There was one important comparison, however, Vaughn realized. The lieutenant had said it: confusion. The Naval Academy’s teachings on Midway emphasized the fact that both sides had made plenty of mistakes, usually because of poor intelligence.
Victory had gone to the side that made the fewer mistakes.
“Admiral?” Captain Bersticer said, approaching. He handed a message-transmittal sheet to Vaughn. “This just in from the Jefferson.
They want to know if they should stand down from the preflighting for Mongoose.”
Vaughn scowled, reading the message. Jefferson’s crew had been working straight through the night readying the carrier’s Hornets and Intruders for the air strike against the Indian supply lines. With the carrier’s flight operations sharply curtailed by the damage to her forward catapults, space and equipment would be at a premium. To continue with the strike might cripple their ability to get all of the Tomcats aloft and keep them up.
Yes, it might be best to abort Mongoose completely. No one would blame him, least of all his peers in Washington. The defense of the carrier and her consorts came first … and by breaking down the bomb-laden F/A-18 Hornets and loading them with Sidewinders and Sparrows, he could increase the battle group’s air defense strength by two more squadrons.
The idea was tempting … Something made him hold back. “Negative,” he said, handing the message back to Bersticer. “They can concentrate on getting the Tomcats up, but let’s keep moving with Mongoose. I don’t want to give up on that yet.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
He continued toying with the idea. What was familiar about rearming the F/A-18s? Why shouldn’t he …?
Then he remembered. Only moments earlier, he’d been thinking about Midway, and the part confusion had played in the battle that reversed the trend of Japanese victory in the Pacific.
Confusion. Orders to unload the bombs and ground-strike missiles from the Hornets and replace them with air-to-air missiles would create incredible confusion among flight crews already exhausted by working some twenty-four hours straight. By giving those orders, he would be begging for a catastrophic accident, like the one that crippled the Forrestal off the coast of Vietnam in 1977.
But there was more.
At the Battle of Midway, the commander-in-chief of the Imperial Japanese carrier force, Admiral Chuichi Nagumo, had opened the battle by launching a bombing raid against the American naval base and airstrip on Midway Island. A second strike force of ninety-three aircraft was ready on the decks of his carriers, armed with torpedoes in case the American fleet appeared.
But the returning planes of the first strike force reported that damage to the island’s facilities was not as extensive as had been hoped.
Nagumo, unaware that the Americans were in the area, had ordered the second strike force to unload its torpedoes and rearm with incendiary and fragmentation bombs for another attack on the island.
Within the next thirty minutes, reports had come in locating the American fleet. Nagumo then issued new orders: rearm the strike force yet again with torpedoes to sink the American ships.
The flurry of orders and counterorders, reasonable at the time, had proved to be an appalling blunder. The Japanese strike was delayed long enough to be delayed again by the recovery and refueling of the first attack wave.
The American dive bombers that struck just after 1000 hours that morning could not have asked for better targets: four Japanese carriers loaded with refueling planes, with strike aircraft waiting to launch, with bombs and torpedoes carelessly stacked on the decks by ordnance crews too hurried to observe proper safety procedures. Nagumo lost three aircraft carriers within the next few hours, and a fourth the following day. It was a disaster from which the Imperial Japanese Navy never recovered and could easily be identified as the defeat that doomed Japan’s war in the Pacific.
There were lessons to be learned from history, Vaughn reflected. Not that history ever repeated itself exactly, but to try now, in the middle of an air assault, to rearm the Hornets with air-to-air weapons was inviting a disaster as great as that suffered by Nagumo at Midway.
Perhaps later there would be time to reassess the plan. Later, if the carrier battle group survived … For now, though, they would follow through with what they’d begun.
0824 hours, 26 March
Tomcat 200, Cat Four, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
Tombstone watched as the mule driver herded his flat yellow vehicle clear of the catapult. Green-shirted hook-and-cat men completed attaching the catapult shuttle to the aircraft’s nose-gear as Tombstone and Hitman ran down the checklist.
“I’ve got a fault warning on the electrical system,” Tombstone said. The red light on his right side advisory display was an ominous warning that this particular aircraft had not flown in many months.
“Wait a sec,” Hitman said over the ICS. Tombstone could feel the slight shifting of the aircraft as Hitman moved around in the backseat. The fuzes for the plane’s electrical system were located on a board behind the RIO’s seat. Part of his preflight routine was to reach behind him and check each fuze by hand.
“Got it,” Hitman said.
Tombstone watched the advisory panel light go out, then worked the electrical main switch several times. If popping the fuze back did not correct the problem, they would have to signal to the deck crew to break down the aircraft.
The light remained off.
On the deck outside, the hook runner, satisfied with the setup, pumped his fist up and down, signaling to the Cat Officer to bring the aircraft under tension. Tombstone heard a metallic creak as the Tomcat took the strain. A green shirt held up the chalkboard with number 200’s launch weight: 62,000. That checked with the figure on Tombstone’s thigh board and he acknowledged with a thumbs-up signal. Somewhere below decks the catapult crew would be adjusting their controls to deliver the proper amount of steam pressure to Cat Four in order to launch thirty-one tons of aircraft.
An ordie walked up alongside the cockpit, holding aloft a bundle of wires, each with a red tag. Tombstone counted eight tags and nodded.
The F-14 was loaded with four Sparrow and four Sidewinder missiles.
Everything was ready. The light on the island had gone from red to amber. The jet-blast deflector came up astern, and Tombstone eased the throttle forward, feeling his high-tech steed tremble beneath him, aching to touch the sky. He took another look at the bridge. He could see men at the Pri-Fly windows, watching … and other figures, less distinct, forward at the carrier’s bridge.
“All set back there?” he called to Hitman.
“Set, Tombstone. All green.”
And the light on the island was green as well.
Tombstone saluted the Cat Officer, the signal that they were ready for launch. The Cat Officer took another look up and down the deck, checking his men, checking with the white-shirted Safety Officers who were in turn signaling readiness. The intimate dance of the carrier’s team of professionals continued. The Cat Officer dropped to his knee and touched the deck.
The 5-G acceleration slammed Tombstone into his seat as it always did, his Tomcat speeding down the deck, hitting 150 knots in less than three seconds. The island flashed past on his right, then the expanse of deck where damage control teams were working on the warped deck and broken cats.
“Two double-oh airborne,” the Air Boss said. There was a pause. “Luck, Stoney.” And Tombstone clawed for blue sky.
CHAPTER 22
0830 hours, 26 March
IAF Fulcrum 401
Lieutenant Colonel Ramadutta could see the enemy’s defensive line forming on his radar display screen. It was unlikely that the Americans had yet seen him.
The Fulcrum was a marvel of modern technology, with electronics that even surpassed much of what was available to American pilots. Unlike any Western fighter, the Mig-29 gave its pilot a variety of long-range tracking options, including an excellent pulse-doppler radar, an extremely sensitive IR imager, a helmet-mounted
computer display — though this was absent from the Migs sold to India — and a laser ranger. By flying close to the surface, Ramadutta was hoping to mask himself from American radar. At the same time, his own radar was off to avoid giving away his position directly. Instead, he was using the Mig’s infrared search/track mode, or IRST. Meanwhile, enemy aircraft using their own radar were quite visible to him, plotted on his display screen by the Fulcrum’s electronics.
Over his headset, he could hear the Indian strike aircraft calling to one another, reassuring and bolstering each other as they formed up their attack waves. Ramadutta had deliberately left the Jamnagar area in company with a flight of large, slow BAC Canberra bombers. Those relics of the fifties, Ramadutta thought, would not stand a chance against the American fleet. But their takeoff had given him the cover he needed to leave the airfield unnoticed by the watchful radar eyes of the American Hawkeyes.
He glanced left and right, making certain that the other three aircraft of his flight were tucked in close. Together, they could hit the American air defenses without warning and give the Indian strike planes their chance to get through.
He signaled his comrades with a waggle of his wings, then pushed the throttle forward. The Fulcrum thundered, shuddering as it approached the speed of sound.
Then he was through and still accelerating, pushing faster and faster as he hurtled south, skimming the crests of the waves.
0831 hours, 26 March
Sea Harrier 101
Lieutenant Commander Tahliani was worried about his Sea harrier’s fuel reserves. Harriers gulped enormous quantities of jet fuel, especially when they performed such unorthodox maneuvers as hovering or viffing.
After shooting down the American Tomcat, he’d expected the other U.S. fighters to follow him and had circled back toward the east in an attempt to draw them out.
The F-14s had not taken the bait, circling instead toward the north.
Tahliani could see the battle unfolding on his radar screen and understood the Americans’ caution, They were heavily outnumbered in the air, and the ground-based aircraft from Kathiawar were beginning their move.
This, he decided, might present an opportunity to Viraat’s Sea Harriers.
It seemed that they’d been momentarily forgotten, lost in the surface clutter of the sea, or simply overlooked in the enormous scope of the rapidly escalating battle. There were several targets within easy reach, targets that would let the Harriers prove their special place in the Indian fleet’s aviation arm.
He was leery of launching another Sea Eagle missile at the American carrier. Tahliani was fairly sure his one shot, released solely to decoy the American Tomcat, had hit the ship, but there’d been no indication that he could see of damage, no reduction of power, no pillar of smoke on the horizon. Possibly the antiship missile had been shot down by the carrier’s point defenses at the last second.
Or possibly the U.S.S. Jefferson was simply too large to be badly hurt by ASMS.
But there was another target within the Sea Harriers’ reach, one much smaller than the nuclear carrier, but one that was vitally important to the American naval squadron. Kill it, and the battle might be won for India there and then.
“Blue King Leader to all Blue Kings,” he called. “Close on my position.”
From across the sea the scattered Indian Harriers came, joining Tahliani’s aircraft and circling with him, their numbers growing.
0835 hours, 26 March
Flag bridge, Soviet aircraft carrier Kreml
Kontr-Admiral Dmitriev stood on his bridge, looking down through narrow windows at the aircraft arrayed on Kreml’s flight deck. Migs and Suichois crowded one another, competing for every square meter of deck space, strike planes and fighters, men and munitions. The ship’s Captain, Captain First Rank Soni, stood beside him.
“My Operations Department informs me that we will be ready to launch the strike force within the hour, Admiral,” Soni said. He was a small man, with sandy hair and pale, Nordic eyes. “Mig-29s and Su-25s. Their combat load will include cluster bombs and incendiaries, rockets, and both free-fall and laser-guided bombs.”
“Excellent. You have done well, Captain.”
“Admiral, we continue to get rather urgent requests from Captain Sharov aboard the American Aegis cruiser. Their Admiral Vaughn is pressing for us to add to their air defense posture.”
Dmitriev shook his head. “We must get our strike force airborne first.
What kind of CAP do you have up now?”
“Four Yak-39s.”
Dmitriev made a face. He thought little of the V/STOL naval aircraft.
“We need real fighters in the air. How soon can we launch the Forty-third Squadron?”
Soni looked surprised. “They are ready for immediate launch, Admiral.
But they are reserved to fly protection for the strike-“
“Forget that. We need a strong CAP now. A flexible CAP, in case our American friends cannot handle the load. How long will it take?”
“Twelve Mig-29s? Less than thirty minutes, Admiral.”
“Who is commander?”
“Captain Third Rank Kurasov.”
He remembered Ivan Andreivich Kurasov, a young intense man with eyes of blue ice. He nodded. “Very well. Have Captain Kurasov launch at once.
He will be our contribution to this battle until we can get our strike planes in the air.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Kurasov is a good man. His primary responsibility should be the safety of the Russian squadron, of course, but he may use his discretion in aiding the Americans. And after the launch of our strike force, perhaps we can contribute something more.”
“Very well, Admiral. I should mention, sir, that the Tactical Operations Department feels that it is unlikely that the Indians will attack our vessels. The American carrier is their primary target. We are both farther away and less, shall we say, politically expedient.”
Dmitriev grinned. The Indians had balanced on their fence rail of neutrality for years. Today, perhaps, they would fall off once and for all. From New Delhi’s point of view, it would be much wiser to anger the Americans rather than the Russians, who, after all, were much closer to their part of the world. “We will teach them a thing or two about political expediency, Comrade Captain! Give the orders.”
As Soni turned away, Dmitriev’s gaze returned to the Russian warplanes on the flight deck. His orders from Moscow had been as clear as they had been distressing. Pressed on every side by unrest and ethnic violence, by a chaotic economy, and — most significantly — by rising disaffection with the Russian military, the Kremlin desperately needed a stunning coup that would demonstrate to the world, as well as their own generals, that the Commonwealth of Independent States could be a world power.
Russian admirals such as Dmitriev had long admired the Americans’ supercarriers to the point of envy. It had taken the drive, conviction, and the political connections of the immortal Admiral Gorshkov, however, to finally make the Russian carrier program a reality.
The thing was far harder to do than anyone had expected. The Americans, the British, even the French all had naval aviation traditions that extended back to the earliest days of military aircraft. They’d had a core of highly trained, highly experienced pilots to draw on throughout the thirties and forties, as carriers grew larger and more complex, their aircraft faster, heavier, and deadlier.
In the early fifties, when the rise of jets had forced the adoption of such British innovations as catapults and angled flight decks on aircraft carriers, Russia had continued to show scant interest in developing a carrier arm of its own. Back during the Great Patriotic War, of course, the navy had been visualized as an arm primarily geared for coastal defense and the support of amphibious operations. Stalin’s sole interest in naval warfare had extended to submarines, with the result that the technology for undersea warfare had for years been pursued to the virtual exclusion of all else.
Later, as American superiority
in naval air had become more and more apparent, the Soviet Union had begun experimenting with the taktiches kye avianostny kreysera, the tactical aircraft-carrying cruisers like the Kiev. These were odd combinations of capital ship and carrier, with an angled flight deck attached to a cruiser’s hull alongside and aft of the superstructure. The design was good only for the various Yak V/STOL aircraft, imitations of the British and American Harrier jump jets that even the Kremlin admitted were not as good as their Western counterparts.
It wasn’t until the eighties that the first true Soviet aircraft carriers had been conceived, designed, and constructed. Even then, there had been critics who’d insisted that the project would never work.
An artificial carrier deck had been constructed on the Black Sea coast, and naval pilots had trained for carrier landings.
Too many had lost their lives attempting something for which there was no tradition and no experience anywhere within the Soviet military. And dozens more had died when the first landings were actually tried at sea, when the flight deck was moving in three different directions at once.
But it had been worth it in the end. Kreml and his brothers represented an entirely new era for the Soviet Navy. Billions of rubles, hundreds of lives had been sacrificed to achieve this sleek and ultra-modern weapon.
And now, the world would see what that weapon could do. It was necessary, a vital gamble. Russia’s military leaders feared that the Commonwealth would become a third-rate, Third World nation unable to affect the course of world events beyond her own, strife-torn borders.
The word had come through from Moscow a week before. Use this gigantic symbol of naval might to end the crisis between India and Pakistan. The Commonwealth could not tolerate The use of nuclear weapons on the very stoop of her back door.
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