That had been three or four iterations ago. So that particular problem shouldn’t recur. But any others that popped up … He hoped the team was on top of this.
“Captain, MDU complete.”
“Very well, Lieutenant Singhe.” He stretched to work out a cramp in his back, wishing NavSea would spend a few more of those defense dollars making the chairs a little more comfortable.
The red phone again. “Savo, Pittsburgh, this is TSC. Verbal Indigo 001 Delta Tango Golf follows. Savo: Mission target 1A1, verification CODE 56342. Quantity, one Block three Charlie. Time on top: Shoot soonest.
“Savo: Mission target 1D1. Code 14353. Quantity, one Block three Charlie, time on top…” The voice droned on; the team, heads down, were scrutinizing each target and code on the screens. “Break; how copy, over?”
Singhe repeated back, exactly, what the strike controller had just passed. Not a lot of chatter from the rest of the team, a good sign; people who knew their jobs didn’t need to talk a lot. They’d be entering verification codes and required text data. Comparing the launch-sequence plan with what the computer was spitting out.
Singhe, on the Strike circuit. “Captain? Request permission to send, TLAM make ready.”
The “make ready” command sent engagement plans and mission data to the missiles, which would power up and start the test protocols. Dan clicked his mike. “Granted.”
“TLAM make ready, plans sent.”
“Missiles pair, all plans.”
Standard commands, from drills on the old Horn. The combination of familiarity and reality felt weird, the way it always did when he’d had to fight. Like two layers of reality, drill and what was really happening.
Mills murmured, “Lahav still on our starboard quarter. No surface or air contacts other than Iranian group fifty miles to the south. No air tracks except for Red Hawk. We’ll clear him to the west just before launch. EW reports coastal radars have ceased illuminating.”
“Huh,” Dan said.
Singhe, on the circuit. “Missions checked and downloaded. Rounds spinning up.”
“Spinning up, aye.” Once in flight, the rounds would navigate by GPS, but for the initial regime they’d depend on gyros to operate their vanes for boost, pitchover, and transition to engine start. Which was usually where things went to shit. Dan kept wanting to lean forward, say something, but reined himself in. He got up again and was pacing around when the engagement planner called, “Skipper? Ready for onscreen approval.”
Dan bent over his shoulder, checking the graphic display. No problem with the flight path. He checked missile type and time data. It all looked good. “Mission 1A1 approved. Send to launch.”
Singhe was off the red phone. Dan moved back so she could take her normal seat again. Murmured, “Launch direction.”
“OOD, Strike: Verify launch direction clear to port.”
Mytsalo verified that the bearing was clear. She warned him not to change course or speed for the next ten minutes, then went back to the countdown. At minus two minutes she picked up the 1MC mike. “All hands. Tomahawk missiles will be launching from forward and aft launchers. All hands remain clear of weather decks while salvo alarm is sounding.”
Mills, at his elbow. “Captain? The helo…?”
“Thanks, Matt. Let’s get Strafer out of there.”
Mills, on the Transmit button. “Red Hawk, Matador. One minute to launch; stand clear to the west.”
The pilot rogered up. The salvo warning alarm wailed faintly through steel. Dan closed his eyes, tracking his mental checklist.
“Confirm whip and fan antennas silent.”
“Confirm blast exhaust doors open.”
“Alignment complete.”
“Time to launch: thirty seconds.”
His cue. He’d worn the keys around his neck, on the same chain as his Academy-issue dog tags, since they’d left Naples. He stood above the launch console. Lifted beaded steel over his head, and handed the key to Singhe.
“Time to launch, ten seconds.”
Singhe plugged her own key in, then Dan’s. Glanced at him, the dark eyes passionless, and gave each a half turn.
Everyone looked at him. Dan waited a beat, then nodded. “Batteries released, primary plan.”
“Salvo firing commence,” Singhe said, and the launch controller hit the Shoot button.
A distant thud, then a shudder: the cell and uptake hatches slamming open.
Someone had focused one of the gun cameras on the forward VLS. Along with the others in CIC, Dan watched a huge ball of flame suddenly burst into existence just aft of the forward five-inch gun. Almost too fast for the eye to follow, the missile flamed up through its rubber waterproofing membrane, then slung suddenly upward from its cell.
Like an Olympic gymnast performing some complex twist while hurtling through the air, it reoriented, surrounded by the glare of the orange flame, and departed, a bright star quickly dwindling. Smoke blasted across the field of view, then thinned in the wind. Hemicylindrical covers tumbled through the air, blown free in the first hundred meters of boost.
The camera tracked jerkily upward, and caught it again. An orange star, red as Mars, still climbing, still shrinking. He’d seen the sequence dozens of times, first during development, then in predeployment testing, then during Prime Needle … until it sometimes seemed that the weapon he’d shepherded through its teething was the main way his country interacted with the Arab world. The engine inlet popping open, shedding the dual shrouds protecting the exhaust. Fuselage wing plug covers ejecting. Steering and stabilization fins switchblading out, followed by the wings. Then booster burnout, and the nose dropping.
He held his breath, but there it was, the winkout of the orange spark of the booster, and nearly simultaneously, the black smoke of engine start.…
Singhe keyed her red phone. “Cutlass, this is Savo. Greyhound away. Break. 1A1, transition to cruise. Out.”
Dan blinked at the screen. The smoke column looked grayer than he recalled. Had they changed the booster composition? The remaining missiles went out at eleven-second intervals. It was growing dark. Another missile ignited into orange fire, illuminating the forecastle in glaring Halloween light, lofted, dwindled. Then the launch-roar shifted aft as the rounds in the stern magazine woke, ignited, and departed, a squadron of avenging furies.
“Rounds complete,” Singhe told him at last. He passed a trembling hand over his forehead and turned away. Shaken, as if his own sinew and muscle had lifted tons of explosives and sent them hurtling over sea and land. But then he had to turn back and take the key she pressed into his hand. Loop it over his neck again, feeling the stainless chain warm from her hands, slick from his own sweat and perhaps hers, too.
He said hoarsely, “I’ll be topside when you’re ready to send the firing report.”
On the bridge, it was nearing full dark. He brought Savo around to clear the submarine’s range. If a booster failed, he didn’t want to be in the way. Then stood on the wing with his binoculars, watching Pittsburgh firing from beneath the dark sea. The big night glasses pulled each missile in close as it leapt free of the waves, ignited with hot red-orange flame, and blowtorched away into suddenly brilliant night. Tangerine glared off onyx crests. Smoke trails glowed like cotton candy, draped across a black starless sky. Every eleven seconds another blasted up from the deep, ignited, and accelerated off. He followed them in the dark double circles of the glasses until they occulted. Youngblood called over the red phone, giving his end-of-salvo report. Cutlass acknowledged and made the launch area cold, but told both shooters to keep the remaining TLAMs powered up until further notice.