Call the Americans. Warn them.
“Da, Captain.”
He was already plunging through the sky toward the sea, adding power to his paired Tumansky R-33D turbofans as he brought his nose up, following the Indian missiles. The electronics of his cockpit suite were as sophisticated as any in the West. Course, range, and elevation flashed onto his HUD in precisely lettered Cyrillic characters. He locked on.
Captain Kurasov carried six AA-10s slung beneath his wings. Code-named Alamo by NATO, the AA-10 had been designed for use with the Mig-29 but had not been part of the various arms packages sold to India. Kurasov’s ordnance load consisted of all radar-seekers, with look-down/shoot-down lock-on capability that let him target the speeding Indian missile.
In his headset he heard the warble of target acquisition. “Strelyat!” he yelled, calling to no one in particular. Fire!
His thumb closed on the firing switch, and an AA-10 speared from beneath his wing. He shifted his aim, locking onto a second missile.
“Strelyat!”
“We have missiles inbound, Captain,” Commander Barnes announced. “The Hawkeyes have a good plot … at least twenty missiles, range thirty miles. Our Russian friends just alerted us.”
Captain Fitzgerald nodded. “What do we have that can reach them?”
“Kearny is in a good position, sir. So’s the Winslow. They’ll take out some along the way with Standard missiles. We can begin launching Sea Sparrow in another …” He checked his watch. “About two minutes, sir.”
“Very well. Defenses on automatic.”
“Aye, sir.”
Fitzgerald watched the battle board, the pattern of blips closing on Jefferson’s position. Strange … but he’d never gotten used to fighting a battle this way. In the cockpit of an F-4 Phantom, with SAMS lighting up the sky and Migs turning and burning all around, yes, but this sterile, button-pushing war of nerve and waiting …
The Kearny was an Arleigh Burke-class guided missile destroyer (DDG).
One of the newest ships in the U.S. inventory, she was equipped with the SPY-1 radar and was intended to supplement the Ticonderoga-class Aegis cruisers. Her primary weapons were two sets of Mark 41 Vertical Launch Systems set into her forward and after decks, loaded with Standard SM-2(MR) SAMS and Tomahawk cruise missiles.
Her SPY-1 had been tracking the missile flight for several minutes already, their course and speed fed into the ship’s CIC computers.
Missiles broke from Kearny’s deck, fore and aft, in clouds of white smoke, and a shower of plastic shavings blasted from the protective covers of the Mark 4s. Guided by the Aegis computer system on board, the Standard SAMS accelerated into the sky, locked onto their targets, and descended.
The last of his AA-10s left the launch rail on a trail of flame.
“Strelyat!” He’d winnowed twenty cruise missiles down to sixteen and perhaps given the Jefferson a fighting chance.
But any closer and he would risk being downed himself by American point defenses. He pulled back on the Fulcrum’s stick, arcing into the sky.
Across the water, a battle raged as Russian Fulcrums engaged Indian Sea Harriers. Magic missiles and AA- 10s stabbed and twisted. A Harrier disintegrated as it banked too low, catching one wingtip in the sea.
Vectoring in high and behind an enemy Sea Harrier, Kurasov lined up the gun reticle on his HUD with the Indian aircraft’s cockpit. At four hundred knots, he closed slowly, until the enemy plane filled his sights … an easy kill. His thumb closed on the firing button … The Indian plane was no longer there! Bewildered, the Soviet pilot pulled up, looking left and right as the Mig flashed past the spot where the Sea Harrier should have been. Too late, he caught the flash of wings in his rearview mirror. He’d forgotten that maneuver, that impossible maneuver that Harrier pilots called viffing … And now the Sea Harrier was squarely behind him, a Magic AAM sliding off its wingtip rail.
The missile’s detonation kicked the Fulcrum over, crumpling one wing and shredding the hull. The fireball lit up the sky three miles south of the Kearny. The sailors on the DDG’s deck, not knowing the identity of the target, cheered wildly and tossed their white hats in the air.
Jefferson’s CIWS and short-ranged Sea Sparrows began marking down the remaining Sea Eagle missiles.
None hit the carrier, but the officers in CIC were subdued.
They knew one of their own had fallen to hostile fire.
Defense Minister Kuldip Sundarji sat alone in his office, the latest stack of reports before him. The information was fragmentary. The Americans had an annoying habit of shooting down reconnaissance and communications aircraft as quickly as the Indians could put them up.
Despite this, there was no question in his mind at all.
India was losing the battle.
The losses so far had been horrifying. Fifty-seven aircraft confirmed shot down, and as many more might never fly again. Reports of air losses were still coming in as the American strike force thundered over the western frontier. The last bold stroke by a Sea Harrier squadron had not achieved a single hit. The most recent report on his desk was from the young navy lieutenant, Tahliani. He and four other Sea Harriers were enroute for Kathiawar. The others had been shot down in a dogfight with Russian Migs.
Russian Migs! He put his face in his hand. So much had depended on the inevitable friction between Russian and American commanders. Somehow, the enemy factions had managed to work together, something Sundarji had thought impossible.
The Bombay naval squadron had been stopped cold. Kalikata was sinking, and both Viraat and Vikrant were limping into port. Damage was so bad that they’d not yet been able to recover Admiral Ramesh’s body. He thought of the dark, intense naval officer etched by the pain of his dead son, wondering if he’d found peace before he died.
So much suffering.
The telephone on his desk buzzed, and he stared at it. An earlier message had warned him to expect the call, and he’d been able to guess much when he learned who the caller would be. He had to will himself to pick up the receiver.
“Sundarji,” he said.
He listened to the voice on the other end for a long while. “You’re sure of your information?” he finally asked. “Yes, I suppose you would be. I … I agree. There is no other way.”
He listened some more. “I cannot speak for my government,” he said. “I will see what I can do with the Air Ministry. I have some small influence there.” He allowed himself a smile. “Or at least, I did before this morning.”
He hung up without ceremony, thought for several minutes, then picked up the phone again. “Get me the Air Ministry,” he said. “Quickly. There is little time.”
They had reached the point on Tombstone’s map, twenty-five miles southeast of Bikampur. The desert nine and a half miles below was barren and trackless, though sun flashed from the waters of the Rajasthan Canal far to the west.
Tombstone moved the stick experimentally. Fifty thousand feet was close to the Tomcat’s service ceiling, and
