Countdown to Midnight

Thirty-Seven

“Captain!” one of the Revolutionary Guard ratings manning the tanker’s air search radar console said suddenly. “I have an unidentified large air contact on my screen.”

Heidari was at his side in less than a second. “Show me!” he snapped.

The rating tapped a tiny blip blinking into existence every time the radar swept that portion of the sky. “It’s right there, sir.”

“What’s your evaluation?” Heidari asked, closely watching the blip as it moved slowly across the screen. If this was an air attack, he might have only seconds to send his gun and SAM crews to their stations.

The rating frowned. “The contact is currently south of Point Omega, about twenty-two nautical miles out.” Point Omega was the featureless spot on the ocean around which the Gulf Venture was currently steaming. With the tanker’s actual heading constantly changing as it continued turning through complete circles, the coordinates served as a useful reference point. “The bogey is currently on a heading of zero-seven-five degrees. And I estimate its altitude at more than nine thousand meters.”

“What is this plane’s airspeed?” Heidari demanded.

“Very slow, Captain,” the rating told him, scanning his readouts. “Not more than one hundred and fifty knots.”

Puzzled, Heidari frowned. This unknown aircraft’s flight profile didn’t match that of any regular commercial passenger or cargo aircraft that would normally operate this far out in the Atlantic. Could it be one of the U.S. Navy’s carrier-based E-2 Hawkeye reconnaissance planes? He swallowed hard, suddenly afraid. The presence of an American carrier task force and its accompanying escorts in this part of the ocean could be catastrophic for MIDNIGHT. During its ascent phase, their Zuljanah rocket would be horribly vulnerable to the SM-3 interceptor missiles carried by some U.S. destroyers and cruisers. Had he and his crew come all this way only to fail ignominiously in what should be their moment of triumph?

Regaining control over his emotions, the Iranian naval officer forced himself to think carefully. This bogey’s observed airspeed was far below the normal cruising speed of those American Hawkeye early-warning aircraft. They ordinarily flew at more than 250 knots. He turned to the sailor manning the Gulf Venture’s improvised electronic warfare console. “Are you picking up any active radar emissions from that contact?”

“No, sir,” the other man assured him. “Not so much as a single pulse.”

Heidari’s frown deepened. The absence of any surface search or air search radar emissions made it extremely unlikely the unknown aircraft was a military reconnaissance plane out on patrol. And while the weather had greatly improved over the past several hours, there was still a nearly unbroken layer of clouds across the sky at low altitude. No one aboard an aircraft that high up could hope to spot anything on the surface of the sea without using special IR cameras or sensors. So if that distant bogey represented a real threat to his ship and its mission, he couldn’t make out what it might be. Nevertheless, he found its sudden appearance, at this critical moment in the rocket’s launch sequence, disturbing — especially when he considered it in the light of the several other aircraft they’d spotted over the past few days. At the time, he’d written those contacts off as routine, the sort of chance encounters that might be expected with two to three thousand commercial flights crossing the Atlantic every single day. But what if he’d been wrong?

Should he bring his antiaircraft defenses to full readiness, Heidari wondered? He checked the clock above the plot table. It showed that they were at T −31 minutes and still counting down. He picked up the intercom phone connected to the Launch Control Center.

“Majidi here,” the scientist answered tersely. “What is it, Reza?” He and his launch crew were just beginning the delicate task of fueling the rocket’s third stage. Short of an ignition failure or the uncontrolled detonation of the first stage’s solid propellant on liftoff, this was the most dangerous phase of readying the Zuljanah missile for flight.

Quickly, Heidari ran through the situation and his concerns. Majidi’s reaction to his proposal to send their weapons crews to their action stations was immediate and strongly negative. “That would be a terrible mistake,” he said urgently. “Many of those out on the deck when we launch would almost certainly be killed or terribly burnt. Even worse, the rocket plume itself could trigger the accidental detonation of exposed ammunition and surface-to-air missiles. And that would be cataclysmic, potentially destroying both the rocket and the ship itself!”

“Very well, we’ll hold off for now,” Heidari agreed. “But it may be necessary to put the countdown sequence on hold if the situation changes.” He hung up and turned toward Touraj Dabir. “Put the weapons crews on full alert. They’re to stay safely inside the superstructure for now, but if I sound general quarters, I want them to break every record we’ve set getting those guns and SAM launchers into action. Is that clear?”

The younger officer nodded. “I’ll pass the word, Captain.” He cleared his throat nervously. “Perhaps we should release Skoblin and his men, too? If we’re attacked somehow, we could use the extra armed manpower.”

Rapidly, Heidari considered the idea and just as quickly dismissed it. “No, I don’t think that freeing them is worth the risk yet,” he said. “Not until the Zuljanah is on its way into space.” His eyes narrowed. “But have a team move their weapons and ammunition into position outside the storage compartment where they’re confined. Just in case we need help from the Russians after all.”

Breathing carefully through his oxygen mask, Nick Flynn gripped a bracket mounted through the insulation lining the plane’s cargo area. Ingalls had depressurized the large compartment ten minutes before, making sure he could safely open the rear ramp the moment they were within striking range of the Gulf Venture. At thirty thousand feet, the air pressure was barely a third of that at sea level. Without the oxygen flowing through their masks, all eight members of the Dragon assault team and the two tracking camera crewmen would have been unconscious in a minute or less. The others on his team were lined up behind him, each holding tight to one of the special grips fitted to this far aft section of the aircraft. Since they would be making a freefall high-altitude jump, none of them were attached by static or safety lines. Once the ramp came down, Mark I muscle power would be the only thing stopping any of them from being bounced out into the open air if the plane hit turbulence.

“Dragon team, stand by,” Ingalls said from the cockpit over their joint tactical radio circuit. “Tracking crew give me a read.”

“Copy that, Major,” one of the technicians manning the rail-mounted tracking camera and telescope system replied. He had his eyes fixed on the system’s monitor, intently studying the green-tinted thermal images it showed. “Target sighted!” he said excitedly. “Bearing three-two-seven. Range twenty-one point three nautical miles. The ship is still circling at approximately five knots.” Rapidly, he rattled off the GPS coordinates that corresponded most closely to the tanker’s observed position.

Flynn and the rest of his men automatically checked the personal navigation gear fitted to their helmets, comparing their current readings to those of the ship. Originally designed for hikers, these slim devices contained GPS receivers, electronic compasses, and barometric altimeters. During the early part of their planned drop from high above the thick cloud layer, the data these receivers provided would be crucial. Once they broke through clouds, they should be close enough to the Gulf Venture to navigate the rest of the way by sight, using their night vision goggles.

“Target aspect change!” the tracking crewman snapped. “Jesus! I can see the nose cone of what looks like a rocket protruding above the deck at roughly amidships, maybe three hundred feet forward of the aft superstructure.”

Flynn’s jaw tightened. The Russians and Iranians must be in the final phases of preparing their nuclear-armed missile for launch. He’d known from Fox’s frantic messages that they were probably running very close to the edge on this mission. But having that assessment confirmed so dramatically wasn’t any more welcome. He half-turned to look down the row of solemn faces. “Well, hell, that sure sucks,” he said, forcing himself to sound conversational.

Wade Vucovich raised his hand. “Hey, sir?” he asked over their tactical circuit. “What would happen if a stray round hits that rocket?”

Someone had to ask, Flynn supposed. “Scientifically speaking, it would be bad. Very, very bad.” That drew the tension-relieving laugh he’d hoped for. “So I guess y’all better be real careful what you’re shooting at once we hit the deck. I’m not real eager to find out what it’s like being at ground zero when a rocket blows up.”

His wry caution drew tight, answering grins from his men. Triggering an uncontrolled detonation of the Iranian missile’s solid and liquid fuel propellants would certainly eliminate the EMP attack threatened against the United States, but none of them wanted to commit suicide in the process. They were acting as soldiers on this mission, not kamikazes. On the plus side, he suddenly realized, their enemies should be equally hampered by the need to avoid accidentally destroying their own missile and ship. That wasn’t much comfort, he supposed, but right now he’d take anything he could get.

“Your guys set, Nick?” Ingalls asked from the cockpit. “We’re approximately thirty seconds out from the drop point you calculated.”

Flynn took a deep breath. Time had seemed to pass with leaden slowness during the hours-long, uncomfortable flight out from Florida across the ocean. Now everything felt much faster, as though seconds were flashing by in the blink of an eye. “Dragon is ready to go, Rip!” he radioed back and turned to face the rear ramp.

“Okay, I’m opening the rear ramp now!” Ingalls warned.

A moment later, the tail section of the LM-100J opened. Its top half lifted higher, while the wide rear ramp rotated down and ratcheted into position. As it lowered, the metal ramp took on an eerie silvery glow, touched by the light of the nearly full moon almost directly overhead.

Even before the whole twenty-second-long opening process was complete, the deafening roar from the Super Hercules’s four huge turboprop engines drowned every other sound. Temperatures inside the cargo compartment plunged instantly. Thirty thousand feet above the surface of the ocean, the thin outside air was far below freezing, more than fifty degrees Fahrenheit below zero.

Here goes… everything, Flynn thought, suddenly fighting down a wave of fear — not so much for himself, but of the horrible consequences to the United States and hundreds of millions of innocent civilians if they failed. The jump light above the ramp flashed green. He let go of the bracket he’d been holding, raised his clenched fist up high, and then yanked it down as a signal. “Go! Go! Go!” he yelled.

Without waiting any longer, Flynn sprinted down the ramp and dove headfirst out into the moonlit night sky.