Jack Ryan 8 - Debt of Honor (118 page)

“That's probably an ASW helo from the destroyer we just sunk—splash him, splash him now!”

“Aerial radar to the north!” an ESM tech called a second later. “Helicopter radar close aboard!”

“Two, take him out now!” Richter relayed the order.

“On the way, Lead,” the second Comanche responded, turning and dipping his nose to increase speed. Whoever it was, that was just too bad. The pilot selected guns. Under his aircraft the 20-millimeter cannon emerged from its canoelike enclosure and turned forward. The target was five miles out and didn't see the inbound attack chopper.

It was another Sikorsky, Two's pilot saw, possibly assembled in the same Connecticut plant as his Comanche, the Navy version of the UH-60, a big target. His chopper blazed directly at it, hoping to get his kill before it could get a radio call out. Not much chance of that, and the pilot cursed himself for not engaging with a Stinger, but it was too late for that now. His helmet pipper locked on to the target and he triggered off fifty rounds, most of which found the nose of the approaching gray helicopter. The results were instant.

“Kill,” he announced. “I got him, Lead.”

“Roger, what your fuel state?”

“Thirty minutes,” Two replied.

“Circle and keep your eyes open,” Lead commanded.

“Roger, Leader.” As soon as he got to three hundred feet came another unwelcome surprise. “Lead, Two, radar to the north, system says it's a Navy billboard one.”

“Great,” Richter snarled, circling the submarine. It was large enough to land on, but it would have been easier if the goddamned thing wasn't rolling around like the beer barrel at an Irish wake. Richter brought his chopper into hover, approaching from straight aft, and lowered his wheels for landing.

“Come left into the wind,” Claggett told Lieutenant Shaw. “We have to cut the rolls down for 'em.”

“Gotcha, Skipper.” Shaw made the necessary orders, and Tennessee steadied up on a northwesterly heading.

     “Stand by the escape and capsule hatches!” the CO ordered next. As he watched, the helo came down slowly, carefully, and as usual, landing a helicopter aboard a ship reminded him of two porcupines making love. It wasn't lack of willingness; it was just that you couldn't afford any mistakes.

They were lined up like an army of mounted knights now, Sanchez thought, with the Japanese two hundred miles off Saipan's northeast tip, and the Americans a hundred miles beyond. This game had been played out many times by both sides, and often enough in the same war game centers. Both sides had their tracking radars on and searching. Both sides could now see and count the strength of the other. It was just a question of who would make the first move. The Japanese were at the disadvantage and knew it. Their remaining E-2C was not yet in position, and worse than that, they could not be entirely sure who the opposition was. On Sanchez's command, the Tomcats moved oft first, going to afterburner and climbing high to volley off their remaining Phoenix missiles. They fired at a range of fifty miles, and over a hundred of the sophisticated weapons turned into a wave of yellow flames climbing higher still before tipping over while their launch aircraft turned and retreated.

That was the signal for a general melee. The tactical situation had been clear, and then became less so as the Japanese fighters also went to maximum speed to close the Americans, hoping to duck under the Phoenix launch to launch their own fire-and-forget missiles. It was a move that required exquisite timing, which was hard to do without expert quarterbacking from a command-and-control aircraft, for which they had not waited.

•     •     •

It hadn't been possible to train Navy personnel to do it quickly enough, though a party of sailors did hold the wings up as two trained Army ground crewmen attached them to hardpoints on the side of the first Comanche. Then the fuel hoses were snaked to the openings, and the ship's pumps were switched on, filling all the tanks as rapidly as possible. Another Navy crewman tossed Richter a phone on the end of an ordinary wire.

“How did it go, Army?” Dutch Claggett asked.

“Kinda exciting. Y'all got some coffee, like hot maybe?”

“On the way, soldier.” Claggett made the necessary call to the galley.

“Who was that chopper from?” Richter asked, looking back at the fueling operations.

“We had to take out a 'can about an hour ago. He was in the way. I guess the helo was from him. Ready to copy your destination?”

“Not Wake?”

“Negative. There's a carrier waiting for you at twenty-five north, one-fifty east. Say again, two-five north, one-five-zero east.”

The warrant officer repeated the coordinates back twice, getting an additional confirmation. A whole carrier to land on? Damn, Richter thought. “Roger that, and thank you, sir.”

“Thanks for splashing the helo, I
NDY
.”

A Navy crewman stepped up and banged on the side of the aircraft, giving a thumbs-up sign. He also handed over a Tennessee ball cap. Then Richter saw that the breast pocket on his shirt had a bulge in it. Most impolitely, he reached down and plucked out the half-pack of cigarettes. The sailor laughed over the noise and tossed a lighter to go along with it.

“Stand clear!” Richter shouted. The deck crewmen retreated, but then another man jumped out of the hatch with a thermos bottle, which was passed up. With that, the canopy came down and Richter started his engines back up. Barely a minute later, the Comanche lifted off, making room for -Two as his lead aircraft took an orbit position over the sub. Thirty seconds after that, the pilot was sipping coffee. It was different from the Army brew, far more civilized. A little Hennessey, he thought, and it would be about perfect.

“Sandy, look north!” his backseater said as -Two came down on the deck of the submarine.

Six Eagles fell to the first volley of missiles, with two more damaged and withdrawing, the AWAC'S controllers said. Sanchez couldn't see, as he was heading away from the advancing enemy fighters, the Tomcats making room now for the Hornets. It was working. The Japanese were pursuing, coming away from their island at high-power settings, driving the Americans away, or so they thought. His threat receiver said that there were enemy missiles in the air now, but they were American-designed missiles, and he knew what they could do.

•     •     •

“What's that?” Oreza wondered.

Just a shadow at first. The airfield lights were still on for some reason or other, and they saw a single white streak crossing the end of Kobler's runway. It banked sharply over the threshold and tracked down the center of the single strip. Then it changed shape, the nose blowing off, and small objects sprinkling down on the concrete. A few exploded. The rest just disappeared, too small to see unless they were moving. Then came another, and another, all doing the same thing, except for one that headed straight for the tower, and blew the top right off of it, and along with it, the fighter wing's radios. Farther south, the commercial airfield was also lit up still, four 747's sitting at the terminal or elsewhere on the ramp. Nothing seemed to approach the airport. To their east, several more missile launches lit up the Patriot battery, but they'd shot off their first load of missiles, and the crews now had to reload additional box launchers, then connect them to the command van, and that took time. They were getting kills, but not enough.

“Not going for the SAMs,” Chavez noted, thinking that they really ought to be under cover for all this, but…but nobody else was, as though this were some sort of glorious Fourth of July display.

“Avoiding civilian areas, Ding,” Clark replied.

“Nice nick. By the way, what's this Kelly stuff?”

“My real name,” the senior officer observed.

“John, how many of the bastards did you kill?” Oreza wanted to know.

“Huh?” Chavez asked.

“Back when we were both children, your boss here did a little private hunting, drug dealers, as I recall.”

“It never happened. Portagee. Honest.” John shook his head and grinned. “Well, not that anybody can prove.” he added. “I really am dead, you know?”

“In that case you got the right set of initials for the new name, man.” Oreza paused. “Now what'”

“Beats me, pal.” Oreza wasn't cleared for his new orders, and he didn't know that they were possible anyway. A few seconds later it occurred to someone to switch off the remaining electrical power on the south end of the island.

Mutsu
's helicopter had announced the presence of a submarine on the surface, but nothing more. That had caused Kongo to launch her Seahawk, now coming south. Two P-3C Orion antisub aircraft were approaching as well, but the helicopter would get in first, carrying two torpedoes. That aircraft was coming in at two hundred feet, without its look-down radar on, but with flashing strobes that looked very bright in Richter's headset.

“Sure is busy here,” Richter said. He was at five hundreds feet, with a new target just on the horizon. “P
IT
C
REW
, this in I
NDY
O
NE
, we have another chopper in the neighborhood.”

“Splash him!”

“Copy that.” Richter increased speed for his intercept. The Navy didn't have any problems making decisions. The closure speed guaranteed a rapid intercept. Richter selected S
TINGER
and fired at five miles Whoever it was, he didn't expect hostile aircraft in the area, and the cold water under him made a fine contrast background for the heat-seeking missile The Seahawk spun in, leaving Richter to wonder if there might be survivor, but he didn't have the ability to perform a rescue, and didn't close in to see.

-Two was up now, and took the protective orbit position, allowing the leader to turn for the rendezvous. He gave the submarine a low saluting pass and headed off. He had neither the fuel nor the time to linger.

“You realize we're an aircraft carrier?” Ken Shaw asked, watching the deck crew finishing up refueling for the third and last visitor. “We scored kills and everything.”

“Just so we live long enough to be a submarine again,” Claggett replied tensely. As he watched, the canopy came down and the crewmen started securing topside. Two minutes later his deck was nearly clear. One of his chiefs tossed extraneous gear over the side, waved to the sail, and disappeared down the capsule hatch.

“Clear the bridge!” Claggett ordered. He took one last look around before keying the microphone one last time. “Take her down.”

“We don't have a straight board yet,” the Chief of the Boat objected in the attack center.

“You heard the man,” the officer of the deck snapped back. With that command the vents were opened and the main ballast tanks flooded. The topside bridge hatch changed a second later from a circle to a dash, and Claggett appeared a moment later, closing the bottom-end hatch to the bridge, making a straight board.

“Rigged for dive, get us out of here!”

“That's a submarine,” the Lieutenant said. “Diving-venting his tanks.”

“Range?”

“I have to go active for that,” the sonar officer warned.

“Then do it!” Ugaki hissed.

“What are those flashes?” the copilot wondered. They were just over the horizon to the left of their flight path, no telling the distance, but however far away they were, they were bright, and one turned into a streak that circled down into the sea. More streaks erupted in the darkness, lines of yellow-white going mainly right-to-left. That made it clear. “Oh.”

Saipan Approach, this is JAL Seven-Oh-Two, two hundred miles out. What is happening, over?" There was no reply.

“Return to Narita?” the copilot asked.

“No! No, we will not do that!” Torajiro Sato replied.

It was a tribute to his professionalism that rage didn't quite overcome his training. He'd already dodged two missiles to this point, and Major Shiro Sato did not panic despite the ill-luck that had befallen his wingman. His radar showed more than twenty targets, just out of missile range, and though some others of his squadron mates had fired their AMRAAMs, he wouldn't until he had a better chance. He also showed multiple radars tracking his aircraft, but there was no helping that. He jerked his Eagle around the sky, taking hard turns and heavy gees as he closed on burner. What had begun as unorganized battle was now a wild melee, with individual fighters entirely on their own, like samurai in the darkness. He turned north now, selecting the nearest blip. The IFF systems automatically interrogated them, and the answer was not what he expected. With that Sato triggered off his fire-and-forget missiles then turned back sharply to the south. It wasn't at all what he'd hoped for, not a fair fight, skill against skill in a clear sky. This had been a chaotic encounter in darkness, and he simply didn't know who had won or lost. He had to turn and run now. Courage was one thing, but the Americans had drawn them out so that he scarcely had the fuel remaining for his home field. He'd never know it his missiles had scored. Damn.

He increased power one last tune, going to burner to disengage, angling right to keep clear of the fighters advancing in from the south. Those were the planes from Guam, probably. He wished them luck.

“T
URKEY
, this is T
URKEY
L
EAD
. Disengage now. I say again, disengage now!” Sanchez was well behind the action now, wishing that he were in his Hornet instead of the larger Tomcat. Acknowledgments came in, and though he'd lost a few aircraft, and though the battle had not been entirely to his liking, he knew that it had been a success. He headed north to clear the area, checking his fuel state. Then he saw strobe lights at his ten o'clock and turned further to investigate.

“Jesus, Bud, it's an airliner.” his radar-intercept officer said. “JAL markings.” That was obvious from the stylized red crane on the high tailfin.

“Better warn him off.” Sanchez turned on his own strobes and closed from the portside. “JAL 747, JAL 747, this is U.S. Navy aircraft to your portside.”