Almost immediately, the Tomahawk sprang into existence on the tactical console, a missile symbol with a long speed leader attached. It headed off at an angle from the ship for the first waypoint.
The waypoints were intermediate stations that the missile would pass through on its way to landfall. Constructing them was one of the few tasks a ship had, and the final waypoint and course change were designed to put the missile exactly over a point its electronic memory would recognize. From that point on, it would be guided solely by the terrain map, with an ever-decreasing tolerance for errors.
USS Jouett, a cruiser, would be launching her missiles as well in thirty seconds. Two missiles, each with its own target, and then the air bombardment. With any luck, there’d be nothing left of the rebel forces.
“Good work. Now comes the hard part,” Captain Heather announced. He settled back into his chair to wait.
“Devil Dog 202, you are cleared for takeoff.” The tower’s voice sounded almost bored.
“Roger, Devil Dog 202 cleared for takeoff,” Thor acknowledged. He shoved the throttles forward, feeling the Hornet surge forward around him. God, but this was an aircraft that loved to fly!
He rolled out and rotated with plenty of runway left, old habits learned the hard way in carrier aviation dying hard. He was the third aircraft in the launch sequence, behind two Tomcats. Queued up on the runway behind him were an assortment of other fighter aircraft, some quite capable and some barely airworthy. It had been clear to him that the Americans had better make damned sure they hit their targets, because he wasn’t sure how many of the others would be able to find their IP, much less their targets.
The Hornet burbled for a moment close to ground, then the full effect of the engines kicked in and she soared like a bird. Thor hauled back, climbing at a hard angle, wondering whether he’d catch any flak from the air traffic controller. From the two-dimensional radar now tracking him, it would appear that he was virtually standing still in the sky, showing a remarkably low speed over ground with all of his power poured into gaining altitude.
“Three, you got a problem?” the lead Tomcat asked. “Maybe with your horizon?”
“Negative, Lead, all green back here,” Thor said. “Just heading for altitude.”
“Right.” Lead appeared to be about to let it pass without further comment, then said, “Tanker’s not for another fifteen mikes, Three. You think you can wait that long?” A double click of the mike from Two substituted for a laugh.
“I’m fine, Lead. Thanks for asking.” Thor cut back his rate of ascent to that of the more heavily laden Tomcats.
That was the one drawback to the Hornet — at least from the Tomcat’s point of view. The lighter, more maneuverable Hornet could carry less weapon weight, and had correspondingly smaller fuel tanks. They needed a quick plug and suck at the tanker just about any time they could get it.
But there were advantages to being the smaller fighter, too. They could meet the MiG on a MiG’s terms, not expending fuel in the vertical game a Tomcat had to play. And, even more importantly, the Hornet was the platform of choice for close air support, providing firepower to troops on the ground. For a mission like this, one that required precision bombing to hit small, easily concealed targets, the Hornet was the airframe of choice. Finally, the Hornet had one last feature that none of the Tomcats could claim — each airframe was younger and required far less maintenance hours per hour of flight than the massive, aging F-14s.
The first landmark slid by on Thor’s right. He checked his chronometer — right on schedule. The Tomcats were formed up in a tight pair ahead of him, and Thor’s own wingman was tucked in tight. He craned his neck around for a visual check and got a thumbs-up from the young captain in the cockpit.
Four more minutes. That was the one good thing about fighting a war in Europe — everything was closer together.
Arkady stared at the radar picture of the surrounding area, then transferred his gaze to the small-scale topographical map mounted on the forward wall. The suspected locations of the enemy camps were laid out in red, a square enclosing an X marking what his staff believed were the headquarters. More symbols denoted the light mechanized infantry, the two lone tanks that the Macedonians had acquired from defectors from the Greek forces, and the anti-air sites now annihilated. The ingress and egress routes were laid out in white.
“Sir. The Tomahawks.” His radar technician pointed at the screen. “Right on time, General.” The missiles symbology coupled with the impressive speed leaders left no doubt as to the identity of the airborne contacts.
“No,” Arkady said immediately. “Those can’t be the Tomahawks. They’re off course — they’re antiair missiles.”
“General, the speed doesn’t fit,” the technician said, a puzzled expression on his face. “Antiair missiles go much faster.” He tapped the symbols on his screen. “These have to be the land attack missiles, sir.”
“You’re contradicting me?” Arkady snapped.
The technician turned pale. Every soldier in the camp knew what had happened to Spiros, and there was a silent pact among them all to never suffer the same fate. “General, my apologies. Clearly, I’m mistaken. Antiair rounds inbound on… uh…” The technician paused, at a loss.
“On the lead wave of the strike,” Arkady supplied. “They know that the first wave is composed entirely of Greek aircraft. This is clearly an attack by the American forces on our units.”
“On our aircraft,” the technician said eagerly.
“Warn them,” Arkady said. “In Greek, not English.”
The technician picked up his microphone, his thoughts whirling, and tried to compose a standard phraseology warning to his forces, but he couldn’t get his mind focused on the problem. Finally, he settled for, “Attention, all Greek aircraft. The Americans are firing antiair missiles at you from their ships. You are ordered to… General?” He looked up for guidance.
“Continue the mission as briefed, regroup at Point Delta, then destroy the American aircraft. They have committed a hostile act,” Arkady said. He listened while the technician repeated his words verbatim, then turned to his chief of staff. “Have the guards take all American military personnel into custody. And bring Admiral Magruder to me here.”
Xerxes had roused them an hour before first light. Three hours later, they made it to the camp. Pamela was exhausted. She was used to roughing it while reporting from the field, but at least she usually had a decent sleeping bag, sometimes a tent. A cold night curled up against a rock with a thin blanket for protection from the wind had left her exhausted. What little sleep the cold hadn’t stolen fell prey to her own speculations about whether or not the Macedonians intended to torture Murphy.
She’d tried talking about it with the Marine, but he’d refused to answer her questions. Whether it was exhaustion or his own dread of what the next day might bring, she couldn’t tell. When she persisted, Xerxes threatened to gag her.
When they’d finally made it to the secondary camp, untouched by any bombing run, Xerxes had had them separated immediately. An old, taciturn sergeant had silently showed her to a tent and taken up a guard position outside the front flap. When she’d tried prying up a back corner, exploring the possibilities for regaining her freedom of movement, he’d been there waiting for her. Finally, she gave in to the exhaustion and collapsed on the cot. For the first time in thirty-six hours, she was warm.