He put the Tomcat into a hard turn, heading north.
Colonel Jamall Rajiv Singh felt himself pressed back into his ejection seat as his SEPECAT Jaguar hurtled down the runway, then lifted into a morning sky of blue and gold. The runway vanished beneath the belly of his aircraft, replaced immediately by the murky blue-green waters of the Gulf of Kutch.
“Okha tower, Jaguar One-zero-two airborne,” he said over the radio.
“Coming right to one-seven-five.”
“Roger, One-zero-two,” the control tower replied. “Switch to tactical command, three-five-five point three. Over.”
He put the aircraft into a gentle right-hand turn. Water gave way to gravel, scrub brush, and palm trees as he circled back over the Kathiawar Peninsula. Looking up through his canopy, he could see other elements of the massive Indian air armada gathering above him.
“Switching to three-five-five point three, roger.” He adjusted the frequency on his radio. “Rama Command, Rama Command,” he called. “This is Python Strike Leader, Jaguar One-zero-two. Do you read, over?”
“Python Strike Leader, this is Rama Command. We read you. You are clear to proceed.” The new voice sounded tense, even harsh.
What do you have to be worried about? Singh thought, silently questioning the voice. “Very well, Rama. We’re on our way.”
Below, the dun-colored wastes of the western tip of Kathiawar blurred past, then gave way once more to the sea, the deep, cobalt blue of the Arabian Sea this time instead of the muddy shallows of Kutch. Around him, the other Jaguars of his flight group closed up, settling into the tight formation that they would hold for most of the trip to the target.
Singh was uncomfortably aware that this mission would have little in common with his strike against the American supply ships two days before. That attack had been against relatively undefended targets and in the confusion of night. This time, the enemy was fully warned and prepared, aircraft in the sky and ready, ships on full alert. It was going to be a blood-bath.
He was afraid.
Sixty miles to the east of Okha, a pair of sleek Indian Air Force Mig-29 Fulcrums lifted into the sky above the airfield at Jamnagar, their landing gear folding into their bellies while they were still a few meters above the tarmac.
Lieutenant Colonel Ramadutta cleared his flight with Jamnagar Tower and set his fighter on a south- southwesterly course.
For Ramadutta, the coming battle would be a chance at recovering some measure of his pride. The near- encounter with the American Tomcat in the dark night sky thirty-five hours before had left him shaken, questioning his own abilities as one of India’s elite pilot corps. In his last encounter, he’d run. Nothing had been said officially, but the knowledge that his failure could have led to the destruction of several Indian Jaguars during their successful strike against the American supply ships had left him with a burning shame … and a need to clear his honor, before his family, his comrades, and himself.
When his squadron, what was left of it, had been transferred back to Jamnagar the evening before, he’d wondered if he was going to be able to fly again.
As fighters and strike planes scrambled, he knew the answer. He would face his fear … and the American enemy in the skies above India.
His mission this time, the mission of his squadron, was to protect the Indian naval and air force strike aircraft that were deploying to attack the American and Soviet squadrons. But it would be more than that. He knew, beyond any doubt, that within minutes he would again be engaged in single combat.
He was having difficulty sorting out his own fiercely intertwined emotions — determination, fear, shame.
But more than anything else, Lieutenant Colonel Munir Ramadutta was angry.
Admiral Vaughn was angry, and he didn’t know how much longer he could control it. He raised his fist, shaking it under the nose of a startled Soviet Chief of Staff.
“You Commie son of a bitch!” he shouted. Heads turned throughout the Aegis cruiser’s command center. “If this damned alliance is going to amount to anything, Captain, then you people had better get off your asses and into the air, don’t you think?”
“Please, Admiral,” Captain First Rank Sharov said. “I have no authority.”
“Then get some authority, damn it! You’re in touch with your carrier now?”
“Da, Admiral. But the necessary permission from Moskva …” He shrugged helplessly. “We have received no orders.”
Vaughn stopped himself, took a deep breath, then swallowed. He allowed his voice to drop, to become dangerous. “Son, if you don’t clear things so that Kremlin can start launching planes and help defend this so-called joint task force-” He paused once more and licked his lips.
When he spoke again, it was with a blast of raw fury that forced the Russian back a step. “I’m going to open fire on your fucking fleet myself!”
“I … will see what is to be done, Admiral.”
“Do it! Get out of my sight and don’t show yourself until you have some aircraft in the sky doing their part!” He whirled as an American lieutenant cleared his throat at his back. “What the hell do you want?”
“Sir! The Indian aircraft seem to be making their move.”
Until now, the armada that had been rising from airfields from Okha to Bombay had simply been gathering, waiting and circling beyond Jefferson’s air defense zone like a flock of buzzards.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, sir. We have an estimated twelve strike aircraft — probably Jaguars — crossing into our outer defense zone south of Okha. We have ten more out of Jamnagar, big ones, possibly old Canberras. Range is now eighty miles.”
“What about the Sea Harriers?”
“They’ve engaged with our BARCAP thirty to fifty miles southeast of the Jefferson. No news yet.”
“Okay,” Vaughn said. He wiped his face with his hand and was surprised at how cold it felt. “Okay. How’s the Jeff doing?”
“Ten Tomcats are aloft now, sir, and they’re continuing launch operations from their waist cats. That’s in addition to two Hawkeyes, four Prowlers, two tankers, and a couple of ASW Vikings.”
“Good, good.” But it wasn’t good. He hoped the people in Jefferson’s CATCC knew what the hell they were doing. With that many planes in the sky, keeping them all fueled was going to be a bitch with only two working catapults.
And there were no bingo fields ashore if someone miscalculated and planes started running out of gas.
“Things sound pretty confused over there, Admiral,” the lieutenant continued. “But CATCC reports that they’ll have sixteen Tomcats up within the next ten minutes.”
Sixteen? He tallied them in his mind. Right. Ten from VF-97 and eight from VF-95. Minus one shot down a few minutes ago, and another tipped into the drink by a catapult malfunction.
Against an aerial armada of well over a hundred Indian aircraft. Most of those would be strike planes, clumsy with bombs and rockets for the fleet. But still … “Very well,” Vaughn said. “Keep me posted.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Vaughn watched the lieutenant hurry away and found himself, unaccountably, thinking of the Battle of Midway.
It was strange comparing that battle with what would probably go down in the history books as the Battle of the Arabian Sea. Midway, remembered now as the turning point in the Pacific campaign of World War II, was the subject of intensive study by every Naval cadet at Annapolis, and its lessons were part of the training and background of every U.S. Naval command and staff officer.
