David Golemon - Ancients

"I think I'm aware of that. Carl, we have shape charges, correct?"

"No, but we have the training to create some conical charges, or directional explosions if that's what you need."

"Can we blow straight down?"

"Easy; but why would we want to?" he asked.

"I want to because I have faith in the engineering of the Ancients," she answered, looking from face to face of the men standing around her. "What does every major city, every highway, have that controls water runoff?"

Jack smiled and Carl slapped his forehead.

"A sewer! These smart bastards had to control the leakage you have whenever you tunnel under a body of water. Jack, we go through the sewers! We don't go through but under the blockage!"

Everett slapped the SEAL lieutenant on the shoulder and got him moving to bring up the explosives they would need.

"I guess we'll have to thank the Atlantis Department of Water and Power," Mendenhall said.

"Not bad, shorty, not bad at all," Jack said to Sarah.

The two B-2 stealth bombers made a wide turn to the south after their five-hour flight from Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean. Their part of the mission would look as if the opening phases of the attack had originated in Aviano, Italy, a vital, imperative deceit.

"Casper One Actual to Casper Two, thirty seconds to launch point."

"Casper Two, copy, starting the music at five, four, three, two, one, bomb-bay doors opening on automatic."

Their bom-bay doors of the two giant aircraft, which resembled bats, opened to reveal a darkened interior. The automatic carriage that held each of the twelve Tomahawk cruise missiles started turning like a rolling lottery drum. At the bottom of each cycle, a BGM-109 Tomahawk Special radar-manipulation weapon fell free. As each engine ignited, the stubby wings and tailfin popped free of the outer body. A split second later, a strong signal started to pulse through the dark sky ahead of them. In all, twenty-four weapons shot through the thin air on a course for Crete.

"Casper One to Thunder One Actual, Heckle and Jeckle flight is now airborne. Casper One and Two, RTB at this time, good luck, Thunder One."

Marine General Pete Hamilton received the message from the lead B-2 and watched the night sky around the Iwo. The ship was coming to life in the early-morning hours. Tilt-rotor craft abovedecks along with sixteen Seahawk helicopters were spooling up their engines and the marine assault force was in the process of loading.

Belowdecks, the sea-assault force was loading onto the Landing Craft Air Cushion (LCAC). This would be a lightning strike. The LCAC was loaded with four fully manned armored assault vehicles, while the four M1 Abrams tanks would be deployed from the USS Nassau .

The general looked from his wristwatch to the captain of the Iwo .

"Order Cheyenne to attack," he said far more calmly than he felt.

One hundred feet below the surface of the Mediterranean, Captain Burgess received the extremely low-frequency message (ELF) from the Iwo .

"Weapons officer, you have permission to launch vertical tubes one through twelve, empty 'em out. Diving officer, after launch, take us down to four hundred feet, heading two-three-zero at six knots."

Flying at wave-top level, the flight of ten F-22A Raptors from Aviano, Italy, screamed over the Mediterranean at Mach 1.5. The internal weapons bay of each stealth fighter was full of air-to-ground munitions.

Tomlinson was personally overseeing the placement of the Atlantean Key. He was so excited that he could barely contain his feelings. He even looked kindly upon Caretaker and the other Coalition members as they watched the final parts being calibrated. His smile faded when he was handed a topside report.

"Twenty-four? I guess we don't rate any higher than that with all the trouble in the world. We were right: the Americans are spread too thin to adequately deal with us."

"What is it, Mr. Tomlinson?" Dame Lilith asked.

"It seems we have become a nuisance to our American president after all. Radar has picked up a force of twenty-four fighters inbound from Aviano. They're not even bothering to hide their presence."

"I see. And your plan for this is--"

Tomlinson looked at Caretaker and smiled. "To destroy them, what else." He turned away and raised his radio to his mouth, the whole time watching Professor Engvall install the Key. "Commander, defend the island; defend it vigorously, please."

Above, former Soviet Air Force General Igor Uvilinski lowered his radio and looked at the radarscope one more time.

"The SAMs will strike first and then our Migs will take care of any American that makes it out alive," he said, raising his field glasses to the camo netting three hundred yards away. "All air-defense units lock on to inbound targets and fire at will."

Around the center of the island, twenty-five SAM batteries fired, as each of their missiles locked on to an incoming warplane.

A hundred miles south, following the exhaust trails of the SAMs as they streaked through the sky to meet the foolish American pilots who so brazenly thought they could attack Crete without a fight, the lead flight of twenty Coalition MIG 31s based out of Libya saw the first of the antiair-craft missiles take out the first five targets. The lead pilot smiled under his mask. At this rate they would not have much to clean up.

As the flight leader watched the fighters break through the SAM screen, he became curious as to why they were not taking evasive maneuvers to avoid further contact--a decision that was very brave of them, but also very foolish.

"Lead, I have a visual on the targets. They are not American fighter aircraft--they are cruise missiles!"

The leader heard the call. He had been duped into believing that the cruise missiles were a fighter flight. As he thought this, he heard his missile-threat warning system go off with a piercing screech. He looked at his radar but it was clear. Where is this threat coming from? he asked himself.

At a hundred miles away from Crete, the flight of ten F-22A Raptors popped up from the ground clutter of the sea and fired off twenty AMRAMM missiles, then went low again and continued to streak toward Crete.

Before the lead pilot of the flight of MIGs knew exactly who and what was attacking them, AMRAMM missiles started to slam into the engines, wings, and fuselages of his squadron. The Americans had somehow enticed his men to attack what they thought was a poorly disguised flight of fighters, having their cruise missiles emit a high frequency "ghosting" as if they were manned aircraft, radar signature and all.

The pilot's next thought never made it to the formation of a question in his mind as the lock-on tone became even more insistent just as he finally saw the telltale radar-guided AMRAMM. The flight leader's MIG came apart exactly one minute after the attack had begun; after ten years of training and payment to an air force consisting of very well-paid mercenaries, the Coalition fighter squadron had ceased to exist.

As the MIG wreckage struck the sea below, a new and even more amazing sight graced the Mediterranean as twelve water slugs breached the surface one right after the other as the Tomahawk cruise missiles of the USS Cheyenne flew to a hundred feet before leveling off. The stubby wings, air intake, and rear stabilizers popped free as the missiles started their runs for the SAM sites that had been tracked by the Cheyenne when they launched against the decoy cruise missiles, their target being the Coalition air defenses.