Piranha: Firing Point

Her face relaxed for just a second, a serenity coming over her, and then the curtain fell, the frown returning, her fingers typing on the keyboard, a curse under her breath at the computer. He stepped to the door and looked back at her, wanting to remember her like this.

Chapter 12 Thursday November 7

KAGOSHIMA NAVAL AIR STATION

KAGOSHIMA, JAPAN

The P-5 Pegasus Antisubmarine-warfare patrol plane idled at the end of runway one eight. The strip pointed due south toward the dark water of the East China Sea.

The only light in the cockpit came from the backwash of the instrument panel and the lights of the runway.

The flashing numerals of the digital chronometer, synchronized with the overhead satellite atomic clock, flashed 53 … 54 … 55 …

Commander David Toscano’s Nomex-gloved hand was already poised on the throttles to the four fanjet transit engines mounted in pairs on the high wings of the ungainly aircraft, and when the numerals 55 flashed, he moved the levers forward to the detents at the instrument panel. The jets howled far behind him, making the plane shake with the power. Toscano’s feet remained planted on the toe brakes, watching as the needles climbed on the electronic analog-mimic instruments — oil pressure, fuel flow rate, revolutions per minute. The jets were coming up normally to full thrust. The heavy bird would need every ounce of power the Dynacorp engines could deliver because the day’s load was heavy, featuring fat war-shot Mark 79 torpedoes, each weighing twenty tons, plus two Yo-Yo Mark 12 over-the-horizon remote-sonar-sensor pods, a massive two tons each.

Toscano looked over at his copilot, who nodded behind his visor. The clock ticked, 58 … 59 … 00. At zero zero exactly Toscano released the toe brakes. For the first second the P-5, shuddering under several dozens of tons of thrust, did exactly nothing, sitting immobile on the runway. Toscano’s fingers tensed on the control yoke, toes poised on the rudder pedals. The P-5 finally budged, accelerating in the first few seconds to a walking speed, even as the jets aft screeched at full power. Toscano shot a look at the panel — all nominal — then back at the runway. At fifteen seconds they were at a jogging speed. Another five seconds clicked off, and the airspeed needle showed them at twenty knots, only about fifty feet of runway behind them, almost two miles of concrete ahead.

The big bird slowly gained speed until the ground was rushing by beneath them, highway speed, the aircraft bouncing slightly. To a hundred knots the airspeed climbed, then 120,140, half the runway gone, the plane shaking insistently. At the three-quarter point the jet had made it to safe takeoff velocity, 175 knots, but Toscano held it down, the wings bouncing behind them. To 180, 190, 200 knots — the concrete’s end could be seen ahead. Toscano gently pulled back on the control yoke and the nose came up, only darkness in the windows ahead, the shaking airframe instantly canning, the P-5 airborne over the water of the East China Sea. The needle of the radar altimeter climbed as the jet fought for altitude. As they passed through a thousand feet, Toscano throttled back and put the yoke forward.

“Gear up,” he said. The copilot hit the lever with the round handle, and the P-5’s wheels retracted into the fuselage. “Raps up,” and the whine behind him indicated the wings fairing in the flap surfaces. The Pegasus was fully airborne.

Toscano dialed in the navigation chart to the forward display. As the number one Yo-Yo drop zone began flashing, the coastline of the Home Islands faded to the north of the blinking dot representing their aircraft.

Transit time to the drop zone at jet speed was about fifteen minutes. Toscano concentrated on his navigation and his instruments, the P-5 known to be temperamental.

At the drop time, Toscano broke his silence. “Start the turboprops.” His copilot hit the auto-start button on the starboard turboprop, the engine with its huge diameter prop feathered during takeoff. The prop windmilled in the airstream, and the engine came up to speed, the copilot monitoring as fuel injection began and the prop came up to idling revs.

“Number one turboprop is up.” He started the port prop and soon reported it running at idle.

Toscano pulled back on the jet throttles, their howl dying to a whimper. Quieter than the jets, the grinding turboprops would keep the massive jet hanging above the water at ultraslow speed. Toscano descended to the water. He checked the nav display. They were one mile from the drop of the number one Mark 12 Yo-Yo.

“Mark 12 forward door open,” he commanded on his boom mike. The copilot hit the lever, and the fuselage opened up beneath them.

“Eight hundred yards to drop number one,” Toscano said. “Arm the drop mechanism, Yo-Yo unit one power on.”

“Power on, unit one and engaged, drop mechanism enabled. Ready for Mark 12 release.”

“Four hundred yards, stand by.”

SS-403 ARCTIC STORM