“How many in the first wave?” Coyote asked.
“It looks like about seventy, sir,” the TAO said. “Using the cruiser’s data.”
And the cruiser’s data would be better than most, given the powerful SPY-1 radar. Still, there was a chance she could be mistaken — there might be fewer. Some processing error, human or machine, could lead to false contacts.
He clicked the mike on. “Weapons free, all Chinese forces declared hostile. Good luck people — let’s make them pay for this.”
Batman and Tombstone had known this, he knew now. The complete and utter frustration of sitting in TFCC, watching the intense engagement take place without your participation. There could be no more frustrating feeling, your fingers clenching, moving involuntarily as though you were in the lead aircraft yourself. Why hadn’t they told him it was this difficult?
“First engagement, sir. The cruiser’s targeted ten of them — we have a launch, we have a launch.”
On the tactical display, a series of ten missile symbols rippled into being, all barreling straight up from the cruiser and toward the incoming flight. The destroyer added another three long-range missiles to the pack. Although her slower fire control system was not able to process as many immediately, the Aegis was able to provide targeting data directly to her.
“Seventy minus thirteen, what’s that leave?” Coyote asked.
“Fifty-seven, sir,” the TAO answered, leaving unspoken the words that everyone was thinking.
Thor was totally focused, and was ignoring the quick thrill of adrenaline in his blood. Discipline, that’s what it was about — the ability to control the blood lust that rose up in you as you contemplated what was to come, to control the fear that lay right behind it. Because this was the moment you trained for, dreamed about, you knew everything about in the world except how it would actually feel when you went into combat for the first time.
But this wasn’t Thor’s first time. Oh, no, not by a long shot.
“Packer flight, picture,” the monotone voice of the Hawkeye broke it. “Inbound on radial two seven zero, three waves of twenty units and one of ten. Composition fighters, supported by Mainstay command and control aircraft as well. Hornet one zero six, target lead,” and the Hawkeye continued, doling out assignments to maintain air clearance between the units. “All flights, observe missile engagement zone safety restrictions. Launch from cruiser is going down on your three o’clock at this time. Stand well clear, guys — it’s going to get messy.”
Thor throttled back slightly, and felt the Hornet sink gently beneath him. He’d get his chance — no point making the problem any more complicated than it had to be.
“All flights, Hawkeye. Cruiser has launched another ten missiles. Stay well clear of missile engagement zone.”
Norfolk watched the missiles arrow out on virtually identical paths, then break apart as a shotgun load would do. Each missile was assigned to a different target, but the computer was instantaneously calculating the probability of a kill and whether or not a second weapon was needed on any one aircraft. Each missile took its guidance originally from the computer on board the cruiser, with initial course and target location fed into it just microseconds before it launched.
During the first few moments of flight, the picture inside the missile’s tiny brain was updated. Right now, combat was as busy as it ever would be, monitoring the initial stages of the flight and preparing any instantaneous corrections that needed to be done. As each missile continued on toward its target, it would finally acquire the enemy aircraft with its own seeker head, and at that point use its own illumination to guide it to the final kill.
“At least the fighters are staying out of the way,” the TAO said. “Good thing, too.”
Norfolk just grinned. He knew that many members of the cruiser community felt that aircraft were virtually obsolete, that a cruiser could completely protect a carrier from every possible air threat. But he wasn’t of that school, having seen far too many fights in too many parts of the world to believe that the ship was as invulnerable as most people thought. It was the low-tech stuff that screwed you up the worst, he had learned. Mines, small boats with handheld launchers, the stuff you didn’t see until it was right on you.
“Reporting target acquisition, missiles one through twelve,” the TAO announced. “On terminal—
“Ten kills assigned by the computer,” the captain corrected. A computer’s decision that a missile had intercepted its target, detonated successfully, and eliminated a threat was a good deal different from seeing the fireball yourself. “Let’s wait for the air crew confirmation.”
The TAO looked slightly taken aback, but he was too busy with his duties to worry about it.
Nonfolk turned his attention back to the screen.
“Whoa!” Bird Dog hollered. “You see that, Music? Did you ever see such a beautiful thing in your life?”
Music craned his head around to look out past Bird Dog’s ejection seat. In the air ahead, there were nine small fireballs, ugly and obscene against the blue sky.
But it wasn’t nine fireballs — it was eighteen men. Sure, Chinese, sure — but aviators just like he was. For a moment, Music felt his stomach curl into a hard knot. Was he the only one who felt this way, who realized that the people they were blasting out of the air were just regular guys? He had to be — no one else was worried. And if there’s one thing that Music was at this point, it was very, very worried.
“Looks great, sir,” he agreed heartily, wishing to hell he was anywhere else except in the back seat of this Tomcat.
“You’re damn right it looks great.” Bird Dog shouted. “What you’re looking at is a better chance of us going home in one piece with our aircraft around us!”
Music looked down at his console. The computer was reporting ten direct hits, and then it added another three to the total as the destroyer’s missiles found their targets. Music glanced back up at the sky and counted again. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve — no, there were only twelve fireballs, not thirteen.
“I count twelve, sir,” Music said.
“Yes, twelve — that’s what I’ve got. Hold on, Music — it’s almost our turn.”
“But sir… the computer shows thirteen kills. I don’t get it. What about the other aircraft?”
“Don’t worry, kid. There’ll be enough for all of us.”
“But sir, if they say it’s thirteen, but it’s really only twelve, they might miss one.”
“Give me a vector, Music,” Bird Dog ordered. “Forget it, just worry about what you see. Save it for another twenty years until you’re an admiral, OK? For now, give me a target.”
“Not yet, sir. Another wave of missiles is outbound.”
Bird Dog swore quietly. “I burn more fuel up here than I do weapons.”
