"Target identification?"
"The big guy has to be an Argy KC-130. No doubt about it. No make on the small stuff yet. Could be two to four aircraft per flight and they're too far out to get a skin-track silhouette. These guys are being real quiet. Sigint indicates they're maintaining total EMCON. No radio, no radar, no transponders. Miss Christine's gang over in Raven's Roost says this is pretty damn unusual for this outfit."
"Maybe it's just some kind of training exercise," Hiro commented. "None of the other Argy harassment flights have used aerial refueling. Their aircraft have range enough to reach us without it."
"Not if it was an armed strike package," Arkady said soberly. "You'd be carrying ordnance on some of your hardpoints instead of drop tanks. You'd also want to top off on fuel before you went in over your target, so you'd have a big maneuvering reserve in case you had trouble… Hey, check this out."
On the flatscreen, Contact Charley had fissioned just as it crossed the 180-mile ranging line.
"Bridge," the squawk box sounded. "The fast movers have separated from the tanker. Estimate three two-plane elements, now coded as Contacts Delta, Echo, and Foxtrot. New targets have accelerated to six hundred knots and are closing the range. Target Charley is now turning away to the north."
"He's not the only one. It looks like Pedro is bugging out."
"I see it, Arkady," Amanda said. "Dix, what's going on with that Argentine Atlantique?"
"He transmitted a nonscheduled position fix on us just before conducting his breakaway. He's descending and he's increasing speed."
"He's hauling ass before he gets it blown off," Arkady murmured under his breath.
On the repeater, the three fighter-bomber flights had fanned out into a broad triangle, an arrow fired from the Argentine mainland dead-on at the Cunningham. It would arrive on target in approximately sixteen minutes. Amanda shot a glance at each of the two officers that flanked her.
"Gentlemen, I need your evaluations, right now."
"We haven't seen anything like this before, Captain," her exec said quietly. "Something's up."
"Arkady?"
"If this isn't an armed Sierra strike, it's a helluva good imitation."
"Right. Mr. Hiro, I'm shifting the con to CIC. You have the bridge. Sound general quarters."
From bow to stem, all decks of the Duke were filled with the flat metallic honking of the GQ klaxons, the hammering of running feet, and the slam of watertight doors. Over all came the emotionless voice of the duty quartermaster. "General quarters. General quarters. All hands proceed to your battle stations. This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill."
Down in the Combat Information Center, the systems operators began reciting the techno-litany that brought the destroyer's weapons arrays fully to life.
"Main turret indexing check, fore and aft."
"I have green lights, fore and aft, elevation and traverse."
"Phalanx safety interlocks off. Cycling to full autofire mode."
"Confirm helm and lee helm control shifted to CIC. Bridge and Main Engineering control to ready-use standby."
"All power rooms fully lit off and on-line."
"Alpha, Bravo, and Charley ESSM flights selected and armed. VLS cell doors opened and visually verified. Confirm hot birds on the rails!"
Amanda strode into the CIC to find her command chair empty and waiting for her. "Tactical Officer, status?" she demanded.
"The ship is at general quarters, Captain," Beltrain replied. "All weapons and defense systems up and on-line.
Condition Zebra set in all spaces. Awaiting your orders, ma'am."
"What's the situation with the bogeys?"
"Bogeys have descended to wave-top altitude and are currently below our radar horizon. As of last contact they were continuing to close the range. Given no change in speed or heading, Contact Delta will be reacquired in approximately twelve minutes. Targets Echo and Foxtrot will be reacquired and will cross our bow and stern respectively at about a five-mile range at about one-minute intervals thereafter."
"Right. Where's our nearest heavy cloud cover?"
The tac officer dialed a weather overlay in on the Alpha Screen. "The nearest squall line is about twenty miles to the southeast."
Damn, damn, damn! A stealth warship must always seek out protective weather cover. She had helped to write that doctrine. Then, first crack out of the box, she had allowed herself to be seduced by a patch of blue sky.
"We going to try and go stealth and evade, ma'am?"
"It's too late, Dix. They have us fixed. We'll have to take it as it comes."
"Aye, aye."
"When the bogeys close to an estimated one hundred miles range, go to tactical on the primary display."
"Will do."
"Communications, anything from those aircraft yet?"
"No, ma'am."
"Then get on their standard frequencies. Warn those planes off!"
"Aye, aye."
"Then get a link with CINCLANT. Tell them that we have Argentine aircraft in our vicinity, maneuvering with possible hostile intent. Inform them that we have gone to general quarters and that we will keep them advised."
The Argentine strike fighters had dropped down to within fifty feet of the ocean's surface, down where the jet wash of their engines flattened the wave crests and the spray pinged off their windscreens like pebbles kicked up off a gravel road. The aircrews knew that this zero-altitude approach granted them a temporary reprieve at best. They didn't need to hear the Duke's transmitted warning to know that they had already been detected. Their threat boards had reacted to a radar sweep of a kind they had never before seen. Sooner or later, they must pull back up into the sight of their enemies. There was nothing for it but to hunker a few feet closer to the sea and delay the inevitable for as long as they could.
"I do not believe that they are doing this," Beltrain murmured.
"They might not be," Amanda replied. "These guys could still be playing mind games with us."
"At what point do we decide that it isn't a game?"
"Well, Dix. That's the question now, isn't it?"
Amanda's instincts were all telling her that this was the real thing. However, when you are about to commit your nation to war, you dare not trust to instincts alone.
"We will be reacquiring Contact Delta within the next ten seconds, Captain," the Aegis operator reported quietly. The MMS system activated, the image from the masthead camera windowing into the corner of the Alpha Screen. Just above the juncture line of sea and sky, there was a faint smudge of kerosene smoke with two gleaming metallic dots centered in it.
"Contact Delta is over the horizon. Line of sight and fire established."
Okay, Captain under God, fish or cut bait.
"Tactical Officer, designate the Tornadoes."
"Aye, aye. Designating Tornadoes now."
On the main display, a diamond-shaped targeting box blinked into existence around the closest flight of Argentine aircraft. On the outer skin of the superstructure, phased-array cells energized and a pair of tightly focused radar beams lanced out to paint the oncoming jets.
Aboard the Tornadoes, threat boards screamed as the Cunningham's fire-control systems locked on. The Argentine element leader was startled. His mission profile had called for him to push in closer before commencing his own attack. However, he hadn't expected that his intended target would react so swiftly. After a split-second hesitation, he snapped a command to his systems operator in the rear cockpit and pulled up into his launching maneuver.