climbed sharply.
Coyote eased the stick back and started after the second Mirage. It had continued climbing, inserting itself into a twisting blur of aircraft dogfighting through a five-mile expanse of air thirty-five thousand feet above the sea.
The targeted Mirage continued holding its turn … … then shattered as the Sidewinder rose to meet it. Flame boiled into the sky, and the delta-wing shape, its stabilizer missing now, began spinning in a wild, fiery plunge toward the sea.
“Bull’s eye!” Mendoza yelled. “Splash one Mirage for Two-oh-four!”
“Where’d the other one get to, Radar?”
“Lost him. I think he-“
“He’s on me! He’s on me!” Coyote could hear the frantic cry of one of the American pilots. “This is Two-oh- eight. Bandit on my tail! I can’t shake him!”
Coyote scanned the dogfight in front of him. Where … there! The unmistakable profile of a Tomcat plunging toward the sea, wings folded back. A Mig-23 with Indian rounders on its camo-splotched wings followed.
Forgetting the second Mirage, Coyote nosed over, letting the Tomcat fall to pick up speed. “Two-oh-eight, this is Two-oh-four!” he called. “When I give the word, pull up!” When the F-14 pulled up, the Mig should follow. Coyote was positioning his Tomcat so that he could drop onto the Mig’s tail as he tried to hold his position on 208’s six.
“Two-oh-eight! Pull up!”
There was no response. What was the handle of 208’s pilot? It was one of the replacements who’d flown out to the CBG on the COD from Masirah, he thought. Maverick, that was it. How could he forget the name Maverick?
“Pull up, Maverick! Pull up!”
An Apex missile whipped from the Mig on the tip of a streaming white contrail.
“Maverick! Pop flares and pull up!”
Flares arced from the Tomcat’s tail, but the aircraft continued to plunge toward the sea. “Two-oh-four, this is Scout! Maverick’s in trouble!”
Scout was Maverick’s RIO. He must be launching the flares … but if the pilot had frozen at the stick … “Maverick! Pull up!”
The Apex caught up with the Tomcat and plunged into its starboard engine. The explosion blew out part of the belly and skewed the aircraft into a flaming tumble.
“Eject! Scout, eject! Punch out!”
There was no answer, and the stricken Tomcat continued its plunge toward the sea. Coyote watched them fall, willing the canopy to blow, willing the chutes to appear.
Nothing. It happened, sometimes, the first time a man went into combat.
Hours of simulators, of training, and men still lost it when they realized that this was real. Scout might have ejected the two of them after they were hit … but the explosion could easily have killed him or knocked him out.
A momentary paralysis gripped Coyote as he watched the other Tomcat vanish into the sea. Experienced pilots could become casualties too.
He’d been shot down, over the Sea of Japan … and the memory of that experience, of holding his skull- crushed RIO in his arms in an icy sea, would be with him forever. Unexpectedly, the image of Coyote’s wife flashed into his mind. She’d not wanted him to go back on active flight duty, and he’d come close to turning in his wings. No one would have blamed him … Then the Mig pulled its nose up. Julie’s face was banished as training took over, and Coyote rolled onto the Indian fighter’s tail just as he’d planned. He got the tone and triggered a Sidewinder. “Fox two!”
In the end, though, it was Julie who’d told him he had to come back. Not until this moment had he been certain she was right.
Admiral Vaughn stood in the ship’s CIC, watching the flood of information coming across the LSDS and ASTABS.
Once during his tenure at the Pentagon, he’d had a long conversation with the admiral who had commanded a battle group with the first Aegis cruiser, the U.S.S. Ticonderoga, off Beirut in the early 1980s. That man had preferred commanding from the Tico rather than from his carrier and claimed that the Aegis defenses had let him significantly reduce the group’s CAP, despite the hazards of the operation.
Vaughn could understand that admiral’s preference. From the Vicksburg’s CIC, he felt as though the entire battle zone was under his personal observation and control. Through the Aegis system, data from every one of the battle group’s ships and aircraft was constantly relayed through the Vicksburg’s computers and displayed in her CIC. Through the Hawkeye’s — if need be through a Navy comsat — he could talk to any of his ship captains, any aircraft … or to the Joint Chiefs themselves back in Washington.
Not that he was particularly eager to exercise that option. The Battle of the Arabian Sea was proving to be quite enough for him to handle. He would face the Battle of Washington later.
“Admiral,” Captain Sharov said, standing stiffly at Vaughn’s side.
“Admiral Dmitriev reports that he has one squadron airborne as CAP. As there appears to be no immediate threat to Kreml, he wishes to inform you that some of those aircraft can be made available to your command.”
Vaughn turned on the Russian Chief of Staff with a cold stare. “Your commanding officer is so kind,” he said. “We would, of course, appreciate any help he condescends to make available!”
Sharov did not seem to hear the sarcasm … or perhaps he simply ignored it. “Squadron leader is Kurasov. I will inform him of your need.”
Vaughn snorted with disgust as the Russian returned to the bank of communications gear that had been reserved for their use. He’d expected no more from the Russians … and perhaps he’d expected less.
At this point, he knew he’d be grateful for any help. On the LSD designated as the Primary Battle Board, the computer graphic symbols identifying the American Tomcats were becoming lost in the flood of Indian aircraft pouring south. They were holding their own individually — the reports coming through from both squadrons indicated large numbers of enemy planes already downed — but collectively there just weren’t enough to stop the waves of Canberras, Migs, and other planes descending on Turban Station. The range on the board had already been shifted from one hundred twenty-eight miles from the Vicksburg to sixty-four.
It was nearly time to bring the battle group’s second line of defenses into play.
“Multiple bogies inbound,” Vicksburg’s Tactical Officer reported formally from a console nearby. “Range now three-five miles, bearing zero-zero-five to zero-four-zero.”
“Point defense on automatic!” Cunningham snapped.
That was just a double check on Cunningham’s part, Vaughn knew. Every Navy captain remembered the tragedy of Stark, and the Phalanx system that had been switched off at the beginning of the attack.
“Defenses activated, Captain. On automatic.”
“Lock on with VLS!”
“Tracking, Captain. Vertical Launch Systems locked.”
Cunningham looked at Admiral Vaughn. His eyes were bleak, but steady.
Vaughn nodded, and the ship’s captain turned back to the TO. “Fire!”
A closed-circuit television monitor displayed a view of Vicksburg’s forward deck. Between the bridge tower and the number-one five-inch turret, the twin arms of the ship’s forward Mark 26 Mod I missile launcher slewed about and elevated, until the twin darts of the Standard missiles slung from its launch rails were pointed straight up.
At Cunningham’s command, there was a burst of smoke and flame that engulfed the launcher and washed across the forward deck, blotting out the TV image. When the smoke cleared, the missile was gone, arrowing vertically into the sky. Almost immediately, the second Standard missile flashed skyward after its brother.
On the deck, the launcher swiveled again, realigning itself. Two hatches slid open automatically, one beneath each launch rail. Out of the deck, another pair of Standard SM-2(MR) missiles slid up the rails, reloading the empty launcher.
