Hooper held the handset away from his face. Loonfeather was still talking, shouting, really, on the other end. He spoke carefully to his SEALs on the helmet radio. “Loonfeather says the C-141s are so low they can’t turn without climbing, and if they do that, it will take them twenty minutes or more to regroup. Unless we want to play Fort Apache for twenty minutes against Libyan tanks, we have to knock that ZSU out.”
“What about the fighters?” asked Stuart.
“Top Hat says they got ‘em on radar from the E-2s. They’re staying low and heading straight out.”
“After the ships?”
“Apparently. Anyway, that’s someone else’s problem. Feeney, Jones, load up your Dragons and get going.”
“Aye, aye, Hoop,” said Feeney, picking up the bulky canister.
“Feeney,” said Hooper. “You go out the front and work down to the runway. Jones, you go out the back.”
“What if we find it too close to use the Dragons?” asked Jones.
Stuart was prying the lid off a wooden box he had found in the office used by Abu Salaam. “Hoop, the very thing!” He held up a Russian RPG-7 grenade launcher and grinned. “No self-respecting terrorist would leave home without one!”
“Yeah, OK. Take it and go with Jones; Feeney will probably see the thing far enough away if it continued south.”
Stuart slung his carbine over his right shoulder and picked two of the bulbous-ended rocket-propelled grenades from the box. He seated one of the grenades in the launcher and stuffed the other inside the zipper of his jumpsuit.
“William, you do remember how to fire that thing, don’t you?” asked Hooper.
“Like riding a bicycle, Hoop; one never forgets.”
“Well, just remember first to look behind you, and don’t forget to arm the grenade.”
“No sweat, Hoop. Let’s go, Jones,” said Stuart, moving quickly toward the back door.
“Be careful, but get that thing before the Air Force arrives,” said Hooper. Feeney shouldered the launcher and opened the front door. Hooper turned to Osborne, speaking softly. “Osborne, go cover Feeney with your ‘Fifteen. Move out, and get back quick!”
“I should go with Jones and Stuart, to give them small-arms cover,” said Leah to Hooper with quiet urgency.
“Thanks, Leah, but that would leave me just too thin here. But don’t worry; there’s no one in my knowledge who can get a slung carbine into action faster than Jones, unless it’s Stuart.”
“Stand up!” shouted the jumpmasters. “Check static lines!”
Jason Brown ran his hands over his reserve chute in front of him and patted down the M-16 and the Dragon tied and taped to his left side. He could feel the aircraft banking, making a very shallow turn. He had felt a sharp bump approximately three minutes earlier when the C-141 had crossed over the coast and been lifted by the ground effect of the coastal bluff. As he shuffled aft, closing up with Links, his nearest RTO, he felt the aircraft straighten up and begin to climb. There was a rush of noise and a swirling wind inside the aircraft as the jump doors aft on both sides were opened.
“Anything yet?” said Hooper into his helmet radio. The naval shelling had abruptly ceased, the last rounds to the south swirling out heavy, low-hanging clouds of gray smoke. The Airborne would be along any minute.
“Nothing,” Feeney’s voice whispered in the helmet radio. “We’re nearly down to the intersection of the runways.”
“It’s down here somewhere, Hoop,” said Stuart. “We’re near the long runway, 100 meters from the west end. We can hear the engine, but no track noises. We can’t see it yet.”
Shit! thought Hooper. “Ricardo, you see anything?”
“No, Hoop, but I reckon I’m going to see big, slow airplanes very soon.”
“Stuart, find the fucking thing!” said Hooper, hearing the fear in his own voice.
“We’re working west,” said Stuart. “The engine sounds seem louder.”
Senior Lieutenant Kim accelerated his aircraft at full takeoff power off the runway just as a huge explosion erupted at the northern end. The blast lifted his Mirage V and caused it to pitch upward, nearly causing a stall. Kim fought for control, bringing the sleek aircraft back down toward the surface of the sea as he headed north. He turned and looked up and saw Lieutenant Choi’s Mirage behind him, twenty meters higher. “Get down, Choi,” he barked. “Get lower; the Americans will find you easily so high above the sea return.”
“Leader,” said Choi’s voice, trembling in Kim’s ear. “You are right on the waves!”
Kim had never flown with Choi before, except in the parade formations that so delighted Colonel Baruni. It was likely Choi had never had the rigorous and frightening training needed to skim along in the bumpy ground effect made by the choppy swells. “Be calm, Choi. What does your radar show?”
“Many large and small contacts, out some fifty kilometers. Very large, diffuse contact dead ahead, two kilometers, Leader.”
“Take a major contact to the left of the distant formation, Choi; break off. I will go right. Look for an American carrier!”
“Yes, Leader. Look, in front of you!”
Kim barely had time to climb and pivot his Mirage as the huge battleship underneath him belched an enormous gush of flame. The aircraft rocked and shook him to his teeth. Kim checked his controls as the Mirage settled once more toward the sea. “Break off, Choi! No sense both of us being caught in one net! Good luck!”
“Good luck to you, Leader. Two out.” Choi’s voice sounded final and sad.
Navy F-14 Tomcat “Rodeo 202,” six kilometers north of the coast of Uqba ben Nafi at 20,000 feet of altitude
“Rodeo Two-Oh-Two, this is CAP Control. We have two bandits outbound from runway 03/21. Find them and engage, over.”
“Rodeo Two-Oh-Two, roger, over,” replied Lt. Bill Bruce as he pushed his stick and throttles forward abruptly. The F-14 Tomcat sucked in her wings and kicked up to Mach 2 as its computer received target information directly from the huge tactical data computer on America. Bruce felt the computer take control, bending the aircraft toward the target aircraft. Fucking magic, thought Bruce as he checked the up-status of his missiles and guns. “You with me, Two-Oh-Four?” he asked his wingman, Lt. Cal Coolidge.
“Roge, Leader, right with you.”
“Just get me close,” whispered Bruce to the computer. “I want to use the gun.”
Chosun Two, twenty kilometers north of Uqba ben Nafi
Lieutenant Choi flew as close to the sea as he dared, though he knew Senior Lieutenant Kim would be lower. Lieutenant Choi was very scared as he forced himself to go through the arming sequence for the AS-7 missile hanging beneath his aircraft. He checked the target acquisition radar and saw the big blip he had selected as his target fade and grow strong again as the radar signal was periodically interrupted by wave tops. Range to the target was down to thirty kilometers when the wailing tone of the radar-incoming alarm told Choi he had been acquired by an enemy fire-control radar.
Choi twisted in his seat, frantically looking above and behind himself for the enemy. He knew he couldn’t attempt evasive action so close to the sea; a tight turn would put a wing tip into the water and drag the Mirage down instantly. If only I could get rid of this heavy missile, he thought desperately. He checked the range to the target again - twenty-four kilometers. The maximum range of the AS-7 was ten kilometers. Lieutenant Choi thought fleetingly of dropping the missile into the sea and turning back for Libya, but he put the thought out of his mind. Choi was scared, but he was no coward.
The wailing of the alarm rose abruptly in pitch and became steady. The enemy’s fire-control radar had locked onto the Mirage.
Rodeo Two-Oh-Four, thirty-one kilometers north of Uqba ben Nafi
“I have both aircraft, Bill,” said Lieutenant Coolidge. “Both on the deck. They’re separating.”
“Roger, Two-Oh-Four,” said Lieutenant Bruce into his lip mike. “They must be going for a ship.”
“Ri
ght. We better get them on the first pass. Which do you want?”
“My radar is painting better on the one to the left. You?”
“The same. The fucker on the right must be really low.”
“I’ll take the one on the right. OK, Cal, break and get on the other guy. Sidewinder at 3,000 yards, then in with the gun.”
“Roger, Two-Oh-Two. Good shooting.” Coolidge dipped his port wing to swing around behind the target aircraft, which was passing under him at 400 knots. He slowed from the 800 knots he was indicating as the range to the target dropped to under 5,000 yards, noting that the fire-control system for the Phoenix missiles had locked on. He shifted the weapons selector from the long-range Phoenix to the short-range heat-seeking Sidewinder, and powered up the 20mm Vulcan cannon. The target aircraft flew on in steady course, and suddenly Coolidge saw it in front of him. “Charlie, kill the radar,” he said to his radar intercept officer seated behind him. The RIO pulled a toggle on the fire-control panel, halting the emissions from the radar. The Sidewinders didn’t need the radar, and neither would the cannon. No point announcing myself, thought Coolidge as he spread the Tomcat’s wings and slowed further. The enemy continued on, straight and level. “Rodeo Two-Oh-Two, this is Two-Oh-Four. I am engaging, over.”
“Roger, Two-Oh-Four,” said Bill Bruce. He was having trouble keeping the second target in his radarscope because the Libyan was so close to the water as to mask his aircraft in the sea return. The fire-control radar refused to lock on automatically or manually.
Bruce looked frantically ahead and below as he descended below 300 feet. What information his radar was giving him indicated the enemy to be no more than 6,000 yards ahead. Suddenly he saw the target, ahead of and below him. At the speed he was going, he knew he would pass over the target before he could fire or launch a missile. With a curse, Lieutenant Bruce kicked in his afterburner and climbed into a tight turn, pulling his wings back into maximum sweep. I’ll have to go around, he thought, and I had better hurry. The outer screen of the America battle group was barely 20,000 yards ahead. Jesus, that bastard is low, he thought, admiring the pilot’s skill and guts.
Chosun Two, thirty-eight kilometers north of Uqba ben Nafi
Lieutenant Choi checked his missile-control radar again. In the last twenty-five seconds he had closed the distance to his target to thirteen kilometers. His left hand hovered near the missile release toggle, while his right hand gripped the stick, ready to pull his aircraft up to sixty meters, the minimum altitude for a safe missile launch. Suddenly the radar-incoming alarm fell silent. I have lost him! thought Choi with immense relief. I will take the missile a little closer. The range fell below ten kilometers, and Choi began his climb. He saw his target for the first time; it looked like a cruiser. Choi steadied the aircraft and reached for the release toggle. He heard a roar below his Mirage and felt himself propelled upward as the nose dropped violently toward the sea. Choi pulled back on the stick, but felt no response. The stick was completely loose. The Mirage struck the sea at 400 knots and disintegrated.
USS America
“Where are those bandits, Combat?” asked Lieutenant Allen, the general quarters Officer of the Deck on the bridge, holding down the communicator switch marked “Combat Information Center.”
“One is down, Conn,” answered the squawk box. “The other is 28,000 and closing.”
Twenty-eight thousand yards! “Conn aye.” Allen depressed the switch labeled “Primary Flight Control.” “Prifly, Conn. I’m taking the deck. Sorry, but we have a bandit inbound.” The Junior Officer of the Deck overheard, and reached up to the rear bulkhead and switched the deck status light display from green to red. The display had a repeater in Prifly, the aircraft carrier’s control tower, on the same level as the bridge on the port side of the island superstructure. “Red Deck” meant all flight operations were suspended so that the giant carrier could maneuver.
“Combat, Conn. We have all jammers on?”
“Roger, just went up.”
Another switch. “Main Control, Conn. Stand by for maneuvering combination.”
“Main Control, aye. What’s happening?”
“Maybe a missile. Tell Damage Control Central for me, will you, Commander?”
“Main Control aye.”
USS Ticonderoga
“All engines ahead flank!” called the Officer of the Deck, Lt. Frank Decker. The Aegis cruiser’s four giant gas turbines accelerated the 9,000-ton ship from eighteen to thirty knots in less than half a minute. Decker spoke to the captain at his general quarters station in the Combat Information Center. “We’re going to cut off the America, Captain?”
“That’s our job, Frank. Call the Tomcat; get him off. Is the missile locked on?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll try to raise the fighter.”
“Good.” Captain Michael Conroy watched the computer terminal in front of his chair. He pressed a button on his squawk box marked “Weapons Control,” the general quarters station of the weapons officer. “Weapons, Conn. Weapons free.”
“Roger, Skipper,” said Commander Phipps.
“Rodeo Two-Oh-Two, this is Archer-cruiser Ticonderoga,” said Lieutenant Decker over the tactical fighter net. “We’re launching missiles at your target. We have you separate, but break off; if you’re close, the missile blast will bring you down with the target, over.”
“Archer, Rodeo Two-Oh-Two. Do you have two distinct paints, over?”
Decker frowned and looked at the bridge repeater. “We have you identified, and a light paint below you, over.”
“Then you’re locked on me. This bandit is practically in the water. I know you have to fire, but wait as long as you can; I’m staying with this guy.”
Captain Conroy picked up his radio handset. “Rodeo, you are ordered to break off and clear the area!”
“Rodeo Two-Oh-Two out,” said Lieutenant Bruce, firing the first Sidewinder and then the second.
USS America
The deck under the consoles in Flag Plot tilted gradually to twenty degrees of heel as America turned out of the southerly wind and raced north, away from the approaching bandit. The ship’s massive steam turbines pushed 280,000 horsepower through four propellors, driving the carrier up to thirty knots. As the angle of heel increased, Admiral Bergeron looked across the strained faces of the officers and men in the nearly silent compartment. “Gentlemen,” said the admiral softly, but in a voice that carried, “we have an operation to run.”
Plotters at the status boards and console operators picked up their rhythm. Radio telephone operators checked circuits with each other, verifying frequencies that were assigned to nets not yet active. The heel of the deck decreased as America steadied on her new course.
Senior Lieutenant Kim let the Mirage rise another four meters above the gray, choppy sea and put the aircraft into a shallow turn to the right. He passed down the side of an American destroyer and under her stern, so low the ship couldn’t fire. He was now flying just north of east, approaching his target, which had altered course to the north. As he cleared the destroyer’s stern, he could see his target - a huge aircraft carrier. He checked the range: twelve kilometers. He checked to see the missile-arm light was lit. The missile would arm itself as it dropped free of the aircraft. Kim lowered his aircraft back toward the waves.
Lieutenant Bruce watched with horror as the first of his Sidewinders curved away from the bandit’s tail and exploded over the aft stack of the picket destroyer. He imagined the pieces of white-hot shrapnel from the warhead sweeping the afterdecks, and winced with pain in his tight gut. He rolled his Tomcat past the destroyer and back onto the path of the enemy. The red ball of the sun was huge on the horizon, and the second Sidewinder rose from its track and curved away to seek the sun.
It’s me and the gun now, thought Bruce, switching off his fire-control radar. He kicked in his afterburners and pulled the aircraft up, to get a downward shot with the cannon. One second, maybe two, and I’ll have him.
Kim’
s radar range read 9,500 meters to the carrier. He listened to the enemy’s radar alternately squeal and then fade in his radar-incoming alarm. The American cannot lock on, thought Kim, feeling a rush of satisfaction at his skill at nap-of-the-earth flying, but he is still with me.
If I climb to release my missile, the American will blow me away with a missile, he thought smiling. I must at least make his shot difficult.
Kim held his Mirage on the wave tops, then executed a snap roll. As the aircraft inverted, he released the missile, which rose seventy meters from the centrifugal force of the rolling aircraft. Kim completed the roll barely above the sea surface.
Bruce watched in wonder as the enemy aircraft flipped his missile and descended back into the sea return. Fuck you, Libyan, thought Bruce, and maybe fuck me, too, but you’re going down. Bruce pointed the nose of his fighter toward the dappled sea surface and fired the Vulcan cannon.
Kim saw tracers passing over the Mirage, and he threw the aircraft into a tight turn despite his unsafe altitude of twenty meters above the sea. He heard the sound of tearing metal and saw his port wing tip chopped to pieces. He fought to steady the aircraft, but he could no longer turn. I nearly made it, he thought. The next burst will tear me to pieces. Kim smiled and pulled back on the stick to take a last good look at his aircraft carrier, and then died as the cannon shells tore into him and his Mirage.
USS Ticonderoga
“Standard missile launched and tracking!” said the missile officer.
“Is that Tomcat still in the middle of it?” asked the captain.
“He’s above - he’s climbing. Sir! I think the bandit is down!”
“You think?” shouted the captain.
“He was flying so low-”
Lieutenant Bruce saw the bandit break apart, and immediately pulled maximum power, pointing the nose of his aircraft straight up. “Archer, Rodeo Two-Oh-Two. I got him! I am going ballistic! Kill your missile!”
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