Saturday, 2:36pm
Forty-five thousand feet above the Atlantic and twenty miles south of Martha’s Vineyard, Captain Brian “Pierogi” Pierson completed a slow turn to the north. Through the canopy of his F-15E Strike Eagle he could see, through a layer of broken clouds several miles below him, the outline of Martha’s Vineyard to north and Nantucket to the east.
“Nice view,” commented his WSO from the back seat. Brian was used to it; his WSO said it every time the islands were both in view. It had started as a joke and was now, after several hours, part of their ritual.
Since 9/11, there had always been at least one pair of Strike Eagles tracing endless ovals over the Atlantic south of Long Island and east of the New Jersey coast. They could loiter here, largely unobserved, and yet be over Boston, New York, or even Philadelphia in a matter of minutes.
Brian and his wingman were had flown this patrol many times, but rarely so far to the east. This week was unusual. The President was vacationing on Martha’s Vineyard, and that meant a shift in coverage to the east, so that the pattern was centered twenty miles south of Martha’s Vineyard.
It also meant that there was more activity in the air than usual. Brian knew that there were two F-22’s flying a similar pattern, closer still to Martha’s Vineyard and twenty thousand feet below him, and an AWACS plane flying above them all, in its own pattern directly above the island. Brian scanned for them, but knew that even his extraordinary vision would be unlikely to be able to spot planes painted to match the clouds at that distance.
As long as the AWACS and F-22’s were there for the sake of the President, Brian was under their command. This meant boredom for Brian, his wingman and their WSO’s; usually their commander could be counted on to provide at least one interesting training exercise per weekend, but when they were standing watch over the President, Brian expected–and hoped for–nothing except endless ovals for several hours. The high point of the day–mid-air refueling–had come and gone, and there was probably nothing else on the schedule.
“Status check,” Brian said into his radio mic. Brian began a gauge check, walking through a mental list of readings to check and compare with their proper values. He knew that the electronics of his aircraft would warn him if they detected any serious problems, but he also knew that the electronics could fail. He knew that his WSO was doing the same thing behind him. In a few moments, they would each respond.
“Standby for flash message,” came an unexpected answer. Brian recognized the voice of the Colonel on the AWACS. He’d heard his voice before; it had always been cool, mechanical, and nearly emotionless. It was not emotionless now; Brian heard fear in his voice.
In a fraction of a second, Brian became completely alert, in a way that few people other than strike pilots can achieve. A flash message meant that something very important was happening, and Brian was about to become a part of it.
“Eagles, Lassie mission course 050, range 50 miles.”
Brian began his turn northeast before the Colonel had finished his sentence.
“I have the lead,” Brian announced to his wingman as he finished his turn and rolled into a steep dive to help his plane gain speed, and then engaged the afterburner. The powerful engines accelerated the plane ferociously.
“Launch estimated three minutes ago,” continued the Colonel. “Sending approximate launch coordinates.”
Despite his training, a chill went down Brian’s spine. Lassie was the mission code for launch site suppression strikes–the polite military euphemism for killing the crew and destroying the equipment of a missile battery before they could launch their missiles, or before they could escape if the site wasn’t detected before launch. Brian had flown Lassies during the second Gulf War, and knew that it was always a race–the Air Force could usually detect a launch and direct strike planes to the site within ten minutes, but their enemy was often able to flee the site and evade pursuit in little more than six. That was in the desert, where there was little cover. Brian looked at his course and realized that he was heading to the northern end of Cape Cod, much of which was blanketed in thick pine forests and other places to hide.
Brian knew that he had only a few moments to cover the fifty miles if he was to have any hope of catching the missile crews at the site, but he also knew what his aircraft could do. He could cover the fifty miles in less than three minutes. He was already five miles north of Vineyard Haven before the sonic boom from his plane startled the tourists arriving on the ferry.
“Multiple subsonic cruise missile launches detected. Probable target near Chilmark.”
Brian had never been to Martha’s Vineyard, and did not know its geography, but he recognized the name of the town from a newspaper story he’d read that morning. The President was there today.
“Configure radar for booster plume detection,” Brian said to his WSO. Although cruise missiles were very hard to detect and track once launched, their launch sites were relatively easy to spot because they typically used a solid fuel booster to gain initial speed, and the propellant used by these boosters was easy to detect. If it wasn’t too windy at sea level, they’d have a good chance of finding the site very quickly. The only question is whether the enemy would still be there.
His WSO acknowledged the order. There was ice in his voice. Someone was throwing missiles at his commander in chief, and that someone was going to pay.
Windows rattled as Brian made landfall on the Cape and crossed over Hyannis at more than twice the speed of sound. A moment later he was back over the ocean, this time over Cape Cod Bay, shattering the peace of the sheltered beaches of Dennis and Brewster.
His wingman dropped back; Brian’s role as lead was to find the launch site as quickly as possible and locate the crews, but was difficult to attack ground targets precisely at high speed. That was the job of his wingman, who would trail behind him at a slower speed and be ready to attack any targets Brian identified.
Wellfleet harbor loomed before him as Brian and his WSO silently ran through their checklists: look for roads, look for groves, hollows, warehouses, any other hiding spots. In this environment, there was a possibility that the crews might flee by boat, but it was unlikely. The first thing to look for was a truck or a group of vehicles heading in the same direction, or perhaps a large helicopter leaving the area.
