The evolution was being repeated on the USS Wasp and Inchon. Clouds of fighter and attack aircraft covered them as twenty-one Ospreys orbited, assembling, then turned and headed inland.
Skimming the wavetops at almost three hundred knots, the formation hurtled toward the smoke-shrouded beach. Troops in the cargo compartment sat strapped in, facing each other on crash-proof seats, but they still had to hang on as the Ospreys plowed through the bumpy, low-altitude air.
The Osprey pilots, most of them converted over from the old Sea Knights helicopters, looked out to either side, gratified to see loaded attack aircraft and armed fighters pacing them.
When riding shotgun, the “fast movers” normally looped over and around helicopter troop carriers, but the Ospreys were fast enough to keep up with a cruising jet. That made for tighter control, better support, and a warm, fuzzy feeling for the Osprey drivers. Higher airspeed also meant the vulnerable troop carriers were exposed to enemy flak for a much shorter time.
In fifteen minutes, five of them spent assembling, the assault formation was over the Louis Botha International Airport. Over, in this case, was a relative term, since the Ospreys came in low and hot-screaming in no more than a hundred and fifty feet off the ground.
As their wings tilted upward to vertical flight mode, the Ospreys bucked and shuddered-dumping speed. In less than a minute, three-hundred-knot turboprop planes became fifty knot helicopters, gently settling down on the runways and taxiways and any other paved areas. The second their gear touched down, rear ramps dropped and Marines poured out onto the airfield.
They fanned out across the tarmac in an almost eerie silence broken only by whining rotors, shouted commands, and crackling flames. Nobody was shooting at them.
The airport’s antiaircraft batteries and ground defenses had been thoroughly pasted. A-6E Intruders dropping dozens of five-hundred-pound bombs had turned them into crater-rid died smoking piles of torn sandbags and mangled metal. Now orbiting AH-I Sea Cobras and Harriers waited for any sign of serious opposition, but columns of thick black smoke billowing into the air were the only signs of movement.
Despite the terrific aerial pounding it had taken, however, Louis Botha’s runways were still intact. The Allied invasion force had uses for them.
Empty now, the Ospreys lifted off, buzzing low over abandoned factory buildings and warehouses as they headed back to the formation, fifty miles distant, to pick up the second wave.
The freight-train roar of heavy artillery broke the silence. Shells began bursting among the Marines scattering across the open tarmac-exploding in huge fountains of earth and flame. Three batteries of Afrikaner guns pounded the airport mercilessly, killing American Marines with every carefully directed salvo.
USS MOUNT WWITNEY
Craig stared at the computer-generated map, wishing it were a wide-screen
TV. He wanted to see what was going on. Trouble was, if he left the Mount
Whitney, he wouldn’t be able to do his job. The ship carried the sophisticated communications and computer systems he needed to control all his forces-those already onshore and those still waiting to hit the beach.
“How bad is the shelling?” he asked Skiles.
“Hayes says his men are completely pinned down. He’s taken moderate to heavy casualties. He also reports that the LZ’s way too hot for the second wave.”
Craig nodded.
“I concur. Hold the second wave twenty miles out, and let’s see what we can do about the artillery.”
“We’re getting nothing on radio intercepts,” Skiles reported.
“We don’t know where the guns or the observers are. 11
Skiles scribed a forty-kilometer arc on the map, centered on the airfield. Craig sighed. The damn guns could be two thirds of the way to
Pietermaritzburg. It was rough country, far too big an area to search.
Thinking out loud, Skiles said, “They must be using landline, regular telephones to communicate. In a big city like that, they’ve got a built-in secure communications system.”
“The initial bombardment was supposed to hit the phone centers along with the radio stations. Every target was reported to be pasted.” Craig took off his hat and rubbed his forehead.
“Damn it, the only part of the system we know about is the com ms Hit the communications target list again,” Craig ordered.
“And do it fast.”
NAVAHO FLIGHT, OFF THE NATAL COAST
“Navaho One, this is Overlord. Target.” The radio call was a welcome relief for Lt. John “Rebel” Lee and his wingman. Everyone in the world was hip deep in the war, but his flight was “in reserve,” assigned to orbit forty miles off the beach until the right target appeared.
It took time to arm, launch, and fly aircraft to targets, so pairs of strike aircraft had been place “on call— ready to hit targets of opportunity on command. Navaho Flight was one of six launched by the two
American carriers after they’d flown off their first strike planes. And he’d listened anxiously as first one flight, then two more, were given missions by their carriers. Now it was his turn.
Continuing to circle, Lee clicked his mike.
“Overlord, this is Navaho -Lead. Say target.”
The strike controller aboard the Carl Vinson responded with a string of coordinates-and a quick description.
“Target is a telephone switching station-concrete structure.”
Lee repeated the information back to Overlord.
The Vinson signed off.
“Roger your last, Navaho Lead. This is urgent priority. Hit it fast.”
Lee punched the coordinates into his flight computer, and as soon as he hit the ENTER key, a course indicator appeared on his HUD.
His earphones carried Overlord’s voice again as the remaining pairs of aircraft were given their missions, all urgent. Something was up, he decided. Well, he’d hold up his end, at least.
Lee checked his armament switches. Since the carriers were so close to
Durban, his F/A-18 Hornet was fully armed, with Sidewinders on the wingtips, a single drop tank on the centerline, and eight five-hundred-pound bombs under the wings.
The map display showed his target, buried deep in the city. It also showed each leg of his plotted course. Lee whistled. Luckily, Afrikaner flak had been light and enemy fighters nonexistent, because this was one bitch of a route. Lee hit the radio switch.
“Turning to first leg,
Panther.”
Lee heard two clicks in his earphones. He glanced to the right and saw his wingman, “Panther” Lewis, turning to follow. Lewis was changing formation, sliding from aft and right of Lee’s Hornet to dead astern, in preparation for what was certain to be an “E” ticket ride.
USS MOUNT WHITNEY
“The strike coordinator says he’ll have aircraft on top of the targets momentarily,” Skiles reported. He frowned.
“But I’m worried about the second air assault wave, sir. We’re going to start cuffing into their fuel reserve in a few minutes. We may have to bring them back, refuel, and launch them again. “
Craig shook his head.
“Hell, George, we do that and we’ll
be delaying the whole operation.” He glared angrily at the map.
“But I agree, we can’t land any more men until we’ve knocked those guns off target.” Visions of burning aircraft caught while landing haunted him.
He turned to the admiral commanding the amphibious task force.
“Steve, take your ships closer to the beach. If the Ospreys don’t have to fly so far coming back, we can buy ourselves a few extra minutes.” Of course, it would also bring them all closer to the South African shore defenses.
As the admiral reached for the command phone by his chair, Craig added,
