South China Sea
August 26
Admiral LaGrassa was incredulous for exactly three seconds. He’d just finished reading the priority message sent by Pacific Fleet Command. In his business, one didn’t have the luxury of time to ponder orders. Lives were lost or saved in a span of seconds.
He picked up the communication handset connecting him to the air boss located high in the superstructure, overlooking the flight deck. “Get the alert-five Hornets in the air ASAP! And two more right behind them. Loadout for air-to-air.”
“Yes, sir,” the air boss replied. He relayed the order, and seamen began scrambling to comply. “What are we hunting?” he asked the admiral.
“According to Fleet Command, we have high-level intelligence that anti-ship missiles are about to be fired from ships disguised as fishing trawlers.”
Standing on the bridge, slightly behind the admiral, Captain Healy easily overheard his order. “The escorts will take down any cruise missiles coming our way, and if by some freak stroke of luck a missile gets through, our close-in defensive systems will do the job. Not much chance of intercepting with fighters.”
Admiral LaGrassa had a faraway look in his eyes. “That’s the damnedest part of this. According to the intelligence, they aren’t shooting at us, but at the Chinese task force.”
“Who?”
“The message didn’t say. Only that we are to intercept an unknown number of missiles at all costs. According to the intel, those trawlers are supposed to be somewhere in our vicinity, so it looks to the Chinese like we fired on them. Follow me to the CIC.”
Captain Healy and Admiral LaGrassa moved smartly to the Combat Information Center to better direct the expected action, assuming the intel was correct. The admiral entered first. “Radar, what are we showing?”
A technician answered without taking her eyes from her display. “We’ve got four surface contacts ahead and to starboard.”
“Could be our trawlers,” Healy said.
“Could be… or not. We won’t know for sure until they fire off the cruise missiles. Assuming the intel is correct.”
The muffled roar of two Super Hornets launching off the flight deck drew the attention of Healy and LaGrassa. They already had two Hornets, designated Sentry One and Sentry Two, high overhead comprising the combat air patrol. One of the many improvements implemented in the new Ford-class of aircraft carrier was the electromagnetic aircraft launch system (EMALS) which allowed for much faster turnaround between aircraft launches. Getting more planes in the air faster was a huge tactical advantage in a combat situation.
Healy looked at a video feed of the flight deck. Sailors were darting about in frenetic activity. “Two more are preparing to launch. They’ll be airborne in three minutes. Fortunately, the warhead just clipped the starboard edge of the flight deck. If it had hit closer to center and taken out the EMALS or penetrated through the flight hangar, we’d be out of business.”
“We need a sharp set of eyes on those surface contacts,” LaGrassa said. “Have Bluebird monitor their activity.” Bluebird was their E3 Sentry early warning and surveillance aircraft. With a powerful radar and the advantage of altitude, the reconnaissance aircraft was the best tool to spot a missile launch. “Authorize the pilot to shift his position if needed to get a better look. I want to know the instant anything resembling a launch is detected. And then immediately direct the nearest Hornets on an intercept vector. The pilots are authorized to lock and fire at will.”
Healy checked the location of the surface contacts again. “Shiloh is the nearest escort to that fleet of fishing boats. Maybe it would be prudent to have her load in a set of firing solutions, just in case one of them is our missile boat.”
LaGrassa nodded. “Good idea, Jack. See to it.”
The tension in the CIC was palpable. Although the damage to the Ford was minimal, the officers and experienced crewmembers knew that luck played a major role in their survival. Their defenses were completely ineffective against whatever this new weapon was. If it was used against them again, would they be as fortunate?
“Probable missile launch from surface contact,” the radar technician reported. “Contact designated Tango One.”
Healy spun around to address the communications operator. “Tell Shiloh to take her down!”
“Aye, aye Skipper.”
“Second launch detected! Probable missile. Surface contact designated Tango Two.”
“Order Shiloh to fire on Tangos One and Two,” Healy barked.
“Bluebird reporting multiple launches.” This report from the communications station. “Five… make that six bogeys. Flight profile matches Harpoon anti-ship missile.”
“Transfer targeting control to Bluebird,” Admiral LaGrassa ordered. “Get Eagle Flight vectored on those missiles!” As an afterthought he added, “And order the pilots they are to engage with guns or sidewinders only. No AMRAAMs! Can’t run the risk that radar lock is lost in the sea clutter and one of those missiles overshoots and hits a Chinese warship.”
“Status on Tangos One and Two?” Healy said, his voice elevated to carry over the chatter.
“Sir, both were just hit by Harpoon missiles fired from Shiloh.”
Captain Healy looked at the video showing the flight deck. “Why are those Hornets still there? I want those birds in the air!” No sooner had the words escaped his lips when the roar of jet engines reverberated across the bridge. The pilots were forcibly thrust back in their seats as their aircraft raced off the flight deck into a bright tropical sky. They gained altitude rapidly and joined another pair of Hornets to make up Eagle Flight.
Lieutenant Alfred Dickerson was born and raised in Atlanta. He grew up with a brother and two sisters in a modest apartment. His grades were exceptional, and he enjoyed school. But his passion was flying, inspired by stories he’d read about the Tuskegee airmen. Once, he even met two of the airmen during a book signing event. Freddy, as his friends called him, turned down a scholarship to Brown University, much to his mother’s disappointment, to join the Navy and become an aviator.
Behind the controls of Eagle Four, Dickerson was in his element. He believed this would be a fairly easy exercise. After all, unlike an enemy fighter, the cruise missile would not employ evasive maneuvers to avoid being shot down. And now he was racing at Mach 1.5 to close on two lead bogies. The other three Hornets in Eagle Flight were cleaning up the trailing Harpoons.
Exactly following the vector he’d been given by Bluebird, he was expecting to close on his two bogies and be within range at any moment. The window to achieve a kill was now less than sixty seconds. Soon, very soon, he would be upon the Chinese task force—and he doubted they would perceive his aircraft as friendly.
With his attention on the powerful search and targeting radar onboard the Super Hornet, suddenly blips representing the two missiles showed on his display. The targets were both at lower altitude, just above the sea, and somewhat staggered—one ahead of the other. He descended, wishing to come in behind the missiles to get a good thermal lock on the hot engine exhaust. The shot had to be good—he probably wouldn’t get a second chance.
Flying twenty feet above the sea, the Harpoon cruised at 460 knots searching for target ships in its path using an internal radar. When located, it would then steer a course unerringly to the target, slam into the side of the ship just above water level, and detonate a 500-pound high-explosive warhead.
“Bluebird this is Eagle Four. I have two bogies on my radar. Moving in to get a thermal lock.” Still five kilometers away, the missile was invisible to the naked eye.
“Eagle Four to Bluebird. Can’t lock, moving closer.” Dickerson dropped to only fifty feet. He thought that if he descended any lower, he’d have saltwater splashing across his canopy.
Skimming the water at 600 knots, he quickly shortened the distance to the first missile. “Bluebird, Eagle Four. Have infrared lock on Bogey One… Fox two.” A sleek white sidewinder missile shot forward from the wing pylon, a plume of white smoke trailing behind it as it accelerated toward the Harpoon cruise missile at supersonic speed.
Dickerson continued to close on Bogie One for another three seconds. “Eagle Four, splash Bogey One,” came the confirming message from Bluebird. He immediately corrected his course, nudging the Hornet to the left until he was behind the second Harpoon. He was four kilometers away and had to get closer to ensure the sidewinder seeker was locked onto the target.
The radio chattered with more confirmed kills. Eagles One through Three had all succeeded in shooting down their targets and turned safely back toward the Gerald Ford. Now it was up to Freddy Dickerson in Eagle Four to kill that sole remaining Harpoon before it impacted on a Chinese ship.
“Eagle Four to Bluebird. I’m being painted by search radar.”
“Uh, Eagle Four. You’re getting close to the Chinese task force. Time to splash that bogey. You’re within range.”
“Negative Bluebird. Intermittent lock. I need to get closer.”
Dickerson urged a little more speed from his engines. “Bluebird, Eagle Four has tone… Fox Two!” A second heat-seeking missile raced forward, chasing after the hot exhaust emanating from the rear of the cruise missile.
Resisting the urge to turn his aircraft, Dickerson held his course low and directly behind the cruise missile until Bluebird confirmed the kill. “Splash Bogey Two.”
“Eagle Four, roger that.” He pushed the stick left and entered a sharp turn, advancing the throttles to gain elevation and speed. Suddenly the warning alarm blared. “I’ve been locked! Ejecting chaff!”
“Eagle Four, this is Bluebird. You have two incoming. Break right.”
Dickerson ejected more chaff, bundles of aluminum strips to confuse radar guidance systems, and then he ejected flares to decoy heat-seeking missiles. He threw the stick hard to the left, and then to the right, rocking back and forth as the airframe turned sharply. He pushed the throttles forward to the stops, kicking in the afterburner, and pointed the nose skyward to gain altitude.
The alarm was screaming inside the cockpit, warning Dickerson that his aircraft was still locked by guidance radar from an incoming missile. He pushed the stick forward and dived for the sea… and still the alarm refused to let up.
More chaff and flares were ejected, and then, just as it seemed he would crash into the ocean, he pulled back on the stick. The G forces were tremendous, and he squeezed his abdominal muscles in continuous repetitions to force blood up to his brain. If he blacked out, he’d crash into the sea at 650 knots.
As his peripheral vision faded to blackness, he focused his narrow field of view on the altimeter… 300 feet… 200 feet… 100 feet… he wasn’t going to make it.
He pulled back harder on the stick… seventy feet… forty feet.
Finally, the rate of descent slowed. At thirty feet it leveled off, and a heartbeat later the screaming alarm silenced, the two trailing missiles shattering on contact with the sea.
Pulse racing, Dickerson allowed himself one deep breath and then Eagle Four climbed to a safe altitude, leaving the Chinese task force far behind.