Primary Target (1999) (18 page)

Lomas studied Washington's escort vessels and the two mine countermeasures ships, then turned his attention to the continuing action on the crowded 4.5-acre flight deck. "I'm sure uncomfortable about taking our boat into Sindbad's sea."

"You think you're uncomfortable." Jensen chuckled under her breath. "I'd like to know how many of these dilapidated tankers and tramp steamers are actually floating bombs?" She pointed to a nearby bulk ship going the opposite direction. "If that rusting hulk came hard over to port, he'd nail us straight through the bow."

"You're right about that," Lomas declared. "But I'm more worried about our Achilles' heel."

"Getting through the choke point?"

"Right," he said, and lowered his voice. "We have a deck full of armed and fueled planes, and we're looking at dozen
s
of new Iranian surface-to-surface missile sites along the straits."

He picked up a pair of binoculars and studied the shoreline. "They've been enlarging their underground facilities and at least nine of the caverns are equipped with Scud-C missiles. We're sitting ducks if someone gets trigger-happy." She sipped her coffee and nodded in agreement. "I'm more worried about their new Shahab-3s. Fire enough ballistic missiles around the Middle East and all our troops are in trouble."

"Deep trouble," Lomas drawled.

Jensen glanced at the cruiser Normandy, their lead ship in the battle group, then scanned the array of ships funneling in and out of the Gulf. "We've been spoiled by blue-water operations."

"I like being spoiled," Lomas said as he watched the destroyer John Rodgers. "I'll take maneuvering room and wind over the deck anytime."

"And," she said with a smile, "plenty of warning time." "You bet." Lomas's pleasant expression turned solemn. "With all these ships confined in an. area approximately 440 by 155 nautical miles, we might as well be floating around in a farm pond."

Jensen nodded and gazed at the escort ships. "If the cannonballs start flying, it's going to be like Dollar Day at the Mustang Ranch."

"Yeah." Lomas grinned. "Everyone gets screwed." Concerned about a supertanker that appeared to be closing on the carrier, Jensen concentrated on the advancing ship, then glanced at the officer of the deck. He ordered a slight course correction and the oil tanker also turned away from the carrier.

Jensen turned to her XO. "You look like a man with something on his mind."

"Nothing important," he said evenly, noticing the fatigue etched on her smooth face. "Any chance I can talk you into catching a few winks while I drive for a while?"

She smiled wanly. "I really appreciate the offer, but I better stay on the bridge until we get through the strait" Lomas grinned uneasily. "Don't trust me, huh?"

"You know I trust you." She laughed quietly. "You wouldn't be able to sleep either."

"I can't deny that." Lomas chuckled and glanced at the hatch leading to the flag command center. "How often does the ol' man drop by?"

"Oh, I'd say about every thirty to forty-five minutes," she answered without any obvious emotion.

Rear Admiral Coleman, a man of prodigiously false humility, didn't leave any doubt about what he thought of women serving on ships, let alone allowing a female to command an aircraft carrier. The pairing of Nancy Jensen and Ed Coleman had not happened by chance.

"Well, don't let it bother you," Lomas said, somewhat self-conscious. "He's a leftover from the steam-gauge era." Jensen simply nodded, adding to the sudden uneasiness of the moment.

"I'll keep the coffee coming," Lomas said, turning to leave the bridge.

"Jim."

He stopped and turned back. "Yeah."

She smiled warmly. "Thanks."

"You're gonna do fine," he said with a rush of enthusiasm.

Persian Gul
f
Darkness had quietly settled over the Gulf when the captain of the Iranian guided-missile patrol boat Neyzeh cautiously closed on the starboard side of the American aircraft carrier and her nine-ship battle group. Ordered to shadow the mighty warship and her flotilla of cruisers, destroyers, and frigates, the skipper was nervous about getting too close to Washington.

On a previous reconnaissance of Enterprise, he had ignored several warnings from an escort vessel and ventured too close to the carrier. In response, U
. S
. Navy warplanes put on an aerial firepower demonstration that left everyone aboard Neyzeh paralyzed with fear.

Other than viewing the latest in military training films, the men had never seen anything so frightening and devastating. The thunderous display of overwhelming firepower left an indelible impression on the young sailors. An hour after th
e
patrol craft docked, every officer and sailor in the Iranian Navy knew about the incident.

Although the young captain of the Neyzeh didn't know it, his counterpart in Shamsher, the other Combattante IIB-class guided-missile patrol boat, was even more concerned. By the time he'd heard the embellished story of the awesome American firepower, F-14 Tomcats purportedly walked cannon shells along the side of the craft. Matching the speed of the formidable battle group, Shamsher remained over two miles away from the port side of the giant carrier.

The patrol-boat commanders were aware that the Americans were monitoring and recording all messages they sent to Tehran or received from headquarters. Likewise, Iranian intelligence specialists were receiving a steady stream of information about the movements of the American ships. In addition to his anxiety about the U
. S
. warships, the captain was equally concerned about the sudden concentration of American surveillance aircraft over Iran and the Persian Gulf. According to senior Iranian military leaders, signals intercept and spoofing were being carried out by intelligence-gathering aircraft like the U
. S
. Navy's EP-3s and the Air Force's RC-135s. Along with the manned aircraft, the medium-altitude, long-endurance, all-weather Predator unmanned aerial vehicles were sending real-time sensor data to the Pentagon and to the carrier battle group.

Sporting forty-eight-foot wings, the 1,873-pound UAVs contained a payload sensitive enough to monitor low-power radio transmissions, including small handheld walkie-talkies, cell phones, and messages flowing between microwave towers. Equipped with real-time video, synthetic aperture radar, and infrared sensors, the Predators allowed controllers to see through clouds and operate at night. The radar could also be directed under metal buildings and be reflected with enough energy to reveal aircraft or missiles inside.

Shouting matches had broken out in the Baharstan Palace when one of the unmanned intruders repeatedly buzzed the seat of the Majles. The members of the Iranian parliament angrily ordered their military forces to destroy the American's toy airplanes.

High above Iran, another advanced unmanned reconnaissance aircraft was busy vacuuming electronic signals of interest. Loitering at 62,000 feet, the stealthly UAV was preparing to depart the country after being on station for twenty-eight hours. Joining the bow-tie pattern, another UAV took up station as the first aircraft rolled wings level and flew toward the Gulf. Roughly the size of a medium corporate jet, the highly classified reconnaissance planes represented the latest generation of UAVs.

The skipper of the Neyzeh cast a long look at his Chinese-made antiship missiles. With a range of sixty-five miles, the C-802 Silkworm was Iran's first new sea-launched missile since the United States sank an Iranian frigate armed with American Harpoon antiship missiles. The captain of the Neyzeh fervently hoped Tehran would not order him to fire the Chinese missiles at the American armada. He knew that attacking the U
. S
. forces would be tantamount to committing suicide.

Chapter
18

Aboard Permak Express
.

Wi
th a keen sense of both excitement and trepidation, Jackie securely fastened her twin-cell airline-style lif
e
vest. She looked up at the moonless, star-filled sky, then donned her flip-down night-vision goggles and waited for her eyes to adjust to the greenish artificial light. The night-vision aid amplified ambient light 1,200 times, allowing her to conquer the dark.

After she felt comfortable with the goggles, she carefully checked the helo's instrument panel and engine gauges one last time before she lifted the Long
Ranger off the container ship and flew alongside the bridge. With the transponder turned off and the exterior lights extinguished, the dark charcoal helo was almost undetectable as it flew low over the smooth Mediterranean Sea.

Satisfied that everything was functioning normally, Jackie set the radar altimeter for 100 feet, then added power and set course for her first navigational fix. She had flown the rescue mission in her mind dozens of times. She knew the circuitous route to the terrorist enclave like the main street of her hometown, and she had memorized every obstacle she expected to encounter, including three major centers of drug production and distribution. She was also acutely aware that the origins of illicit narcotics in the Bekaa Valley were fiercel
y
protected by men armed with powerful weapons, including portable air defense missiles.

In Jackie's view, the toughest part of the flight would be her descent into the valley that separated the Lebanon Mountains and the Anti-Lebanon Mountains. No matter how she approached the terrorist training camp, she would have to fly directly over concentrations of Hezbollah militias and encampments of Syrian soldiers.

Jackie smiled to herself when she touched the Hermes scarf tucked under the neck of her flight suit. Her father, Dr. E. Raines Sullivan, always sent her a dozen assorted scarves on her birthday. As much as she loved her pipe-smoking aristocratic father, his elitist and sexist values had driven her away from the family and all the trappings of inherited wealth. When she announced she had joined the Air Force, Dr. Sullivan abruptly canceled his annual pilgrimage to the Prix de Diane, France's most exciting horse race, and vented his spleen at Jackie for two days and nights. Always an elegantly dressed and eloquently expressive man, E. Raines had had what he would later describe as an "indecorous lapse in manners."

Without warning, a bright light ahead of the helo blinked on and off twice, then disappeared. Jackie changed course a few degrees and scanned the horizon looking for a boat or ship. The more she moved her eyes, the more she felt off balance. When the insidious "leans" began inducing the first stages of vertigo, she removed the NVGs and tossed them on the life raft behind her. She flew strictly by instruments for a few moments, then began sweeping her eyes across the sea for any sign of a ship.

After two minutes of fruitless searching, she altered course again and added a touch of power to make up the few seconds she'd lost. I must be seeing things that aren't there. Concentrate.

Jackie's nerves settled down as she continuously checked her time and position. She was hitting her coordinates precisely on time and on course. Sixty miles from the container ship, Jackie's sense of well-being was shattered when she felt a shudder run through the LongRanger.

"What the hell was that?" she said under her breath, then quickly scanned her instruments. Everything appeared to b
e
in order. Okay, take a deep breath and get a grip on your nerves.

Larnaca, Cypru
s
Wearing a parachute, Greg O'Donnell coaxed the fuel-laden Cessna Caravan into the night sky and began a very shallow climb to their assigned altitude. While Scott exchanged his cargo-pilot uniform for his black jumpsuit, body-armor vest, modified rappelling harness, and paratrooper boots, O'Donnell switched radio frequencies and pointed the big single-engine turboprop toward Damascus.

After Dalton zipped up his boots and donned his helmet, he looked at the huge ferry tank bolted to the cabin floor, then stepped forward to the dimly lighted cockpit. "How much are we over gross?"

"You don't want to know." Greg quietly chuckled. "Let's just say that I have enough fuel to fly from the valley to Athens, with plenty left over."

"Well, as the British say, you can never have too much petrol."

"Unless you prang the ship," Greg quipped.

Scott checked the time and the Caravan's GPS. "Jackie should be about twenty miles south of us."

"Let's hope so," Greg replied with a slow grin. "How's the chemistry between the two of you?"

"Chemistry?"

"Are you attracted to her?" Greg asked innocently. "Are you bonding? That kind of chemistry."

After Scott gave it a moment of thought, he proclaimed, "I'd say that we get along just fine. In fact, I wouldn't mind developing a much closer relationship with her."

Greg adjusted the power and gave Dalton an understanding glance. "You mean, if you live through this, right?"

"Well," Scott said as he strapped on his assault knife, "I try not to dwell on the negative aspect of things."

"Seriously, Bubba," O'Donnel said with a grim look. "This gig isn't gonna be easy."

"What could possibly go wrong?" Scott piped sarcastically.

"Well, we could start with the fact that you stood up your rescue pilot."