Dale Brown - Dale Brown's Dreamland 04 - Piranha(and Jim DeFelice)(2003) (2 page)

 
          
Piranha
had been developed by a joint Navy and Dreamland team; it was represented the
next generation of unmanned robes of UUVs (unmanned underwater vehicles)
designed for launch from
Seawolf
submarines. Current
UUVs used active forward-and side-looking
sonars
and
had an overall range of approximately 120 nautical miles. They moved slowly,
and could cover about fifty square miles of search area a day. They were
fantastic weapons, intimately connected to the
Seawolf
and Virginia-class boats, and were perfectly suited for the inherently
hazardous missions they had been designed for, such as searching for mines in
littoral or shallow coastal waters.

 
          
Unlike
those probes, Piranha could be operated from aircraft, thanks to the buoy
system. Like the buoys, the probe itself was disposable, or would be in the
future. For now, a low-power battery mode took it back to a specific GPS point
and depth for recovery by submarine or surface ship up to 150 miles from
rundown.

 
          
The
data transmitted back to the buoys—and from them to a controlling airplane or
vessel ship—was considerably greater than that possible in the
current-generation UUVs, thanks largely to compression techniques that had been
pioneered for the Flighthawk. These “rich” signals were difficult to decode and
had a short range, which limited the ability of an enemy to detect and track
them in the stealth mode, which used only the intermittent audible mode to
communicate, the operator received enough information to identify size, course,
and bearings of an enemy target out to seventy-five miles, depending on the
water conditions. In “full
como
,” or communications
mode, the signal fed a synthetic sonar system. This sonar was passive, and thus
completely undetectable. It painted a three-dimensional sound picture on an
operator’s screen; the computer’s ability to interpret and translate the sounds
into pictures of the object that created them not only meant that combat
decisions could be made quickly, but the operators required considerably less
training than traditional sonar experts. Just as the improvements in sensor
gear and computers allowed the copilot on a Megafortress to perform the duties
of several B-52 crew members, the synthetic sonar would allow a
backseater
in a Navy Tomcat to handle Nirvana while taking
negative G’s.

 
          
In
theory, Colonel Bastian and his people were going to find out if the impressive
results in static and shallow-water tests could be duplicated in the middle of
the ocean, against some of the best people with Seventh Fleet could muster. The
Kitty Hawk, steaming out toward Japan after a brief respite at Pearl, was the
target.

 
          
If
you’re going to test a new weapon system, might as well go against the best,
thought Dog.

 
          
“Piranha
Buoy in ten seconds,” said Ferris.

 
          
“Ten
seconds,” said Dog. “Piranha Team, you ready?” he added, speaking over the
interphone circuit to the Piranha specialist, Lieutenant Commander Tommy
Delaford and Ensign Gloria English. They were sitting downstairs in what
ordinarily was the Flighthawk deck on the Dreamland Megafortresses.

 
          
“Ready,”
replied Delaford, the project leader for Piranha. Delaford worked directly for
the Chief of Naval Operations, Warfare Division; his handpicked Navy team
include people from N77 (the submarine warfare division), N775 (science and
technology), and the Space and Naval Warfare Systems Command.

 
          
“I
have Task Force Charlie,” said Captain Derek
Teijen
,
piloting Galatica. “Tapping in coordinates—they’re a bit closer than they’re
supposed to be, Colonel. Lead ship is barely one hundred miles away. Have it
ID’s as a DDG. Carrier is sending two F-14’s toward us.”

 
          
“Roger
that,” replied Dog. He’d expected the Navy to jump the gun; in a way, it was
surprising that the task force had waited so long. The new Seventh Fleet
commander, Admiral Jonathon “Tex” Woods, had boarded the aircraft carrier to
personally oversee the tests. While his military record was sufficiently
impressive for him to be known even in the Air Force—and hated to be shown up
in combined-forces exercises.

 
          
Which
in a way, this was.

 
          
“Zen,
those Tomcats are yours if they get close enough,” Dog said. “Curly, stand by
for launch of Piranha system. Chris, open bay doors.”

 
          
The
Megafortress shook slightly as the large doors of the bomb bay cranked open.
The sophisticated flight computer system compensated for the plane’s altered
aerodynamics so swiftly Dog hardly noticed. He pulled back gently on the stick,
pushing the plane exactly onto the dotted red line the computer put on his
screen.

 
          
“Three,
two, one—” said Ferris.

 
          
There
was a loud rumble from the rear as the buoy fell into the water.

 
          
“Device
launch in twenty seconds,” said Ferris.

 
          
“We
concur,” said Delaford. “Counting down.”

 
          
Dog
pitched the big plane’s nose toward the waves; the optimum launch angle was a
fairly steep forty-three degrees.

 
          
“Tomcats
are looking for us,” reported Ferris. “Ten seconds to launch—we need more
angle, Colonel.”

 
          
“Got
it,” said Bastian, hitting his mark. The weapons section of the flight computer
that helped manage the Megafortress projected the launch countdown in his HUD,
“Launch device,” he said as the numbers drained to zero.

 
          
“We’re
off,” said Ferris. “Over the river and through the woods, to Grandmother’s
house she goes.”

 
          
Dog
ignored Ferris’s attempt at cosmic relief and began to pull the plane upward.
He’d had to drop fairly low to the waves for the launch, and the vision of
sharks circling his dinghy returned. As they climbed, the Piranha team went
through the shakedown procedure, establishing contact with the probe. They immediately
began steering it toward the target task force. Traveling at just over forty
knots, Piranha had already identified the ships in the group for the operators.
She dove to four hundred meters, completely undetected by the screening vessels
and the two ASW helicopters, which had set up a picket of sonar buoys. The
operators detected a submarine operating a towed array-probably the
Connecticut, a killer in the ultramodern
Seawolf
class, though they were too far away for a real ID or even an accurate range.
Meanwhile, the stealthy profiles of the Megafortresses made it possible for
them to elude the Tomcats for close to half an hour, even though opening the
bay doors to drop the buoy had alerted their airborne radar plane to their
presence. Dog began to think they’d manage to complete the exercise scot-free.

 
          
His
copilot brought him back to reality.

 
          
“Tomcats
are on us, changing course,” said Ferris. “At bearing—shit—they’re launching
weapons!” yelled Ferris, as usual far more agitated than the situation called
for.

 
          
“Evasive
maneuvers. Hang on. Zen, those Navy birds are yours.”

 
          
“Engaging,”
replied Major Stockard. His voice, although relayed through a satellite system
in orbit several kilometers above the Megafortress, sounded like he was in the
next seat over.

 
          
Aboard EB-52, “Raven,” west of Hawaii

 
          
August
16, 1440

 
          
The
F-14’s had slowed to fire their long-range Phoenix AIM-54’s, but they were
still closing on the Megafortresses at over five hundred miles an hour. It was
clear from the way they were flying their radar hadn’t picked up the
Flighthawk, which were now heading into a bank of clouds just over the
attackers’ flight path. Raven began blanketing the air with a thick fog of
countermeasures, confusing not just the Tomcats’ radar, but the Grumman E-2
Hawkeye feeding them data more than a hundred miles to the north. The Navy
interceptors were now limited to what their Mark-1 eyeballs could feed them;
which meant they had to close to visual distance. In another sixty seconds,
they’d be able to nail the Megafortresses with short-range heat-seekers or
cannons.

 
          
Simulated,
of course.

 
          
Zen
didn’t intend to let that happen. The U/MFs had several disadvantages fighting
the sort of long-rang combat the Tomcats preferred; they were equipped only
with cannons and their mobility was limited by the need to stay within ten
miles of their mother ship. But in a close-quarters knife-fight, they were hard
to top. Hawk One broke from the cloud bank she was sitting in as close to the
canopy of the lead F-14 as he could manage, flashing across its bow like a
meteor shot from the heavens.

 
          
Or
an air-to-air missile launched by an undetected fighter.

 
          
The
slashing dive had the desired effect—the lead F-14 pilot
jinked
madly as he unleashed a parcel of flares and chaff, not quite sure what was
coming at him. The decoys would have been more than enough to clear an enemy
missile from his back—but Zen wasn’t an enemy missile. He curled Hawk One
upward, angling toward the dark shadow of the Navy aircraft. The Tomcat’s variable
geometry wings had flipped outward to increase aerodynamic lift, a sure sign to
Zen the plane was caught flat-footed. He pressed his attack into the Tomcat’s
belly even as it upgraded GE F110’s spit red fire, the massive turbines winding
to push the plane away.

 
          
Had
this been a “real” encounter, the Navy pilot might have escaped—an
ol
’ big block Pontiac Goat could beat a slammed Civic off
the line any day of the week, and Zen at best could have gotten only a
half-dozen shots into the belly of the accelerating beast—not nearly enough to
bring her down, barring ridiculous luck. But the computers keeping score took
the U/MF’s chronically optimistic targeting gear at its word. According to its
calculations, something over a hundred 20mm shells raked the Navy plane’s
fuselage and wings, turning it into a mass of flame and metal.

 
          
“Score
one for the AF,” said the event moderator blandly, circling above in a P-3
Orion. “Nirvana Tomcat One splashed.”

 
          
Zen
had already jumped into the cockpit of Hawk Two. He had the other F-14 on his
left wing, cutting back toward its original course, C³, the sophisticated
control-and-tactical-assistance computer that helped fly the Flighthawks,
suggested a high-speed attack at the rear quarter of the F-14. Zen recognized
it immediately as a long shot; even with the computers keeping score, such an
attack would have an extremely low kill-probability.

 
          
Deciding
that was better than nothing, Zen told C³ to implement the attack plan, then
jumped back into Hawk One, changing the view screens and control selections via
a verbal command to the computer of “One” and “Two,” then pulling around,
trying to set up an ambush on the Tomcat. A call from Raven’s radar operator
changed his priorities.

 
          
“Bogies
at one hundred miles—make that a four-group of F-18’s, angels twenty.”

 
          
“Hawk
leader,” acknowledged Zen. Even as the information about the bandits’ course
and speed was downloaded into his computer, Zen had decided he would pass off
the Tomcat and concentrate on the Hornets.

 
          
“
Yo
, Curly—you see the Tomcat gunning for the flight?”

 
          
“On
him,” said the other pilot.

 
          
Aboard EB-52, “Galatica,” west of Hawaii

 
          
August
16, 1449

 
          
Unlike
Zen, Captain Kevin “Curly” Fentress had never flown in real combat; nor was he
a fully qualified jet pilot. He’d only racked up ten hours so far in
Dreamland’s T-38 jet trainer, every minute among the longest of his life. Curly
had come into the Flighthawk program after helping develop early-model unmanned
aircraft including the Predator and
Globak
Hawk.
While a good remote pilot, he lacked both the experience and instincts of a
first-rate combat jock.