled their aircraft out to safety when La Salle got hit. Greece bitched about allowing overflights, so they’re staging out of the United Kingdom for now. Too long a lead time to use them for immediate support, but just where the hell am I gonna get another carrier and some fighters?”

  Just then, a voice called from TFCC. “Admiral Wayne? I think you might want to see this.”

  The two admirals exchanged glances, then stoo
d as one and walked into the TFCC. A new symbol had just popped into being on the large-screen display, something that had been happening all too often in the last three hours. With one big difference–this one bore the symbology of a friendly unit.

  “Who the hell-” Batman started to say. He fell silent as the name of the ship flashed up beside the symbology: La Salle.

  “Jefferson, this is La Salle,” a voice said over tactical.

  Batman reached for the handset, paused, and then handed it to Tombstone. “Your ship, Admiral–I’ll let you sort this out.” Batman’s voice was grim. “I’ve got an air battle to win.”

  He turned his back on Tombstone, and his attention back to the large-screen display.

  “Captain?” Tombstone said, his voice sliding up the scale in incredulity. “What are you doing out here? I thought-“

  “Pardon me for interrupting, Admiral, but you did give me a free hand,” said a familiar voice. It was the captain of La Salle, the man to whom Tombstone had given complete discretion in getting the ship back into the ball game. “You wanted your ship back–well, here she is.”

  Tombstone glanced at the telephone, making sure that the light indicating secure transmissions was lit. “What are your capabilities?” he asked, still not believing that the flagship was cruising toward him. “God, man, you’re an answer to a prayer.”

  The La Salle had just entered the tactical link, transmitting its positioning data to the aircraft carrier and all other units. It was still in the Mediterranean, headed for the Aegean and the eastern coast of Turkey.

  “We’ve been following the battle from your transmissions, Admiral,” the captain continued. “I can offer you the surface-search radar and six Harriers.”

  “How in the world are you even steaming?” Tombstone demanded. “From the condition of that ship that I saw, there’s no way you should even be underway.”

  “New challenges demand special solutions,” the captain replied, satisfaction in his voice. “We had enough spare parts on board to cobble together some electronics–we’re not fully mission-capable, but I’ve got my close-in weapons systems operable, a surface-search radar, and all of my Link capabilities. And as for power–Admiral, did you have a chance to tour the ship? The entire ship, I mean.”

  Tombstone thought for a minute. “Not all of it,” he said finally. “Mainly the flag spaces–that and the flight deck.”

  “With all due respect, you missed a very important part of the ship. Underneath the flight deck that you aviators think so much about, there’s something called a well deck–it’s open to the ocean, and it’s where we keep all of our amphibious vehicles. Plenty of room in there for a couple of tugs.”

  Tombstone was speechless for a moment. “Tugs?” he said finally, not believing what he was hearing. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Well, it’s not that radical a solution. We use tugs for propulsive power all the time, don’t we? It’s just that they’re usually made up to the outside of the ship, getting us off a pier or into port. Fortunately, as we’ve just proved, a couple of oceangoing tugs can handily fit inside the well deck. They push as well as they pull. Besides, Harriers aren’t all that picky about wind across the deck for flight operations.”

  Tombstone began laughing. “I don’t believe it. You mean to tell me you’ve got two tugs inside your well deck? And they’re shoving you around so that you can get underway?”

  He laughed again, shaking his head in disbelief. “Captain, of all the-“

  “Creative solutions you’ve ever seen, Admiral?” the captain finished. “Thank you very much, sir. After all, you did tell me to get the ship squared away.”

  “Okay, you’re here,” Tombstone said. “Get those Harriers ready to launch–I’m going to need them for backup in case Turkey needs some additional convincing.”

  He spent the next five minutes reeling off a set of orders, directing the La Salle to take station on the west coast of Turkey. Finally, after a last congratulatory comment, Tombstone replaced the receiver. He stared at it for a moment, then started laughing again.

  1250 Local

  USS Shiloh

  “It’s done, Captain.” The fire-control technician looked up at him with bleary, battle-worn eyes. “I’ve downloaded a complete retargeting package.”

  “Let’s hope it works,” Captain Heather answered. He walked out of Combat up and forward to the bridge. Normally his station during a missile launch would be in Combat, but this one he wanted to see himself.

  Could the vertical launch tubes take it?

  He shook his head–there was still no real answer on that. The flooding had been contained, and the tubes appeared to be structurally sound, but there was no way to really tell how much damage the mine explosions had done. The delicate circuitry of the missiles might have been fatally jarred, the tubes cracked somewhere they couldn’t see and unable to maintain the air pressure that they needed to lift the missiles out of their tubes. He stared down at the hatches on the deck, wondering just how much of his combat capability he had left.

  Finally, he turned to the Officer of the Deck. “Weapons free. Fire when ready.”

  “Weapons free, fire when ready, aye, sir,” the OOD echoed. He picked up the bitch-box speaker and relayed the order to Combat.

  The captain held his breath and waited. A slow rumble shook the ship, deepening and spreading throughout every structural member. The square cover on the first tube popped open, and the captain gazed down into the blackness inside it. The sound built, higher and higher, until it encompassed his entire world. Finally, with a final shriek, a Tomahawk missile burst out of the vertical-launch cell, then seemed to hover over the deck for the barest instant before its motor ignited. It splashed fire down on the deck, charring the nonskid, then tipped over and streaked away from the ship at speeds almost impossible to imagine.

  Moments later, the scenario repeated itself. In all, four Tomahawk missiles lifted out of their cells and headed for Ukraine.

  The captain released his breath, giddy from pain and lack of oxygen.

  “Good job, people.” He let his voice convey more than words ever could. “Someone find me the corpsman. I think-“

  The engineer caught him as he crumpled to the floor.

  1300 Local

  USS Jefferson

  “Here they come,” Batman said as he glanced at the Plat camera. “First thirsty Tomcat on board.”

  With the carrier now in open water, the fighters that had taken the initial brunt of the raid were coming back on board for refueling and rearming. La Salle’s Harriers took over the air battle, decimating the already thin ranks of Turkish fighters while the American air base steamed threateningly toward their coast.

  Batman kept his eyes moving quickly between the large-screen tactical display and the Plat camera. As fast as the technicians were working, it looked like it might not even be necessary. One by one, starting immediately after the missile attack on Ukraine, the Turkish fighters were breaking off and heading for home, escorted by La Salle’s Harriers and the remaining Tomcats.

  11

  Monday, 10 September

  0800 Local

  Izmir, Turkey

  Packmeyer was so tired he could barely keep his eyes open. They sagged, threatening to snap shut at any second. He took another swig of coffee, trying to concentrate on what the men were saying. It was starting to make sense, such as it was.

  What startled him more than anything was not the facts of the situation. He could understand Ukraine’s motivation, and while not sympathizing, could view things from their perspective. The five Turks gathered around the table in front of him would no doubt disagree, but Packmeyer had to admit a grudging admiration for both their technology and their tactics. It might have worked–almost had.

  “So where are we now?” he asked again, all too aware of how thick his tongue felt in his mouth, of the slight slurring at the edge of his words.

  God, he was tired. After running on adrenaline and coffee for
forty-eight hours, he had absolutely no resources left. There was nothing, short of an incoming missile raid on his position, that could get him excited now. Or so he thought. Seconds later, it turned out he was wrong.

  “We have sources–and we know you have contact with the American carrier.” The senior military officer shrugged. “However, given our political climate right now, it is not possible for us to contact the carrier directly. You understand.” He spread his hands in a gesture of requesting understanding.

  “The carrier’s not likely to want to talk to you anyway,” Packmeyer said, aware that the words were blunt and unpolitical, but beyond caring. “Your mines damned near took out one of their ships, and the carrier has sustained damage as well. They’ve lost men, aircraft–hell, they’re not likely to talk to you at all.”

  “We know that. That is why we wish to enlist your assistance,” a second man said.

  Mike assessed him carefully. A moderate, he knew from the man’s reputation, one who’d been gaining political power for the last five years.

  Some had even mentioned him for the presidency of Turkey, but that had vanished about six months ago as Muslim radicals gained ascendancy. Now, all bets were off.

  “You want me to call the carrier for you?” Mike asked.

  “Exactly,” the second man said. “From the Naval base.”

  “Huh?”

  “We are taking you to the mine-control facility,” the second man continued. “There, we will allow you to observe all operations as we stand down the field from tactical activation. You will thus be able to assure the carrier that we have corrected the mistakes made by our predecessors and have assumed a neutral posture. They will not believe it from us–perhaps they may from you.”

  “Don’t tell me that Izmir is the only facility you have,” Mike said accusingly, now feeling a slight trickle of anger. How could they think he was so ignorant after all these years in Turkey?