Terror At Dawn c-21 Read online

  Terror At Dawn

  ( Carrier - 21 )

  Keith Douglass

  Tombstone Magruder and Carrier Battle Group Fourteen are assigned to combat domestic terrorists within U.S. borders-leaving hostile nations Iraq and North Korea with an opening they can't resist…

  Keith Douglass

  Terror At Dawn

  ONE

  The Persian Gulf

  USS United States

  Tuesday, September 11

  0200 local (GMT +3)

  By the time the aircraft carrier USS United States arrived on station in the Persian Gulf, the allure of the United States Navy had long since lost its charm for Airman Gary Williams. He had been promised exciting adventures, the chance to see the world, training to work on highly sophisticated electronics gear, and more intangibly, a sense of meaning to his life.

  None of the above had materialized, at least not in a way that he’d expected. The much-anticipated “exciting adventures” had consisted primarily of being yelled at by chief petty officers, first in boot camp and then at his A school. All he’d seen of the world so far was Great Lakes, Illinois, and it had been a cold, inhospitable place filled with people who talked funny to a kid from San Diego. The high-tech training, okay, the Navy had come through on that count, but it wasn’t exactly like he’d had a chance to use it. His Data System A school had been six months long, and he’d studied hard to graduate first in his class. He’d been given first choice of the available billets and he’d picked VF-95, an F-14 Tomcat squadron currently deployed to the Persian Gulf on board the USS United States.

  And the Persian Gulf — now that was another whole disappointment in itself, wasn’t it? The war on terrorism had shifted its focus back into the Middle East, as the connection between Osama bin Laden’s henchmen and Iraq had become so obvious that even public opinion supported the recent increased presence in the area. With rigorous internal security measures in place within the Continental United States, a growing National Guard involvement in keeping track of foreign visitors, and a few months without overt threats of violence, the President had decided that now was the time to deal with the Middle East once and for all. The USS United States was on station in the Persian Gulf, and the USS Thomas Jefferson was lurking just outside the Red Sea in the Med, well within weapons range of most targets. Even a casual observer could tell that something was up, that this time the President meant to finish what Desert Storm and Desert Shield had started.

  To Williams, that sounded like the place to be for a hotshot young avionics data — systems technician. But daydreams of flying attack missions over hostile territory and astounding his squadron mates with his cold determination and heroism had not survived A school. Somehow, the Navy did not seem to feel that his duties encompassed flying sidekick on combat missions, although he was still convinced he’d heard the recruiter mention something of that nature. Nor did his squadron seem particularly impressed with his potential ability to contribute to the war.

  The day Williams checked into his squadron, they’d sent him to the galley for cleaning detail and mess cooking for three months. Since then, he’d been scrubbing decks and peeling potatoes all the way across the Pacific.

  Airman Williams was willing to tolerate most of the indignities inflicted on him, except for the failure of the recruiter’s last promise to materialize. So far, he wasn’t feeling a helluva lot of pride at serving his country. Mostly, he felt tired and lonely.

  Like now. His day had started at 0400. Eight hours later, he’d been informed by the mess management specialist senior chief that he was being transferred back to his squadron. He’d been excited, expecting that now he would finally have a chance to show them what he could really do fixing the data systems on an aircraft, but that hadn’t materialized either. He’d been assigned to the line division, told to qualify as a plane captain, and then maybe after a year he would be transferred to his rating work center. So much for training and high-tech electronics.

  As it happened, the line chief petty officer had had a hole in his night watchbill to fill. Williams showed up just as the petty officer was trying to rearrange too few bodies to cover too many watches, and the young airman had promptly been slotted into the 0200–0400 roving security patrol. Williams spent the rest of the afternoon and evening checking in, and caught three hours of sleep before being roughly awakened by the roving patrol and told to get his ass into the hangar bay. There, another airman had passed over a flashlight, sound-powered phone, walkie-talkie, and a few brief instructions on what he was supposed to do.

  It was never really cool this time of year in the Persian Gulf, but the temperature had dropped to an almost bearable ninety degrees. There was a light breeze blowing in through the open hangar bay doors, not enough to really cool him off, but enough so that he could pretend it did. He tried to not remember the fantasies he’d had before reporting to the ship, the ones about walking the streets of exotic cities, hearing the babble of other languages, coolly bargaining down sinister merchants in the local market until an exotic — try as he might, Williams thought that the word exotic pretty much summed up everything overseas — an exotic woman approached him, admiring, ever so grateful — although the details of exactly why were always slightly hazy — and willing to express her exoticness in ways that he’d only read about.

  His current assignment was every bit as hot as his fantasies about exotic women, although in an entirely different and most unpleasant way. For the next two hours, he was expected to walk around the hangar bay checking to make sure that all aircraft were securely tied down, that no fires started, and just generally keeping an eye on the security of the place. His fantasy woman was replaced by the few technicians still working on aircraft, the dim lights of a scented candle replaced by hangar bay lights far overhead.

  There were eight aircraft packed into the hangar bay, all in various stages of disassembly. Most minor repairs were taken care of on the flight deck, but major evolutions such as an engine change-out or major component replacement took place below. Aircraft were lowered into the hangar bay on one of six elevators that lined the edge of the flight deck immediately overhead.

  It only took about fifteen minutes for Airman Williams to reach his boredom threshold. It was better duty than the galley in some ways. At least he was alone, allowed to roam around at will and take a good hard look at whatever interested him, alone to daydream about how duty in the Persian Gulf was supposed to be. While there might not be any exotic women around — and none of the female sailors he’d met so far came even close to filling that description — at least there was no first-class petty officer standing over him bitching about how many massive pots and pans there were still to clean, no clouds of chemical-laden steam from the dishwashing machine enveloping him. Instead, there was a sharp tang of aviation fuel and grease and the acrid smell of metal.

  The carrier was never entirely silent, not even at night. The massive machinery that kept her running vibrated through her steel hull, producing a dull background noise that Williams had long since ceased to hear. Metal clanked on metal as technicians struggled with avionics boxes, slammed panels shut, and shouted for tools.

  So what exactly was he supposed to be looking for? It wasn’t like this was a shore station, with the threat of civilians wandering onto the base and trying to damage aircraft. Everybody on the ship was Navy except for a cadre of contractor representatives and a few squads of Marines. Sure, he’d heard stories about disgruntled sailors trying to sabotage the birds, but how likely was that? Not very. So what really was the point of this whole watch? At least in the galley, he had a stack of clean pots and pans to show for his hard work.

  He paused by one of the open hangar bay doors, a massive opening
in the side of the ship. The hangar bay ran two thirds of the length of the ship, and when the hangar bay doors on either side were pulled back, almost the entire area was exposed to the open sea.

  With the lights on in the hangar bay, the night outside was a dark, impenetrable black. He could see a few bright stars on the horizon, the lights of the cruiser keeping station to the east, but that was it.

  His radio crackled to life, and the brusque voice said, “Hangar Bay, what’s your status?”

  Carefully remembering his training on proper radio communications, Williams keyed the mike and said, “Watch Supervisor, Hangar Bay. All secure, sir.”

  “Don’t call me sir, asshole. I know who my father is.”

  “Yes, si—” Williams stopped talking, aware that all he could do was get in more trouble at this point.

  “I’m sending down a couple of guys to help secure the hangar bay doors. We’ve got a report of some small craft in the area.”

  Williams’s heart sank. With the hangar bay doors shut, the entire area would feel like a tomb. “Roger,” he acknowledged. “Standing by.”

  “Yeah, right. Just do what they tell you.”

  Bridge

  USS United States

  0200 local (GMT +3)

  Fireman Apprentice Audrey Smith was no more thrilled with her Navy adventure than Airman Williams was. She had followed a similar track to the ship, the difference being six months of Engineman A school rather than Data System, and she’d done two more months in the galley than he had. Unlike Williams, she was already used to her operational watch station as a lookout. She had been rotated through the various stations, and tonight was on the starboard bridge wing, sound-powered phone clamped over her ears and binoculars making circles around her eyes.

  Smith preferred the late-night watches to the daytime ones. There were fewer people around, which meant fewer people to mess with her and fewer witnesses if she screwed up. Standing outside now on the bridge wing, scanning her assigned sector of the horizon, she felt at peace with the world. Behind her, through the open hatch, she could hear the small noises coming from the bridge: the occasional rudder or engine order from the conning officer, a complaint from engineering about the lineup of boilers and reactors and machinery, and the routine reports that kept track of all radar contacts in the area.

  With no moon overhead, the horizon and sky blended into nothingness. The blackness was broken only by the running lights of the cruiser and other escorts, and the occasional light configuration from a commercial ship. There were a few small boats out here as well, and the crews on both the bridge and in Combat kept track of them to ensure that the carrier stayed well clear.

  Suddenly, she stopped her smooth scan of the water. What was it? Something had caught her attention, although she couldn’t exactly see what. She moved her binoculars in a slow, oscillating motion back and forth, trying to see what it was that had distracted her.

  There it was again. A small area of darkness against the water, something that looked out of place. Odd. If it was a boat, it should be showing at least one light for safety of navigation. But then again, not all of the fishermen in this area found it necessary to comply with good seamanship practices. She had been warned that there were also smugglers in the area, and they would certainly show no lights.

  But this close to the carrier? We’re not that hard to miss. The memory of the USS Cole came to mind, the gaping hole in the side of the smaller ship the result of a small boat pulling up alongside her and detonating explosives. Even a rowboat could be dangerous.

  Smith keyed her sound-powered phone. “Surface Plot, Starboard Lookout. I think I have a contact to the starboard, a small one. Relative bearing 030, showing a slight right-bearing drift. No lights.”

  “You sure, Starboard? I’m not holding anything there.”

  Am I sure? No, not really. I can’t even see it now.

  “Not entirely sure, Surface,” she acknowledged. “If it’s anything, it’s a small boat running without lights.”

  The voice of the Surface Plot petty officer sighed. “OK, keep an eye on it. I’ll take another look in the area and see if there’s a possibility. Could be one of the smugglers we were briefed on. Good work.”

  Behind her on the darkened bridge, Smith heard the operations specialist airman pass her information to the officer of the deck. “Sir, possible unidentified small contact on the starboard bow.”

  “Range?” asked the OOD, Lieutenant Commander Fred Brisco.

  “Close aboard, within two miles, sir. Low-confidence visual contact.”

  Brisco walked out on the starboard bridge and propped his elbows on the railing next to Smith’s companionably. “You getting Surface stirred up over something, Andrea?”

  Smith relaxed. Brisco was a good sort, not one of the screamers. He even used her first name sometimes when nobody else could hear him. It made her feel like she was part of the team, even when she screwed up.

  “I’m not certain, sir,” she allowed. “I thought I saw something, but I can’t pick it up now. It was right there.” She pointed in the general direction where she’d seen the patch of blackness.

  Brisco had his own binoculars up now and was scanning the area carefully. She felt a shiver of relief — she’d reported it, and the officers were taking a look. Now, no matter what it was, it was no longer her sole responsibility. And maybe he could see something that she couldn’t.

  “I don’t see — wait.” Brisco abruptly stopped scanning the area and kept the binoculars fixed on one spot. “Yes, I think you’re right. A small boat, running without lights. Tell Surface I see it, too.” Without dropping his binoculars from his eyes, he raised his voice and said, “Conning Officer, bring us twenty degrees to the left. We’ve got a small boy up ahead who doesn’t seem to realize that tonnage counts.”

  “Surface Plot, Starboard. OOD says he sees it, too, and we’re changing course to avoid,” Smith said into her sound-powered phone.

  “Roger, keep track of it. We’re still not getting anything on the radar.”

  And that was exactly why they had lookouts, wasn’t it? Because very small wooden vessels were difficult to pick up on radar even in the best of conditions. Keeping a visual eye on the ocean as well as an electronic one only made sense.

  “Security, close the hangar bay doors,” Brisco said suddenly, his voice sharp. “Come on, people — move it!”

  “What is it, sir?” she asked, now alarmed.

  “Probably nothing,” he said. “Just something seems to — hell, I don’t know, Andrea. Call it a gut feeling.”

  Hangar bay

  0205 local (GMT +3)

  It only took a few minutes for the reinforcements to show up and find Williams. At the same time, the 1MC announcing system boomed, “All hands not actually on watch in the vicinity of the hangar bay report to security team leader to close hangar doors.” The technicians working on the E-2 Hawkeye in the forward part of the hangar bay dropped what they were doing and trotted over.

  The doors could be opened and closed electronically, but sufficient hands had to be on station in case something went wrong and they had to be closed manually. The hangar bay filled with a hard, grating noise as the massive metal watertight slabs of steel grated along their tracks. The breeze died down as they started to close.

  “So what is this all about?” Williams asked.

  “Probably just an OOD with a hair up his ass,” said one of the petty officers. “Sometimes I think they do this just to see how fast we can move.”

  That pretty much fit in with what Williams knew so far about the Navy. Every evolution, no matter how trivial, was practiced, timed, and graded ad infinitum. Why should closing the hangar doors be any different?

  Suddenly, a star low on the horizon flared into brightness. Williams brought his binoculars up to take a look at it. Beside him, the senior petty officer said, “Oh, shit. Move it!”

  Bridge

  0206 local (GMT +3)

  Brisco le
aped from the bridge wing to the bridge and slapped the General Quarters alarm toggle switch, simultaneously picking up the microphone for the whole ship-announcing system. As the insistent gong of the General Quarters alarm started, he said, “All hands, General Quarters. Small boat on the starboard quarter launching Stingers!”

  Stingers. Smith’s blood ran cold. The small, shoulder-launched missiles had a maximum range of just over two miles, but any explosive warhead could do serious damage to the carrier if you hit it in the right place. It wasn’t capable of penetrating the hull, but if you could hit the aircraft on the flight deck, starting a fire, it would prove difficult to control. Or it could—

  “The hangar bay,” she breathed, her voice full of horror. If a Stinger got inside the hangar bay, it could cause a catastrophe.

  White fire seared her retina as a small missile streaked across black water, destroying her night vision and leaving a trail of light as an afterimage.

  “Damage Control, report!” Brisco shouted.

  The trail of fire dropped below them as it speared through the half-open hangar bay door.

  Hangar bay

  0207 local (GMT +3)

  The sailors manning the port-side hangar doors were moving faster than those on the starboard. Already more than half of the exposed area was closed off as the massive doors slid along their tracks. The starboard hangar bay doors had barely started to move.

  Williams watched, both horrified and terrified at the same time. This wasn’t a drill — this was an actual attack. The seconds seem to tick by too slowly as he stared at the white fire racing across the water.

  “Get down!” someone shouted, and Williams was smashed to the deck as a petty officer tackled him. They rolled over until they were behind an enclosed part of the hull, out of the open doorway.

  “What the hell are you—?” Williams began, his protest cut off as the impact forced the air out of his lungs.