Armageddon Mode c-3

by Keith Douglass

  Two …”

  “Hit the chaff!” He felt the chaff canisters firing, then hauled the Tomcat back until it was standing on its tail. Stars wheeled across the sky through Tombstone’s HUD, unspeakably clear and close as the F-14 climbed past thirty thousand feet.

  “We lost one!” Dixie yelled. His excitement was shrill, exuberant.

  “Number two climbing to meet us. Range three miles!”

  Tombstone dragged the stick over and back, flipping the Tomcat onto its back, then fighting it with a brutal half-twist. As the nose came up, his HUD targeting diamond tagged the oncoming enemy fighter that had fired the second Apex. He thumbed the switch on his stick. There was no time now for confirmation. Only survival … “Going for Sidewinder!” The HUD display showed target lock.

  “Gotcha!” He squeezed the trigger and the Sidewinder dropped from its rail, trailing flame into the darkness. “Fox two! Fox two!”

  Tombstone pulled the Tomcat into a snap roll that twisted it toward the sea. At the last moment, he saw the exhaust of the oncoming missile, an evil-looking pinprick of yellow light arcing toward him through the night.

  “He’s breaking! Tombstone! He’s breaking!” Dixie’s cry brought a relief-driven gust of air from Tombstone’s lungs. By firing a Sidewinder at the other pilot, he’d forced his opponent to turn, breaking the Mig’s radar lock on the Tomcat. And when the approaching missile lost its semi-active guidance lock … “Second missile missed!” Dixie called. “God damn, Tombstone! You know how to push it to the edge!”

  A moment later, a flash of white light pulsed against the night. The Sidewinder had found its target.

  “Grand slam!” Dixie called. “Victor Tango, splash one! Splash one!”

  Only then did Tombstone realize that he’d technically violated the ROES.

  He’d been fired at, but he’d not received confirmation from Jefferson for weapons release.

  The hell with it, Tombstone thought. It’s time to turn and burn.

  2020 hours, 24 March

  CIC, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson

  Vaughn felt cold … cold … with the icy knowledge that events were now totally beyond his control. When that Tomcat pilot fired without waiting for a weapons-free confirmation, he’d crossed a boundary for the whole damned battle group.

  He swallowed, working to stay calm, working to control the gnawing rasp in his stomach. This mess wasn’t his fault. But would Washington understand that?

  “What’s going on?” he demanded. “Damn it, who fired first?”

  “Hard to make out, sir,” an enlisted rating said. He was relaying radio messages and radar scans transmitted through the circling Hawkeye. The air battle was taking place at the very limit of the E-2C’s range, and information was fragmentary, the picture fuzzy. Confused bursts of noise and bits of conversation came over the loudspeaker mounted high on CICS bulkhead, allowing the tense officers and men standing in the red-lit room to listen in on the unfolding fight.

  “Splash one! Splash one!”

  The men in CIC broke into a ragged cheer at that. Vaughn scowled.

  Despite all he’d been able to do, a dogfight had begun. Transfixed, he stared at the radar feed from the airborne Hawkeye. There was little to be seen, the smear of clouds associated with a weather front to the east, and a tangle of slow-moving blips where the dogfight was taking place between Bombay and the convoy.

  “If I may suggest, Admiral,” Barnes said. “We should get some more guns into the area, fast. Before the enemy gets any closer.”

  “We have two more F-14s on BARCAP east of the carrier,” Marusko pointed out. “And two more on Alert Five. We’ve got an honest-to-God furball up there, and our boys are going to need some help.”

  So there it was. The decision that, either way, would be the mistake the buzzards in Washington would pounce on, once they caught the scent of blood. The order he was about to give might well be the crowning achievement of his career … or the end of it.

  But the decision had to be made. “Order the BARCAP to engage,” he said.

  “And launch the Alert Five. Confirm weapons release.”

  If he’d made a wrong choice he’d end up like Tom Magruder, on the beach and under a cloud. He didn’t like the feeling.

  CHAPTER 8

  2019 hours, 24 March

  Tomcat 201

  “Tally-ho!” Tombstone yelled, using the age-old call that meant the quarry was in sight. He could see the other plane as a starlit shape approaching in the darkness, marked by twin pencils of flame as the other pilot kicked in his afterburners. “He’s climbing for us.”

  “Hot damn!” Dixie replied. “We’re goin’ head-to-head!”

  “AIM-9.” At close range, a Sidewinder launch gave them their best shot.

  “What’s he flying anyway?”

  “Can’t tell,” Tombstone said. “It’s damned hot, though. Look at him jink!”

  Tombstone watched the bandit’s approach narrowly as he cut his engine back to eighty percent. Standard tactical doctrine for ACM — Air Combat Maneuvers — called for passing an opponent as closely as possible when meeting him head-on, not giving him room to turn and latch onto your tail.

  The Indian pilot was good, he thought. Way too good for Tombstone’s peace of mind. By jinking his aircraft up, down, and sideways during the approach, he was making it impossible for Tombstone to calculate how much leeway to give him. The darkness didn’t help. The other plane was almost invisible … and there was no way to judge distance by eyeball alone. “Two thousand,” Dixie warned.

  Tombstone felt himself tense as the other plane loomed close.

  2020 hours, 24 March

  IAF Fulcrum 401

  Munir Ramadutta watched the oncoming aircraft swell in his Fulcrum’s HUD. This American was good … but he’d expected no less. U.S. Navy aviators had a worldwide reputation independent of the militant posturings of their government.

  He thumbed the switch arming his short-range AA-8 Aphid missiles. He was at a sharp disadvantage for close-in combat. The Aphid was not an all-aspect missile, meaning it had to “see” the enemy’s engine exhaust in order to achieve target lock.

  In any case, he was too close to the American now, approaching too quickly to allow any time for thought or action. He would pass the Tomcat close on his left, then pull a half-loop-and-roll to get on the enemy’s tail.

  The American drew still closer …

  2020 hours, 24 March

  Tomcat 201

  … and then the other plane was past, flashing close by the Tomcat at supersonic speed. Tombstone immediately pulled into a vertical climb and went to Zone Five burner, hoping to do a half-loop-and-roll that would drop him on the other pilot’s six, squarely behind him and a mile to the rear.

  “Damn it, Stoney! Watch out!”

  Tombstone yanked his head back at the warning, looking through the top of his canopy. The other plane was there, also climbing, cockpit-to-cockpit with the Tomcat.

  It happened so quickly that he didn’t have time to react to the icy fear that struck him in that instant. The other plane was eerily illuminated by stars and the glow from Tombstone’s own afterburners, and so close that he could make out the other pilot’s helmeted shape in the light of his cockpit instrumentation, could see the bold numerals 401 on the other plane’s nose.

  The other aircraft was close enough he could clearly identify it as a Mig-29, a Fulcrum, though his first impression had been that the nimble, twin-tailed aircraft was an American F/A-18 Hornet. The Indian pilot’s skill had saved them both. He’d been pulling the identical maneuver as Tombstone, but at the last moment had recognized the danger and avoided a midair collision. For perhaps two seconds, the fighters climbed, canopy to canopy, a scant ten meters apart, aimed at the stars … and then the Indian Mig rolled left and vanished into the darkness.

  Tombstone reacted instantly, breaking right. He was now less interested in getting on the Indian Mig’s tail than he was in disengaging. A wrong move i
n the darkness at such close quarters would end in fiery disaster.

  ACM was especially hard when you couldn’t pick up visual clues about the other pilot’s attitude, speed, angle of attack, or energy state.

  “Blue Viper, Blue Viper, this is Victor Tango One-niner.” The Hawkeye’s call came over Tombstone’s headset as he started angling back toward the Indian Jaguars.

  “Victor Tango, this is Viper Leader. Go ahead.”

  “Blue Viper, you’ve got new targets entering your area. Be advised they are friendly, repeat, friendly. Over.”

  “Hot damn,” Batman said. “Cavalry to the rescue!”

  Tombstone glanced at his VDI. He saw the new blips … and apparently the Migs had seen them as well. They were turning, making for the mainland at high speed.

  Which left the Indian Jaguars, dead ahead and in the clear, range thirty miles.

  2021 hours, 24 March

  IAF Jaguar 102

  Colonel Singh checked his radio frequency. “Mountain, this is Krait Attack, inbound. Estimate range now sixty-five kilometers. Beginning attack run.”

  He glanced left and right at the other Jaguars in his flight, faintly visible on either side of his aircraft as they skimmed the black ocean toward the southwest. The Exocet missiles they carried were just within range of the target now clearly painted on his radar screen, dead ahead.

  “Krait Leader to all Kraits,” he said over the tactical frequency.

  “Initiate targeting procedure. Gyros up now.”

  They would launch in thirty seconds.

  2020 hours, 24 March

  Tomcat 201

  “Victor Tango, this is Blue Viper,” Tombstone said. “We’ve got four Alpha bandits lined up in our sights. Commencing Phoenix run.”

  “We copy, Viper Leader,” the Hawkeye tactical officer replied. “Message from Homeplate. Green light. You’re go for missile release.”

  “About damned time,” Tombstone muttered. He didn’t even stop to think whether the missile-release order referred to the attack planes ahead or his earlier request to fire on the Indian Migs.

  Time enough to sort that out later. “Copy that, Victor Tango.”

  Tombstone reached out and flipped a switch on his console. “Master arming switch on.” He opened the ICS. “Dixie? How about a solution on those bogies.”

  “Got it, Tombstone. We’ve got four targets, range now three-oh nautical miles. On track-and-scan. Acquisition. AWG-9 locked in. We’re hot.”

  “Phoenix armed and hot,” he confirmed. He flipped the target-designate switch with his left hand, watching the computer-generated graphics on his Vertical Display Indicator. “Okay, Dixie. Punch it!”

  “Fox three!” Dixie announced. The Tomcat bumped as the heavy missile cleared and ignited. “Missile away!”

  “Line up another one, Dixie.”

  “Set! Acquisition! Locked and hot!”

  “Punch it!”

  “Fox three! Fox three!” The second Phoenix roared into the night.

  2120 hours, 24 March

  IAF Jaguar 102

  “Krait Attack, Krait Attack, this is Mountain! Be advised we have small, high-speed targets, bearing two-seven-three your position on intercept course.”

  Singh searched the sky through his cockpit. He could see nothing around his aircraft but stars partly blocked by a line of clouds behind him and the acquisition lights of the other Jaguars of his flight.

  “Mountain, Krait Attack Leader. I don’t see-“

  Suddenly, a Warning tone sounded in his headset. “Mountain, this is Krait Leader! We have missile-lock warning! Repeat, missile-lock warning. Someone is tracking us!”

  “Krait Attack, we read two long-range air-to-air missiles. Range one-zero! Evade! Evade!”

  “Krait Flight!” Singh snapped. “Do not evade! Maintain course … fire.”

  He thumbed the release switch. There was a two-second pause. Then his Jaguar leapt skyward. Exocet weighed 660 kilos — well over 1,400 pounds — and he had his hands full for a moment battling to control his aircraft as the weapon dropped clear.

  The missile’s engine kicked in as its autopilot brought it down to an altitude of fifteen meters above the wave tops. Cruise speed was just under Mach 1.

  At that speed it would reach its target in a little less than three minutes.

  2120 hours, 24 March

  Tomcat 201

  “Batman!” Tombstone called. “Get in the game!” The VDI showed the other Tomcat five miles to the west.

  “We’re in! Looks like the bad guy CAP decided to get out of Dodge!”

  “Rog,” Tombstone said. “Let’s splash these attack planes before they-“

  “Tombstone!” Dixie interrupted. “Targets scattering. I read six … no, ten bogies! Ten bogies!”

  “Shit!” His VDI was set to repeat the tactical data from his RIO’s screen. He could see the close-grouped radar targets separating now, just beyond the computer graphic representations of the two Phoenix missiles already on the way. The bandits were launching on the Biddle.

  Tombstone had two AIM-59s left, and Batman had four. The Indians were launching their Exocets, and there just weren’t enough Phoenix missiles to go around.

  2023 hours, 24 March

  IAF Jaguar 102

  The maddening tone of missile lock continued to sound in Singh’s ears as he pulled the stick to the left. He looked again. Still nothing … A pinpoint flare of light came out of nowhere, twisting in a sharp, left-hand corkscrew as it bore down on Lieutenant Colonel Nijhawan’s Jaguar from the west.

  “Himmat!” Singh shouted, “Watch-“

  Orange flame fireballed against the night. For an instant, the glare illuminated the front half of his friend’s aircraft and one shattered wing as the Jaguar crumpled, folding up on itself as though it were a balsa-wood model crushed by a child’s hand.

  The second explosion came a pair of heartbeats later, blasting the left wing from Krait Four before the flare of the first explosion had faded away. Singh glimpsed a secondary flash as the pilot rocketed into the night on his ejection seat.

  Colonel Singh had first learned fighter combat while attending a special air combat training school for foreign pilots at Frunze, in the Soviet Union. Later, he’d flown with the RAF while learning to handle the SEPECAT Jaguar. He was one of the best pilots in the IAF, but this was beginning to feel more like target practice than combat … with his squadron as the targets.

  “All aircraft, launch and return to base.”

  The missile-threat warning was off. Perhaps there had been two, and only two missiles. If they had a few more seconds …

  2023 hours, 24 March

  Tomcat 201

  “Victor Tango One-niner, this is Viper Leader,” Tombstone radioed. “We have air-to-surface launch … probable Exocet. Six ASMS …” Two more blips appeared, moving quickly behind the others. The two surviving Indian planes had released at maximum range, then turned away. “Make it eight ASMS in the air, targeting Biddle.”

  “Confirmed, Viper Leader,” the Hawkeye replied. “We have them. Protect Biddle. Target priority is Exocet launch.”

  Tombstone had already arrived at the same conclusion. Wings laid back along its flanks, Tombstone’s F-14 howled along an intercept course. At his instructions, Dixie had already timed the lead of two closely spaced missiles. The Tomcat’s AWG-9 had what is known as “look-down/shoot-down” capability, meaning it could track objects below the F-14, moving only a few feet above the water. At a range of ten nautical miles, Dixie announced a target lock and stabbed the launch button. Their last Phoenix dropped clear, then ignited, rocketing into the darkness on a vivid comet tail of flame. Tombstone watched the graphics on his VDI, counting off the seconds as the AIM-54 closed the gap on the lead Exocet. Ten seconds after launch, the two blips merged.

  “Hit!” he called.

  “Target destroyed!” Dixie confirmed. “Holy … Second target gone! We nailed ‘em, two for one!”

  The twin
detonation of almost five hundred pounds of high explosives on the two missiles a few feet above the water had created a terrific shock wave. The second Exocet had flown into the blast and either been torn apart or driven into the sea.

  “Two-one-six, fox three!” Batman’s familiar voice sounded over Tombstone’s headset. “Don’t be greedy, Stoney. Save some for us! Fox three!”

  Tombstone’s VDI was becoming a confused tangle of targeting symbols and radar returns. He felt a sinking sensation as he watched the wave of missiles crawling across the screen. “Viper Leader is dry.” With no more Phoenix missiles slung under his Tomcat’s belly, there was little more he could do to halt the storm.

  “Viper Two,” Batman added. “Down two. Firing two. Fox three! Fox three!”

  Batman’s last two Phoenix missiles joined the clutter of radar blips.

  Four more incoming Exocets died.

  Two Exocets remained, vaulting the last small gap to the American frigate at the speed of sound.

  2024 hours, 24 March

  U.S.S. Biddle

  The terrifying aspect of modern naval warfare is its sheer speed. In 1805, when Admiral Nelson faced the Franco-Spanish fleet at Trafalgar, the enemy had been in sight for hours by the time they finally opened fire; Nelson could have taken the better part of an afternoon deciding on tactics or changing his plans had he wanted to.

  Modern warfare did not give the combatants that kind of luxury. Blows were exchanged, casualties taken, within a space of minutes, sometimes of seconds.

  Biddle’s Close-in Weapons System, or CIWS for short, commonly pronounced “sea-whiz,” housed its tracking radar, six-barreled Gatling gun, magazine, and control electronics inside a prominent, white-painted silo fifteen feet high; hence, its other popular nickname, “R2D2.” The weapon, also called Phalanx, was mounted aft on Perry-class frigates, high atop their helicopter hangars and overlooking the helo pad on the fantail. As soon as the Indian Jaguars had launched, Captain Farrel had immediately ordered the ship turned away from the oncoming missiles in order to give the CIWS an unobstructed view of the targets.