Defcon One (1989) (12 page)

Where's it going? O'Neill tensed, knowing the answer in advance.

Destination?

Cuba.

Keep us informed, the flight leader replied, swearing to himself.

Have Mother send more chicks, mucho has to!

Roger, Buzzard. Two of the Jolly Rogers' are on the way, call sign Scooter. We'll switch them to your freq in a couple minutes.

Okay, O'Neill paused. Texaco, you copy Buzzard?

Roger, Buzzard. The tanker pilot sounded relaxed. We are anchored over the Virginia at two-six-oh. Need some gas and a windshield wipe this evening?

That's affirm, we're on our way.

O'Neill looked over at Cangemi's dull gray Tomcat.

Let's go upstairs. Two.

Rajah.

Simpson had turned back on course directly to the Eisenhower, relieved to have the Viking overhead. His relief was short-lived when he became aware of the approaching Russian fighters, now an airborne threat.

Mister Jenkins, status report on our Sea Sparrows, Simpson commanded as he nervously paced the bridge.

Loaded, all systems up, launchers at the ready. Radar tracking indicates up status. Captain.

Very well, Simpson replied, tapping his Naval Academy ring on the rim of his clipboard.

The bridge was hushed as everyone swayed back and forth, contemplating the next few minutes. The Virginia was at battle stations, tension coursing through the ship as she topped each wave and plunged into the next abyss, sending tremors reverberating through the hull.

Simpson and the bridge crew listened to the pilots rendezvousing overhead.

Stingray, Scooter flight has a tally on the Buzzards, radioed It.

Davey Pork Heimler. Going tactical.

Copy, Scooter, answered the fully awake controller.

Button four.

Rog. Going' four, switch, the Jolly Roger fighter pilot ordered his wingman.

Scooter up.

Two, responded It. (jg) Jeb Graves.

Buzzards, Scooter flight is aboard. Your seven, easin' in, two hundred fifty indicated.

' Good show, O'Neill answered, concentrating on his egress from the KA-cd. Better top off.

Scooter, Texaco, the tanker pilot radioed. You're cleared to plug.

Rog. One is plugging.

Heimler eased closer to the trailing basket connected to the fuel hose.

He slowed his closure rate to a barely perceptible mating with the bouncing basket.

Night refueling, always difficult because of a lack of depth perception, was not something pilots looked forward to facing.

Heimler glanced at the tanker, then keyed his microphone.

How much gas you have left?

'Bout four thousand pounds, the tanker jock answered nonchalantly.

Another Tex is on the way.

Okay, Heimler said. I'll take two grand and my partner can drain the rest.

Fair enough.

Simpson looked at the sonar repeater. The Soviet sub was holding the same relative position. He lifted his binoculars and scanned the horizon, wishing for dawn to arrive.

The Virginia's captain couldn't distinguish anything in the black, raging storm, but it made him feel more comfortable than sitting idle, waiting.

The radio speaker continued to blare, harsh in the confines of the bridge, as the fighter pilots finished their airborne refueling.

Simpson's disdain for aviators had diminished in the past fifteen minutes.

' Buzzard flight, Stingray.' This was a new voice, apparently the number one quarterback on the Hawkeye team.

Go, O'Neill radioed, closely monitoring his right engine gauges.

The bogies are at your ten o'clock, one hundred out.

The four Tomcats, with replenished fuel tanks, had been orbiting in a racetrack course over the Virginia.

Rog, Stingray. O'Neill was breathing faster, tension straining his voice. The fluctuating engine problem had to be forgotten at this point.

This is now Buzzard flight, O'Neill radioed. Both sections go combat spread. Three and Four to the right.

Two!

Three!

Four!

O'Neill could feel rivulets of sweat trickle down his temples as he checked his armament panel. He breathed deeply and forced himself to relax. Come port twenty degrees. Let's go switches hot.

Two!

Three!

Four!

You okay, Jeff? O'Neill clicked his intercom button. He hadn't heard a word from his radar intercept officer in five minutes.

Yeah, doin' fine, replied a hushed voice. I've got a sweet lock.

The RIO, Lt. (jg) Jeffery Barnes was new to the squadron and O'Neill could understand his problem. This was a rude introduction to operational flying.

Okay, stay alert, O'Neill said in an encouraging tone.

This deal is too well-orchestrated to suit me.

Barnes shifted his gaze outside the canopy. I was thinking the same thing.

Simpson set his third cup of coffee down on a tray, too nervous to taste the black liquid. He repeatedly swallowed involuntarily.

Captain, sonar.

Captain, Simpson responded immediately, swiveling in his bridge chair.

Sir, the sub is surfacing, the operator said quietly. Or coming to periscope depth.

Simpson looked through his binoculars at the black, turbulent ocean.

You sure?

Yes sir, they're blowing tanks. The petty officer waited a moment, then responded to what he was hearing.

A lot of activity ... and noise.

Simpson turned to Jenkins, simultaneously asking a question and giving an order. Where's the XO? Tell the Viking to get on top of the sub, or we're going to be shark bait!

The exec is in CIC, sir. Jenkins felt like he was on a treadmill.

They notified Killer Seven-oh-six.

JESUS!

WHAT THE HELL!

Everyone ducked or flinched as a brilliant flash turned night into bright day for a millisecond. There was a streak of light, too fast to follow, accompanied by a resounding crack and low rumble.

MAY DAY! MAY DAY! Killer Seven-oh-six, we've been hit! We're going' in!EJECT! EJECT! The pilot was still transmitting on the radio, forgetting to switch to ICS.

Simpson was in shock as he followed the action over the speaker.

Outside, less than a mile from the Virginia, a flaming ball of debris was tumbling toward the ocean. Jenkins had to remind Simpson that they needed to take action.

Captain Simpson, the sub shot down the Viking! What do you want to--?

Commence firing on the sub! Simpson ordered, throwing off the mental block.

SAMS! SAMS! Cangemi radioed, ducking as another flash of light streaked past his canopy. The Viking is down!

Buzzard flight, hold your fire! Hold your fire!

O'Neill was waiting for confirmation on the bogies. The Virginia would have to deal with the sub. He had his hands full setting up for the aerial engagement.

Buzzard, this is Stingray, the Hawkeye controller radioed.

Understand the Viking is Suddenly the darkness glowed miles in front of the American fighter planes. A high-pitched warble sounded in the ears of the four pilots and their RIOS. The Russian fighter pilots had launched their air-to-air missiles in unison.

Buzzard flight, launch missiles! O'Neill ordered, fumbling with his armament panel. Three and Four, break right! One and Two going' for knots ... comin' left!

Three and Four, FOX ONE! Heimler radioed as the AIM-7M Sparrow missiles streaked out in front of the Tomcats.

Going right!

Heimler snapped into a gut-wrenching 7-G turn, then glanced at the flash below him. What the hell ... is that ... on the surface?

Don't know! O'Neill was straining to breathe under the 8-G load he forced on the laboring Tomcat. One and Two going high, O'Neill groaned as he pulled back hard on the control stick, sending the big fighter into a supersonic pure vertical climb. The two Tomcats were indicating Mach 1.2 as they rocketed skyward into the sullen clouds.

O'Neill's engine problem had been forgotten.

God, what happened? Cangemi asked, inching closer to Buzzard One.

O'Neill never had a chance to answer. His fighter exploded in a horrendous fireball, lighting the sky in an eerie yellow-white burst of light.

More explosions lit the night, causing chaos over the aircraft radios.

Stingray! Stingray! We're going dow

MAY DAY! MAY DAY! shouted a high-pitched voice.

WE'RE PUNCHIN'!

Three seconds later Cangemi felt the impact of a Russian air-to-air missile. He was blinded by the explosion as his Tomcat tumbled toward the icy water, spinning wildly and spewing flaming jet fuel.

The left wing had been blown off and the fuselage was riddled with holes, leaving the young Marine pilot with only one option. Cangemi thumbed the ICS and yelled at his RIO.

EJECT! EJECT!

Cangemi could feel his head being bashed violently against the canopy as his body slammed from side to side. Then he noted the altimeter, rapidly spiraling downward, as he reached up over his helmet with both hands and pulled his ejection seat handle.

The protective face curtain had just covered his helmet visor when the blast from the rear seat ejection turned the cockpit into a howling hurricane. One-half second later Cangemi hurtled into space to join his radar intercept officer.

Buzzard One, gravely injured during the ballistic ejection, was already in his parachute, trailing his RIO down to the cold, rolling ocean.

O'Neill viewed the devastation in shock and pain as he descended below the cloud base. He could see the Virginia in the distance, flames and smoke pouring from the aft section of the cruiser. It appeared to O'Neill as if the entire fantail was ablaze.

The sky was still lit by explosions and parachute flares as O'Neill slowly drifted toward the Virginia, suspended by his parachute risers over the flames and falling debris. A sudden flash to his left, followed seconds later by an explosive noise, marked the grave of his Tomcat fighter.

O'Neill ripped off his oxygen mask, tossing it away in the darkness, and started preparing for his entry into the frigid waters.

The pilot knew he would succumb to hypothermia in minutes if he couldn't board his one-man life raft or be plucked from the freezing waters by a rescue helicopter.

Another aircraft hit the water and exploded with a deafening roar, causing O'Neill to involuntarily jerk around in his torso harness. It was impossible to tell if it was a Russian or American aircraft.

Debris was raining down all around him. The Navy fighter pilot, battling unconsciousness, fervently hoped all four Russians were in the drink.

Cangemi's parachute opened with shocking force from the high-speed ejection. As the slightly injured Marine aviator descended below the clouds, struggling with his survival gear, another aircraft smashed into the water with a deafening concussion.

Looking in the direction of the Virginia, Cangemi thought he saw another parachute descend below the cloud deck. He didn't have time to study the other figure. The sight of whitecaps indicated only seconds to prepare for the shock of entry into freezing waters.

SEAHAWK THIRTY-EIGHT Hector Chaveze was only twenty miles from the Virginia when he heard the melee erupt. The lieutenant wheeled his helicopter around in a 180-degree turn and raced for his ship as fast as the LAMPS would go. He didn't hesitate a second, realizing aircrew members and ship's company from the Virginia might be in the cold, turbulent ocean. Chaveze and his crew would be their only hope in these conditions.

The LAMPS pilot thought about the fact he was committed to land on the Virginia after all. Not enough fuel for multiple rescue attempts and a flight to the carrier.

Chaveze briefed his crew and called the Hawkeye.

Stingray, Stingray, Seahawk Thirty-eight proceeding back to the Virginia. Standing by for rescue coordination.

Roger, Seahawk, the surprised Hawkeye controller answered.

We've gota basket of shit here ... ah ... multiple aircraft in the water.

Stingray, we have the Virginia visual! Chaveze could feel his heart pounding.

Roger, responded the controller, pausing to talk to his assistant.

We have two Tomcats, a Texaco, and ... the Viking down. Search all quadrants around the Virginia.

Wilco, Stingray.

Chaveze looked at his copilot. What the hell happened out here?

Gill shrugged, indicating it was useless to speculate at this point.

The pilot pressed his radio button again. Stingray, Seahawk.

Any more Russian aircraft loitering in the area?

Negative, Seahawk. Stand by.

The controller studied two radar scopes, then called the pilot.