“Vampire” meant inbound missile.
“TAO, EW: Vampire emitter is A2Z4, correlates to seeker for SS-N-2-C. I hold two, possibly three emitters. Hard to tell, all on the same bearing and freq.”
“I hold Vampire composition two. Vampire one from target one, Vampire two, target two.”
Dan didn't hear it fast enough. He yelled, “EW, chaff! Now!”
“Chaff, ayeâ”
Camill called out, “SWC, take vampires. Engage with Sparrow, shoot, shoot, look. Backup with 51, 52, CIWS.”
Dan got a grip on himself. He had to let them do their jobs, and get the word out what was going on. He grabbed the red phone, the Med Satellite High Command net. “All stations this net, this is
Horn
actual. I am under attack. SS-N-2-C. Composition two. Missiles launched from probable Osas, flag unknown, out.” He socketed the phone without waiting for replies and pointed to the petty officer controlling the P-3. “Tell Tiger to stand clear during real-world engagement.”
“All hands stand clear of weather decks ⦠missiles inbound⦠missile firing imminent,” the 1MC said over the gabble that was rapidly rising in Combat.
Dan could feel, hear, the main engines revving to full power. The deck begin leaning. The officer of the deck was applying the ship's maneuverability to the tactical problem. Bringing to bear as many weapons as they could, but giving the incoming Styxes the least possible lock profile. Meanwhile, he had to take out the incoming missiles and destroy the shooters before they got off the next salvo.
“TAO, SWC. Sparrow locked on to Vampire one. Mark 86 has target two. Stand by.”
The flight deck TV showed the Sparrow launcher suddenly slew around. The gun elevated, too, then whipped around to port.
All at once the noise started.
Slam. Slam. Slam.
Two guns, each pumping out a seventy-pound projectile every three seconds. A more rapid drumfire from directly overhead: the chaff mortars, firing rounds of radar reflective foil. Styx was a big missile, but not a smart one. The chaff would probably fool it. But it was better to make sure.
A high-pitched wail, the missile fire warning alarm. A rattling bang, then the avalanche roar of a truckload of gravel being dumped. On the monitor the missile leaped out, blanking the image first with a flare of light and then a cloud of cottony smoke. Another roar, flare, and cloud, and two mach-three missiles were on their way. The guns had been firing for some seconds, but they'd pass the shells in the air. A fire control petty officer began chanting time and distance. Then called out, “I have target bloom, Vampire one ⦠Evaluate as kill!”
“Vampire two turning left⦠no ⦠seems to be seeking,” Camill told him.
Dan nodded. One hard kill. But the second Styx was trying to decide on its target. The small, hard blip its mother fire-control computer had told it to attack? Or the big new ones that had suddenly appeared? It turned away again, then back toward
Horn
once more. The guns were still banging away. Camill was gearing up for a second Sparrow salvo.
“TAO, Guns: radar video consistent with target breakup. Evaluate Vampire two as kill.”
“TAO, EW: Emitters ceased.”
Camill called, “Cease fire. Cease fire!”
“Ninety seconds from launch to splash,” Dan said, looking at his watch. Both missiles splashed at four miles from the ship, and within five seconds of each other. But it wasn't over yet. Camill was looking at him, waiting.
“Take 'em,” Dan said.
“TAO, SWC: I have positive solution both targets.”
Camill said, eyes still locked with Dan's, “Kill targets one and two with two Bulldogs each.”
“Salvo warning.” The SWC activated the salvo warning and vent damper alarms. The compartment ventilation fans spun down in a whirring decrescendo. The siren went off again.
Closer and much louder than the fantail-mounted Sparrows, the departing Harpoons rattled the deck plates and vibrated the tote boards like an elevated train going over their heads. A circuit breaker alarm began warbling. It went on and on. Faintly someone yelled, “Bulldog one away. Bulldog two away. Bulldog three away. Bulldog four away.”
Dan concentrated on his Seiko. Despite the closed dampers, a smell like scorched brake linings reached them. Time of flight: about three minutes. “All hands stand clear of Harpoon deck in preparation for launch,” the 1MC said. Yerega had gotten a little behind script, but it didn't matter now. What counted was how well the millions of lines of code running in the dozens of linked computers had been written. How carefully some production drone had screwed parts into a missile body on a California assembly line. Maybe they'd get lucky. If they didn'tâ¦
Sweat was trickling down his back, but he felt icy cold. He was waiting for the next “Vampire, Vampire.” Waiting with every muscle in his body drawn taut. But it didn't come ⦠It didn't come.
Finally he couldn't stand it any longer. “Targets?”
“Gone,” Camill said, staring at the big repeater.
“Turn to short wavelength.”
“Okay, now I have small intermittent returns at that range and bearing. Consistent with debris. Five ⦠four ⦠none.” He waited for the next sweep of the radar. Looked up. “Nothing but sea return.”
Dan mopped his face with his sleeve. The Combat team looked at him, to him, he supposed, for some hint as to whether it was okay to cheer. He couldn't give them what they wanted. Frozen, paralyzed by the felt knowledge of how horribly other men had just died. Torn apart by explosive, burned, clawing at the sea as they sank into the final bloody darkness.
He couldn't rejoice.
But neither could he be sorry. Whoever they were, they'd tried to kill him first.
Christ! Agonize about that later, Lenson! The question was, Who the hell had they been? And why had they fired? No state of war existed. No blockade or interdiction zone had been declared. Any regularly commissioned ship of war could have blown off
Horn's
challenge and passed clear, and there was nothing Dan could have done about it.
The only answer he had was that they'd attacked to protect someone else. Someone who
could
be challenged, and stopped, and searched.
The satellite phone beeped. Dan gave the staff officer on the other end a quick rundown. “You sank them both?” the voice said at last.
“I returned fire. Hard kill on both hostile missiles. I then fired four RGM-84Cs on the shooters and observed impact. Both contacts have disappeared from the screen except for faint returns I evaluate as debris. Now proceeding to the point of impact.”
He got a doubtful “Roger, out,” and slammed the phone back into its holder. It popped out again, impelled by the spring, and this time he let it dangle.
The men were still waiting. He had to say
something.
“Good reaction, good work,” he said to them all. “Especially the Mark 86 and the Harpoon Targeting team. Herb, give the OOD a course and run us over where those missiles hit. We'll see if there's anybody in the water who can tell us what this was all about.”
But Camill was looking up from the big scope again, puzzlement clear in his furrowed brow. “What is it?” Dan asked him.
“That third contact,” the ops officer said. “It's still on the scope.”
“What third contact?”
“The one you told me to check for. Out behind them.”
Dan slid out of his chair.
The radar return was faint. It was probably either smaller or lower than the Osas. When he put the ESM operators on its bearing, they picked up a weak emission on a VHF band. When they put it on the speaker, it sounded like Arabic. But by the time they got a translator to Combat, the transmission had ceased. The bands hissed like an empty conch shell.
“Give them a call,” he told Camill.
“Unidentified craft, this is U.S. Navy warship. Identify yourself.”
No response. They called again, then put Barkhat on. No one answered him, either. One of the trackers reported the contact was coming right. After a smooth wide turn, it steadied up. Running its new course out, Dan saw it was heading for Egyptian territorial waters. Where neither he nor any other U.S. unit could follow. From there it could merge back into the coastal traffic and vanish.
What could it have aboard so valuable men would kill and die to protect it?
“Sir, are we headed over where the Osas went down?”
“No,” he told Camill. “Get Brinegar on the line. Vector
Moosbrugger
over there to pick up any survivors. If this is what I think it is, I'm not letting this guy go.”
H
E could have intercepted in under an hour at flank speed. But he didn't want to go in blind, at night. So for the remainder of the hours of darkness he paralleled the third contact's slow course, remaining some miles to the north. Updating Vigilant Dragon every half hour, and each time requesting permission to cross the line, if necessary, in hot pursuit. Permission denied, permission denied. At first he took it calmly. After almost getting hammered with Styxes, he was just glad to be alive. Then, as the distance separating the fleeing craft from safe haven shrank, he started to heat up.
At the first sign of dawn he launched Richardson and Conden in Blade Slinger and vectored them southward.
As the light grew over the sea, they made a long-range pass, then checked the fleeing contact out from a mile away. Finally the aircraft made a low pass. They reported a trawler-type with two men on deck waving.
Listening in Combat, Dan had a moment of doubt. Was the attack by the Osas unrelated? Coincidental? No, the tactic, the offensive, had to have been meant to protect this innocent-looking craft.
He couldn't help recalling the dhow attack. It had looked innocent, too. Built around a small craft. They'd never have suspected a thing, if Ar-Rahim hadn't blown the whistle from shoreside. This could be the same tactic. Maybe even the same organization.
His phone, by his chair. “Skipper.”
“Sir, XO here.”
“Claudia?”
“We need a decision about breakfast.”
Horn
was still at general quarters, though he'd let the men relax on station. Where there'd been two hostile Osas, there might be more. But it had been hours now. He said reluctantly, “All right, secure. I want to stay at condition three on the bridge and Combat, though.”
When the word came over the 1MC, the crew began stretching and stripping off their helmets. Dan sat brooding. Blade Slinger reported another low pass, crew still waving on deck. Estimated speed twelve. Richardson said it was pushing a bow wave. Twelve was probably as fast as it could go.
Which Dan thought strange for a fishing boat. The others had tacked and veered at low speeds, seeking their piscine prey. He went back to the chart table. Camill stood by silently.
“So where's he going now? A straight course, top speed?”
“Home?”
“You think so?”
“You know what I wonder,” Camill said.
“What?”
“Not where he's going now. Where he was headed before.”
Dan cursed himself. He should have thought of that. He headed for the chart of the eastern Med, rolled out and taped down. Called back, “Read me off the first detected position, backtracking on the JOTS.”
He plotted it. Ran a straight line from the posit Camill read off.
Straightened, feeling a chilled knife-edge trace his spine. “You seeing what I'm seeing, Camel?”
“Yessir, sure am. They were running straight for Tel Aviv, till we got in their way.”
He picked up the sat phone once more. Now he was going to have to explain he'd sent his embarked helo into the standoff zone dividing his patrol area from Egyptian waters. And that
Horn
herself would be leaving her patrol area in the next few minutes. This time he asked to speak to Vigilant Dragon actual. An older, more deliberate voice came on.
“Sir, Lenson here, CO
Horn.
I'm still seeking guidance as to what to do about this contact we picked up last night. The one I think the Osas who fired on me were running interference for. The one that was headed for Tel Aviv, until we intercepted it.”
“Haven't you been told to track and trail?”
“Yes, sir, but that's not going to be viable much longer. We're closing in on Egyptian waters. Sirâ”
“What is it?”
“I'm assuming whatever this guy is, he's what this whole operation was set up to catch. Some nasty package intended for Israel. So what is he?”
“We're contacting the Egyptian navy. This is an Egyptian national matter.”
“Do they have units en route? We're not seeing any on the scope.”
Dan gave him a moment to reply, then when he didn't, keyed again. “Sir, two more questions on that. One: what if those were Egyptian Osas? Two: whether they were or not, if it's important enough for somebody to sacrifice two missile units for, do we really want the Egyptians to have it?”
Silence on the other end. Finally the admiral said, “We're seeking direction from NCA now.”
NCA was National Command Authority, the White House and the National Security Advisor staff. Dan said, “Sir, we can't sit on our hands much longer. Once they get in among the coastwise traffic, they're gone. If it's dangerous ⦠germs, or gas ⦠maybe the wisest thing would be to sink it. Designate it to Bulldog, like we did the Osas.”
The voice said that was out of the question. “Do not, repeat,
do not
launch on your contact. We're working all the angles you've just touched on, Captain. Believe me. Just carry on with what you're doing.”
“Sir, we can't hang fire on this waiting for orders. He's making for the coast. Do you want me to board and search? Light him up? Follow him across the line? I've got to have a decision soon.”
“I told you. Track and trail. Otherwise, no action.”
Dan thought about telling him he had his helo over the suspect, then decided not to. Better to beg forgiveness than to ask permission. He signed off and called Richardson, got a better description of the boat. It didn't sound that large.