“At expected angle of descent, fifty to seventy miles off the coast,” the target coordinator said. “That will give us time for a follow-up shot if necessary.”
“Roger, concur.” At that range, most of the debris would rain down on empty ocean. “Notify the Coast Guard to clear the area and stand by.” The former was futile gesture — there would not be time to clear that part of the ocean, but at least they would be ready for any search and rescue missions.
“Ninety seconds,” the target coordinator said. The room was silent.
The seconds ticked by. Someone coughed, another sneezed. It was a peculiar stillness, as though everyone was afraid even so much as to move for fear of disturbing the laser tracking the missile.
The monitor set high in one corner of the room gave them a good view, although there was really not much to see. The blue laser bit into darkness, sharp, so sharp that it almost hurt the eyes to look at. It moved in small jerks across the dark green screen, the stars almost indistinguishable behind it. The missile itself was invisible. Even though the picture was stunningly prosaic, everyone stared at it.
“Forty-five seconds.” The target coordinator’s voice was calm, as though he announced this every day of his life. And, indeed, Armstrong reflected, that was the advantage of constant training. You did it so often, pretending it was real, that, when the time finally came, the whole process was so familiar that it seems like just another drill.
Except it wasn’t. Thousands, maybe millions of lives depended on the system now.
“Twenty seconds.” His voice was slightly higher than it had been earlier.
Okay, so it wasn’t exactly like a drill. Your body knew even better than your mind what was happening, knew with a deep and compelling realization what the consequences of failure would be.
Which warhead had slipped by the Aegis? Nuclear, chemical, or biological? There was no hard data on exactly what warheads the island missiles carried, which warhead was associated with a given location. All they knew was that all three were possibilities, maybe a combination thereof.
“Ten seconds.”
“Commencing ignition warm up sequence.”
And which would be the worst? The nuclear, most certainly. Thousands, maybe millions would die in the initial blast. Then those casualties that came later from radiation along the outskirts of ground zero, and poisoning of the land with radioactive dust. Depending on the warhead, it could be centuries before the radioactivity decayed. He tried to imagine Washington as a polluted nuclear wasteland and couldn’t even begin to see it.
The biological warhead would be deadly, too, although many of the agents were notoriously unstable. Dispensing biological and chemical weapons from an airborne missile required generating a very precise density of aerosol mist to carry the spores or germs or bacteria or whatever the hell it was. If the drops were too large, they wouldn’t flow through the air on the currents. Too small, and it couldn’t serve as a transport mechanism.
Then again, a biological agent could be difficult to precisely classify and treat. It could spread quickly with casual contact, certain types could anyway, and it could be the most difficult of all to contain.
“Five seconds. All systems go. Stage two ignition sequence. Four, three—”
Chemical was his personal choice. Hard to treat, often fatal, but it suffered from the same problems of aerosol distribution. It couldn’t be transmitted person-to-person, not without direct contact. So the kill zone was limited to the original dispersal pattern. Deadly, far more deadly than the biological probably, but in a more limited barrier.
“Two, ignition,” the weapons coordinator said, his voice notably tense. There was a collective sigh of relief as of spot of fire appeared in the lower left-hand corner of the TV monitor. “We have booster ignition — we have a launch, we have a launch. Stand by for retargeting. Retargeting in five seconds. Four, three, two, ignition. Two missiles launched, no apparent casualties. On course, on track.
Now, there was a little bit more to look at on the monitor, but nothing to indicate how deadly the situation was. Two brief arcs of white fire from the missile rockets dazzled the eyes, a stunning contrast to the laser that still pinned the missile into the sky. The missiles gained speed slowly at first, then shot out of sight, the rockets fading to mere pixels, then winking out in a matter of seconds.
And they waited. At this range, interception would take fourteen seconds.
The control room group began counting down together at ten. “Nine, eight, seven, six—”
Armstrong shut his eyes, just for instance, and tried to read his gut. Was it a good shot, or had something gone wrong? Normally, he had a second sense about these matters, and could tell immediately if things were going according to plan. Almost always, at least.
But, this time, the familiar sense of certainty was missing. Was it because it was a new system? He stared at the screen, trying to will the missiles to interception, convinced for no real reason that his direct and personal attention to what was happening on-screen would make a difference.
“Five, four, three—” He prayed. It wasn’t something he was used to doing, but, in these moments, there were no atheists, not in this modern equivalent of a foxhole. If God could—would—make a difference, then Armstrong wasn’t going to be caught wanting.
Nothing happened on the screen. Two more seconds, then three, before he concluded that the first missile had missed. The weapons coordinator was evidently of the same mind, because he waited a full five seconds before saying, “Negative intercept, first round. Stand by for second.”
Five seconds separated the two at launch, but that might decrease slightly during flight time.
In the next instant, Armstrong’s heart sung with joy. It was a small blip of light on-screen, searing, the pattern of the pixels lingering on the retina for seconds afterward. Small, but intensely brilliant.
“Interception!” The targeting coordinator’s voice was jubilant. “Oh, dear God, we got it.”
Armstrong slumped back in his chair as relief washed through him. They got it — it had taken two shots, something they would spend months and months poring over and analyzing, but they got it. Whatever the warhead, it was now reduced to its components high in the atmosphere where they would be disbursed by the jet stream. They would watch, of course, but most biological and chemical weapons have notoriously short life spans. The nuclear, well, that might take a while longer, but there would be more than enough nations monitoring it.
“Senior Chief Armstrong, I don’t know if you’re listening. But, if you are, my congratulations.” Coyote was almost howling, he was so jubilant. “Damned fine job, gentlemen — damned fine.” Someone produced champagne. Armstrong took a glass and bemusedly wondered what corporate planner had thought to stock it and when. Surely it had not happened in the last sixteen hours? No, and the fact chilled him, that someone had foreseen the possibility of this happening and had made provisions for it. Did they also stock sackcloth and ashes, in the case of failure? Or grief counselors, perhaps? Someone who would insist that they share their feelings, bond, and do all that other happy horseshit?
Bill Carter pounded him on the back, spilling some of the champagne, but nobody cared. “You did it! You did it!”
“We did it,” Armstrong corrected, and walked over to clink his glass with the weapons coordinator. “We did it.”
One final thought struck him. He had prayed that their system would work, that they would shoot the missile down. But had there been someone on the other end praying that it would work?
TWENTY-FOUR
Bermuda
Monday, November 13
1200 local (GMT-4)
Late fall had been unusually mild on the island. Tombstone walked down the sand near the edge of the water. Waves rushed over his toes, straining sand out from beneath his feet, then deposited it around his ankles. He felt like he was sinking into the earth and that if he stood there long enough he would eventually disappear b
eneath the beach.
He had been walking for two hours, conscious of being very alone, and trying to sort out what had happened over the last two weeks. Evidence of the conflict was everywhere on the island. In the distance ahead of him, he could see a black pile of twisted metal, the remains of a Russian MiG shot down in the second air battle. It was cordoned off with yellow police tape with an MP standing guard. The American casualty teams were dispersed throughout the island, counting and identifying casualties and preparing the mortal remains for transfer.
Instead of returning to Jefferson, Tombstone had reconsidered his options. Yes, he was certain he could get the MiG back down on deck. Certain of his own skill, at least. The airframe itself, after the death-defying pullout from the spin, he was not so certain about. Surely her metal had been stressed beyond anything her designers had intended. Was he willing to bet that she would hold together for another carrier landing?
No, he decided. She had done more than anyone could ask any airframe. So, he’d turned away from the carrier and headed back toward land. A military air traffic controller was in charge in the tower, but he was evidently getting guidance from the naval forces. Tombstone had done a flyby, waggling his wings to indicate loss of communications, and then turned in on a standard approach pattern. His IFF was set to the code indicating communications difficulties as well, and he hoped that the tower’s gear was still operative.
It had not taken the American Marines long to completely retake the island. The air control tower at the airport had been the last holdout. When the American forces had finally broken in, they’d found that the Russians were already dead. The man who was apparently their commander had executed them, then himself.
And now what? Tombstone stopped walking and turned to look up at the sun. Was Tomboy alive? Would he ever see her again?
His uncle had not been so sure. He had become convinced that the photo of Tomboy was a fake, just another way to stir up doubt and contention within the United States.
But why? Over Bermuda? No, that didn’t make sense. What possible motive could they have for trying to make America believe that Russia was holding American POWs?
The sun beat down on his face, forcing him to shut his eyes. He could still feel the heat on his eyelids and see the afterimage of the sun on his retinas.
If she’s alive, I’ll find her. I have somewhere to start now — I will find her.
GLOSSARY
0–3 LEVEL The third deck above the main deck. Designations for decks above the main deck (also known as the damage control deck) begin with zero (e.g., 0–3). The zero is pronounced as “oh” in conversation. Decks below the main deck do not have the initial zero, and are numbered down from the main deck (e.g., deck 11 is below deck 3). Deck 0–7 is above deck 0–3.
1MC The general announcing system on a ship or submarine. Every ship has many different interior communications systems, most of them linking parts of the ship for a specific purpose. Most operate off sound-powered phones. The circuit designators consist of a number followed by two letters that indicate the specific purpose of the circuit (e.g., 2AS might be an antisubmarine warfare circuit that connects the sonar supervisor, the USW watch officer, and the sailor at the torpedo launched).
AIR BOSS A senior commander or captain assigned to the aircraft carrier, in charge of flight operations. The “Boss” is assisted by the Mini-Boss in Pri-Fly, located in the tower on board the carrier. The Air Boss is always in the tower during flight operations, overseeing the launch and recovery cycles, declaring a green deck, and monitoring the safe approach of aircraft to the carrier.
AIR WING Composed of the aircraft squadrons assigned to the battle group. The individual squadron commanding officers report to the Air Wing commander, who reports to the admiral.
AIRDALE Slang for an officer or enlisted person in the aviation fields. Includes pilots, NFOs, aviation intelligence officers, and maintenance officers and the enlisted technicians who support aviation. The antithesis of an airdale is a “shoe.”
AKULA Late model Russian-built attack nuclear submarine, an SSN is fast, deadly, and deep diving.
ALR-67 Detects, analyzes, and evaluates electromagnetic signals, and emits a warning signal if the parameters are compatible with an immediate threat to the aircraft (e.g., seeker head on an antiair missile). Can also detect an enemy radar in either a search or a targeting mode.
ALTITUDE Is safety. With enough air space under the wings, a pilot can solve any problem.
AMRAAM Advanced Medium Range Anti Air Missile.
ANGELS Thousands of feet over ground. Angels twenty is 20,000 feet. Cherubs indicates hundreds of feet (e.g., cherubs five is 500 feet).
ASW Antisubmarine Warfare, recently renamed Undersea Warfare.
AVIONICS Black boxes and systems that comprise an aircraft’s combat systems.
AW Aviation antisubmarine warfare technician, the enlisted specialist flying in an S-3, P-3, or helo USW aircraft. As this book goes to press, there is discussion of renaming the specialty.
AWACS An aircraft entirely too good for the Air Force, the Advanced Warning Aviation Control System. Long-range command and control and electronic intercept bird with superb capabilities.
AWG-9 Pronounced “awg nine,” the primary search and fire control radar on a Tomcat.
BACKSEATER Also known as the GIB, the guy in back. Nonpilot aviator available in several flavors: BN (bombardier/navigator), RIO (radar intercept operator), and TACCO (Tactical Control Officer) among others. Usually wear glasses and are smart.
BEAR Russian maritime patrol aircraft, the equivalent in rough terms of a U.S. P-3. Variants have primary missions in command and control, submarine hunting, and electronic intercepts. Big, slow, good targets.
BITCH BOX One interior communications system on a ship. So named because it’s normally used to bitch at another watch station.
BLUE ON BLUE Fratricide. U.S. forces are normally indicated in blue on tactical displays, and this term refers to an attack on a friendly by another friendly.
BLUE WATER NAVY Outside the unrefueled range of the airwing. When a carrier enters blue water ops, aircraft must get on board (e.g., land, and cannot divert to land if the pilot gets the shakes).
BOOMER Slang for a ballistic missile submarine.
BOQ Bachelor Officer Quarters — a Motel Six for single officers or those traveling without family. The Air Force also has VOQ, Visiting Officer Quarters.
BUSTER As fast as you can (i.e., bust your ass getting here).
C-2 GREYHOUND Also known as the COD, Carrier On-board Delivery. The COD carries cargo and passengers from shore to ship. It is capable of carrier landings. Sometimes assigned directly to the air wing, it also operates in coordination with CVBGs from a shore squadron.
CAG Carrier Air Group Commander, normally a senior Navy captain aviator. Technically, an obsolete term, since the air wing rather than an air group is now deployed on the carrier. However, everyone thought CAW sounded stupid, so CAG was retained as slang for the Carrier Air Wing Commander.
CAP Combat Air Patrol, a mission executed by fighters to protect the carrier and battle group from enemy air and missiles.
CARRIER BATTLE GROUP A combination of ships, airwing, and submarines assigned under the command of a one-star admiral.
CARRIER BATTLE GROUP 14 The battle group normally embarked on the Jefferson.
CBG See Carrier Battle Group.
CDC Combat Direction Center — modernly, replaced CIC, or Combat Information Center, as the heart of a ship. All sensor information is fed into CDC and the battle is coordinated by a Tactical Action Officer on watch.
CG Abbreviation for a cruiser.
CHIEF The backbone of the Navy. E-7, -8, and -9 enlisted paygrades, known as chief, senior chief, and master chief. The transition from petty officer ranks to the chief’s mess is a major event in a sailor’s career. On board ship, the chiefs have separate eating and berthing facilities. Chiefs wear khakis, as opposed to dungarees for the less s
enior enlisted ratings.
CHIEF OF STAFF Not to be confused with a chief, the COS in a battle group staff is normally a senior Navy captain who acts as the admiral’s XO and deputy.
CIA Christians in Action. The civilian agency charged with intelligence operations outside the continental United States.
CIWS Close In Weapons System, pronounced “see-whiz.” Gattling gun with built-in radar that tracks and fires on inbound missiles. If you have to use it, you’re dead.
COD See C-2 Greyhound.
COLLAR COUNT Traditional method of determining the winner of a disagreement. A survey is taken of the opponents’ collar devices. The senior person wins. Always.
COMMODORE Formerly the junior-most admiral rank, now used to designate a senior Navy captain in charge of a bunch of like units. A destroyer commodore commands several destroyers, a sea control commodore the S-3 squadrons on that coast. Contrast with CAG, who owns a number of dissimilar units (e.g., a couple of Tomcat squadrons, some Hornets, and some E-2s and helos).
COMPARTMENT Navy talk for a room on a ship.
CONDITION TWO One step down from General Quarters, which is Condition One. Condition Five is tied up at the pier in a friendly country.
CRYPTO Short for some variation of cryptological, the magic set of codes that makes a circuit impossible for anyone else to understand.
CV, CVN Abbreviation for an aircraft carrier, conventional and nuclear.
CVIC Carrier Intelligence Center. Located down the passageway (the hall) from the flag spaces.
DATA LINK, THE LINK The secure circuit that links all units in a battle group or in an area. Targets and contacts are transmitted over the LINK to all ships. The data is processed by the ship designated as Net Control, and common contacts are correlated. The system also transmits data from each ship and aircraft’s weapons systems (e.g., a missile firing). All services use the LINK.
DDG Guided missile destroyer.
First Strike c-19 Page 27