He yawned. “What about Taggert? Even though Al-alah as much as admitted he was the mole, I still need proof.”
“Umm. He received another deposit yesterday."
James told the Secretary of Defense who told the Vice Admiral of the Strike Group that Taggert continued to receive money. Despite a heated discussion, they refused to declare a decorated officer and twenty-year member of the naval community a danger to his ship without solid proof from someone not an enemy. But, they would fax Mohammed’s picture to Bunker Hill in case he showed up.
“Bobby, I just got the warhead codes. Otto will be prepared to use them should the need arise,” though that seemed unnecessary now, thanks to the tenacious Virginia crew.
“Ms. Delamagente, did you order Chinese?”
Eitan piped in, “I did. Gotta go, Bobby. Food,” and he disconnected.
“It’s here,” and the doorbell rang.
As Eitan opened the door, Kali’s brain screamed a warning about first the man’s scar, and then the gun aimed at Eitan.
“It’s been a long time.”
Eitan calmly observed the man who had once tried to kill Kali and Zeke.
Al-Zahrawi grinned. “The codes, Kalian, or I will shoot Dr. Sun?”
“All they stop is Virginia’s weapons, nothing with Bunker Hill.”
Al-Zahrawi smiled. “I care nothing for Bunker Hill. Mohammed is working his own little plan to acquire those. Once I have Virginia’s, I will reprogram the weapons to respond only to my new code. You will do anything I ask until I run out of nuclear warheads—and anything else she’s loaded with.”
Kali glanced at Eitan and he offered a subtle nod. “Send them to him, Otto.”
A moment later, al-Zahrawi smiled. “Thank you. I’m sorry to do this.” He turned his weapon on Otto.
“Before you end my existence, Mr. al-Zahrawi, do you mind if I ask a few questions about your religion.” Kali knew from experience al-Zahrawi would be unable to resist a cerebral, intellectual conversation so while he carried on what Otto turned into a friendly conversation, Kali leaned forward so she could reach her purse under the table at her feet, pulled the 38 she’d once known like the back of her hand from her purse, and fired. She winged al-Zahrawi, who then fled. Three burly agents flew in, weapons raised. Two raced off after the terrorist while one remained.
Eitan turned toward her. “When did you learn to shoot?”
“When I realized I needed to. As Zeke taught me, words only take you so far.”
She called Zeke and broke the news to him. “Al-Zahrawi stole the codes to Virginia.”
Zeke answered, not nearly as upset as Kali expected, “I’m counting on the crew to finish what they started. What worries me more is that al-Zahrawi thinks Mohammed can get the codes for Bunker Hill.”
Chapter Fifty-two
Day Twenty-four, Wednesday August 30th, morning
The Sea of Japan, USS Bunker Hill CG 52
Bunker Hill assumed its station south of the thirty-eighth parallel, between South Korea and Japan, and prepared to track the Taepodong-2 missile from Musudan-ri to its projected crash site between the Japanese islands of Tobi-shima and Awa-shima. Because Bunker Hill was a half-mile within what North Korea unilaterally designated a 'no sail' zone, the Communist dictatorship declared the cruiser’s presence an Act of War and Bunker Hill bounced its alert status up to Condition II-AD, Air Defense.
The question: What would North Korea do?
Paloma trained her binoculars on what would be the green verdure of North Korea’s coastline if she could see it. Overhead, Bunker Hill’s four powerful SPY Phased-array radar scanned for air contacts. This stretch of ocean from Japan to Australia was home base to the 7th Fleet, the world's largest deployment of cruisers, amphibs, carriers, destroyers, frigates, and subs. Normally, intel would seamlessly pass from one to the other, enabling Bunker Hill to engage enemies through the eyes of the most forward ship.
Not today. Though every bit of intel screamed something more perilous than a communications satellite would be launched, Bunker Hill floated alone, its mind quiet like 7 of 9 without the Borg hive. Every available ship was busy defending America’s shores or hunting Virginia. To Paloma, it felt worse than lonely. It felt dangerous.
But Bunker Hill had one trick up its sleeve the terrorists’ threats had not been able to strip from its armory: the SH-60F Sea Hawk. Manned by the infamous anti-submarine Squadron Fourteen, the chopper provided a line of sight that penetrated into North Korea. Its FLIR—Forward-Looking Infrared—provided thermal imaging and infrared to see through the worst storm or fog of war, and Hawklink gave it instantaneous communication with the ship. The Hellfire missiles—a nickname for ‘helicopter-launched fire-and-forget’—and .20mm Gatling gun made it a formidable ally and fearsome opponent.
Paloma took one final sweep and headed down to Combat. Sixty minutes to launch, thirty to her watch as TAO. She wanted one final check before her watch started.
"Ma'am." The Watch Supervisor greeted Paloma as she approached the LSD, Large Screen Display. Ten sets of sailor's eyes locked onto the monitors, their sole duty to detect, identify, and neutralize threats.
A blip appeared on Operations Specialist Second Class Sally Jimenez’s screen.
"Incoming air contact."
Two years in the Navy, a single mother of two after losing her husband in a car crash. Jimenez’s mother took care of her children when she deployed. She had worked with Paloma on each of the training exercises for this tasking.
IFF—Identification Friend or Foe—queried the blip. Paloma visualized the signal sweeping the horizon for the transponder required on every plane and ship. Once located, it spontaneously reported home country and military status. At the same time, SLQ32 analyzed the radio frequencies of the contact and SPY calculated its kinematics—altitude, bearing, and range. In this way, Bunker Hill identified and categorized every contact.
"Contact corresponds to IFF code SR 364849, Mode 3," or civilian. Jimenez brought up the database of commercial flights over the Sea of Japan. "Korean Air Flight 7 out of Seoul. No response.”
IFF would re-query in five seconds. The tension ratcheted up. Chatter slowed.
TAO said, “EW, do you have anything along bearing two-eight-zero.”
“Stand by, sir.”
"Still no IFF response." From Jimenez.
The Combat Systems Coordinator—CSC—reported, “It’s inside our Assessment Zone and closing.”
TAO ordered, "Query them again."
The entire room held its breath. Paloma wanted to see what the TAO would do next, knowing in fifteen minutes, this would be her position.
EW came on the netlink. “TAO. EW. Signal corresponds to a private plane. No listed offensive weapons in the database.”
"Captain. TAO. Weapons control solution prepared,” because a private plane could be a disguised military threat. “Recommend monitoring air contact, but avoid firing until necessary.”
One of Bunker Hill’s SM-2’s could knock it out of the sky in thirty seconds if need be.
The Bridge broke in. “We’re picking up a VHF signal,” which was unusual. “Is it from a surface contact, Radar?”
“None out there, Sir.”
Paloma did some rapid calculations in her head. With the duct readings they had this morning, it could be from the plane.
TAO asked as though he read her mind, “What’s the range to the plane?”
CSC: “Ninety miles.”
The Bridge broke in. “We’re picking up a bridge-to-bridge hail from the plane.”
Jimenez: "Unidentified aircraft, turn on your IFF."
A frightened male voice came over the speakers, "We can’t. Our government—North Korea—threatened all planes leaving during this time frame. We would have waited, but we have a patient who will die without treatment and his doctor is in Indonesia."
TAO paused, nodding to something the Captain said into his comm., and then, "Thanks. Good luck with your patient.”
/>
The room breathed a collective sigh, but Paloma knew this meant trouble. Forcing planes to turn off their IFF could spook Bunker Hill into an international incident.
Eitan was right.
Forty-five minutes to launch. Paloma left to continue rounds. She reached the quarterdeck to the whp, whp, whp of the SH-60 helo as it dropped a sonobuoy line northwest of Bunker Hill, the likely angle of a sub approach. The helo would be airborne for the duration.
She paused before climbing to the Bridge and peered east. Japan lay hidden behind a curtain of fog, its Patriot interceptor missile batteries armed and ready. They were ground zero if all went to hell. Sixty years ago, Japan was the enemy. Now, the Rising Sun had become America’s ally. It didn’t want the national headstone to read, ‘We were ready for China, but not North Korea.’
She stepped onto the port Bridge wing. Petty Officer 3rd Class Drew Collins stood by the M240 doing maintenance, a cup of coffee steaming by his left foot.
"Ready, Collins?"
He looked at her, eyes like flint. "Yes, ma’am. No one's gonna hurt us without a ballbuster of a fight." He flushed. “Sorry, ma’am.”
Paloma smiled, but said nothing. Collins gulped half his coffee in one swallow, gazing at the horizon. "Ma'am. D'you think this is how sailors felt in WWII?"
Paloma turned toward the twenty-year-old Petty Officer. No one on the ship had experienced battle, including herself. Would Collins bravely face his end? She chewed her lip, thinking how to address this serious young man.
"McCandless is a road running through the Naval Academy, named for a Communications Officer who won the Medal of Honor during WWII. When all superior officers aboard his ship died, he assumed command though grievously wounded and fired on an overwhelming force. This emboldened other American vessels and they beat back the Japanese in what became an amazing victory. He stepped into the breach."
Collins grunted. "Don't know if I'm always that brave, but I can be once.”
Paloma felt a gush of emotion, but settled for a nod. “Most of Bunker Hill's positions are manned by untested sailors, all willing to do their best. That will be enough.”
She got an update from Combat. "Thirty-five minutes." She made two hard fists to squeeze the shake from her hands.
"Captain on the Bridge!" Captain Pearson strode through the rear doors and up to the Bridge windows. Paloma had served for two years with this Captain. She respected his leadership and his instincts. A graduate of USNA and Naval Post-Graduate School, this would be his last command before retiring. He'd purchased a boat down in Florida and planned to take groups out fishing, come home evenings and sit in a rocking chair on the porch with his wife. For thirty years, he put the Navy first and meant to change that.
The Captain said, “OOD. Tell Combat I’m on my way,” and left for Combat, Paloma a step behind. She’d prepared her entire career for what might happen in the next thirty minutes. If everything went wrong, it would be her job as TAO to make sure her ship survived.
Everyone worked for the TAO when the ship was in battle.
Chapter Fifty-three
Day Twenty-four, Wednesday August 30th, late morning
The Sea of Japan, USS Bunker Hill CG 52
“Five minutes to launch, sir.”
“Arm the weapons.”
By the time the watch had turned over to Paloma, she already knew everything about Bunker Hill’s current status—not what the specs said, but the status quo. All four engines were online which meant she could order up thirty plus knots if needed. SPY was scanning at high power 360 with one sector focused on the North Korean launch. All her 400 Hz converters were aligned for maximum output. She knew exactly what her ship could do at this moment. What she didn’t know was the threat.
“Two minutes.”
She’d have an answer in two minutes.
"Zero minutes to launch!"
For a second, Combat was silent. Paloma imagined the Taepodong-2 lifting off the launch pad, the powerful Iranian-designed boosters catapulting the unknown payload into space. A communications satellite would establish a geosynchronous orbit over the Sea of Japan where it would facilitate North Korean communications. A weapon would ascend and then descend to its target.
Radar broke the silence. "Aegis identifies a modified three-stage Taepodong-2 missile with an Unha-2 rocket. Unable to confirm the tip is a Kwangmyŏngsŏng-2 communications sat."
The Captain snapped, "TAO, flight path?”
“It is going into orbit, Sir.”
Before Paloma had time to relax, CSC announced, “TAO. Contact bearing two-eight-zero!"
Details came in from all stations. “Range two two four. Altitude thirty-four thousand feet. Bearing three-zero-zero. There are now two contacts, both inbound from North Korean airspace.”
“Negative IFF. Electronic signature corresponds to a MIG-17 and a MIG-19.” Old fighter planes, but still deadly.
The Captain countered curtly, “Their intention may be to fly over as a warning, threat us into withdrawing. Keep tracking them and set General Quarters.”
“OOD, set General Quarters.”
The 1MC blasted, "General Quarters. General Quarters. All hands man your battle stations. Proceed up and forward on starboard, down and aft on port."
An ear-shattering wail engulfed the ship. Men raced to their stations. Watertight doors and hatches dogged into place. Damage control parties added emergency equipment to their kits. All weapons were manned.
“Captain, Sir, those planes are moving awfully fast to be friendly and are aimed directly at us.” Sweat broke out on Paloma’s forehead. "There are now three contacts—correction, six. Aegis is preparing fire control solutions.”
The Captain removed the RLEP–Remote Launch Enable Panel—key from around his neck, inserted it starboard by the Missile Systems Supervisor. Paloma did the same with the FIS—Fire Inhibit Switch—key, putting it in the panel by her console. That armed the Vertical Launch System so the SM-2s, Tomahawks, and Harpoons could be launched at a moment’s notice. As Paloma turned her key, Aegis prioritized the threat values of the inbound Mig’s.
The planes had closed to two hundred miles.
“Radio. Get me North Korea.”
“I have them on Channel 12, Sir, through our embassy.”
“North Korea, this is the United States warship Bunker Hill. You have aircraft approaching our position. We are abiding by international law. Do not approach closer than one hundred fifty nautical miles. If you do, we will consider it a threat and be forced to respond with all weapons at our disposal.” His voice was controlled, but the hidden menace hissed.
Bunker Hill’s SM-2s could reach ninety miles. The extra sixty in the threat zone was a cushion.
No response. The Anti-Air Warfare Coordinator shouted, “Six Migs inbound, one hundred eighty miles.”
The Captain repeated his message and added. “This is your last warning.” “TAO, verify missile upload.”
“Verify missile upload, aye. Break CSC.”
“Ma’am, six SM-2s armed, uploaded with current target telemetry data,” which included speed, destination, range, and altitude, the plane’s virtual address.
The blips crossed into the threat zone, Bunker Hill their bull’s eye.
The Captain clenched his fists and then relaxed. Paloma watched his brain churn through what he had to do and how it would affect the lives not only of his sailors but the men in the enemy planes. In a span of seconds, his entire demeanor changed from passive surveillance to active ship’s defense, as though he accepted his fate. This was his place in history, his time to stand against forces he had no part creating.
The Captain’s face hardened, a thoughtful frown creasing his forehead. “Notify Command that we are under attack. Batteries release on all enemy-designated contacts.”
“Batteries release. All six.”
Six VLS hatch covers slapped open. Six SM-2s flew out, leaving a wake of smoke and fire. The ship shuddered. Several watchstanders steadied
themselves.
The next SM-2s rumbled into position, ready. The SM-2s that just launched received midcourse guidance from SPY. The four Illuminators whirred, painting the first quad of Migs with high-frequency RF energy that made them impossible to miss, then the next two. Seconds later, the planes disappeared.
A cheer went up. Six out. Six kills.
But it didn’t last.
“We have an inbound contact bearing two eight three! One of those Mig’s got a missile off. … SM-2 uploaded.”
The Captain broke in. “Batteries release until I say otherwise.”
With those six words, Paloma no longer required permission to respond to threats. Accountability for this fight now lay in her untested but well-trained hands.
“EW. Jam that missile.”
“Jam unsuccessful. Chaff ready.”
The super blooming aluminum foil-like shreds drew heat-seeking missiles away from Bunker Hill. Ready was good, in case her next move failed.
“Four, three, two..." Another VLS cell opened. "One bird gone! … Missile destroyed.”
Paloma had no time for relief before Radar called out additional inbound contacts. “Five, six, ten... still counting …"
Aegis was advertised as capable of fighting off scores of simultaneous attacks, but no one had tested that claim. Today, here, they might determine its veracity or limits. She said with a calm she didn’t feel, "Give me a number."
"Still identifying threats, Ma’am. Range one hundred seventy-six thousand yards. They launched while SPY was busy with the first wave. Bearing two-eight-nine. Weapons control solutions in progress.” “Fifteen planes, Ma’am. Targets bearing two-eight-five to three-zero-seven. Range one hundred fifty thousand to one hundred twenty-two thousand yards,” “Fire solutions identified.” “Fire!”
Missile doors flipped opened, SM-2s blasted from the tubes, the Illuminators swiveled to paint targets, and the Mig’s disappeared in an explosion of fire and debris.
Twenty-four Days (Rowe-Delamagente series Book 2) Page 28