The Edge of Honor (31 page)

Once the pencil beam got on target, the target’s return was captured by computer-tracking circuits. At this point, it was considered “locked up,” and the Spook tracked it automatically under control of the missile fire-control computers. A target, such as a jet aircraft, could twist and turn and do all sorts of evasive maneuvers, but it could rarely defeat the tracking algorithms working at near light speed in the computers.

If the target closed in within the ship’s forty-mile missile envelope, the command to fire could be given.

The launcher crew down in the missile magazine would slap wings and fins onto the body of a Terrier missile and report ready to the engagement controller in Combat via keyboards. The EC would press the load button and the launcher would lock its arms to the front face of the missile ramp structure on the forecastle as the magazine doors swung open. The missile would then slide up on rails within the ramp and out onto the launcher rails. The doors would close and the launcher would be assigned to the control of the tracking director, turning to point in the same direction as the Spook, and the final beam, the illumination beam, would be activated. The launcher would continue to point in the general direction of the target, and a three-second pulse of warm-up power would be applied to the missile, after which it would be fired.

The Terrier would be kicked off the rail by a solid rocket booster. Once the eight-second boost phase was completed, propelling the Terrier to a velocity twice the speed of sound, the missile’s seeker head would be uncaged and energized by its onboard computers and the seeker would begin looking for energy being reflected off the target from that third continuous wave illumination beam. Once it detected the reflected energy, the missile would home in on the target and typically fly right through it at about five times the speed of sound. But as everyone knew, every element of the system—the computers, the three radars, the launcher, the missile’s seeker head—had to work perfectly for any of it to work.

“We try a shot out there on the edge of the envelope, we’re gonna waste a bird,” Brian said again.

The exec overheard and shot him a warning look. “We could always get lucky,” he said.

Brian shook his head. “No, sir, not unless the target is coming right at us at a great rate of knots. The Terrier has no energy left for anything but a head-on shot at that range. It can’t do pursuit out there.”

The exec drew closer, put his hand on Brian’s shoulder, and turned him away from the FCSC console. He spoke softly. “Brian, I suggest you talk to the captain about doctrine sometime when there aren’t Migs up. But otherwise, let me give you some advice—he says shoot, you shoot it.”

Brian was taken aback. “Of course, XO. The captain gives an order, we carry it out. But—”

“Yeah, I hear you. And I’m not saying you’re necessarily wrong. But remember my advice. This kind of an engagement, there won’t be a lot of time to discuss it.

His Mig gets away ‘cause the Weps boss wanted to talk about it instead of shoot it, life’ll get unpleasant.

Follow me?”

“Yes, sir. Clear as a bell.”

“Now don’t get all hurry. This is still his ship, remember.

If the geometry is out of envelope, report it. He says shoot it, pull the damn trigger.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

The exec went back over to the SWIC console. Brian stared down unseeing at the FCSC picture, his face flushed, while Chief Vanhorn tried to pretend he had not overheard the exec’s counseling session. They’re wrong, Brian thought. They’re going to shoot a missile at a target that’s basically out of range. Anybody who looks at the reconstruction will be able to see it. He tried to focus, to see where the Mig symbols were. The exec was talking to the captain, who looked over briefly in Brian’s direction.

“Give me a bearing and range,” Brian ordered, his voice curt.

The chief worked some buttons. “Unknowns are bearing two-seven-six degrees true, range ninety-six thousand, five hundred eighty-five yards, crossing. Forty eight miles.”

The Migs appeared to be keeping just out of range, as if they knew the critical distance to the Hood’s station.

Except that the ship was closing them. If nothing else changed and the Migs maintained their current orbit, the ship would close in to forty-one miles. He overheard CTF 77 ask for the time remaining to tank the BARCAP.

Austin looked over at Hoodoo, who said fifteen minutes.

Austin looked at the captain, who nodded.

“Alfa Whiskey, this is Red Crown. ETC is two-zero mikes.”

Brian mentally shook his head. The air controller had said fifteen minutes. Austin had reported twenty. Why?

Because, he realized, that carrier admiral obviously wants his Phantoms to go after the Migs, and the captain wants a shot at them with his missiles, that’s why.

“Brian?” The captain had swung his chair around.

“Sir?”

“If they come in range, this has to go quick. We won’t have the luxury of establishing track for a couple of minutes to make sure we have a smooth firing solution like we usually do in a missile exercise. The moment we bring the Spook Fifty-five on the air, those guys’re gonna head for the deck and get the hell out of Dodge. So if I give you the take order, the moment you get a track light, assign the launcher and fire at once. Understand?”

The captain’s tone of voice did not seem to encourage a dialogue. “Yes, sir. Understood.” Brian glanced over at the exec, but the exec looked away.

Feeling cornered, Brian studied the FSCS scope and the panel of system status lights on its side. The panel for system one was dark. The panel for system two showed the system to be waiting in standby, its three radars warmed up and ready to go into radiate, but not transmitting.

The director itself was still centerlined.

“What’s the track number of the nearest Mig?”

“Track two-one-three-two is here; two-one four-seven is—here.”

“Give me trial geometry, track two-onethree-two,” he said.

Chief Vanhorn pushed some buttons and a spidery grid of lines appeared on the scope, indicating lines of probability for an intercept with the nearest Mig if the missile was to be fired right now. On the upper-right hand block of a data readout panel, a

“Pk Low” alert was flashing. The computer was telling the FCSC operator that the probability of a killing intercept was too low to warrant launch.

“What’s his range?”

“Range is eighty-four thousand, seven hundred fifty yards.”

A little over forty-two miles. Brian checked his watch.

Ten more minutes to the western boundary of the PIRAZ box. As long as the Mig kept going north, up the coast, the range would be in the low Pk band. Brian looked again at the exec, who looked back this time and gave a barely imperceptible shake of his head.

Vanhorn turned his head and spoke in a low voice.

“Mr. Holcomb. Recommend we go to dummy load on system two.”

“Can’t they detect that?”

“The Russians could. I don’t know if these guys can.

But it’ll give us instantaneous response to a take order; otherwise, we wait two minutes. Recommend ask the Old Man for permission.”

Brian thought about it. The system was in a two-minute standby to radiate mode. The chief was right. If they wanted an instantaneous reaction, they should bring up the radar transmitters and radiate them into an electronic box called a dummy load, which acted like an antenna but did not put a full-powered signal out on the air. The Intel people felt that specialized ELINT ships could detect a missile radar in dummy load, but it was not known whether the North Vietnamese had this capability.

Brian requested permission to do it. The captain thought about it for a moment, then told him to go ahead, before turning around to talk to SWIC.

“What’re they doing now, Garuda?” asked the captain.

“One’s orbiting the airfield, low and slow. The other guy is headed north, up along the coast, but not like he’s trying to get somewhere.

He’s the closest, Captain. Forty … uh … forty-two and a skosh miles.

He’s dipping in and out of the hills along the coast, giving us intermittent video.”

“Brian, how’s the geometry look?” asked the captain over his shoulder.

Brian took a deep breath before answering. Vanhorn punched up new geometry to refresh the data. The alert still flashed.

“It’s a no go, Captain,” Brian said, his throat dry.

There was an instant of silence in D and D. “The geometry indicates a crossing shot at max range; there’s no Pk to speak of.”

The Captain swiveled back around in his chair, a displeased look on his face. Brian could see that this had not been the expected right answer.

The exec was studying the deck plates. Austin shot him a pained look.

The silence in D and D persisted. Chief Vanhorn refreshed the data once more, with the same results. And then the Mig began a turn, a slow, lazy turn to the east, toward the Hood. Hoodoo was the first to catch it.

“Bogey turning,” he announced. “Bogey turning inbound”

This report galvanized D and D. The officers clustered around the SWIC scope, watching intently. The Mig’s turn continued, still low and slow, its course and speed leader pointing progressively clockwise, until it was obvious that he was turning all the way around, not toward Hood but back toward his base. But his turn had consumed about five miles in lateral distance, bringing him within the missile envelope.

“Now what’s the range?” asked the captain.

“Range is thirty-seven, thirty-seven and a quarter miles.”

“What’s his CPA?”

Garuda executed a function code. “Closest point of approach will be thirty-six and a half, sir.”

“Change ‘em from unknowns to hostiles.”

“Unknowns to hostiles, aye.”

The captain turned around to Brian.

“You ready to do some business?”

Brian thought quickly. Thirty-six miles, crossing target, still a very low probability. He looked over at Van Horn, who nodded vigorously.

Before Brian could answer, the captain saw the chief’s gesture and swiveled the chair around again, took a deep breath, and said, “Okay, SWIC, this is the captain. Take track two-one- m three-two, birds.”

Instantly an alert from SWIC flashed 9n the FCSC console screen and a buzzer sounded, indicating a take order. Chief Vanhorn punched two buttons, brought the Spook 55 to radiate, and accepted the designation.

Everyone in Combat could hear the big director slew around overhead.

Austin warned the bridge to check that the forecastle was clear. The excitement level rose in Combat.

“Track light, two-one-three-two,” declared Vanhorn.

“Loading the launcher. Launcher is loaded. Assigning the launcher.

Launcher assigned. Energizing CWI. CWI is on the air.” He flipped up the plastic cover over the firing key and glanced at Holcomb.

“Shoot,” Brian said.

“Shoot, aye.” The chief closed the key and a Terrier missile thundered off the forecastle outside. “Birds away!”

“Bogey going buster!” shouted Garuda. He manipulated his track ball to stay on the target, which had accelerated the moment Hood’s CWI beams had been detected.

“Reloading the launcher,” announced Vanhorn. It was standard procedure to reload at once, even if another shot did not look likely.

“Alfa Whiskey calling on HF, sir,” said a console operator in the cave.

“Wants us to verify two-one-three two as hostile, wants us to verify birds engagement, two onethree-two.”

“Tell him affirmative, engaging, birds, track two-onethree-two,” replied Austin.

The captain and exec stared over Garuda’s shoulder at the Mig symbol, which was visibly accelerating across the screen, as if trying to merge with the video smear that was the cover of the mountains. On the FCSC scope, a digital clock was ticking down seconds to intercept.

Fox Hudson burst through the back door to Combat, roused out of his sleep three decks below by the noise of the missile launch.

“Range?” asked Brian quietly, already knowing the answer.

“Range is forty-one miles. And opening.”

“No way,” Brian muttered. “No way. That puppy’s home free.”

“Track unstable,” announced Vanhorn. He switched over to intercom and snapped put a quick question, nodded, and glanced up at Brian. “Bogey’s in the weeds.”

Brian nodded. The track radar was having trouble distinguishing the Mig from the backdrop of the mountains.

Hopeless. They waited another five seconds. The track light on FCSC console was intermittent.

“Mark time to intercept,” Vanhorn announced finally into the silence in D and D. “No video in the gate. No intercept. Energizing destruct signal. Destruct confirmed.

Evaluate miss. Evaluate target out of envelope and opening.”

Everyone exhaled. Fox Hudson, standing at Brian’s elbow, asked what was going on. “What the hell,” he said. “You can’t get an intercept out there.” His uniform was disheveled, as if he had been sleeping in it.

“Cool it,” replied Brian, mindful of the captain ten feet away.

“Call your bogey,” ordered the captain.

“Bogey tracks are stationary. No video. Prob’ly landed or are in the pattern at Vinh, sir,” replied Garuda.

“Bogey’s gone,” pronounced Hoodoo. “Done gone.”

“Well, what the hell, XO,” said the captain with a | sigh, rubbing his jaw. “It was worth a shot. Even if Weps
is going to give me an ‘I told you so.’ “

“Might still have been a hit, Captain,” interjected Austin. “The forty-eight video went down at intercept time. That bird may have smacked him as he was on final at Vinh.”

“We still should have seen video in the gate, right, Weps?”

Brian nodded. The missile radar held the target locked in a notchlike presentation on the scopes down below. A hit was usually indicated when the video that was the missile flashed through the gate and merged with the video that was the target.

“Yes, sir. On the face of it, we missed. But the track was unstable—the gate may have already slipped off and locked up the hillside.”

“So it’s a possible?”

Brian frowned. Yes, it was possible. Not likely, but it was possible.