And surrounding these three were the destroyers, frigates, and corvettes that made up the body of the fleet, all steaming northwest at a steady twenty knots.
“Blue King Leader, this is Viraat.” He recognized the voice. Admiral Ramesh himself was calling.
“Viraat, this is Blue King Leader. Go ahead.”
“Lieutenant … the battle may well be in your hands now.” Tahliani heard the strain in Ramesh’s voice. “Execute Plan Three.”
“Roger, Viraat. Plan Three.”
American ECM eavesdroppers might well be listening in. The melodramatic-sounding Plan Three referred simply to a series of earlier briefings, covering possible contingencies in the event of an attack against the Indian naval squadron.
Plan Three called for Blue King to fly off the Viraat and head north for friendly airfields on Kathiawar. Along the way, they were to watch for targets of opportunity — American ships or aircraft that might be attacked with a minimum of risk for the Indian Sea Harriers.
Tahliani knew that Ramesh had been saying more but had not wanted to put it into words when he knew the Americans were listening in. The admiral was expecting some special effort from Tahliani’s squadron, an attack that would make the Russian-American effort too costly for them to pursue.
A flicker caught Tahliani’s eye. Looking down, he saw — thought he saw — a ghost of motion, something flashing low across the water at the very limit of vision.
Viraat was firing her SAMS. He could see the contrails below him, like white threads against the dark water. The missiles were reaching toward the southeast. Seconds later, he saw a flash, like the popping of a strobe light, far off on the horizon. There was another … and another …
Something skimmed in from the northeast, streaking straight toward the Indian carrier. Tahliani saw it and wanted to scream warning, but it was too late. There was a soundless eruption of smoke and debris close alongside the Indian carrier, as the widening ring of the shock wave raced out from the vessel’s hull on the water. The strike was so sudden that the surprise was like a physical blow.
The carrier is hit!
Surface-to-air missiles continued to rise, not only from the stricken Viraat but from the other ships in the fleet as well. The Indian navy had nothing like Aegis, however, to coordinate the defense, and the response was sluggish, befuddled possibly by the surprise and numbers of the attack, or by the fog of enemy ECM jamming on radars and fire control directors.
Another missile was hit short of the Viraat, but a companion skimmed past the fireball and planted itself in the carrier’s side. Tahliani saw the cascade of debris spewing out of the hull opposite where the missile had struck, saw the mushrooming pillar of oily smoke shot through with flame rising from the carrier’s deck. Viraat was burning now, her deck a sheet of flames fed by burst fuel lines and exploding munitions.
It took him several minutes to realize that Viraat had gone off the air, her radio dead. He wondered if Admiral Ramesh was still alive.
The sight of his carrier cloaked in rising smoke was so shocking he scarcely noticed that other ships in the Indian fleet were hit. A pall of smoke was hanging above Vikrant where at least one missile had struck from the southeast, while the cruiser Kalikata was a blazing funeral pyre, dead in the water and listing hard to port.
There was no turning back now. Grimly, Lieutenant Tahliani gathered his squadron — eleven other Sea Harriers that had managed to launch before disaster struck — and turned toward the northwest.
The Sea Harriers, those that survived the next two hours, would be able to land in Kathiawar. But Lieutenant Tahliani was determined now that the American strike aircraft would have no place to land when they returned from their mission over India.
CHAPTER 27
Tombstone watched the brown-gray blur of the coast approaching. The water beneath him lightened, then flashed into barren, sun-parched hills as he led the Vipers across the beach and into India.
“This is Viper Lead,” he said over the radio. “Feet dry.”
“Eagle Lead,” the voice of the War Eagles’ CO added. “Feet dry.”
One by one, the other strike elements called in, reporting that they were now crossing from sea to land. Desert quickly gave way to marshland as they passed over the Rann of Kutch. Smudges marred the eastern sky. The Hornets of Lucky Strike had already hit the airfields at Bhuj, Jamnagar, and Okha, misdirecting the Indians into thinking the strike’s targets were their military bases near the coast.
A pillar of smoke to the west marked the remnants of an Indian coastal radar, victim of the VAQ-143 Sharks and the HARM missiles. Those High Speed Anti-Radiation ASMS were designed to home on coastal or SAM site radars and clear a path through India’s electronic fences.
That too would help convince the Indians that the targets were air bases and coastal facilities.
“This is Gold Strike Leader,” a voice called over the tactical net.
“Passing Point Bravo.”
Bravo was the code name for the Pakistani border, close to the Nara River. The Intruders of VA-89 would be spreading out now, preparing for their strike.
Tombstone thought about the squadron leader VA-89, Lieutenant Commander Isaac Greene. A big, bluff man called “Jolly Greene” by the other men in the air wing, he was one of several legends in Air Wing 20. During Operation Righteous Thunder, he’d led a strike against North Korean armor and been hit by ground fire from Korcom ZSU-23-4 antiaircraft vehicles.
Somehow, Jolly and his Bombardier-Navigator Chucker Vance had held their shattered Intruder together long enough to reach the sea and eject. A SAR helo had plucked them from the sea and returned them to Jefferson’s deck, half frozen but alive.
Tombstone thought of the other men he’d served with during the past nine months. Coyote, shot down over the Sea of Japan by a Korean Mig and captured.
Then there were Batman and Malibu, holding position now off his port wing. They’d been downed by a SAM over northern Thailand. Ejecting over the jungle, they’d somehow hiked back to civilization, bringing with them vital intelligence.
And there were so many others, men who’d given their lives in combat missions flown, ironically, to protect the peace.
He thought of Army and Dixie, shot down while trying to save the Jefferson from a cruise missile. Despite a search by SAR helos, they’d not been found in the choppy seas just a few miles from the carrier.
They’d not fought for any particular cause or label … though both were patriots in every sense of the word. Like all of the others, Tombstone thought, Army and Dixie had believed in what they were doing but had carried on not for the sake of the mission … but because they couldn’t let down their friends, the other members of their squadrons, their shipmates.
Possibly, Tombstone reflected, that was what every soldier of every war fought for more than home or country: the men fighting with him at his side. They fought not to take the next hill or even to win the war, but because friends and comrades would suffer or die if they did not.
And after that … yeah, there was the mission. Always the mission.
“Viper Leader, Viper Two.”
“Go ahead, Batman.”
“Ho, Stoney. Looks like we’re getting ready to rock and roll. We got bogies, bearing zero-niner-five.”
“We see them,” Tombstone replied, checking his VDI. The bandits were forming up, rising from airfields despite the damage done by the Hornet strikes. Well, that was expected. No strike was one hundred percent effective … especially when the opponent was as powerful and as well-dispersed as this one. “Okay, boys and girls. Stand by to break right on my signal. Weapons are free. Good luck!”
“Listen, guys,” Batman added. “Drinks are on me when we get back to the bird farm!”
