by Stuart Slade
The Superstream I was a derivative of the old RB-58C with its fuselage reprofiled to include a cramped cabin for eight passengers. It was still powered by the J-79 engines that could drive it up to Mach 2.4 at high altitudes but it would have to go to full reheat to do so. That meant that would burn its fuel fast. The catch was that if the Superstream I went to full speed, Pope would have to do the same. His Sea Mirage was barely 30 mph faster than the executive jet. In a tail chase, he would run out of fuel long before he got within missile range. So this intercept was an ambush. The plan was that by the time the Superstream detected his presence, it would be too late to ran. Idly, Pope gave thanks that the target was a Superstream and not a SAC RB-58G. Trying this on the latter would get a fighter pilot a nuclear-tipped air-to-air missile fired into his face. Ever since Marisol had gone down almost twenty years ago, the Septics had been very unforgiving about people trying to intercept their bombers.
“Target is 20 miles in front of you. Continue steering two-eight-zero. Target altitude is angels 35.” The voice from ground control was dispassionate.
“Acknowledged. Still in cloud layer.” Pope’s response was equally calm. The weather was bad, all right. The cloud levels were thick and stretched all the way up to 30,000 feet. The next part of the plan was to accelerate within the cloud layer and then zoom up to stage the intercept.
“Target is turning now.” The Superstream was on a racetrack; an oval holding pattern that allowed its sensors to scan a wide area of ocean. It was reaching the end of one of the long sides of that oval and would be turning towards him. Pope had the relative positions in his mind. This would be a collision course intercept. For that he would need the R-530 missiles hanging under his wings. He switched over to them so the electronics would start to warm up.
“Acknowledged. Starting bounce now.” Pope firewalled his throttles, feeling the two Atar 9 engines in his fighter surging to full power. The Sea Mirage surged forward, sliding through the sound barrier easily. It took only a gentle pull on the control column to cause the aircraft to leap upwards, breaking through the top of the cloud layer. Pope flipped on the radar set and saw the blip from the Superstream blossom on the scanner. The data from the contact was already being relayed down to his missiles and readying them for firing.
Something was wrong. The Superstream was there, all right, but it was a lot further away and a little higher than the ground controlled interception reports had suggested. Pope guessed what had happened. The Superstream has a deception jammer on board to hide its true position in case somebody tried this. The executive jet was already turning fast and diving away. Pope could see the misty concussion wave forming around its fuselage as it accelerated and the brilliant red flare of its afterburners shone against the sky. He quickly glanced down. The aircraft’s true position was painted on his radar screen and he was closing fast. The problem was the rate of closure was dropping quickly as the Superstream accelerated away from him.
He did the mathematics in his head. By the time the Superstream was up to full speed, he would be within eight miles of it. That was within the range of his R-530 missiles, but they would be in a tail chase and the margin of speed wasn’t that high. His two R-510 infra-red homing missiles were the better weapon for a tail chase. They were faster but shorter-ranged. On the other hand, the brilliant glow of the Superstream’s afterburners would be an easy target for them. He took a split second to decide and then flipped over to the infra-red missiles. In his earphones, the broken notes of the annuciator system wavered for a second and then settled down to a constant, steady tone. The missiles were locked on. Down on his radar screen, the dot representing the Superstream now had a diamond carat around it.
Pope exhaled, held his breath slightly and squeezed the trigger that sent the two R-510 missiles streaking off towards the fleeing reconnaissance aircraft. They wavered slightly, then settled down to track the Superstream in front of them. For a moment, Pope thought he had his kill but the Superstream crew had a few tricks left. One was a brilliant ruby-colored light that started flickering under the tail. Another was the mass of white trails that erupted from both sides of the aircraft, trails that terminated in glaring red flares. Pope knew what both were. The light was an infra-red jammer; it was carefully calibrated to burn out the guidance head on his missiles. The flares were decoys designed to lure the missiles away from their target. He didn’t know which system had worked, but his missiles went straight on when the Supertream made an evasive turn. Two clean misses. In the far distance, well away from his target, he saw the patches of cloud as they exploded at the end of their run.
To his frustration, Pope saw the Superstream pulling away from him. It was much heavier than his fighter and that gave it the edge in a dive. Given long enough he would catch it up but his engines were burning fuel at a prodigious rate. It wouldn’t be long before he had to pull away and return to the carrier. The Superstream was gulping fuel as well, but it had much more of it and its B-58 forebear had been designed to hold speed for prolonged periods under just these circumstances. Pope did the calculations in his head again. His R-530s were really marginal and he would be out of fuel by the time they got to be anything more than that.
One other factor ran through his head. The British carrier groups were fighting with what they had. There wasn’t any more. He’d already wasted two missiles. Throwing away two more would be inexcusable. As if to reinforce that thought, the red fuel warning light on his instrument panel clicked on. It was time to go home.
“Bandit got away. Used deception jamming to hide position. Flares and an IR jammer to evade two missiles. On bingo fuel and retuning home.”
“Acknowledged. At least you scared him off.”
Argentine Aircraft Carrier Veinticinco de Mayo
“The reconnaissance aircraft has called in, Sir.” The communications officer had made it to the Admiral’s bridge in record time. They were chased off by a fighter but before that they got contact on the British carrier group. It’s almost exactly due west of us, 407 nautical miles out. A long way for our Skyhawks.”
Vice-Admiral Juan Lombardo gazed at the attack plot. “The Superstream spotted both carriers?”
“No, Sir. Just the one. Steering slightly north of west.”
“Then the one from South Georgia hasn’t had time to join up yet. Interesting. We still have a chance to catch them apart.”
The mathematics were easy and, as it happened, very convenient. The Skyhawk had a tactical radius of 340 nautical miles with four thousand pounds of bombs on board. That mean the British carrier would be on the edge of that radius in two hours. It would take two hours to get a strike ready. That meant that there was a good chance the Veinticinco de Mayo could get her strike in first. In carrier warfare, getting a strike in first was all that mattered. She had 54 aircraft on board, 24 Skyhawks and 30 F9U Crusaders. Six more Crusaders were overhead flying combat air patrol. Lombardo had read of how the American carrier Shiloh had been caught without her combat air patrol and had no intention of following the same example.
“Prepare a strike. Eighteen Skyhawks and twelve Crusaders. After they’re gone, we’ll get another twelve Crusaders on deck alert in case the British get their strike in. The remaining aircraft, get them ready for a second anti-shipping strike in case the second carrier turns up.”
His Air Group commander started rattling out orders. Then, he paused for a second, “Admiral, thousand pounders and Bullpups on the Skyhawks?”
Lombardo nodded. “Make it so.”
CAG finished his orders off. By the time the last words were out, the results had already started to become apparent. Skyhawks and Crusaders were being rolled out of their positions in the deck park and towards the lifts. They were being struck down below, ready to be fuelled and armed up. Below decks, men would be pulling the thousand pounders from the magazines and installing the impact fuses on them. Other crews would be in the missile magazines getting the Bullpups out of their racks and readying them for insta
llation on the Skyhawks. Beside them, other men would be getting the Sparrow and Sidewinder missiles out of storage and readying them for the Crusaders.
“Sir, the Crusaders can get to the carrier position now. Should we launch a fighter sweep first?” CAG was as undecided as he sounded.
Lombardo thought it out. The F9U had a tactical radius of 435 nautical miles. They could get to the enemy position very quickly; in less than 15 minutes if they went out on full power all the way. Of course, if they did that, they would be running desperately low on fuel. And if they did show up, they would be telling the British that the strike planes were following. Doing a fighter sweep first was American doctrine that was certain, What worked for Americans with their huge resources was not so good for others. Another thing weighed with Lombardo. He was reading a history of the Battle of the Orkneys, ‘Shattered Club’ it was called. It made great play of how the German carrier admiral had been so desperate to get off his strike, he hadn’t got his full fighter force up when the American strike groups hit. Lombardo had shaken his head at that. Now he realized just how easy it was to be seduced into thinking the strike was the only thing that mattered.
“No. Our first blow will be the heavy one. We must try and catch the British before they launch. And make sure the crews down below get the rest of our fighters ready as soon as the strike is spotted on deck.”
Lombardo turned away and looked out of his bridge windows on to the turmoil below. It was hard to see order in the maneuvers going on down there but getting aircraft struck down to the hangar deck and then moving them back up to the spots on the flight deck was well-rehearsed. As he watched, the elevator forward between the two catapults started to drop. Almost unconsciously, he started counting seconds. He reached 45 when the empty elevator reappeared and another F9U was pushed on to it. For a round trip that involved getting the aircraft off the lift as well, 45 seconds was very good. The flight deck crews might be in turmoil but it was a well-ordered turmoil. The crews knew what they were doing.
Going into the first carrier battle in the history of the Argentine Navy, Lombardo just prayed that he knew what he was doing.
Control Room, HM Submarine Saint Vincent
“Lot of surface ship propeller noise, Captain. Many screws in the water, I think we’re hearing multiple twin-screwed ships and at least one four-screwed. Bearing is of-four-seven, course due west.”
“The Argentine carrier group?” Saint Vincent was one of four nuclear-powered attack submarines strung out as a picket line between the Falklands and the Argentine naval bases. There should have been five but Collingwood was off the air and showed no signs of reappearing. That was causing an increasing level of concern. Her absence had been made up by Vanguard arriving from the Pacific.
“Could be, Captain. The sound signatures are distorted but I think one of the ships is an Essex class. Unless either the Brazilians have joined in or the Argies got the Neuve de Julio working, it’s the Veinticinco de Mayo. And that means the main Argie fleet is out.”
Captain Wiseart tapped the screen showing the plot. It was a long-range passive sonar contact. That meant the range data was very approximate. “What was the weather report? Wind direction?”
“Wind’s from the Southwest Captain. It’s a prevailing pattern, unlikely to change much.”
Wiseart nodded thoughtfully. “If they’re getting a strike off, their A-4Ds will be loaded to the max and the F-9Us are marginal for an Essex anyway. Even a rebuilt one. They’ll swing into the wind. That means they’ll be coming this way. We’ll establish a baseline. Reel our tail in, then make thirty two knots course one-eight-zero for thirty minutes. At the end of that time, stream our tail and get another bearing and course.”
It was a standard maneuver, one the Saint Vincent had practiced many times before. This time there was a tension during the 30 minute ran due south that betrayed the fact this time the circumstances were different. After what seemed an age, the submarine slowed down and streamed her towed array. It took another few minutes for the data to be analyzed and plotted. When it appeared on the screens, it caused Wiseart to stare intently at the plot.
“She’s there, but heading south west?” The question was rhetorical only. “To do that she must have turned almost as soon as we stopped our run.”
There was a nod of agreement around the control room. The weapons officer voiced the thought everybody else had in mind. “Getting ready to launch now.”
“And the airdales need to know that.” Wiseart snapped out the orders that followed his conclusion. “Periscope depth, establish satellite link and get the warning out to Furious and Glorious. Comms, tell them they’ve got visitors coming. Then set up an intercept course for that carrier group.”
Flag Bridge, HMS Glorious, North East of the Falkland Islands
“That recon bird Furious saw off must have reported back.” Admiral Charles Lanning was stamping backwards and forwards, running the permutations through his mind. “But there’s not much land-based aircraft can do to us out here.”
“The marines left on the Falklands say that there’s at least a squadron of Macchi Ciclones at Stanley Airfield.” Lieutenant Dunbar was leafing through the intelligence reports. “And we have satellite data that the Argentine carrier may be out.”
“Is out, Admiral. Permission to enter?” Captain Wales was standing at the hatch leading to the Admiral’s Bridge. By convention, even a ship’s captain had to ask permission before entering the Flag Bridge.
“Step right in, Charles. You’ve got word for us?”
“Hot line from Northwood. Saint Vincent has radioed in. She’s picked up what she thinks is the enemy carrier group almost due west of us. About 400 miles west of us. She says the group turned south west just as they made a position fix. Saint Vincent is steering to intercept and attack. Their message was dated just under twenty minutes ago.”
Lanning reminded himself that he was not supposed to salute Captain Wales. Not here, anyway. “They’re launching aircraft. Must be. They’ll fly due east and if we turn into the wind to launch …”
All eyes turned to the tactical display. Dunbar typed the position of the report in and then added the course of the two British carrier groups if they also turned to launch. The conclusion was obvious. If the Argentine strike flew due east based on the Superstream’s report, they would miss the Furious group but pile straight into Glorious. Lanning wasted no time in his decision. “Get the fighters up now please, Captain Wales; no delay. That strike could be on us in 30 minutes.”
Captain Charles Wales spoke quickly into the intercom. “We can get twelve more Sea Mirages up, full point defense load, two 530s and four 550s each. We’ve got four Sea Mirages up now. They’ve got 450 gallon drop tanks and they’ve been tooling around saving fuel. Bad news is they’re short on missiles; one 530 and a pair of 550s each.”
He was interrupted by the sound of the bow lift bringing the first of the Sea Mirages up from the hangar. Almost simultaneously, the aft lift was striking down one of the deck park of Buccaneers. Wales looked at the Sea Mirage moving forward on to the catapults. Behind it, the lift was already descending. “We’ll have these off in just under ten minutes, Sir. Then we can spot and launch a deck strike of Buccaneers. CAG says we can have sixteen off but they’ll only have four Sea Mirages to escort them.”
The pensive silence was interrupted by the blast of the first Sea Mirage taking off. “You’ve done well Charles. How did you have the birds ready?” Lanning was buying time to make a very unpleasant decision and everybody knew it.
“We were readying the group to hit Stanley Airfield. The load on the Bananas is a long way from optimal for a shipping strike. They’ve got four one thousand pounder retarded bombs and a pair of Bullpups or Martels each. But, better they’re in the air with anything than….“
“ … . than on the deck here when that Argie strike gets in. I know. It’s still going to be rough on them going in that way. Launch the strike as soon as the CAP is up. What
about the four remaining Bananas? “
“Hangar deck will inert them. We can’t get them fuelled, bombed up and off in time.”
“Sir.” Dunbar spoke quietly. “Furious is south of us. Can we assume they got the message?”
“We’ll have to. If we start transmitting, it’s a come-and-get-us invitation. That Argie strike is going to be bloody enough as it is. No need to give them an engraved invitation.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” Wales sounded vaguely amused. “My mother always says that nothing scares people quite like one of her engraved invitations.”
Flag Bridge, HMS Furious, North East of the Falkland Islands
“Glorious is going to catch it.” The word around the bridge was unanimous. Both Furious and Glorious would turn into the wind. That would take Glorious right into the path of the inbound strike from the Argentine carrier. The same maneuver would take Furious well clear. She had been south east of the Glorious to start with. That position plus her maneuvers to launch had left her even further south east. The Argentine pilots would find Glorious first. That was very hard luck for her, but it gave the strike aircraft on Furious a real break.
“And Charlie knows it well.” Admiral Kinnear sighed slightly. “He’s getting his CAP up now and throwing whatever strike aircraft he can get ready out. And praying he gets his decks clear and hangar inerted before the Argie strike arrives. We’ve got a chance to do a bit better.”
“Anti-shipping strike, Sir?”
“With everything we’ve got. We’ll swing a little south and then come at the Argies from the south. All twenty Bananas. The Highball-fitted aircraft carry those; the rest Martel anti-radar missiles and retarded thousand pounders. We’ll give them eight Sea Mirages as escort and keep a dozen more back here as CAP.”
There was a moment’s hesitation on the bridge. Kinnear sensed it and looked around. “Our strike will be going in an hour later than Charlie’s. The Argie skipper will have most of his CAP down for refueling and rearming. Plus he’ll have his deck full recovering what’s left of his strike. He won’t have much up in the way of fighters. What he does have will be out to the west, either intercepting Charlie’s birds or chasing them back to their carrier. But, he might have a reserve strike held back in case we turn up. So we need our CAP.” There was a slight pause. “And we know the F9U has a hell of an edge over our Sea Mirages. It’s four hundred miles per hour faster, it can outclimb and out-turn them and it’s got better missiles than we do. If they’re escorting a strike in we’re going to need that CAP.”
