by Dale Brown
"Twenty-two miles and closing. ETE less than three minutes."
As he searched the morning sky with his helmet-mounted sensors, three crewmen trotted over to him, wheeling a large crate on a cart. Patrick unlocked the crate and with one hand extracted the weapon inside. It was an immense M-168
sixbarreled Vulcan cannon. Normally mounted on a big Humvee or M-113 armored personnel carrier, the eighthundred-pound Vulcan cannon was designed for use against ground targets and fast-flying helicopters at ranges out to a mile and a half. It had a maximum rate of fire of one hundred rounds per second-anything it hit would be chopped to hamburger in the blink of an eye.
"Combat, Castor," Patrick radioed as he hefted the big cannon. The hydraulically powered exoskeleton made it ridiculously easy to level the big gun and move it smoothly and precisely in any direction. "Where are they?"
"Bearing one-zero-two, range eighteen miles, low."
Patrick activated all of his battle armor's sensors and began scanning at maximum range. "Roger. Nike, Taurus, Pollux, you guys up?"
"Nike up in ten seconds," Wohl replied.
"Taurus will be up in twenty."
No reply from Pollux-and Patrick realized that there never would be one either, ever again. "Roger, Stalkers," he said sadly. "Report when you're ready to engage." At that moment, several of their commandos, wearing lightweight non-electronic battle armor, began to set their Stinger MANPADS (Man-Portable Air Defense System) up beside Patrick. The Stinger MANPADS was a portable shoulder-fired heat-seeking antiaircraft missile. Other commandos brought caskets of reloads. "My MANPADS is up on the bow. Hammer, what's your status?"
At that moment, Patrick heard the low, steadily quickening roar of the CV-22 Pave Hammer's engines starting up behind him. It had been raised up on deck from its hold faster than Patrick could ever imagine. "Hammer is starting engines. We'll be airborne in two minutes.'
"Make it one minute, Hammer," Patrick ordered. "combat?"
"Bearing zero-niner-seven, range fifteen miles ... stand by, aircraft turning slightly, range decreasing rapidly We're being highlighted by X-band airborne radar. They got a lock on us."
"Get the Hammer off the deck now" Patrick shouted.
"Sixty seconds. All civilians are aboard."
Patrick felt a rush of relief-and then a thrill of fear as his sensors picked up the aircraft. He saw two at first, then three. "Contact, range nine miles and closing fast." The roar of the Hammer's engines increased-it was close to liftoff speed. "Eight miles . .. seven miles ... bandits climbing slightly . . . six miles . . ."
"Sparkle! Sparkle!" Luger shouted. Everyone knew what that meant-they were being highlighted by a targeting laser.
Just then, Patrick saw another target appear-much smaller and much faster. "Stalkers, missiles inbound Missiles inbound! I've got two in sight!" Patrick raised the big Vulcan cannon and snapped off the safety with a quick thought-command. The two missiles were coming in fast, wavering slightly up and down in altitude but coming in straight and true. "Dave, countermeasures starboard nowl"
Behind him, two rockets streaked from hidden launchers. Each rocket was an electronic decoy, designed to broadcast radio and infrared signatures several thousand times larger and brighter than the ship. They drifted up slowly, making inviting targets. Would they be inviting enough . . . ?
They were. Both missiles veered to the right, chasing the decoys. Patrick tracked them with ease. The first missile hit the first decoy-but the second decoy must've crashed or malfunctioned, because the second missile only jinked slightly right and then veered left, back on the Catherine. Patrick issued an electronic command, and the big Vulcan cannon opened fire. A shaft of fire fifteen feet long belched from the muzzle, and a hundred empty cartridges showered onto the deck in front of the Stinger crew. Off in the distance, the second enemy missile exploded in a cloud of fire.
"Forward MANPADS up!" Patrick shouted. As he placed the Vulcan cannon on the deck as gently as if he were setting a golf bag down on the fringe of the green, the team of commandos stepped forward and placed the Stinger launcher on his shoulder. Patrick immediately locked onto the incoming fighter, waited until it got within range, then fired.
The lead fighter must've seen the launch immediately, because it immediately banked hard right and started ejecting decoy flares. But the second fighter was not as quick. He made a gentler turn, obviously hesitant to get too close to his leader at night and low to the ocean, and did not pop any decoy flares until it was far too late. The Stinger missile flew a smooth, unerring arc right up the fighter's hot tailpipe and exploded. The Stinger crew could not see anything so far away at night, but through his millimeter-wave imaging radar and infrared sensors, Patrick could see the second fighter dip precariously close to the ocean, regain altitude, dip again, climb, then plunge almost straight down into the dark Mediterranean. He saw no ejection seat blast free, or any parachute.
"Splash one," Patrick announced. After all the death, destruction, and pain he had seen that day, the crash of this unidentified attacker meant absolutely nothing to him. "First bandit is bearing zero-eight-zero, twelve miles, turning east."
At that moment, he heard the CV-22 Pave Hammer tiltrotor aircraft lift off the deck. Thank God, he breathed, Wendy was going to be safe, as long as they were able to keep those fighters off its tail until they were safely wavehopping away.
"Taurus has three bandits, bearing two-five-zero, range nine miles," Hal Briggs shouted on the command network. "Comin' in low and smoking.'"
"Nike has contact on the bandits at two-five-zero," Chris Wohl chimed in. "Switching to Stinger. Taurus, you hang on to the Vulcan."
"How about we both take a Stinger?" Briggs suggested. "I can grab the Vulcan and knock down any stragglers after I launch."
"Rog."
"Stalkers, I have a surface contact, bearing two-twothree, range twenty-nine miles," Dave Luger announced. "He's hitting us with an India-band Plank Shave surface search radar and an India-band Hawk Screech fire-control radar. I make this a Koni-class frigate, probably Libyan. He's coming in fast, almost thirty knots. He could be within missile range at any time."
"Should've known it was the Libyans," Wohl muttered on the command net.
"Think they might be pissed at us for blowing up their nukes?" Briggs chimed in.
"Pissed enough to attack every ship close enough to have based the chopper," Patrick said. "Let's deal with the fighters first, then the frigate." He didn't have to say the obvious-they were going to have a fight on their hands, one they had very little chance of surviving.
Stinger missiles soon began rippling from the starboard deck and fantail as the Libyan fighters closed in. Only the combination of the Vulcan cannons and decoys were able to keep the Catherine from being hit. Even so, one missile came close enough to rattle the deck with bits of shrapnel, caught at the last possible moment by a last-instant blast from Hal Briggs's cannon. But their efforts finally paid off. "Stalkers, air search radar is clear," Luger announced. "Good shooting. No radar contacts. The rest RTBed."
"I got a problem over here, boys," Briggs said. "I'm real low on ammo. Maybe two or three more bursts and I'm out."
"Same here," Wohl said.
Patrick checked his magazine and found he had just a handful of rounds remaining-not enough for even a halfsecond burst. "How about your Stingers?"
"One on the fantail."
"Two starboard."
"One on the bow," Patrick said. "And there's no way we can outrun that frigate."
"I just got a call-the Egyptian Navy is dispatching two Perry-class frigates," Luger reported. "ETE sixty minutes.
They've launched patrol aircraft and helicopters, too."
That was good news, Patrick thought, but they wouldn't be on time before the Libyan warship struck.
He hesitated, but only for a moment. For the second time, he was going to lose another base ship to enemy attack. The Iranians had sunk another commando
carrier, the S.S. Va
lley Mistress, in the Persian Gulf, killing several dozen men. That incident had brought Patrick out of his first retirement to start a campaign of revenge against the Iranian Revolutionary Guards that had captured the survivors. He was determined not to allow that loss of life again. "Abandon ship," Patrick ordered. "All crewmen to lifeboats. Right now."
"Patrick-" Dave Luger began.
"This means you, Dave," Patrick interrupted. "We'll stay up here with whatever weapons we have left and hold off that frigate as long as possible. Then we'll-"
Suddenly, Hal Briggs shouted, "Hey, Dave, is that a FlightHawk on the launcher over on the starboard side raising up to launch position?"
"A FlightHawk?" Patrick asked. "Dave, how did you get a FlightHawk ready so fast?"
"I didn't do it, Muck," Luger replied. "I just noticed it elevating too. It's already spun up its guidance system. I didn't do it from here. I don't know ..." He paused, then shouted, "Missile inbound! A missile just lifted off from that frigate . .. a second missile just launched . Two missiles inbound! Sea-skimmers, accelerating to point nine Mach, range twenty-five miles!"
"Get your asses on those lifeboats now!" Patrick shouted to the two MANPADS crew members with him, pushing them toward the lifeboat stations on the port side. He grabbed his last Stinger missile and dashed down the starboard side of the salvage ship. He saw the FlightHawk on the amidships launch rail, but he couldn't see what weapons, if any, it was carrying, or any other markings that would tell him which UCAV it was. Just as he reached the fantail alongside Briggs and Wohl, the FlightHawk unmanned combat air vehicle blasted off from its launcher on deck.
"Good job, Dave," Patrick said. "Now get to the lifeboats."
"I'm telling you, Muck, I didn't-"
"Contact! Here they come!" Briggs shouted. "Man, they're damned low. I don't know if the Stingers will be able to lock on them." But he raised his Stinger, aimed, and fired. Seconds later, the first antiship missile, a Russianmade SS-N-2C Styx missile, exploded in a brilliant ball of fire. Patrick's Stinger missile missed the second antiship missile, but Chris Wohl was ready with his Vulcan cannon and destroyed it seconds before it hit. This time, the starboard side of the Catherine was showered with unspent rocket fuel and fiery bits of the obliterated warhead. It was a very close call.
"Lifeboats away," they heard Dave Luger report. "One lifeboat starboard, another on the port side, ready and waiting for you guys."
"How many of those big missiles does that frigate carry?" Briggs asked.
"Koni-class frigates carry four SS-N-2s," Luger responded.
"Then I'll stay to see if they fire any more missiles," Patrick said.
"I'm staying too," Hal Briggs said.
"I'm not leaving," Chris Wohl said with pure titanium in his voice. "We've got two Stingers and some ammo leftthat should be enough for the last two SS-N-2s."
Patrick nodded. He was happy to have such good fighters and close friends on that fantail with him. He had no way to fight off two big antiship missiles by himself, but he had been ready to order both of them to the lifeboats anyway.
"Here they come, guys," Hal shouted. It seemed as if he barely had time to raise his Stinger missile before he fired. The antiaircraft missile missed, plunging into the sea without ever locking onto the target. Wohl's cannon fire hit the missile, but it still continued on, skipping across the ocean like a stick of dynamite thrown across a pond before slamming into the Catherine near the bow. Patrick's last Stinger missile shot missed as well, and the second SS-N-2 Styx
missile hit just aft of the first missile's impact point. The ship shuddered, which soon progressed with terrifying speed to an earthquake-like trembling. The deck heeled upward, slammed down hard, then heeled up again. The bow was already going under.
It took every bit of strength for the three commandos to struggle to the
port-side lifeboats. Luger had already lowered a boat to the water and had its engines started, and it took only seconds for the three to climb down, unfasten their lines, and motor away from the Catherine.
Through his electronic visor, Patrick could see the big Libyan frigate on the horizon. It was already turning toward them-the rapidly sinking salvage ship could no longer screen them. The lifeboat could only putter along, barely making five or six knots-the frigate would catch up to them in no time. Moments later he saw a muzzle flash, and seconds later a huge geyser of water erupted just a few dozen yards away-the Libyan frigate was already firing on them!
Wohl was twisting and pulling the lifeboat's tiller, trying to spoil their targeting. "Come and get us, sucker," he muttered. "Just hope there's nothing left of me when you catch up to me." Another geyser of water and an earsplitting BOOM! erupted, closer this time-they were getting the range. Another couple shots and . ..
Suddenly a fountain of fire appeared on the horizon. "Something hit the Libyan frigate!" Patrick shouted. "The FlightHawk! It must've kamikazied on the frigate! Not a moment too soon!" On the command net, he radioed, "Wendy, this is Castor. Are you in contact with the Egyptian patrol ships? They should be able to screen you against any other Libyan fighters. Are you heading toward Egypt?" No response. "Wendy, you copy?"
"This is the Hammer," the pilot of the CV-22 Pave Hammer tilt-rotor aircraft replied. "Are you trying to call us?"
"I was wondering if Wendy got in contact with the Egyptian navy."
"Wendy's not on board, Castor," came the response.
Patrick's mouth turned instantly dry, and his knees wobbled, even though his legs were supported by the high-tech exoskeleton. "Say again, Hammer?"
"Sir, Wendy is not on board," the pilot acknowledged. "She told some of our passengers to lift off without her, that she was going in a lifeboat after she got a FlightHawk ready to attack."
"Wendy?" Patrick shouted. "Can you hear me? Where are you? Answer me!" He was breathing so hard into his helmet that he was in danger of hyperventilating. "I want a search of every lifeboat and every square inch of the Hammer! Turn this boat around! We're going back!"
But by the time they turned around, the S.S. Catherine the Great had slipped beneath the dark burning waters of the Mediterranean Sea. They searched for several minutes until they heard patrol helicopters from the Libyan frigate heading in their direction and they were forced to withdraw. The Libyans pursued them until Egyptian navy patrol planes forced the Libyan helicopters to return to their stricken ship, but by the time Patrick, Briggs, and Wohl were picked up by an Egyptian frigate, the area where the Catherine had gone down was surrounded by Libyan coastal patrol ships. There was no way they could return, and they easily outnumbered the Egyptian patrols. Patrick interrogated Wendy's subcutaneous microtransceiver, checking for life signs or even a position, but there was no reply.
Patrick could not bear to turn away from the spot where the Catherine had gone down. He didn't care if the whole world heard the strange high-tech-looking commando sobbing inside his battle armor.
CHAPTER 2.
BLYTHEVILLE, ARKANSAS EARLY THE NEXT MORNING.
"I can't take a meeting today. Can't you see this place is a madhouse?" Jon Masters shouted when his assistant, Suzanne, interrupted him for the third time in the past hour.
"Jon, the Duffields have been waiting since yesterday. ..."
"I asked to reschedule the meeting."
"They've already rescheduled twice," Suzanne reminded him. "They've flown out all the way from Nevada each time. They're trying to accommodate you all they can."
"Have them try harder." He jabbed a finger at the door, dismissing her, then recited more commands into his voice-command computer terminal.
Suzanne sighed and gave up, but as she departed Jon's wife, Helen, who was the chairman of the board of their high-tech defense contractor aerospace company, Sky Masters Inc., walked in. Helen was several years older than
her husband, but these days their age difference seemed to grow less and less noticeable. Helen was now wearing her dark hair a bit shorter, accentuating her long neck, slen
der face, and dark mysterious eyes; through the magic of laser surgery, she was also able to forgo the thick matronlylooking glasses she had worn since childhood. "Jon, we have that meeting with the Duffields right now. Let's go."
"I just got done telling Suzanne-"
"I know what you're telling Suzanne, but I'm telling you-we can't put this off any longer," Helen insisted. "Just a couple hours, that's all. A quick tour, review the prospectus, meet and greet, perhaps talk about the reorganization ..."
"Helen," Jon began, rubbing his temples quickly with his fingers, "give me a break, okay?" He put his head down and concentrated on his self-massage, and Helen waited patiently for him to finish. Jon Masters was only in his mid-thirties, but his short, frizzy, rather unkempt hair looked like it was already turning gray at the temples, and many speculated he rubbed his temples more and more these days to rub the gray off. He had stopped wearing ball caps and drinking from big thirty-two-ounce squeeze bottles like a preschooler; and Helen, his wife of only a few years, noticed that her younger husband was starting to feel his age as well as look it.
It was about time, she thought. Jon Masters's entire life had been one adventure after another: his first of several hundred patents at age ten; his first million-dollar tax return by age eleven; his first Ph.D., from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology at age thirteen; control of the company, the one she had slaved for years to build, before age thirty. He had completely bypassed childhood and gone from infant to adult. Jon had never really known failure or pressure in his young life-he was always the one in control. Even in his clumsy, boyish, but charming courtship of her, he managed to learn how to charm and please a woman quickly enough to avoid losing her completely. He did not make her feel like just another conquest-he had learned well enough to avoid that trap.
"In case you've forgotten, Helen," Jon muttered, "Paul is dead; Wendy is missing; and Patrick, Hal, and Chris are being detained in Egypt." Sky Masters Inc. was the secret major weapons and technology supplier to former president Kevin Martindale's commando force, the Night Stalkers. It was not a closely