Chapter One
Cruising the Western Mediterranean on the seventh month of a six-month deployment, the guided missile destroyer USS Kimmel cut through waves turned to molten copper by the sunset.
It was 563 feet of metal, a floating city shaped like a sword blade. Inside it were four jet engines, kitchens, weapons, ventilation systems, fuel tanks, ammunition lockers and living spaces for its crew of 350 men and women. Nearing the end of a working day, it was about to commence a working night.
On the bridge, the Captain took one last look at his orders. He still could not quite believe what he read. In the hangar, the flight crew finished pre-flight checks. In Combat Information Central (CIC), the Gunnery Officer entered, brushed the last bits of dinner from her hands and relieved the Watch Officer. On the mess decks, sailors finished their evening meal.
One of those sailors was Seaman Dave Halloran. He was a broad-shouldered man of average height, solidly built, with eyes that went from pale blue to dark gray depending on his moods. On this ship, his eyes were most often the dark gray of brewing storm clouds. His crewcut hair was brown, fading to premature gray, his skin pale where it was not sunburned. His uniform of white T-shirt and blue dungaree jeans was clean but worn.
Halloran was a deck seaman, one of the "non-rate" sailors on the ship who did the other jobs no one else wanted. Tonight he was starting the three months of duty in the ship's mess-Mess Cranking-that all sailors did sometime during their first year on a ship. He was working the beverage line.
Halloran looked over the mess decks and checked his watch. Another five minutes and he could start clean up, he hoped. Then it would be time to find a quiet corner with some friends for an evening of war gaming. Another mess crank walked past, gingerly holding a stack of trays still steaming from the dishwashers. "Is this going to take much longer?" Halloran asked.
"Not much," answered the other sailor. "The last man's off the Mess Decks, the Chief's Mess already sent their dishes through and Wardroom does all their own. Just hope Davis doesn't want us to wax the decks tonight."
Halloran gritted his teeth, then froze.
Over the 1MC public address system, someone was ringing the ship's bell, a rapid ringing done as fast as the Bosun's Mate of the Watch could swing the clapper. The ringing stopped, and a voice barked out.
"GENERAL QUARTERS, GENERAL QUARTERS, ALL HANDS MAN YOUR BATTLE STATIONS! SET CONDITION ZEBRA THROUGHOUT THE SHIP! GO UP AND FORWARD ON STARBOARD SIDE, DOWN AND AFT ON PORT! REASON FOR GENERAL QUARTERS: POSSIBLE AIR ATTACK! THIS IS NOT A DRILL!"
The mess decks exploded into motion. Halloran was booking for the nearest ladderwell before the bell stopped ringing. He'd been hearing the rumors all day. Something real was up. Around him, the narrow passageways suddenly flooded with crewmembers running to GQ stations. Some ran for the engine rooms, others for damage control lockers where they would outfit themselves as Damage Control and Fire Fighting Parties. Some manned the gun and missile mounts or replaced watch standers who had their own GQ stations to get to. Watertight doors were slammed shut and secured all over the ship, turning Kimmel into a honeycomb of watertight spaces, virtually impossible to sink.
Halloran passed others already in flash gear, lunged up a ladder to the top level of the superstructure, emerged from the pilothouse and ran to the rear, or aft, lookout position. The lookout who'd been on watch was hopping back and forth nervously. He threw off his sound-powered phones as Halloran approached. "Nothing in sight, no air or surface contacts, gotta go, Chief'll have my-" Slamming metal shut off his words. Gears squealed as the hatch was dogged shut.
First, Halloran bloused his bell-bottom dungarees into his socks, to keep the bell-bottoms from snagging on anything. Then he went to the hatch from the helicopter control tower. It was already shut, but before the tower crew had dogged the hatch they had shoved out his GQ gear. He threw on a blue, long-sleeved dungaree shirt he'd stuffed into his gas mask bag, rolled down the sleeves and buttoned it up. The long pants and shirtsleeves were hot, but they would protect him from flash burns in the event of explosion or fire.
Next, he pulled his cloth flash gloves and flash hood out of the gas mask bag, put them on over hands and head. The hood smelled stale, sour from sitting too long stuffed into the bag. He ignored it. No gas alarm yet, so the gas mask went back in its bag. Now his entire body except his face was protected from flash burns. The entire crew, from newest Seaman Recruit to the Captain in his seat on the Bridge, wore the same rig.
On went the sound-powered phones. "Aft Lookout, on line!" he barked, then listened, strapping on his gas mask bag as he did so.
"Aft lookout, aye!" The bridge, responding. Now they knew he was there, and he knew they were listening. Next, on went the phone talkers' helmet, made huge to fit over the earpieces of his headphones. Finally, he picked up the binoculars the lookout had hung over the railing. Look through, adjust focus, scan the aft 180 degrees of the horizon around the ship, then scan the sky, then the ocean close in. As the man had said, no air contacts, no surface contacts.
That done, he spared a minute to look at the aft weather decks of the ship. Empty, except for the flight deck, where the ship's helicopter was being rolled out. Then he saw the missile launchers. Looked closely. Olive-drab missiles were on the launch rails.
That was when it really sank in. Unknown to Halloran, a smile crept across his face. Excitement, tinged with a bit of fear, made his heart pound in his chest. "Well, there's something you don't see every day, McGee," he muttered to no one in particular. He began scanning again. Horizon, sky, near ocean.
"ATTENTION, STRAIGHT SHOOTERS! THIS IS THE CAPTAIN SPEAKING!"
"Big surprise," muttered Halloran. Sound-powered phones only worked if you held down the button, which he most assuredly was not doing.
"MANY OF YOU HAVE HEARD RUMORS TODAY ABOUT OUR COURSE CHANGES AND SOME UNUSUAL MESSAGE TRAFFIC. HERE'S THE SITUATION: A LIBYAN PILOT AND AN AMERICAN AGENT ARE DEFECTING FROM LIBYA ON A HELICOPTER. WE ARE WAITING FOR THEM IN INTERNATIONAL WATERS. WE INTEND TO LAND THEIR HELICOPTER ON THIS SHIP. EXPECT THE HELICOPTER TO COME IN UNDER RADAR. ALL LOOKOUTS ARE TO STAY ALERT, PARTICULARLY THE BIG EYES." On top of the pilothouse, Signalmen high-fived each other, manned the outsize, pedestal-mounted binoculars called "Big Eyes".
"LIBYAN AIRCRAFT MAY ENTER INTERNATIONAL AIRSPACE IN HOT PURSUIT OF THIS HELICOPTER AND ATTACK IT OR US. WE HAVE BEEN AUTHORIZED TO USE ALL AVAILABLE FORCE IN SELF DEFENSE, OR TO DEFEND THE DEFECTING HELICOPTER. WE ONLY KNOW THE GENERAL DIRECTION OF APPROACH OF THE HELICOPTER, SO WE HAVE TO KEEP OUR EYES OPEN TO CATCH IT. THIS MAY TAKE ALL NIGHT." For once, Halloran didn't mind a planned game being canceled by ship's operations. "THIS IS AN OPPORTUNITY TO EXCEL. TO PROVE THAT Kimmel 'S REPUTATION ON THE WATERFRONT HAS BEEN WELL EARNED."
Halloran smirked at that. Given the choice between three hours of sleep or a good reputation on the waterfront, he had a pretty good idea which the crew would take. "Yadda, yadda, yadda," he muttered. "Get this show on the road, you royal pain in the butt."
"SO STAY ALERT AND REMEMBER YOUR TRAINING! THIS WILL BE A FITTING FINALE TO AN OUTSTANDING MED CRUISE. I WILL KEEP YOU INFORMED AS INFORMATION COMES IN. THIS ENTIRE OPERATION IS CLASSIFIED, SO DO NOT MENTION IT IN YOUR LETTERS HOME UNTIL YOU HAVE BEEN CLEARED TO DO SO. FURTHER, ALL RADIO CALLS HOME ARE CANCELED UNTIL WE GET BACK TO NORFOLK. STAY ALERT, STRAIGHT SHOOTERS, AND GOOD LUCK!"
Halloran began scanning eagerly, all frustrations put aside for now. This wasn't one more training exercise. This was real!
Two hundred miles to the south, it was all too real. Major Abood, late of the Libyan Air Force, checked the controls of the Mi-8 HIP one more time. Everything was running well. Below them, the land north of Benghazi was green with the new irrigated farms. Patches of desert gleamed pink in the setting sun. The sun was setting over the Gulf of Sidra, glowing orange fire in a turquoise sky. The beauty of it made Abood's heart ache. Then the land slid away, replaced by the blue waters of the Mediterranean.
A noise behind him as the American came up from the cargo cabin, stuffing papers, maps and photographs into a plastic bag. Majors was red-haired and light-complected, constantly getting sunburned, his hair worn a little long, his bushy mustache carefully trimmed. Abood was the classic dark-complected Arab, taller, movie-star handsome, complete with the Ray-Bans that indicated he was "Somebody." In the Arab world, you were nobody if you didn't have Ray-Bans.
Abood spoke over the roar of the twin Isotov turboprops driving the helicopter. "We have not been followed. I radioed in a Mayday before I dived below radar. They will believe we have crashed. You are satisfied with the papers?"
Majors checked the package one last time before sealing it in the waterproof bag. Then he smiled. "Congratulations! You have just won the defector's grand prize!" said Majors, in an odd accent Abood could not recognize as an imitation of a game show host. "Instant American citizenship! A new name! A new job! Along with the thanks of a grateful nation, your own luxury condo-minimum in Langley, Virginia and the right to be audited by the IRS!"
Abood looked quizzically back and shrugged again. The American sat in the co-pilot's seat and watched as Abood fed power to the rotors and flew west, skimming the waves of the Gulf of Sidra. It was a far cry from when they had met that morning in Benghazi. He wondered what the American had thought of their meeting...
The Benghazi streets had still been cool from the desert night. The smells of food, of camel dung and goats and exotic spices lay heavy in the air. Majors looked across the street to the shade of the coffeehouse, squinted. Abood was there, dapper in his Libyan Air Force uniform. Majors glanced around casually. Nobody watching. Trying to shake the feeling of cross hairs centered on his back, Majors crossed the street, sat at an empty table next to Abood, ordered coffee.
Abood turned to face him. "Excuse me, are you an American?"
Majors coughed, tried to slow down his heart. "Excuse me?"
"I said, are you an American? Come, sit with me."
What was this lunatic doing? "Uh, no, I'm Canadian. I sell oil-pumping equipment. I, uh, I don't want to be a bother."
"It is no bother!" Abood grinned, showing a mouthful of perfect teeth. "Sit with me! We will have coffee and talk. I meet so few foreigners." Reluctantly, Majors went over to Abood's table, sat down. The waiter, eagerly serving anyone who paid in hard currency, brought his cup of coffee. It was served in the Arabic fashion-very strong, and sugared to almost syrupy sweetness. Majors had developed a taste for it. He sipped it to calm himself.
Abood smiled and spoke. "Don't worry. The Secret Police are busy at the Western embassies or shuttling around the press. Those Sword of Islam dogs really stirred it up this time." Majors recalled his briefing on Abood. The Libyan Major was a hotshot at piloting and, apparently, everything else. The man prided himself on his command of American slang, picked up from black-market videotapes. Utterly fearless, as befitted the longest-lasting indigenous contact the CIA had ever had in Libya. Majors wished the man were a little less fearless. As a non-card-carrying field agent of the CIA, he hated flamboyance when practiced by allies.
"So what's the big deal?" Majors kept scanning the street. "The plane's blown up, the hostages are dead, Sword of Islam has a few more martyrs. Why are the Secret Police worried now?"
"Because the hostages aren't blown up." Abood watched Major's reaction, grinned, ordered tea.
Majors thought a second, stared into the Libyans' Ray-Bans. Damn. Couldn't read the eyes through those. Maybe the overpriced sunglasses weren't such a bad idea after all. He took another sip of hot coffee to steady his jangled nerves. "What happened to the hostages then?"
"Sword of Islam has them in a training camp, all thirty-two of them. They were taken off the airliner when it was stuck in the sand at the end of the runway, out of view of the cameras. They want to use them to negotiate the release of prisoners. That's why the Secret Police are working so hard to keep your press at a distance."
Majors head spun for a moment. Thirty-two was the magic number. He began running through options in his head. "Why is Qadhafi still saying they died?"
"It is a big mess. Sword of Islam wants hostages. Qadhafi still remembers your F-111's bombing his house. He wants nothing to do with any more hostages. He says to just shoot the hostages and bury them in the sand, so everyone forgets about it. No muss, no fuss, no bombers." As Abood spoke, his hands waved in the gestures of pilots worldwide. How do you silence a pilot, Majors thought to himself? You tie up his hands.
"So why aren't they dead and buried?"
"Sword of Islam pitched a bitch about it. They say they will slip them out of the country. Qadhafi gave them five days to do it. Four days now. Nobody else will take the hostages. Their nuts are in the meat grinder on this one." Spoken in a thick Arabic accent, the slang was comical but clear.
"How do you know so much?"
"A friend of mine flew them to the camp. Here is the straight skippy." The Libyan handed Majors a grainy Polaroid. In it, Majors could see two children-a boy and a girl-and an older man sporting a black eye, in the cargo bay of some aircraft, guarded by a man with an AK-47.
Majors studied it closely. If this could be confirmed-"Where's the camp?"
Abood grinned. "That is for me to know and you to find out, buckaroo."
Majors looked at the children in the photos. Their fear came out, even in the grainy picture. Anger put an edge on his next words. "What do you mean by that?"
"I am tired of Libya. I wish to defect. I can bring the location of the camp with me, full information and maps. They were…lost…during the flight in."
Majors shook his head. "That's no good. If what you say is true, we have 96 hours before the terrorists kill the hostages. We need that information in time to plan a rescue. Or we can use it to expose this, and at least make the hostages public, so Qadhafi can't kill them."
"You cannot expose it." Abood shook his head mournfully. "Orders have already been given. At the first mention that we have the hostages, they are to be immediately taken out to the desert and shot. It's a big desert. Easy to lose a few bodies in." Abood shrugged, in the same manner of his ancestors who had traded rugs and goats and brass.
"So our only option is a rescue. For that, we need the maps in time to do some good. It takes time to put these things together."
Abood nodded. "I have a solution." He checked his watch. "Tonight I must fly a training mission over the Gulf of Sidra. Instead, I will land my helicopter on the coast road, five kilometers north of Benghazi to pick you up and fly to a US Navy ship which you will have waiting outside Libyan waters. I will have the maps with me. You will then have three days to use them to plan the rescue."
Majors' mind ran through options, staggered by the audacity of the Libyan's plan. "You've thought this out, haven't you?"
"You damn skippy I have." Abood reached into a pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes. "I told you I was tired of Libya. Tired of watching these idiots kill each other and trying not to be caught in the crossfire. Qadhafi is not getting any younger. Just more nervous." He lit the cigarette, drew deeply. Exhaled. Suddenly, he didn't seem so jaunty. Just exhausted.
"What if I can't have a ship waiting there?"
"Then I make the training flight, four days pass and the hostages die. Or your Navy gets too close to our coast, Qadhafi panics, and the hostages die. Or word is leaked to the press…"
"…and the hostages die." Majors finished. "I get it."
Abood finished his tea in one long drink, stood up. "Dusk, on the coast road, five kilometers north of Benghazi. It is the only way. Can you have a ship waiting or not?"
That had been this morning...
Now, Abood looked across the empty ocean and hoped the promised ship was where it should be. He was still flying under radar, almost skimming the wave tops. The American spoke. "Abood, what if you were spotted?"
"The MIGS will catch us before we go a hundred kilometers."
"What if they catch us before we make the ship?"
Abood got his jaunty grin back. "Your ships have shot down our planes before. What is few more between friends? Besides, those jet pilots are stinking dogs any ways, and ass-kissers too." Abood concentrated on his flying and listened to the radio. Frantic queries filled the airwaves. As he'd hoped, his radio silence had them already assuming he'd crashed. He reached under the instrument panel, made sure he'd disabled the IFF beacon. It broadcast an identification code in response to radar. Now all he had to do was keep his helicopter under radar to avoid detection. The lack of response from his beacon would help in the deception.
Behind him was his home. Behind were the Secret Police, the disappointment, the fear. Ahead of him was the West. An end to fear. Perhaps even something he could believe in. If even America disappointed him-well, if there was nothing to truly believe in, one might as well be an unbeliever in a comfortable spot. He could already taste his first Tom Collins.
Back on land, unknown to Abood, a security patrol had stopped on one of the dunes. It's commander was already on the radio reporting that the crashed helicopter he had been told to look for was heading out into the gulf, skimming the waves. That message was passed on. A training flight of MiG-23's loaded for a ground-attack run was vectored in.
On the bridge of USS Kimmel , Lieutenant Jimmelle Washington, Ship's Gunnery Officer, adjusted her gas mask bag-the damn thing had a tendency to slide down below her knees. Then she focused as Lieutenant Commander Wendell Scott-Operations Officer or simply, OPS-read their orders a third time. His whole manner was tense, matching the atmosphere on the bridge. The officers present had each gone over the orders at least twice. This was a new situation and nobody wanted to make any mistakes. OPS excelled in not making mistakes.
"It seems clear." OPS spoke in his reedy voice. He was a tall man with thinning sandy-colored hair and mustache. "We stay in international waters, conduct air-sea rescue of anyone who needs it and defend ourselves if attacked. I've never seen anything like this before, but it happens."
Commander (SW/AW) Matt Reisling nodded. The Commanding Commander (CO) of Kimmel was a short, athletic man, a fanatic about physical fitness, with dark brown hair and eyes and a perpetually eager expression. "Outstanding. If we're all agreed, I think this is an excellent training opportunity." He turned to Washington. "`Guns', I want all weapons hot, the whole nine yards."
"Live birds are on the rails, sir," snapped Lieutenant Washington, checking her list. She was a young black woman, her hair cropped close to her skull, uniform creased razor sharp.
Reisling thought a moment. "I also want the men with the keys standing by C-WIZ at all times during GQ."
"Yes sir," she snapped, and scribbled some lines into her notebook to make it look as if she was changing something. The Close-In Weapons System, CIWS or C-WIZ, was a 20mm Gatling gun designed to shoot down incoming missiles or aircraft. The problem with C-WIZ was that, left to itself, it would track and fire on anything within 2000 meters-seagulls, their own helicopter, anything. It could only safely be switched on during actual attack, so personnel with Arming Keys had to stand by the weapons if they were to be used safely. What annoyed Washington was that they'd been doing this for seven months now. It was SOP, yet Reisling still was micromanaging the job like they were on their first work-up.
"OPS, I want the Search and Rescue swimmer and the boat crew standing by for recovery, in case we have to pull someone out of the water."
"Not a problem, Sir." That was peachy with OPS. Washington sincerely believed that if the CO had told OPS to have Deck Division tap dancing naked on the quarterdeck at 0200 hours that would have been peachy with OPS, too. "Guns, I'll need one of your people there with a shark gun."
The term "Anal-retentive control freak" occurred to Washington. "Yes, sir."
OPS checked his own notebook. "Sir, there's a lot of maintenance to be done. How late should this run?"
"Don't worry. We'll finish this tonight. It won't interfere with normal working hours."
OPS laughed at that. "Sounds like good training, sir."
Washington spoke up. "How long do we expect to have the crew at their GQ stations, sir?"
"As long as it takes, 'Guns." Reisling cocked an eyebrow. "Why?"
Go ahead Jimmelle, went a little voice inside her head. Tell the Captain who's failed two promotion boards that his crew is running on the ragged edge of exhaustion. Tell him his people are an accident waiting to happen. Advise him to secure from General Quarters at first opportunity, so they can get some rest. Then go on down to your quarters, take your Lieutenant Bars and frame them. Because after you tell him, the CO will write you a performance evaluation that will make sure Lieutenant is the last promotion you will ever see. "Should we break out the night vision gear, sir?"
Reisling smiled. "Outstanding idea! Make it happen, 'Guns. The Quartermaster of the Watch says we'll hit the operations area about 1945 hours."
Washington left the bridge and went to the Combat Information Center.
CIC, the Combat Information Center, looked like the set from a science fiction movie. Eternally dark, the only light permitted came from dozens of computer screens and radar scans. In a time when weapons had rendered armor almost irrelevant, CIC was still kept deep within the superstructure, with other spaces beside, above or beneath it acting as it's protection. The bridge could be replaced if taken out. So could the berthings and the officers' quarters. CIC could not be replaced if Kimmel was to remain a warship.
The men and women in CIC, faces lit phosphor-green; all wore flash gear. They scanned radio and radar waves, plotted sightings both visual and electronic, checked the status of the ship's weapons.
"Target package loaded and confirmed for Harpoons." Cruise missiles, capable of hitting ships or ground targets. "Targets as follows: Benghazi sea scan radar, designation Alfa Tango, Harpoon One. Commo Center designation Bravo Uniform, Harpoons Two and Three. Radar facility…"
"All lookouts on line."
"All Standard Missiles green, tracking enabled." Two missiles on each launcher, live and on the rail, waiting for the information that would send them to their targets at twice the speed of sound.
"Mount Five-One, manned and ready." The forward 5-inch gun.
"Mount Twenty-Two, manned and ready." The rear 20mm C-Wiz.
"Nixie checks green, ready to stream on command." A sonar jammer the ship could trail to distract sonar-guided torpedoes. Just in case.
A thousand and one checks were made, a multitude of systems tested. Then they waited, as Kimmel skirted Libyan airspace, listening and looking. OPS came in and tried to get them to start a training scenario on the computers. The Captain started calling down every 15 minutes. The senior enlisted man present, Senior Chief Carter, went over to the watch desk and fell asleep sitting up.
After an hour and 45 minutes, the air scan radar operator spoke. "Spa-48 detects six aircraft, squawking MiG-23s, Libyan, bearing 165 true." The SPS-48 Air Search Radar, or Spa-48, was the ship's primary set of electronic eyes, linked with the SPG-51 (Spig Five One) targeting radar. Computers linked with the radar read their target's IFF (Identification, Friend or Foe) beacons and identified them, putting the information on the radar screen.
"Target angle 351, range 90 miles. Altitude 3500 meters, airspeed 350 knots. Air contact designation Mike." From now on, the Libyan jets and their pilots would be referred to as Contact Mike. Unless shooting started, in which case they would become Vampire Mike and, shortly afterward, dead.
On the plotting board, a sailor grease-penciled their new contact in. Lt. Washington watched the scene, grinned nervously. She wasn't eager to fight, but the adrenaline was pumping. "OS1, I want all our passive Electronic Counter-Measures on them. Let me know the minute they light off targeting radars."
"Aye, aye, ma'am" rasped Operations Specialist 1st Class "Black" Bart Ingalls. With slick black hair, narrow black mustache and squinting dark eyes, he looked like nothing so much as a villain from an old Western. The impression was furthered by a voice made raspy by the smoke of a few thousand cigarettes and at least as many shots of whiskey drunk in dozens of nations. "Should we light off Spig five-one, illuminate them for the missiles?"
"Negative. Rules of engagement say we only fire in self-defense. They're in international airspace. They might panic and open fire."
"That's the idea, ma'am." OS1 Ingalls grinned and looked at the screen, analyzing it in a moment while the OS3 at it was still trying to read the computer prompts. "Still in Libyan airspace. They'll enter international airspace in a minute." He raised his head, barked at the OS's. "Does anyone pick up anything that might be a chopper? Probably a Soviet model?"
Silence from the OS's. The phone rang. Washington answered. "CIC, Guns here."
"Guns, this is the CO. You're tracking Libyan aircraft?"
"Affirmative, sir, but no helos. Recommend we steer clear until we can spot our defector."
"Sounds good, Guns. CO out." The phone clicked off. A few seconds later the deck tilted as Kimmel adjusted course. Washington thought hard. The Libyan IFF beacons were working fine-squawking, in OS slang. Intended to avoid having one's own missiles shoot down friendly aircraft, they actually helped Kimmel , made it easy for the OS's to spot them. Which bothered Washington. If that defecting helicopter was over the gulf, they should be picking up its IFF beacon. She looked over the OS3's shoulder at a screen filled with images, each solid image tagged with it's electronic identification.
"Ma'am!" The OSSA handling communications with the radio room spoke up. "Commo has clear channel broadcasts in Arabic from those planes. We don't have a translator, but they've said helicopter several times."
Washington nodded. "Pass that on to the Bridge. Let me know if the Libyans sound excited."
"Has radio said anything about a Mayday from our chopper?"
"Negative."
"No surprise," said Washington. "If our defectors used the radio, it'd just lead those jets to them."
"Aye, aye." Now they waited. The Libyan jets split up into pairs, searched a wider area, were redesignated Mike Alfa, Mike Bravo and Mike Charley. There were frantic air contacts from the port lookout, instantly canceled. False alarm. Sonar picked up something, tried to identify it. Passive Electronic Counter Measures, or ECM, detected the Libyan coastal radars lighting off. The Libyans, detecting the radar emissions of Kimmel , were now lighting off their own radars.
"Mike Bravo lighting off targeting radar!" called the man at the ECM board. "Going for missile lock!"
"On what?" snapped Washington. She turned to the console for the SPS-48 surface scan radar. "Anything on Spa-48?"
The OS3, as cocky as OS's always were, answered. "Nothing but those MiGs."
A cold chill clamped on Washington's heart. "Where is Mike Bravo?"
"Mike Bravo has target lock on! They're reading a low level air contact!"
Ingalls looked over the OS3's shoulder at the radar screen. "You idiot! They're right on top of an air contact!"
The OS3 sputtered. "That's a cloud! It doesn't have IFF or a beacon! It's just a shadow!"
Sick with sudden realization of what had happened, Washington grabbed the phone, called out. "Light off targeting radars! Target all Mike Contacts!"
Operational Specialists hardly ever actually read their radar screens anymore. Computers did that, then filled the screen with computer prompts identifying what they saw. Identification was achieved by scanning the target's IFF beacon. Normally the only things without IFF beacons were clouds, which were ignored. Only the oldest OS's remembered when all a radar screen gave you were images that you had to figure out yourself.
Ingalls snarled, threw the younger OS from his chair and took over the screen. "Boot, if you're trying to escape someone, you disable your IFF! That's why they didn't squawk!" Furious, Ingalls concentrated on the screen, mentally cursing arrogant punks who were incapable of reading a radar screen without computer assistance. "I have target vector, location as follows!"
Ingalls gave them the location of the defecting helicopter.
The CO called down for information, ordered a course change.
The Libyan jets fired their missiles.
The SPG-51 targeting radar acquired targets.
Ingalls reported multiple hits by the Libyans.
Washington watched it happen, excitement replaced by a sick, helpless feeling. "Missiles locked!" she called over the phone to Reisling. "Do we fire, sir?"
"Contact Mike Bravo and Mike Charley passing over crash area, believe they are doing strafing runs," said Ingalls, shooting a venomous look at the young OS3.
No word from the CO, thought Washington. Probably deciding whether it would do any good to shoot down the Libyans now. She knew the answer to that. But she had to do something. "Spig five-one, illuminate all Mike contacts with everything you have! Strongest pulses, multiple. I want their gold fillings to melt! Spig Six-oh, do the same." If they knew they were targeted, they might break off.
Washington held her breath as the radars pulsed. The phone from the bridge spoke. "Guns, this is the CO. For the record, we cannot be sure that is our pickup. Do not fire."
Dang, thought Washington. Reisling was actually putting his usually well-covered butt on the line here. "Aye-aye, sir."
The Libyan jets split away from the crash site, hit the deck and headed for home. On full afterburners, judging from their speed. Washington spared half a second to imagine every threat detector in their jets going off at once. Then she sighed. They might just be going home because their job was done.
A horrified silence filled CIC, broken by OS1 Ingalls glaring into the screen and chanting his own furious mantra. "Shit, shit, shit, shit-" He realized what he was saying, grew silent. Leaving them all in silence.
Broken by the 1MC.
"THIS IS THE CAPTAIN SPEAKING." Washington had never thought she would miss Reisling's eternal cheerfulness. She missed it now. "STAND DOWN FROM GQ STATIONS, WITH THE EXCEPTION OF CIC AND LOOKOUTS. WE ARE SHORTLY GOING TO GO TO FLIGHT QUARTERS." A pause. The silence was deafening. "LIBYAN JETS MAY HAVE CAUGHT THE DEFECTOR BEFORE WE DID AND SHOT HIM DOWN. IT IS ALSO POSSIBLE OUR PICKUP IS STILL OUT THERE. EVERY LOOKOUT MUST STAY ALERT. WE WILL PROCEED TO WHERE THE LIBYAN JETS SHOT DOWN AN AIR CONTACT AND RESCUE ANYONE WE FIND. THIS IS NOT OVER YET. WE SHOULD GET TO THE LOCATION IN TWO HOURS. THAT IS ALL."
Washington looked around CIC. "You heard the CO. We are still looking for that helicopter! I want everything reported! Rowboats, seagulls, flying fish, anything! I don't care if it squawks as Noah's Ark! Get to it!" They got to it.
Ingalls turned to the OS3 who'd been handling surface scan. "Harrison, you are relieved. Report to berthing and stay there." Harrison left.
"Well, that was a lovely little goat rope," Ingalls growled.
Washington nodded. "It's going to be a long night."
It all depended on your perspective, thought Majors.
He'd flown over the ocean many times, seen it as a gleaming surface, speckled with waves. He'd gone swimming in the ocean, seeing where it jutted against the land. Now he was in it and the ocean was huge. A vast, roaring damp infinity, stretching off into darkness forever, rising and falling and showing him how completely helpless he was.
He checked his life vest. Still working. Worked his fingers through the pilot's harness he'd taken off Abood. Flares, a spare magazine for the pistol, a flashlight, other things.
The Libyan pilot had taken them down to wave-top level when their threat detectors screamed, then halted the helicopter in midair when the first missile went shooting past-a miss. They'd both bailed out then, diving into the churning waters twenty feet below seconds before a missile blew the helicopter to flaming scrap. Majors had delayed inflating his life preserver, diving under the water repeatedly. Eventually, the jets had gone, leaving the ocean full of broken bits of helicopter. That was when he'd swam to Abood. He'd found the Libyan Major. A cannon shell had torn a massive hole in the man's chest. The man had inflated his life preserver as soon as he hit the water, trapping himself on the surface.
Majors didn't waste thought on how bad his situation was. In places like this, you concentrated on one job at a time and let the Universe take care of itself. Majors had stripped the man's body and consigned him to the deep. His lungs punctured, Abood's body vanished into the depths. That done, the CIA agent got about the business of surviving. Sooner or later, someone would come to investigate the crash site. The question was-who?
If it was Americans, he needed to be seen. He held the flare and the flashlight ready as he floated.
If it was Libyans-well, he still had Abood's pistol, a Makarov 9mm. He'd take a few of them with him before he died. Not that dying appealed to him, but torture in a Libyan cell appealed to him even less.
Dusk turned into night. The stars came out. He floated. All perspective vanished. He was floating between the stars above and the darkness below. The water was cool but not cold, so he managed. He spared a moment to wonder if there were sharks in the Med, shoved that thought from his mind. The sea felt very big and suddenly, he felt very small. Unbidden, thoughts of the girl in the picture came to mind.
He'd grabbed Abood's package in the gym bag on his way out the door. With the cold logic he picked up in moments like that, Majors had stuffed the package into a plastic bag before he jumped out of the helicopter. Now, air trapped in the bag helped keep him afloat. With the picture of the girl inside it.
His fears rose in the darkness. He thought of that girl, of how terrified she must be, and his fear suddenly seemed a small thing.
She didn't look a thing like the girl in Leningrad.
The men he'd killed never haunted him. But the people who'd died because he screwed up? The physicist in Leningrad, arrested by the Militia because Majors missed a contact? The man's entire family had been "disappeared." Including their daughter, whose round Slavic face didn't look a bit like the girl in the picture. Except for that expression of fear, as she was taken away.
Could there be absolution for that?
Maybe it was unprofessional, but he wanted to rescue that girl, wanted to see her eyes light up as someone took her from danger to safety. He'd seen so much suffering, so much pain and death he could do nothing about. This, he could do something about. He'd planned to try to go in with the rescue team.
Now he'd be lucky to survive the night.
Was that a helicopter? Or crashing waves? No telling. He had two flares. He fired off one.
Hiss, pop, tiny orange sun arcing into the darkness.
A moment's light and it was gone.
The helicopter? Couldn't hear it.
One flare and a flashlight left. He turned the flashlight on, clipped it to his harness. It flickered and went out.
Damn Russian garbage. He hit it. It flickered.
Noise of a helicopter again-Maybe. Far off. Couldn't see over the wave tops. It was amazing how the waves cut off the horizon when you were floating up to your neck in ocean. He listened again.
There! He was sure he heard it! The second flare now.
Hiss, pop. His last flare gone into the dark. Noise of a helicopter getting closer. They'd seen the flares! But now it was dark. How would they see him in the ocean?
The helicopter was closer now. He could see the glow of its searchlight over the wave tops. He fiddled with the flashlight. It came on, a glorious, beautiful column of light reaching into the darkness. Answered by a blinding flash, a searchlight off the helicopter. Now it was close, and downdraft was whipping up the sea around him. Descending like an angel, someone in swimming gear was lowered from the helicopter. Majors readied his pistol. Now would tell. Rescue? Or sudden death and the long fall into the abyss?
"Are you the CIA agent?" yelled the swimmer over the roar of the helicopter. "Put your arms in the life rings, and they'll pull you up!"
Majors dropped the pistol, struggled into the canvas rescue harness lowered by the chopper. He grinned as he heard the helicopter's winch. "I'm coming to save you, little girl," he muttered to himself. "I'm on my way." Sea spray whipping around him, he ascended into the light.
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