Pacific Siege sts-8

by Keith Douglass

  “Sir, EAR stands for Enhanced Acoustic Rifle. It’s a still-experimental weapon under study. It’s non-lethal, which would satisfy the Japanese requirement. We might get three or twenty, I don’t know which. They have an effective range of five hundred yards, and can put a victim down and out for up to six hours and not injure him in any way.

  “Shoot one into a room, and the acoustic burst ricochets around the room disabling everyone inside. Line of sight and only ten shots per weapon before they need to be recharged for four hours. That’s all I know.”

  “Interesting. Sounds like it would fill the bill for the Japanese.

  You still want to go in tomorrow night?”

  “Yes, sir. If we can get in before the Russians, there should be fewer Japanese dead bodies.”

  “I’ll make that recommendation to the CNO and to the ambassador to Japan. I had a signal from the Chief of Naval Operations. He says he knows you, and that I should give you every consideration. You have friends in high places.”

  “All in the line of duty, sir.”

  “Anything you need, let me know.”

  “One thing, sir. If these EARs come and work, and if we do go in tomorrow night, we will be taking along our regular weapons and full loads of ammunition. I won’t go in naked, and have them start throwing hot lead at my men with no way to respond.”

  “That’s no problem. Only thing is, we don’t have to tell our Oriental friends that end of the equation.”

  “No, sir. Thank you. I better get back with my men. Will the EARs be delivered to our operations room when they arrive?”

  “Within five minutes of hitting the deck, they’ll be in your hands.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Murdock snapped to attention, did a perfect about-face, and walked to the door.

  “Oh, Commander.”

  Murdock turned.

  “Remember, anything you need, let me know.”

  “Aye, aye, Sir.”

  Murdock went into the companionway, and headed back to his men.

  Now they had something to work with, a possible time for hitting the island. “Yes!” he said, and punched the air with his fist.

  Just after Murdock left the admiral, his phone rang. “Yes?”

  “Admiral Kenner, we’ve got some action on that Oscar again.

  Nothing certain. Want you to take a look.”

  “I’ll be right down.”

  The call had come from Monasto, the TAO in the Combat Direction Center, CDC, six decks below the bridge. The location made the center more secure in case of an attack.

  The CDC was the top nerve center of the carrier. It used to be called the Combat Information Center, but the new name showed how the operations had changed, and how the carrier battle group now controlled all the factors in a wartime situation.

  A huge wall-sized blue screen in the main compartment dominated the area. It displayed every contact held by every sensor in the whole task force.

  Commander Monasto sat at a desk in front of the bulkhead display.

  Beside him was the CDC officer. Enlisted specialists in the rest of the compartment monitored aircraft, and manned radar and data consoles.

  The ASW problems were taken care of in another area directly behind the CDC. It coordinated tactics with the DESRON five decks above its location. At the end of the compartment sat two parallel rows of consoles that were used exclusively by operations specialists who correlated and deconflicted radar signals from every ship and plane in the task force.

  Every man not on a console snapped to attention when the word came.

  “The admiral is on deck.”

  “Back to work, people. What’s the latest situation?”

  “Sir, the frigate Ingraham had a series of intermittent acoustic contacts that they couldn’t classify,” Lieutenant Jefferson said. He was the top ASW man in the room. “The signals were the same frequency, but kept fading and coming back. The frigate launched a chopper, and dropped twenty sonobuoys on the heading. From the last one they got a steady sounding that the sonar techs described as a Russian Oscar with the right blade count. Before the bird could drop more sonobuoys, the boomer evidently dove, and then went silent. So we lost him.”

  “How far from the frigate?”

  “A bracket, Sir, of twelve to twenty miles.”

  “He moved away from us?”

  “Yes, Sir, we think so, but no data on that.”

  Admiral Kenner scowled. “What the hell is he trying to do?”

  “Sir, put the fear of a Russian OSCAR into us. He could launch in a preemptive strike. By the time we tried to take evasive action it would be too late.”

  “I agree, Lieutenant. How old were you during the Cold War?”

  “In my teens, Sir.”

  “Do you remember living through the time of the feared intercontinental ballistic missile attacks? The Russians could target a hundred of America’s largest cities, and the nukes would rain down before we could much more than launch a retaliatory strike. But by then, half our population and most of our culture would be in atomic ashes. A threat like the OSCAR is only that, a threat. We have the same threat against the Russian carrier with our missiles.

  “That OSCAR is there to harass us, not to sink us. Report its actions from now on with an OPREP-3. Get the initial report in my hands within five minutes.”

  “Yes, Sir, Admiral Kenner.”

  The flag officer went back by way of the Communications Center, and sent messages to the American ambassador, the CNO, and Don Stroh in the CIA. He told them all the same thing. The SEALS on board his ship now had a secret weapon they could use non-lethally, and should be able to attack the Japanese stronghold and capture it within four hours on a night operation. He suggested that the SEALs were ready to move anytime within the next thirty-six hours. He telephoned Lieutenant Commander Murdock.

  “I just sent messages to our ambassador to Japan, to the CNO, and to Stroh, explaining that you were ready to go and that you could take down the Japanese in a four-hour night operation.”

  “Good, Admiral. Stroh will yell at State, and they will scream at the CNO, and he’ll talk to the President, and then they’ll talk to the ambassador, and who knows, it all might work out.”

  “Did the weapons arrive?”

  “Yes, but how do we test them? There should be no reaction to a board or chair or a wave if we fire them. Looks like our first test will be on a Japanese sentry when we hit the beach.”

  “How many weapons?”

  “An even dozen. I’m surprised. We should be able to take down fifty men we expect are at or near the headquarters.”

  “Let your people get some rest. I’ve got a hunch the Japanese leaders are going to give you a go for tomorrow night.”

  “We hope so, sir. Yes, we’ll get some rest. The instructions for these new rifles are first-grade simple. Take off safety, aim, fire, wait ten seconds to recharge. When the small red light comes on, you aim and fire again. Wish we had a hundred-and-fifty-pound Holstein heifer we could test the weapon on.”

  “Afraid we’re fresh out of livestock on board, Commander.”

  “If Don Stroh says they work, we’ll have to believe they work. If not, we have our backup weapons. We’ll shoot to disable as much as we can if we have to use our usual weapons.”

  “Good enough for me. The Japanese can’t expect to come out of this without breaking a few eggs.”

  “My way of thinking too, Sir.”

  “I’ll let you know of any developments.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  They hung up, and Murdock went back to his men, who were staring in awe at the EARS. They looked a lot like the old M-1. About the same weight. The stock was made of plastic, and it contained some new kind of high-voltage battery. The barrel of the weapon was two feet long and had an inch-wide smooth bore. It was connected to a chamber between itself and the battery pack.

  The chamber was sealed, and the SEALs could only wonder what went on inside. Murdock took one weap
on on the flight deck and flipped off the safety. Ten seconds later a small red bulb glowed near the sights.

  He followed the instructions, aimed it off the side of the flight deck into the water fifty yards away, and pulled the trigger.

  There was a snap, then a whooshing sound that he had long associated with rockets, but not so loud or so protracted. What seemed like only half a second later, the ocean boiled for a moment where he had aimed, then calmed.

  Ten seconds later the red light came back on. Murdock pushed the safety on, and two seconds later the ready red light went out.

  Ed Dewitt and Jaybird Sterling stood there shaking their heads.

  “Looks like it fires, and in ten seconds is ready again,” Jaybird said. “What happens if you have two targets in five seconds?”

  “You let your partner take the shot,” Murdock said. “We work in pairs — lead man takes the first shot, backup the second, and alternate at five seconds. We don’t expect that many targets. Also, we’ll have to set up a priority of firing if we’re in a group. We don’t want to waste three shots on the same target.”

  They went back down to their room six decks below the flight area, trying to work out any other problems they might have.

  “Heavy bastard,” Jaybird said.

  They hadn’t weighed it, but Murdock figured it weighed about eleven pounds. If it worked, it would be worth the extra weight. They wouldn’t wear their wet suits or rebreathers. That would save six pounds on the suit and another five on the rebreather. The weight wouldn’t matter, not if the EAR could do the job.

  Back in their ready room, Murdock told them what the admiral had said.

  “So, it’s not a go, but a chance. We could be going in tomorrow at first dark. That’s my suggestion. We’ll see what the Japanese leaders think of the idea. Oh, if we go in, we’ll take our new toys, plus lots of flash-bangers and our regular weapons and a full load of ammo. Any questions?”

  “How many bad guys we looking at, Skipper?” Horse Ronson asked.

  “Two hundred on the island, about fifty at the central HQ and around it on sentry and guard duty. Just a guess. Not bad odds.”

  There was a buzz of talk, but no more questions. He told Jaybird to get the men out of there and back to their quarters. They were off duty the rest of the day. At twenty thousand feet in the thin air over Kunashir Island, Sergei Viktor cruised in his assigned position, making a five-mile circle over the target below in his SU-33 Flanker, then doing a lazy eight, and coming back to circle his position the other way. He had been bored out of his mind all of this flight. His two wingmen were making similar moves at fifteen thousand and ten thousand feet. They had been on this station for over an hour.

  Sergei bristled now just thinking about it. By rights, he shouldn’t even be here. He had been born fifteen years too late.

  Before the dismantling of the Soviet Union, his family had been high up in the power structure of the Party. He would have gone to the Naval Institute in any case. But then he would have come out a lieutenant, and four years later would have been a captain, with his admiral’s insignia another three years away.

  It was the way the Party worked, rewarding those loyal to it. His family had earned those rewards. Now all of that special attention and those privileges were gone. He had attended the Institute, and come out only an ensign like everyone else. After six years, he was still a lowly lieutenant, even with his top ability as a fighter pilot. His name meant nothing. His family’s heroics had been forgotten. He was just another pilot at the command of a trio of officers not fit to lick his boots.

  Yes, half of his blood was Cossack. It flamed in his veins as he thought about how the fates had treated him. It was a damned conspiracy, and everyone in the whole fucking world was to blame.

  Sergei remembered the good times in Moscow before the fall of the Union. There had been parties, grand waltzes, the ballet, and all the girls he could want even when he was fifteen. Glorious. His father had been promoted high in the Party, not yet in the Politburo, but on a fast track leading that way.

  He had been accepted into the Naval Institute, and had been assured that he would do well, and graduate with honors. It was expected, it would happen. Rank and loyalty had its privileges.

  Sergei remembered how it had all crashed down around them in two days. His father was arrested by the new government for crimes against the state. Their beautiful home and the dacha outside the city, both were confiscated. He and his mother and sister had to rush to her sister’s house and hide.

  Six months later, his father had been released, but he’d had nothing to come back to. No home, no land, no vocation, no money. He had killed himself after trying to get a job for six terrible months.

  Sergei had changed his name, applied to the Naval Institute, and gained entrance on his abilities alone.

  But now it had come to this. In a way he was following in his father’s footsteps, being loyal to the regime in power. But how long could he put up with it?

  Sergei felt his blood pressure rise, the way it did when he had to make two passes to land On a storm-tossed carrier deck. He didn’t care.

  There came a time when he could stand it no longer.

  His tactical plane-to-plane speaker came on. “Sergei, don’t you see them? This is Anatol, you having radio problems? There’s a flight of three American Tomcats at fifteen thousand feet making a slow crawl around our formation. Looks like they’re on a joyride. Hey, Sergei, are you still with us?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m here. Where? Where are they?” Sergei listened as his voice went louder, higher than he wanted it to go.

  “To the north, climbing out to nearly twenty thousand,” Anatol said. “You should be able to see them on their next pass.”

  Sergei craned his neck, and searched the sky to the north. He quit his circle, and flew north for a minute, then turned back. They wouldn’t be expecting him from this quadrant. He had the highest Tomcat on his radar, but not where he wanted the plane to be. Sergei edged around more so he could come out of the sun at the Americans. Yes, just like in practice, and mock combat runs. He didn’t care how long it took. He could wait for the exactly right moment so there would be no chance of failure. Yes, he had come to a decision. He was not doing himself any good here. This Navy life was not for him. Not anymore.

  There had to be a change made, and it was about to happen. He nosed the SU-33 Flanker downward, and pushed on his radar fire controls.

  All he wanted to do was lock on. He had to lock on right now.

  A mile and a half away, Lieutenant Jerry Vanhorst knew that they had three Soviet Flankers in the area. His RIO had kept him informed.

  He had seen one of them, but the other two were far below him as he climbed to his assigned station at 25,000 feet.

  He had just reported on station, and carried full tanks of fuel.

  Vanhorst looked around in the pale blue of the thin sky.

  “Hey, Mugger, you lose another one?” Vanhorst asked his RIO in the backseat. “Where the hell is that frisky Russian jet jockey we saw a minute or two ago?”

  “Out there somewhere. He was circling at twenty thousand.

  Probably on the backside where we can’t spot him.”

  “Vanhoast, old buddy,” Lieutenant (j. g.) Phillips said from the Tomcat well below him. “You guys having trouble counting to three up there? I can come and help you find him if you need me.”

  “Not by your eyebrows, Phillips san,” Vanhorst said. “Stick to your sampan ways. We’ve got this covered.”

  “Oh, shit!” Vanhorst’s RIO bellowed. “Somebody’s locked on to us.

  Get us the hell out of here, Jerry.”

  Lieutenant Jerry Vanhorst didn’t have the slightest idea which direction to move. He hit the button releasing a load of metal chaff to try to detour any missile that could be coming, and at the same time kicked in the afterburner and made a screaming diving turn to the left that drained the blood from his brain. He had a feeling, a sick and cold pre
monition, that it wasn’t going to be enough. How was he to know they’d be in a fucking shooting war up here?

  Behind him, the Russian air-to-air heat-seeking missile from the bayonet-fighting distance for a Mach Two fighter of two miles tracked the targeted F-14, slamming through the thin air at Mach 1.4. Its heat-seeking sensitive nose ignored the chaff designed to distract other-type missiles, and zeroed in on the Vanhorst Tomcat’s flaming afterburners.

  The conditions couldn’t have been better for the Russian missile.

  It streaked through the air following the jet’s sudden left turn and dive, and in eight seconds rammed into the American Tomcat’s tailpipe heat source and detonated.

  18

  Wednesday, 21 February

  Kunashir Island

  Kuril Chain, Russia

  The Tomcat F-14 exploded in a horrendous roar as over six thousand pounds of fuel, four AIM-54-C Phoenix missiles, two AIM-9M Sidewinders, and two AMRAAM radar-guided missiles detonated in a blinding flash. A cloud of smoke and fire jetted upward, and pieces of the aircraft, and of the two human bodies, started their 25,000-foot drop into the Pacific Ocean.

  Lieutenant Phillips had caught the frantic shout from the RIO in the highest F-14, that Vanhorst’s plane had been locked on by targeting radar. The flash in the daytime sky was so brilliant that Phillips saw it from ten thousand feet below.

  “Home Base, Home Base, missile hit on Red Tomboy Leader. I repeat, Red Tomboy Leader is splashed, no wreckage, no survivors. One big fireball. Request weapons free.”

  “Affirmative, Red Tomboy,” the CAG said. “He vanished off our screens. Weapons free.”

  Even as he hit the tactical radio, Lieutenant Phillips had powered up, and slanted upward to where his RIO told him the offending Flanker circled the smoke.

  The pilot of the third plane in the flight of Red Tomboy, Lieutenant Pace Turlow, had monitored the radio exchange, and also gunned upward from his ten-thousand-foot beat. He switched to plane-to-plane frequency and called.