The Cruiser (38 page)

“Break.
Savo,
how copy, over?”

Singhe glanced up at him; he nodded. “This is
Savo,
copy all,” she said. “Continue, over.”

“This is
Cutlass.
We'll finish validation on our end in five mike, and start the MDU then. I show both shooters active in MIRC, so I'll pass the MDU over EHF.”

“This is
Savo.
Works for us, over.”

“Pittsburgh.
Good for EHF MDU here also, over.”

“Any problems, I'll be on Coordination. Also, we tasked extra Charlies. Keep them powered up. The admiral may or may not keep you in the shooter box. Lot of discussion here. Your Charlie Oscar may be getting some questions regarding time and distance. Stay in the loop.
Cutlass,
out.
”

Dan sat back, keeping tabs as Singhe finished the prelaunch brief. He felt uncomfortable with the way mission data was being passed on voice and over chat. This seemed to be a time-sensitive tasking, though, so he didn't object.

“All missiles mode seven,” said one of the launch controllers.

Singhe said, “Copy mode seven.” She picked up the red phone and gave the Line India report.

The leading FC, who was on chat, said, “MDU inbound.”

“Get it down to TCR. Get it set up. —Captain, just got mission numbers and other data from
Cutlass.
Request permission to start planning.”

“Permission granted, but don't execute until the strike controller tasks the missions.”

Dan got up and strolled a slow circuit, looking at each screen. He was settling back into his chair when the 21MC in front of him clicked on.
“CO, OOD.”

“Go, Mr. Mytsalo.”

“Sir, report arrival at MODLOC. Request course from here?”

Dan leaned on both elbows, studying the surface picture. Clear, except for the single pip of
Lahav
off to the southeast. Far to the right, faint indications that might or might not be the mountain peaks behind Beirut. On the rightmost screen the saffron spokes of the search beam clicked steadily back and forth, still scanning the Al-Anbar desert.

Once the Tomahawks crossed the beach headed inland, Syrian air defense would have to recognize where they were aimed. If they passed that word on, whoever controlled the Western Complex would know they were on their way.

Mills said in a low voice, “Our course doesn't much matter, sir. Whatever minimizes our roll, I'd say.”

“Mr. Mytsalo: Choose a course and reciprocal to mimimize roll.”

A pause, then a startled,
“Aye aye, Captain.”
Dan grinned, remembering how seldom he'd gotten to make a decision as an ensign. Then sobered. “Matt, what am I overlooking? Anything else we should be doing? We don't have long until this launch window.”

“Going through the checklist, Captain.”

Dan reached under the desk, found the current NavSea manual for launch procedures, and ran down chapter 4. Amy would be backstopping her team, making sure they followed their own station checklists, but he couldn't help surreptitiously making sure no one made any stupid mistakes. He knew the procedures. Some of them he'd designed, back at the Cruise Missile Project Office. But he'd actually launched Tomahawks only once before, aboard
Horn
.

He sucked a breath as he remembered the last-minute glitch in the nav system of one of those missiles, a shorted relay or fried circuit board. The launch code back then had been extremely restrictive. Unless it knew exactly where it was going, the missile would refuse the launch order. And since the system fired weapons in serial then, a hitch in number one meant none of the others would fire either. He'd had to execute a series of S turns, and reposition the ship exactly where the first missile's gyro had frozen.

That had been three or four iterations ago. So that particular problem shouldn't recur. But any others that popped up … He hoped the team was on top of this.

“Captain, MDU complete.”

“Very well, Lieutenant Singhe.” He stretched to work out a cramp in his back, wishing NavSea would spend a few more of those defense dollars making the chairs a little more comfortable.

The red phone again. “Savo, Pittsburgh,
this is TSC. Verbal Indigo 001 Delta Tango Golf follows.
Savo:
Mission target 1A1, verification CODE 56342. Quantity, one Block three Charlie. Time on top: Shoot soonest.

“Savo:
Mission target 1D1. Code 14353. Quantity, one Block three Charlie, time on top…”
The voice droned on; the team, heads down, were scrutinizing each target and code on the screens.
“Break; how copy, over?”

Singhe repeated back, exactly, what the strike controller had just passed. Not a lot of chatter from the rest of the team, a good sign; people who knew their jobs didn't need to talk a lot. They'd be entering verification codes and required text data. Comparing the launch-sequence plan with what the computer was spitting out.

Singhe, on the Strike circuit.
“Captain? Request permission to send, TLAM make ready.”

The “make ready” command sent engagement plans and mission data to the missiles, which would power up and start the test protocols. Dan clicked his mike. “Granted.”

“TLAM make ready, plans sent.”

“Missiles pair, all plans.”

Standard commands, from drills on the old
Horn
. The combination of familiarity and reality felt weird, the way it always did when he'd had to fight. Like two layers of reality, drill and what was really happening.

Mills murmured, “
Lahav
still on our starboard quarter. No surface or air contacts other than Iranian group fifty miles to the south. No air tracks except for Red Hawk. We'll clear him to the west just before launch. EW reports coastal radars have ceased illuminating.”

“Huh,” Dan said.

Singhe, on the circuit.
“Missions checked and downloaded. Rounds spinning up.”

“Spinning up, aye.” Once in flight, the rounds would navigate by GPS, but for the initial regime they'd depend on gyros to operate their vanes for boost, pitchover, and transition to engine start. Which was usually where things went to shit. Dan kept wanting to lean forward, say something, but reined himself in. He got up again and was pacing around when the engagement planner called, “Skipper? Ready for onscreen approval.”

Dan bent over his shoulder, checking the graphic display. No problem with the flight path. He checked missile type and time data. It all looked good. “Mission 1A1 approved. Send to launch.”

Singhe was off the red phone. Dan moved back so she could take her normal seat again. Murmured, “Launch direction.”

“OOD, Strike: Verify launch direction clear to port.”

Mytsalo verified that the bearing was clear. She warned him not to change course or speed for the next ten minutes, then went back to the countdown. At minus two minutes she picked up the 1MC mike. “All hands. Tomahawk missiles will be launching from forward and aft launchers. All hands remain clear of weather decks while salvo alarm is sounding.”

Mills, at his elbow. “Captain? The helo…?”

“Thanks, Matt. Let's get Strafer out of there.”

Mills, on the Transmit button. “Red Hawk, Matador. One minute to launch; stand clear to the west.”

The pilot rogered up. The salvo warning alarm wailed faintly through steel. Dan closed his eyes, tracking his mental checklist.

“Confirm whip and fan antennas silent.”

“Confirm blast exhaust doors open.”

“Alignment complete.”

“Time to launch: thirty seconds.”

His cue. He'd worn the keys around his neck, on the same chain as his Academy-issue dog tags, since they'd left Naples. He stood above the launch console. Lifted beaded steel over his head, and handed the key to Singhe.

“Time to launch, ten seconds.”

Singhe plugged her own key in, then Dan's. Glanced at him, the dark eyes passionless, and gave each a half turn.

Everyone looked at him. Dan waited a beat, then nodded. “Batteries released, primary plan.”

“Salvo firing commence,” Singhe said, and the launch controller hit the Shoot button.

A distant thud, then a shudder: the cell and uptake hatches slamming open.

Someone had focused one of the gun cameras on the forward VLS. Along with the others in CIC, Dan watched a huge ball of flame suddenly burst into existence just aft of the forward five-inch gun. Almost too fast for the eye to follow, the missile flamed up through its rubber waterproofing membrane, then slung suddenly upward from its cell.

Like an Olympic gymnast performing some complex twist while hurtling through the air, it reoriented, surrounded by the glare of the orange flame, and departed, a bright star quickly dwindling. Smoke blasted across the field of view, then thinned in the wind. Hemicylindrical covers tumbled through the air, blown free in the first hundred meters of boost.

The camera tracked jerkily upward, and caught it again. An orange star, red as Mars, still climbing, still shrinking. He'd seen the sequence dozens of times, first during development, then in predeployment testing, then during Prime Needle … until it sometimes seemed that the weapon he'd shepherded through its teething was the main way his country interacted with the Arab world. The engine inlet popping open, shedding the dual shrouds protecting the exhaust. Fuselage wing plug covers ejecting. Steering and stabilization fins switchblading out, followed by the wings. Then booster burnout, and the nose dropping.

He held his breath, but there it was, the winkout of the orange spark of the booster, and nearly simultaneously, the black smoke of engine start.…

Singhe keyed her red phone. “
Cutlass,
this is
Savo.
Greyhound away. Break. 1A1, transition to cruise. Out.”

Dan blinked at the screen. The smoke column looked grayer than he recalled. Had they changed the booster composition? The remaining missiles went out at eleven-second intervals. It was growing dark. Another missile ignited into orange fire, illuminating the forecastle in glaring Halloween light, lofted, dwindled. Then the launch-roar shifted aft as the rounds in the stern magazine woke, ignited, and departed, a squadron of avenging furies.

“Rounds complete,” Singhe told him at last. He passed a trembling hand over his forehead and turned away. Shaken, as if his own sinew and muscle had lifted tons of explosives and sent them hurtling over sea and land. But then he had to turn back and take the key she pressed into his hand. Loop it over his neck again, feeling the stainless chain warm from her hands, slick from his own sweat and perhaps hers, too.

He said hoarsely, “I'll be topside when you're ready to send the firing report.”

*   *   *

ON
the bridge, it was nearing full dark. He brought
Savo
around to clear the submarine's range. If a booster failed, he didn't want to be in the way. Then stood on the wing with his binoculars, watching
Pittsburgh
firing from beneath the dark sea. The big night glasses pulled each missile in close as it leapt free of the waves, ignited with hot red-orange flame, and blowtorched away into suddenly brilliant night. Tangerine glared off onyx crests. Smoke trails glowed like cotton candy, draped across a black starless sky. Every eleven seconds another blasted up from the deep, ignited, and accelerated off. He followed them in the dark double circles of the glasses until they occulted. Youngblood called over the red phone, giving his end-of-salvo report. Cutlass acknowledged and made the launch area cold, but told both shooters to keep the remaining TLAMs powered up until further notice.

Dan checked his watch. His own salvo would be crossing the coast just about now. No doubt the Syrian air defense network, one of the densest in the Mideast, had the hurtling airframes on their screens. Was following an international boundary violating the airspace of the countries on either side? He didn't have a clue.

A hollow thunk as the wing door opened. A shadow in the dark, complete with helmet and life preserver. “Captain?”

“Fahad. What have you got?”

“I reported strike complete. To CTF 60.”

“Well … I was going to do that. But I guess that's all right.” If the Syrians did lash back, the quickest way would be to unleash those C-802s. “They say anything about air cover?”

“No sir.”

“Did you ask?”

“No sir.”

“XO, what're you doing right now?”

“Supervising the bridge team. Isn't that where you wanted me?”

“Right, right … How about getting on the horn and making sure everybody knows to be alert for some kind of retaliation. Most likely, a sea skimmer from the Syrian side.” He considered asking him to get with Grissett, tasking him to dig into the sickness issue, but didn't. Right now, they had to be ready to fend off a more immediate threat.

A pale red planet caught his eye, moving slowly south to north. He frowned, then identified it. Deholstered his Hydra. “TAO, CO: We need Red Hawk back between us and the coast. Tell 'em to keep their eyes peeled. Also, ask 60 about that air cover they promised would be on tap.”

“You didn't say anything about asking for air cover.” The voice from the dark was resentful.

He felt abruptly sick of this whole situation. No matter what he said or did, Almarshadi took offense. “It wasn't a criticism of you, Fahad. Okay? I've just got a lot on my plate right now. We'll sit down and have it out when we're not at Condition Three. Till then, can we just …
stuff it?
”

A stiff silence. Then, “Yes sir, we will stuff it. But I'm going to request a reassignment.”

“Great, whatever. Now can you do what I asked, and make sure we're scanning for C-802 signatures?” He crossed to the doorway, leaned in, and asked the helo control talker for time remaining to bingo fuel. It wasn't long. He started to hoist himself into his command chair, but failed. Shit, he was too fucking exhausted even to get up into the fucking chair.