Jihad
5.5 America
by Red MacDonald
Copyright © 2013 Red MacDonald
All Rights Reserved.

The Faithful, North African and Middle Eastern Islamic nations, are plotting to seize the oil resources of the Middle East. By controlling the earth's oil and its major trade routes, they plan to bring the world to its knees. Then, when the entire world is kneeling, the Faithful of Allah will read to them from the Koran, preaching the message of Islam, the True Faith. The Faithful will stop at nothing to achieve their goal. But how far will they go? And how many lives will it cost?

5. Straits of Sicily

5.5 America

* * * * *

5.5.1 Continued Attack on Sierra Four

CAG followed the flight of "his" birds, as they headed towards the Blinders. He was busy flying most of the time so Chunky, his RIO, kept him apprised and followed up with short interludes from his own displays on CAG's. His missiles were running straight and true.

'What was this?' The number of targets seemed to double as he watched them. Is this some new, phony, electronics trick? Chunky said it was real, so it had to be, but what the hell...?'

* * * * *

The Phoenix 56D was a smart missile, incorporating all the lessons learned in Desert Storm and the conflicts of the early twenty-first century. The original missile was simply a big radar unit. It was launched, given a mid-course correction with final targeting data, and its internal radar did the rest. Yet, it could be fooled by drones and out-flown by decent fighter pilots. So, the 56D had been given two new sensors along with more efficient engines and larger flight control surfaces.

The first new sensor was a FLIR, and the second was a TV. The radar image, the video image and the infrared image had to match. If they didn't, the missile could query the originating targeting system for updated information, test the images against other "knowns" for a match, or query the target for an IFF. With its longer range, greater maneuverability and "smart homing", it was a day/night killer. Except, of course, it was a computer.

The Phoenix's internal sensors "woke up" half way through the flight. At that point, the T-2 could send it new guidance or targeting information. If not, the missile searched for the pre-designated target using all its sensory array. In this case, it was searching for a large, multi-engine, jet bomber flying at an altitude of thirty thousand feet on a closing course.

The sensors popped on, and there was a target. It wasat the right altitude and on the right course. The radar picture looked perfect. The infra-red clearly showed two engine heat sources. The television camera identified an airplane conforming to the correct shape. When the Phoenix queried it, the target did not respond.

Enemy aircraft confirmed. Destroy!

* * * * *

Buck shouted into the radio, not giving a damn about who heard him, "What the fuck was that!"

"Buck? Bull. You've got thirty-six kills, except I don't know what you hit. The Blinders were there one second and gone the next. Hit 'em with the AAMRAMs and run for cover. The MiGs are coming down fast. Shoot within thirty seconds. Out!"

"CAG to Knights. We've been snookered. Prepare to volley fire AAMRAMs, volley fire! Knight Squadron! Commander Air Wing, CAG Code Buck!" Eight seconds later, thirty-six AAMRAMs -- smaller, quicker, shorter ranged but no less intelligent missiles -- were speeding towards their targets. Once again, thirty-six Ketstrals were destroyed.

Having flown the greatest and most successful deception of the war, Wing Commander General Rashmenko returned to his family.

CAG led his Knights safely under the missile shield of his fleet, having wasted seventy-two of his country's finest missiles on drones. From small defeats come great victories. This one was not small, and CAG knew it.

* * * * *

5.5.2 Mad Dogs and Strawberries

The signal to attack came from Bunker Hill via Leprechaun 1. "Missile Boss says go, Mad Dogs. Target is Topaz Three. Remember your ceiling is five thousand. Strawberry will follow you in. Launching in fifteen seconds." A similar call went to Hook and Pineapple directing them against Topaz Two.

"DJ" Duncan led his Mad Dogs into a steep dive and flashed astern of Carson, just as Neill's first SM-4s were leaping from her vertical arrays. "Perfect," he thought, "Just perfect!"

Their timing couldn't have been better. They were skimming just one hundred feet above the surface at six hundred knots beneath an impenetrable ceiling of missilery. Every enemy ship and plane would be concentrating on the events happening at fifteen to thirty-five thousand feet. Every eye on every enemy ship would be looking up, while the Mad Dogs would be below their mast-top level.

DJ blinked his landing lights twice. Betz and Bleeper clicked back in reply. The formation split. Bleeper shot away leading his Mastiffs almost due south, to come round Topaz Three and hit them from the flank. Betz led her Dobies further east, to come at them from the other side. DJ had chosen the most difficult of the three attacking roles, the head-on, eye-to-eye, missile vs. missile confrontation. "Now," he thought, "if they'll just illuminate."

Every one of his plane's sensors was working perfectly, and his own senses seemed remarkably clear. He knew that his adrenaline had to be pumping out at a fantastic rate, because the closer he got to the enemy, the calmer he felt and the slower things seemed to move. His FLIR detected heat sources directly in front of him. He spotted the slight mist of smoke emanating from four ship's stacks. Then, his radar detectors screamed at him. He'd been painted by search radars!

"The stupid bastards! Don't they know that they're worthless? Then again, with missiles flying all around and a sky filled with war planes, it'd be damned hard not to turn something on."

He counted the sources, confirmed his computer's count of four, and "voiced" his radio. "Boxer One to Boxer flight, confirming four target vessels. Total of four standard-band acquisition and four fire-control radars. Fire HARMs as planned. Designating!"

Four HARMs were programmed to seek out the surveillance radars as their primary targets, while four more were assigned to the fire control systems. That'd leave Boxer flights with a total of four more HARMs to use if something went wrong or to take out shorter ranged, close-in systems.

He called out, "Close to optimum range. Computerized attack."

Three SuperHornets sped towards their targets, their computers steadily updating range, speed, and targeting parameters. Only when the computers were ready would they actually launch. Once the missiles were fired, the chances of destroying the enemy ship's radars were almost one hundred percent.

The computer took over, and the Hornets jumped up to five hundred feet. Eight HARMs dropped off three planes' wings in rapid succession. As the missiles ignited, the computer brought the planes back down to the comparative safety of the wave-tops.

"Boxer One to Mad Dogs, missiles away." Seconds later both Doby One and Mastiff One reported that they had launched on the gunboats.

Boxer flight hugged the surface heading towards the enemy fleet. This was easily the most difficult part of the mission, demanding courage and determination. To pop up now, before the enemy's radars had been destroyed impudently demanded that they fire. It was better to stay low and fast while preparing to fire the rest of the HARMs.

In quick succession, all eight radars went down. "Boxer One to Strawberry One, you are clear to attack. We'll take top cover as planned." He ordered his radio to the fighter frequency. "Boxer One to all Mad Dogs, regroup on me as planned. Watch for Strawberries."

DJ looked back over each shoulder and saw that his RBT was intact. He blinked once, received two clicks on his radio, and pulled up into a swift climb to four thousand feet.

His radio echoed with shouts of victory. "Doby One to Boxer One, five dead gunboats. Regrouping on your position."

"Mastiff One to Boxer One, mission accomplished. We'll go back the way we came and meet you as planned. Out."

As Pepe's three A-29 Avengers streaked towards their targets, like great blue-gray sharks, Boxer flight turned in a large circle above them. Each of the Boxer's three pilots looked around anxiously. Not only did they have to rendezvous with the Dobies and Mastiffs, but they were also responsible for the safety of the Strawberry Margueritas. Dozens of enemy fighters filled the skies above them, and, regardless of the Avenger's stealth, they were now at their most vulnerable. They were down low, wave hopping where an enemy's set of 'Mark Ones' just might spot them.

"Boxer One, Leprechaun One, Doby flight rejoining you at ten o'clock, five miles. Mastiff at one o'clock, ten miles. Keep your eyes peeled, DJ, Sierra Three may have seen you. Enemy low-level stuff is milling around and forming to attack. Cover the Strawberries. They are still three minutes out. I'll try to scare up some help.

Before DJ could react a second call came in. "Disregard, Boxer One. Twenty-two, that's two-two twin-tailed bandits coming downstairs after you. Eleven o'clock, distance twenty miles, speed Mach-2 and increasing. Feeding your 'box' now."

DJ's canopy instantly displayed the images of the twenty-plus enemy aircraft coming at him. Like Bull, he had no idea whether they were SU-27s, -35s or MiG-29s. They were all tough, fast and very quick. Since they were coming after him, they'd be armed for air-to-air.

Down here, he had no room to maneuver. However, to climb up to meet them would violate the ceiling. He didn't want to blunder into the path of an SM-4 regardless of how intelligent it was. That was flirting with disaster. It would be wiser for him stay down low, reform, and then move to meet them.

"Follow me," he ordered, banking right into a split-S while pushing the throttleator forward. Boxer flight, now at one thousand feet, smoothly accelerated to eight hundred knots, as both Doby and Mastiff joined on them.

"DJ to Junkyard, they're coming in too fast. They'll fire missiles first, but overshoot. On command, break, split, climb and fire." His heard two double-clicks as both of his flight leaders acknowledged.

'Now to suck them in. "Fly steady," he reminded himself. "Don't let them know that they've been spotted. Make believe that we're fat, dumb and happy, just heading home after a day at the office.'

His lower screen was projecting his rear aspect, taking in the data from his own small, rear-facing radar as well as the god's eye view from the Hawkeye. Like all of fighter tactics, this maneuver was all in the timing.

"They've launched on you, DJ!" Leprechaun One screamed.

His screen confirmed it, as did all his threat warnings. A woman's voice, generated by his computer calmly warned him, "Missile, six o'clock high, range ten thousand." He ordered it to cease warnings and to update only the range.

"Nine thousand!"

"Wait!"

"Eight thousand! Seven Thousand! Six Thousand! Five Thousand! Four Thousand! Three Thousand! Two Thousand! One Thousand!"

He watched his scopes as the missiles hurtled down at him. Instant death was overtaking him at almost one thousand miles per hour!

"Break! Break!" He hauled back on his joy-stick, jamming the throttleator to its limits. The twin P&W's poured raw fuel into the afterburners throwing him forward with thirty-six thousand pounds of thrust. LERX's bent upward, lifting his Hornet's nose artificially, while its vectored thrusters canted upward throwing its tail round. His seat gimbaled backwards, reclining to spread ten G's over the full length of his body, preventing a total blackout.

He looked up and back as far as he could, until, through a grayish haze, he saw the horizon. He pushed the stick forward. For just a brief moment, the plane's violent turn seemed to hang in the sky, while still traveling "forward" at over eight hundred miles per hour. The wing's LERX's snapped over and the thrusters snapped "down." The Hornet executed a perfect "cobra maneuver" as it rocketed straight up at the oncoming enemy aircraft.

He shook his head violently, while "blowing" hard into his gut to ward off the effects of his high-G turn. He checked his six, his Boxers, and the whereabouts of the missiles. Dilly and the rest of the kennel were still with him, and a ripple of explosions churned the sea where they would have been.

Now, to the attack! "DJ to Mad Dogs, light 'em up. Weapons free. Follow me! Computer, air search all systems. Arm all missiles and guns. Designate!" He 'pipped' a twin-tail. "Fire!" An AAMRAM dropped off and ignited, but he had no time to bother tracking it visually to see if it did its job. "Designate! Fire!" Another AAMRAM launched, and the computer voice warned, "Collision alert! Twelve o'clock!"

"Understood, computer, collision imminent." That was the idea. Split them, just like a winger splits the defensemen. The game was also called chicken!

The two formations blew through each other at eleven thousand feet. DJ's head was on a pivot, looking for his wings, his three-somes, and the enemy all at the same time.

More planes were coming down after them. The ones below were extending, climbing and turning to get back into the fight. They were between his Mad Dogs and his fleet.

He was trapped! Nine against thirty or forty, perhaps more. His resolve hardened. If he was going to die, he'd take a bunch of them with him.

"Mad Dogs, break west, now! Buster!" Bull's voice was urgent.

DJ kicked his Hornet over and fire-walled its engines. He glanced back. Enemy planes were being blotted out of the sky! "What the hell?"

"Mad Dogs, new vector: zero-three-five. Assume cruise speed, obey ceiling limits. Execute! By the way, DJ, get ready to buy a lot of vino. You owe a big one to the Italian Air Force."

5.5.3 Missiles Away!

It was a go! The computers were ready, the missiles were ready and the crews were ready.

"Weapons free! Fire!" called Captain Yuhovitch. His order was echoed by Commander Halbertson on the Missile Boss' frequency.

Instantly, fire burst from the deck of the missile array and one missile popped above the foredecks of each of the three missile ships. At twenty-five feet, the SPQ-12B gave its first instructions to the missiles. One second later, the next missile erupted from the vertical launch array like a kid puffing a spitball through a straw. Bunker Hill repeated the sequence one hundred and one times, while Garibaldi mimicked it fifty-three times and Neill another forty-three times.

The displays recorded it all. Priority Ones were eliminated within the first few seconds. Priority Twos followed quickly. Priority Threes, the tough ones to hit, were tougher than the computers had estimated. Sierra One had only two fighters left, and Leprechaun Four had assigned its T-2s to eliminate them using long-ranged Phoenixes. Sierra Two had ceased to exist. Sierra Three had been ravaged, but there were still over two dozen fighters left.

"Not bad! Not bad at all," Halbertson evaluated the missilery. "Prepare for second volley. Missile Boss to Carson. Carson, you will join this volley." All ships acknowledged, and then the screen changed dramatically.

The 'cloud' behind Sierra Three, which had been bothering everybody, finally resolved itself. Thirty-five Blackjacks emerged from their screen of escorts and heavy jamming, flying at Mach 2.2 at twenty thousand feet. Before anyone could react, and even before the computer had finished painted them on the big display, the thirty-five images became one hundred and forty.

"Vampire! Vampire!" the talker announced excitedly. "Missile count, one hundred and five. Speed, Mach 4. Altitude, forty thousand and climbing. Computer characterizes vampires as Kaltrops."

Halbertson couldn't contain himself. "Shit! I thought we had the bastards!" He hunched back over his system coordinating with the other ships and computers.

The combination of the high speed and relatively small size of the rocket-powered Kaltrop missiles presented a whole new problem for the fleet. The SM-4s were quick enough and fast enough to handle this kind of anti-missile defense, but the Italian SM-3's would be hard pressed. Bunker Hill had only fifty-eight missiles left and Neill had just twenty-five. It was a good thing that Carson was on missile alert, or they wouldn't have enough. Even so, it'd be close, and there might be leakers.

Captain Yuhovitch broadcast the Fleet Missile Warning as Halbertson coordinated the firing sequences. The five FiGs each loaded a missile onto their single-armed launchers. Although their rate of fire was puny, in comparison with the big vertical launch arrays, at this point five more missiles every seven seconds might be the difference.

Simultaneously, every close-range missile and gun in the fleet came on line. Halsey's four, eight-missile Sea Robin arrays emerged from their protective coverings. The five-inch and three-inch guns of the CG, DDs and FFGs turned to meet the threats. The R2D2-like Close-in Weapons Systems turned their gatling guns to the sky to ward off any last-second messengers of death.

"Weapons free! Fire!" shouted the Captain and the Missile Boss almost simultaneously.

The big ships geysered missiles upward. The big board catalogued their results. One-oh-five became eighty. Eighty became fifty. Fifty became thirty. Thirty became ten.

"Ten got through, Sir."

Even before Yuhovitch could ask, he could hear the pounding of Bunker Hill's five-inch guns, the crisp roar of Sea Robins and the Velcro-like rasp of the R2D2s. One explosion moved the air impressively, but it didn't feel like a hit.

The next one did. All the lights went out. The screens went dead. Glass blew in every direction. Everyone aboard was thrown down and tossed about like rag dolls. Equipment that had been firmly bolted to the bulkheads crashed on top of them. Then, the bulkheads themselves collapsed.

* * * * *

5.5.4 Halsey Fights

CAG was talking to Captain Teegin while Admiral Duncan watched the skies with growing fears. "They played some kind of decoy game on us, Captain. We wasted seventy-two missiles on drones. Something's up. Watch your ass, Captain!" At that instant, the vampire warning blared.

Duncan couldn't stand the tension. His well-laid plans were falling apart. He glanced down at the flight deck. Below him, deck crews were running frantically as the ship cycled from flight operations to close-in defense. Each of the crew had an assigned emergency position. Some would be in the fire brigade. Some would handle emergency landings, SAR and other important tasks. Still others would help with Halsey's pitifully small and inadequate defensive systems.

Four rectangular boxes, two cells deep and four wide, emerged from their storage positions alongside of and under the flight decks. Each of them lifted up and turned towards the starboard beam. The four CIWS mounts turned back and forth, their thirty-millimeter cannons bouncing up and down, as though stretching before they began to exercise. Halsey was making preparations to defend herself.

Realizing that he'd better do the same, the admiral slid down the ladders into the CIC. The display of the incoming Kaltrops was counting down rapidly. As Duncan watched, the numbers fell below fifty, but even his "slow" human mind could see that the numbers weren't falling fast enough. There would be leakers.

Leakers! What a word. It wasn't like a hole in an inner tube or a lawn hose. They were missiles, armed with hundreds of kilos of high explosives. They were death machines bent on killing, maiming and wounding his people. They must be stopped!

Ten of them "leaked." One was quickly destroyed by Bunker Hill's close-in systems and another by Garibaldi. A third was hit by Neill's Sea Robin and a fourth by its CIWS. That left six.

The first of them struck Bunker Hill between its two CIWS mounts on the upper deck and buried itself inside the ship. The explosion tore the guts out of the superstructure between the "twin towers", leaving a gap-toothed appearance filled with fire, flame and smoke. Bunker Hill did not answer Teegin's hails.

The next one clipped Garibaldi's helicopter deck, exploding on impact. The entire aft of the ship was engulfed in a conflagration that leapt a hundred feet into the sky. Captain Vespatian radioed that his ship was in no danger, and that the fire appeared far worse than it was. He confirmed that his ship was still ready and able to continue the battle in spite of her appearance.

The final four all found their primary target and headed straight at Halsey.

"Left full Rudder!" Teegin shouted.

The helmsman spun the tiny wheel. The big ship canted hard to starboard, knocking down the crewmen on the flight deck. Clawing and scratching, they were inexorably pulled towards the sea. The aft Sea Robin mounts volleyed their sixteen missiles. Two Kaltrops blew up harmlessly.

Teegin shouted, "Chaff! Chaff! Chaff!" The aft RBocs belched three times, filling the air with millions of millimeter-long aluminum foil strips.

"Illuminate! ECM!" The aft MASER mounts fired their coherent beams into the chaos of foil. One of the missiles was deceived - the last one wasn't. The aft starboard CIWS burped and groaned. It and the entire starboard side of the aft flight deck erupted in a fireball.

The Fire Control Teams reported immediately. The missile had exploded just above the deck. The CIWS had done its job at the last second, but the after starboard side was a mess. The CIWS and Sea Robin mounts had been destroyed. The aft RBocs, MASERs and ECMs were gone. The fireball had blown into the confined spaces of the hanger deck. There were at least three hundred casualties. The fires would be taken care of shortly, and emergency flight operations could resume in half an hour. Full operations would take a few hours.

Duncan listened to the litany of death and destruction as though it were a nightmare. Yet, one thought echoed in his mind, "What happened to that other missile?"

As if in answer, a lookout cried, "Oh! My God! It's exploded!"

* * * * *

The Kaltrop had tracked, identified and approached its target, just as its programmers had intended. Its radar had detected a large shape, which it had identified as an aircraft carrier, the number one priority in the missile's tiny brain. Its on-board television camera had visually confirmed the radar identification. The two sensors had locked onto the waterline amidships.

Then, the air turned into a blur. It was snowing! Like a car in a snow storm, the missile's "headlights" were reflected back into its tiny electronic eyes. Like an unknowing motorist, the missile increased its power, which, like putting on the high beams, only increased its blindness.

Yet, in spite of this "snow", the missile was not completely blind. The optical television saw a large moving shape located where the original target should have been. So, the missile fell back upon its secondary system and adjusted course.

Then, the snow turned into a fairyland of color and form. The MASERs playing across the foils created a kaleidoscope of wondrous beauty. The myriad of colors, hues, textures and shapes bedazzled and beguiled the missile's computer. If silicon chips could be moved to poetry, this computer was. If a computer could ever feel, this one was in love, or perhaps just in love with love. It rolled and dipped, it twisted and turned, reveling in electronic ecstasy.

Then, it flew out of the cloud. Its electronic mind cleared. It sought the target, but it was gone!

The missile began a new search. It turned slightly. There, on the horizon, was a huge target. Track. Identify. Confirm. Lock on. Kill!

* * * * *

The Perry Class frigates had been built with two thoughts in mind. First, they were to be good ASW vessels. Second, they had to be cheap. The qualities of being a good vessel were sacrificed whenever they abridged the doctrine of "cheap".

The Perrys were under-powered and slow because building better engines would have cost money, violating the Cheap Doctrine. Therefore, instead of providing more power, Congress mandated lighter ships. When someone discovered that aluminum was not only lighter than steel but didn't rust, the Perrys were designed with completely aluminum superstructures above a steel hull. This gave Congress their cheap ASW ship and gave the Navy enough of them to do the job.

The only problem that the Congressional Whiz-Kids had not foreseen was that aluminum burns. Aluminum burns aggressively, with an incredibly hot blue-white flame that will permanently blind the human eye. It burns so aggressively that it "steals" oxygen from iron oxides, commonly called rust. In the process it turns the rust into ordinary iron. The temperatures are so high that the iron melts, flows and, in the ordinary circumstance, welds iron objects together. This is the "secret" of the thermite bomb. Yet, in spite of the terrible fires that had occurred on both the Stark and the Roberts, Congress, in its incredible wisdom, continued to mandate the Perry's aluminum superstructure.

The Kaltrop struck just aft of the spindly, gantry-like superstructure and plunged though the catwalk into the interior before exploding. A gush of fire and flame blasted back up through the hole. The explosion within the confined space shredded the forward compartments, collapsing the bridge.

The fireball of burning, sputtering, blue-white flame melted downward into the missile bins beneath the foredeck, exploding them. The thermite bomb continued to burn through the decks, radiating its heat further and further aft.

Within thirty seconds, the entire ship was a mass of flames. Fifteen seconds later, the white-hot, molten mass of metal burned through the hull, sundering the ship in two. Twenty seconds later, the Hiram Jones disappeared beneath the waves with but sparkling bits of burning aluminum on the surface to remind people of the once proud fighting ship and her crew.

* * * * *

"What's exploded, Lookout?" Teegin demanded.

Admiral Duncan appeared at his side. "Where away, Lookout?"

The youngster, who had never seen death or destruction before, could only point. Except that where he pointed, there was nothing but a wisp of smoke!

The captain grabbed him, shaking him violently. "What's going on? Report, Mister!"

"Sir," tears were rolling down his face, and his voice cracked, "It's the Jones, Sir. She's gone!"

"Oh, no!" Duncan cried out, grabbed the big lookout glasses, sighting in the direction of his screen. "One, two," he counted looking to the north and east. He swung the binoculars slowly towards the south. "Three, four."

The radio came alive. "Carson to Halsey, Jones has been sunk! Send SAR. Cannot break off. Possible submarine contact, zero-one-five relative, distance six miles. She's gone, Sir. Just disappeared!"

The radio went dead, and Admiral Duncan sank heavily into the captain's chair. "Get the choppers up, Ed. Rescue everyone we can. Inform the fleet about the Jones and about the sub. And, remember, we're still in the middle of a battle. Let's all get back to work, or we'll all end up the same way - dead! Move it, Captain!"