“Captain, we are within range,” said the weapons officer. “Speed stablilizing at eighty knots.”
“Prepare the missiles.”
The weapons officer touched two buttons on his panel. The metal grate below Dazhou’s feet vibrated as the hatchway above the missile launcher separated. Information on the target — a large oil tank at the center of a tank farm near Muara on the northern coast of Brunei — was downloaded into the guidance system of the missile.
“Missile ready,” replied the crewman.
“Fire,” said Dazhou.
There was a snarl on the rear area of the Barracuda as the Exocet took off. The French-made anti-ship missile accelerated upward, approaching the speed of sound. After a few seconds, its nose tilted slightly downward and it began skimming along the waves, making it very difficult to track, let alone intercept. When it came within ten kilometers it would activate its own radar and use it to close in on the tank.
“On course,” reported the weapons officer, tracking the missile’s progress.
“Unknown contact bearing one-zero-eight, at thirty kilometers, making ten knots,” said the radarman. “Appears to be a patrol vessel. Brunei. One of their new Russian craft. Not close enough for positive identification.”
“Does it see us?”
“Negative.”
Dazhou was tempted to destroy the patrol ship, one of two recently purchased by the sultan to equip his paltry navy. But his orders from the general were to avoid engagements if possible. Striking the patrol ship, as tempting as it might be, might prematurely alert the enemy to the existence of his ship.
Turning back now meant there would be no chance of seeing the fire his missile would cause. But vanity was not among Dazhou’s weaknesses. The more difficult decision involved whether to proceed away at high speed or not. Taking the turn at high speed involved a tilt maneuver that made the craft visible by sophisticated radars, including the one aboard the Brunei ship. A slow turn, which for the Barracuda meant roughly twenty knots or a little less, kept the ship’s profile low in the water and almost surely invisible. But dropping the speed to turn would mean he’d lose the flight effect; he would be turning the Barracuda back into a “normal” ship. Not only would he lose his momentum, but he would have to wait until he was a good distance from the Brunei ships to pop up. The “takeoff regime” — the word they used for initiating the effect — could not be made radar efficient. And besides, achieving the thrust necessary taxed the cooling capabilities of the ceramic baffles at the rear; he would be visible on infrared. Dazhou had to decide: remain unseen but go slow, thereby increasing the length of the mission, or go fast and hope the men on the Brunei ship didn’t believe their sensors.
Throughout his career, he had taken the risky path, preferring its quick rewards. But there were no rewards in this case; he wanted to keep the ship secret for as long as possible.
“Rig for full stealth mode,” he told his crew. “Return to base as planned. Remain on passive detectors only.” The men moved silently to comply.
Chapter 27
Mack Smith groaned as the phone rang, then reached over to the side of the bed and picked up the receiver.
“Yeah?” he said.
“Mack, McKenna. We got some sort of terrorist thing going over at Muara. Looks like the navy’s screwing everything up. You want me to get the Dragonflies up?”
“Hold on a second.” Mack pulled himself upright, trying to will himself back to full consciousness. He hadn’t had more than four hours of sleep in weeks. “What exactly is going on?”
“Terrorists attacked a tank farm out near Muara, where petrol is stored before it’s picked up by tankers,” said McKenna. “Navy has a patrol boat in the area but they’re coming up empty. I want to launch Dragonflies to patrol the area.”
“What sort of attack?”
“I don’t have all the details yet. May have been some sort of missile or mortar rounds.”
“Missile? From terrorists? More likely they snuck in there and planted a bomb.”
“Could be. Should we get up in the air or not?”
“We have fuel?”
“We have fuel.”
“All right. Send up a two-plane patrol and have another stand by. You lead the first flight; report in when you know the situation. Get the Megafortress ready.”
“Done and done,” said McKenna.
“I may marry you yet, McKenna.”
For the first time since they’d met, she didn’t have a snappy comeback. “Coffee’ll be waiting at the hangar,” she said.
As he got dressed, Mack decided he would take Breanna up on her offer to hang around for a few more days; he could use an aggressive pilot in the cockpit of the EB-52. Then he realized that her flight home would have left an hour ago.
So he decided he’d take the plane up himself.
While Mack respected the capabilities of the EB-52, he’d never been particularly enamored with the plane. Early on during his stay at Dreamland, he had gone through the familiarization courses and did well enough to have been offered a pilot’s slot in the program. But for all the sleek modifications and sophisticated upgrades, the big jet was still a big jet, a lumbering bomb truck, a B-52. Mack Smith flew pointy-nose go-fast jets, not big ugly fat fellas.
But you did what you had to do. By the time he got to the airport, the ground crew was fueling the plane. Mack stopped at the tower where his ground operations center was coordinating mission information and getting updates from the other services. McKenna’s flight had taken off twenty minutes before and was patrolling over the tank farm, twenty miles away. Meanwhile, other guerilla attacks were reported on the outskirts of the capital.
Security at the airport was primarily provided by the army, but Mack had a small force of his own soldiers; after checking over at the hangar to make sure the Megafortress was nearly ready to go, he turned his attention to his ground force. He saw the apprehension in their eyes when he told them they were authorized to shoot to kill.
“But that won’t be necessary, Mr. Minister,” said the captain in charge of the detail, trying to reassure the men.
“It damn well may be necessary,” said Mack. “Anyone comes up to that gate and doesn’t stop when you challenge them, you shoot them. Make sure we have patrols around the whole perimeter, and double-check with the army. Tell them this is serious shit. Got me?”
The captain looked as if he had swallowed his lips. Mack looked at his soldiers — all eight of them, none older than twenty-three. They were well trained, thanks largely to the British, who had supplied instructors from the Special Air Service or SAS, the British inspiration for America’s Delta Force. Still, these were kids who had never had to fire their weapons in anger before; there was no telling how they would do until things were really on the line. Mack sensed that he should tell them something, leave them on a high note. Colonel Bastian did that sort of thing all the time, not so much with a speech but with his voice. Mack tried it now, making himself sound a hell of a lot more confident than he felt.
“Your job is to keep this place safe,” he said. “I’m counting on you.”
“Yes, sir,” said the captain.
“Good,” said Mack. He snapped off a salute, then walked back toward the hangar, wishing he could have come up with something more eloquent.
The Megafortress crew had arrived at the hangar and was suiting up. Mack called the two pilots over and told them he was coming aboard as commander and would fly, but both men were needed in the aircraft. The scheduled pilot looked relieved — which bothered Mack quite a bit, since in his mind that meant the man wasn’t aggressive enough. He himself would have thrown a fit if he were replaced, even by Dog himself.