Maden Mike - Tom Clancy Firing Point

This transitional window was also the reason why the ATO remained fixated on the readouts. The Seahawk was perfectly capable of flying on a single engine when it was traveling at speed and in a forward direction. But the Seahawk became a flying brick if one of the engines quit during the transition window. If Callaway couldn’t get enough air speed when an engine quit, it meant crashing into the Pacific strapped to twelve tons of metal and munitions plunging toward the ocean floor.

“Gauges green, on the go,” Callaway said. He gently eased the cyclic forward and the collective farther upward as he hit the pedals to begin his turn out over the brooding waters of the rolling black Pacific.

Within moments, the helicopter rose to its cruising altitude, then turned full throttle, racing through the starless night just two hundred feet above the deck toward the target some two hundred and twenty miles distant.

—

One of the many features of the MH-60R Seahawk that made it such a formidable anti-ship and anti-submarine weapon was its Block III upgraded Light Airborne Multi-Purpose System (LAMPS). LAMPS was developed to extend the reach of surface vessels whose radar and sonar systems were limited by the physics of range and distance.

Putting Callaway’s Seahawk two hundred miles in front of the Luzon allowed it to feed its data via LAMPS back to the ship in real time. This exponentially increased the Luzon ’s ability to deal with surface and underwater threats beyond the horizon.

In effect, everything Lieutenant Callaway’s Seahawk was seeing, optically or electronically, the CIC of the Luzon was also seeing.

It also meant that Admiral Talbot, several thousand miles away in Washington, D.C., was receiving the same real-time information. Because of the sensitive nature of the mission, President Ryan wanted his most experienced naval officer in charge of the operation. It was imperative that the Glazov be found and neutralized, but it was in no one’s interest to start a shooting war with the Russians.

At least, not yet.

39

The heavy wipers slashed away the rain spattering the bridge windows but Captain Yevgraf still couldn’t see a thing in the cloud-darkened night sky, including those damned American helicopters circling his ship high overhead—two MH-60R Seahawks, according to his electronic warfare officer.

Heavy cloud cover erased what little horizon he might have chased. A starless night lay like a blanket over the sea. Despite the heavy thrumming of his churning diesel motor belowdecks and the wind whistling in the rigging, Yevgraf couldn’t help but feel if not hear the heavy beating of the Seahawk rotors booming above him.

He thought for sure they’d give up when the storm worsened. They’d dropped a dozen of their passive AN/SSQ-101 ADAR sonobuoys on their first run. His own sonar man had picked up the splashes of the three-foot-long, thirty-nine-pound devices. That meant the Glazov below heard the splashes, too—their sonar people were far superior to his own. And even a deaf sonarman would have heard the pinging of the Americans’ active sonobuoys that followed.

So what if the Americans had echolocated the sub? Yevgraf chuckled. The Glazov ’s captain was a cool customer—ice water for blood, and brass for balls. And smart. He just sat down there, waiting the Americans out. If he didn’t move and didn’t make a sound, the Americans would still have their doubts. And when the Seahawks finally left, he could surface and restock from Penza ’s stores of food and fuel.

But rough seas delayed replenishment and the bastard choppers had returned.

The sound of the beating rotors was maddening. The grizzled Russian captain pulled the night-vision binoculars to his red-rimmed eyes. He scanned the sky again. Where the hell were they?

He couldn’t see shit from inside the bridge. He barked at his XO. “You have the conn.” He reminded the younger man to maintain course and speed, which was little more than holding their position against the tide. He didn’t dare stray too far away from his comrade below with his batteries nearly expended.

Yevgraf pulled up the hood of his slicker and stepped out onto the starboard bridge wing some twenty-five meters above the water line. He cursed the roaring wind in his ears and the rain stinging his eyes. He felt more than saw a black shadow in an even blacker sky low in the distance.

He raised the binoculars to his eyes again—at exactly the wrong time.

Blinding light blasted his eyes.

The old Russian cursed violently, dropping his binoculars. He grabbed his aching eyes, praying the white-hot sunspot burning into his retinas would fade quickly. Rotor wash from the Seahawk hovering just six meters away from the bridge wing battered his body.

The blast from the Seahawk’s thirty-million-candle-watt beam of short-arc xenon light was made worse because the dark had dilated Yevgraf’s eyes, and the binocular lenses had magnified it.

Yevgraf’s XO flung the bridge door open.

“Captain! The Americans are calling for you on the radio!”

Yevgraf’s sight finally returned. He spun around and faced the fearsome helicopter, shielding his eyes from the blinding arc light. He could make out the shape of the four ship-killing Hellfires strapped beneath the port side stub wing pointed at his ship.

He flipped a bird at the helo and turned back inside the bridge.

—

Lieutenant Callaway fought the gusting winds with his controls to maintain his position parallel with the Penza ’s bridge.

When the Russian captain flipped him off, Callaway and his copilot laughed.

“You see that, Luzon ?” Callaway said in his comms. He knew the Luzon ’s CIC was getting a live feed from his video camera, as well as the other Seahawk still circling overhead. The other bird had enough fuel for another fifteen minutes before needing to head back to the barn. His bird had forty. He hoped that was enough time.

“You think that old salt is pissed now? Just wait a minute,” Luzon ’s radioman replied. “But still, you better watch your six.”

“Roger that,” Callaway replied. The ATO killed the spot and they reengaged their night vision. Callaway saw three Russian two-man teams dashing out on deck, two armed with SA-25 “Willow” MANPADS, shoulder-fired anti-aircraft missiles, the other with an RPG. They each found covered firing points and raised their weapons skyward. The RPG team was focused on Callaway’s bird. His ATO turned the spotlight on them and warned the other helo.

“You see those guys, Sara?” Callaway asked. With a shorthanded air crew, AWO Sara Arendas was doing double duty tonight as both the bird’s acoustic systems specialist and gunner, manning the pintle-mounted M60D 7.62 mm machine gun. She had a clear view of all three Russian teams through her NVGs.

“Got ’em, sir.”

Callaway heard Arendas racking the machine gun. “Don’t get an itchy finger just yet.”

“My finger’s secured, sir. But say the word and I’ll scratch those pukes right off the deck.”

If the Russians were that heavily armed, Callaway was glad he wasn’t fast-roping SEALs or Marines onto the deck to seize the ship. Charging toward a rudder room belowdecks with breacher charges and power saws was hard enough without getting shot at with automatic fire.

—

“Who the fuck is this?” Yevgraf demanded in thickly accented English.

“Lieutenant Commander Charles Ellis, U.S. Navy, commanding the USS Luzon, two hundred and twenty miles east-northeast of your position. Over.”

“And what do you want from me, Captain Ellis?”

“You are ordered to command the Russian Federation Navy submarine Glazov to surface immediately.”