Larry Bond - Vortex

“The initial bombardment was supposed to hit the phone centers along with the radio stations. Every target was reported to be pasted.” Craig took off his hat and rubbed his forehead.

“Damn it, the only part of the system we know about is the com ms Hit the communications target list again,” Craig ordered.

“And do it fast.”

NAVAHO FLIGHT, OFF THE NATAL COAST

“Navaho One, this is Overlord. Target.” The radio call was a welcome relief for Lt. John “Rebel” Lee and his wingman. Everyone in the world was hip deep in the war, but his flight was “in reserve,” assigned to orbit forty miles off the beach until the right target appeared.

It took time to arm, launch, and fly aircraft to targets, so pairs of strike aircraft had been place “on call—ready to hit targets of opportunity on command. Navaho Flight was one of six launched by the two

American carriers after they’d flown off their first strike planes. And he’d listened anxiously as first one flight, then two more, were given missions by their carriers. Now it was his turn.

Continuing to circle, Lee clicked his mike.

“Overlord, this is Navaho -Lead. Say target.”

The strike controller aboard the Carl Vinson responded with a string of coordinates-and a quick description.

“Target is a telephone switching station-concrete structure.”

Lee repeated the information back to Overlord.

The Vinson signed off.

“Roger your last, Navaho Lead. This is urgent priority. Hit it fast.”

Lee punched the coordinates into his flight computer, and as soon as he hit the ENTER key, a course indicator appeared on his HUD.

His earphones carried Overlord’s voice again as the remaining pairs of aircraft were given their missions, all urgent. Something was up, he decided. Well, he’d hold up his end, at least.

Lee checked his armament switches. Since the carriers were so close to

Durban, his F/A-18 Hornet was fully armed, with Sidewinders on the wingtips, a single drop tank on the centerline, and eight five-hundred-pound bombs under the wings.

The map display showed his target, buried deep in the city. It also showed each leg of his plotted course. Lee whistled. Luckily, Afrikaner flak had been light and enemy fighters nonexistent, because this was one bitch of a route. Lee hit the radio switch.

“Turning to first leg,

Panther.”

Lee heard two clicks in his earphones. He glanced to the right and saw his wingman, “Panther” Lewis, turning to follow. Lewis was changing formation, sliding from aft and right of Lee’s Hornet to dead astern, in preparation for what was certain to be an “E” ticket ride.

USS MOUNT WHITNEY

“The strike coordinator says he’ll have aircraft on top of the targets momentarily,” Skiles reported. He frowned.

“But I’m worried about the second air assault wave, sir. We’re going to start cuffing into their fuel reserve in a few minutes. We may have to bring them back, refuel, and launch them again. “

Craig shook his head.

“Hell, George, we do that and we’ll

be delaying the whole operation.” He glared angrily at the map.

“But I agree, we can’t land any more men until we’ve knocked those guns off target.” Visions of burning aircraft caught while landing haunted him.

He turned to the admiral commanding the amphibious task force.

“Steve, take your ships closer to the beach. If the Ospreys don’t have to fly so far coming back, we can buy ourselves a few extra minutes.” Of course, it would also bring them all closer to the South African shore defenses.

As the admiral reached for the command phone by his chair, Craig added,

“And be sure the carriers are rearming all their aircraft as soon as they land. We’ll need them.”

NAVAHO FLIGHT

“Coming up on the IP, Panther. Slow to four fifty knots.” Lee heard his wingman acknowledge with two clicks just as he turned the Hornet over to its attack heading.

Throttling back, he watched his airspeed fall. They’d made a fast trip from their holding station to the initial point, but from here on, he wanted to take it slow and careful. Flying in a built-up area, against a non briefed target, he needed to look the situation over.

Lee switched his HUD to air-to-ground mode and made sure that his bombs were selected. He always took extra care with the ordnance panel-especially after an incident in training. He’d made a perfect bomb run on the target, only to find that he’d dropped his centerline tank instead.

The uneven surface of Durban’s rooftops flashed beneath him, individual homes and buildings blurring by too fast to make out much detail. His HUD showed the range to the target, which at this speed looked just like any other structure. An open box was centered over the computed position of the building, and Lee kept one eye on the box while he used the other to make sure he didn’t fly into anything.

An F/A-18 ordinarily attacked at six hundred knots or more, but that was usually at sea or over open terrain. Here,

the buildings rushing by made even a slower speed seem more like Mach two.

There still wasn’t any fire from the ground, and with a little relief, he concentrated on pinpointing his target. His targeting box seemed centered on a thick smoke column billowing high into the air. In a flash the scene filled his windscreen.

Lee’s eyes narrowed. He hadn’t seen what he’d expected to see. The target was obvious, an already-bombed building in the exact center of the box. It was in ruins, no more than a pile of dirty brick and twisted steel. With an error of less than one foot, he couldn’t argue with the coordinates. That was the target.

During his one split second overhead, he saw people pointing up at his aircraft, running for cover. He had a momentary image of sandbags in front of the building next door, and men among them, and then he was past.

Lee checked his wingman. Panther Lewis was still in position. He waved a gloved hand as he spotted Lee looking him over.

“What’s the plan, boss?”

“Proceed as ordered, I guess.”

Panther’s voice revealed his doubts.

“There’s not much left to hit.”

” I know, but we don’t know the story, so we stick to plan A.”

By this time the two aircraft had “extended” away from the target-gaining enough distance to turn and line up on their programmed target again. Lee clicked his radio switch again.

“Reverse course, turn left in place. Now.”

Both Hornets dropped their left wingtips and neatly pivoted one hundred eighty degrees. Lee lined up on Lewis, the new leader, and pushed the throttle forward as his wingman said, “Accelerating.”

A four-fifty-knot stroll looking over the target was one thing, but they’d make the real attack run at full speed. Flying faster would make their bomb drop more accurate, increase their separation from the explosions, and make them harder targets for the now-alerted defenders.

The rooftops flashed by below them, and Lee followed his partner in.

MAIN TELEPHONE EXCHANGE, ON WEST STREET

The soldiers guarding the phone exchange watched the American planes scream past. They had a fleeting impression of sharp noses and gray, square-cut wings, combined with a roar that filled their heads.

The enemy planes were dangerous, but seemingly random in their destruction.

Less than two hours before, they had bombed the office building across the street into oblivion, while leaving the telephone building unscathed.

One soldier had suggested that there must have been secret military work going on in there, and that was why the Americans had bombed it. Among the laughter, the consensus had been that they were just poor shots. They had been lucky. That was something soldiers could understand.