Alpha Strike c-8

by Keith Douglass

  He turned his attention back to the screen and forced himself to depersonalize the aircraft on the screen. It wasn’t Tomboy and Snoopy — it was Tomcat 201. If the Navy had the intestinal fortitude to insist on equal standards for its male and female pilots, the least its admirals could do was the same. Anything else would have been a slap in the face to the aviators, both male and female, that had worked so hard to make the policy succeed.

  Finally, since there was nothing else that really required his attention, he turned and faced Pamela. It felt odd to be facing his old lover while listening to Tomboy’s voice on the net. But when you got right down to it, why should it be difficult? What was Tomboy to him? She certainly wasn’t his lover — couldn’t be, not while she worked for him and they were assigned to the same ship. But whatever she was to Tombstone, he could feel her presence behind him as the arcane symbology representing her aircraft crept across the screen.

  “That was her, wasn’t it?” Pamela said softly.

  “Who?” he managed to say. Damn her, she always could seem to read his thoughts.

  Pamela shot him a wry grin. “Don’t worry, Tombstone, nobody noticed it but me. She was your RIO last cruise, wasn’t she?”

  “She was a lieutenant then,” he said, and then swore at himself for sounding like a blathering idiot.

  “Ah,” Pamela said, as though he’d just made sense.

  1210 local (Zulu -7)

  Hornet 401

  Thor eased back on the throttle and slid behind the other aircraft. Its slipstream buffeted the light Hornet. Although the Flanker looked like it was about the same size as the Hornet, the slipstream of the Chinese fighter carried a punch.

  Something about the aircraft bothered him, although he couldn’t have said exactly what it was. He slid the Hornet over to the Flanker’s other side and studied it carefully. Nothing unusual caught his attention. It was, he decided, just the other pilot’s attitude that seemed strange. During peacetime, most military pilots would at least wave to each other, acknowledging the bond that all airmen felt. Weeks later, if hostilities broke out, they’d do their damnedest to kill each other.

  The Flanker pilot had not even glanced his way, much less proffered a friendly, universally obscene gesture. Thor shrugged. At least being able to move around a little eased the cramp in his lower back.

  1220 local (Zulu -7)

  Combat Direction Center

  USS Jefferson

  “TAO! I’m picking up communications downlink from the Flanker!” the Electronics Warfare Specialist, or EW, said over the CDC net.

  “You sure?”

  “Positive! Frequency, everything’s right on.”

  “Make sure the Hornets know,” the TAO snapped to the OS monitoring the two fighters, picking up the TFCC telephone again. “And get the alert 5S-3B up. That bogey is talking to somebody we don’t hold contact on. That means one thing.”

  A submarine. Had to be. The tactical picture was really starting to stink.

  Minutes later, the distinctive sounds of an S-3B engine spooling up overhead vibrated through CDC. She watched the two symbols on the large-screen display, the Hornet and the Flanker flying so close together that their symbols occasionally merged. The carrier SPS-49 radar alone couldn’t have broken the two contacts apart. Only the powerful SPY-1A radar on the Aegis cruiser could positively distinguish between the two. She glanced at the information display screen to the right of her desk and confirmed her suspicion. The radar symbol displayed on the screen came from the Aegis’s radar, relayed to the carrier over LINK II.

  Four minutes after the video downlink was detected, she heard the Hoover go to full military power, the roller-coaster rattle of the steam catapult, and the final surprisingly soft thud as the catapult piston reached the end of its run and tossed the S-3 into the air. Seconds later, the Operations Specialist controlling the ASW aircraft reported radar contact on Hunter 701. The S-3B vectored toward the bogey, scanning the ocean’s surface with radar and FLIR, trying to find the bogey’s playmate.

  It could be anywhere, she thought. The bogey’s altitude gave him enough horizon to cover at least a thousand square miles of ocean. Somewhere out there, the nondirectional video downlink was giving someone accurate targeting positions on the battle group. A brief shiver ran up her spine. Irrational as it might seem, she would have given anything to be airborne herself right then instead of trapped inside steel bulkheads on the 03 level of the carrier.

  1222 local (Zulu -7)

  Hunter 701

  “We got the last one — let’s get the next,” Rabies said grimly.

  “And he almost got us,” Harness muttered from the backseat.

  “We’ll stay a little further away this time,” the pilot acknowledged. “One nice thing about torpedoes — don’t have to get all that close to drop them.”

  The S-3B Viking carried two Mk torpedoes on its inboard weapons stations. The high-speed torpedo was the most widely deployed lightweight torpedo in the Fleet, although its five-hundred-pound weight made the classification “lightweight” seem like a misnomer. Capable of speeds up to forty-five knots, the torpedo had a maximum range of approximately six nautical miles. Its ninety-five-pound warhead was composed of PBXN-103 high explosives.

  Two Harpoons graced the outer weapons stations. At Mach 0.85, the missile could deliver a five-hundred-pound conventional high-explosive warhead against a surface ship or a surfaced submarine target seventy-five miles away. The 1,172pound Harpoon was a massive drag on the aircraft, but each one carried enough destructive power to make the weight trade-off well worth the cost in additional gas and loss of speed.

  “How far is far enough?” Harness asked.

  “Max range on that surface-to-air missile is probably around six miles,” the TACCO replied. “We can stand off and safely drop the torpedoes.”

  “We’re going to get attack criteria without a MAD run?” the AW persisted. Getting accurate positioning data from the MAD book extended out the back of the S-3 required being virtually overhead the submarine.

  Neither the pilot nor the TACCO replied.

  Great. Just great, Harness thought, fuming. We can shoot from outside the missile’s range, but we can’t get attack criteria unless we get in close and personal.

  Still, the possibility of actually firing a shot in anger was an attractive one. He let that thought console him, and pushed away the thoughts of the very real danger they were standing in.

  “Got something,” the TACCO announced. “Possible periscope, bearing 120, range seven thousand yards. He punched a “fly-to” point into his computer, and the location was transmitted to the pilot’s screen. The aircraft heeled to the right as Rabies stomped on the rudder controls.

  “Let’s take a look, shall we?” the pilot said calmly.

  “Bingo,” the TACCO said softly a few minutes later. “You see anything?”

  The copilot squinted out the window. “Yeah, I think so. Still at communications depth — it looks like nothing but a snorkel mast and a couple of antennas. The sail’s still submerged. Call it positive visual identification, though.”

  “She doesn’t have to surface to be dangerous,” the TACCO warned. “Intell says they can still fire those Grails from shallow depth.”

  “I’m watching her,” the copilot answered. “Hold on, let me get some guidance from Homeplate.” He switched circuits and updated the carrier on the tactical situation.

  1228 local (Zulu -7)

  CDC

  USS Jefferson

  The TAO listened to Hunter 701’s report with a sinking feeling. The situation stunk, outright stunk. There was no clear-cut answer as to whether the battle group could attack the submarine immediately, or whether it had to wait for some indication of hostile intent. Moments later, the bitch box that connected her with TFCC buzzed angrily.

  International rules of engagement contained so many vague requirements that deciding when it was legal to shoot was a matter for a court rather than naval officers.
While there was no requirement that U.S. forces take the first hit before they could open fire, they did have to determine that the submarine had committed a hostile act, or demonstrated hostile intent.

  The communications downlink was certainly evidence of something. The most probable explanation was that the aircraft was passing targeting information to another platform, either a surface ship or a submarine. Rule out surface ship, she thought, studying the display. Any combatant of significant size would have been detected and reported immediately. And the fact that a submarine — perhaps even this one — had fired on an S-3 only days before added strength to her inclination to have the S-3 blow the bastard out of the water.

  Still, there was no evidence that this was the same submarine. So many nations now owned production models of the Russian-built Kilo diesel sub that there was no way to be certain.

  Additionally, they all knew that tensions in the area were at the highest level they’d been at since World War II. Killing the submarine now could be that final element that pushed China and the other nations over the brink into open warfare. And, more likely than not, all the nations clamoring for ownership of the Spratly Islands would put aside their differences long enough to unite against the American forces. While she was confident that the battle group could take care of itself, the purpose of a presence mission was to deter wars — not to start them.

  She toggled the lever on the bitch box, hoping that the Flag watch officer would give her permission to follow the most ancient adage of warriors.

  Kill them all, and let God sort them out.

  CHAPTER 9

  Saturday, 29 June

  1230 local (Zulu -7)

  Hunter 701

  “Permission to attack with torpedo denied, Hunter 701. If you see some indication that she’s preparing to launch or taking some other hostile action, you’re weapons free on her. Until then, maintain contact and keep us posted.” The TAO on the carrier sounded reluctant to give the order.

  Rabies shot a look of disgust at his copilot.

  “Fucking rules of engagement,” the copilot obligingly said.

  “Ask them just what the hell they want — a declaration of war? This SOB took a shot at one of our aircraft yesterday, and they want us to just let him go?”

  “You know what they’re going to say,” the TACCO joined in. “Can’t prove it’s the same sub, and retaliation’s not authorized by ROE. You know the drill.”

  “Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Rabies muttered. “Ask them. Make them tell me I have to wait to take the first shot.”

  “They won’t do it,” the copilot said. “They’ll say you can shoot in self-defense the second you see the sail start to break away from the missile launcher, or if the sub starts any preparation for firing.”

  “And just how the hell are we supposed to see that with that pigboat still half-submerged?”

  “Get lucky, I guess. Come on, Rabies, don’t make me look like an idiot on the circuit.”

  “Okay, okay. But the second I see anything — anything — that bitch is toast. And you pussies damned well better back me up on it!”

  Silence on the ICS. Rabies felt a pang of guilt, but smothered it in the overwhelming frustration he felt. Every member of the crew wanted to take the sub out — he knew that. They all had been debriefed on the previous attack, and had seethed with the righteous indignation that he’d just voiced. Not a man — or woman, he added reflexively — in the S-3B squadron wouldn’t have shot instantly, given the slightest justification.

  “It sucks,” he said finally. “It just really sucks.”

  1230 local (Zulu -7)

  Hornet 401

  Thor dropped back behind the Flanker, opening the distance enough to shoot if it became necessary. Although he’d never tried it, he was quite certain that being five hundred feet behind another aircraft when it exploded was not good for him. Even if his Hornet blasted through the fireball, the odds of sucking a piece of metal into his engines was just too great.

  “Hornet, say state,” he heard the OS query from the carrier.

  State of fucking frustration, he thought. Maybe state of idiocy, too. He glanced at his fuel gauge, resisted the temptation to be a smart-ass, and settled for telling the OS how much fuel he had left.

  The Flanker was now sixty miles from the battle group and showed no signs of changing course or even acknowledging his escort. Thor could hear Aegis trying to contact the Flanker, requesting intentions and explanations on the unencrypted IAD — International Air Distress frequency.

  Suddenly, the Flanker nosed down and headed for the deck. It traded speed for altitude, accelerating past five hundred knots. Thor followed it down, wondering what the hell the other pilot was thinking. The adrenaline that had subsided into a muted throb roared back through his body like a freight train.

  The Flanker leveled off five hundred feet above the waves, its shadow racing like a pace car below it.

  “Hornet! What the hell’s he doing?” the E-2C RIO demanded. “Aegis is demanding some answers — the contact’s dropped off their screens.”

  “Tell them to figure it out for themselves! Their radar horizon can’t be more than forty miles, the altitude he’s at! Still getting video downlink. That ought to narrow the search area.”

  “Unnecessary,” the E-2 RIO answered tartly. “Hunter 701 is sitting on top of his playmate, about fifty miles to your west. If you were paying attention, you’d have heard his reports.”

  “I’m a little bit busy myself, buddy. This bastard moves a lot faster than some sewer pipe taking up water space.” Come to think of it, he had heard the S-3’s reports, he reflected. He’d been too focused on the Flanker to make the correlation.

  Thor glanced at his altimeter, then took the Hornet up another hundred feet and selected an IR heatseeking Sidewinder. If the time came for it, he wanted to be in the best position for a killing shot from behind. The fastest way to eliminate the missile threat from the submarine would be to take out the platform providing targeting data to it. And for that little job, there wasn’t anything better than a Marine and a Hornet.

  1235 local (Zulu -7)

  Combat Direction Center

  USS Vincennes

  “Let me see the missile profiles for whatever that Flanker’s likely to be carrying,” Captain Killington demanded. “Are they sea-skimmers?”

  “Here, sir,” his TAO said, handing him the tactical handbook. “Left-hand side.”

  Killington studied it carefully. “Just because the Hornet didn’t see missiles doesn’t mean the Flanker’s not carrying any. Look at how they misidentified those U.S. helicopters as Hinds. Killed our own people with two war shots.”

  “It seems a little different scenario,” his operations officer, now standing watch as the TAO, offered tentatively. The TAO tried to decide whether he’d heard a note of regret in his CO’s voice. “Circling around a helicopter doesn’t give you as good a view as pacing another jet. I don’t think they ever got closer than five miles to those helos. But Hornet was right up on this bogey.”

  Killington glared at him. “You’re missing the point. Aircrews make mistakes. They do — everyone knows it! I’m not staking the safety of this ship and crew on what some airdale thinks he saw while playing grab-ass with another jet at five hundred knots. Besides, there’s another possibility, one you haven’t considered.”

  “What’s that, sir?” the TAO asked quietly.

  “That he’s on a suicide mission — a kamikaze, just like they did in the last war! Ever think of that? Huh?”

  “A kami — Sir, that was Japan, I believe. Not China.”

  “I know that! Do you think I don’t? Listen, mister, don’t try to smart off at me! There’s a reason they put me out here instead of giving command to a lieutenant commander. The Pentagon knows that a knowledge of history is absolutely essential to effective, aggressive command. That’s why over one-third of the curriculum at the Naval War College is military history — strategy and polic
y!”

  “But, sir-“

  “Don’t argue with me! It’ll make you feel like a fool later when I save your ass. Get those birds on the rail. That bastard’s not getting inside this air defense perimeter!”

  The TAO glanced around for the XO, wondering if anyone else was listening to the irrational arguments. Of course they were — even with their radio headsets on, the OSs on Aegis had an almost telepathic ability to hear every conversation in CDC. He saw it in their studiously blank faces, their eyes carefully glued to their scopes. It wasn’t the first time that the CO had worried them all.

  “Aye, aye, sir,” the TAO said. He spoke quietly into his headset microphone, then looked up. “Birds on the rails, sir.”

  “Good. Now let’s hope we have a chance to use them,” the captain said sternly.

  The TAO stared at his screen grimly. Captain Killington was known as an aggressive player, but his refusal to acknowledge the possibility — and danger — of a blue-on-blue engagement had been the subject of countless quiet discussions among the more junior officers on the cruiser. Every one of them knew the ship’s history, and few had any desire to repeat the tragic mistake committed by the previous crew in the Persian Gulf.

  Captain Killington had done little to make them feel any easier about the possibility. Their CO repeatedly quoted extensive passages from the former CO’s book and steadfastly maintained that the shoot-down had been justified. According to him, there had been fighters tucked under the wings of the airbus, attempting to hide from radar by using the larger aircraft as a shield. Captain Killington believed that shooting down the airbus had prevented serious loss of American life.

  Better to be judged by one than carried by six, the TAO thought, pondering the equally unattractive alternatives of facing a court of inquiry or a funeral. If it comes down to it, I’m shooting first and asking questions later. I’d rather be branded with Vincennes’s mistakes and history than the USS Stark’s record. The Stark had exercised restraint — out and out negligence, many claimed — in failing to fire on an inbound aircraft. That decision had cost her lives when she’d taken a missile amidships.