“That’s right, sir,” Fischer said with a smile.
“OK, I just read the mission summary. Why don’t you explain to me why when we do our two salvos, we’re required to program a small speed reduction for the first salvo. What difference would it make if the Tomahawks’ arrival wasn’t precisely simultaneous?”
As he asked this, Cartwright reflected to himself that civilians would probably be confused by this dialogue, expecting a captain to know every detail of all aspects of the sub and its operations. One of the things any officer learned as he advanced in rank was that a sub had a crew for a reason.
Nobody could run it by himself. Besides, part of his job as captain was training his officers. This Q&A session, which required Fischer to both know every detail of the mission and explain it on his feet, was part of that training.
"Well, sir, to answer that I need to get into the drones that are going to be providing targeting once the Tomahawks reach the attack area. They’ll be deployed by the DDV–X, which stands for Drone Delivery Vehicle, Experimental. It’s a heavily modified RQ-170 Sentinel with its normal radar, infrared sensors and communications intercept equipment removed. In their place there’s a single cargo bay, holding several dozen micro-drones, as well as a single optical sensor to record their performance.
Cartwright nodded. “I’ve heard of the Sentinel. That’s the drone that took and broadcast real-time video footage of the Navy raid that killed Bin
Laden.”
“Yes, sir. This one, though, just carries these DT-X micro-drones, or Drones, Targeting, Experimental. With a main body a little bigger than a golf ball, each contains a tiny battery and a low-power infrared laser emitter. The drone’s circuits are printed into its skin, and its wings are designed to let it take advantage of the power generated by its fall from the DDV–X to loop in slowly to its objective. Once it identifies its target, it remains on station using a tiny plasma jet powered by its onboard battery.”
Cartwright frowned. “So, no weapons and no communications capability.”
“Correct, sir. They’re designed solely to designate a target with its IR emitter using preprogrammed parameters, and avoid designating a target already being illuminated. Once the DT-X’s battery begins to run low, it’s programmed to use its last remaining charge to send an electronic pulse through its circuits rendering its remains useless to anyone who might find it."
Cartwright shook his head. “I’ll bet ‘limited’ is the right word for its endurance.”
“Yes, sir. That’s why we’ll have to coordinate closely with the Air Force DDV–X operators deploying the micro-drones, to make sure our ordinance package strikes the target while the DT-Xs are on station. You can also see why the Tomahawks have to arrive simultaneously. The blast wave from the explosives deployed by the first Tomahawks to arrive separately would either destroy or brush aside every DT-X in the area.”
Cartwright nodded. “Yes, I can see that. Now, we’ll be firing two salvos of twelve Tomahawks, and each will deploy about one hundred seventy-five bomblets. Doing the math in my head, that’s a bit over four thousand bomblets, right?”
Fischer always had his tablet handy, and he looked at it now.
“Yes, sir. About four thousand two hundred.”
Cartwright shook his head. “And these Tomahawks are themselves fuel-air bombs. Well, there’s just one thing I’m sure about, Fischer.”
“Yes, sir?” Fischer asked.
Cartwright said soberly, “I’m sure glad I’m not in one of those tanks.”
The Crown Prince scowled across the table in the command center at Suliman al-Johani, deputy commander of the Royal Saudi Air Force. In most countries, Suliman would have automatically taken command of the RSAF when Prince Khaled bin Fahd had been killed by that cursed missile launcher, at least on an acting basis.
Saudi Arabia was not most countries.
The Crown Prince had decided that the RSAF had to be kept in royal hands, and the truth is Suliman had no trouble with that decision. After all, “Royal” was literally part of the RSAF’s name.
No, the problem wasn’t the Crown Prince assuming the title of RSAF
Commander. It’s that he’d started to make decisions as though he knew what the RSAF Commander should do, and Suliman was pretty sure that was about to get some good pilots killed.
“I believe this plan has an excellent chance of success,” the Crown Prince repeated stubbornly, as Suliman searched in vain for the words to convince him it was actually suicidal.
“We’re going to have six Typhoons go at that missile launcher from every point on the compass simultaneously, and launch the instant they’re within Brimstone 2 range. Once we’ve destroyed the launcher, we can use our air assets to obliterate the invaders long before they make it to Riyadh,” the Crown Prince said, again pointing at the graphic he’d had the staff prepare to illustrate his plan.
It was an impressive graphic. It showed six planes converging on a single point from every direction, and then the point representing the missile launcher obligingly exploding.
Suliman doubted very much that the launcher’s commander would be waiting quietly while six fighters approached.
The problem was that the Crown Prince was not in fact a fool. But he was trained as a tanker, not a pilot. What made him so dangerous was that, even more than other royals, nobody had ever dared tell him he was wrong.
Suliman tried one more time. “Your Highness, we don’t know what model that launcher is, or what missiles it’s firing. The only pilot to survive its last attack said the missile that came at him was faster than anything he’d seen in Yemen. I fear it could be capable of shooting down all six planes before they’re able to launch.”
The Crown Prince shook his head stubbornly, and Suliman knew he didn’t believe what he was hearing. “The Typhoons can go faster than sound even without afterburner, correct?”
All Suliman could do was nod. It was true that Typhoons were in the very small group of fighters that could “supercruise” at faster than Mach 1.
“So, the launcher may have time to attack one Typhoon, or even two. I see no way that any launcher would have time to attack all six, let alone shoot every Typhoon down before they can launch their Brimstone 2 missiles. And Prince Khaled did prove that these launchers aren’t invulnerable, correct?” the Crown Prince concluded triumphantly.
“Yes, sir,” Suliman said stoically.
“Very well, then,” the Crown Prince continued, “let me know when the attack is underway. I don’t have to tell you that speed is of the essence.”
Suliman mutely saluted, and left the conference room. He knew many of his fellow pilots were about to die.
He just hoped that one of them would manage to make the sacrifice worthwhile.
Less than an hour later, they were all back in the command center. This time they were looking at a large LCD display that showed the position of each of the six Typhoons, as well as a graphic representing the Triton’s view of the invaders’ current position. As planned, the Typhoons were converging simultaneously on that position, and Suliman felt a rush of hope as he saw that their coordination was close to perfection.
Data next to each Typhoon showed their speed and distance to the target, as well as their estimated time before launch. Then, just as planned, each Typhoon cut in its afterburners and went to its maximum speed of Mach 2 for the last one hundred kilometers before reaching the launcher. Suliman nodded and began to think they might just pull this off. It really was hard to see how all six Typhoons could be stopped before reaching the Brimstone 2’s launch range of sixty kilometers.
No sooner had Suliman finished the thought than six new graphics appeared on the display, representing missiles fired by the invaders’ missile launcher. The number next to each graphic kept rising, until finally settling at a figure that stopped Suliman’s heart.