“This is it, Russ. Let’s cream those bastards.” His earlier hesitancy was gone. This attack had become personal.
Ledermeyer hugged the console, his right forefinger resting on the first launch switch. He watched a counter decrement inches from his face. It was all he could do to stay conscious.
Directly ahead, the afternoon sky lit up with fireworks. Mobile antiaircraft guns pumped out hundreds of 30mm rounds. Handheld missiles flashed skyward, only to be deflected by the red-hot flares popping outward every ten seconds. Fragmentation rounds ripped holes in the fuselage and wings, shattering equipment and spraying the interior with shrapnel. More SAMs arced upward but passed harmlessly overhead. The furious barrage was more than anyone could possibly survive.
“God damn, Buck. We’ve hit the jackpot. They’re throwing everything at us,” Ledermeyer yelled. “Must be something big down there.”
“Ten seconds…” A handheld SAM slammed into the starboard wing, blasting away the outboard nacelle, leaving the engine dangling and in flames. The mortally wounded bomber pitched violently upward, presenting a fat target to the defenders. Buck fought to keep her in the air.
On cue, the B-1B’s three missiles dropped and ignited, one after the other. The rotary launcher’s whine was drowned out by the intense racket from exploding shells. As the third bird disappeared in the distance, a stream of tracers tore through the forward fuselage, disintegrating Ledermeyer’s station and blowing out the windscreen. Buck groaned, struck by shrapnel, the rushing wind tearing at his face. He struggled to reach back, gently touching Ledermeyer’s leg.
“We did it, man. We did it.” The starboard wing snapped upward, tearing away, leaving an ugly scar of broken structure and dangling hydraulic lines. The B-1B bomber nosed into the trees, disappearing in a tremendous fireball fueled by thousands of gallons of JP5.
Seconds later, the SRAM trio detonated in sequence. The farthest warhead went first, the blast wave rolling outward, flattening concentric circles of trees. The relentless wave caught the command train parked on a spur with the full fury of twenty psi overpressure and five-hundred-mile-an-hour winds. The train, crushed by the overpressure, splintered into chunks, which bounced across the landscape, leaving a trail of debris and rubble for hundreds of yards. Not a living soul was left alive within three miles.
CHAPTER 27
At 0420, Jackson rang up all stop and pulled the plug. Michigan settled to the bottom, resting mid-channel, splitting the distance between Port Townsend to port and Whidbey Island Naval Air Station to starboard. They had observed only an occasional flickering light on shore — possibly headlights from some terror-stricken civilian — and no surface craft whatsoever. Normally the choppy waters of the Puget Sound would be thick with vessels of all flavors, but not now. It was unsettling, as if everyone and everything had mysteriously dissolved into the ether. The boat’s sonar hydrophone arrays had detected intermittent screw noises tentatively classified as possible bulk carriers or container ships, but the acoustics were worthless for pinpointing the source. As the ops officer had predicted, their sonar performance stunk. The shallow, muddy bottom sucked up any man-made noise like a vacuum cleaner. God help them if the Russian Akula had crept farther east than they had estimated. In the meantime, Sonar would be working overtime to weed out any buried acoustical emissions from the background biologics that fouled the sensors.
A short-lived emotional lift had been triggered by an acknowledgement of their message telling the world they were alive and in one piece. The response had meant that others had survived as well, most likely tucked away in mobile command centers in the mountains of the West or the dense forests of the Southeast. Their orders — stand by for missile launch — had been sent by the Commander-in-Chief Strategic Command, or CINCSTRAT. Any forthcoming launch order would be immediately followed by a satellite dump of critical target data. The stuff they had was hopelessly out of date. The EAM could arrive over a variety of frequencies, but the target data, compressed and transmitted in a series of burst transmissions, would have to come over the satellite submarine broadcast channel. An identical volume of traffic would take hours over a VLF circuit with its sluggish seventy-five baud data rate. Besides, Jackson doubted that any of the navy’s fleet of E-6A TACAMO aircraft would still be airborne. Their time on station was barely twelve hours; then they would have to call it quits and reel in the miles of VLF trailing wire antennas. The handful of shore-based VLF transmission sites was surely rubble.
Over an hour later, the executive officer had the conn. “Blow ballast. Come to periscope depth. Maneuvering, make turns for two knots, be prepared for emergency bells.” Each order was crisply repeated, followed by an “Aye, sir.” The crew was holding up surprisingly well.
“Up periscope.” The XO wanted the scope fully extended even before they settled at the proper depth. They might be farther from the channel centerline than he originally gauged, and he would have to react instantly. There was little margin for error.
Michigan rumbled as high-pressure compressed air forced seawater from the fore and aft ballast tanks. The diving officer, a senior chief petty officer, had the unenviable job of trying to trim the huge boat in shallow water at minimum speed. With a jerk Michigan let loose of the bottom and floated upward, with a slight five-degree forward angle. The senior chief patiently encouraged the junior enlisted men manning the ballast control panels, leaning over their backs, pointing here, then there. Within two minutes, he had leveled the boat, no mean feat. To his immediate right, the helmsman and the planesman struggled with the stern control surfaces to maintain course and to gently drive the boat upward. Prudence dictated that they maintain slight negative buoyancy to avoid broaching and exposing the sail. Turns for two knots barely provided needed steerageway.
Even before the announcement of “periscope depth,” the executive officer hung over the large Type 18 scope. When it popped through the surface, he quickly spun 360 degrees to probe for intruders. The navigator had already briefed him on what landmarks to shoot. He swung the scope to the first feature, a small jut of land that lay off the port bow.
“Point Alpha, bearing 347.” Then he made a quick turn to the right. “Point Bravo, bearing 031.” Then he looked back. “Point Charlie, bearing 212.” He wasn’t sure about the last one. The supposedly prominent landmark on the chart seemed to dissolve against the shimmering water. “Position in the channel looks good.” At the plotting table, the Nav team furiously plotted the three lines of bearing and within seconds, had a solution. A small triangle surrounded a black dot that lay slightly off the original penciled track.
“One hundred yards right of track, recommend course 028.”
The XO accepted the advice. “Steer 028, all ahead one third.”
Jackson could feel the subtle acceleration as Maneuvering slowly opened the throttles that controlled the saturated steam flow to the main engine turbine. The added speed brought relief to the enlisted men manipulating the rudder and diving planes. Jackson felt like he was in control again. The XO stood upright, releasing the scope. “Skipper?”
Jackson nodded and stepped to the platform for his turn. He had slept for only thirty minutes in the last twenty-four hours, and it showed. Black semicircles hung beneath his eyes. But he sucked it up, pumped full of caffeine. The emotional tug-of-war in his skull continued. Rage threatened to breach the barrier of professional responsibility necessary to do his job.
The others looked just as miserable. Sweat stained and unshaven, the assembled sailors sat stoically, while the smell of body odor permeated the cramped quarters. Jackson knew they needed to make their dash for freedom or his dog-tired crew could collapse before his eyes.