Terror At Dawn

biological-weapons site. Maybe they did know more than he did about the targets, about what could go wrong with a preemptive strike. Well, to hell with them. When he was senior enough to be making the calls, he’d call the strikes like he saw them.

“Two,” Skeeter acknowledged, following suit at Fastball’s command. His Tomcat appeared to hang motionless in the sky at exactly the right distance from Fastball.

Five minutes later, Fastball announced, “Feet dry. Visual on target.”

The facility was located just off the coast, a complex of concrete buildings and piping that resembled a refinery. Rat had studied its outlines hour after hour, committing its shape from every angle to memory. Now, as she craned forward to get a look at it, she felt a reassuring sense of familiarity.

“Concur, target,” she acknowledged. “Descend to angels two on approach.”

“I know, I know,” Fastball muttered. “Didn’t we brief this enough times?”

“Just follow the checklist, Fastball,” she said wearily.

“Why don’t you just leave the flying to me? If you want to do something useful, watch for antiair missiles,” he said sharply, putting the Tomcat into a sharp descent.

There was always a wild card, wasn’t there? Intelligence could do a lot, but they could not keep up with every single movement of small weapons on the land. There was no intelligence about fixed antiair weapons sites, but there was every possibility that there could be a man stationed on the roof with a Stinger tube or a mobile air setup. Even a few machine guns could exact serious damage if they manage to connect with the fuel tank. No bombing run, not even the ones conducted at the training range, was ever entirely safe.

Fastball kept his gaze fixed on the target, at the exact position that he wanted to nail. He absorbed the information displayed on his HUD unconsciously, integrating it with what his eyes told him and correlating the two pictures.

“Five seconds,” Rat announced. “Four, three, two — mark!”

The heavy jet jolted upward as the five-hundred-pound bomb left the wing, lofted into the air on a trajectory destined to take it right into the center of the complex. Moments later, Skeeter released his weapon as well, and the two Tomcats peeled away from the approach path in opposite directions to avoid mutual interference. They went buster at right angles to the target for a few moments, gaining maximum distance, and then converged back on base course.

“Good hit,” Rat shouted, turning around to watch the fireball behind them. “Secondaries, too, I think.”

“Nice job,” Skeeter’s RIO agreed.

“Then it’s back to the barn, boys and girls,” Fastball announced, self-satisfaction in his voice. “I think we earned ourselves the couple days off Alert Five.”

USS United States

1625 local (GMT +3)

“I want some answers, and I want them now!” Admiral Jette swore, slamming his fist down on the heavy conference room table. “Jefferson’s got her strikes already launched, weapons in the air, and you people haven’t even finished up the answer to the warning order. Anyone mind explaining this little discrepancy to me? Is there a really damn good reason that we can’t be first off the mark?”

No one spoke. Every officer seated at the admiral’s table knew the answer, but they had learned from hard experience that the emperor did not appreciate being told he had no clothes on.

“What about it, Strike?” the admiral asked, directing his comments to the air strike officer. “What’s your excuse?”

Of all the officers there, Strike was the most experienced. He’d been on numerous cruises in this area, served on Fifth Fleet battle staff and as the force operations officer on board a command and control ship, and had forgotten more about the Middle East than most of the others had ever learned. Additionally, he had just decided to retire. His oldest daughter, age ten; had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis and was not doing well. In all good conscience, as much as he loved flying, he could not leave his wife to bear the burden alone. This was his last cruise, although no one knew it yet.

“The problem is, Admiral, that we weren’t ready,” he said bluntly, locking his gaze on the admiral’s angry eyes. “If we had a notional flight schedule ready to go, if we left a little bit of flexibility in our plans, then this whole thing would have run much more smoothly.”

“Are you telling me you can’t do your job?” the admiral demanded, his voice low and menacing. “Would you like me to relieve you now or shall I wait for a court-martial to decide your incompetence?”

“I’m not incompetent, sir. With all due respect, I’m probably the most competent strike officer you’ll ever see. And it is my considered professional opinion that the staff is not up to speed.” Strike’s voice was firm as he spoke. He could feel the waves of shock and apprehension surging out from the other officers, but he ignored them. Sure, he could have used some moral support, but why ask them to sink their careers along with his? They were good men and women, most of them, and the Navy would need them to balance out idiots such as the man wearing the stars in front of him.

“I want aircraft in the air within thirty minutes,” the admiral said. “No excuses. Thirty minutes.” He held up the two sheets of paper he’d been handed, the staff’s first cut on their commander’s plan. “I am releasing this. You want flexibility, you’ll get flexibility. Get those aircraft in the air now and you can make changes as need be while they’re en route. Think your pilots can handle that, or do they need to have their hands held all the way to the target?”

“My pilots can handle anything,” the senior commanding officer present said. “We’re ready, sir.”

And fuck you, too, buddy, Strike thought. Go ahead, suck up. But see who has to pull your ass out of the fire. And in the end, you won’t be the one that suffers. Your pilots will, and God help them all.

The admiral’s answer came back just as promptly as Coyote’s had, although with a cautionary note to verify all intelligence prior to launch. Fifteen minutes later, the first of the Alert Five aircraft of United States launched.

Tomcat 101

1645 local (GMT +3)

Commander Lauren took the first flight himself. His motivation was not an avid desire for attaboys or a greedy grab for more stick time. Lauren had had more than his share of combat missions, and was second only to Strike in number of traps on board a carrier. He chose a less experienced pilot-RIO team for his wingman.

Lauren was a tall, stocky man with a shock of silver hair that made him easily visible in any crowd. A sprinkle of freckles across his nose, coupled with bright blue disingenuous eyes, often led people to underestimate him. No one who had ever served with him or flown with him ever made that mistake more than once.

“States, this is Renegade Leader,” he said, toggling his mike on. “Be advised we are feet-dry and ten miles from designated target. You have any intel updates for me?”

“Renegade One, States. We’re working on it, sir. If there’s a modification, we should have it to you in about five minutes.”

Five minutes. Thanks, fella. I’ll already be in range if there are any new antiair sites in the area. “Roger, States, acknowledged.” But I’ll be damned if I let you hear me sweat it out.

A small red symbol began blinking on his HUD, and the ESM warning gear in the rear seat simultaneously erupted with incessant beeping. “Fire control radar,” his RIO announced. “I think we got a SAM site dead ahead.”

“It figures,” Lauren said. Generally, you could detect a hostile radar at about one and one half times the range that the radar could detect you. They gave him some time, if not a lot, to try to turn and make his way around the edges of the radar’s detection envelope. “That’s it, bearing zero-six-zero?”

“Affirmative. I think if you—”

“Already on it,” the pilot said laconically, swinging the Tomcat ninety degrees off base course. “Let me know when we start losing signal strength.”

“Roger.” The ESM beeping stopped as the Tomcat opened range from the site.

“Renegade One, States. Be advised there’s a possible SAM site to the northeast of your current location.”

“Roger, got it.” Thanks a lot, guys. Too little, too late. “Interrogative our target