Sabri Ramirez stepped down to the weapons station again, gazed out
through the huge bubble, and smiled. "Shut down the radar. Their IWB
must not have any reason for alarm. They're probably running our IFF
through Gournes right now."
The Israeli nodded, then reached over to switch off all systems that
the Americans might interpret as weapons guidance. Next he clicked on
the low-light TV. Unlike radar, it was a passive system that would not
alert the ship that she was being ranged.
Ramirez pictured the control room of the USS Glover crowded with
curious young seamen glued to their monitoring screens, probably happy
to have a little excitement. Their IFF would be reporting an Israeli
chopper. But the minute the visual ID came through, all hell would
break loose.
So far, he told himself, it had been a textbook approach. Airspeed was
down to ninety-five knots, altitude eight hundred meters. Carefully,
carefully. First rule. Don't spook the quarry. We don't need radar.
We'll be passive, heat-seeking. No ECM they can throw at us will make
any difference.
"Under two minutes now," he said. "It's time."
"No pain, no gain." Peretz flipped on the radio. "USS Glover, we're
going to have to ditch. We have a crew of three--pilot, copilot, and
navigation trainee."
"We have emergency crews on starboard side, ready to pick you up. Do
you have Mae Wests?"
"Life jackets on. Standard-issue yellow. With dye markers and
saltwater-activated beacons. We'll--"
"Hawk One, our Traffic guys at Gournes just reported they can't get a
positive verify on you."
'Tell them to check again," Peretz suggested matter-of-factly. "Maybe
they screwed up in--"
"We'll have them run it through one more time. Routine security. But
you've got to keep a three-thousand-meter perimeter till--"
"Dammit, sailor, oil pressure's in the red. We're taking her by your
starboard bow. Ready your crews."
Suddenly another voice came on the radio. It was older.
"Israeli Hawk One, this is Tactical Action Officer Vince Bradley. Who
the hell are you? We VID you as a Mi-24 gunship."
Peretz had switched off his mike and was loosening his helmet strap.
"You got it right, asshole."