When the Gangbusters order came in, she tensed as Lenson rogered. When he signed off it took him two tries to resocket the handset.
“Did I hear ‘Gangbusters’?” she murmured. “Did you say ‘emulate’?”
“Yeah. Stand by to squawk flattop.”
She started to protest. Then realized there was no way she could.
That was a cruiser’s reason for being, after all. Why Savo and her sisters had been designed, equipped, manned, tested, against this very moment.
Protect the higher-value unit.
Still she muttered, so low no one other than Mills could have overheard, “Dan. There can’t — you couldn’t light up—”
Lenson looked as if he were being torn in two. “Someone else? I can’t sacrifice Sejong. Not politically possible. Savo’s, um, the oldest unit out here. And you’re nearly out of ABM rounds.” His gaze slid off hers. “I’m sorry.”
She sat frozen for a second. Both horrified and ashamed. Then, forcing her fingers to function, clicked to the EW circuit. “CO.”
“EW, aye.”
She blinked at the bloody fingerprints she left on the selector switch. “Make all preparations to squawk Gangbusters. I say again, Gangbusters.”
For a second no answer came. Then the voice at the far end repeated the command, acknowledging.
Beside her Mills was typing, transferring command of Savo’s in-flight SMs. The missiles got updates, refining their guidance second by second. Hampton Roads would have to handle that now, until the third stage popped the nose cone, exposing the seeker.
The EW operator called, “Truman and Reagan off the air. No radar. No comms.” Then a moment later, over the IC circuit. “Radiating Gangbusters—now.”
The radar picture jittered, faded, changed. Of course: they couldn’t both emulate the carrier’s radar and gain the optimal picture the SPY-1s provided. Which meant not only that they were attracting the hornets, but that the warheads plunging downward toward them could not be refired on if their first salvo missed. She rubbed her mouth, then remembered: the blood. When she pressed her sleeve to her face the material came away blotched red. “Okay, we’re — squawking flattop.”
The steel around her seemed to snap into focus, in a way it hadn’t since Lenson had given her the news last night. She squeezed Mills’s arm. “Can you think of anything else we should be doing?”
He evaluated the displays. “We’ve been at GQ for over twenty hours, Captain. If we aren’t ready by now… Just get set to let everything fly, I guess. I’ll tell the Army guys aft to spin up the Stingers. And we should probably come bow-on to Group Alfa. If they have 802s, they’re gonna slide in low, all together.”
She leaned past him. “Admiral, should we pull everyone in tighter? Interlock fires?”
He seemed torn. Probably still fearing a nuke. But the two dozen — plus aircraft bearing down were a more immediate danger. “Probably not a bad idea,” he said at last, picked up the red phone, and started assigning new stations.
Which they had only minutes to slip into… Savo heeled as she came to the new course. Cheryl took a deep breath. What was the worst that could happen? That she’d be with Eddie tonight?
No. There were worse things than that. Such as getting her whole crew killed. “Let’s get some Standards out there,” she told Mills. “Take down the leaders. Maybe that’ll give the others second thoughts.”
The deckplates tremored. White smoke billowed on the cameras. Over the next minutes eight enhanced-range Standards bolted from their cells, reoriented, and streaked off to the north, leaving contrails that glowed phosphorescent in the dark. Savo’s combat system transferred control to Kristensen. She noted the time. Still an hour before dawn. The networked picture showed the other task force units launching as well. The system deconflicted them automatically, ensuring no more than two weapons were assigned to each target.
“Stand by for intercept, Meteor Bravo,” Soongapurn called. Reminding her that they still had North Korean ballistic warheads burning down toward them. Two for Savo, two for Hampton Roads.
Cheryl put her hand on Lenson’s sleeve. “Dan. Sir. Can I secure Gangbusters? We’re standing by for intercept.”
He hesitated, squinting at the displays. Then nodded. “Both gaggles are guiding on us now. Back to ABM mode.”
The rightmost screen blinked, changed, zoomed.
On a hot, brilliantly white dot, glowing violently in the far infrared. As the warhead plunged through the upper atmosphere, it grew both its infrared signature and an ionization trail. The electrically charged plume actually generated a more pronounced radar return than the metal at its heart. The pulsating brackets of the system lock-on displayed more jerkiness than she liked. The display abruptly lurched from it to another burning white dot, making her stiffen. But then it snapped back. ALIS was switching its attention between the two incoming terminal bodies assigned to Savo. The other pair, Cheryl would just have to take on faith that the other cruiser was handling.
She gripped her desk, ignoring the sticky bloodstains she must be leaving. A chill harrowed her back. Watching the bullet aimed at you, as it came in… waiting for it to hit…
“Intercept, Meteor Bravo… now,” called the Terror.
The brackets jerked, slewing off, tumbling through space. They swerved up, down, left, right, before locking once more.
Cheryl squinted up at the vibrating slushy image. Instead of a single pip, tumescent with ionization, the screen showed three separate returns. Each dimmed, then rebrightened, but at different rates, like uncoordinated strobes.
The brightening and dimming was a deformed body tumbling through space. Varying its radar cross section. Disintegrating, under the massive g-forces of hypersonic reentry.
“Meteor Bravo, breakup,” Terranova called. “Shifting to Meteor Charlie.”
The screen jerked and zoomed back, hunted, then drilled back in as the brackets snagged the second warhead. The trail of this comet, the nimbus of superheated, radar-reflecting ionosphere, was larger than that of the first. A heavier payload? Or just a stouter airframe, holding together better?
The air controller called, “Hampton Roads reports hard kill, Meteor Alfa.”
Terranova yelled over his words, “Stand by for intercept, Meteor Charlie… now.”
This time the lock-on stuck tight. A bloom of return coruscated silently onscreen. Flame? Gas? The new kinetic-kill heads carried no explosives. Sheer velocity drove their destructive power. But something odd was happening.… “What’s that look like to you, Doctor?” she called to Soongapurn.
The MDA physicist was frowning. “I’m not certain… looks like some damage, but…”
“Stand by for second round intercept—”
The falling comet stayed rock steady. “Miss,” someone breathed.
Okay, a miss, but she’d targeted three homers against each incomer. One had yet to hit. The ionizing blur kept growing. The picture pulled back to encompass its swelling bloom. Deep in its center, like a shrunken star after a supernova, the warhead itself glowed. One thousand, two thousand… as she reached eleven, the picture rocked again.