Chapter 65
Mediterranean Sea
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“Glock two-one, Sparky. We have a mission amendment.”
Lava, flying the lead Hornet, didn’t like the sound of it. The tone of the systems operator was a message in itself, but the last two words were the clincher. Mission amendment. He poised a pencil over his kneeboard.
“Go ahead, Sparky.”
The mission operator spoke plainly, relying on the frequency-hopping radio for COMSEC.
There were few details, but the most unusual suggested that the drones they were being sent to hunt down were carrying some manner of radiological agent.
Their objective was given in only the broadest of brushstrokes.
Put an end to a terrorist attack. The details would be left to them.
This wasn’t the vague close air support mission they’d been told to expect, but rather air interdiction.
And that was a major problem. They would be chasing down new targets with the wrong munitions—they’d been loaded with bombs, not missiles.
Worse yet, depending on where these targets were, the Hornets might not have enough gas to return to the Ford.
“Two-one, two-three,” inquired Spanx after they’d had a moment to process the new orders.
“Go, two-three.”
“Shoot down ten drones? How the hell is that gonna happen? We’re loaded for air-to-ground.”
“Missions change. All four of us have a full load in the gun.”
“Sure, but that means getting close. If these targets are hauling some kind radiological liquid it could get really messy.”
“We’ll figure it out.” Lava then said, “Break, Sparky, Glock two-one.”
“Go ahead for Sparky, two-one.”
“Any idea how far ahead these Shaheds are?”
“That’s a negative, two-one. Message says proceed at best speed to locate. Looks like it’s on you to find them.”
Lava tried to think of a smart-ass reply, but nothing came to mind. Anyway, the mission operator was only the messenger.
“Two-one copies. Can you give me coordinates for…I guess the canal entrance?”
After a short delay, the mission operator provided a lat/long pairing. Lava typed it into his nav computer and moved the waypoint to the top line.
“Okay, Glock flight. Zero-eight-six degrees, three hundred ninety miles.” Lava looked down and saw nothing but sea. “We’re over the deep blue and these bombs are only going to slow us down. Let’s jettison all JDAMs. And as soon as the bags are dry, we’ll drop those, too.”
“Two-three concurs. Speed is life.”
Lava tipped up a wing for a better look at what was beneath them.
He saw a cluster of glowing yellow lights far to his left and the distant coastline of Libya on the right.
Otherwise, the sea was black. It wasn’t a perfect survey, but he was at least convinced there weren’t any cruise ships beneath them.
Everyone configured their switches and initiated the jettison.
From six miles up, thirty-two five-hundred-pound smart bombs dropped off their pylons like aerodynamic rocks into the night.
There was no steering or guidance, and when they struck the sea over a minute later, it was all splash and no boom.
Jettisoned bombs weren’t armed, so the fuses never activated.
All sank harmlessly in miles of briny water.
Next came the external fuel tanks. Each aircraft carried two, and soon they were empty—external fuel was always burned before internal.
While the four-hundred-eighty-gallon tanks were often referred to as “drop tanks,” they were rarely jettisoned, and only for one of two good reasons: to safely get back aboard the boat, or out of necessity in combat.
Tonight, the latter applied. It wouldn’t be air-to-air combat in the traditional sense, but shooting down drones had become a common tasking in recent years, particularly on Med cruises.
As hostile aircraft went, drones were easy prey.
They were stupid targets that generally didn’t maneuver.
Best of all, they didn’t shoot back. Such engagements weren’t as swashbuckling as dogfights with enemy fighters, but they kept noncombatants on the ground safe.
On this night, apparently, more than ever.
The four pilots punched off their externals within seconds of one other. Eight giant tapered tanks, each the length of a small sedan, wobbled and disappeared into the darkness.
That done, the Hornets were as clean as they could be.
The only remaining weapon on each jet: the internal twenty-millimeter Vulcan gatling gun with four hundred and twelve rounds.
Tonight would be back to basics. No long-range radar or heat-seeking missiles.
Just four gunslingers headed to a shootout at a radioactive corral.
“Glock two-one’s pushing it up!” Lava said. He jammed the throttles to the first stop, then engaged the afterburners. His wingmen did the same. Eight GE F414 engines spewed forty-foot cones of fire, and in a tiny segment of sky south of Crete night went to day.
Glock 21 flight blew through Mach 1 and continued to accelerate. Radars sweeping, eyes sharp, they began searching for their targets.