“Hey! Just like fish in a barrel, Tombstone,” Hitman said.
Tombstone didn’t answer. Canberras had been hailed as a match for any fighter in the air when they’d first made their appearance with the RAF in 1951, but they were virtually helpless in a match with a modern F-14.
But there was no other way. The Indian attack planes were breaking through toward the American ships.
0852 hours, 26 March
Tomcat 204
Coyote had launched all four of his Sparrows within the first few minutes of the approach. Now he was switching to Sidewinders as a pair of Indian interceptors streaked toward him from the north. From two black specks in the sky, side by side, they grew with astonishing swiftness into sleek, delta-winged jets that flashed past his F-14 to port at a range of less than half a mile. In the instant’s glimpse he had, he recognized them: Dassault-Breguet Mirage-2000Hs, a French design, though these particular aircraft were probably built in India under license. They were excellent aircraft, capable of bettering Mach 2 and mounting Magic AAMS for close-in fighting.
“Tally-ho!” he called over the tactical frequency. “Two Mirage two-triple-ohs. Two-oh-four is on them!”
“Roger, Two-oh-four,” the Hawkeye controller said. “Stay on the strikers, over.”
Stay on the strikers. The 2000H was an interceptor, a jet designed to kill jets. The people watching this fight from the bird farm would be concerned about strike aircraft, planes carrying antiship missiles and bombs. Obviously, it was better to shoot down a plane carrying several Exocets before it had a chance to release its payload … and complicate the electronic musings of Jefferson’s point defense system.
But it wouldn’t pay to ignore the strike aircraft’s fighter escorts, not when those escorts outnumbered the F-14s by at least three to one, and probably more.
He put his Tomcat into a hard left break, dumping speed with flaps and spoilers in order to turn in the tightest possible radius. “Where are they?” he called to his RIO.
Radar Mendoza was one of Jefferson’s latest crop of replacements, a young j.g. with black eyes and mustache and a Hispanic’s cocksure machismo.
“Tryin’ to cut us out, Coyote,” Mendoza replied. “Breakin’ left, man.
Comin’ past our seven o’clock!”
“Hang onto your stomach.”
Coyote slammed the Tomcat into a right-hand turn with a snapping half-twist, then brought the stick back as he cut in his afterburners.
The Tomcat’s nose came up … up … and over as he slid from a split-S into an Immelmann turn that left them flying inverted toward the two Mirages, now two miles to the south and still turning.
“Surprise, guys,” Coyote said. The Mirages were presenting themselves in a perfect plan view as they crossed his line of sight from right to left. He let the Tomcat barrel-roll out of its inverted position and dropped the targeting pipper squarely across the lead Indian fighter.
The target lock warble sounded in his headphones.
“Fox two!” he called, and a Sidewinder slid off his port wing. The Mirages, aware that they’d been outmaneuvered, split. The one he’d targeted changed his left turn into a split-S to the right, and the other one climbed sharply.
Coyote eased the stick back and started after the second Mirage. It had continued climbing, inserting itself into a twisting blur of aircraft dogfighting through a five-mile expanse of air thirty-five thousand feet above the sea.
The targeted Mirage continued holding its turn … … then shattered as the Sidewinder rose to meet it. Flame boiled into the sky, and the delta-wing shape, its stabilizer missing now, began spinning in a wild, fiery plunge toward the sea.
“Bull’s eye!” Mendoza yelled. “Splash one Mirage for Two-oh-four!”
“Where’d the other one get to, Radar?”
“Lost him. I think he-“
“He’s on me! He’s on me!” Coyote could hear the frantic cry of one of the American pilots. “This is Two-oh-eight. Bandit on my tail! I can’t shake him!”
Coyote scanned the dogfight in front of him. Where … there! The unmistakable profile of a Tomcat plunging toward the sea, wings folded back. A Mig-23 with Indian rounders on its camo-splotched wings followed.
Forgetting the second Mirage, Coyote nosed over, letting the Tomcat fall to pick up speed. “Two-oh-eight, this is Two-oh-four!” he called. “When I give the word, pull up!” When the F-14 pulled up, the Mig should follow. Coyote was positioning his Tomcat so that he could drop onto the Mig’s tail as he tried to hold his position on 208’s six.
“Two-oh-eight! Pull up!”
There was no response. What was the handle of 208’s pilot? It was one of the replacements who’d flown out to the CBG on the COD from Masirah, he thought. Maverick, that was it. How could he forget the name Maverick?
“Pull up, Maverick! Pull up!”
An Apex missile whipped from the Mig on the tip of a streaming white contrail.
“Maverick! Pop flares and pull up!”
Flares arced from the Tomcat’s tail, but the aircraft continued to plunge toward the sea. “Two-oh-four, this is Scout! Maverick’s in trouble!”
Scout was Maverick’s RIO. He must be launching the flares … but if the pilot had frozen at the stick … “Maverick! Pull up!”
The Apex caught up with the Tomcat and plunged into its starboard engine. The explosion blew out part of the belly and skewed the aircraft into a flaming tumble.
“Eject! Scout, eject! Punch out!”
There was no answer, and the stricken Tomcat continued its plunge toward the sea. Coyote watched them fall, willing the canopy to blow, willing the chutes to appear.
Nothing. It happened, sometimes, the first time a man went into combat.
Hours of simulators, of training, and men still lost it when they realized that this was real. Scout might have ejected the two of them after they were hit … but the explosion could easily have killed him or knocked him out.
A momentary paralysis gripped Coyote as he watched the other Tomcat vanish into the sea. Experienced pilots could become casualties too.
He’d been shot down, over the Sea of Japan … and the memory of that experience, of holding his skull-crushed RIO in his arms in an icy sea, would be with him forever. Unexpectedly, the image of Coyote’s wife flashed into his mind. She’d not wanted him to go back on active flight duty, and he’d come close to turning in his wings. No one would have blamed him … Then the Mig pulled its nose up. Julie’s face was banished as training took over, and Coyote rolled onto the Indian fighter’s tail just as he’d planned. He got the tone and triggered a Sidewinder. “Fox two!”
In the end, though, it was Julie who’d told him he had to come back. Not until this moment had he been certain she was right.
0852 hours, 26 March
CIC, U.S.S. Vicksburg
Admiral Vaughn stood in the ship’s CIC, watching the flood of information coming across the LSDS and ASTABS.
Once during his tenure at the Pentagon, he’d had a long conversation with the admiral who had commanded a battle group with the first Aegis cruiser, the U.S.S. Ticonderoga, off Beirut in the early 1980s. That man had preferred commanding from the Tico rather than from his carrier and claimed that the Aegis defenses had let him significantly reduce the group’s CAP, despite the hazards of the operation.
Vaughn could understand that admiral’s preference. From the Vicksburg’s CIC, he felt as though the entire battle zone was under his personal observation and control. Through the Aegis system, data from every one of the battle group’s ships and aircraft was constantly relayed through the Vicksburg’s computers and displayed in her CIC. Through the Hawkeye’s — if need be through a Navy comsat — he could talk to any of his ship captains, any aircraft … or to the Joint Chiefs themselves back in Washington.
Not that he was particularly eager to exercise that option. The Battle of the Arabian Sea was proving to be quite enough for him to handle. He would face the Battle of Washington
later.
“Admiral,” Captain Sharov said, standing stiffly at Vaughn’s side.
“Admiral Dmitriev reports that he has one squadron airborne as CAP. As there appears to be no immediate threat to Kreml, he wishes to inform you that some of those aircraft can be made available to your command.”
Vaughn turned on the Russian Chief of Staff with a cold stare. “Your commanding officer is so kind,” he said. “We would, of course, appreciate any help he condescends to make available!”
Sharov did not seem to hear the sarcasm … or perhaps he simply ignored it. “Squadron leader is Kurasov. I will inform him of your need.”
Vaughn snorted with disgust as the Russian returned to the bank of communications gear that had been reserved for their use. He’d expected no more from the Russians … and perhaps he’d expected less.
At this point, he knew he’d be grateful for any help. On the LSD designated as the Primary Battle Board, the computer graphic symbols identifying the American Tomcats were becoming lost in the flood of Indian aircraft pouring south. They were holding their own individually — the reports coming through from both squadrons indicated large numbers of enemy planes already downed — but collectively there just weren’t enough to stop the waves of Canberras, Migs, and other planes descending on Turban Station. The range on the board had already been shifted from one hundred twenty-eight miles from the Vicksburg to sixty-four.
It was nearly time to bring the battle group’s second line of defenses into play.
“Multiple bogies inbound,” Vicksburg’s Tactical Officer reported formally from a console nearby. “Range now three-five miles, bearing zero-zero-five to zero-four-zero.”
“Point defense on automatic!” Cunningham snapped.
That was just a double check on Cunningham’s part, Vaughn knew. Every Navy captain remembered the tragedy of Stark, and the Phalanx system that had been switched off at the beginning of the attack.
“Defenses activated, Captain. On automatic.”
“Lock on with VLS!”
“Tracking, Captain. Vertical Launch Systems locked.”
Cunningham looked at Admiral Vaughn. His eyes were bleak, but steady.
Vaughn nodded, and the ship’s captain turned back to the TO. “Fire!”
A closed-circuit television monitor displayed a view of Vicksburg’s forward deck. Between the bridge tower and the number-one five-inch turret, the twin arms of the ship’s forward Mark 26 Mod I missile launcher slewed about and elevated, until the twin darts of the Standard missiles slung from its launch rails were pointed straight up.
At Cunningham’s command, there was a burst of smoke and flame that engulfed the launcher and washed across the forward deck, blotting out the TV image. When the smoke cleared, the missile was gone, arrowing vertically into the sky. Almost immediately, the second Standard missile flashed skyward after its brother.
On the deck, the launcher swiveled again, realigning itself. Two hatches slid open automatically, one beneath each launch rail. Out of the deck, another pair of Standard SM-2(MR) missiles slid up the rails, reloading the empty launcher.
Seconds later these missiles followed the first two, shrieking into the wet morning air. Spray lashed across Vicksburg’s bow as the VLS reloaded once again.
Vicksburg’s weapon systems were so highly automated that it was theoretically possible for a single well-trained man to handle the ship in combat. Forward, she carried twenty-nine Standard SM-2(MR)s. Aft were sixty-one more, each with a range of thirty-five miles at Mach 2.
When combined with her two Mark 15 Phalanx CIWS mounts, one port, one starboard, Vicksburg’s weaponry made her arguably the deadliest AAW vessel afloat, as well as one of the most complex.
As Vaughn watched the Indian aircraft approach the heart of the battle group, he wondered which would count for more in the coming fight, deadliness … or the complexity that more than once in the past had lead to errors, and disaster.
CHAPTER 24
0852 hours, 26 March
Sea Harrier 101
Tahliani had been able to round up only five other Sea Harriers out of his flight. The others, evidently, had scattered or fled when two of their number had been downed by American Phoenix missiles earlier.
He checked his fuel gauge and winced. It would be a near thing making it back to Viraat now. His earlier maneuvers had spent far too much fuel.
Risking discovery, he brought the Harrier’s nose up and climbed. At ten thousand feet his radar display showed his target, now less than eighty kilometers away but still well over the horizon from the Harrier formation that continued to hug the surface below. He did not chance using his own radar but remained in passive mode, recording the radar emissions of the target rather than sending out signals of his own.
The target plotted, he dropped to wave-top height once more. Carefully, they stalked their enemy, staying unseen below the horizon.
The American E-2Cs were the greatest danger, but those watched northward now, toward the heart of the vast, churning dogfight sprawling from Kathiawar to the fringes of the American fleet. The Harriers still had a chance to strike without being detected.
Tahliani had led his formation far to the south, circling past the Jefferson’s last-known position. At such a low altitude, and with nothing like the American Hawkeye to coordinate the battle, they had to rely on guesswork to find their prey.
“Target ahead,” he said, breaking radio silence now for the first time since he’d decided to make this strike. “Range seventy-nine kilometers.
Arm missiles!”
One by one the others reported their Sea Eagle ship-killers armed and ready for launch. The Sea Eagle had a range of one hundred kilometers.
By narrowing that distance, they would shorten the enemy’s reaction time once the missile had locked on.
If they got much closer, though, the enemy ship’s radar would be certain to see them, if they hadn’t been spotted already by the circling Hawkeyes.
“Blue King Leader to Blue King,” Tahliani said. “Launch! Launch!”
His Sea Harrier lept into the sky as the Sea Eagle dropped free and fired. He could see the reflection of the exhaust on the sea, a dazzling flare of orange and gold. One by one, the other Harriers dropped their deadly packages. In seconds, eleven missile contrails were speeding across the water toward their distant target.
“”If the slayer thinks he slays,’” Tahliani said, his voice a sonorous chant as he quoted from the Katha Upanishad, “‘if the slain thinks he is slain, both these do not understand. He slays not, is not slain … ‘”
A suitable epitaph for the brave men who worked the ship that lay invisibly beyond the horizon. And perhaps it would serve as a plea for forgiveness as well.
It would take nearly five minutes for the Sea Eagles to reach their target. By then, the Harriers would be long gone. With a snap of his wrist he twisted his aircraft skyward, then around toward home.
0855 hours, 26 March
CIC, U.S.S. Vicksburg
Vaughn looked away from the LSD he was studying as the Tactical Officer snapped a warning. “Missile launch!” the TO called. “Eleven new bogies, probable ASMS, bearing one-eight-five. Range seventy-five miles. Speed five-niner-four knots.
“Mach point eight-five,” Cunningham said at Vaughn’s side. “Sea Eagles, just like the ones they smacked Jefferson with. Seventy-five miles, though. That’s pretty far for Sea Eagles.”
“Sir,” Harkowicz, the TO, said. “We’re not the target. It’s … Sir, it’s Kreml!”
Vaughn’s eyes widened. “The Kremlin? You’re sure?” He looked across the CIC suite toward the three Russian Officers at their communications center. “Where is she?”
Cunningham pointed to a graphic symbol on the LSD. “About seventy miles southwest of us, sir. Parallel course, west-northwest, eighteen knots.”
“We’d better tell them, sir,” Cunningham said, following the admiral’s stare. “They’re not tapped into our data network.�
��
Vaughn’s anger at the Russians, at the way they’d been dragging their feet earlier, surfaced again.
But no, Cunningham was right. They did have to be told.
He hurried across the room to tell them himself.
0856 hours, 26 March
Flag bridge, Soviet aircraft carrier Kreml
“Urgent message from Vicksburg, Admiral,” the aide said as he handed the message sheet to Dmitriev. “They report several antiship cruise-missiles have been targeted on us from the southeast.”
He took the message and scanned it. It had been signed by Sharov.
Dmitriev knew his Chief of Staff was prone neither to exaggeration nor to sensationalism.
The Russian admiral checked his watch and the information on the sheet.
According to the report, the missiles were a bit over twenty miles away … three minutes at eight tenths the speed of sound. “Is there anything on radar?”
The aide, already at attention, managed to convey a further crisp snap to his posture that came short of clicking his heels. “Negative, Admiral.”
“Hmm.” It could be an American ruse to hurry him in launching his aircraft, but he doubted that. Not that Vaughn wasn’t capable of cheap theatrics, but … “Point defenses on full alert,” he ordered. “And notify Kurasov to check in that direction. We will take no chances.”
Admiral Dmitriev was painfully aware of the crowded state of Kreml’s flight deck, where bombs and incendiaries were still piled high as fueling and arming for the strike continued. He’d thought that the Russian squadron was well enough sheltered by the American task force.
If it was not … The lessons of the Battle of Midway were taught at Russian naval academies as well as at Annapolis, and Dmitriev was uncomfortably aware that he might well be about to be cast in the modern-day role of Nagumo.
He checked his watch again. Two minutes …
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