Retribution by Dale Brown Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Dale Brown
cement. He put his feet against the bulkhead below the control panel and levered his entire weight backward. The plane reluctantly raised her nose, and was able to level off at just over fifty feet, so close he worried that he was scooping the waves into the engines.
Dog’s maneuver had cost him so much airspeed that the missile shot past, still flying on the last vector supplied by the guidance radar. He saw it wobbling a few hundred feet overhead; instinctively he ducked as the warhead blew up two or three hundred meters in front of him.
Fourteen kilograms of high explosive was more than enough to perforate an aluminum can, even if that can was covered over with an exotic carbon resin material. But the truly deadly part of the HQ-7’s warhead was the shroud of metal surrounding the explosive nut; the metal splinters the explosion produced were engineered to shred high performance fighters and attack aircraft. Fortunately, the designers envisioned that the warhead would be doing its thing behind the plane it was targeted at, not in front of it, and the majority of the shrapnel rained down well beyond the Wisconsin .
Not all of it, however. The left wing took a dozen hits, the fuselage another six. A fist-sized slab of former missile punched through the top of the cockpit behind Dog. It crashed into the bulkhead at the rear of the flight deck, spraying more metal around the cockpit. Dog felt a hot poke on his right side, and winced as a splinter rebounded off one of the consoles and hit his ribs. It barely broke the skin, but still hurt like hell.
Clearly, the shrapnel had damaged the plane. He decided a poke in the side was a small price to pay for the near miss, and started to climb again, angling southward, well out of the frigate’s range.
Aboard the Abner Read,
northern Arabian Sea
0920
H ANDS ON HIPS, S TORM WATCHED THE VIDEO FEED FROM the Werewolf in astonishment. The downed airmen seemed to have formed a human chain connecting their rafts with the robot helo. Any second now, he thought, one of them would suggest the helicopter turn around so they could try boarding the destroyer chasing them.
More guts than brains, that bunch.
He turned back to the holographic table, rechecking the positions of the Chinese ships. Then he reached to the com switch on his belt.
“Sickbay, how’s our guest?”
“Conscious, Captain. In shock, though. Looks like a concussion, but no other serious injuries.”
“Can he be transported?”
“I wouldn’t advise it, sir.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
“If it were absolutely necessary.”
Storm flicked the controller. “Communications—send a message to the captain of the Khan . Tell him I have one of his pilots and I’m on my way to return him. Tell him I need to talk to him right away.”
T HE W EREWOLF’S SMALL SIZE AND SHIFTING LOCATION made it difficult for the gun radar to lock, but the Chinese were definitely out to earn an A for effort. The radar warning receiver kept flashing and then clearing, only to flash again.
Finally, a shell arced toward the helo. It missed by nearly a half mile, short and wide to the right. The 56mm gun at the bow was effective at about 10,000 meters; the computer calculated it would be within range of the rafts in another sixty seconds.
Starship notched the speed up to twelve knots.
“Mack, can you get the raft tied in better?” he asked.
When the major didn’t respond, Starship tried again, this time yelling into the microphone.
Still no answer. The frigate was now forty-five seconds from range.
“Fourteen knots,” Starship told the computer.
Northern Arabian Sea
0923
M ACK’S LEGS FELT AS IF THEY’D BEEN PULLED FROM HIS hips. The waves cracked across the bottoms of the two rafts, punching them up and down. This wouldn’t have been so bad, he thought, if they bounced together. Instead, they rumbled unevenly, thumping and jerking in a madly syncopated dance. It was as if he were standing on the backs of
Dog’s maneuver had cost him so much airspeed that the missile shot past, still flying on the last vector supplied by the guidance radar. He saw it wobbling a few hundred feet overhead; instinctively he ducked as the warhead blew up two or three hundred meters in front of him.
Fourteen kilograms of high explosive was more than enough to perforate an aluminum can, even if that can was covered over with an exotic carbon resin material. But the truly deadly part of the HQ-7’s warhead was the shroud of metal surrounding the explosive nut; the metal splinters the explosion produced were engineered to shred high performance fighters and attack aircraft. Fortunately, the designers envisioned that the warhead would be doing its thing behind the plane it was targeted at, not in front of it, and the majority of the shrapnel rained down well beyond the Wisconsin .
Not all of it, however. The left wing took a dozen hits, the fuselage another six. A fist-sized slab of former missile punched through the top of the cockpit behind Dog. It crashed into the bulkhead at the rear of the flight deck, spraying more metal around the cockpit. Dog felt a hot poke on his right side, and winced as a splinter rebounded off one of the consoles and hit his ribs. It barely broke the skin, but still hurt like hell.
Clearly, the shrapnel had damaged the plane. He decided a poke in the side was a small price to pay for the near miss, and started to climb again, angling southward, well out of the frigate’s range.
Aboard the Abner Read,
northern Arabian Sea
0920
H ANDS ON HIPS, S TORM WATCHED THE VIDEO FEED FROM the Werewolf in astonishment. The downed airmen seemed to have formed a human chain connecting their rafts with the robot helo. Any second now, he thought, one of them would suggest the helicopter turn around so they could try boarding the destroyer chasing them.
More guts than brains, that bunch.
He turned back to the holographic table, rechecking the positions of the Chinese ships. Then he reached to the com switch on his belt.
“Sickbay, how’s our guest?”
“Conscious, Captain. In shock, though. Looks like a concussion, but no other serious injuries.”
“Can he be transported?”
“I wouldn’t advise it, sir.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
“If it were absolutely necessary.”
Storm flicked the controller. “Communications—send a message to the captain of the Khan . Tell him I have one of his pilots and I’m on my way to return him. Tell him I need to talk to him right away.”
T HE W EREWOLF’S SMALL SIZE AND SHIFTING LOCATION made it difficult for the gun radar to lock, but the Chinese were definitely out to earn an A for effort. The radar warning receiver kept flashing and then clearing, only to flash again.
Finally, a shell arced toward the helo. It missed by nearly a half mile, short and wide to the right. The 56mm gun at the bow was effective at about 10,000 meters; the computer calculated it would be within range of the rafts in another sixty seconds.
Starship notched the speed up to twelve knots.
“Mack, can you get the raft tied in better?” he asked.
When the major didn’t respond, Starship tried again, this time yelling into the microphone.
Still no answer. The frigate was now forty-five seconds from range.
“Fourteen knots,” Starship told the computer.
Northern Arabian Sea
0923
M ACK’S LEGS FELT AS IF THEY’D BEEN PULLED FROM HIS hips. The waves cracked across the bottoms of the two rafts, punching them up and down. This wouldn’t have been so bad, he thought, if they bounced together. Instead, they rumbled unevenly, thumping and jerking in a madly syncopated dance. It was as if he were standing on the backs of
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