Within the bowels of the ship, technicians eased themselves into the narrow interspaces between weapons, carefully making last-minute checks and adjustments to the warheads. A few of the tubes still showed smoke smudges from the earlier fire, but the delicate wiring and structural supports were undamaged.
An undercurrent of tension and excitement throbbed throughout the ship, a reflection of the eagerness of the new and untried crew to finally, after what seemed like decades of testing, make the boat demonstrate the capabilities of their platform. No ship in history, save perhaps the old-style battleships, had ever possessed such a massive load of firepower and deadly weaponry. And this was the crew that would make it work.
In Combat, the tactical action officer paced back and forth in front of his console, chained like a dog to it by the cord running from his headset to the internal communications system. He listened to the myriad reports rapping crisply out over the circuit, glanced around to make sure every station was manned, then turned to his captain. “All stations report ready. Captain.” He hunched his shoulders a bit, distracted by a bead of sweat trickling down his back.
“Very well. Commence firing weapons package number eight-two-nine, at will.” Captain Heather made it sound like a routine order, his voice calm and deadly professional, but the pain was clawing away at the edges of his self-control.
Still, it evidently worked. His words had a steadying effect on the young TAO, who nodded.
“Firing weapons package number eight-two-nine, aye, Captain.” The TAO turned back to his console, slipped into the chair, and turned his key in the lock. The SPY-1 computer took over from there.
For the next ninety seconds, being inside Arsenal was like rolling down a hill in a steel garbage can. The hull rang and shivered with multiple explosions as Tomahawk cruise missiles were ejected from their vertical launch tubes. Each missile came out impossibly slowly, seemed to hover over the deck for a few minutes, scorching the nonskid and gray paint with hellfire from its propulsion section, then picked up speed and darted out toward the horizon. Within moments of leaving the ship, the missiles were traveling too fast and far for the naked eye to follow.
But the SPY-1 system held radar contact on each one, sorting out the tiny pulses of returned radar energy, comparing them with the launch vector and destination of every missile, and assigning a serial number to each green lozenge blip on the screen. The launching went quickly, and completely without incident. When it was finally over, the TAO turned back to the captain. “Weapons package complete, Captain. All stations report no damage.”
Captain Heather tried to grin. “Feels better when you get to do it yourself, doesn’t it? Now let’s just hope those men make it into shore.”
“Men?” The TAO looked puzzled. For just a moment, he thought the captain might have finally lost his mind. But no, glancing at the self-satisfied visage, he knew better. TAO or not, there were still things the captain knew that he didn’t.
“Jesus! Will you look at that?” Sikes pointed toward the horizon. “Looks like they started their Fourth of July celebration a little early.” He smiled, a cold, twisted line to his lips. The amusement never reached his eyes.
Behind him in the RHIB, three other SEALs shifted slightly to keep their balance as they also turned to watch.
“Makes for a nice diversion, doesn’t it?” one of them said to no one in particular. “Beats a helicopter gunship, anyway.”
“Yeah, like you’d know anything about them,” Huerta said mildly. “Boy, I was taking helicopter gunships into areas that didn’t have any names while you were still sucking on your mama’s tit. You use ‘em right, there’s nothing that beats it.” He turned back to the horizon as three new far-off explosions echoed in the air. A trace of respect crossed his face. “Have to admit, though, this is nice.”
“Let’s see if it works first.” Sikes’s voice was still grim.
“How will we know if it works?” Garcia asked, more out of curiosity than any real need to know.
Huerta and Sikes exchanged an amused look. Huerta turned back to the younger sailor. “If there are people standing on the beach waitin’ to offer us a friendly greeting when we show up, it didn’t work.”
Huerta smiled. “And it won’t be the first time nor the last that that’s happened to a SEAL.”
“Lost contact over land,” the TAO reported. He slipped one of the earphones off so that he could listen to the chatter inside the compartment. The sailors were starting to talk now, breaking into professional discussions of how the launch had been executed as well as exchanging congratulations.
“Good work.” The captain’s voice was warm. “Nice to have the first operational test out of the way, isn’t it?”
The TAO nodded. “Sir, you mentioned some men. ” he ventured.
The captain smiled, real relief crossing his face. “Let’s just say that we’re doing our part for a SAR mission and leave it at that.”
“Okay, gents, just like last time. You know the drill.” Sikes touched his gear, verifying the tightness of the connections, then took a hard look at Garcia. Behind him, Huerta and Carter were performing similar services for each other.
Finally, satisfied that all their gear was operational, they slipped into the warm water and headed for shore.
Twenty miles to the southeast, the other team was repeating the same maneuver. The diversion to the north, in the form of Arsenal’s cruise missiles bombarding isolated military targets, drew Cuban forces away from both landing zones, at least to the extent of available reserves.
But, as Sikes had noted, there was always somebody who didn’t get the word.
“Helluva good swim.” Sikes forced the words out, trying to disguise his urgent desire to suck in deep, gasping breaths.
To his right, Huerta smiled slightly, recognizing the deception.
“You might start finding time from now on to break away from that paperwork for more IT,” Huerta mused. He took the entrenching tool out of his backpack, unfolded it, and began digging a shallow hole near the base of one tree. He’d already taken his cammies out of the waterproof pack, carefully reversing the vent that allowed him to pump air out of the plastic container. He stood, stripped off his wet suit, and folded it carefully before putting it in the hole. He then slipped into his cammies.
The other SEALs followed suit, metamorphosing from waterborne warriors to land commandos. Versatility was one of the most critical qualities of any SEAL team.
After the preliminaries, they set off east, traveling in a widely spaced, snaking line toward their objective. Huerta took point and vanished into the shadows. Sikes caught an occasional glimpse of him, sometimes just the slightest hint of movement, but never saw the man in profile against the sky, or the slightest glimmer of equipment. It was as though he was a ghost, an unnatural presence stalking the land.
Sikes tried his best to follow suit, knowing that in the arcane science of this type of warfare, he was hopelessly outclassed.
Finding the concrete building where their objective was supposedly housed was simple. At that hour of the night, men’s spirits and attention spans are at their lowest. With the sun still hours away, even in the southern tropical climate, sentries around the world found it difficult to concentrate on the graduated shades of black and shadow around them. If anyone were still on watch, not drawn off to the north by the diversion, that is. The SEALs were counting on the Arsenal ship’s evening the odds.