open bay doors now, two of them on the ship’s starboard side, one ahead
of the island, the other behind. Yellow light spilled from both flat,
oval openings in the carrier’s hull. He concentrated on the one toward
the Jefferson’s stern. Off to his left, the second Huey paced him.
Thran’s finger caressed the firing trigger on the stick. If he could
just get close enough–say, less than half a mile–some of his rockets
were certain to enter the carrier’s hull through the open elevator
doors.
And the hangar deck, he’d been told, would be crowded with aircraft,
with fuel, with explosives …
That man-made steel mountain ahead would look spectacular when it
exploded.
2036 hours, 19 January
Tomcat 201, on CAP over the Gulf of Thailand
It was the skipper’s bird, but Lieutenant “Nightmare” Marinaro had drawn
Tomcat 201 for his evening stint on CAP when his own F-14 had shown an
electrical fault during the preflight. He was cruising at fifteen
thousand feet fifty miles southwest of Sattahip when his RIO, Lieutenant
Mike “Sunny” Crampton, called him over the ICS.
“Hey, Nightmare? Sounds like the shit’s hitting the fan back on the
bird farm. They’ve just sounded General Quarters.”
“They what?” He’d had his radio input off but he snapped it back on
now.
His earphones picked up the buzz and murmur of voices.
“Cowboy, this is Victor Kilo One-one,” a new voice called. “Come in,
Cowboy.”
Cowboy was the call sign for Marinaro’s CAP, while VK-11 was the Hawkeye
currently coordinating air activities over the battle group. “Victor
Kilo, this is Cowboy. Go ahead.”
“Cowboy, we have two bogies closing with Homeplate.” A rattle-off
string of numbers, coordinates and bearings, followed. “Contacts may be
hostile.
Intercept and identify. Over.”
“Rog.” Marinaro brought the stick over and kicked the Tomcat’s
afterburners. “We’re moving.”
Thunder rolled across the gulf, trailing unheard behind the plane as the
Tomcat broke the sound barrier. Hurtling northeast at better than Mach
1.5, it would take less than three minutes to close the range to the
Jefferson’s unknown attackers.
2039 hours, 19 January
RTAF Helicopter 163, Sattahip
The American ship swelled rapidly to fill the Huey’s forward cockpit
windshield. The targeting reticle held steady on the after elevator
door, now so close that Thran thought he could make out the shadowy
silhouettes of men against the yellow glare of the hangar bay. As he
watched, the hangar bay light began to contract, and he realized that
the massive sliding doors of the elevator openings in the ship were
closing.
“Range two thousand meters,” the pilot said.
It was close enough, and if he waited any longer the elevator doors
would be completely shut. He squeezed the firing trigger, and balls of
orange flame flashed past the Huey’s cockpit on either side, a
rapid-fire spray of rockets in quick succession called ripple fire.
Thran was dead on target.
2039 hours, 19 January
Bridge, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
Captain Fitzgerald strode onto the bridge, still pulling on his
life-jacket. “Situation, Commander Marusko.”
“Two bogies, sir, identified as That air force helicopters, inbound off
the aft starboard quarter.” He gestured with the phone, still open to
CIC.
“They’ve been warned off but are still approaching. I … we just had a
call from Commander Magruder, sir.”
“Tombstone?”
“Yes, sir. At the American embassy. He said that the coup leaders were
planning to attack Jefferson with helicopters. On the basis of his
warning, I put the boat on GQ, but-”
“They’re firing!” The warning from the starboard lookout was echoed by
the call from the CIC officer over the telephone in his hand. Marusko
turned and saw the rapid-fire, stuttering flashes in the night, the
flares of tiny rocket engines streaking like tracer bullets toward the
carrier.
“I’ve got the bridge, Mr. Marusko,” Fitzgerald said in a voice as calm
as death. He took the phone from CAG’s hand and brought it to his ear.
“CIC, this is the Captain. We are under attack. You may commence
fire.”
2039 hours, 19 January
Fantail, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
Private First Class Vince Kennedy swung the muzzle of his machine gun
toward the approaching threat. He could not make out the helicopters
well without lights, but he could see the flashes as they ripple-fired