Unseen Terror

CHAPTER 1

Tuesday—Day One

Naval Station Roosevelt Roads, Puerto Rico 0600

A navy lieutenant runs. Every breath bringing new life and new pain. Sweat rolls from his pores and the salt stings his eyes. The veins in his forehead push the tanned flesh out at odd angles, the sunlight dancing across the slick surfaces of skin. He hates to run; the rubber soles of his shoes echo a rhythm he heard on the radio this morning. Now his breathing joins the cadence.

The run takes him downhill, around a bend, past a golf course and away from the Bachelor Officer Quarters. Above him, a large nondescript concrete building sits atop a hill. The structure is set against a backdrop of deep blue and bordered by shades and shapes of cotton candy white. He looks up at the building, a station the Navy calls Afwitif, its name the pronounced acronym for Atlantic Fleet Weapons Training Facility. He thinks back to Officer Candidate School where a Marine Gunnery Sergeant told him the Navy is acronym-insane. The name Afwitif repeats in the lieutenant’s mind, each syllable in sync with his rhythmic steps and he realizes the Gunny was right.

Before the lieutenant left OCS he received an Orders Package from Personnel Support. The package was from the base commander of Roosevelt (Rosie) Roads in Puerto Rico. The package, a standard introduction, tells of the base and its mission. With over 200,000 square miles of air and surface space AFWTF is the largest and most complete exercise area available for combined operation. One of the more interesting facts about the station is its underwater range for submarine warfare as well as the target complex on Vieques Island.

As the officer rounds the ninth green he hears a faint roar above. Initially wanting to be an aviator and eventually discovering an overwhelming sense of altitude-induced vertigo that kept him from becoming one, he always looks up when he hears that distinctive rush of jet noise; living vicariously through some unseen aviator high above. He looks up hoping to keep his mind off the German opera that echoes in his head and seems to control his breathing. The sound grows louder and he flicks his eyes across the sky. He welcomes this break in the run’s monotony and searches for the aircraft that distracts him from his pain. Suddenly, he finds it, or thinks he does. His eyes struggle to focus on the physical distortion that bleeds across a rounded base of white cloud. The distortion rolls across the white and bends the blue beyond it; a thinning vapor trail pulled behind. He slows his pace and as he strains his eyes on the anomaly, the tip of his shoe catches a broken edge of pavement. His aching legs pump faster, his eyes dig into the gravel and his arms flail. He catches himself and manages to stop. He places his hands on his knees and tries to catch his breath. He looks slowly upward toward the fading noise. The sky is again empty but for the clouds and the thinning vapor trail. The exhausted lieutenant shakes his head and resumes his run.

Naval Air Station Roosevelt Roads, Puerto Rico

Two TA-4J Skyhawks perch at the end of Runway 6. The engines of the single seat aircraft breathe a hum-whine of power. The sound bounces from the tarmac, sails through the warm Caribbean air and wafts to the outer edges of the flight line. Ordnanceman Second Class Michael (Radar) Martin pulls the last of the safety pins from one of the 2.75 inert rocket pods sitting under the wing of Flight 402. Radar’s thin glasses, visible beneath the flight line goggles, earned him the moniker because of his resemblance to the character from M. A. S. H.

Both fixed-wing aircraft belong to VC-8, a composite support squadron made up of six TA-4Js and six H-3 Sea King helicopters. The TA-4Js act as Threat or Adversary aircraft during fleet exercises and at the Navy’s prestigious Fighter Weapons School (Top Gun) in Miramar, California. Active since the early days of the Vietnam War the A-4 Skyhawk quickly became a commendable aircraft and remains a formidable opponent for the modern day fleet.

The two jets prepare for a training flight over the target complex of Vieques. The area is designated by the U.S. Navy for use in live-fire exercises including the deployment of amphibious forces and munitions from ships, submarines and aircraft. It is a concentrated area of dirt, metal fragments and expended artillery shells. From there the tiny gray jets will proceed with the true joy of the fighter pilot, ACM (Air Combat Maneuvering) or Dog-Fighting.

Keith (Mad Dog) Slater sits strapped into Aircraft 402. The green flight suit, unzipped at the neck and partially covered by an open oxygen mask, displays a rumpled black leather name badge on the right breast pocket. Spelled out in faded gold letters are the words Commanding Officer. As the flight finishes final checks and the sun bounces through the scratched and smudged Plexiglas aircraft canopy, Slater’s thoughts wander to the ocean. Its waves push him playfully away from the shore as he fights for the feel of sand between his toes. Quadriceps muscles burn with exertion as he kicks through liquid resistance. The pain is rewarded by cheers of bystanders and the sunlight against his skin. He rushes to don his running shoes for that final leg of the triathlon. He knows that no matter how exhausted he becomes, he will not quit. He competes for the joy that follows at the realization of his goal; not just finishing, but winning.

Slater flies the same way, with quiet determination to succeed, to push himself further than possible, to push the other guy to his breaking point and then claim the victory. Slater’s love for flying and aggressive style in which he does it, like a mad dog someone once said, earned him his call-sign early in his career. However, the Visual Flying of his command tour here in the Caribbean allows him a greater sense of freedom and enjoyment than the intensely structured environment of the F-14 Tomcat. He is what the older flyers refer to as a true Stick and Throttle Man and the A-4 is a Stick and Throttle Man’s aircraft.

Slater is jerked back into the stuffy cockpit as Radar offers his salute from the tarmac. Slater returns the gesture, agitated for allowing his thoughts to wander outside of the cockpit. He’s always told his junior officers, When a good aviator prepares to fly, a good aviator thinks only of flying.

As Radar turns back for the Ordnance truck and heads away from the aircraft, Slater notices, out of the corner of his eye, a thin white line in the sky. Wondering if it’s just the sunlight casting stray beams through the Plexiglas, Slater asks his wingman for confirmation. Tiger, check two o’clock high. You see anything?

Lieutenant Anthony Tony the Tiger Segallos sits one cockpit over. The olive-skin son of Philadelphia, cocks his head back and stares into the cloud-blotched sky. This is Tiger…ah…negative. Tiger squints his eyes and strains through the sun-glared canopy. Wait, is that exhaust?

Roger, Tiger. Slater says as he looks back toward the Tower. Two more A-4s crawl ghost-gray across the tarmac and roll to a stop awaiting taxi clearance.

Slater switches his radio to squadron common frequency and calls to the second set of A-4s, isn’t it a little early for you boys to be up?

A voice responds over the radio, sir, are you kidding? Lieutenant Box a Rocks Cox says. I can’t wait to kick Do-Boy’s ass. Lieutenants Cox and Artis attended flight school together after a four-year stint at Annapolis. Cox earned his call sign when an agitated flight instructor got on his case about a series of questions he thought Cox should have answered correctly. Once the instructor had his fill he blurted out in front of the class that, the then lieutenant (junior grade), Cox was about as dumb as a box of rocks. The instructor was later reprimanded and in spite of Cox’s second place in class standing, the call sign stuck.

Slater’s smile can be heard through the speakers when he says, Save a little energy for the command run this afternoon.

No problem, skipper. Cox says. Won’t even break a sweat.

Box, the only ass-kicking going on today will be yours. Lieutenant Artis says. Sweaty or not. Artis picked up his radio call sign by defying the laws of all known science with his impossible to muss hair-do.

Slater, proud of his young aviators, switches back to ground control frequency and places his gloved fingers on the radio dial. Flight, switch tower. Mad Dog clicks the dial once to the right. Dog check. A squelch tells him Tony has switched his radio to the Tower’s frequency. A second later, Tony calls, Two over the new frequency.

Tower, Slater says as he tugs the zipper up on his chest, this is four-zero-two with two for takeoff, call traffic in pattern.

Slater’s radio crackles, four-zero-two and flight cleared in order six right, no reported traffic, remain this frequency.

Mad Dog watches the exhaust trail with suspicion and releases his break. The small nose-wheel rolls over the pressed gravel and painted lines, the shadow of the jet shifting as the aircraft crawls across the tarmac. He can see Radar’s yellow pickup truck heading across the parking apron and disappear from view behind his plane.

Slater reaches down and lays his hand on the worn cross bar at the top of the throttle control and wraps his fingers around it. He slowly moves the lever forward. Suddenly, at the rear of the flight line, a massive explosion rocks the aircraft on its tripod landing gear. He looks to the left as a deep trunk of flame pours from beneath the ruptured gravel. Explosions walk across the tarmac, moving directly toward the other A-4s. Slater watches as the first plane, mere yards ahead of the second, is ripped apart; the metal thrusted outward by balls of orange flame, the cockpit filling with an intense glow of heat and fire. The second aircraft shakes violently as tiny fragments of pavement and aircraft are thrown through its purring body. A belch of black smoke rolls from its exhaust as the aviator inside attempts to move the plane forward. It lurches a couple of feet, but rolls to a stop as more smoke bellows from the tail. Slater watches helplessly as a horrendous explosion engulfs the second plane and blows it apart.

Tiny concrete pebbles tear into the tires and skin of the yellow two-door pick-up, Death, a multi-fanged predator lunges at Radar’s truck. Shards of shredded rubber cover the tarmac as the truck swerves violently off the taxiway. Radar pulls the steering wheel hard to the left while heavy chunks of cement and scorched metal rain down on the truck’s thin roof shattering the rear window. A third class petty officer cowers against the passenger-side door as Radar struggles for control of the careening flight line vehicle.

Mad Dog Slater can see the final explosion burning through gaps in the thick black smoke. Shadow-colored vapor suffocates visibility on the runway and climbs into thinning bundles high in the Caribbean sky.

Commander Slater’s radio squawks, Four-zero-two, this is Tower. Hold position. Slater watches the other two Skyhawks burn on the smoldering flightline. Four-zero-three, the radio immediately calls, come in four-zero-three. The call from the Tower repeats itself.

They’ve been hit! They’ve been hit! No ejections. Tony says.

Slater checks high and to the Northeast and sees the exhaust through the fading caps of rolling black pillars. Tower, Slater says, four-zero-two, I see jet exhaust to the northeast. I’m loaded with rocket and heading after them. His sixteen years as a naval aviator doesn’t allow him to wait for orders, he doesn’t even wait for the tower’s reply. He slams the throttle to full power and says, Dog flight roll ‘em.

His A-4 screams off the deck aching to fly, angry and thirsty for revenge. Mad Dog keeps his eyes on the exhaust trail through the clouds of burning vapor as his landing gears tuck gently inside and his plane punches a hole through the smoke. Mad Dog forces the nose over to build up speed. As the needle passes two hundred knots, he hears Tony’s voice over the cockpit radio, Two airborne.

Slater watches the angle on the exhaust trail shift as his altitude increases. Tower, Slater says, four-zero-two, we’re staying on your frequency. Flight copy?

Two. Tony says.

Four-zero-two this is Tower, roger that.

Radar gets out of the truck, its yellow paint tarnished with dust and bits of blackened gravel. He surveys the damage and runs toward the smoking shells that used to be the two A-4s. Radar’s assistant, the young third class, runs up beside him and stops, speechless. Radar looks at the structure where his crew was working. Thank God, they didn’t hit the line shack. He says. He runs his bloody fingers over the back of his neck and squeezes, when he pulls his shaking hand away he realizes how badly he is hurt. Who the…? Radar looks at the two burning aircraft, their warped frames glowing white-hot as their magnesium skins burn. Oh shit. Let’s get. Radar hesitates for a moment, the words dissipating in his mind like the smoke rising above the devastation. His eyes follow the black trail and its rolling clumps of death toward a charcoal sky. As the blue-beyond sends gentle breezes of invisible breath across the tops of the smoke, Radar realizes the futility of any rescue. Forget it. He says. They’re gone.

A female airman apprentice runs toward him frantic and animated and shouting one of the bombs didn’t detonate!

Where, Radar demands, his voice as shaky as his hands.

Over there! she points. On the east side of the line!

Radar calls everyone back and orders a safety perimeter around the unex-ploded device. The crew stands in amazement at the devastation on the flight line. As Radar walks toward the primed-weapon, his third class assistant shouts, Radar, let’s wait for EOD!

Radar continues toward the target area, shrugging off the junior man’s warning. As Radar approaches one hundred fifty feet, the bomb detonates. He is shoved back, hot pressure slamming against him. Lying on his back, he sees the blue and white sky stained black and gray. He shakes his head and the faces of the third class and frantic airman hover above him. They are speaking, but he can’t hear them. They hoist him to his feet, his ears ringing and his head pounding. Radar reaches the safety zone moving his jaw up and down in an exaggerated chewing motion, like someone trying to clear their ears at high altitude. He looks up at the third class and shouts, guess I shoulda waited for EOD.huh? The third class places his hand on the center of Radar’s back and ushers him toward the truck.

Slater watches the exhaust trail grow through his canopy and says, Tower, four-zero-two, have the ROC come up this frequency.

Roger that, the tower responds, contacting Range Operations Center.

Mad Dog approaches four hundred fifty knots at one thousand feet and sends aircraft Two for a better view. Tiger, Mad Dog. Take it high. Maybe five or six thousand feet for a look down.

Tiger’s climbing, Lieutenant Segallos says pulling the yoke back and climbing to five thousand feet.

Tiger, Slater says. I still have the exhaust at twelve o’clock maybe a mile.

This is Tiger, roger. I’m Looking. Tiger scans the sea and just as he is about to call No Joy, he sees a distortion traveling ahead of Mad Dog’s A-4. The small blend of air and ocean moves in the same direction and at the same rate of speed as Slater’s aircraft, the motion bending the waves below. Wait, Tiger says. Mad Dog, Tiger. There is something at your twelve about a mile.

Roger Tiger, I’m closing.

Chief Warrant Officer (Aviation Warfare) William O’Brien watches the five eight-foot video screens on the wall in front of him. The screens display an abundance of information and include three air-search radars and information from an enormous dish on El Junque, one of Puerto Rico’s largest mountains. The influx of data gives the watch officer a view of everything in the air and on the surface within two hundred-miles. Rows of workstations in the center of the room contain five differing communications systems, each allowing a watch officer to communicate with local military units and the Federal Aviation Administration. O’Brien’s Range Operation Center is currently manned by a part military-part civilian crew. The current joint operation is for a small missile training exercise by an Argentine frigate in the southern range.

O’Brien lowers his coffee cup, the rim stained with distorted swirls of brown. The cup displays a squadron logo of a machine gun protruding from the mouth of a skull. VA-34 is printed above the logo and Blue Blasters appears near the bottom. He watches the Identification Friend/Foe signatures of the two A-4s on the monitor. Four-zero-two, O’Brien says, this is the ROC.

Four-zero-two, go ahead Slater says.

Four-zero-two, ROC. I’ve scanned all radars for IFF and skin paint. Showing you and your flight. No other contacts in the area.

ROC, Slater demands, there is something at my twelve o’clock, about a mile. I can only see its exhaust, but there is an aircraft there doing about four-fifty.

Tiger maintains five thousand feet, high and aft of Mad Dog. From this elevated view he can see a second distortion. He sees it merge with the first and then separate. Mad Dog, Tiger. Tony says. Targets twelve o’clock about a half a mile. May be two of them.

Mad Dog estimates the distance to the fading exhaust trail and reaches for the armament panel and selects Ripple. The setting allows him to launch all rockets at once as opposed to the Single Salvo option. All right Tiger. Slater says. I’ve armed rockets, help me with range.

Roger, Tiger says. Still looks like a half a mile.

O’Brien’s pale eyes flicker from one monitor screen to another as Slater’s voice filters through the audio system. ROC, Slater says. This is four-zero-two. My targets are twelve o’clock about half a mile at one thousand feet.

O’Brien reaches over with his coffee cup, the bottom two fingers of his left hand scratching at an anchor tattoo on his forearm says, Four-zero-two, ROC copies all.

ROC, are you taping everything? Slater asks.

O’Brien steps up behind a computer technician in a wrinkled long-sleeve shirt and stares at the monitor in front of him. Four-zero-two, this is ROC. That’s affirmative. We are taping, including underwater, surface and air picture.

Tiger, this is Mad Dog. Slater says. I’m afraid we may lose ‘em. I’m going to try a shot. Be ready to attack if they present.

Tiger reaches forward in the cramped cockpit, arms his rockets and says, Tiger’s hot. Slater decreases his range to the target. As the exhaust trail grows more pronounced Slater can see what appear to be the tailpipes of a jet, but no clear airframe is visible. Two thin rectangular slots push heat from the back of the distorted space in front of him. Mad Dog presses on at full throttle, the A-4 shudders under the power of its engine and Slater’s body shakes as his shoulders press against the insides of the cockpit. The tailpipe in front of