in the 04 deck caverns of CATCC.
“Prowlers?”
Tombstone checked the board again. “Samelli in 603.”
“Right. Let’s get the Alert Five up there,” CAG said. “Notify CIC.”
“Aye, sir,” a j.g. said. “And inform the Captain and the admiral that we’ve got a situation here. We’re going to need to get the rest of our Tomcats airborne, ASAP.”
“The admiral is in transit, CAG,” another officer reminded Marusko.
“Damn. What a time to be caught out of the office.”
“Shit, Tombstone,” Costello whispered. One of the displays had been set to show surface targets, a feed from CIC. The blips representing the missiles were edging closer with each sweep of the beam. “We won’t have time to launch any more aircraft!”
“Batman and Army will get them,” Tombstone whispered in reply. But he did not feel the confidence he put into the words. “The Indies goofed.”
“How, Stoney?”
“They launched from maximum range. Styx missiles only have a range of about twenty-seven, twenty-eight miles. Soviet doctrine is to close to ten or twelve nautical miles before launching. They just gave us longer to shoot them down.” He nodded toward another repeater display, this one with much of the west coast of India outlined in white light and showing those positions of India’s surface navy units that were known.
“I’m more worried about their heavier ships. Their destroyers carry an improved Styx. They’ll be able to hit us from out to about forty, maybe forty-five miles. But it’ll be a while before they can get in position.”
The intent of the Indians had been fuzzy until now. Because of the location of Turban Station, two hundred miles south of the Indian-Pakistan border, there’d been considerable question about whether the ships deploying out of Bombay and India’s west coast were preparing to attack the Soviet-American squadron, or to bypass Kreml and Jefferson in order to hit Karachi or blockade the Pakistani coast.
Tombstone watched the approaching missiles. Their plans had just grown considerably less fuzzy. The Indians were out for blood. The main body of their fleet — two carriers, a large cruiser, and at least eight destroyers — was still a hundred miles away. Tombstone had assumed that the first Indian strike, if it came, would be by air. “CAG!” a radarman chief called. “CIC reports new contacts … multiple contacts over Jamnagar. Bearing zero-four-oh, range one-six-five.”
“Multiple contacts over Rajkot,” another sailor announced. “Bearing zero-four-five, range two-double- oh.”
“Homeplate, Homeplate, this is Victor Tango One-one,” a radio voice announced over CATCC’s 1-MC. “We have evidence of massive air activity all along the coast.”
“Roger, Victor Tango One-one. We have them.”
“Ah, Homeplate, Victor Tango. We’re also running into considerable jamming activity. This looks like it could be a major attack.”
Stunned silence reigned in CATCC as the impact of what was happening sank in.
“Now hear this,” the Captain’s voice said over the speaker. “This is Captain Fitzgerald in CIC. Listen up, people. On my authority, weapons are free. Ready VF-97 and the rest of VF-95 for immediate launch. And I want more Prowlers up there now!”
The new contacts began appearing on the large display, positioned by the computers that recorded the radar contacts as they were relayed to the carrier by circling Hawkeyes or the other American ships. Aircraft were clustering over the main Indian fleet, and the coastline from the Pakistan border to Bombay was alive with moving lights, a semicircle of ragged contacts that all seemed to have the same focus. The ships at Turban Station.
Batman angled his F-14 onto a southwesterly course, his eyes on his cockpit VDI rather than on the view of clouds and ocean wheeling past outside. The coast of India was a gray shadow behind him. “We’ve got bogies,” he said. “Range eight-eight miles. Looks like ten or twelve of them, SSMS, spreading out and on a course for Homeplate.”
“Roger that, Batman.” The voice of Lieutenant Commander Fred Garrison, Army to the others in VF-95, sounded flat and hard. VF-95’s XO was a mile off Batman’s left wing. He could see the other F-14, its canopy flashing in the sun. “We have clearance from Homeplate. Weapons release. I say again, weapons release.”
Batman felt a surge of warm relief. At least there’d be no fumbling, half-measures delay in securing the ROES this time.
“Hey, Batman,” his RIO called from the backseat. “I think we got trouble.”
“Whatcha got, Malibu?” The Tomcat shuddered as Batman pushed the throttles forward, pressing the aircraft toward Mach 1.
“More bogies, Batman. About a million of ‘em.”
“Let me see.”
The RIO hit the control that fed his radar plot to the pilot’s VDI, an expanded plot that showed targets as far away as the Indian coastline, sixty miles to the north. “Three guesses where they’re headed, Batman.”
Batman studied the crawling confusion of radar targets. Half the Indian air force must be out there, all taking off at once. “Shit,” he said, almost to himself. “”Air raid, Pearl Harbor. This is no drill.’”
“Air raid Jefferson is more like it,” Malibu replied. “These guys are like deeply serious, man!”
“You’re getting this from the Jeff?”
“Tactical feed through Victor Tango One-one. On the fleet net.”
“Well, at least they know they’re coming.”
“Yeah, but what are we gonna do, Batman?”
Batman was surprised at his own steadiness. He worked the target designator, setting the pipper on one of the closer blips. First priority was to stop the missiles south heading for the carrier. After that, they might have time to worry about the planes to the north.
“Target Alpha,” he said simply. “Track and lock. Go for Phoenix kill.”
“Affirm,” his RIO said, flipping the switches that activated the Tomcat’s AWG-9 radar. Now the F-14 was seeing with its own eyes, instead of the eyes of the fleet. “Range seven-oh miles. We have lock.”
“Light ‘er off.”
“Rog,” Malibu called. The Tomcat bumped slightly as the heavy missile fell away, then ignited. “Fox three!” The Phoenix streaked toward the horizon, trailing flame.
Rear Admiral Ramesh stood on the walkway at the peak of Viraat’s island, his hands clutching the damp railing like a talisman. The Indian aircraft carrier was plowing steadily into the heavy seas, taking spray across her forepeak with each lunge of the vessel against the waves. The wind was from the northeast, an unseasonably raw and gusty breath from the distant Himalayas that set the pennants above Ramesh’s head snapping and cracking like gunfire. Captain Soni had swung Viraat’s oddly humped bow into the wind in order to assist the launching of the Sea Harriers.
The Sea Harriers. Ramesh watched as they continued to roll down Viraat’s flight deck, gathering speed as they hit the up-thrust of the carrier’s ski jump, then vaulted clear of the ship’s bows, engines shrieking as they forced their way into the air. The ex-British carrier was designed to handle the odd-looking V/STOL fighters with their four vectoring engine nozzles set into the hull beneath the high, sharply angled wings.
Contrary to popular belief, the Sea Harriers did not simply lift vertically off the carrier deck like a helicopter, though they certainly had that capability. They used far less fuel and could carry a larger combat load if they used a rolling takeoff. Since the carrier lacked a steam catapult, the twelve-degree “ski jump” bow ramp was designed to give the Harriers the extra lift they needed to fly off Viraat’s 226-meter flight deck.
With her newest refit, Viraat carried four Sea Harrier squadrons, twenty-four aircraft armed with Magic air- to-air missiles. When India first took possession of the carrier from the British in 1986, she’d only carried six of the V/STOL jump jet fighters, but the Indian navy had been acquiring more as quickly as possible. Ultimately, it was planned to carry thirty jump jets aboard Viraat and six more on the smaller Vikrant.
Another Sea Harrier taxied into position below his vantage point on the island. The bright national rounders,
