conceal their movements. It’s as we thought. The Americans think they can simply overwhelm our defenses.”
Desaix nodded, approving Gibierge’s apparent certainty. The admiral knew his craft. Still, he had questions. “I thought your plan anticipated attacking those carriers before they could hit us.”
The tall man’s tone was calm, but the admiral thought he heard a hint of irritation beneath the measured words. He hastened to explain. “That is true, Foreign Minister. But this situation may work even more to our advantage. This inbound American strike must be escorted, and that means fewer fighters will be available to defend that carrier. If their primary target is Wilhelmshaven, the two raids will meet almost head-on. And in that case, I believe the Americans will abandon their own attack to concentrate on their own defense.”
“Can we handle them?” queried Desaix.
“Yes, Foreign Minister, we can. We have almost half of our frontline fighter strength concentrated here.”
Desaix appeared convinced, and the admiral turned to one of the display operators. “Any further information on the inbound strike?”
The young lieutenant nodded. “We have identified airborne radars consistent with F/A-18 and A-6 aircraft. Plus, there appear to be two E-2 Hawkeyes accompanying the group.” He shrugged in apology. “We don’t yet have a precise raid count, Admiral. There is very heavy jamming.”
Gibierge nodded, undismayed. “As we expected.”
Everything was still unfolding according to his earlier predictions. The Americans would never waste two of their prized E-2 radar warning and command and control planes on a mere probe. If they followed normal practice, the practice he had seen a dozen times as a NATO observer during peacetime exercises, the incoming raid would contain two squadrons of A-6 Intruder aircraft and two of Hornets, escorted by a full squadron of F-14 Tomcats and a pair of EA-6B Prowlers to jam French and German radars. Two Hawkeyes aloft could also indicate that the Americans were combining planes from both their carriers in this one strike. Well, he thought grimly, the more the merrier. He turned back to Desaix.
“Do the Americans have any other courses of action when we meet them?”
“They may choose to continue, trusting to their missile ships and the remaining fighters. That would be better for us, of course.”
“But what about the damage they might cause to Wilhelmshaven?”
Gibierge gave a very Gallic shrug. “We will be hit, of course, but we still have our SAMs and fighter defenses.”
Desaix nodded his understanding. Both men left unsaid the thought that Wilhelmshaven was German territory anyway.
The admiral leaned forward, pressing home his point. “Most important, sir, whichever way they move, the Americans will only be able to launch this one attack. By the time they turn for home, they will have no carrier to land on, only a patch of radioactive water,”
“Admiral!” Lieutenant Harada had to shout to get Admiral Jack Ward’s attention on the noisy bridge wing. At thirty-plus knots, the wind almost ripped the words out of your throat. Add the scream of dozens of jet engines, and you might as well use sign language.
The admiral turned to his aide. Harada thought he looked a little better than he had while he was stuck on shore. The stress of the past several days had aged his boss.
Watching the airborne phase of Counterweight get under way was a tonic, though. Nobody could watch plane after plane roar off the carrier’s flight deck without being encouraged. Things were finally moving, and when those planes reached their target, EurCon was in for a rough morning.
Harada hated to call the admiral in, but it was important. He cupped his hands. “New enemy contacts, sir! Airborne over Germany.”
Ward nodded and quickly ducked through the weather deck door.
The Tactical Flag Command Center was Ward’s turf, and he loved it. Information from dozens of sensors could be displayed in as many different ways, and secure communications links put him in touch with his commanders. Unlike an army or marine officer, Ward couldn’t ever expect to see much of the battlefield. The TFCC took its place. From here, he could run the war in the North Sea and the Baltic.
It was a dark, quiet place, the hum of subdued voices indicating a well-trained team. The man responsible for that, his new chief of staff, approached Ward as he came in.
Captain Harry March should have been a lawyer or a CPA, but the navy had been lucky enough to get him. Business colleges cost money, but the academy had offered a black city kid a degree for free. His passion for detail was Ward’s secret weapon.
Now he didn’t waste time. “SIGINT planes are picking up a lot of airborne radio traffic over several German air bases, including Bremerhaven and Cuxhaven. Traffic is in both German and French. Some aircraft radar signals, too.” Although he spoke softly, he sounded worried.
“What’s your evaluation, Harry? An air strike?”
“Probably, sir, and we’re the only logical target.” He sighed. “The problem is, we don’t have a clear picture of what’s going on over there. Our radar coverage is nil.”
Ward frowned. His intelligence officers’ best guess had been that EurCon wouldn’t come after his carriers from the air. Computer-run wargames and analyses had showed such an attack would absorb too much of French and German air strength to make it worthwhile. Apparently the enemy’s own staff studies had come to a different conclusion. He said as much to March.
“I agree, Admiral. I’ve run the numbers, though. Based on what we do know, and their aircraft ranges, we’re the only worthwhile target out here right now.”
Ward felt a small chill run through him. “If they are going to hit us, Harry, it won’t be a half-assed attempt.” What went unspoken was the obvious fact that the incoming EurCon strike force would meet their own outbound raid head-on. “How long till we know for sure what they’re up to?”
March answered instantly. “About ten minutes or so, Admiral, based on their course and speed, plus their time in the air. I recommend tanking our outbound planes now and launching more tankers to refuel our own top cover. I’ve already passed our data over to
“As well as giving
“Our strike is outbound,” announced an operator.
Gibierge studied the cluster of blue symbols just north of Cuxhaven with satisfaction. Two squadrons of Mirage 2000Ns armed with ASMP nuclear missiles. Two more squadrons of German Tornados armed with antiradar missiles and conventional antiship missiles. A squadron of Rafales, two of Mirage 2000s, and two of German fighters accompanied the strike force as escorts. He and his fellow commanders were throwing nearly 120 aircraft into this battle — the cream of the Confederation air forces.
“They’re headed straight at us, Admiral.” March’s voice was filled with suppressed excitement. “There’s some jamming but we’re dealing with it. Raid count in excess of one hundred aircraft.”
Ward stood taller. Years dropped away from his face along with all the doubts and worries of the past few weeks. They were committed now. “Tell Rancher to execute as soon as his planes have finished tanking.”
Mann watched the last of the F-14s nose into the tanker’s drogue and hurriedly take on fuel. Thank God they’d decided to do this in daylight. In-flight refueling was a fine art and demanded a high level of skill. Passing a baton from one car to another on a superhighway was child’s play in comparison.
But they needed the fuel. The navy planes heading for the German coast had already expended a quarter of their load, and combat could drain their tanks in a few minutes. All together, almost two squadrons of A-6 Intruders had been dedicated to tanker duty.
They were just finishing up now. His Hornet squadron had already refueled.
“All Counterweight units, this is Rancher. Chuckwagons and outriders to the rear.” Captain Macmillan, the CAG, had a spread in Montana, and cowboy slang always seemed to figure in the radio codes he developed. Mann
