Thor started his walk-around of the aircraft, running through the checklist. Some people might skimp on the routine items, counting on the ground crew to catch any major problems, but not a Marine. And most particularly, not this Marine.
Finally, he was ready. He popped down the first rung of the boarding ladder and started crawling up the side of the Hornet. Her skin felt smooth and thin under his fingers. He pulled himself up and over the edge of the cockpit, easing down into his seat. A plane captain followed him up and helped him buckle in. At the last moment, the young corporal pulled the safety pins from the ejection mechanism.
“Semper Fi, sir,” he said.
“Semper Fi, Marine.” Thor flipped open the pre-start checklist, worked his way through it, then followed the corporal’s hand signal to start engines. When they were both, major and corporal, completely satisfied that the Hornet was good to go, the corporal snapped into a picture perfect salute. Thor returned it from the cockpit and released the brakes.
“This one’s for you, Murph,” he said aloud as he taxied toward the runway. “And for me.”
The ship rocked slightly in the gentle current. She was making bare steerageway, just enough forward speed to enable her to retain rudder control in case she needed to maneuver. At two knots, she seemed to rest gently upon the surface of the ocean rather than steam through it.
“All stations report ready, Captain,” the TAO said.
Captain Daniel Heather nodded. “Any last words from UNFOR?”
“No, sir.” The TAO held up a sheet of paper. “The last message we got was that the strike was airborne and would remain in orbit over the airfield until we’d launched.”
“Very well.” Captain Heather glanced at the chronometer on the wall, then double-checked the time displayed on the edge of the computer screen. “Thirty seconds, I make it.”
“Yes, sir.”
He waited, watching the digital figures click over on the screen. A routine launch — if any weapon launched in anger could be called routine. But if anything, there was less tension in Combat than there’d been during their last exercise firing. Then the spacious compartment had been stuffed with civilians, contractors, and CRUDES staff all wanting to offer their opinions and assistance.
Well, this time there was just one grading criteria. And that was how well
In actual fact, the Tomahawks were relatively easy to fire. A separate weapons console housed the software, but the actual targeting package for the terrain-following missing was loaded into the missile from a CD. The shape of the terrain, the points it could check its flight path against, the speed of the missile, all were out of the control of the ship. As long as they were in the basket, in the piece of area designated as the launch area, and as long as they got the weapon off on time, everything should go just according to plan.
“Ten seconds,” the TAO announced. “Weapons free. Tomahawk, you have permission to fire.”
“Permission to fire, aye, sir.” The petty officer first class perched on a stool in front of the Tomahawk Engagement Console, or TEC, had his finger poised over the keyboard. “Five seconds, sir.”
The final moments clicked by without incident. A low shudder ran through the ship and a faint ringing as the launch warning buzzer on the forecastle sounded. It was almost anticlimactic when the petty officer announced, “Missile away, sir.”
Almost immediately, the Tomahawk sprang into existence on the tactical console, a missile symbol with a long speed leader attached. It headed off at an angle from the ship for the first waypoint.
The waypoints were intermediate stations that the missile would pass through on its way to landfall. Constructing them was one of the few tasks a ship had, and the final waypoint and course change were designed to put the missile exactly over a point its electronic memory would recognize. From that point on, it would be guided solely by the terrain map, with an ever-decreasing tolerance for errors.
USS
“Good work. Now comes the hard part,” Captain Heather announced. He settled back into his chair to wait.
“Devil Dog 202, you are cleared for takeoff.” The tower’s voice sounded almost bored.
“Roger, Devil Dog 202 cleared for takeoff,” Thor acknowledged. He shoved the throttles forward, feeling the Hornet surge forward around him. God, but this was an aircraft that loved to fly!
He rolled out and rotated with plenty of runway left, old habits learned the hard way in carrier aviation dying hard. He was the third aircraft in the launch sequence, behind two Tomcats. Queued up on the runway behind him were an assortment of other fighter aircraft, some quite capable and some barely airworthy. It had been clear to him that the Americans had better make damned sure they hit their targets, because he wasn’t sure how many of the others would be able to find their IP, much less their targets.
The Hornet burbled for a moment close to ground, then the full effect of the engines kicked in and she soared like a bird. Thor hauled back, climbing at a hard angle, wondering whether he’d catch any flak from the air traffic controller. From the two-dimensional radar now tracking him, it would appear that he was virtually standing still in the sky, showing a remarkably low speed over ground with all of his power poured into gaining altitude.
“Three, you got a problem?” the lead Tomcat asked. “Maybe with your horizon?”
“Negative, Lead, all green back here,” Thor said. “Just heading for altitude.”
“Right.” Lead appeared to be about to let it pass without further comment, then said, “Tanker’s not for another fifteen mikes, Three. You think you can wait that long?” A double click of the mike from Two substituted for a laugh.
“I’m fine, Lead. Thanks for asking.” Thor cut back his rate of ascent to that of the more heavily laden Tomcats.
That was the one drawback to the Hornet — at least from the Tomcat’s point of view. The lighter, more maneuverable Hornet could carry less weapon weight, and had correspondingly smaller fuel tanks. They needed a quick plug and suck at the tanker just about any time they could get it.
But there were advantages to being the smaller fighter, too. They could meet the MiG on a MiG’s terms, not expending fuel in the vertical game a Tomcat had to play. And, even more importantly, the Hornet was the platform of choice for close air support, providing firepower to troops on the ground. For a mission like this, one that required precision bombing to hit small, easily concealed targets, the Hornet was the airframe of choice. Finally, the Hornet had one last feature that none of the Tomcats could claim — each airframe was younger and required far less maintenance hours per hour of flight than the massive, aging F-14s.
The first landmark slid by on Thor’s right. He checked his chronometer — right on schedule. The Tomcats were formed up in a tight pair ahead of him, and Thor’s own wingman was tucked in tight. He craned his neck around for a visual check and got a thumbs-up from the young captain in the cockpit.
Four more minutes. That was the one good thing about fighting a war in Europe — everything was closer together.
Arkady stared at the radar picture of the surrounding area, then transferred his gaze to the small-scale topographical map mounted on the forward wall. The suspected locations of the enemy camps were laid out in red, a square enclosing an X marking what his staff believed were the headquarters. More symbols denoted the light mechanized infantry, the two lone tanks that the Macedonians had acquired from defectors from the Greek forces, and the anti-air sites now annihilated. The ingress and egress routes were laid out in white.
