Balance of Power: A Novel (39 page)

There were ships scattered over the sea, but all but three had been previously identified as merchant shipping. Those three were being watched by an S-3B.

Caskey looked down at the
Wasp:
its flight deck was aglow with AV-8B Harrier jets and helicopters preparing to take off. The
Wasp
had a well deck in the back that flooded so landing craft, LCUs and LCACs, could drive out with their complement of Marines and equipment. The LCUs were loaded and were circling behind the large amphibious carrier. He could barely make them out in the early morning as the sun started to light the sky. One after another, then another—a long train of boats circled, waiting for the chance to turn toward the beach.

Caskey and Messer made another circle around the Amphibious Group, two hundred fifty knots, ten thousand feet. Just a cruise. But with each circle the tension increased for everyone in the amphibious operation. Someone was going to die soon. The only question was who.

The amphibious group and the Marines hadn’t had time to do a rehearsal, one of the required elements of any amphibious landing. Go somewhere else, similar to your destination, and rehearse the entire operation. Get the Marines in the boats, get the helicopters airborne, turn everyone in toward shore, and even land if you have time. Then, when the real landing comes, the bugs will be worked out of the plan, and everyone will be fresh and ready to go. But not this time.

Caskey glanced to the north and could clearly see the island in the early-morning light, its greenness visible in the heat.

“Fifteen minutes to L hour,” Messer said, sounding slightly bored. “Must be a real challenge for those Marines, to send fifteen hundred of them against a couple of hundred pinhead terrorists.”

“Easy, Messer. They probably think it’d be easy to do a TARPS run over this island.”

“Touché,” Messer said.

“Are we still outside the SAM envelope?” Caskey was looking at the chart on his kneeboard.

“You bet,” Messer said. “I’m not going anywhere near that guy.”

“What did they say the max range was on that thing?”

“12.5 clicks, about seven miles.”

“Okay.”

“Are we going to roll in hot and strafe?” Messer asked hopefully.

“Only if they need us, and there’s nothing else to do up here.”

“Cool,” Messer said, trying to cover the dryness in his mouth with enthusiasm.

Suddenly the circling boats below them straightened
out and headed toward the beach. The LCAC—Landing Craft, Air Cushion—that carried Colonel Tucker and Dillon led the rest of the craft. It was an enormous hovercraft that rode on a cushion of air, generating a cloud of saltwater from the black skirt that contained the air pressure. From the back, its huge airplane-like propellers pushed it toward the beach at twice the speed of the LCUs. It projected an air of menace.

The helicopters hovered low behind them, over the horizon from the island. The Harriers flew low, farther out than the helicopters, ready to pounce.

The FA-18s lined up to soften the beach. Two Spruance-class destroyers began shelling with their five-inch guns. One orange flash after another exploded on the beach as the automatically loaded guns slammed their shells into the vague target.

The one obstacle the SEALs had found in front of the beautiful south-facing beach suddenly blew up with a huge tower of water as the timer marked five minutes before L hour. The explosion reassured the Marines that they would hit the beach on time, in stride.

Two F-18s streaked from the southeast and popped up to their right. They rolled in one after the other and dropped bombs on the treeline just beyond the beach. Caskey could see the concussion spread through the trees and then black smoke rising as the bombs leveled two-hundred-foot areas.

The F-18s pulled up and the Harriers streaked in underneath Caskey to begin their own close air support. They began a racetrack pattern, bombing and strafing the beach line as the boats made their way in. Caskey saw no return fire from the trees.

“I wonder if they’re bombing a bunch of sand crabs,” Caskey remarked.

“I haven’t seen any resistance at all down there. Have you?”

“Not a thing,” Caskey said. “You know, I nearly shot you the other night.”

“Where, in my bed?” Messer asked sarcastically as he adjusted the scan of the radar.

“No, when you came swimming toward me after Drunk got those three boats.”

“Thanks. See if I come to you for help again. Some shrapnel tore my raft. I didn’t think Drunk could see me—he hit the last boat about fifty yards from me. I could feel the explosions, and next thing I know I’m sitting in the water with my raft sinking underneath me. I just swam toward you so I’d get picked up.”

“Yeah, I know, but I never told you I had my gun out and was pointing it at you while you were swimming toward me. I thought you were one of the bad guys—”

Suddenly the radio crackled and Caskey recognized the E-2 naval flight officer in control of fighters.
“Park Bench104. Bogeys inbound bearing 260 for 25 miles!”
Caskey felt an adrenaline surge. “You hear that, Messer?”

“Yeah, I got it.” Messer said, then stepped on the microphone button under his right foot.
“Roger 260 for 25 miles say angels.”
Then to Caskey, “Come port hard to260.”

Caskey threw the stick to his left and pulled hard to drive the Tomcat quickly to 260. He instinctively accelerated through 300 knots heading toward 450.

“Angels unknown. Appear low.”

“Roger low. Where’d they come from?”

“Unknown.”

“Roger. Are they squawking?”

“Affirmative. Squawking mode 3.”

Messer switched to transmit on the front radio to talk to his wingman.
“Mario, set combat spread.”

“Roger”
came the reply as the wingman took his position a mile and a half to the south, their left, heading west and slightly above them.

Messer immediately found the bogeys on his radar.
“Contact 260, 21 miles angels four,”
Messer said, finding the planes at four thousand feet and climbing.

“That’s your bogey.”

Messer transmitted again.
“You sure those aren’t the F-18s?”
he asked, making sure the captain in charge of air intercepts was available.

“I’m sure,”
the E-2 replied.

Messer transmitted,
“Do you have Bravo Whiskey on the line?”

“Affirmative,”
the E-2 replied.

“Any change in the rules of engagement?”
Messer demanded.

“Peacetime ROE,”
came back the immediate reply.

“Shit,” Messer said on the internal communications system as he went hot mike.

“Combat checklist,” Caskey demanded. Messer immediately ran through the list with Caskey responding properly. They reached the final item.

“Master arm on.”

“Hold that,” Caskey said. “I don’t want to shoot anybody down by accident.”

“Roger that, but if these guys are out to get us, I don’t want to be shooting blanks.”

“I hear you.”

Out of the corner of his right eye Messer saw the smoke trails of two SLAM missiles that had been fired by F-18s at two concrete bunkers on the island. He wanted to watch the burning smoke trail as the missiles streaked toward their targets, but he had other things to do. Messer flipped his microphone switch to the front radio again and called Meat.
“You got these guys, Meat?”

“I got them. Which one do you want?”

“I got the guy on the right, looks like line of bearings stacked right. You take the guy on the left.”

“Got him.”

“I got them,” Messer told Caskey. “They’re doing 550 knots and climbing. Geez, who are these guys?”

It was almost light as they accelerated through 450 knots.

“Buster,” Messer said, telling Caskey to go to full military
power. Caskey pushed the throttles all the way forward, short of afterburner.

“11 miles, 4 degrees low, 1,000 knots closure,” Messer said to Caskey.

The E-2 NFO spoke again. “
258, ten miles
…”

“Judy,”
Messer transmitted, cutting off the E-2 and taking control of the intercept.

“Who are you?” Caskey said to no one in particular as he strained through the windscreen to see the bogeys.

“I’m gonna lock him up,” Messer said. “I don’t see any other airplanes.” Messer transferred the radar to single-target track and the radar instantly locked on the trailing bogey, slightly behind the lead. He slaved his TVSU—TeleVision Sight Unit—to the radar and switched his tactical information display to show the television picture. Although the light was dim, he could make it out. “It’s a fighter,” he said to Caskey. “I can’t make out the type yet.”

“The sooner the better,” Caskey said.

“9 miles, 1,100 knots closure.”

“Give me an ID, Messer,” Caskey insisted.

Messer switched back and forth from the television picture to the radar picture, running the intercept and trying to identify them simultaneously.

Messer transmitted,
“These guys are coming awful fast. Request clearance to fire.”

“Stand by,”
the E-2 replied.

“I don’t have time to stand by!”
Messer said.
“These are fighters. They are doing almost 600 knots!”

“Roger. Stand by.”

“It’s an F-16,” Messer said suddenly. “Definitely an F-16,” he told Caskey. “
F-16, confirm F-16,”
he said to the E-2.

“Roger Fox One Six,”
the E-2 replied.

“Request instructions,”
Messer said.

“Roger, stand by,”
the E-2 said yet again.

“Shit!” Messer said. “We’re going to get our asses shot!”

“If a missile comes off the rail of one of them, I’m going to smoke him,” Caskey said. “Switching master arm on.”

“Good AMRAAM solution. Ready to fire,” Messer replied tensely.

“I’ve got a good Sidewinder tone. What the—” Two missiles suddenly rose up from the island off to the right and streaked into the sky. “Messer!” Caskey called.

Messer looked up and saw the SAMs coming toward them.

“Not again!” Caskey said as he pushed the nose of the Tomcat hard over toward the ocean.

“They’re not headed for us!” Messer said. “Throttle back!” They watched as the two missiles streaked toward their targets. “Throttle back!” Messer repeated. Caskey immediately retarded his throttles to idle and began to climb. The F-16s came up toward them.

“Tally-ho!” Caskey said. He could see the dot-sized targets six miles ahead.

“They don’t see them,” Caskey said to Messer, his voice full of confusion. The two missiles raced toward the F-16s and hit them from the left almost simultaneously. Caskey saw two bright orange fireballs directly in front of him. He then saw two other small bright orange flames behind the F-16s as two missiles flew off rails of unseen airplanes in the distance. The missiles climbed high into the sky and headed down toward the island. “HARMs,” Caskey said. “F-18s got a fix on the SAM site when they lit up the F-16s. Unbelievable.”

Messer transmitted to E-2,
“Splash two F-16s.”
His heart beat like a hamster’s. He switched to the television picture and saw pieces of the airplanes drifting down into the ocean. The radar had broken lock, but the television was still locked on the contrast.

The E-2 NFO came back in a panic,
“You never received clearance to fire!”

“We didn’t splash them,”
Messer replied in an annoyed tone.

“Say again?”
the E-2 replied.

“We didn’t splash them.”

“Who did?”

“SAMs.”

“Off the island?”

“Affirmative.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t one of our Aegis ships?”

“Positive,”
Messer said.

“Roger that,”
the E-2 replied.
“I see no other bogeys.”

“Where do you think those guys were from?” Caskey said.

“I don’t know. Singapore has F-16s, I know that, or maybe Malaysia.”

“Singapore? You think they’re in on this?”

“I have no idea, but I bet we find out.”

“Does Indonesia have F-16s?”

“I think so.”

“Great, we’ve really got it narrowed down.”

They turned quickly back toward the amphibious group and scanned the skies with their radar.

“You got anybody else out there yet?”
Messer asked the E-2.

“Negative.”

Colonel Tucker stood in front of Dillon in the LCAC as they made their way to the beach. He surveyed the line of landing craft behind him and the AAV-7s, the Amphibious Assault Vehicles, in front of him. The AAVs, Amtracs as they were called, were essentially armored personal carriers that motored in like boats, then crawled up on land like tanks, and carried a platoon of Marines inside the armored protection. The most heavily armed and protected, they went ashore first. Tucker wanted to touch the shore in his LCAC right after them. He looked at the other amphibious assault boats behind him.