Cauldron

by Larry Bond

  An increased number of enemy surveillance flights, a sharp rise in the amount of coded radio traffic, and unusual activity at British airfields had convinced him that the offensive he had predicted was about to begin. He was right.

  Some officials, notably the Defense Minister and his closest military subordinates, arrived before dawn. They were in time to see the Tomahawk strikes raining down all over France and Germany, to hear the reports of Sachsenwald’s and Bayern’s loss, and to receive news of a commando attack on the naval base at Brest. All were bad in themselves, but the men in the situation room knew they were just the opening moves. Like the first drops of rain, these pinprick raids around the periphery would continue throughout the storm. Everyone waited for the lightning.

  The center screen had been set up to show the Channel coast, the Low Countries, Germany’s north coast, and the southern half of the North Sea. Data from many sources, including an American-built E-3 radar plane, was fused into a single integrated picture. As Desaix watched, a second E-3 took off from its base at Avord, reinforcing the one already aloft.

  Colored symbols flowed across the display, showing aircraft and ship positions, courses, and speeds. Even an amateur could see patterns in the movement: fighters and antisubmarine planes on their patrols, ships entering and leaving port, and, in the center, two massive groups of red symbols.

  Tracking the American carrier battle groups had been easy. In the crowded North Sea, information was more important than concealment, so almost every American radar was on. EurCon surveillance units had located each radiating ship and classified them based on the types of radars they carried. Other ships, not radiating, could be seen by airborne radar.

  One symbol was labeled George Washington, another Theodore Roosevelt.

  Each was surrounded by a cluster of red ship symbols — their escorts, tankers, and replenishment ships. Circles, centered on the carriers, showed the range of their aircraft and their escorts’ land attack cruise missiles. Other circles, centered on French and German air bases, showed the range of the aircraft based there. The range circle for George Washington almost touched the German coast near Wilhelmshaven.

  Gibierge checked the clock, then leaned over and whispered to Desaix. “Our strike is launching now, Foreign Minister. With luck, we can catch the Americans right in the act of launching their own attacks.”

  “Won’t they see it coming?” asked Desaix.

  The admiral shook his head confidently. “We have jammer aircraft screening the attack formation, both standing off and providing direct escort for our strike planes. By the time the Americans can get a clear picture, our strike will be in the air and well on its way.” He smiled wolfishly. “These Combined Forces are moving exactly as we expected them to. We will make them pay for their predictability.”

  MUSTANG LEAD, COUNTERWEIGHT STRIKE, OVER USS GEORGE WASHINGTON

  Nearly one hundred navy warplanes orbited high over the North Sea, a moving cloud of sophisticated aircraft growing steadily as more planes thundered off George Washington in clouds of catapult steam.

  Thirty thousand feet above the wavetops, Commander Rudy Mann, USN, watched his squadron form up. So far, the launch had gone like clockwork, but that was expected. His pilots had better be able to take off and assume formation competently. A lot more would be demanded of them before lunch.

  Mann’s youthful face was almost completely masked by his helmet, oxygen mask, and visor. His thinning hair, close-cropped like many pilots, gave a better idea of his age than his features. In his early thirties, he was at the typical age for a squadron commander, with years of experience “in type,” flying the Hornet.

  Mann’s F/A-18 Hornets, the shortest-range of the strike’s aircraft, were the last to launch, but they wouldn’t have any trouble catching up with the rest of the raid.

  “Hatchet” Mann swept his eyes over the instrument panel one last time, then ordered, “Mustangs, turn to zero eight five now.”

  Looking over each shoulder, he watched the rest of the squadron, twelve planes in all, follow his movements. The new course would intercept the main air formation quickly. Proceeding at a stately 370 knots, his Hornets had almost a hundred-knot overtake on them.

  In the clear early morning air, he could see dozens of planes from both George Washington and Theodore Roosevelt spread out below him in Alpha Strike formation. An attack against a land target was called an Alpha Strike. One against a naval target was a Sierra Strike. The size of the strike was determined by the target’s value — and by how badly you wanted it to die.

  This was a big one. Admiral Ward had spent half the previous day juggling the two carriers’ planes so that only those actually going on the strike were on George Washington.

  Fighters from Roosevelt, still outside enemy strike range itself, would cover her. In turn, land-based British Tornado and American F-15 and F-16 fighters covered Rosie.

  If everything went according to plan, the air groups would unscramble automatically after the raid, each landing on its own carrier.

  Mann’s squadron, one of the four Hornet squadrons involved, flew ahead and to port of the main formation. Six jammer aircraft, already radiating an invisible electronic fog, flew among the F/A-18s. Lower still and even further out were two flights of A-6 Intruders, armed with Harpoon antiship missiles. They would take out any enemy vessels that lay in the raid’s path.

  George Washington’s air group commander, or CAG, rode in an E-2 Hawkeye, one of the two accompanying the raid. Their high-powered radars would allow the CAG to see the raid as it progressed, and make what adjustments he could.

  Other aircraft orbited in the vicinity, watching. Mann could not see them, but they did not have to be close. An air force RC-135 and a navy ES-3, different aircraft with the same role, flew lazy circles at high altitude. Equipped with webs of antennas and other electronic sensors, they would listen to the signals made by both sides and learn what they could.

  Radar on, Mann scanned the sky with his eyes as well. They were headed into trouble, and he wanted to see it coming.

  MINISTRY OF DEFENSE

  A junior officer reported, “New airborne activity near George Washington.”

  More aircraft symbols appeared around the closer of the two U.S. carrier groups. Desaix looked over at Gibierge and raised a single eyebrow in silent speculation.

  The admiral nodded. “This could be their opening strike, Foreign Minister. I don’t think these new planes are interceptors. Our raid is still forming out of their radar observation. In any case, the Americans would not launch their fighters for some time — certainly not until they had a good idea of our numbers and destination.” He studied the display. “Those planes are forming at high altitude, in easy view of our radars. They certainly aren’t trying to conceal their movements. It’s as we thought. The Americans think they can simply overwhelm our defenses.”

  Desaix nodded, approving Gibierge’s apparent certainty. The admiral knew his craft. Still, he had questions. “I thought your plan anticipated attacking those carriers before they could hit us.”

  The tall man’s tone was calm, but the admiral thought he heard a hint of irritation beneath the measured words. He hastened to explain. “That is true, Foreign Minister. But this situation may work even more to our advantage. This inbound American strike must be escorted, and that means fewer fighters will be available to defend that carrier. If their primary target is Wilhelmshaven, the two raids will meet almost head-on. And in that case, I believe the Americans will abandon their own attack to concentrate on their own defense.”

  “Can we handle them?” queried Desaix.

  “Yes, Foreign Minister, we can. We have almost half of our frontline fighter strength concentrated here.”

  Desaix appeared convinced, and the admiral turned to one of the display operators. “Any further information on the inbound strike?”

  The young lieutenant nodded. “We have identified airborne radars consistent with F/A-18 and A-6 aircraft. Pl
us, there appear to be two E-2 Hawkeyes accompanying the group.” He shrugged in apology. “We don’t yet have a precise raid count, Admiral. There is very heavy jamming.”

  Gibierge nodded, undismayed. “As we expected.”

  Everything was still unfolding according to his earlier predictions. The Americans would never waste two of their prized E-2 radar warning and command and control planes on a mere probe. If they followed normal practice, the practice he had seen a dozen times as a NATO observer during peacetime exercises, the incoming raid would contain two squadrons of A-6 Intruder aircraft and two of Hornets, escorted by a full squadron of F-14 Tomcats and a pair of EA-6B Prowlers to jam French and German radars. Two Hawkeyes aloft could also indicate that the Americans were combining planes from both their carriers in this one strike. Well, he thought grimly, the more the merrier. He turned back to Desaix.

  “Do the Americans have any other courses of action when we meet them?”

  “They may choose to continue, trusting to their missile ships and the remaining fighters. That would be better for us, of course.”

  “But what about the damage they might cause to Wilhelmshaven?”

  Gibierge gave a very Gallic shrug. “We will be hit, of course, but we still have our SAMs and fighter defenses.”

  Desaix nodded his understanding. Both men left unsaid the thought that Wilhelmshaven was German territory anyway.

  The admiral leaned forward, pressing home his point. “Most important, sir, whichever way they move, the Americans will only be able to launch this one attack. By the time they turn for home, they will have no carrier to land on, only a patch of radioactive water,”

  USS GEORGE WASHINGTON

  “Admiral!” Lieutenant Harada had to shout to get Admiral Jack Ward’s attention on the noisy bridge wing. At thirty-plus knots, the wind almost ripped the words out of your throat. Add the scream of dozens of jet engines, and you might as well use sign language.

  The admiral turned to his aide. Harada thought he looked a little better than he had while he was stuck on shore. The stress of the past several days had aged his boss.

  Watching the airborne phase of Counterweight get under way was a tonic, though. Nobody could watch plane after plane roar off the carrier’s flight deck without being encouraged. Things were finally moving, and when those planes reached their target, EurCon was in for a rough morning.

  Harada hated to call the admiral in, but it was important. He cupped his hands. “New enemy contacts, sir! Airborne over Germany.”

  Ward nodded and quickly ducked through the weather deck door.

  The Tactical Flag Command Center was Ward’s turf, and he loved it. Information from dozens of sensors could be displayed in as many different ways, and secure communications links put him in touch with his commanders. Unlike an army or marine officer, Ward couldn’t ever expect to see much of the battlefield. The TFCC took its place. From here, he could run the war in the North Sea and the Baltic.

  It was a dark, quiet place, the hum of subdued voices indicating a well-trained team. The man responsible for that, his new chief of staff, approached Ward as he came in.

  Captain Harry March should have been a lawyer or a CPA, but the navy had been lucky enough to get him. Business colleges cost money, but the academy had offered a black city kid a degree for free. His passion for detail was Ward’s secret weapon.

  Now he didn’t waste time. “SIGINT planes are picking up a lot of airborne radio traffic over several German air bases, including Bremerhaven and Cuxhaven. Traffic is in both German and French. Some aircraft radar signals, too.” Although he spoke softly, he sounded worried.

  “What’s your evaluation, Harry? An air strike?”

  “Probably, sir, and we’re the only logical target.” He sighed. “The problem is, we don’t have a clear picture of what’s going on over there. Our radar coverage is nil.”

  Ward frowned. His intelligence officers’ best guess had been that EurCon wouldn’t come after his carriers from the air. Computer-run wargames and analyses had showed such an attack would absorb too much of French and German air strength to make it worthwhile. Apparently the enemy’s own staff studies had come to a different conclusion. He said as much to March.

  “I agree, Admiral. I’ve run the numbers, though. Based on what we do know, and their aircraft ranges, we’re the only worthwhile target out here right now.”

  Ward felt a small chill run through him. “If they are going to hit us, Harry, it won’t be a half-assed attempt.” What went unspoken was the obvious fact that the incoming EurCon strike force would meet their own outbound raid head-on. “How long till we know for sure what they’re up to?”

  March answered instantly. “About ten minutes or so, Admiral, based on their course and speed, plus their time in the air. I recommend tanking our outbound planes now and launching more tankers to refuel our own top cover. I’ve already passed our data over to Roosevelt.“

  “As well as giving Rosie’s CAG a heads-up, I bet.” Ward rubbed his face, then stared at the map display for a minute. “It means losing some range on the strike if we tank now, ahead of schedule, but I agree. Launch another E-2 and get the SAR helos alerted.” He glanced at his watch. “We’ll decide whether to abort or press on in ten minutes.”

  MINISTRY OF DEFENSE

  “Our strike is outbound,” announced an operator.

  Gibierge studied the cluster of blue symbols just north of Cuxhaven with satisfaction. Two squadrons of Mirage 2000Ns armed with ASMP nuclear missiles. Two more squadrons of German Tornados armed with antiradar missiles and conventional antiship missiles. A squadron of Rafales, two of Mirage 2000s, and two of German fighters accompanied the strike force as escorts. He and his fellow commanders were throwing nearly 120 aircraft into this battle — the cream of the Confederation air forces.

  USS GEORGE WASHINGTON

  “They’re headed straight at us, Admiral.” March’s voice was filled with suppressed excitement. “There’s some jamming but we’re dealing with it. Raid count in excess of one hundred aircraft.”

  Ward stood taller. Years dropped away from his face along with all the doubts and worries of the past few weeks. They were committed now. “Tell Rancher to execute as soon as his planes have finished tanking.”

  MUSTANG LEAD

  Mann watched the last of the F-14s nose into the tanker’s drogue and hurriedly take on fuel. Thank God they’d decided to do this in daylight. In-flight refueling was a fine art and demanded a high level of skill. Passing a baton from one car to another on a superhighway was child’s play in comparison.

  But they needed the fuel. The navy planes heading for the German coast had already expended a quarter of their load, and combat could drain their tanks in a few minutes. All together, almost two squadrons of A-6 Intruders had been dedicated to tanker duty.

  They were just finishing up now. His Hornet squadron had already refueled.

  “All Counterweight units, this is Rancher. Chuckwagons and outriders to the rear.” Captain Macmillan, the CAG, had a spread in Montana, and cowboy slang always seemed to figure in the radio codes he developed. Mann was a city boy at heart, but he had to admit that they seemed more appropriate than anything he might have dredged up out of a childhood spent in Brooklyn.

  Mann knew that Macmillan would rather be flying his F-14 than riding a Hawkeye, but his job could not be performed in a fighter cockpit. Someone had to lead.

  Now Rancher sent the A-6 tankers and the antishipping aircraft home, stripping the formation for action. The jammers spread out, where they would stay clear of the fight, and the E-2s’ dedicated fighter escorts moved in closer to their charges.

  “All units, this is Rancher. Execute.”

  Mann pushed his throttle forward.

  MINISTRY OF DEFENSE

  Gibierge watched the two clusters of symbols move toward each other. They were still two hundred miles apart, but with both formations flying at almost four hundred knots, they would be in missile range
in about fifteen minutes. The American F-14s with their Phoenix missiles would be able to fire sooner, but long-range shots were effective only against clumsy bomber aircraft.

  He focused his attention on the American formation. Which way would they jump?

  One of the situation room’s secondary screens showed an expanded view of the two raids. The French and German planes were neatly labeled with aircraft types and call signs for each flight, along with their course, speed, and altitude.

  The opposing American raid, though, simply showed up as a muddle of hostile aircraft symbols and a crisscross tracery of ESM detection lines. Where they intersected, a label marked the type of radar detected and the aircraft fitted with it. Several small groups of planes near the fringes of the raid were marked with “APG-65/Hornet” or “AWG-9/Tomcat.” The center of the formation was marked with “APQ-156/Intruder.” Radar and ESM gave him a good idea of the enemy raid’s composition. So far there hadn’t been any surprises.

  His eyes narrowed. The American commanders would have to make their decision soon. Would they press ahead toward Wilhelmshaven or turn back to defend their own ships? The range was down to 150 nautical miles.

  Some of the American symbols shifted in relation to their counterparts. Simultaneously several of the lines indicating radar signals disappeared. The signals for fighters remained, but the Intruder radars had gone away.

  Desaix leaned closer to him, wanting to know what was going on, but Gibierge waited a moment more before turning to respond. “It looks like they are sending their attack aircraft home, Foreign Minister. It was the logical course for them, and I’ve alerted our raid commander. We are prepared…”

  Desaix was still watching the screen while the admiral explained. Suddenly the Foreign Minister’s eyes widened in puzzlement and alarm. Gibierge checked the display again and felt his jaw drop open.

  A new network of lines, thicker than a spider’s web, covered the American raid. Every one of them was labeled “APG-65” or “AWG-9”. In addition, only a few aircraft symbols had disappeared. The bulk of the raid was not turning back, but accelerating. He watched as the speed values next to the aircraft symbols changed and changed again, always increasing. They were already well over six hundred knots, while a loaded Intruder could not even make five hundred. “Gibierge, what is this?” Desaix demanded. The admiral was already reaching for a red command phone.