OUTCAST Ops: African Firestorm

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

The waiting was getting to Narsai. Nothing to do but glance at the radar, then look out into the darkness, wondering what the Americans were waiting for. The one helicopter that had dogged them was still off their port bow, with more choppers off his starboard, all out of range of his Strellas. What did they want?

He glanced down again and saw new blips coming in from the north. They were moving very fast, faster than the helicopters. Jets then — either Oman or maybe the Americans. Twenty minutes out.

Narsai picked up the radio. "Dr. Masood — status of the missiles?"

"We're still working!" Masood snapped back. "We're trying to do hours of work in minutes!"

"There are jets inbound. Minutes are all we have left."

"These missiles are not AK-47s. They are delicate machines that have to be handled carefully, or we could die!”

"Doctor, if you don't get those missiles ready before the Americans board this ship, I will personally make certain that you do die! Is that clear enough?"

"Perfectly!" There was a click as Masood ended his transmission. Narsai stared at the radio for a few seconds, then back to the radar screen.

"Those jets could stand off from a distance and target us with missiles," Musa said.

Narsai continued to star at the radar, gauging the distance from his ship to the planes. "Maybe, but the Americans want the warheads — that's what the helicopters are for. I also doubt the jets have much ordnance on them because of the great distance they've traveled from land." He shook his head. "Those fighter jets are a distraction, a threat, or a last resort, nothing more."

Inside, he knew he was lying to himself.

The four F-18F Super Hornets flew in a tight diamond formation, forty thousand feet above the ocean. Designed as a strike fighter, the Super Hornets were members of VFA-103, the "Jolly Rogers," assigned to the Truman. Traveling at Mach 1.2, the fighters closed in on the target at over nine hundred miles an hour.

In the cockpit of the lead fighter, Lt. Commander James "Bulldog" Drummond consulted his radar. He was a bit irascible at the moment, being hauled out of bed and sent into the night sky with scant instructions and armed only with the Super Hornet's M61A1 Vulcan Gatling cannon and a pair of AGM-84G Harpoon anti-ship missiles. The conversation with whomever this OUTCAST outfit was didn't help his disposition any.

"Ten minutes from break point," Drummond's Weapons Systems Officer, Lieutenant Grant "Harvard" Hargreaves announced.

"Copy," Drummond returned. He touched the radio control for the flight frequency. "All right, ladies. Our target is coming up."

"This for real sir?" Lt.(JG) Adam "Jocko" Welborn asked. He piloted the F-18 to Drummond's right. "This is not an exercise?"

"Correct," Drummond said through gritted teeth. "This is real, and if we fuck it up, people are going to die. So shut your mouth and open your ears."

"Copy that, Bulldog."

"Our target is a tango-controlled container ship. The ship has two nuclear missiles onboard, and the spooks think the HST is the target."

"Holy shit," Jocko breathed.

"Exactly," Drummond said.

"That explains the Harpoons," Lt. Malcolm "Cyber" Perko said. “Blow the damn thing out of the water."

"Negative, Cyber," Drummond said. "We're not going to sink this ship."

"We're not?" Jocko asked.

"No. A spook squad and a bunch of wetsuits want to board the ship and grab the missiles."

"So what are we going to do?" Cyber asked.

Drummond smiled thinly. "Our jobs."