Big Three-Thriller Bundle Box Collection (67 page)

ON DEAF EARS

USS Enterprise

“GET SECURITY UP here,
Richie!” Admiral Pierce yelled, as several explosions shook the huge ship.

“General Quarters,” Commander Richard Fulk called over the ship’s loud speakers. “Battle stations. Security, repel borders!”

The
Big E'
s engines slowed to a stop.

Fulk turned to the radioman. “Brown, get the air boss to order our fighters back. Carson, get damage control on those fires. I want a distress call to our fleet. Get the
Atchison
to come alongside and run blocker in case of a seaborne attack and order the
Los Angeles
to be prepared to surface and assist.”

“Aye-aye, sir.”

More explosions. Captain Fulk looked down to see a man in black fatigues aiming a hand-held rocket at the bridge.

“Get down, Admiral!” he said, shoving the older man to the deck. A tremendous explosion came from overhead as the missile struck ten feet above its target and the Conn shook violently.

“Everyone in the secondary Conn,” the Captain said. “We can run this ship from there.”

As they turned to go through a nearby hatch leading only a few feet to the huge, vault-door-like hatch into the secondary Conn, the radioman yelled out from his station, “Sir, no response from any of our radio messages. All we got on both radar and sonar is static bleeps.”

“It’s those damn buoys the helo dropped,” Fulk said. “They’re jamming everything.”

The radioman rose to follow them into the secondary Conn. He paused at the windows. “And, sir, the
Atchison
’s changed her course. She’s two thousand yards out and heading straight for us.”

The admiral stepped back into the main Conn and peered toward the
Atchison
.

“Must have received our message and they’re going to come alongside,” Admiral Pierce said.

“I don’t think so, sir,” the young man said. “I’m sure they didn’t receive us.”

Captain Fulk came back through the hatch from the secondary Conn having to respectfully, but firmly push the Admiral out of the way.

“Jesus, Admiral,” the captain said gaping at the encroaching frigate. “She’s bearing down on us. She’s going to ram us.”

“My God,” Admiral Pierce said, “What have I done? What have I done?”

Fulk gaped back at Admiral Pierce. He understood what he was talking about. Pierce had made sure that rusty bucket, the
Atchison
, was manned by the largest bunch of misfits ever assembled in the US Navy. All done to foul up the SecNav’s retrofit-ting experiment on old ships slated for retirement— mothballs or scrapping. Pierce wanted new warships. The
Atchison
was and embarrassment. In a moment, the
Atchison
would be his Waterloo.

CARDS ON THE TABLE

SPURS FELT THE ship begin a hard turn to port.

“What are they doing now?”

North looked up. The
Enterprise
was directly in front of the bow a little more than a mile out.

North said, “The bastards can’t fire the missiles so they’re going to ram her!”

A faint response to Spurs’ continuous pleas for help came over the radio speaker, as the
Enterprise
began shooting one of its 20mm Phalanx guns, and the Atchison received the popping and zipping rounds.

Static
“. . . Dog. We read you.”
Static
“. . . is . . .”
Static
“. . . position?”

Spurs remembered the general location of the Strait of Gibraltar from a problem in her Basic Nav class in Officer’s Candidate School. She keyed the mike and gave an urgent request. “This is the
USS Atchison
, bearing one eight zero, approximate latitude 30 degrees, 15 minutes 20 seconds, longitude 5 degrees 4 minutes 30 seconds. We are under siege. Sink us, I repeat, sink this ship!”

“What the Hell?” came Doug’s voice. “Spurs, is that you?”

“Terrorists have taken over the ship, Doug.” Spurs held her eyes closed tight. “They are attempting to sink the
Enterprise
. Destroy this ship. Do this right, Doug. Deep six us!”

“Good God!”

North tugged on Spurs’ sleeve and pointed west. She saw a small dot emerge from the low clouds bearing down, perpendicular to their course.

“What in the hell have you gotten yourself into, Spurs,” his voice came clearer as the dot enlarged and a second dot became visible trailing it.

“Espionage, sabotage, mutiny, murder, treason,” she said. “Do it, sink us now!”

“I can’t!”

The
Atchison
’s twin antiaircraft guns had turned toward the new airborne target and began firing its three-inch rounds. It seemed to make a convincing argument for Spurs’ side.

“Jesus, you’re firing at us!”

“Now, Doug!” she pleaded.

“Armed!” was the reply.

The ship’s gun spat high explosive rounds. Spurs wished she could stop it, but there was no way to do so in time. The gunner was at a fire control console in the CIC, too far away. She could only watch and pray.

“Locked.” Accompanying the voice was a pulsing tone indicating he had missiles locked on target.

He was hesitating. Too long. The guns were sure to knock him down.

“Damn it, fire!” Spurs screamed.

“Fox One!”

Nothing happened. The F-18 raced at them.

The fierce rat-a-tat-tats from the throats of the shipboard guns were the only sounds. Nothing came from the Hornet.

“My God, a misfire!” Spurs said, staring at the approaching fighter plane.

She remembered overhearing Doug and Cards in Barcelona joking about their stuck pickle buttons and loose cannon plugs.

The ship’s three-inch projectiles hit their mark. The cockpit of the jet exploded, canopy shattering. Its right wing dipped as it approached, dead on.

THE LAST STAND

“CARDS, GET OUT, damn it!” came the static shouts over the radio. “Eject!”

Cards? It wasn’t Bird Dog’s plane that had been tagged by the
Atchison
’s cannon? Those shouts were Doug’s. He was still alive.

It was too late for the
Card Shark
Robert Stedman. There was no bailing out to do. The canopy and cockpit of his F-18 had been taken out by the three-inch Mk 33 antiaircraft guns as he finished his run, perpendicular to the ship. The entire top of the fuselage flamed. The plane nosed up sharply, turned right angle from its original path and made a slow arc, streaming smoke and flames. It passed parallel to, and within fifty yards of the
Atchison
’s starboard side, doing a lazy, dead roll.

Spurs and North watched horrified, helpless. The jet exposed its belly showing off the huge Harpoon missiles hung underneath each wing that it had armed and prepared to fire to end the melee. The ones that would have put under quickly and violently the very deck where Spurs now stood, if they hadn’t misfired.

Over a thousand yards out, the jet fighter’s right wing touched the white caps, then broke loose and disappeared as it knifed into the sea. The remainder of the plane stayed intact but cartwheeled briefly across the top of the water. It finally fell to within two hundred feet of the
Enterprise
, splashing onto its top, and lay like a dead carp on the foggy, rolling sea.

Spurs was surprised that the only thing the
Big E
had thrown at them were the 20mm rounds from but one of her Phalanx anti-missile guns. The sharp, ball-bearings-poured-down-a-steel-chute din from the triple barreled, Gatling-style weapon followed the faster-than-sound, riddling projectiles a full two seconds. Its large depleted-uranium bullets continued to rain down around them, tearing into the vessel’s steel deck and aluminum superstructure, gouging out large chunks. It was a terrible, rapid-fire drumbeat that ripped through the frigate, but as of yet, it had not caused enough damage to halt the ship’s forward progress.

She could see the
Big E
clearly through the haze. Her flight deck burned. It was not engulfed, but there were still several small fires that would prevent any aircraft from taking off or landing. Smoke rose from numerous places, and Spurs figured
Allah’s Jihad
had destroyed its remaining guns.

The
Enterprise
’s single phalanx onslaught did take out the twin mounted deck guns that had just knocked down Cards. A screaming blast jolted Spurs and North to the deck as the antiaircraft gun turret spat a dozen serpentine smoke trails that arced through the sky. It laid open the deck, leaving a huge, jagged-metal wound belching a thick, black cloud.

The second F-18 broke through the low clouds off the stern. Spurs and North gazed at the small dark fleck that was to be their doom as Doug bore down on them.

“You bastard!” Bird Dog’s voice pierced the radio speaker. “You’re mine, you’re mine!”

What could Doug do to stop the
Atchison
’s suicidal attack? A Harpoon fired at the ship’s fantail would be a risky shot with the nearly disarmed
Enterprise
waiting to catch it if it missed.

Glancing back to Bird Dog’s Hornet, expecting to see a puff of smoke, Spurs helped North to his feet. Doug had yet to fire as she had anticipated. He was probably concerned, as she had been, about a miss. He wouldn’t want to take even the slightest chance of missing the
Atchison
and at his angle, hit and sink the world’s most renowned ship instead.

“Damn it!” Doug growled sounding frustrated. It was apparent he wasn’t going to fire.

A steady stream of 20mm cannon rounds erupted from the plane.

Time to go. If this ship had ever been a safe place to be, it sure as hell wasn’t now. Steel shredding bullets struck the deck from both ends. They could possibly survive if they made it over the side, now. Spurs was glad North had shoved the life vest to her earlier as they came out of the hatch. She dropped the radio handset as North grabbed her by the forearm. Taking his left arm on her shoulders, she helped him up from the deck and toward the side, attempting to dodge the angry
Enterprise
’s continuous single gun volley and Doug’s cannon fire from the other direction.

Suddenly, one of the previously disabled Tomahawk cruise missiles came to life from the bow. It roared away in a violent eruption of flame and smoke.

The terrorists had been given too much time to repair the damage North and Spurs had caused. She hoped it would be the only one. One was a plenty, maybe not enough to sink the mighty ship though, even carrying nearly five hundred pounds of high explosives plus fuel. The
Enterprise
was a labyrinth of compartments and passageways, most with watertight hatches. She was at general quarters, so those hatches would be made secure. A second cruise missile would definitely threaten her integrity.

A second Tomahawk launched.

The other two remained silent; evidently enough damage had been done to keep them from flight.

Bird Dog’s F-18 screamed past overhead in pursuit of the missiles.

THE HORNET’S STING

Lieutenant Doug Smith’s F-18 Hornet

TOO FAR BEHIND to stop the first missile, Bird Dog pulled up and chased the second Tomahawk. It was a more immediate threat than the
Atchison
. The
Enterprise
had turned her phalanx on the first missile that rocketed toward the huge ship’s island.

But, suddenly, the
Enterprise’s
lone gun puffed smoke and silenced. The terrorists had gotten to it, also. In the same instant an F-14 sitting alone on the flight deck began to turn. It stopped with its nose directed toward the first missile. It began to fire its 20mm cannon. If the parked jet could knock the first Tomahawk down and avoid the destruction of the most vital part of the ship, Doug might be able to take out the second one that headed directly toward the stern, the same part of the ship that the defending fighter plane was on.

He wondered what kind of bravery it took for the man at the controls of the F-14 to know a Tomahawk cruise missile had him dead in its sights, and yet to continue to fire at a different target. The man firing the gun must know that the first missile would be of little danger to him but that his courageous action wouldn’t leave him time to destroy the one that would surely be his end.

Doug’s F-18 Hornet streaked about five-hundred yards behind the second missile’s flame. Twenty-millimeter rounds splashed the sea around his target as they approached the flattop.

“Come on, come on, damn it!” Doug said, his thumb aching from the pressure he applied to the pickle button.

He had to take it out. It must be stopped. He thought of turning his attention to the first missile that would do the most severe damage, but that target was so far in ahead, he’d have little chance of success. Besides, it was the F-14’s target. That gunner had to do his share. Doug hoped the man was a good shot. He wondered if it could possibly be Vic. Lieutenant JG Victor Bowser could do it. He hoped it was.

But then, as the second missile approached the F-14’s position, and Bird Dog’s own 20mm rounds followed, walking in fountain-like splashes toward the parked jet on the ship, he hoped it wasn’t Vic in the cockpit.

His cannon fire should take the damn thing out. He was all over it, yet it still streaked toward disaster.

Doug saw that his own bullets were now striking the
Enterprise
, climbing its tall hull soon to come in line with the F-14 Tomcat and the brave man firing at the other cruise missile.