with separate elements coming in at low altitude from different directions, to keep the enemy off balance, and to divide and scatter his triple-A defenses.” His pointer slid down the map from the Sindh to an oval drawn near the Indian coast. “All aircraft will rendezvous here, at Point Juliet just off the Kori Creek inlet. Tankers will be waiting there to refuel them for the final leg back to the Jefferson. Are there any questions?”
Tombstone raised his hand. “What about the Russians?”
Aubrey looked from Tombstone to Vaughn, then back again. Tombstone was aware of the hard silence in the room as each man waited for the answer.
“Ah … it’s been decided,” Aubrey said slowly, “that a joint ground attack mission would present us with unacceptable risk. Russian interceptors will be available on a standby basis to help deal with threats to the fleet. However, Russian strike aircraft will be readied in case a second strike on Indian targets is necessary.”
Of course, there would be no second strike. If the first strike failed to slow the Indian advance, there would be little more that the Russians — with fewer aircraft, more primitive targeting and delivery systems, and shorter- ranged strike aircraft could hope to accomplish.
Tombstone heard a low-voiced, angry murmur spreading around the room. He imagined most of the aviators had expected the Russians to share some of the risks of what was already a very high-threat mission. At the very least, more targets in the air would cause more confusion on the ground and better each individual pilot’s chances of coming through intact.
Another hand raised and Aubrey nodded. “Captain Fitzgerald. Yes, sir?”
Jefferson’s captain stood. “Yes, Dan. Is there an assessment yet on the possibility that the Indian fleet might sortie against this battle group? I mean no disrespect to our Russian guests, but two Tomcat squadrons and the interceptors off the Kreml are all we’ll have for outer zone fleet defense. The Indians could conceivably put a great many ASMS in the sky and saturate our defenses.”
“That would be better directed at Commander Neil,” Aubrey said. “Our understanding in OX is that the threat from surface elements is low.
Commander Neil, do you have anything to add to that?”
“Only that the principal threat to the CBG will be from ground-based aircraft. The fleet assembling at Bombay is almost certainly targeted against Karachi. And the Migs …” He looked at the Russians. “Your Mig-29s have look- down/shoot-down capability, do they not, sir?”
Captain Pokrovsky — his full rank translated as “Captain Third Rank,” lower than a U.S. Navy captain but higher than a commander — consulted briefly with Admiral Dmitriev, then stood, his hands clasped behind his back. “If I have meaning correct, da. Sahvyehrshennah, Mig have capability kill cruise missile.” Kreml’s Air Officer appeared completely self-assured on the point. Tombstone wondered if he didn’t seem a bit too self-assured. His difficulties with English were obvious.
Aubrey spread his hands. “There you have it, sir. The Russians will be able to help cover our fleet while the Hornets are out.”
“God help us,” Vaughn said, his low-voiced comment unexpectedly loud in the near-silence of the room. There was no mistaking the disdain in the admiral’s words.
“Admiral Vaughn,” Dmitriev said with steady, icily correct control in the words. “Perhaps you disagree with your President’s order to operate together as a fleet?”
Vaughn’s mouth hung open for a moment until, with an effort, he closed it. “My apologies, Admiral,” he said. “No insult intended. But I have grave concerns about our squadrons operating together in an environment where identification and control are going to be serious problems. You have still not provided us with the IFF codes for your aircraft, and misidentification could lead to … unfortunate incidents.”
True enough, Tombstone thought. He remembered the Indian Mig he’d seen the night before. If the Russians didn’t give the Americans their IFF frequencies and codes, how were the U.S. ships going to distinguish between Indian and Russian aircraft? There were going to be problems enough telling Indian Migs from Navy Hornets.
“Clearance to exchange codes is out of my hands, Admiral,” Dmitriev said, and Tombstone could hear the heaviness in his voice. No doubt he’d had to buck the question back to Moscow, where the bureaucracy there was still debating the question.
Suddenly, Tombstone felt sorry for the Russians, professional men forced to operate with their former opponents, with neither understanding nor support from their own people further up the chain of command.
This, he reflected, was going to be one hell of a way to run a war.
The missile boat wallowed forward in heavy seas. Senior Lieutenant Javed Chaudry clung to the safety railing on the small craft’s weather bridge and wondered how they could possibly survive.
The storm front had moved out of the area the night before, taking with it the overcast skies and dirty weather that had trailed the storm. All that was left was this swell, vast waves that lifted the four small patrol boats like wood chips, then sent them rolling into the trench between spindrift-capped crests in a blast of spray and wind.
The patrol boats were Osa IIS, purchased from the Soviet Union in 1976.
Their primary armament consisted of four Russian-built SS-N-2b antiship missiles that carried the NATO designation “Styx.” The Osas could spring ahead at thirty-five knots, but for the time being they were barely making way, riding with the heavy, following seas at just eight knots. It would have been far better, the lieutenant thought, if they could have blasted ahead at full speed, taking the waves, riding them, instead of this incessant up-and-down wallowing.
The Pralaya crested another wave, angled forward, then began the long slide into the trench. Chaudry clung tighter to the railing as his stomach suddenly twisted with a gut-wrenching pang that brought him to the very edge of being explosively sick.
For one desperate moment, he thought he was going to suffer the humiliation of vomiting in front of his men. Then, as Pralaya halted her plunge, he managed to look around at the other men on deck or on the bridge. Judging from the expressions on some of their faces, he wasn’t the only one suffering. The thought steadied him.
The heavy seas were a blessing, Chaudry told himself. The tiny squadron was only the advance element of the Indian navy, which was trailing eighty miles astern. The Indians were under no illusions as to the sensitivity of American radar. Sneaking up on a Yankee carrier would be next to impossible.
But it might — just might — be possible to mislead the Americans by a critical few minutes. The American radar would not immediately be able to pick the Osas from the clutter of the surrounding waves. They would continue their stealthy approach, their own radars off but their receivers tuned to warn them at the first touch by a hostile beam. Soon, very soon now, they would be close enough to loose their missiles.
And then it would be a fast turn and a run for home, safety, and solid, unmoving ground. The thought cheered Lieutenant Chaudry immensely.
CHAPTER 15
Admiral Vaughn held his cap to his head as the Russian Helix gunned its rotors and lifted from the American carrier’s flight deck. His free hand clenched into a fist at his side. Damn Washington for ordering him to transfer to the Vicksburg. And damn the Russians! Rather than fly across in their Aeroflot Helix, he’d snagged one of Jefferson’s HH-60 Seahawks to transfer himself and several aides to the Vicksburg.
As if an American admiral could consent to be flown aboard an American command ship by the Russians, for God’s sake! But the use of two helos would mean a delay. The Russian helo would drop off the three liaison officers on the Vicksburg first, then return to the Kreml with Rear Admiral Dmitriev. Vaughn’s helo would hang back until the Helix cleared Vicksburg’s fantail.
Every time he turned around, it seemed, the Russians were in his way. It was almost as if Moscow was carrying on some monstrous, clandestine plan to personally frustrate the plans and career of Rear Admiral Charles Lee Vaughn.
