Carrier - Joint Operation Book 16

by Keith Douglass

  "I suspect so, Major. Aviation fuel will be the first thing we run out of. From here on out, I want you talking to somebody at Castle AFB every spare second you've got. I don't think coordination will be a problem-at least not when the Joint Chiefs of Staff says for it to happen-but it will be easier if they're talking to someone who speaks their own language."

  Early nodded. "You got it, Admiral. There are a couple of other places we'll want to use as well for the other assets when they arrive. But for now, I'll build a permanent Texaco in the air. Get my best people on it, too, then make sure they don't send us any no-loads." For a

  moment, a dark expression swept across Early's face,

  Tombstone let it pass, but filed it away for later investigation.

  "Captain Ed Henry," a man in garish shorts said. For a split second, Tombstone wondered just why it was that the most senior officers seemed compelled to don such gaudy gear. "Coast Guard. Ship driver. I'm assigned here."

  In short order, the other members of the team introduced themselves. They included every specialty ranging from satellite communications to a SEAL lieutenant who'd been on vacation in Hawaii when everything broke loose. It was the SEAL officer who confirmed Tombstone's conclusions about the SEAL squad now in place.

  "That would be third squad of SEAL team seven," the lieutenant said. "I know their guy-Murdoch."

  "Is he dependable?" Tombstone asked.

  The lieutenant let out a short, sharp bark of laughter. "I think that would be understating it by a factor of ten, Admiral. That is, unless you're the sort of officer who insists on doing things by the book." From his tone of voice, the juniormost officer in the room made clear his opinion of that particular type of officer.

  The junior officer's directness amused Tombstone. To be so young, so cocky-had he been like that himself at that age?

  "Will you fill us in on this special squad," Tombstone said, "so were all reading off the same page?"

  "Glad to, sir. SEAL team seven is based out of Norfolk and comes under Group Two. Squad three is-" He hesitated, and glanced around room, then looked to Tombstone for reassurance.

  "Everyone here is cleared for specially compartmented information," Tombstone said. "By my order, as of now. We'll catch up on the paperwork later."

  The SEAL lieutenant nodded. "Squad three works directly for the CIA," he said bluntly. "They do things that... well... that maybe we don't want people to note that we've done. Sensitive missions, mostly. In countries around the world. They run through a lot of men, sir. They lose a couple each mission, I've heard."

  "What communications will they have with them?" Hannah asked,

  "Satellite communications. And believe me, they know how to use their gear. Squad three gets the latest in technology even before we even know about it, and they don't worry about using it or breaking it. I'm willing to bet that as soon as they heard what was going on, they were talking to their CIA controller. And by now, they've probably talked to Jefferson unless they're under orders not to."

  "Why would they be under orders not to?" Tombstone asked, a trace more sharply than he intended. "This is a full joint operation."

  "I don't know, sir. I'm just saying it's a possibility."

  The last member of the party was the Air Force master sergeant who had been attempting to coordinate transportation requirements with the officers in the club. Tombstone had drafted him immediately as an ad hoc member of the new battle group. As a full extent of the operation became apparent, Tombstone could see that would have taken a crow bar to separate the Air Force master sergeant from his new battle staff.

  "Fred Carter," the Air Force master sergeant said. "Logistics-spent some time with KG-135s, sir-and VIP transportation requirements. Mostly that, now," he said quietly. From the little the master sergeant said, Tombstone had the feeling that there was a good deal more to his career than he was letting on.

  "I imagine you could've handled that crowd in there on your own, Master Sergeant," Tombstone said.

  The master sergeant nodded. "But I appreciate your help, sir. A collar count always helps. I had directions for my people, but I believe your orders supercede that."

  "Now that we've got that straightened out-how do we get out to Jefferson?" General Haynes broke in. "I saw one of those C-2s taking off not long ago. Is there another one on deck?"

  "I doubt it," Tombstone said slowly. "From what I saw, the Chinese were moving to establish air superiority pretty quickly. They're flying their CAP stations right over the city. The battle group commander out there is a good friend of mine. He's not going to want ACM over land. And even if he did, I'm willing to bet that he gets guidance not to do so."

  "But we're not going to just let them have Hawaii," somebody said. "And establishing air superiority is the first step in winning any battle, right?"

  "Yes, but to maintain control of the skies, they've got to keep control of the air bases. In this case, the stations on land as well as their ships. Destroy the ships and bombed the hell out of the airstrips ashore, and you've got no way to maintain air superiority. Besides, I'm to bet that most of their aviation and munitions are onboard the ships. They're going to want to be going back and forth to re-arm, even if they do use the fuel depots at our bases.

  "But for now, at least the short run, they own the skies. So I suspect that C-2 was the last American aircraft coming or going from the island for a while."

  "So we go by ship," the Coast Guard officer said. 'That should be fairly easy to do."

  "Yes," Tombstone said, "except for the fact that most of our fleet that was in port is probably either damaged or already under way."

  "I wasn't suggesting a military ship, Admiral. There's a large compound lot just south of the Navy base-private watercraft we've seized for possible forfeiture for drug operations. They're not going to be able to cover every bit of the island immediately. I'd bet we won't have a problem getting into the forfeiture shipyard and getting out."

  Adding the Coast Guard officer had been a ju dgment call. For the most part, he didn't possess the areas of intelligence expertise that Tombstone was looking for. Yet, as a service, the Coast Guard was probably more used to doing everything with less than any other service in the U.S. inventory. They faced shortages of assets, personnel, and just about everything else, too. Tombstone had taken a gamble that the Coast Guard officer would have some excellent suggestions. Besides, this one was a surface warfare officer, and would have served on the larger Coast Guard vessels. Since the island had major Coast Guard facilities on it, as well as personnel familiar with the waters in area, it seemed like a logical choice. "You can get us in there?" Tombstone asked. The Coast Guard officer smile slightly. "No problem." "All right, then, Coastie," Tombstone concluded. "You're in charge of shore to ship movement. Let's get going before they seal the base off completely.

  An hour later, the eleven officers walked down the pier surveying the impounded boats, looking for one that suited their purpose. The Coast Guard officer had the final call. "That one," he said, pointing at a luxurious cruiser with blue trim. "Furuno radar and it looks like she probably carries a fish finder. Sonar," he added, seeing the puzzled expressions on a couple of faces.

  "What do we need a sonar for? And a lot of good sonar will do us without torpedoes," one officer said.

  Captain Henry shook his head. "Almost anything can be a weapon, if you think enough about it. Besides, I'm not saying that there are submarines involved, or if there are, that we'll find them. But it pays to be prepared for every possibility, don't you think? Would you mount an operation like this without submarine support?"

  The more Tombstone heard from the Coast Guard officer, the more he liked his style. "So what are you suggesting, Commander?"

  The Coast Guard officer led the way to another boat nearby. It was a sharp contrast to the one he'd selected, it was battered and rusted, evidence of years of hard use in every line of her. "This," he said. "Her name is The Lucky Star. Might be an omen, you think?" He po
inted to the aft deck. There were mounds of nets and cables. "I can get a couple of sailors to help us move this gear and to crew our boat."

  "You're going to attack a submarine that we don't even know exists with fishing nets?" someone asked incredulously.

  "A submarine can drag a fishing boat under, if I remember news reports correctly." They had all heard stories about U.S. nuclear submarines on covert missions snagging fishing nets.

  "Only if the nets are still attached to the fishing boat," the Coast Guard officer said quietly. He looked over at Tombstone as though checking for the admiral's comprehension rather than asking for agreement. "You understand what I mean?"

  Tombstone nodded. "A submarine with a fishing net wound around her propeller isn't going to do much tracking of anyone, is it? And even if it just fouls the sail, it

  will make it noisy enough that it'll be easier for air assets to attack. That about it?"

  The Coast Guard officer nodded. "Additionally, if you checked the aft deck closely, you'll see that it's capable of handling a small helo. The sort fishing vessels use. And I think I might just be able to rustle one up."

  "But who's going to fly it? And what about the maintenance?" the Air Force officer asked.

  "I believe I might be able to handle the helicopter myself," Tombstone said quietly, well aware of the fact that it had been years since he'd flown rotary wing. But under the circumstances, who would quibble about his lack of current quals? Besides, he spent enough time recently flying his Pitts Special to feel fairly confident he could handle any civilian aircraft. "And maintenance-well, maybe we can draft a Coast Guard sailor who knows something about helicopters."

  "I can handle that end of things, Admiral." The Air Force master sergeant stepped forward. "Before I got too senior to turn wrenches, I worked on rotary wing." Something in the master sergeant's voice left Tombstone with no doubt that the Air Force technician was more than up to the task.

  For the first time in several hours, Tombstone felt the beginning of hope. He'd run the gamut of emotions during the day, from the exhilaration of starting his honeymoon with Tomboy to the agony of watching Pearl Harbor bombed. Now, listening to his team gel, coming up with solutions to problems he hadn't even anticipated, he started to believe success was possible?

  Inational World Airlines Flight 738 Sixty miles off the coast of Hawaii 0740 local (GMT-10-10)

  IWA Captain Henry Mitchell stared down at the fuel indicator and ran the figures one more time. It was hopeless. Back in the old days, he would have had enough fuel to divert completely out of the area. But cost-cutting measures and penny-pinching bureaucrats had set up a new protocol. After examining the weather between San Diego and Hawaii, and allowing a comfortable margin for safety, the flight was fueled with a partial load.

  Mitchell's second in command, Commander Liam Nevins, glanced over at his captain and said, "It's not like we have a choice, is it?"

  "No, it's not." Captain Mitchell resigned himself to the conclusion both of them had reached independent of the computer program. "We'll divert sixty miles north of Oahu and come in from the west. It's the best I can do."

  Landing at another island wasn't something that either of them felt comfortable with at all. But certainly they couldn't go into their primary divert since there wasn't enough fuel left at the time they first heard the news to

  divert back to San Diego. Consequently, after discussion with his ops center in San Diego, Mitchell made the decision. He would try to stay clear of the area with the fighter aircraft, consistent with fuel constraints, and still land somewhere in the windward chain. Over the last hour, the possible landing sites had been narrowed down to two.

  Additionally, during his discussions with flight control, another problem had surfaced. His hydraulics indicator light was flickering and the computer printout indicated that there might be a problem with the braking system. Of course, there were backups upon backups, but if he couldn't say for sure that he had a functional braking system, there was no way he was going to divert to any shorter airfield. Regardless of the military situation, he was responsible for these passengers and he needed safety equipment, foam trucks, and immediate repair parts and expertise available.

  How was this all possible, anyway? Captain Mitchell had grown up during the days of the Cold War when there were still generations of soldiers who remembered Pearl Harbor. Hell, even today, there were people around who were there during the first attack. If asked, he would have said that foreign troops would never set foot on American soil. It was, even after Pearl Harbor, simply inconceivable.

  Still, there had been indications throughout the world that the concept of the all powerful United States, respected throughout the world and virtually invulnerable, had been crumbling. It had begun, he thought, with the taking of the U.S. Embassy in Iran. It had degenerated since then, as America expended her military might on a series of small conflicts that really made no major differences he could tell in the state of the world. For every ethnic conflict that the U.S. or NATO stopped, another

  one sprang up. The much-publicized activity in Kosovo had gone on while the world ignored decades of ethnic cleansing operations in Africa. Now, with its assets and energy frittered away on inconsequential causes, the United States no longer demanded the respect of the rest of the world.

  "Why did they do it?" he asked, shooting a look over at his younger second in command. "Why?"

  Nevins shook his head. "I can see no good reason for them to do it," he said. "And I wouldn't be surprised if there are recall orders waiting for me when we get back to the U.S. mainland." While Captain Mitchell was a retired Air Force fighter pilot, Commander Nevins still had a few years remaining on his reserve commitment. As often as his civilian flight schedule would allow, he flew KC-135 tanking missions for the California National Guard.

  The National Guard was completely funded by the federal government, although nominally under the command of the governor of the state of California. If so requested, however, the governor was obliged to federalize the troops immediately and transfer them to the Department of Defense. During any conflict, the tankers were among the first units recalled, as they had been in Kosovo.

  "I don't like it," Mitchell said flatly, voicing the concern that was on both of their minds. "This aircraft has no business being anywhere near the combat region. We've got 320 souls on board-and they don't even know what happening." At the first hint of the conflict, Captain Mitchell had elected to terminate direct feed of news radio channels into the passenger compartment. "We're taking them into a danger area, and they don't even know it."

  Nevins smiled wryly. "Well, it's not like we give them a vote, will we? Besides, no matter what they want-or

  what we want-fuel is still the main constraint. We're out of options, Captain, and we both know it."

  "Don't remind me. So, just for the sake of argument, what do we do if we run into any hostile activity? Or even a Chinese air patrol?" Mitchell's voice had taken on a more strident military tone. It was the voice of a senior officer quizzing a junior one, not of one uncertain as to what he himself would do.

  "Evasive maneuvers first," Nevins said promptly. "We go low, get down to the surface of the ocean. Hope we can distract any missiles by wave action. In a worst-case scenario, at least that gives the passengers a better chance of survival, too. At low altitude, we can ditch fairly safely."

  They spent the next ten minutes discussing the unthinkable, planning how they would react if they ran into what they were beginning to call delicately "any problems." Finally, when they both were certain they'd exhausted the short list of possibilities, they fell silent.

  "Keep an eye on the radar," Mitchell said, knowing that every moment he'd been talking to Nevins the man had had his eyes glued to it anyway,

  "Roger, sir."

  Mitchell kept his hands poised lightly over the throttle quadrant, his gaze roving over the compartment and the airspace around him in a continuous scan. Old habits were coming bac
k quickly, and he could feel the familiar thrill of adrenaline surging through his body. This might not be a fighter aircraft, but he was still a combat pilot. If there was anything that could be done to keep their passengers safe, it was up to him.

  MiG 33

  0745 local (GMT-10)

  Chan leveled off at 31,000 feet. The MiG-33 felt superbly responsive under his hands, as though she had no need of the powerful engines to remain airborne. This was her natural element, where she belonged. Not sweltering on a hot deck of a merchant ship deck outfitted as a combat, nor baking on the tarmac under the sun. The MiG belonged airborne, far from the surface of the earth.

  He would have thought of her as a butterfly, had she not been so deadly. Antiair missiles bristled under her wings, each one with a range of almost sixty miles. They were fire-and-forget weapons, each with miniaturized computers on board as well as a radar seeker that kept them "on target on track" even if the firing platform lost radar contact. Once launched, the missile would proceed to the designated contact, or, if contact lost, the last known position. It would then execute a search pattern, looking for its quarry, until it found an appropriate target or ran out of fuel,

  Chan's mission orders had been relatively simple-prevent any aircraft from entering the airspace around Oahu. Exactly what comprised the interdiction airspace, or how Chan should handle intruding aircraft had not been explicitly defined, but Chan was capable of determining his superior's orders. When his boss said no incoming aircraft, that's exactly what he meant.

  His fingertips caressed the throttles, feeling the sheer raw power surge through the fuselage and linkages and up to his fingertips. It was by far the sweetest aircraft he'd ever flown, and this airframe in particular was the best of all onboard the ship. He made certain of that, watching carefully the technicians who maintained her, ensuring that no speck of corrosion or grease was allowed