“Pass it to ComFifth. Probably nothing, but they need to know if it’s some kind of local environment thing.”
Dan patted Terranova’s well-padded shoulder, cleared his throat, and pulled himself back to the problem at hand. He couldn’t just wait. On the other hand, he couldn’t pick a fight. He went over it all again in his head, hoping he wasn’t getting ready to really screw up, then grabbed the handset. “Red Hawk, Matador Actual.”
“202, over. Hey, Skipper.”
“Hey. Confirm, you hold altitude limitations on Misaghs. Over.”
“We have angels three on Misaghs. Over.”
“That’s correct,” Mills put in from the TAO’s seat.
Glancing over, Dan saw the redbound book open in front of him. “Um, confirm angels three on this end. Now listen up. We talked last night about maybe trailing some bacon in front of these guys?”
“Coming left, to conform to your base course.”
Dan checked the pip that was Red Hawk 202. Five miles ahead, with the speed vector out front. Good. “Okay. Run the ball up the middle, but stay above angels four. No… make it five. And keep your finger on that flare button.”
“Giving them a sniff?” Donnie Wenck muttered.
Dan didn’t answer. The leftmost screen changed, became hurtling waves: in black and white, jerky, because of the bandwidth limitations, but real-time video from the helo. It flinched right, left, then steadied on four boats skipping white trails across black water. In classic line abreast, like the old movies of World War II PT boats. They looked closer than they ought to from five thousand feet, but that might just be the magnification. Dan murmured, “Matt, get our speed up. Also, pass to EW and the EA-6B, to start jamming their radars and comms.” He picked up the red handset to Mitscher. “Matador actual. Stand by.”
“Anvil, standing by.”
From one of the speeding boats, a point of light ignited. The next frame showed it lancing upward at the tip of a cone of shining cloud.
Dan said, enunciating clearly, because this was being taped and would be gone over many times: “This is Matador. My helo is taking hostile fire. Execute form one. Flank speed. Interval five.” Out of the background noise he registered the CIC watch officer passing the same order over fleet tactical, then over the HF blower to the fleet commander.
“Roger. I see them. Maneuvering now.” And simultaneously over the other circuit, from the destroyer’s OOD, “Form one, speed three zero, roger, out.”
Dan pressed the 21MC lever. “Bridge, CO. Exec, execute Bacon Sandwich. Ahead flank emergency. Left hard rudder, pull us out to port.”
On the screen, the picture jerked, then banked crazily as Red Hawk tilted away. Sky filled the screen, then was replaced by video from the ship’s own forward gun camera. Wenck was thinking ahead, feeding Dan information via the screens. The flat, nearly calm sea. And above it, in the distance, a fleeing speck, striding away on what looked like immense spider-legs of flame-tipped smoke that spiraled slowly downward. “Strafer” Wilker, crapping flares as more missiles climbed after him.
The EW operator called, “Racket, racket. Heavy jamming, R band, correlates with EA-6B.”
Dan said, “Okay, but are we jamming too? I don’t want these guys to be able to coordinate their movements.”
Mills said they were, at the same moment the air controller stated, in Dan’s headset, “SAM, SAM! Red Hawk reports taking fire. Initiating evasive action.”
“Tell him to clear to the west and circle to his port. Pick out a target, but hold fire.”
The order went down the line. Dan studied the screen as Savo Island shuddered as if in orgasm, leaning into the turn, then out again as the rudders bit deep and the engines, full out, pushed her faster and faster. He wasn’t going to outrun a hovercraft, but he could remold the tactical situation. Three small islands lay south of where the leftward cluster of boats milled. He had just enough water to go between two of them. The major unknown was going to be, first, if whoever was in charge of the southern gaggle tumbled to what he was doing, and second, if that commander could communicate his countermove fast enough to forestall Dan’s.
“Matador, this is Anvil. In your wake five-hundred-yards interval. Conforming to your movements. Over.”
Dan acknowledged, and added a sentence explaining his aim. Beside him, Mills was passing the information to Fifth Fleet and Strike One. On the big screen, the southern group were still milling around, not moving in one direction or the other. As if they couldn’t use their tactical radio channel anymore… since the Prowler, far above, was broadcasting enough jamming power to light up a small city.
Time to further isolate the battlefield. “Air Control, CO. Pass to the F-18s. Our helo’s been fired on. He’s clearing to the west. Focus on the boats to the north of a line between the islands Forur and Kuchek. That is, the formation closest to the mainland. If any cross the transit lane heading south: warning shots, then take them out. But weapons tight on anyone moving north.” He made the petty officer repeat that, then clicked his Hydra on. “Cheryl, CO.”
“XO, over.”
“Got the picture here? Between the shoal area to port and the low island bearing about one-niner-zero true. Keep Van Gogh on the GPS. Watch the fathometer, but take us through at flank. Mitscher will follow. When we’re clear, we’ll come right, and weapons free at that time.”
She rogered. Dan made sure Mills had that too, and the orders rippled away. He gripped the chair arms. The whole ship was shaking, vibrating as sheer power wedged the sea apart. The speed indicator trembled just short of 35. “Start designating targets,” he told Mills. The Aegis picture jumped forward as the combat system began selecting targets and assigning ordnance. He checked on the helo. Still out to the west, completing a lazy circle as the first two F-18s dived, their altitude readouts spinning downward, toward the transit lane.
So far, so good. With eight Hellfires hanging off his pylons, Wilker would hit the enemy from the west, while Savo and Mitscher slammed the door to the south. The islands and shoals would pen the Pasdaran in to the west and eastward, and the F-18s would polish off anybody who tried to come to their aid. On the other hand, for anyone who felt like retreating, the back gate was open. He clicked the Hydra again. “Hold the bubble up there, Cheryl. I’m gonna be too busy to talk. Keep an open channel to Sonar for torpedo warnings. Hold speed once you pass the shoal.”
“XO, roger.”
Mills said, “Southern element’s turning toward.”
“I see it,” Dan told the TAO. “Take with Harpoon.” The screen zoomed, and four pips turned red and began to pulse. Missiles weren’t all he had to worry about. Peykaaps and Tirs carried torpedo tubes, too. If they had Shkvals, they could really be dangerous, but according to intel they didn’t have big enough tubes for it. He hoped that was right.
“Matador, this is Anvil actual. Interrogative: Who’s taking these first four? Over.”
Dan told Stonecipher, “Matador will take first wave. Anvil takes second wave. But keep an eye out behind you for those Combattantes. Out.”
Mills said, tone as even as if this were just another drill, “We have a Harpoon solution. Request batteries released.”