Balance of Power: A Novel (40 page)

Fifteen hundred Marines heading ashore. He loved it.
But he also knew how badly these things could get screwed up. That was why he was in the LCAC. He had seen it too often.
Mayagüez,
the Iranian hostage rescue, Grenada, Panama, Beirut, Somalia—he had been at every one of them. He had seen people die each time. These quiet little political missions, not the full-on wars where you got to use tanks and fighters as they were meant to be used, but the little political wars, they were the ones that got you. The Marines were always the first ones in and the first ones to die. And the last ones to get any credit.

It wasn’t going to happen this time. He would go ashore with his troops and make sure. This was the first landing he had been in charge of. Every “i” had been dotted, every “t” crossed.
This one would be different
. He had been pleased by the lack of resistance thus far. They hadn’t seen one shot fired from the island with the exception of the SAM, which hit somebody. He couldn’t see who or what, but he assumed it was the F-18s. These guys were playing for keeps. That’s fine, Tucker thought. So are we.

He flinched and pushed Dillon down as bullets suddenly slammed into the front of the LCAC with the characteristic
ping
that he had heard before. Small-caliber machineguns, he thought to himself. Probably AK-47s. Black market specials. Available by the truckload at a discount. He watched the other Marines as they scrunched down farther into the landing craft and looked at each other. None looked terribly frightened, but he knew better than to take this too lightly. Any bullet fired by anybody—including a stupid terrorist—could kill you very dead. He pulled his chin down to test the tightness of his helmet strap. Overhead the Harriers and F-18s raced in to strafe the line of palm trees just inshore from the target beach.

Suddenly the LCAC was at the beach and climbing up out of the water. It drove right across the sand on its cushion of air and stopped just short of the treeline. Its
engines screamed and rattled. Tucker stood up. “Let’s go!” he shouted. The other Marines charged down the ramp and fanned out to left and right. Several LCUs hit the beach behind them and Marines charged ashore by the dozen. No rebel yells, no screams, just the deadly efficient silence of trained Marines going about their business.

Dillon ducked down and ran awkwardly behind Tucker. His helmet bobbed on his head and was heavier than he had expected. He stepped onto the sand and was immediately thrown down by Luther, who had been assigned to look out for him. “Don’t stand up when people are shooting at you,” he yelled at Dillon. “Bad idea.”

Those ashore first threw themselves down and began returning fire, trying to walk behind the AAV. A bullet suddenly hit the sailor driving the nearest LCU. He was wearing a flak jacket, but he was hit in the neck just above the flak jacket. Blood spurted as the sailor fell to the deck. A petty officer standing next to him immediately jumped to the wheel and continued the throttle pressure to keep the LCU pushing against the shore. A Navy corpsman quickly placed a battle dressing on the wound. When all the Marines were finally off, the petty officer backed the LCU off the sand and turned it back toward the fleet.

The first Marines ashore had reduced the fire from the treeline to a weak smattering of resistance. The terrorists were clearly backtracking into the dense foliage. Tucker knelt on the sand and monitored the radio reports from the Marines at the far ends of the beach. All the reports were the same. Minor resistance retreating into the jungle.
“Secure the beach and hold until further orders,”
he transmitted curtly. The objective was to get to the probable headquarters, near the concrete bunkers, before a defensive perimeter could be set up.

The second wave of LCUs jammed into the beach and the ramps came down. Just like D-day, Tucker thought. Not much advancement in getting ashore in the last fifty years. After two more assault waves the beach was overflowing with fully armed Marines and maneuvering armored
vehicles looking for paths into the jungle. He could see two bodies lying on the beach, but no other casualties.

Overhead the powerful CH-53E helicopters headed for the scheduled landing. They’re late, Tucker thought to himself. They flew directly toward the hill that had been identified as the LZ, the landing zone. He had picked it himself. It was a clear knoll a mile and a half inland, directly on the other side of their objective. Three hundred Marines would be dropped on the hill and twelve hundred on the beach. They were to converge on the target from both directions simultaneously. Tucker grabbed the radio transmitter from his radioman and personally called all the company commanders. When they were on their receivers, he gave the coded signal to turn inshore.

T
HE ENORMOUS THREE
-
ENGINED
CH-53E
DESCENDED
quickly toward the landing zone. The Marine captain piloting the beast from the right seat scanned the nearby trees quickly for any signs of life. He couldn’t give the scan as much time as he would have liked, though; he was concentrating on settling the 53 onto the knoll without sinking too fast and breaking the aircraft’s back.

The copilot in the left seat and the crew chief in the back were much more diligent in scrutinizing the forest around them. Their eyes darted back and forth as their hearts pounded. Neither had been in combat before, and although they were excited, they were nervous.

Despite their heightened awareness, they never saw the bullets coming from the woods. As the 53 settled onto the knoll, bullets slammed loudly into the helicopter. The Marines in the back bent over to minimize their exposure but they were restrained by their belts. They scrambled to free themselves and shuffled toward the back and side doors.

They could see white flashes from the woods and quickly began to return fire. A couple of anxious Marines began firing from inside the helicopter until a master gunnery sergeant slapped their helmets to stop them. They poured out the back, formed a circle on the ground around the helicopter, and continued returning fire in the general direction the shots seemed to be coming from. The 53 lifted off and quickly pulled away, nosing down immediately
from the knoll once airborne. It skipped over the trees back toward the ship. The next 53 hustled in as soon as the landing zone was clear.

The second 53 tried to be smarter. The crew knew it was a hot landing zone, not a simple dropoff. The pilot came in hotter—faster and steeper. The Marines in the back felt themselves being lifted from their seats as the helicopter dropped quickly to avoid the gunfire from the trees. But bullets slammed into the sides of the ship. The men felt helpless, unable to return fire, and most leaned over and ineffectually covered their helmeted heads with their hands.

The 53’s nose came up as the pilot slowed over the landing zone. The smoke from the three engines began to catch up with the helicopter and surrounded it with a haze of dark hot exhaust.

Suddenly three shoulder-fired heat-seeking missiles screamed up at them out of the woods. The missiles headed directly toward the hottest spot—and hit the engines just below the rotor blades. The engines burst into flame as the wounded helicopter settled the last fifty feet onto the ground and crashed. Fire broke out from the top of the helicopter and soon the entire aircraft was engulfed. Marines from the first helicopter ran back to help but the flames were too intense. Although some of the men were able to crawl out of the fire and run away, several were trapped on board.

Admiral Billings sat back in his chair, his eyes glued to the large screen where he watched the live, real-time video link from the Predator flying quietly fifteen thousand feet above the island. Its zoom television camera was fixed on the smoking helicopter. The Predator had done its job: Billings and his staff had been able to watch the entire landing. The Marine intel officer was able to forward information to Colonel Tucker and it had been relayed in time to make a difference to the troops on the
ground. But Billings hadn’t anticipated the impact of seeing the death of his men firsthand. The Predator’s camera remained fixed on the burning hulk of a helicopter.

Billings turned to Captain Black. “We need a casualty report as soon as possible.”

“Yes, sir.” Black picked up the radio to call the
Wasp
.

Tucker and Dillon watched the advancing line of Marines penetrate the trees and head inland firing sporadically at anything that moved. But now there was mostly silence, although to Tucker’s left, at the west end of the beach, there were two loud unidentifiable pops. Tucker, Dillon, and the men strode cautiously but steadily inland until they were surrounded by deep foliage. The ground was wet and slippery, but firm. They picked up speed as they realized that the foliage was not impenetrable. Tucker checked their position on his GPS receiver against his rough chart of the island.

Dillon watched over his shoulder, completely confused, just trying to stay out of the way. He still felt sick after watching the Navy coxswain take a bullet in the neck. He tried to view the experience with detachment, but he couldn’t get the image out of his mind, the image of the sailor falling backward with blood spurting out of his neck.

Dillon was in good physical shape. He ran almost every day. But just coming ashore and going a few hundred yards exhausted him.

Tucker slowed and listened. He motioned Dillon to stay down while the Marines checked the trees for snipers and the ground for booby traps. Black smoke rose in the distance, and they walked slowly toward it. Their line was as straight as he could hope for as they worked their way silently through the jungle.

Suddenly the leaves were torn by bullets and machinegun fire. The Marines threw themselves onto the green
moist ground and fired back. Bullets and tracers flew in both directions.

Tucker had heard fire like this before. This wasn’t twenty or thirty people; this was one hundred, or two hundred. It was the sound of constant, sustained firing of automatic weapons. The central company commander was right next to Tucker. Tucker yelled at him, “Call in the Harriers. Call them in on the smoke.”

The company commander grabbed the radio while Tucker signaled for the platoons on the left and the right of the bunkers to advance cautiously.

A second radioman handed Tucker the receiver. “Otter Seven is calling.”

“Otter Chief,”
Tucker said.

“Otter Chief. Otter Seven,”
the captain from the first helicopter said loudly over the radio.
“We’re taking heavy fire on the north end of the perimeter. We have the smoke in sight, which we believe to be the bunkers. We’ve lost one helicopter and an estimated fifteen men, over. The smoke behind is from the downed helo.”

Tucker grimaced.
“Roger. We’re on the other side of the same smoke. I’m calling in the Harriers. Don’t advance until I give you the signal. After the Harriers roll in, we’re in hot.”

“Otter Seven, copy, out.”

Tucker handed the receiver back to his radioman and looked up. The Harriers were two miles away. Tucker could hear them coming—a screaming jet noise. The Harriers popped up over the horizon from his left and climbed to about three thousand feet. They rolled in and Tucker could see for the first time how fast they were going—at least five hundred knots. The Harriers’ cannon was audible above the general din of the firefight. The first one pulled up sharply and Tucker heard, then felt, an enormous
whump
as two five-hundred-pound bombs exploded half a mile away. The second Harrier followed right behind and then two more. The shooting slackened. Tucker stood and gave the signal.

The Marines doubled their pace through the jungle, almost running. They were nearly reckless as they headed for the spot where the bombs had just landed. Their hunger for a fight increased. Some of them shot wildly as they moved, while others stopped to fire from their shoulders.

Suddenly the lead platoon broke into the clearing with Tucker right behind. Dillon ran hard to keep up. They threw themselves on the ground as they were met with a hail of bullets. The Marines stopped on the edge of the clearing and began encircling the area. Then, behind the firing came the sound of a rocket motor igniting. A large missile flew out of an area carved into the side of a hill. The fat, ugly missile flew over their heads, picking up speed as it went, a huge piglike projectile headed for the fleet.

The EA-6B prowler electronic warfare plane saw the electronic guidance signals from the Silkworm anti-ship missile about the time Tucker heard it launch.
“Silkworm airborne!”
the NFO from the Prowler warned the fleet on guard frequency. The pilot could see the smoke trail coming from the island. “You got a bearing for the HARM?” he demanded.

“Affirmative!” his NFO in the right seat answered. “Come starboard ten.”

As soon as the EA-6B was lined up it launched its HARM, the high speed anti-radiation missile, at the Silkworm site. It was faster than the Silkworm, but had gotten a later start.

“Park Bench 104, this is Long Bow, over,”
the E-2 transmitted to the Tomcat.

“Go ahead,”
Messer replied instantly.

“Vampire airborne!”
came the immediate reply.
“Vector 338 for ten!”

“104 coming port to 338. Say angels.”

“Angels unknown, but thought to be low.”

“Roger. Looking,”
Messer transmitted. “Keep your eye out, MC. Should be twenty-five left. Low. Cruise missile. Headed out. We’ve got about a minute to find it and shoot it down. Shit!” Messer searched for the missile with his radar. “Why can’t the stupid Aegis take it?”

“Because the only Aegis ship is still with the carrier, and we’re in the way,” Caskey replied calmly. “Stay cool, Messer.”

“Sorry. Okay.” He leaned forward against his shoulder straps to look closely at the radar. “I got it! He’s headed straight for the
Wasp
. It’s really hauling, but subsonic. Come port to 291.”

Caskey slammed the stick to the left to bring the nose of the Tomcat in front of the Silkworm, a huge anti-ship missile the size of a small airplane.

“Master arm still on?” Messer asked, his breathing loud in the ICS.

“On,” Caskey replied as he watched the fast-moving speck that was the missile coming from the right. “We gonna try a forward quarter shot?”

“Yep. Buster,” Messer said, calling for maximum power without afterburners.

“Roger.”

The Tomcat picked up speed, but not fast enough. “Burner,” Messer demanded. “There’s too much drift. Come port hard! Hard as possible!”

Caskey wrapped the Tomcat into a ninety-degree left-hand turn to try to catch the missile.

“Descend to two thousand,” Messer said as they leveled their wings. “We’ve got a beam shot. I’m going to take it anyway.” He reached for the launch button by his left knee to fire an AMRAAM.

“Park Bench, new Silkworm airborne. 360 for 14.”

“Roger,”
Messer replied. He pushed the red-lighted launch button with enthusiasm. The rocket motor on the AMRAAM missile fired and tore ahead of the Tomcat toward the Silkworm. Messer—like Caskey—had learned to fly intercepts with the AIM-7 Sparrow missile. If this
had been a Sparrow, they would have been required to keep their radar trained on the Silkworm until missile impact. But not with the AMRAAM, a “fire and forget” missile. As soon as it was off the rail, Messer yelled to Caskey, “Come starboard to 360, MC.”

Caskey brought the Tomcat around hard, heading back north toward the island, which had smoke rising from it in several locations.

“Got it,” Messer said quickly. “Come out of burner. Set 500 knots.”

“Roger that. I’m going to check the other one,” Caskey replied as he quickly dipped the left wing to check the AMRAAM they had just fired. Caskey watched the missile approach the Silkworm, then go stupid and fly by the target and into the water.
“Long Bow,”
Caskey transmitted to the E-2,
“missile failed to guide. Warn the
Wasp
that that Vampire is still inbound.”