Inside Missile Control, the weapons officer was waiting anxiously for the order to complete “spin-up,” entering the local orientating corrections into the missiles’ computers so as to assure the best possible trajectories for the MARVed— maneuvering reentry vehicle — warheads. But as yet no targets had been given. Given their present location, there were any number Brentwood could choose under the U.S. policy of “counter force,” that is, against military targets only, and not cities. It wasn’t as if Brentwood didn’t have enough to choose from; in fact, the nearest and most worthwhile targets would be the forty high-priority military bases clustered along the Kola Peninsula, but still the designation of targets had not come, and instead Brentwood requested “missile status report.”
“Sir, the spin-up’s not complete.”
“Do as I say!” snapped Brentwood. “Prepare missiles for launch.”
“Yes, sir. Preparing missiles for launch.”
“Very well. Prepare for ripple fire.”
“Yes, sir. Prepare for ripple fire.”
All over the ship, men were moving to their firing positions within two seconds of the operator squeezing the yellow handle and the soft but persistent musical gong sounding, the ripple firing sequence they were readying for one that would eject missile six first, then missile one. This staggered sequence would offset starboard and port yawing when water would rush into the four-storied missile tubes after each 114,000-pound missile had passed through its blue asbestos phenolic dome. The dome would shatter first, its symmetrical destruction being achieved by small explosive charges under each dome a split second before the steam pressure expelled whichever missiles Brentwood would select.
“Sir,” said Peter Zeldman, “we have no radio message to launch. Have you reason for ‘independent authority to launch’?” It was the first and, as it would turn out, the last time Peter Zeldman would ever question an order by Robert Brentwood.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Zeldman,” Brentwood said, so all of Control could hear. “The missiles I select will not have their warheads armed.”
Zeldman exchanged a quick glance with the chief. Was Brentwood cracking up?
Like Zeldman and others, the weapons officer looked worried, too, and it wasn’t missed by his assistant, who, with wire trailing from his headphones, was moving back and forth, head bent like a priest at prayer, along the narrow “Blood Alley,” the redded-out corridor of high computer banks, where he checked out each missile’s status, verifying for the weapons officer that each of the six Trident D-5 missiles was ready to pass through its four prelaunch modes.
“Missiles ready,” the weapons officer confirmed to Control.
“Very well,” said Brentwood. “Prepare for ripple fire.”
While the weapons officer, his forehead beaded with perspiration, waited for the designation of targets, in Control, Robert Brentwood, double-checking the computer screens that all missiles were, as he’d just been told verbally, ready for launch, held his key ready to click into the Mark-98 missile firing control system, the weapons officer waiting below, his black flexihose trailing snakelike behind him from the plastic red firing grip in his hand. His thumb was now on the transparent protector cap, ready to flip it up and depress the red button— six times in rapid succession — the moment Brentwood gave him the order.
“The ice!” It was a hoarse whisper from the blood-colored face of the assistant weapons officer. “If we fire—”
“Weapons officer,” called Brentwood, his voice calm, resolute.
“Weapons officer. Sir?”
“Disarm missiles one and six. Stand by.”
The weapons officer hesitated, but only for a moment. “Disarm missiles one and six. Yes, sir. Missiles disarmed.”
“Very well. Stand by.”
“What the hell—” began the assistant WO.
“Be quiet!” said the WO.
Brentwood turned toward Emerson. “Sonar — any further contact?”
“No, sir.”
Brentwood knew that if it was a hostile, it would be in torpedo range within thirty minutes. In that moment he envied his brothers and sister, far away somewhere on dry land, solid ground beneath their feet.
High over the English Channel beneath the heavy throb of three Combat Talon IIIs, the fast upgraded versions of the Hercules, carrying the SAS’s Sabre squadron to its mission, the occasional flashes of blue forked lightning illuminated the SAS troopers’ blackened faces and their cold-weather khaki/ green/white winter combat uniforms. The all-white SPETS overlays were to be used only after the attack, for as the RSM had no need to point out, the overlays would be dead giveaways “if they turn on the searchlights and fire parachute flares.”
“Won’t be any,” said Aussie. “It’s a surprise, remember?”
“If there are searchlights, et cetera,” the RSM happily corrected himself as he walked, or rather shuffled, beneath his 110-pound pack, between the two rows of ten men each which formed David Brentwood’s B Troop, the plane carrying A Troop a quarter mile ahead, that carrying C, the same distance behind.
“Wish he’d sit down,” said Aussie. “Stop motherin’ us. Givin’ me the bloody pip!”
“He is conscientious,” said Schwarzenegger.
“Hey, Dave,” Aussie asked Brentwood, his voice rising above the sound of the engines’ rolling thunder. “What d’you reckon? Think there’ll be a reception party?”
“We know there will,” put in Thelman. “SPETS — two companies.”
“Aw,” said the Aussie dismissively, “I don’t mean them. Bastards’ll be asleep time we make the big jump. Well past their bedtime. No, I mean the AA boys. Think they’ll be onto us when we make the jump?”
“You’re a cheery son of a bitch,” said Thelman.
“Not talkin’ to you, Thelma. Dave — whaddya reckon?”
“Possible,” commented David, who, having been one of those who, picked at random, had had his gun jam during the dry runs through the “house,” was now checking his Ingram MAC submachine gun, The nine-millimeter short weapon, which on a quick glance looked like an Uzi, its pistol grip doubling as the housing for a thirty-two-round magazine, had a barrel only half the length of the Uzi, with a folding stock and effective range of fifty meters. This was less than the Uzi’s two-hundred-meter range, but in close-quarters “housecleaning,” it was considered more than adequate by the SAS troops. And the Ingram’s shorter range was more than compensated for by its overall weight of 1.6 kilograms, less than half that of an Uzi. Besides, the SAS liked the American gun better because it produced a wider spray pattern — much preferred in general housecleaning than in the terrorist/hostage ops, when a wider spray was as likely to cut down a hostage as a terrorist. Above all, in an operation of this type, the American-made Ingram inculcated what the SAS liked best about the American disposition — the desire to get things done quickly — achieving a rate of fire of over eleven hundred rounds per minute, twice the number that the ubiquitous Uzi could deliver in the same time.
“Bad weather is in our favor going in,” commented the RSM reassuringly. “Play merry hell with their radar, and no way they’ll hear us over all this ruddy thunder. Anyway, these Talon II transports have more electronic countermeasures gear and infrared gear than you can shake a stick at. Besides, we’re too high.”
“How about the weather over the target?” asked Thelman.