“All I can say, Mal,” he told his RIO. “The goddamned cavalry better hustle. We got a shitload of company that’s fixing to come step on us!”
“Admiral on deck!”
Marine sentries snapped to attention and presented arms, but the rest of the officers and sailors in the Aegis cruiser’s CIC suite remained motionless at their stations as Admiral Vaughn stepped across the knee-knocker and into the room. Captain Cunningham looked up, then waved him over. “Welcome aboard, Admiral,” he said. There was a twinkle in his eye. “I trust you had a pleasant flight.”
“Never mind that. What the hell’s going on?”
Vicksburg’s captain began outlining the situation. Vaughn was uncomfortably aware of the surge and roll of the ship in the heavy seas and reached out to steady himself on a nearby console top.
“Aye, sir. The Indies fired sixteen missiles from an estimated four patrol craft. Range twenty-seven miles. Jefferson stopped them all. No damage.”
“Thank God!”
“At the same time, they appear to have begun launching a large number of land-based aircraft.” He pointed toward one of the LSDS, which now displayed a portion of the Indian mainland in lines of white light.
Bhuj, south of the salt marshes of the Rann of Kutch. Okha, an Indian air force base on the very western tip of the peninsula called Kathiawar. The airfields outside the major Kathiawar cities of Jamnagar, Rajkot, and Bhanagar. Bombay to the east. At each location, aircraft were still rising into the skies, circling, gathering for the storm.
“Some of them are already skirting the edge of our air defense zone,” Cunningham said. “Jefferson reports she is now launching her remaining F-14s.”
“How … how many enemy planes?” Vaughn asked, his eyes on the scramble of blips on the LSD.
“Unknown,” Cunningham replied. “We estimate fifty to one hundred aircraft aloft so far. Jamming is very heavy.”
“Anything out of the Indian fleet?”
“Nothing yet, Admiral. They could have launched their Sea Harriers, but our Hawkeyes haven’t picked up anything yet. Like I said, the jamming-“
“Has Washington been apprised of the situation yet?”
Cunningham looked surprised. “Uh … no, sir. Unless Jefferson-“
Vaughn slumped. “There hasn’t been time. Okay. My responsibility. Get me a satellite patch. Now.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“And bring the goddamned Russians down here. We might as well start working with the bastards.”
Vaughn wasn’t certain where or when the turning point had been, but he was surprised to realize that he was less concerned now about what the Joint Chiefs might say than with the handful of ships and men under his command. Not that he should have been surprised by that, he realized … but for so long his world had revolved around the tight little perimeter of the Washington Beltway. He’d been aware of the outside world, certainly, but his personal world had been that of career and peers, of position and politics.
All of that was lost now, under the hot rising sun of the Arabian Sea, and against the rising swarms of aircraft bent on destroying his command.
So far from home, against such odds, he would take any allies he could find … even if they spoke Russian.
If only there was time.
Lieutenant Commander Ravi Tahliani held his aircraft steady at an altitude of less than fifty meters. Traveling at eleven miles a minute, just below the speed of sound, the Sea Harrier bucked and jumped, the vibrations transmitted to the young Indian pilot through his ejection seat and the control stick between his knees. At so low an altitude, the horizon seemed to be above him on all sides, and sea spray blasted across his windscreen like a stiff rain. He reached out and flicked on a device that he, trained on simpler aircraft like Migs, still found strange in a fighter. Its utility was undeniable, however. The windshield wiper cleared the spray with several quick swipes.
He checked his console clock. He’d been airborne now for six minutes and had already crossed nearly half the distance between the Indian fleet and the American carrier. By now, he was deep inside the enemy’s air defense zone. It was remarkable that they’d come so far without being detected.
Or perhaps not. The Indian Sea Harriers were flying at an extremely low altitude and beneath a solid blanket of friendly jamming. The Americans’ attention would be focused in a different direction, toward the northeast and the Indian mainland. If they were watching the Indian fleet at all, it was with the assumption that Viraat and her consorts were bound for Karachi and the blockade of Pakistan.
The Americans would be in the midst now of launching their carrier-based aircraft. There would be a certain amount of confusion, both on the carrier’s deck and among the pilots in the air as they formed up against the oncoming Indian aircraft. The Sea Harriers would have a good chance to strike a telling — and unexpected — blow.
He glanced again at the clock. Only a few more minutes …
“Missile closing with target,” Malibu said. “Closing … got him!”
On Batman’s VDI, the blip marking the Indian EW aircraft, circling over the Gir Hills of southern Kathiawar, flared and fragmented as the marker for the Phoenix missile connected across nearly sixty miles.
“Victor Tango One-one!” Batman called. “Splash that bandit!”
The radar screen was clear! As though wiped by a cloth, the smears of light and static were gone, leaving the crisp images of moving bogies.
“Copy, Two-one-six,” the Hawkeye controller replied. “Good shooting.”
“I’m not sure I wanted to see the big picture, Batman,” Malibu said. “I think those guys are mad now.”
“Roger that.” He put the Tomcat into a starboard turn, angling back toward the southwest. “Where’s Army? I think we lost him back there.”
“Got him,” Malibu replied. “Range twelve miles, at two-seven-five. Got his IFF.”
“I see him.” He opened the tactical frequency. “Viper Two-oh-one,” he called. “This is Batman. Do you copy? Over.”
“Copy, Batman.”
“What’s the score?” It had been several minutes since he’d last heard from the Jefferson. He was wondering about her fate with so many missiles bearing down on her.
“Homeplate is in the clear,” Army replied. “Alert Five is up and on the way. All … hold it. Wait one.”
“Rog.”
“Shit. Batman, can you get a reading on possible targets, bearing one-nine-zero to one-seven-five? Range … about ten miles.”
“Got ‘em,” Malibu said. “Damn, Batman! Where’d they come from?”
“Roger, Army,” Batman said, replying to Garrison’s question. “We see them. I make it … eight … maybe ten bogies, heading west to west-northwest at five-five-oh.”
“That’s them. Too big to be missiles.”
“My guess would be Sea Harriers, Army.”
“Roger that. Victor Tango One-one, did you copy that, over?”
“Roger, BARCAP One-one. We are monitoring. Come to new heading one-nine-zero and intercept. Over.”
“Roger, Victor Tango. We’re in.”
“BARCAP One-two, come to one-nine-five and intercept. Over.”
“Copy, Victor Tango. The Batman’s in.”
He rammed his throttles to Zone Five burner and thundered toward the south.
