SEVENTEEN
For just a moment, the Aegis computer stuttered. The flood of new contacts did not come close to overwhelming its capabilities, but they still had to be organized, assorted, assigned track numbers, and then processed for display. This took an eternity in computer time, almost two seconds in human time.
“Chief, get those little bastards designated,” Coleman shouted. “I want a ripple shot, missiles on top of each one of them, now!”
“Roger, sir, switching to full auto,” he said. He would let the computer do the assigning, weighing the priorities — he could do it himself, of course, but the computer was far faster, and with the number of targets arcing out from the island, speed mattered. “Sir, friendly forces are in the way! They need to descend to below ten thousand feet and clear a bearing sector out from our ship.”
The TAO picked up the mike to make the call over tactical. “Hold fire, Chief. Wait until I give the word.”
It wasn’t like the aircraft could break off from everything they were doing simply to clear the area. Blue and red symbols were intertwined so closely it was almost impossible to tell what the boundaries of the air battle were. To turn tail and run would simply be to expose the most favorable target aspects to the enemy. Yes, they could move the battle to the south, but it would take a few minutes — and a few minutes was what they didn’t have.
“All but three clear,” he said. “Sir, the missiles will be out of range in approximately ten seconds. We have to fire now.”
And risk those three aircraft that stood between the ship and the missiles? He had to. If the intelligence reports were correct, the nuclear, chemical, and biological warheads on those missiles were an order of magnitude greater threat than the loss of a few aircraft.
A few aircraft. He blinked, surprised that he was able to put it in those terms. Each one had two officers on board, officers that, if they weren’t quick enough, would never see their families again.
“Weapons free, Chief,” he said, his voice hard and cold. It was the right decision, but one that he already knew he would have to live with for the rest of his life.
Korsov checked his chronometer again. Ten seconds. Should he watch? Yes, he decided. He had to. He deserved it. He veered off course slightly, heading southeast, not giving up all of his forward progress but allowing him to watch the island. As the seconds ticked by, he felt his gut tighten.
And then there it was. Small puffs of smoke from the hilltops, flying telephone poles emerging, heading straight up and then disappearing from sight. They would proceed to an altitude of 31,000 feet, then level out and begin the flight cruise toward the United States. Once within range of the coast, they would nose down, gain speed as they descended, and hit their preprogrammed targets.
The missiles were not terribly accurate. But, then, they didn’t have to be. The chemical warheads would begin spewing their aerosols of sarin into the air during their descents. The fast-acting nerve agent would cause convulsions, choking, hemorrhaging, and speedy death.
The biological agents would follow up by disbursing their particular brand of death. They were programmed to pull up out of their descent to conduct a spiraling descent to their targets, with aerosol disbursement initiated at one hundred feet. Some of the warheads contained anthrax spores, others a deadly African hemmoragic virus.
And, finally, the jewel of the entire arsenal, the three nuclear-tipped tactical weapons. Their accuracy was far greater than that of the biological or chemical weapons. By modern standards, their warheads were small. One was aimed at the White House, the other at the United Nations, and a third at Naval Station Norfolk. Their effects would be devastating.
Too bad he couldn’t stick around to watch it. But, then, duty called.
He pulled back on to course and expanded the range of his radar screen. He could see most of the weapons now, in flight, continuing on exactly as planned. The Aegis cruiser was a problem, of course. He did not make the mistake of discounting her ability to knock down his missiles. She was, in fact, a frighteningly capable ship. But he was counting on the involvement of the air wing with the MiGs to muddy the picture, to clobber the area with contacts so that the Aegis would have to fire between them to reach the missiles. By the time the battle group could get the air wing out of the way, the Aegis missiles would be in a tail chase and it would be far more difficult to shoot them down.
Thor heard the call to clear the area. Unfortunately, he was a little bit preoccupied at that moment. Two MiGs had decided that his little Hornet was just the target that they wanted that afternoon, and he was busy keeping track of them, dancing around the sky to avoid a missile lock, all while trying to line up for his own shot.
And where the hell was his wingman? Was he that black spot just at the edge of Thor’s peripheral vision? He wasn’t answering call ups — radio trouble? Or, was he already in the drink, inflating his life raft and watching the battle progressing overhead? Looking up from the sea, the life-and-death struggle taking place overhead would be barely visible, probably no more than sun glinting off metal.
“Thor, I’m coming in on you,” a voice said over international military distress. “Lost frequency control.”
Okay, it was radio problem. If Thor had had time, he would have felt relieved. But one of the MiGs was just then sliding into position behind him, its missiles hungry for the hot exhaust spewing out of his tailpipes. Thor tipped the nose down and flashed past the other aircraft as a streak of silver. He then pulled up hard, heard the Hornet howl its complaints as he exceeded recommended G forces, fought off the gray threatening his vision, and rolled back into position. His thumb toggled the weapons selector and he fired a Sparrow, performing exactly the shot that the MiG had intended just moments earlier.
“One zero one, clear the area — now! You’re fouling our line of fire, mister.”
“Listen, buddy, I would if I could,” Thor said between clenched teeth, fighting to stay conscious, “but I’m a little busy right now. Maybe you noticed.”
“Roger, sir, but we have launch indications from Bermuda. It’s now or never.”
“Do what you have to, buddy,” Thor snapped. “If I can stay out of a MiG’s line of fire, I sure as hell can avoid yours.
“Roger, sir, I’ll do what I can to get you clear.”
“Quit bothering me,” Thor said. The MiG under his wing burst into a fireball, and Thor broke his Hornet hard away to avoid the flames.
“Randy, where are you?” he said over tactical. “What’s with your damned radio?”
“—intermittent — too much data—” He heard Randy’s garbled voice come back.
“Listen, if your receiver’s okay, take low station. Where’s that other MiG?”
And then he saw it. While he’d been preoccupied with the other one it had circled around and was now arrowing down out of the sun, intent on the kill. Thor’s ECM warning system shrieked, and Thor pulled up his nose in order to face the incoming aircraft. In front of him, he saw a flash of silver, as Randy’s Hornet cut across at a right angle, guns blazing, trying for the knife fight kill.
“Inside minimums! I need to open on him,” Thor shouted. “Randy, keep him occupied for a minute, then go buster when I tell you.”
Had his wingman heard him? It looked like it — Randy broke off, pulled a tight, gut-wrenching turn, and was now diving back in on the MiG. Now that it was two on one, it was a far, far better situation to be in.
Thor raced away from the fight, keeping an eye out for telltale flames or hydraulic links. If Randy’s guns had connected, then a missile shot might not be necessary at all. But from what he could see, the MiG was undamaged.
With Randy playing cat and mouse with the MiG, Thor opened up the range to one mile, turned, and started back in. He got a solid lock on the MiG, then shouted, “Break now, Randy!” his finger poised over the weapons
