The ESSMs stabbed the vampire cluster, and an instant later nine of the incoming missiles vanished from radar.
“Two-one vampires. Heading two-one-zero. Range two-niner miles. Speed four-five-zero knots. First impact in zero-two minutes, forty-one seconds.”
“Dammit,” Bennett cursed. Russo frowned at the kill ratio of the ESSMs and the ERAMs. But so many detonations so close together created enough debris to confuse the radar system, especially while skimming the ground.
Another barrage of ESSMs shot off from a guided-missile cruiser two miles south, at the front of the stranded convoy, and Russo watched as they took out seven more missiles.
“One-four vampires. Bearing two-one-zero. Range one-four miles. Speed four-five-zero knots. First impact in one minute, ten seconds.”
In an impressive display of close-in defensive power, Lincoln released its load of Sea Sparrows and RAMs in under thirty seconds — a combined twenty-nine missiles blazing head-on to intercept.
“One-four vampires. Bearing two-one-zero. Range zero-nine miles. Speed four-five-zero knots. First impact in four-niner seconds.”
C’mon, Russo thought, gazing out with binoculars as the contrails shot off across the desert, rushing over shallow sand dunes as they collided with the incoming wave of vampires.
Even at a distance of several miles, it was a sight to see as the horizon ignited with flashes resembling distant lighting, followed by clapping thunder.
“Three vampires. Bearing two-one-zero. Range zero-four miles. Speed four-five-zero knots. First impact in twenty seconds!”
Russo could see the three missiles that had broken through, their contrails clearly visible right over the sand.
The single port-side Phalanx close-in weapon system six-barrel 20 mm Gatling gun sprang to life the moment the vampires reached its two-mile kill zone. Nicknamed “R2-D2 with a hard-on” because of its profile, the squat gun system vomited rounds at the rate of 4,500 per minute, painting a wall of armor-piercing tungsten rounds in front of the closest missile, which detonated in a ball of fire and shrapnel just over a mile from Lincoln’s bow. Rapidly switching targets, the Phalanx shot another volley of rounds in front of the next missile, detonating it less than four thousand feet from the ship, the blast rattling the windows of the captain’s bridge.
“Brace for impact!” shouted Bennett as the CWIS engaged the final vampire at a distance of two thousand feet, its tungsten penetrator rounds catching it at a twenty-degree angle, damaging its guidance system before piercing the warhead.
The blast, less than eight hundred feet away, shook the entire island superstructure. The fireball blocked the view from all port-side windows before flaming debris drizzled harmlessly across the flight deck.
As Bennett called the Pentagon and Russo stared at the smoke and flames in disbelief that they had actually survived the attack, the SEAL commander noticed people entering the bridge. He turned to the large bulkhead, where he spotted, over the heads of the bridge personnel busily clicking away at their stations, Lt. Gustavo Pacheco flanked by his operators.
His second in command just stood there, crossed his arms, and mouthed, What the fuck?
— 17 —
Hartwell Prost sat alone at a corner table at his favorite eatery, in the historic Georgetown neighborhood on the northwest side of the capital. It was located just a stone’s throw away from the brownstone he had purchased in a short sale during the economic collapse of 2008. He’d had a moment of empathy for the seller, until he learned the seller had been an investment banker working in derivatives and thus responsible for the very crisis forcing him to sell.
The restaurant didn’t have the history of places like the Old Ebbitt Grill or Martin’s Tavern, but it did have great food. And after the day he’d had dealing with the near miss in the Suez Canal, tonight the DNI needed a decent meal and a drink… or three.
Prost looked around the place. He was used to eating alone, having done so for pretty much most of his life, minus the two years he had been married, at which he failed miserably. And that reminded him of the advice his old Langley boss had offered the moment Prost had put in for vacation to go tie the knot: you’re already married.
But at the time, he’d been in love, or so he had thought, and had gone through with it anyway. It took him two stormy years to realize that personal relationships did not mesh well with careers in espionage, especially one that took him to distant locales for months at a time. Two decades later, after traveling the world and finally getting called back to a permanent post at Langley, Prost had tried his hand with a dating service. But after the third date during which he’d had to jokingly say to a woman, “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you,” he realized “dating,” particularly outside of intelligence circles, wasn’t going to be for him.
He did know several women from Langley and Fort Meade — headquarters of the NSA — whose company he enjoyed privately, but none expected anything more from him than room service and what adults do when they meet in hotel rooms to have room-service dinners.
On the rare occasion he needed a public date, say for a White House event, he would extend an invitation to a genuine friend of his from college, whose career had also brought her to DC. Since she was a rather well-known advocate of LGBQT rights and very much “out,” no one ever made the mistake of connecting them romantically. Of course, some therefore made erroneous conclusions about his own preferences, but that more amused him than anything else.
So here you are, pal, eating all by your lonesome, he thought.
But a moment later, his encrypted phone vibrated twice, reminding him that he was never actually “alone.” Of course, at that very moment, his food arrived.
Glancing at the text message, then at his dinner, which looked and smelled delicious, the DNI frowned, then turned to his waiter. “Frankie, I need this to go, please.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Prost.”
A dark sedan waited for him at the curb outside the restaurant. It headed up Wisconsin Avenue before turning left on Massachusetts and right on Thirty-Eighth Street, coming to a stop in front of a nondescript three-story brownstone.
Climbing out with his takeout in hand, Prost walked to the door and entered a code in the keypad. A set of magnetic locks disengaged, and he faced a long corridor leading to another locked door. Again, he entered a code and this time it swung open automatically, revealing the cavernous interior of a room that resembled a mini version of NASA Mission Control in Houston, Texas. Wall-to-wall projection screens towered over three rows of consoles. A mix of military and civilian personnel busily clicked away, completely oblivious to him.
A woman in a blue US Army Service Uniform — commonly called a Class A uniform — came up to him holding a tablet computer. The name stenciled on her name tag identified her as Blake. Her shoulder straps showed captain’s bars.
“Right this way, Mr. Prost,” she said, regarding the DNI with steady green eyes. Technically, Captain Christine Blake reported to the head of the army’s Imagery Intelligence division, but at the moment, she reported directly to Prost.
They went into a glass-walled conference room off to the right, and he sat at one end of a table facing a seventy-inch LED screen.
While Captain Blake worked her tablet at the other end of the table, next to the screen, Prost reached in the bag and produced his to-go meal, carefully packed in a round-lidded plastic container.