was a city boy at heart, but he had to admit that they seemed more appropriate than anything he might have dredged up out of a childhood spent in Brooklyn.
Mann knew that Macmillan would rather be flying his F-14 than riding a Hawkeye, but his job could not be performed in a fighter cockpit. Someone had to lead.
Now Rancher sent the A-6 tankers and the antishipping aircraft home, stripping the formation for action. The jammers spread out, where they would stay clear of the fight, and the E-2s’ dedicated fighter escorts moved in closer to their charges.
“All units, this is Rancher. Execute.”
Mann pushed his throttle forward.
Gibierge watched the two clusters of symbols move toward each other. They were still two hundred miles apart, but with both formations flying at almost four hundred knots, they would be in missile range in about fifteen minutes. The American F-14s with their Phoenix missiles would be able to fire sooner, but long-range shots were effective only against clumsy bomber aircraft.
He focused his attention on the American formation. Which way would they jump?
One of the situation room’s secondary screens showed an expanded view of the two raids. The French and German planes were neatly labeled with aircraft types and call signs for each flight, along with their course, speed, and altitude.
The opposing American raid, though, simply showed up as a muddle of hostile aircraft symbols and a crisscross tracery of ESM detection lines. Where they intersected, a label marked the type of radar detected and the aircraft fitted with it. Several small groups of planes near the fringes of the raid were marked with “APG-65/Hornet” or “AWG-9/Tomcat.” The center of the formation was marked with “APQ-156/Intruder.” Radar and ESM gave him a good idea of the enemy raid’s composition. So far there hadn’t been any surprises.
His eyes narrowed. The American commanders would have to make their decision soon. Would they press ahead toward Wilhelmshaven or turn back to defend their own ships? The range was down to 150 nautical miles.
Some of the American symbols shifted in relation to their counterparts. Simultaneously several of the lines indicating radar signals disappeared. The signals for fighters remained, but the Intruder radars had gone away.
Desaix leaned closer to him, wanting to know what was going on, but Gibierge waited a moment more before turning to respond. “It looks like they are sending their attack aircraft home, Foreign Minister. It was the logical course for them, and I’ve alerted our raid commander. We are prepared…”
Desaix was still watching the screen while the admiral explained. Suddenly the Foreign Minister’s eyes widened in puzzlement and alarm. Gibierge checked the display again and felt his jaw drop open.
A new network of lines, thicker than a spider’s web, covered the American raid. Every one of them was labeled “APG-65” or “AWG-9”. In addition, only a few aircraft symbols had disappeared. The bulk of the raid was not turning back, but accelerating. He watched as the speed values next to the aircraft symbols changed and changed again, always increasing. They were already well over six hundred knots, while a loaded Intruder could not even make five hundred. “Gibierge, what is this?” Desaix demanded. The admiral was already reaching for a red command phone.
With the tankers and antishipping planes gone, Mann felt like a ball and chain had been removed. Under Rancher’s direction, the Counterweight raid accelerated from attack aircraft cruising speeds to fighter intercept speeds. Blips representing hostile aircraft covered his radar now, although enemy jamming still cluttered parts of the scope with fuzzy white blotches.
He could only spare a short glance at the radar screen itself. Much of the data on it was automatically fed to his Hornet’s HUD anyway, and a pilot who spends too much time heads-down is sure to get surprised one day. And surprises in air-to-air combat are usually fatal. He scanned the sky and double-checked his weapons settings. It would be several more minutes before they were in Sparrow range.
But the F-14s would be in range a lot sooner than that. He looked down at them now, wings swept back and still spreading out from a close formation used by attack planes to one more suitable for high-altitude missile combat.
“Cactus, Lasso, Longhorn, you are clear to engage assigned targets. Out.” Rancher’s voice ordered the three Tomcat squadrons under his command to attack. Each of the thirty F-14s carried four long-range Phoenix air-to-air missiles, two shorter-range Sparrows, and two Sidewinders for dogfighting. Like Mann’s Hornet, they also carried two drop tanks. The tanks were slowing them down, but the Tomcats would hang onto them — until the fuel they carried was gone, or until the fighters were going into a close-in fight where maneuverability counted for more than endurance.
Now, almost before Rancher finished his transmission, each F-14 fired once. White lines, tipped with fire, appeared in front of the Tomcats. They shot straight out ahead of the big, twin-tailed planes for a fraction of a second, then suddenly pitched up and climbed almost out of sight.
The smoke trails flashed past the formation, but Mann’s eyes followed the missile tracks as long as possible. Just as the first group of missiles disappeared, the three F-14 squadrons fired again.
Following the first wave, the second wave of Phoenix missiles climbed until they were out of the troposphere entirely. Following preset flight commands, they leveled off at over 100,000 feet. The near vacuum twenty miles up allowed each missile to reach Mach 5 and hold it, even after its rocket motor burned out. Their targets were seventy miles down-range — well within the missiles’ range. They would reach the EurCon formation in a minute and a half.
Stunned and panicked shouts echoed in his ears. The crowded situation room filled with questions and accusations as Gibierge tried desperately to concentrate on the voice at the other end of the command circuit.
Desaix, rising out of his chair, shook the admiral’s shoulder, demanding that he explain, that he act.
Gibierge, shouting into the handset to make himself heard, yelled, “Attack now! Push them in at full speed! Remember, we only need one hit!”
He hung up, and realized that the man demanding his attention was not some aide but the Foreign Minister of France, the controlling mind of the European Confederation.
“Explain this,” ordered Desaix in a barely controlled voice.
“It’s an offensive fighter sweep, sir. Based on the information there” — Gibierge waved an arm at the display — ”we are facing the combined fighter strength of both aircraft carriers.”
He shook his head in astonishment. “The Americans are not conducting an attack on Wilhelmshaven or any other land target. They flew the same profile as attack aircraft, and mixed enough attack planes into their formation to fool us.” Gibierge pushed down a sneaking admiration for his American counterpart. This Admiral Ward was wilier than he had thought.
Desaix still looked lost.
The admiral hastily sketched out his deductions with one eye locked on the display. “If we had not been launching our own strike, we would have thrown every fighter we had at them. The Americans would have met our planes with their own and outnumbered us. Then, with our air defense forces crippled, their real strikes would suffer fewer losses.”
Desaix scowled. “So now instead of our air defenses, they are going to decimate ‘the cream of our air forces.’ We must abort the strike now, before they get in range.”
“At this stage that would be almost impossible, Foreign Minister. It would also be unnecessary.” Gibierge half argued, half pleaded with the politician. “Our own fighters almost match theirs in numbers. While they occupy the Americans, our Mirage attack jets can accelerate to maximum speed and slip past. And they will be in launch range in just a few minutes.”
Desaix started to object, but Gibierge stopped him. “It’s too late, Foreign Minister. Events move too quickly in an air battle. The orders have already been given.”
A display operator’s voice cut through the confusion. “Strike leader reports they are under missile attack.”
The Phoenix missiles, linked back to their launching aircraft, nosed over, plunging almost straight down at the
