Dale Brown - Dale Brown's Dreamland 04 - Piranha(and Jim DeFelice)(2003) (32 page)

 
          
“Still
haven’t,” said Dog.

 
          
“Right.”

 
          
“Our
Orion ASW plane is twenty minutes away,” said Rosen. “Tomcats are reporting
they have Sukhois on their scopes at long range.”

 
          
“Quite
a party,” said Delaford.

 
          
“Lay
it out for them,” Dog said. before Rosen finished, however, the Sukhois had
changed course to return to their carrier.

 
          
Iowa
directed the Navy sub hunter to the spot where they’d had the tentative
contact. Twenty minutes later, Shark Ears reported a contact.

 
          
There
was only one problem—it was a Russian sub.

 
          
“They
know this guy,” Delaford reported. “It’s a Victor III. May just be keeping tabs
on things, or not.”

 
          
“Nothing
else?” Dog asked.

 
          
“Nothing
yet.”

 
          
Aboard Shiva in the South China Sea

 
          
Kali
was the goddess of destruction, Shiva’s wife, the embodiment of the idea that
true life begins only with death.

 
          
It
was an apt name for a weapon, and a perfect name for the missiles in Shiva’s
forward tubes.

 
          
Admiral
Balin
looked again at the chart where their position
had been plotted.
Balin
studied the map carefully;
his target should lay just within the range of his weapons, though he still
needed fresh coordinates to fire.

 
          
The
Vikrant and her escorts would be twenty-four hours away. It was time.

 
          
Varja
remained with the radio man, translating the
coordinates received by the ELF. ELF—extremely-low-frequency—transmissions
were, by technical necessity, brief, but this one did not need to contain much
information—simply a set of coordinates and a time. With those few numbers, the
device could be launched. Once fired, the weapon was on its own, relying first
on its stored data to take it to the target area, then using its
low-probability-of-intercept radar to take it the rest of the way. As their
earlier tests had shown, as long as the target ship was within five miles when
the radar activated, it would be hit.

 
          
“Precisely
as the earlier coordinates predicted,” said
Varja
finally. “It is a good day, Admiral.”

 
          
Balin
watched the crewman mark the map, then nodded.

 
          
“Launch
in three minutes,” said Captain
Varja
, passing the
word to the weapons controllers and the men in the torpedo room.

 
          
Aboard Iowa

 
          
“Sharks
Ears reporting possible contact,” said Rosen.

 
          
He
gave Dog a set of coordinates almost due north, taking them roughly parallel to
the Chinese carrier task force about forty miles away. And Australian container
ship was plying the seas about ten miles ahead of them, going roughly in the
direction of the carriers, though undoubtedly it would steer well clear as it
approached.

 
          
As
Iowa changed direction and waited for an update, another set of Sukhois came
over to check them out. Unlike the earlier pilots, there jocks were cowboys,
clicking on their gun radars at long range. The Tomcats riding shotgun for the
Navy patrol plane further south didn’t particularly appreciate the gesture,
though they maintained good discipline, staying in their escort pattern. They
could afford to, knowing they could splash the Su-33’s in maybe ten seconds
flat if that was what they decided to do; the Chinese planes were well within
reach of their long-legged Phoenix missiles.

 
          
“Contact—I
have—a launch—two launches,” said Rosen suddenly. “Shit—tracking—we have a
cruise missile—two cruise missiles, breaking the surface. Fifty miles, bearing
on nine-zero, exactly nine-zero.”

 
          
There
was no time to consider whether the missiles were aimed at the Chinese carrier
or the Australian ships; both were in range.

 
          
“Target
Scorpions,” said Dog.

 
          
“Need
you to cut, uh, need you at two-seventy,” said Rosen, giving Dog the turn they
needed to launch their missiles. “Tracking One. Tracking Two. Okay, okay. No
locks. Come on, baby.”

 
          
Dog
pushed his stick to the left, riding the big plane hard. He nosed the plane
down at the same time his hand reached for the throttle bar, picking up speed
for the launch. The AMRAAM-pluses sat in their launchers near the wingtips,
their brains seething for the targeting data.

 
          
“Okay—locked
on Two!” said Rosen.

 
          
“Fire.”

 
          
“Launching.
Launching. Two missiles away. Good read. Still looking for One. Still
looking—can you cut twenty north—north, I need you north.”

 
          
Dog
pushed the jet hard, following his copilot’s directions. Rosen gave another
correction—they were almost out of time, the missile hunkering low against the
waves, accelerating. Dog slid the stick back, his body practically jumping in
the ejection seat to slap the Megafortress onto the proper bearing.

 
          
“Locked
on One! Locked!”

 
          
“Fire,”
said Dog softly.

 
          
The
first Scorpion came off the wing with a thud so loud, Dog first thought there
had been a malfunction, but it burst ahead a second later when the main rocket
ignited, its nose rising briefly before settling down.

 
          
The
Sukhois had rolled downward and were now five miles behind the Megafortress,
closing fast.

 
          
The
RWR blared.

 
          
“Flares,”
Dog told Rosen calmly. “Hang on everyone.”

 
          
He
threw the big plane onto its wing as the Chinese interceptors launched a volley
of missiles. After seeing the Megafortress launch, they had incorrectly
concluded it had fired on their ship.

 
          
“Two
more Sukhois,” said Rosen as Dog whipped them into a seven-G turn. “
Bearrrrrrrrring
—”

 
          
Gravity
slurred Rosen’s words as Dog whipped the plane back and then pushed the wing
down, not merely changing direction, but dropping altitude dramatically. The
Megafortress temporarily became more brick than aircraft, whipping toward the
waves just barely under control. The two Russian-made heat-seekers sailed well
over them; by the time they realized they’d missed their target and lit their
proximity fuses, Dog had already wrestled Iowa level in the opposite direction.
He was nose-on to one of the Sukhois and had he harbored any hostile intent—or
a cannon in his nose—he could have waxed the Chinese pilot in a heartbeat.
Instead, he merely pushed the throttle glide for more
giddyyap
.
The
Sukhoi
shot below as Dog upward toward a stray
bank of clouds, looking for temporary respite.

 
          
He
hadn’t quite reached cover when the RWR announced there were radar missiles in
the air. Rosen cranked the ECMs. They fired off chaff, and once more began
jucking
and jiving in the sky. The easily confused radar
missiles sailed away harmlessly.

 
          
“Two
is cooked! Splash cruise missile two,” said Rosen, somehow managed to keep
track of his missile shots despite working the countermeasures.

 
          
“Where
are the Sukhois?” asked Dog.

 
          
“Two
are heading back to the carrier. Ditto the one that just launched the homers,”
said Rosen, meaning the radar missiles. “Tomcats are sixty seconds away.”

 
          
Dog
hit the radio. “Dreamland Iowa to Tomcat Top Flight—do not take hostile action.
Stand off
.”

 
          
“Missile
three is terminal—missed, shit.” said Rosen.

 
          
Dog
ran out of clouds and tucked toward the ocean, his altitude dropping through
five thousand feet. A geyser shot up in the distance.

 
          
“Four
is-is,” stuttered Rosen, eyes fixed on his targeting radar screen. “Four—yes!
Grand slam! Grand slam! Got both those suckers!”

 
          
“Relax,
Captain.” Dog swung his eyes around his instruments, getting his bearings
quickly. The sitrep map showed the Tomcats are within twenty-five miles. There
were two Sukhois directly over the Chinese carrier Shang-Ti. A flight of four,
undoubtedly from the
T’ien
to the north, was coming
down with afterburners lit.

 
          
“They’re
looking for us,” said Rosen.

 
          
“ECMs.”

 
          
“I’m
singing every tune I can think of,” said Rosen. The computer was jamming the
Sukhois’ “
Slotback
”
Phazotron
N001
Zhuck
radars, making it impossible for them to
lock on the Megafortress, or anything else nearby, including the much more
obvious Orion to the south.

 
          
As
Dog banked, he turned his head toward the side windscreen, looking at the sea
where the missiles had originated. “Tell our Chinese friend we just saved their
butts.”

 
          
“Yes,
sir.”

 
          
“Delaford,
you have a line on the Indian submarine?”

 
          
“Not
a specific location, but they’re definitely in range for Piranha. We’ll have
tons of data on Kali now,” he added. “Very interesting.”

 
          
“No
response from the Chinese,” said Rosen. “Helos launching—looks like one of the
destroyers changing course.”

 
          
“I
don’t see much sense launching Piranha now,” Dog told Delaford. “The Chinese
will be throwing depth charges left and right.”

 
          
“By
the time they get near the sub, it’ll be long gone,” said Delaford. “But I
concur, Colonel. At this point I’d suggest we stand off and watch.”

 
          
Dog
gave the lead Tomcat pilot a quick brief after being asked for a rundown.

 
          
“I’d
prefer we didn’t have to shoot them down,” he added.

 
          
The
Navy pilots didn’t respond.

 
          
“You
got that, commander?” Dog added.

 
          
“Lightning
Flight acknowledges transmission,” said the pilot. “With due respect, Colonel,
it’s my call.”

 
          
“Listen,
Captain, at this point, we do not need to escalate. Hold your fire unless the
Chinese get aggressive.”

 
          
“Just
because you have a fancy
ol
’ plane, doesn’t mean
you’re king of the hill,” said the Tomcat jock.

 
          
“Set
the ECMs to break their missiles if they fire,” Dog told Rosen over the
interphone.

 
          
“The
Chinese?”

 
          
“The
Tomcats.”