carrier, five decks above the Combat Direction Center. While the carrier had
its own ASW module located directly off CDC, Hunter 701 had been chopped at
launch to the DESRON for command and control.
“Surface, you sweet little bastard,” Rabies heard Harness mutter. “Just
come on up all the way, baby, just for me. You wanna get some sun on that
sail, let me get a good look at you!”
Uncannily, as though in response to the prayers of the technician, a
sleek black hull emerged from the water. The sea ran off the submarine’s
hull, cascading back into the warm water and creating a foamy froth around the
hull. Two additional masts emerged from the still-dripping sail, and a small
radar dish unfolded.
Fascinated, Rabies dropped his altitude another five hundred feet. At
one thousand feet, he slowly circled the submarine.
“Oh, yeah,” Harness crooned. “That’s it, baby. Sir, can you get me in a
little closer? First picture of the cruise is in the bag, and I’d like it to
be a good one!”
Suddenly, part of the submarine’s sail slid back, and a small launcher
emerged.
Rabies slammed the throttles forward hard, taking the nimble jet to full
military power. His earlier fascination had just been replaced by clear, cold
dread.
“What the hell?” the TACCO said, as his head slipped out of the radar
mask and hit the back of his headrest.
“SAMs! Shut up for a minute, and let me get us the fuck out of here!”
Rabies snarled.
He’d seen the intelligence reports, but had never seen a report of an
operational surface-to-air missile on a submarine. Facts and figures flooded
into his mind, gleaned from countless intelligence briefs and his own
extensive studies. It was estimated that some of the Kilos carried a
follow-on to the S/A-Grail missile, a shoulder-launched or
small-launcher-controlled anti-air missile. With its infrared guidance
system, the submarine version of the SAM was a fire-and-forget weapon. The
missile probably had a range of no more than six nautical miles, he knew. It
could probably do at least Mach 1, or about six hundred knots. The S-3B could
do 440 knots on a good day. Downhill.
Rabies poured on the speed, not bothering to seek altitude. It wouldn’t
help. If he couldn’t outrun it, then his only hope was to wait until it got
close, and try a hard braking maneuver with chaffs and flares, hoping to coax
the missile into overshooting its intended victim or going after the decoys.
His copilot was talking in clipped, short sentences to CDC, ignoring the
frantic demands from the DESRON for information. With a missile on his tail,
Hunter 701 needed to talk to other aviators, not the surface officers who were
nominally in control of her operations. Rabies leaned forward against the
straps that held him in the ejection seat, as though he could force more
forward speed out of the jet by sheer willpower. They were too low to eke out
a few more knots by trading altitude for speed. Irrelevantly, it crossed the
pilot’s mind that there was a damned fine song in those words somewhere. Now
if he could just live long enough to write it.
1745 local (Zulu -7)
Combat Direction Center (CDC)
USS Jefferson
“Get those alert five Hornets off the deck! That Hoover needs some
missile cover. And get the alert S-3’s rolling, too,” the TAO snapped at her
assistant. She reached for the microphone that would put her in touch with
the officer of the deck, six levels above her on the bridge of the carrier.
Before she’d finished, the TAO heard the 1MC blaring, “Flight quarters, flight
quarters. Launch the alert five Hornets. Now, flight quarters.” The sound
of Hornet engines turning immediately thrummed through the ship, as the alert
fighters waiting on the catapult prepared to launch.
CDC was the nerve center of the carrier. Originally called Combat
Information Center, or CIC, the new name was a reflection of the changing ways
that a carrier battle group controlled the ebb and flow of war at sea. The
main compartment was dominated by a wall-sized blue screen that displayed
every contact held by every sensor in the battle group. The CDC officer and