Debt of Honor - Tom Clancy [447]
Only fifty miles offshore, USS Pasadena and three other SSNs came to antenna depth and launched six missiles each. Some of them were aimed at Saipan. Four went to Tinian. Two to Rota. The rest skimmed the wave tops for Andersen Air Force Base on Guam.
"Up scope!" Claggett ordered. The search periscope hissed up on hydraulic power. "Hold!" he called as the top of the instrument cleared the water. He turned slowly, looking for lights in the sky. None.
"Okay, the antenna next." Another hiss announced the raising of the UHF whip antenna. The Captain kept his eyes on the scope, still looking around. His right hand waved. There were some fuzzy radar signals from distant transmitters, but nothing able to detect the submarine.
"INDY CARS, this is PIT CREW, over," the communications officer said into a microphone.
"Thank God," Richter said aloud, keying his microphone. "PIT CREW, this is INDY LEAD, authenticate, over."
"Foxtrot Whiskey."
"Charlie Tango," Richter replied, checking the radio codes on his knee pad. "We are five out, and we sure could use a drink, over."
"Stand by," he heard back.
"Surface the ship," Claggett ordered, lifting the 1-MC. "Now hear this, we're surfacing the ship, maintain battle stations. Army crews, stand by."
The proper gear was sitting next to the midships escape trunk and the larger capsule hatch designed to handle the guidance packages for ballistic missiles. One of Tennessee's damage-control parties stood by to pass the gear, and a chief would work the fueling-hose connector hidden in the casing over the missile room.
"What's that?" INDY-TWO asked over the radio circuit. "Lead, this is Three, chopper to the north. Say again, chopper to the north, big one."
"Take him out!" Richter ordered at once. There could be no friendly choppers about. He turned and increased altitude for a look of his own. The guy even had his strobes on. "PIT CREW, this is INDY LEAD, there's chopper traffic up here to the north. What gives, over?"
Claggett didn't hear that. Tennessee's sail had just broken the surface, and he was standing by the ladder to the top of the sail. Shaw took the microphone.
"That's probably an ASW helo from the destroyer we just sunk—splash him, splash him now!"
"Aerial radar to the north!" an ESM tech called a second later. "Helicopter radar close aboard!"
"Two, take him out now!" Richter relayed the order.
"On the way, Lead," the second Comanche responded, turning and dipping his nose to increase speed. Whoever it was, that was just too bad. The pilot selected guns. Under his aircraft the 20-millimeter cannon emerged from its canoelike enclosure and turned forward. The target was five miles out and didn't see the inbound attack chopper.
It was another Sikorsky, Two's pilot saw, possibly assembled in the same Connecticut plant as his Comanche, the Navy version of the UH-60, a big target. His chopper blazed directly at it, hoping to get his kill before it could get a radio call out. Not much chance of that, and the pilot cursed himself for not engaging with a Stinger, but it was too late for that now. His helmet pipper locked on to the target and he triggered off fifty rounds, most of which found the nose of the approaching gray helicopter. The results were instant.
"Kill," he announced. "I got him, Lead."
"Roger, what your fuel state?"
"Thirty minutes," Two replied.
"Circle and keep your eyes open," Lead commanded.
"Roger, Leader." As soon as he got to three hundred feet came another unwelcome surprise. "Lead, Two, radar to the north, system says it's a Navy billboard one."
"Great," Richter snarled, circling the submarine. It was large enough to land on, but it would have been easier if the goddamned thing wasn't rolling around like the