Arsenal c-10

by Keith Douglass

  With the spate of recent mishaps and incidents, he could understand a renewed emphasis on safety. But a stand down? Now, with so much unexplained in the area? He shook his head again, and scowled. The only aircraft airborne right now were the SAR helos still searching for the downed Marine pilot.

  Like his fellow aviators, there was no requirement he like the safety stand-down just that he do it. He followed the last aviator out of the Ready Room and headed for chow.

  1200 Local (+5 GMT)

  Admiral’s Conference Room

  “All right, what have we got?” Batman said as he strode into the conference room. “I want some answers, people.”

  The admiral sat down in his usual spot halfway down the table and glared at Commander Busby, who was standing in front of the room. Lab Rat met his gaze steadily. It was always like this, admirals demanding immediate answers and definitive explanations for every scenario. In an ideal world. Intelligence would be perfect and there would be no surprises.

  But this world was far from ideal. Lab Rat clicked the mouse in his hand, flashing the first slide up on the screen.

  He saw the admiral shift impatiently in his seat as a topographical map of Cuba lit the front of the room. Lab Rat hastily punched the button again, cycling on to the next slide.

  “Let me cut to the chase. Admiral.” Lab Rat flicked the laser pointer on and centered the small red dot over the western tip of Cuba. “We have indications that Major Hammersmith is being held here.

  Additionally, I have satellite imagery that indicates the Cubans are standing up a new weapons system, probably longrange offensive land attack missiles.” Lab Rat paused, guiltily enjoying the sudden sharp intakes of breath he heard around the room.

  The admiral shook his head from side to side. “You don’t fuck around when you say cut to the chase, do you?” he said, surprisingly mildly.

  “Okay, Lab Rat, go ahead and start the backing and filling I know is going to come. You intelligence types never make absolute pronouncements, do you?”

  Lab Rat resisted the impulse to gloat. “We do when we can. Admiral.

  As of thirty minutes ago, this was the situation.” He punched the clicker again, flashing the next slide up on the screen.

  It was overhead imagery, a highly detailed and accurate photograph of the area produced by one of the U.S. national assets a satellite.

  Everyone in the room, even those who had seen such imagery before, leaned forward almost involuntarily. The clarity, the detail exceptional.

  The photograph was in black and white. Centered in the rectangle was a man in an American flight suit surrounded by a squad of six armed Cuban army guards. They were walking toward a small cinderblock building.

  The American had his face turned up toward the sky, and was being jabbed in the kidneys by the rearmost guard.

  “Thor appears to have remembered his SERE lessons well,” Lab Rat said neutrally. Every pilot attended the Survival, Evasion, Rescue, and Escape course before being assigned to a carrier. “He was looking up at the sky at every opportunity. The Cubans seemed to know what he was doing, too they nailed him every time. We’ve got six good photos of his upturned cherubic little face, this one being the best of the lot.

  It’s him, no doubt.”

  Batman studied the photo for a moment before nodding sharply.

  “Concur.

  So we know he’s alive and we know they’ve got him. Now tell me about these weapons.”

  “Here.” The next slide was just as detailed, but not as immediately self-evident. Lab Rat traced around three rectangular structures on the screen. “For those of you who are familiar with the short-range Soviet land attack missile systems, you’ll recognize this launcher.

  It’s designed to handle either conventional or nuclear weapons. The satellite pictures picked it up first, and the existence of such weapons has been confirmed by HUMINT-human intelligence.

  Spies and informers, to give them their common name.” Lab Rat paused to let them absorb the implications. “Let me remind you that all of this information is classified ‘top secret.” Given the political instability in Cuba, with the fighting between factions over control and the presence of military advisors from Libya, we have warnings and indications that Cuba may be advocating the nuclear option.”

  “Nuclear?” Batman’s tone of voice left no doubt as to the depth of his concern. “Is that a probability, or just a possibility based on capabilities?”

  “A strong probability, unfortunately. While I can’t confirm that there are nuclear weapons inside Cuba, examination of two freighters making port in the United States immediately after Cuba indicates small traces of radioactivity. The Coast Guard picked them up after they became suspicious during a routine drug search. Evidently they saw something they didn’t like and ordered a full detention and search. After the first click on their Geiger counter, they called in NEST the Nuclear Emergency Services Team.

  They confirmed that something radioactive has been in that container within the last thirty days. Unfortunately, they can’t tell us exactly what. But the levels indicate” Lab Rat spread his hands open before him” that there’s a strong possibility it was weapons-grade material.”

  Batman turned pale. “And I thought we’d solved this forever with the Cuban Missile Crisis,” he said wonderingly. He shook his head as though to clear his thoughts. “So we can’t be certain, but that evidence combined with the missile launchers gives me a really rotten feeling in the gut.”

  The room was deadly silent. Not an officer moved, and some barely seemed to breathe. Lab Rat glanced around the room, noting the pale, shaken faces. He understood completely-he’d felt that way himself not an hour before when the first satellite imagery had been faxed into the highly classified CVIC. He felt an odd, incongruous sense of relief.

  It was nice not to be the only one who knew.

  “I think I’d better talk to SOUTHCOM right away,” Batman said slowly.

  He stood up, dismissing the rest of the staff with a gesture. “Pull up the contingency plans. All of them, even Bird Dog’s. Be ready. This is a surprise, but it’s not one we can’t handle. I want full reports from all departments in thirty minutes.” He turned and walked rapidly toward the door leading to his cabin.

  “A rotten feeling in my gut,” Lab Rat echoed slowly. He walked to the back of the room and took the floppy disk from the technician who’d been operating the computer.

  “Sir?” The young enlisted man’s voice shook slightly.

  “What does it mean? Do they really have nukes?”

  Lab Rat clapped the man on the shoulder and forced a smile onto his face. “I don’t know, Benson. But whatever they’ve got, we’ve got a cure for it. There’s not a damned thing they could possibly have that could get through the Jefferson battle group not a damned thing.

  Remember, if they start pulling any shit on us, we can turn the whole island into glass.”

  The man looked slightly less worried. “That’s right, they can’t get past Jefferson.” He paused for a moment, then said, “But what about that major there? The Marine?”

  And that, Lab Rat thought, was the two million dollar question. What about Thor?

  1210 Local (+5 GMT)

  Flight Deck

  The angry chatter of gunfire cut through the dull roar of wind across the flight deck. Lieutenant Commander Brandon Sikes, officer in charge of the USS Jefferson SEAL detachment, paused at the hatch leading out onto the hot tarmac and surveyed the scene. The forward portion of the deck was crowded with aircraft, wings-folded Tomcats nose to-nose with similarly configured Hornets, the bulkier E2C Hawkeyes taking up the space just aft of the island.

  Helicopters with their rotors folded like broken mimosa leaves edged the deck, with the exception of two ready helos positioned slightly behind the rest of the pack.

  Even with the hangar bay below crowded with aircraft, it was an impressive display of weaponry and force. Almost a football field away, a small group of me
n clad in tattered khaki shorts and faded brown T-shirts stood in a line facing aft. Even from here, he could make out the outlines of the different types of weapons they carried45s, M16s, and AK-47s. Had they not been U.S. SEALs his men he would have been worried.

  Sikes trotted down the tarmac. The safety observer spotted him immediately, and with a sharp motion terminated the exercise. He could hear the men grumbling good-naturedly, a sound that faded away immediately as they saw his face.

  “What’s up. Skipper?” Senior Chief Petty Officer Manuel Huerta asked.

  He motioned toward the broad wake behind the ship with his free hand, carefully keeping the AK-47 in his other hand pointed aft. “A no-fly day figured we’d get in some weapons practice. Never can have too much.”

  Sikes drew to a halt. “You may have a chance sooner than you think.

  Quick, huddle time. I need some fast thoughts.”

  He motioned for the men to close around him.

  Within the elite SEAL community, rank made little difference when it came to planning an operation. Even the most junior man might have some valuable insight to contribute. He looked around the circle of faces like a quarterback, noting the keen interest on each one of them.

  A good team hell, maybe the best team. His team.

  “Here’s what’s going down.” He briefly outlined the strategic scenario, then settled into the business of discussing tactics. “As I see it, there are two main objectives. First, we find our man. Get him out if we can. Second, we disable the weapons systems.” He saw a few frowns across faces. “I know it may not be reasonable, particularly if they’ve got nuclear weapons on there. Still, I want to plan for it. Failing that, we can at least bring back the admiral some hard info on them. We’ve got the gear?”

  “Sure, we’ve got everything we need. Radiac equipment, the new version fits in the palm of your hand, it does.”

  The man who’d spoken smiled. “I’ve been wanting an opportunity to field-test them.”

  “You’ve got it. Any thoughts on how to get the pilot back?”

  “It will depend on where he’s being held,” said Felipe Garcia, a petty officer second class and SEAL for three years.

  “Garcia, you may be the whole key to this.” Sikes studied the man carefully. He was shorter than most, a fact Sikes noted simply for its reference value. In the SEALs, size made no difference. He’d had his own ass kicked by men far smaller than Garcia. “You grew up in Havana, didn’t you?”

  Garcia nodded. “And I’ve been back there since then.

  Five times in the last two years. To different parts of the island.”

  Sikes nodded sharply. Given the diverse and dangerous nature of the SEALs’ normal missions, he had a good idea of what Garcia might have been doing in Cuba. Not that he’d ask he wouldn’t have to. Only Garcia knew how highly classified his mission had been, and what details he could release to his fellow SEALs. Even if Garcia couldn’t give them a blow-by-blow account of his mission, he’d factor every available detail into the planning of this one.

  “Good. I expect you to vet every step of this.” Sikes looked around the circle again. “How do we get in?

  Helicopter and HALO would be my preference,” he said, referring to a high-altitude low-opening parachute drop.

  “But that’s not going to be practical, not with those radars ringing the island.”

  “Small boats might be better, but still not entirely safe,” Garcia said thoughtfully. “The whole littoral area is patrolled regularly by Cuban gunboats. We might be able to outrun them, but there’s a good chance we would be detected.”

  “How much of a chance?” Sikes pressed.

  “Maybe fifty-fifty.” Garcia shrugged. “I’ve had worse odds.” He looked up and met his skipper’s eyes. “A submarine and lockout in an SD Va swimmer delivery vehicle is better.”

  Without asking, Sikes knew that was exactly how Garcia had gotten in last time. It made sense, too. The few remaining U.S. diesel submarines would be particularly valuable for this mission. Quiet and undetectable while operating under battery, it carried a docking station bolted down onto the conning tower that contained the small swimmer delivery vehicles favored for team insertion in an operation such as this. “That would be my preference, but I don’t know if we have time to get one down here. Any other thoughts?”

  “We could swim.” The SEAL who suggested it looked displeased. “I don’t favor it, though.”

  Sikes shook his head. “Me neither. Sure, we could do it, but we’d be dragging ass when we got ashore.” He looked at the men’s faces and saw them harden. “Not that we couldn’t do it,” he added hastily. “It’s an option. But not the best one.”

  “Helicopter or a boat, then,” Garcia mused. He shrugged again, a peculiarly Latino gesture of resignation. Then his face brightened.

  “Our odds go way up if we use the Army’s Stealth helos. Think we could get the carrier to send us back to Miami and deploy from there?”

  “No doubt. Even on a no-fly day, we ought to be able to arrange that sort of transportation.” Sikes grinned, a wolfish expression crossing his face. “I surely do love those Special Forces helicopters.” The other men nodded.

  “I don’t think so,” Huerta said, speaking for the first time.

  ‘Too much radar, even with Stealth technology.” He shook his head.

  “We go in with what we’re best at small boats, then swimming. Less chance of a casual observer seeing us that way, too. Go with our strengths.”

  A grizzled veteran, ancient at me age of thirty-five, Huerta was still in superb physical condition. Sikes had watched him outrun, outswim, and outshoot almost every man in the team. He might be beat occasionally at one of those particular skills, but never in all three categories by the same man. Overall, he was the strongest, most indestructible-looking man Sikes had ever met.

  As he looked at Huerta, a familiar feeling of pride flooded him. Don’t ever think about being a SEAL, he told himself.

  Not unless you are worthy of commanding men like this.

  A quick shorthand discussion of equipment and timing followed, the men thinking as one team and each contributing his own comments on particular capabilities and assets they would need. Less than ten minutes after he’d first walked out on the flight deck, Sikes had his answers. And a plan.

  He motioned back toward the ocean. “You kill a whale, you file the environmental impact report. Other than that, shoot the hell out of it.” He made a brief gesture, then turned and trotted back toward the island.

  1015 Local (+5 GMT)

  Admiral’s Cabin

  Batman stared at the overhead speaker as he spoke into the handset. The COSMIC circuit was the most secure form of radio communication available on the carrier, and this call from Tombstone was hardly unexpected.

  “So you think we’ll be ordered to conduct the strike?”

  Batman asked. He ran a hand across his forehead, feeling the deep grooves that the pressures of daily living were cutting into his forehead. Even after commanding a squadron and two tours in D.C nothing had prepared him for the awesome weight that fell on the shoulders of a carrier battle group commander. “Come on. Tombstone, I need some answers.”

  Admiral Magruder’s voice sounded tired. “I’ve seen the same pictures you have. If it were my call, you know what my answer would be. Damn the political consequences just get the mission done.”

  “But it’s not. It’s not mine, either.” Batman felt the beginnings of a headache start at the base of his neck.

  “Jesus, Tombstone, how much of this would we have believed when we were still flying? Back then, we thought the admirals had the easy jobs.”

  Tombstone chuckled, his voice thin and reedy over the secured circuit.

  Not laughing at you, my friend, laughing with you. At least you’re at sea you could be stuck flying a desk, like I am.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know that. So, how long will it take to get an answer?”

  “Your gues
s is as good as mine.”

  Batman could hear the resignation in his friend’s voice.

  “Hell of an answer. Tombstone.”

  “Sometimes it’s like that. Batman. As soon as I hear from the eight-hundred-pound gorillas, I’ll let you know.”

  Batman knew Tombstone was referring to the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “But when? I’ve got preparations I need to make out here, you know.”

  “Of course I know that,” Tombstone said sharply. “Look, as soon as I hear anything, I’ll let you know. It shouldn’t be long, though. I understand the President’s in conference on the matter right now.”

  Batman sighed as he hung up the telephone. The President might be consulting his top political and military experts, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure this one out. Weapons poised on Cuba could have only one target the continental United States. And, when a decision was finally made, it would be up to Batman to walk that thin line between defense and aggression, between preserving the integrity of the United States and provoking war.

  1220 Local (+5 GMT)

  The White House

  The President stared down at the photos strewn around his desk. In his past twenty-five years as a political animal, he’d seen satellite imagery often enough never before, however, in such telling detail.

  He leaned back in the custom-built chair, feeling the sinking sensation of resignation. Around him, his staffers and aides fell silent. The President steepled his hands under his chin and thought. Finally, he glanced back at the man standing in front of him. “So it comes down to this? Again?”

  The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid so, Mr. President.”

  The President sighed. “Kennedy thought he had the problem licked forever,” he said reflectively. He gestured at the photographs. “We should’ve known better. They won’t stop not really. Even with the fall of the Soviet Union, there will always be power-mongers and terrorists in the world. Whole nations, even.”

  The chairman shifted uneasily. “We have some options.”

  The President spun his chair around to stare out at the Rose Garden.