Alpha Strike

CHAPTER 9

“Permission to attack with torpedo denied, Hunter 701. If you see some indication that she’s preparing to launch or taking some other hostile action, you’re weapons free on her. Until then, maintain contact and keep us posted.” The TAO on the carrier sounded reluctant to give the order.

Rabies shot a look of disgust at his copilot.

“Fucking rules of engagement,” the copilot obligingly said.

“Ask them just what the hell they want — a declaration of war? This SOB took a shot at one of our aircraft yesterday, and they want us to just let him go?”

“You know what they’re going to say,” the TACCO joined in. “Can’t prove it’s the same sub, and retaliation’s not authorized by ROE. You know the drill.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Rabies muttered. “Ask them. Make them tell me I have to wait to take the first shot.”

“They won’t do it,” the copilot said. “They’ll say you can shoot in self-defense the second you see the sail start to break away from the missile launcher, or if the sub starts any preparation for firing.”

“And just how the hell are we supposed to see that with that pigboat still half-submerged?”

“Get lucky, I guess. Come on, Rabies, don’t make me look like an idiot on the circuit.”

“Okay, okay. But the second I see anything — anything — that bitch is toast. And you pussies damned well better back me up on it!”

Silence on the ICS. Rabies felt a pang of guilt, but smothered it in the overwhelming frustration he felt. Every member of the crew wanted to take the sub out — he knew that. They all had been debriefed on the previous attack, and had seethed with the righteous indignation that he’d just voiced. Not a man — or woman, he added reflexively — in the S-3B squadron wouldn’t have shot instantly, given the slightest justification.

“It sucks,” he said finally. “It just really sucks.”

Thor dropped back behind the Flanker, opening the distance enough to shoot if it became necessary. Although he’d never tried it, he was quite certain that being five hundred feet behind another aircraft when it exploded was not good for him. Even if his Hornet blasted through the fireball, the odds of sucking a piece of metal into his engines was just too great.

“Hornet, say state,” he heard the OS query from the carrier.

State of fucking frustration, he thought. Maybe state of idiocy, too. He glanced at his fuel gauge, resisted the temptation to be a smart-ass, and settled for telling the OS how much fuel he had left.

The Flanker was now sixty miles from the battle group and showed no signs of changing course or even acknowledging his escort. Thor could hear Aegis trying to contact the Flanker, requesting intentions and explanations on the unencrypted IAD — International Air Distress frequency.

Suddenly, the Flanker nosed down and headed for the deck. It traded speed for altitude, accelerating past five hundred knots. Thor followed it down, wondering what the hell the other pilot was thinking. The adrenaline that had subsided into a muted throb roared back through his body like a freight train.

The Flanker leveled off five hundred feet above the waves, its shadow racing like a pace car below it.

“Hornet! What the hell’s he doing?” the E-2C RIO demanded. “Aegis is demanding some answers — the contact’s dropped off their screens.”

“Tell them to figure it out for themselves! Their radar horizon can’t be more than forty miles, the altitude he’s at! Still getting video downlink. That ought to narrow the search area.”

“Unnecessary,” the E-2 RIO answered tartly. “Hunter 701 is sitting on top of his playmate, about fifty miles to your west. If you were paying attention, you’d have heard his reports.”

“I’m a little bit busy myself, buddy. This bastard moves a lot faster than some sewer pipe taking up water space.” Come to think of it, he had heard the S-3’s reports, he reflected. He’d been too focused on the Flanker to make the correlation.

Thor glanced at his altimeter, then took the Hornet up another hundred feet and selected an IR heatseeking Sidewinder. If the time came for it, he wanted to be in the best position for a killing shot from behind. The fastest way to eliminate the missile threat from the submarine would be to take out the platform providing targeting data to it. And for that little job, there wasn’t anything better than a Marine and a Hornet.

“Let me see the missile profiles for whatever that Flanker’s likely to be carrying,” Captain Killington demanded. “Are they sea-skimmers?”

“Here, sir,” his TAO said, handing him the tactical handbook. “Left-hand side.”

Killington studied it carefully. “Just because the Hornet didn’t see missiles doesn’t mean the Flanker’s not carrying any. Look at how they misidentified those U.S. helicopters as Hinds. Killed our own people with two war shots.”

“It seems a little different scenario,” his operations officer, now standing watch as the TAO, offered tentatively. The TAO tried to decide whether he’d heard a note of regret in his CO’s voice. “Circling around a helicopter doesn’t give you as good a view as pacing another jet. I don’t think they ever got closer than five miles to those helos. But Hornet was right up on this bogey.”

Killington glared at him. “You’re missing the point. Aircrews make mistakes. They do — everyone knows it! I’m not staking the safety of this ship and crew on what some airdale thinks he saw while playing grab-ass with another jet at five hundred knots. Besides, there’s another possibility, one you haven’t considered.”

“What’s that, sir?” the TAO asked quietly.

“That he’s on a suicide mission — a kamikaze, just like they did in the last war! Ever think of that? Huh?”

“A kami — Sir, that was Japan, I believe. Not China.”

“I know that! Do you think I don’t? Listen, mister, don’t try to smart off at me! There’s a reason they put me out here instead of giving command to a lieutenant commander. The Pentagon knows that a knowledge of history is absolutely essential to effective, aggressive command. That’s why over one-third of the curriculum at the Naval War College is military history — strategy and policy!”

“But, sir-“

“Don’t argue with me! It’ll make you feel like a fool later when I save your ass. Get those birds on the rail. That bastard’s not getting inside this air defense perimeter!”

The TAO glanced around for the XO, wondering if anyone else was listening to the irrational arguments. Of course they were — even with their radio headsets on, the OSs on Aegis had an almost telepathic ability to hear every conversation in CDC. He saw it in their studiously blank faces, their eyes carefully glued to their scopes. It wasn’t the first time that the CO had worried them all.

“Aye, aye, sir,” the TAO said. He spoke quietly into his headset microphone, then looked up. “Birds on the rails, sir.”

“Good. Now let’s hope we have a chance to use them,” the captain said sternly.

The TAO stared at his screen grimly. Captain Killington was known as an aggressive player, but his refusal to acknowledge the possibility — and danger — of a blue-on-blue engagement had been the subject of countless quiet discussions among the more junior officers on the cruiser. Every one of them knew the ship’s history, and few had any desire to repeat the tragic mistake committed by the previous crew in the Persian Gulf.

Captain Killington had done little to make them feel any easier about the possibility. Their CO repeatedly quoted extensive passages from the former CO’s book and steadfastly maintained that the shoot-down had been justified. According to him, there had been fighters tucked under the wings of the airbus, attempting to hide from radar by using the larger aircraft as a shield. Captain Killington believed that shooting down the airbus had prevented serious loss of American life.

Better to be judged by one than carried by six, the TAO thought, pondering the equally unattractive alternatives of facing a court of inquiry or a funeral. If it comes down to it, I’m shooting first and asking questions later. I’d rather be branded with Vincennes’s mistakes and history than the USS Stark’s record. The Stark had exercised restraint — out and out negligence, many claimed — in failing to fire on an inbound aircraft. That decision had cost her lives when she’d taken a missile amidships.

Not on my watch, buddy, the TAO thought, staring at the symbols tracking across the screen.

“Low level’s no trick, buddy,” Thor said out loud. “Just what the hell are you up to?” He watched the Flanker make a minute change in course and tapped the flight controls to follow it.

He glanced at the clock. In another ten minutes, it would all be over anyway. The Flanker would transit the battle group, and then either turn to make another pass or continue on to wherever it was bound. He could follow until the aircraft left the battle group’s airspace, take a quick drink from the tanker, and then head home.

Suddenly, the Hornet’s ALR-67 radar warning receiver buzzer went off. A radar was sweeping him, radiating a fire control signature. He felt a sudden chill.

“Hawkeye, I’m getting — what the hell is going on?” he said on the tactical net. “That’s a damned Aegis radar!”

“Roger, Hornet, we’re getting it. Aegis is locked on to the incoming bogey,” the E-2 replied.

“Oh, shit. Hawkeye, talk to me! They’re not thinking of shooting, are they?” Thor’s hand itched to push the throttles forward of its own accord. To be this close to a bad guy — or even a potential bad guy — with missiles in the air, wasn’t healthy. He fought down the impulse to get the hell out of Dodge. If the Aegis was planning on launching one of its SM-2 anti-air missiles in their direction, Thor had a burning desire to be very gone. The SM-2 was the same missile that Vincennes had used to shoot down an Iranian airbus in 1988, believing that the contact was an Iranian F-14 fighter. If their electronics emanations were any clue, the Vincennes was still confused about who the good guys and who the bad guys were.

The SM-2 was a long-range, high-speed missile, capable of attaining velocities exceeding Mach 2. Its 1,556 pounds of massed destruction carried a high-velocity controlled fragmentation conventional high explosive atop a single-stage dual-thrust Aerojet Mark 56 solid-fuel rocket. It had an inertial navigation system with two-way communications link for midcourse corrections from the Aegis ship, along with monopulse semiactive radar homing and a proximity/contact fusing system. It was the standard missile (SM) used by surface ships against any airborne target, aircraft or missile. A potent, lethal missile, and one that Thor was not interested in trying to outsmart and outmaneuver.

The Flag TAO’s voice came onto the circuit. Thor listened as the Admiral’s staff berated the Aegis cruiser and ordered them to cease targeting the Flanker. The signal blipped off his ESM warning receiver.

The Flanker kicked in its afterburners, and the twin Saturn/Lyulka AL-3 IF turbofans spat bright fire out the twin tailpipes. Thor felt the increase in its wake buffet the Hornet as the Flanker ascended. Reflexively, he followed the Flanker, maintaining a good firing solution on it from behind.

The Flanker twisted and turned, behaving for all the world like a fighter suddenly engaged in air-to-air combat. Since he was carrying no missiles, the pilot would be solely concerned with allowing Thor to get a decent shot off.

The Flanker veered suddenly and raced back along its original course, heading for the coast of Vietnam, still twisting and dodging. It must have taken being illuminated by fire control radar seriously, and the pilot must be thinking he was in immediate danger. Thor let the pilot open the distance between then, wishing there was some way to convey that despite his air-to-air armament, he had no intention of taking a shot at the other pilot.

He followed the Flanker, still conducting evasive maneuvers, to the edge of the air protection envelope, and then broke off. Paranoid little bastard, he thought, and felt a moment of sympathy for the other pilot. If Thor’s experience was any guide at all, the Flanker driver was going to need a clean pair of skivvies as soon as he got back to his base.

“Any activity?” the TACCO asked again.

“Nothing.” Rabies took his eyes off the window and turned in his seat so he could see the TACCO. “You’re pretty antsy about this one. Quit worrying — we’re far enough off that we can outrun anything a Flanker’s likely to shoot at us.”

“This isn’t feeling right,” the TACCO answered over the ICS. “That Flanker hauling ass out of here after passing targeting information down to the sub — why?”

“You don’t know for sure it was talking to the sub. Maybe it was just some sort of exercise. And she went buster because idiot Aegis lit her up. How’d you feel if an unfriendly carrying long-range surface-to-air missiles lit you up with fire control radar?”

“About like I do right now, Rabies.” The TACCO leaned forward, trying to see out of the cockpit. The sub was out of sight, lost to view by being head-on into the setting sun.

“Getting machinery noise, flow tones. Hull popping — she’s changing depth!” the AW said suddenly. “Sir, where is she?”

The TACCO felt a cold chill. “Rabies, get us out of the damned sun,” he said urgently.

“Ready one,” the copilot announced as the S-3B moved — now painfully slowly, it seemed to the TACCO — out of line of sight with the sun.

“Sir!” the AW insisted.

The TACCO strained forward to see out the canopy.

Below them, he saw disturbed water, dark shadows moving below the warm murk of the South China Sea. Was there movement? He couldn’t tell for sure. Illogically, he wondered whether the submarine could see him through the canopy, looking up at the aircraft through the periscope. Could it see his pale white face peering forward between the two pilots’ seats? He rubbed his hand over his chin, feeling the rough afternoon growth.

Suddenly, the water below them exploded into white froth and foam, boiling up from below like an undersea geyser reaching higher and higher into the sky. Twenty feet above the water, the sea peeled back like a banana skin, revealing the slender white form inside it.

“SHIT!” Rabies screamed, throwing the S-3B into a hard right turn. The copilot lurched in his seat as he completed the remaining sequences to drop the torpedo, coldly reporting his actions to the carrier. The TACCO felt the Viking buck, as 506 pounds of Mk-46 torpedo dropped away from the wing.

“It wasn’t a fucking Grail,” he shouted over the ICS. “That wasn’t aimed at us!”

“What the hell was that?” the E-2C was screaming at the same time over the tactical net. “Hunter, what the fuck?”

Rabies knew the rest of his crew had seen the missile, but they hadn’t really seen it. They’d seen what they expected to see — another SAM launched at their aircraft.

“It’s a cruise missile!” Rabies screamed over the net. It wouldn’t be bothering with the Viking circling overhead. No, the ships in the battle group provided a much more inviting target.

“Missile inbound, sir!” the EW yelled on the net, as his SLQ-32 ESM gear detected the missile seeker head and started blaring warnings. Seconds later, the air tracker jumped in, reporting the radar contact.

The TAO reacted instantly. The Aegis combat systems were fully capable of handling an entire air engagement on full automatic, doing everything from identifying threat targets to assigning weapons based on priorities and firing the air-to-air missiles. When it was on automatic. Under the current threat condition, though, it still required operator intervention.

The TAO acknowledged the contact on his screen, his fingers flashing over the keys. He was aware of the CO standing behind him, asking questions and demanding answers. Reflex and training paid off — within seconds, the SM-2MR streaked off the rails, another missile sliding into firing position immediately behind it.

The TAO, his eyes fixed on the radar screen, said, “One away, Captain.” Now that the actual missile was launched, he had a few seconds to wait before he would decide whether to launch a second salvo. There was still time.

It looked good. The attack geometry was perfect, and they’d had enough warning and data to get a good fix on the incoming missile. There were too many friendly ships and aircraft in the area to indiscriminately launch a spate of long-range missiles, especially when the geometry for a single-shot kill looked good.

Even if the missile missed, the cruiser had one last-ditch chance against it, as did the carrier. Both ships, as well as all the other ones in the battle group, were equipped with CIWS. The TAO prayed it wouldn’t be necessary. While CIWS could fire like a gatling-gun and nail a missile up to two miles away, even a destroyed missile would probably shower the ship with burning fragments of fuel and flak. The debris could knock out either the SPS-49 air radar or the super-sensitive SPY-1 that made the Aegis such a formidable platform.

Ten miles from the carrier, the SM2-MR caught up with the intruder. On the radar, the two blips merged, then disappeared. From the bridge it would have been a spectacular sight, the fireball of missile-on-missile lighting up the sky and reflecting off the water. Here in combat, in the bowels of the Aegis cruiser, only a faint dull thud provided outside confirmation of what their radars told them.

“I guess next time you’ll listen up,” the CO snarled. A look of unholy jubilation lit the older man’s face. “I knew those bastards would try something! If I hadn’t had those birds on the rails, we would all be toast! Think about that next time, before you start running off at the mouth.”

“Yes, sir.” The TAO leaned forward over his screen, staring at it as though it held some secret. Whatever doubts he’d had about the CO before seemed grossly unprofessional. No matter that Captain Killington had been prepared for air-launched missiles and a submarine had actually taken the shot. The launch platform was irrelevant because the captain’s instincts had been right. The TAO’s best judgment might have gotten the ship sunk.

He glanced over at his coffee cup. He’d drained down the last bitter dregs just before the missile shot. With the ship at General Quarters, he was unlikely to get a refill anytime soon. Not until they stood down to Condition Two, at any rate. It didn’t matter right now, while the adrenaline from the missile shot still pounded in his veins. Four hours from now, however, he knew he’d be aching for a caffeine fix.

Just as well that he couldn’t get a refill on the coffee right now. The other thing that was secured during General Quarters was the head.

He wondered whether caffeine deprivation and full bladders played much part in the course of war at sea. Probably so, he concluded, as he remembered that the Captain of the USS Stark had been in the head when his ship had taken a near-fatal missile shot in the Persian Gulf. That hadn’t been a declared war, either, although a lot of sailors had died.

From down here in the sandbox, he concluded, it didn’t matter that there was no declared war or prior warning. They could be just as dead, and just as short on head calls and coffee, as any force had been in a declared war.

At least with Captain Killington in command, it looked like Vincennes would never take a hit. And that was of more comfort to the TAO than caffeine right now.