Just what were the Yankees up to in Indonesia’s home waters? And what about the second American vessel, the major surface combatant that supposedly was to have escorted the LPD? First it had failed to appear at Singapore, then this morning it had materialized in the middle of the Java Sea, much to the consternation of Basry’s superiors.
This evening it had vanished again, this time off of the radar screens of the naval surveillance Nomad attempting to keep it under observation. Could it be moving in?
“All right,” he said into the interphone. “I’m coming up.”
On the Carlson’s bridge, Amanda bent over the tactical display, studying the glowing graphics chart and the various position hacks like a chess master studying a game board. As per the ops plan, the Carlson was in the lead, with her shadower, the Indonesian frigate, trailing two miles astern. The Cunningham was steaming parallel to the LPD, but off to port at effective stealth range, invisible to the Indonesian’s search radar.
A single bat-shaped aircraft hack circled in a close holding pattern over the Carlson, the recently launched Wolf One.
The task group was rapidly closing with the tail end of the Rass island group, an uninhabited and nameless patch of coral and sand that would be passing to starboard at a distance of five miles.
Amanda made a final check for merchant vessels shipping. Clear within a twenty-mile range.
All was ready. She touched the mike key of her command headset. “All task group elements, this is the TACBOSS. We are at Point Item. All elements prepare for breakaway. Wolf One, you are cleared to initiate audial and visual screening.”
The Wolf One air hack fell back and occulted the symbol of the pursuing Indonesian frigate.
A hurricane blast of wind ripped across the decks of the Sutanto, and a dazzling blue white glare illuminated every inch of the frigate’s weather deck. Clutching the bridge wing rail, Commander Basry squinted into both, and was able to make out the silhouette of a Huey helicopter hovering broadside on, just off the bow of his ship.
Sidling ahead of the Indonesian vessel, the helicopter had a battery of what appeared to be aircraft landing lights aimed out of its side hatch, trained full into the eyes and night-vision systems of the bridge watch.
“What are the Americans doing, sir?” the watch officer yelled over the rotor thunder.
“Something they obviously don’t wish us to see,” Basry yelled back.
The hangar bay ventilator fans raced at full power, pumping a flood of outside air into the space, air that was greedily devoured by the gas turbines of the hovering Sea Fighters.
“Prelaunch checklists complete,” Chief Petty Officer Sandra “Scrounger” Caitlin reported from the Queen of the West’s copilot’s seat. Glancing down from the cockpit windows, she noted the bay apes dragging the last tie-down strap clear. The same was being done for the Manassas, at her spot forward of the Queen, leaving both hovercraft bobbing on their inflated plenum skirts.
“Moorings clear,” she continued. “We are free to maneuver.”
“Roger, that,” Steamer Lane replied. “Going to active station keeping.”
With one hand on the puff port controller, he held the PGAC in place against the pitch and roll of her mother ship. “Internal station status?”
“Boards green. All stations report secure and ready for sea,” Caitlin replied “Power rooms indicate they are drawing on the blivit. We got good fuel flow.”
Below, in the main hull, the other seven members of the hovercraft crew stood to at the weapons-control stations and in the power rooms. The seven Force Recon Marines and the pharmacist’s mate that made up the Queen’s share of the land recon party were strapped into the fold down benches along the bulkheads of the main bay. They shared this confined space with what resembled a gigantic gray slug.
The small Rigid Inflatable raider boat and the harpoon missile cells that usually occupied the Sea Fighters’ central bay had been unshipped and replaced with a fuel blivet, a flexible Fiberglas-and-plastic fuel bladder that effectively doubled the hovercraft’s 750-mile operational radius.
The hover commander thumbed the mike button on the air rudder control yoke. “BAYBOSS, this is Royalty. Tie-downs clear and ready to take departure.”
“BAYB0SS, this is Rebel,” Lieutenant Tony Marlin’s intent voice joined in from the Manassas. “Make that two to go.”
“BAYBOSS to hovers, acknowledged.”
Through the open cockpit side windows, the MC-1 speakers bellowed over the turbine shriek and fan moan. “Attention in the hangar bay. Stand by to launch hovercraft. All hands proceed forward of the deck safety lines. Set hangar blackout protocols. Extinguish all portable light sources. All hands go to night vision or stand fast in secure positions. Ten count to blackout… ten… nine… eight… ”
At the count of one, the hangar bay plunged into total darkness. Steamer and Scrounge flipped down the nite-brite visors of their helmets.
“Stern ramp opening.”
In the Queen’s sideview mirrors, they watched the wall of steel behind them crack open to admit the night.
“Sea Fighters ready to launch, Captain,” Carberry murmured at Amanda’s side.
“Very well,” she replied absently, intent on the developing picture on the tactical display. The angles were looking good. Very soon Steamer would have an optimum departure heading. But even though the Sea Fighters were very stealthy vehicles, they weren’t totally radar-invisible at close range. Nor was the Cunningham, should it need to be.
“Let’s take out their radars, Commander. The RBOCs now, please. Curtain pattern astern. Bring up your jammers, full spectrum.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am. Jammers coming up. Firing a pattern.”
At the aft corners of the Carlson’s deckhouse, the mortar tubes of the Rapid Blooming Overhead Chaff systems coughed hollowly. In a maneuver similar to a Fourth of July fireworks display, the charges they hurled arced high over the sea aft of the LPD. However, upon bursting, instead of a shower of multicolored stars, these charges dispersed clouds of metal foil strips.
On the bridge of the Indonesian frigate, the watch officer yelled over the aggravating hammer of Wolf One’s rotors. “Captain, look at the tactical display. The Americans are launching chaff.”
Captain Basry swore fervently and raced to the console screen.
Truly enough, a curtain of radar-jamming foil was being drawn across his ship’s line of advance, the American flagship fading from detection beyond it. Intermixed with the chaff wall came the jittering blobs and strobing effect of active radar jamming.
This was intolerable! First the Americans blind his eyes, and now his radar!
“All engines ahead flank!” Basry roared. “Close the range!”
“Chaff deployed, ma’am.”
“Very good, Commander. We have it on tactical. Good disbursement. I don’t think we’ll need another dose for the moment.”
On the Carlson’s bridge, the chaff curtain existed only as an oblong graphics box on the tactical display, showing its area of effect on the Indonesian systems. For the United States vessel, the countermeasures cloud was as transparent as glass.
Chaff’s effectiveness was dependent upon matching the length of the scattered foil strips to the wavelength of the radar being jammed. These loads had been carefully cut to leave a frequency “window” open that could be used by the U.S. systems, a window beyond the operational spectrum of the earlier-gen Indonesian radars. Much the same kind of peephole existed in the barrage of electronic noise being thrown up by the active jammers.