by Gordon Kent
Rafe had to unstrap to come back and take his turn in the tunnel while Cutter flew. He was still looking at the map.
Alan knew Rafe was hurting, had to be hurting. He touched Rafe’s arm. “Thanks Rafe. For everything.”
They pressed on into the dawn, five hundred feet off the deck.
38
December 9
The Gulf of Sidra.
It took the Libyan gunboat almost an hour to close the distance that had separated it from the Philadelphia. When it was within a quarter of a mile, it veered slightly northeast and slowed, and they could see it as a pale blur of light in the drizzle that had begun to fall. The wind was still dropping, so the chop and the spray were gone, but the long swells continued to roll the Philadelphia like a log.
On the bridge, Rose, in body armor, helmet, and night-vision goggles, was trying to goose the countdown along while marshaling the ship’s meager defenses. She had already been on to IVI twice, demanding permission to slash the countdown. Unsatisfied by the well-just-let’s-not-go-too-fast response, she had got Nguyen into the launch module to tell her exactly what they could cut and still be ninety percent certain of getting the thing off the deck and out of Libyan air space. He was working on it.
The marines were near the launch command module, the two tripod-mounted Mark 19s placed to cover a zone on each side of the ship. The LAW had been brought up as well. On the stern, six of the ship’s crew were posted as lookouts, lightly armed with streetsweepers and side arms. The other civilian reps and scientists had been sent below. Valdez, also in helmet and Kevlar vest, was still in the module, honchoing computer readouts and fingering an AUG and trying to hurry the countdown over the objections of the civilians.
Rose triggered her handheld radio. “Report, Valdez.”
“Okay at Launch minus seven-nineteen. Readouts normal; Peacemaker’s awake and checking out. We’re go on Raise to Vertical in twenty-seven minutes, but Nguyen finally admitted we can do it in sixteen-thirty-one and check the Readout Access after it’s erect. New news, though, Boss—we gotta launch before seawater leakage changes the ship’s trim. Anson gives an hour and a half on that, which is a laugher ’cause we got six hours of countdown to go. What’s going down where you are?”
“Negative on Raise to Vertical until that Libyan boat drops off. Stop the count at Vert minus seven if we’ve got a no-change situation. They’re now four hundred meters off the port side—can you see them?”
“I see a kind of blur. What’s happening?”
“Situation stable. Hey, ask Nguyen if he can skip forward and then come back to Raise to Vert if the Libyans delay us. And keep at that goddam countdown!” She didn’t want to take Valdez’s focus away. In actuality, a lot was going on to worry her, but she didn’t want to tell him: Suter had told her to push the countdown to Launch minus forty and hold there for orders—meaning that he wanted support at his end. From Shreed? she had wondered. Or was it from Touhey? Communication with the battle group continued but clarified nothing: Cobb had made it all too obvious that he was worried about the location of the Russian sub. Whiskey Bravo had reported that a mission package had launched from the carrier, ETA six hours, and that Rota, Spain was sending a KC-10 refueling tanker and two F-16s, but they were coming without weapons. She had just heard that Spain and Italy were refusing to let armed US aircraft take off, meaning she was being stripped of air cover.
“Message from the Libyan boat!” a voice cried at her elbow. She snatched for the paper, but the captain got to it first.
“‘Prepare to accept inspection party. You are in Libyan waters.’” He scowled at Rose.
“Tell them we’re in international waters and will not accept any party.”
He didn’t like her jumping into it, but it was exactly what he was going to say, anyway. He scribbled on the same sheet and handed it back to the comm operator.
“Bastards,” the captain said. “Don’t put that in the message, son.”
“Just doing their job.” She switched to the marines’ channel. “LaFond, this is Lieutenant-Commander Craik. The Libyans messaged us to stand by for visitors. Be ready to repel any attempt to board this ship.”
“Yes, ma’am!”
When she got in touch with the stern, a grim voice reported that they could see nothing from there.
“Keep an eagle eye on the water and under the water. They’re going to try to board.”
The captain grabbed another piece of paper. “Message.” She saw that his hand was shaking. “‘You are in Libyan territorial waters. Prepare to accept tow to nearest port for your protection.’”
“That means they may have something else waiting—an ocean-going tug, or some such,” he muttered. “But maybe they’re bluffing. Radar, do a wide sweep, surface, and see what you get.”
“Nothing I can make out, sir. We’re getting a lot of clutter near the coast.”
“Air?” Rose said.
The Philadelphia didn’t have much in the way of aerial-search capability, but the man could coax some coverage out of what he had.
“Maybe two choppers,” he said. “Right against the coast. I’m sorry, ma’am—this gear isn’t built for that kind of work.”
The captain was writing another reply to the Libyan gunboat, but she put a hand on his arm and again got on the marines’ channel.
“LaFond, we may have choppers incoming. What’s the status on the LAW?”
“Caps are off, safety pin still in place, tube un-extended.”
“Prep it to ready-to-fire and wait for my signal.”
Another message arrived: Prepare to be boarded.
Brilliant light suddenly surrounded the Libyan gunboat, haloed by the drizzle into something like a cheaply staged religious vision. Two searchlights poked cones of dazzle through the murk. Rose took her hand off the captain’s arm and tapped the message paper. “I’d like to message them simply, ‘Reply follows.’ Okay?”
The captain glanced down at the place on the deck where the marines were, then looked at Rose. Behind him, the sky was lightening. He scribbled and gave the paper to the operator.
Rose flashed LaFond. “Aim the LAW well ahead of the Libyan boat. You see it okay?”
“Affirmative.”
“Don’t aim at it! This is what’s called a shot over the bow. On my signal.”
“Roger.”
The communications man muttered, “Message sent, Captain.”
Reply follows.
The captain nodded at Rose.
“Fire.”
The M72 LAW is a fairly crude rocket based on the bazooka. Intended for defense against tanks, it is not normally a weapon for use at sea. In the pre-dawn murk, however, its flaming tail is an impressive sight, and its twelve-hundred-meter range, rocket-powered the whole way, sends a distinctive message. Rose watched the orange flame fizz off the deck, rise in a low trajectory hardly higher than the Libyan’s mast-borne radar, and roar across the bow at less distance than she thought was really safe.
The effect was almost instantaneous.
The Libyan doused his spotlights, surged forward, and veered sharply to his starboard, clawing up the water to put distance between himself and the Philadelphia. As it came stern-to, a twin 20mm started firing tracer over the American ship.
“Fire another, Commander?” LaFond shouted eagerly.
“Negative! Man the Mark 19s and load with frag.” She switched channels. “Stern, prepare to repel boarders. We will join you.” She switched again and wondered. Repel boarders. When did someone last say that in these waters? She needed Valdez—the countdown would have to take care of itself. “Valdez, join me on the after main deck, armed and ready. Ask—ask, don’t order, he’s got to volunteer, he’s a civilian—ask Nguyen to continue the countdown. Let’s go!”
She swung down out of her chair. “We’ll do what we can, Captain.”
The radar operator’s voice caught her as she headed off the bridge. “I’ve got an airborne blip about two hundred miles o
ut and closing on us, Commander. Due west.”
“Tripoli direction?”
“No, ma’am. Over water, coming from the Med. Could be one of ours.”
“Could be.” She sounded casual; inside, she was praying, Make it one of ours! Make it one of ours from the carrier! I’ll even take an unarmed F-18 from Rota!
Carrying the stubby Steyr AUG, she headed for the stern.
Outside the Line of Death.
The S-3 bored straight through the dark sky toward the bright line of dawn. It was making no deceptive maneuvers, dropping no chaff to confuse the radars that lit it every several minutes. The crew of four, knowing their vulnerability in the “big fat grape” that had taken off from the Andrew Jackson six hours before, were awake and tense despite a lack of sleep that, for one of them, stretched back more than a day. Flying the final tooth of the chainsaw, they had given the gas taken on at Gibraltar to the two F-14 Tomcats that nestled like oversized chicks under the S-3’s stubby wings. On any radar, the three planes would show as a single blip. Behind them, out over the Mediterranean and well to the north and west, another S-3 was moving parallel, refueling two F-18s as it came. That arm of the chainsaw covered the Jackson’s future path into the Med.
Rafe had overflown Algeria. Against international law. Now they had caught up to the KC-10 south of Lampedusa Island, both the S-3 and its chicks close to running out of fuel. Even as they climbed, Rafe was coaxing the giant tanker to meet them at 6,000 feet instead of 16,000.
Rafe didn’t want to admit that he lacked the fuel to get up there, and he didn’t want to tell the Air Force that he had just overflown two neutral countries at low altitude, and that if he’d come the long way around as he was supposed to, he’d be in the water now.
“With the gas, we’ll be good to go for six more hours,” Rafe muttered. “The Tomcats will only be good for a couple, and those pilots must be burned. Al, what’s our situation?”
“Two-forty miles to the Philadelphia.” His voice gave no indication that he had a personal stake in what might be happening on the crippled ship. Like the others, he was terse, barely audible. No jokes this morning. “Other blip is lying off the Philadelphia about two miles; hard to separate them on the screen. Just got lighted by another Libyan SAM site, but no launch. P-3 is on station eighty clicks east of Benghazi, still reporting he thinks he has contact with a quote large underwater target unquote, which could be the supposed Russian but which could also be a Libyan Whiskey-class. The P-3 reported a probable and a possible three hours ago and nothing since, and what they’re doing is boring lines in the sky trying to fake out something they haven’t identified on a bearing they haven’t defined at a depth they haven’t guessed. It sucks.”
Before he was done, Rafe and Cutter had the S-3’s probe drinking gas out of the KC-10, which loomed huge above them in the first gray smear of dawn. Extending multiple hoses, it tanked the two F-14s at the same time, turned gently and began to head east toward the Philly. Good thinking—every mile they got closer on this guy’s nickel, the better. The S-3 crew drank more coffee and stretched again. By the time that they were done fueling, they were sixty miles closer to the Philadelphia, and Alan had identified the Libyan patrol craft as a Nanuchka-class guided-missile boat, which carried both a surface-to-surface missile and a SAM.
The KC-10 turned north, returning to the protection of the Fort Klock’s missiles.
Alan reported on the Nanuchka. “The good news is they’ve got a ship missile, but they aren’t using it; the bad news is I think they’re after the Peacemaker and don’t want to bang it up. The other news is that they have a surface-to—”
“Hold it, Al—” Rafe was suddenly tense. He looked aside at Cutter, made a face, and switched his comm, listening to a message the rest couldn’t hear. He switched back abruptly: “Al, the Philadelphia is quote under imminent threat of attack by boarders unquote. Fleet wants a hard fix on their position—get it for the record: are they inside the twelve-mile line, or aren’t they?”
Alan didn’t even have to look at the screen. “Roger. Wait one—” He studied the screen and used the radar cursor to measure. “Seventeen nautical miles outside the line. Not even close.”
Rafe switched to the command frequency and relayed the message. Then, half-turning toward Alan, he said to the crew, “We’re being patched to the captain of the Philadelphia.” He hesitated a moment. “Then we’re standing by to talk directly to the Joint Chiefs.” He cleared his throat. “Or to be talked to by the White House. Holy shit! The White House! What the hell’s going on? Stand by—”
A new voice came faintly through the phones. “USNS Philadelphia bridge. Captain Gerault speaking. Do you read me?”
“Faint but clear. Go ahead, Philadelphia.”
“We are taking machine-gun fire from a Libyan cutter that has put two boats in the water. They appear to be heading toward the ship. US marines are responding. No attempt to board yet but we estimate three to five minutes for the boats to reach us. If they do—the marines are putting out a hell of a lot of firepower.”
“Sir, please confirm that you are under direct attack? Please confirm.”
“Two power boats, big inflatables, are headed toward us. It’s still pretty dark down here, but we can make out men, we think in battle gear. Yes, confirm hostile fire incoming. They’ve taken out one of our navigational radars and seem to be aiming mast-high. Confirm hostile action. Confirm!”
“Here’s the CNO,” Rafe muttered, then opened the comm to the Philadelphia again. “Sir, we’ll be back to you. We’re on our way.”
A pause, a change in the static, and a new voice, sounding young and fresh—it was not yet midnight in Washington—said, “Are we through? Hello? Are we patched through?”
Rafe cleared his throat. “Go ahead, sir.”
“Good evening. Or good morning. Stand by, please.”
“Hello, have I got Chainsaw One? Or are you Pitcher now?” Hell, the CNO had both comm cards. Nice to know that he was organized.
“Yes, sir.”
Pause. Rafe, sensing a cue, said, “Sir, we just had radio contact and learned that our ship is under direct attack. That was confirmed by the—”
“Roger, we listened in. Okay, are you drop-dead sure that ship is in international waters?”
“Affirmative.”
“I copy affirmative. Wait one.”
Alan felt what was coming, then. The Joint Chiefs, maybe the President, wanted to make sure they were covered, because the CNO was going to let them hit that Libyan boat. While the CNO had been speaking, Alan had isolated the Libyan on the screen and entered the range data into the Harpoon aiming system. As the CNO finished, Alan was beginning to enter the waypoint information that would take the block 1C missile far off-axis from the Philadelphia and bring it broadside on at the Nanuchka-class Libyan boat. He had practiced this so many times in the Gulf that it was like something he did without thought—fly-casting, maybe. Yet, he couldn’t get his mind off how close the Philadelphia was to the Nanuchka, and how much bigger target the Philadelphia would make to the warhead. Nonetheless, he reached up, pushed back the plastic cover, and put his fingers on the arming switch.
“Sir,” Rafe said, “do I hear you saying we have permission to take action as necessary?”
There was a moment’s silence. Then: “I’m authorizing Admiral Pilchard to give you weapons free.”
“Sir, are you saying—?”
A new voice came on. “Pitcher, you are weapons free to take retaliatory action against that Libyan Nanuchka as required.” Alan could hear that it was Pilchard.
Rafe shook his helmeted head. “Okay, I guess that means weapons free. Alan?”
“Ready. Waypoints. Weapons hot.”
There was a moment’s silence. “Sir?” Rafe said. “You copy?”
Silence.
“Shoot!”
Alan’s fingers thrust the arming switch into place, and his hand shot to the weapon switch and released the cover. He
checked his screen, saw a SAM site come on along the coast, and said, “Harpoon away! Take immediate evasive action against possible SAM—!”
The bottom dropped out of the sky as Rafe put the nose down and banked harshly north. Alan’s vision darkened, then focused, and he fought the Gs to watch the screen, surprised that no SAM launch showed and at the same time watching a blip separate itself from the coast near the Philly, then seem to merge again, then separate.
He struggled to change the radar picture. Rafe turned east again, dove; Cutter was counting off chaff and flare and firing them. They were going right down on the deck, down where the radar horizon was small for both them and the coastal SAM sites.
“Possible aircraft leaving the coast bearing one-six-three, no reading on speed or direction.” His voice shook as the aircraft shuddered. “Warn the Philly—possible incoming aircraft on one-six-three—” Oh, Jesus, Rose—
Rafe made one more evasive move to the south and put the S-3 down to three hundred feet above the water.
“Admiral?” he said into his mike. Alan had forgotten the command frequency was still open.
Alan was busy timing off the missile until impact. He had split his display screen to show a live radar image of the Nanuchka floating green and eerie in a dead black sea. On the other side of the screen her three fire-control radars showed him their emissions. Cutter was setting up comms between Shortstop—the Tomcats—and Captain Cobb—Catcher—on the Fort Klock. Stealth was finished now.
Nineteen seconds to impact. In nineteen seconds, the Libyans, the Russians, and everyone else awake on this gloomy morning would know that the Americans had some air cover.
Rafe switched channels. Cutter was working on a kneepad; in the other back seat, McAllen was checking the weapons array. Rafe was talking to the Philadelphia again.
“Rose, get your head down. Harpoon impact in ten seconds!”
They all tensed as the captain’s voice came on.
“This is the bridge of the Philadelphia. We have boarders at our stern. Marines hit one boat before it made contact, but the other went to the stern and there is fighting there. Repeat, we have boarders and I think they’re on the deck—wait a minute—”