Arsenal c-10

by Keith Douglass

  Finally, she rolled over to look at him. The smile creeping across her face lit it up like a child’s at Christmas. “You noticed that, did you?” There was no mistaking the self satisfaction in her voice.

  He nodded. “We all did. It takes a pro to keep their wits about ‘em during something like that. That information will help save lives, ma’am.” And so this is the way you skin this particular cat, he thought, wondering if he’d find his Psychology 101 classes more useful in this mission than any swimming skills.

  “Dirty weapons?” she quizzed. “Could we” He shook his head again.

  “No, ma’am, the only thing we can do now is leave. There are a lot of people putting a lot on the line to afford you this opportunity, so I suggest you take it. You’ve done your part for the war, now let us do ours.” He stood and held out a hand to her, suddenly uncertain as to exactly what she was wearing beneath the sheet, and wondering whether the SEAL team was really ready to transport a naked female out of the compound undetected.

  She flipped her sheet back, and he was relieved to see her in a dark T-shirt and a set of sweats. A pair of blue and white fluorescent running shoes were peeking out from under the bed. She slipped them on quickly.

  “Did you mean that? About getting me back in?” she asked as she tied her right shoe. She looked up at him, a winsome smile lighting her face. “I’d really like that if you did.”

  “I’ll try, if the debris isn’t too deadly. Best we get back to the shop and let them make that determination before you go back in, though. You’ve reported from some dangerous places, but I don’t want one of them to be a plague quarantine hospital.”

  She looked slightly paler, but still determined. “We’ll see,” she said enigmatically, standing next to him.

  Pamela grabbed her equipment bag and followed them to the door. She paused at the threshold, glancing around suspiciously. Sikes motioned to her impatiently. “Come on we know what we’re doing.”

  She stepped across the threshold and stopped again.

  “What about the pilot?”

  The air between the SEAL team members crackled with tension. Was it possible? Of course it was they should have suspected it, planned for it. “Pilot?” Sikes said, stepping close to her and whispering. The question wasn’t necessary he knew which one she meant.

  Pamela pointed impatiently. “The Marine Corps pilot. I saw him yesterday I think they’re keeping him over there.”

  Five hundred yards away, a small building blazed with lights. It was surrounded by another fence, and a mongrel looking dog roamed restlessly inside of it.

  Good thing we’re downwind, Sikes thought. It’s sheer luck that he wasn’t alerted by our motion. If he’d caught our scent, he’d be barking his damned head off.

  The SEALs held a hasty huddle. The SEAL team to the east thought they were heading to Major Thor’s rescue, but clearly the Cubans had screwed that plan up. And since his team was already here, they had very few options. Come back with both hostages or don’t come back at all.

  While the admiral hadn’t said it, that had been the secret resolve of each member of the team.

  “So we go get him,” Huerta said finally, settling the matter. “Dogs, lights no big deal.” He looked toward Sikes as though seeking permission a courtesy, both men knew, but one that was appreciated.

  “You two head back toward the coast with Miss Drake. Sikes and I will go after the jarhead. That work?”

  Sikes nodded. As much as he hated splitting up the team, it was the only course of action that made sense. They could not risk Miss Drake’s life no matter how much he despised what she’d done by taking her on the rescue mission.

  “No way.” The objection came from the expected quarter.

  Although her voice was still a low whisper, Pamela Drake was livid.

  “There’s a good chance we won’t make it,” Sikes said calmly. He already knew it was futile to argue. He motioned to Garcia to key up his communications equipment.

  “I think maybe I have more faith in you than you do.” The reporter regarded him solemnly, no trace of mockery or sarcasm on her face.

  “Call the other team,” Sikes said finally. “Abort their mission.

  We’ll grab the pilot and scoot.”

  “When SEALs go out to get someone, that someone generally gets gotten.

  So let’s gowe’re wasting time.”

  She pointed at the dog. “That’s your first problem. Somehow, I don’t think I’m going to want to be up close and personal for your solution.”

  0415 Local (+5 GMT)

  USS Jefferson

  “They should be back on the beach by now,” Batman said.

  “This timetable is tight too tight, maybe.” He thought about the many SEAL operations he’d participated in, how the damnedest sure bets could go wrong at the worst possible time. The risk factor was enormously greater than that of a combat air patrol in an F-14.

  “They designed the schedule. Admiral. I’m sure it’s something they can live with.” Lab Rat’s voice sounded a good deal more convinced then he himself felt. “Anyway, there’s nothing that we” “Commander?”

  An enlisted technician looked up from his bank of electronic monitoring equipment. “I think you’d better see this.”

  Lab Rat darted over to the console, checked the screen in front of the technician. “Oh, shit.”

  Batman joined him behind the technician. He studied the array of figures and scrolling information, incomprehensible to someone not inculcated into the arcane traditions of Intelligence. “What is it?”

  Lab Rat shook his head. “Missile launch indications.

  They’re getting ready. We should see thermal blooms any second, once the preliminaries are out of the way.”

  “Damn it all to hell!” Batman slammed his hand down on the console.

  “We need another two hours to get them back aboard. Launching a diversionary small-scale strike with men on the ground is one thing, but I don’t want them there for the main attack. But if we’re going to prevent a strike on the continental U.S we’ll have to move it up.

  Damn the Cubans damn them!” He glared at Lab Rat for a moment, then the anger drained out of his face. “They’re not going to make it, are they?”

  Lab Rat shook his head slightly. “I don’t know. Admiral.

  I just don’t know.”

  THIRTEEN

  Tuesday, 02 July

  0430 Local (+5 GMT)

  USS Jefferson

  The flight deck was a maelstrom of noise, heat, and wind.

  For the last fifteen minutes, aviators had been kicking the tires and lighting fires on a wide variety of aircraft. EA-6B Prowlers were already spooled up and waiting on the catapult; their bulged cockpits and forward radomes, coupled with the distinctive pods mounted aft atop tail fins, marked them as EA-6B variants. The strange pods held both receivers and antennas for the SIR group, a systems integrated receiver for five bands of emissions. Other antennas were mounted on the fins, below the pods, enabling the aircraft to cover all electronic emissions from the A through the I bands.

  The two J-52 turbojets flanking the fuselage were generating over eleven thousand pounds of thrust each, and each aircraft was straining at the tieback that held her shackled to the shuttle. The JBDS-jet blast deflectors aft of the catapult shunted the wash from their engines to the side, although the gaggle of fighters clustered farther back on the flight deck was generating more than enough wind across the deck.

  Each aircraft carried three jamming pods, one on either side on a wide pylon and one on the centerline fuselage hard point. Additionally, AGM-HARM anti radar missiles graced their wings from the other pylons.

  Each aircraft weighed in at slightly over sixty thousand pounds.

  Overhead, two E-2 Charlie Hawkeye airborne early warning aircraft orbited, each under the protection of two F-A18 fighters. The Hawkeyes and their escorts had launched an hour earlier, and were keeping a close watch on the airspace in the vicinity o
f Cuba’s coast. Should anything launch, either aircraft or missiles, the E-2 Hawkeye would catch it on its ALR-73 PDS radar and relay it instantly to the carrier Combat Information Center through a two-way Collins AN-ARC-34 HF or ARC-58 UHF data links. Since the installation of the joint tactical information distribution system (JTIS), the E-2 had become capable of controlling and vectoring the air picture for any combat aircraft in the U.S. inventory.

  The catapult officer, a lieutenant who had been on board Jefferson less than six months, shook his head as he looked at the cluster of aircraft queuing up behind the JBDs. Even during workup operations, he’d never seen so many turning at once, never had an opportunity to appreciate the delicate ballet orchestrated by the handler and the yellow-shirted deck crew. Most of the plane captains had already scampered away from the hot tarmac, taking cover in the vicinity of the island to avoid being inadvertently sucked down the throat of one of the screaming engines.

  “Get your head out of your ass. Cat Officer,” his earphones thundered.

  The lieutenant glanced up at the tower and nodded his head at the air boss, invisible behind the dark glass. It all came down to this, the one moment when he, the catapult officer, released the first aircraft for flight.

  Even from his position in the enclosed bubble protruding up out of the flight deck, he could sense the tension.

  “Roger, sir.” He made his words sound as calm as possible. In the present mood the air boss was in, it wouldn’t do to irritate him unduly. Not that he blamed the junior captain ensconced above hell, they were all nervous right now.

  The catapult officer shifted his attention back to the flight deck and studied the Prowler straining at the shuttle in front of him. A plane captain held up a grease-penciled Plexiglas board to the pilot, showing the aviator his field state, weight, and weaponry. The pilot nodded, and the catapult officer saw the control surfaces on the Prowler waggle up and down. It was called cycling the stick, the last check of control surfaces that a pilot made before being launched.

  “Now.” The catapult officer authorized release of the aircraft on deck. He saw the yellow shirt come to attention, snap off a quick salute, and drop to his knees, pointing down the deck toward the bow.

  The pilot in the Prowler returned the salute, then leaned back slightly, bracing himself against the seat for the shot.

  As always, it seemed to start impossibly slowly. The first few seconds of a cat shot were a study in tension as the massive aircraft slowly gathered speed. Soon, though, the expanding steam behind the shuttle overcame the aircraft’s inertia and the Prowler accelerated from a leisurely roll to a thundering bolt down the deck.

  Fourteen seconds later, it was over. The catapult officer stared toward the bow, watched the aircraft disappear from view as it briefly lost altitude, then saw it reappear as it struggled for airspeed. The angle of ascent was minimal at first, gradually steepening as the Prowler overcame gravity.

  Seconds later, another Prowler shot off the bow cat, gained altitude, and joined its wingman as they ascended.

  Two down twenty-seven to go. The catapult officer turned his attention aft. The JBDs were already lowered, and two Tomcats were taxiing forward eagerly.

  It was going to be a long morning.

  Thirty minutes later, the deck was still and quiet. The carrier had launched two Prowlers, fourteen Tomcats, and ten FA-18s. Additionally, another EA6 had gotten airborne to replace one that was experiencing difficulties with its CAINS system. Add to that total two KA 6 tankers, and the carrier had a full alpha strike package in the air.

  Back behind the carrier, a SAR helo kept station. The catapult officer glanced down at his schedule and frowned. One helo was already airborne why did the schedule call for another?

  He wasn’t entirely certain, but he suspected it might have something to do with the small boat launched in the wee hours from the carrier’s aft deck. No matter he hadn’t been briefed on it; therefore, he had no need to know. All he did was launch ‘em-it was up to someone else to decide the whys. He glanced up at the tower. And to get them back on deck.

  The second helo’s launch was markedly anti climatic after so many jets.

  It quivered slightly on the deck, jolted once, then crept up into the air. It moved slightly to port, away from the carrier and over open water, and began gaining altitude. The catapult officer watched from his enclosed bubble as it headed out due west until it was merely a speck on the horizon.

  Not that it ought to be flying at all, the catapult officer thought.

  As an F/A-18 pilot himself, he took it as an article of faith that a helicopter had no more right to be airborne than a bumblebee. Only problem was, no one had bothered to tell either the bug or the helo. A collection of one thousand parts flying in close proximity to each other. He shuddered at the old gibe it was too close for comfort. No, give him speeds in excess of Mach 1 and two wings full of weapons over a helicopter anytime. Speed meant safety.

  0440 Local (+5 GMT)

  Fuentes Naval Base

  “No, I didn’t bring any doggy biscuits. So shoot me.”

  Huerta’s voice sounded sharp for the first time since the mission had begun. “How the hell was I supposed to know?”

  “Well, do something,” Pamela hissed. She gestured toward the east.

  “When does the sun come up, anyway?”

  None of them bothered to answer the question. They still had some time. Not enough, but the covering darkness would last at least another hour. After that, the first traces of light would start illuminating the compound, increasing the danger of detection logarithmically.

  “We’re going to have to wait for a moment, then,” Sikes said, his voice low and quiet. He glanced at his watch.

  “Another eight minutes, I think. Then we use the silencers.”

  “Why not use them now?” Pamela demanded.

  Sikes saw the tension in her face, and saw her start to move before she even shifted her weight by much. He grabbed her by the elbow, his hand a steel band around her upper arm, and dragged her back down to the ground. “You shut up and stay under cover or you’ll jeopardize the whole mission. I don’t want you here but we’ve got a job to do.

  You’re not gonna screw it up, not like you did before. Now shut up.”

  “But what are you,” she began.

  Huerta slapped one massive hand across her mouth, catching her head in the crooK of his arm.” you heard the commander,” he said. “You stay quiet voluntarily or I crush your larynx.” He smiled congenially. “I can do that, you know. Wouldn’t even kill you, just make you mute for the rest of your life. You got that?”

  Huerta felt her head move in his tight grip as she tried to nod. He rewarded her by loosening his hold slightly, while still keeping his hand lightly over her mouth. “We wait eight minutes, like the commander said. When I want you to do something or say something, I’ll tell you.”

  Garcia took out his silenced pistol and checked it for the thirtieth time, even though they all knew they were as ready as they would ever be. Eight minutes. They waited.

  0450 Local (+5 GMT)

  Tomcat 201

  “Everybody’s here. Bird Dog,” Gator said impatiently.

  “What are you waiting for, an engraved invitation?”

  “Nope,” the pilot said cheerfully. God, it was good to be airborne again! And on a strike mission, too. Nothing could match the heady feeling of a Tomcat with wings dirtied, antiair missiles and five-hundred-pound bombs slung up under the wings on hard points, just waiting to be used. It made the Tomcat a bit more ungainly, true, but the added inertia during turns and maneuvers kept him conscious of the enormous firepower now under his command. “One more guy’s gotta finish tanking a Hornet, topping off his tanks, of course. I’m telling you.

  Gator, if I ever get out of the Navy, I’m going to invent a fuel line that spools out from the carrier and runs straight up to those bastards.

  Thirsty little motherfuckers you can’t even run a strike without gi
ving them time to suck down the fuel.”

  “Lightweights,” Gator agreed. “Can’t even carry enough bombs to do any serious damage. But that’s what we’re here for. Anyway, you wanna get the rest of us headed in? The Tomcats are a little slower we can start and the Hornets will catch up.”

  “Roger.” Bird Dog flipped the communications switch to tactical.

  “Okay, people, let’s make it happen.” He heard Gator moan in the background. He’d catch hell back at the carrier later for his lack of circuit discipline, but for the moment, he didn’t care. It was his plan, his mission, and he was about to see it work. One disgruntled captain hell, even a pissed-off admiral!couldn’t change that.

  Behind him, the Tomcats broke up into groups of two, flying a close formation in tight station-keeping circles.

  Once they left the sponge, the area where an attack force clustered to meet unexpected threats or to wait for ingress onto a target, they’d break into high-low pairs, one taking station at altitude to back up the lead down lower. It was a method of aerial combat that the Americans had perfected as no one else in the world had.

  Finally, the last gas-sucking Hornet was ready. “Better get inbound before they have to go again,” Bird Dog grumbled. He gave the signal over tactical.

  Twenty minutes until feet dry, the transition from flying over water to flying over ground. But before that happened, it all went according to plan “Got the first one,” Gator said suddenly. “Solid radar contact on contact breaking off from USS Arsenal.”

  “Good blackshoe,” Bird Dog said approvingly. “Take your shot we’re next.”

  0448 Local (+5 GMT)

  USS Arsenal

  In addition to its vertical launch system for Tomahawks and antiaircraft missiles, the USS Arsenal had two four-missile Harpoon assemblies on either side of the ship. The longrange antiaircraft missiles, originally developed for launch against surface Echo 2-class Soviet missile submarines, were thick cylinders tapering into a pointed nose, wind and control surfaces folded during its storage in the selfcontained launch box and popping out after it was ejected with pressurized air. It was controlled from Combat using the Harpoon shipboard command and launch control set (HSCLCS, pronounced “sickles”). It was a fire-and-forget missile, and a potent anti ship threat.