Checkmate (2006)

Bird interrupted. “Colonel, get me clearance into Dubai.”

“What? Why?”

“Trust me. I’ll explain later.”

“Okay . . .”

Off the air, Fisher asked Bird, “What’s that about?”

“A little sleight-of-hand. The Iranians have been tracking us since we left Pakistan. I’m lining up with Dubai’s final approach lane. I’ll drop some altitude to simulate a landing, then once we’re below the radar, we’ll swing back around. It’ll add some time, but it’ll save us a missile up the heinie.”

Fisher smiled. “I like the way you think.”

Bird descended steadily, crossing first into UAE airspace and then over coastline. When their alititude reached one hundred feet, he banked hard and swung around on a reciprocal course, heading back into the Gulf of Oman. Twenty minutes later, he called, “Iranian coast coming up. Kordap Shipyard dead on our nose, three miles. Powering up the FLIR.”

“Give me a picture back here,” Fisher called, and sat down at the console.

The FLIR image came on the monitor; it looked like an X-ray. As Fisher watched, the image slowly glided over the ocean.

“Shipyard in one mile,” Bird called. The cockpit radar warning alarm started beeping. “They’re just tickling us,” Bird called. “They haven’t got us yet.” Ten seconds later: “Should be seeing something at the edge of the FLIR.”

Fisher did. Enclosed by twin pincers of land, Kordap Shipyard came into view. Fisher could clearly make out four piers, some cranes jutting up into the sky, and a cluster of manufacturing and refit buildings. He counted four ships at dock.

“Swing right,” Fisher called. “I need a better look at the piers.”

Bird banked the Osprey slightly and realigned the nose with the piers.

Fisher studied each vessel. The Cat-14 had a unique outline, mainly from its twin Silkworm launchers jutting at an angle from the port and starboard decks.

“It’s not there,” Fisher said.

“You’re sure?” Redding asked.

“I’m sure. Bird, bring us about. Get us out of here.”

The Osprey banked, swinging over the shipyard and back over the water. A minute and half later, they were out of Iranian territorial waters. Bird started climbing.

Trouble,Fisher thought.

In normal circumstances he wouldn’t be worried about a lone patrol boat getting anywhere near the Reagan. Her picket ships, most of which were Aegis cruisers, would lock onto and destroy the Cat long before it came within Silkworm range. But these weren’t normal circumstances. The Reagan’s Group was split, with DESRON 9 moving through the Strait of Hormuz and the remaining picket ships restationing to give the huge carrier room to manuever. The mouth of the strait was a mere sixty miles wide—a tight fit for an entire battle group. Under those conditions, a fast boat might be able to get close enough to strike. And with as many as twelve Silkworms, at least one had a good chance of hitting something.

“Get Lambert on the line,” Fisher called. “Have him contact NAVCENT—”

“Hold your horses!” Bird called. “Check your screen, Sam.”

Fisher looked at the monitor. Dead ahead, cast in the FLIR’s negative image, was the missing Cat-14. It was sitting still in the water beside a cargo ship. As they drew nearer, Fisher could see figures on the decks of both vessels scrambling for cover.

From the cockpit came the radar warning alarm.

“We’re being painted!” Bird called.

The alarm went to a steady beep.

“Missile lock!”

On the monitor, Fisher saw a bloom of white appear on the Cat’s aftderdeck. “Got a launch!” he yelled. “Shoulder-fired missile. Left side!”

The Osprey banked hard. Fisher was tossed from his seat. He and Redding collided and tumbled across the deck together. Fisher snagged a cargo strap and dragged Redding to it.

“Active homing!” Bird said. “It’s got us!”

The Osprey heeled over again.

“Launch chaff!” Bird called.

There was a series of rapid pops outside the Osprey.

“Chaff away!” Sandy replied.

A long three seconds passed. Fisher heard a whumpon the Osprey’s right side. A dozen jagged, quarter-sized holes appeared in the fuselage.

“Hit!” Sandy called.

Through the cockpit door Fisher could see Bird’s and Sandy’s hands moving from control to control, their voices overlapping as they checked the aircraft’s vital readouts: oil pressure, hydraulics, temperature, fuel. . . .

“We’re okay, we’re okay,” Bird called.

“Where’s the Cat?” Fisher said.

“Right side, two miles. They’re thirty miles from the outer ring of the battle group.”

Already within missile range,Fisher thought. He ran to the cockpit. “Can you get ahead of them—line up right on their bow?”

“Yeah . . . Whatchya got in mind?”

Fisher told him.

Bird looked sideways at him. “Jesus, Sam. . . . That’s go

Fisher knew this, but if Abelzada’s men managed to put even a single Silkworm into a U.S. warship, there would be no pulling back from war. An Iranian patrol boat armed with Iranian missiles, laying in wait in an Iranian shipyard. . . .

Within hours, U.S. warplanes and cruise missiles would begin raining down on Iran.

“Do it,” Fisher ordered.

55

ASBird came about and aligned the Osprey’s tail with the oncoming Cat, now one mile back, Sandy got on the radio and started broadcasting in the blind on the battle group’s emergency ops cha

“ ReaganGroup, this is Pike. Be advised, Iranian fast patrol boat approaching your outer ring at bearing one-zero-nine. ReaganGroup, this is Pike. . . .”

Sitting at the comm console, Redding called to Sam, “The Cat’s up to forty-five knots and increasing. Distance to battle group, twenty-five miles.”

At this range, traveling at Mach .9, the Silkworm would reach the outer picket ships in less than two minutes.

“Where are we?”

“A half mile ahead of them, dead on their bow.”

Fisher called, “Bird, give me the ramp!”

“Ramp coming down.”

Sandy yelled, “Okay, we got the Reagan’s attention. A cruiser and a frigate are peeling away. They’re coming about, heading toward us.”

The ramp groaned down and locked into position. In the predawn gloom, Fisher could see the Osprey’s prop wash kicking up twin rooster tails on the surface. Farther back, he could just make out the Cat’s bow plowing through the waves.

“Start decreasing speed, Bird,” Fisher ordered. “How far, Will?”

“Quarter mile.”

Fisher knelt down. He flipped open the front right ratchet holding the Skipjack to the deck. He moved to the next one, repeated the process.

In the cockpit, the missile alarm starting wailing.

“They’ve got us again!” Bird yelled.

Fisher scrambled for the rear tie-downs, flipped one, then moved to the next. He glanced out the ramp and could see, silhouetted by the rising sun, a man standing on the Cat’s port bridge wing. A long, bulky object was resting on his shoulder. Even as Fisher thought missile,a gout of flame erupted from the rear of the launcher.

“Missile launch,” he yelled, and flipped the last tie-down.

He put his shoulder to the Skipjack and shoved.

INhis mind, time seemed to slow. The wail of the missile alarm faded, along with the voices of Bird and Sandy talking to one another in the cockpit.

The Skipjack slid off the ramp, bounced once on the surface, then nosed over and started tumbling end over end. In the final second, the Cat’s helsman must have seen the collision coming. He tried to turn, but too late. The Skipjack slammed broadside into the Cat’s bridge. Fisher had a fleeting glimpse of the bridge disintegrating in an eruption of debris before Bird banked hard right.

“. . . hold on . . . Active homing!” Bird was yelling. “Get that ramp up, get it up! Fire chaff!”