The minister frowned. “There will be no formal declaration, Admiral, no. But India will take action to guarantee her own sovereignty.”
Ramesh was confused. “Sir?”
“Success in Pakistan, and our own security, demand that we force the United States … and all other extraterritorial powers … to recognize our claims to the Arabian Sea and abandon military control of the Indian Ocean basin to us. Our requests before the UN Security Council have been rebuffed. This, then, leaves us with but a single course of action.
“Yesterday, as you all know, a maritime attack squadron, supported by one of our Mig-29 fighter units, struck elements of the American carrier force off Bombay. Our intelligence indicates that at least three U.S. planes were shot down in the engagement.”
Ramesh pursed his lips. He knew better than to accept such figures at face value. He wondered what the kill figures really were, and how many IAF planes had been lost.
“The action of last night is being hailed as a major triumph. However, our leaders fear that American resolve has only hardened at this point.
Their government stresses the concept of ‘freedom of the seas,” which can be interpreted as their perceived right to continue to operate in our waters.
“Furthermore, the Commonwealth of Independent States has now joined the Americans. A Russian nuclear carrier group is expected to rendezvous with the Americans by mid-afternoon.”
Sundarji raised his hand and snapped his fingers, gesturing. A civilian aide began going around the table, passing out slender folders to each military man present. Ramesh accepted his and opened it, removing the sheaf of papers inside. Written in English, as were all such documents in India, and stamped TOP SECRET across each page, it appeared to be a general directive entitled Operation Python. Cobra, Krait, and Python, Ramesh thought. New Delhi seemed entranced by the ideas of using snakes for code words this week.
“The government has decided that only one response on our part can be direct enough, sharp enough to discourage foreign intentions in the Arabian Sea,” the minister continued as the military men read the orders. “The Political Affairs Committee has asked me to submit these plans to you this afternoon. We believe that enough ships and planes can be diverted from current operations to deliver a single, crushing blow to the joint American-Soviet battle fleet. Ideally, this should be carried out before the Russians and the Americans have a chance to work together, in order to maximize confusion.
“Their aircraft carriers, of course, will be the primary targets.
Destroy them, or simply damage their flight decks enough to prevent air launches or recoveries, and both squadrons will be largely useless. The foreign fleets will be forced to withdraw.
“New Delhi anticipates a strong reaction, of course, but by that time our objectives in Pakistan should be achieved. We can negotiate with Moscow and Washington over reparations or whatever is necessary, but …” He raised a forefinger, stressing the word. “But … our goals will have been achieved. Victory in Pakistan, and an end to foreign intervention in our ocean.”
A rising murmur filled the room as generals and admirals scanned through the orders. “Excellency,” General Bakaya said. “These call for stripping the Pakistan front of many of our best aircraft squadrons!”
Sundarji nodded. “Temporarily, yes. It is the government’s belief that for this operation we can muster between two and three hundred aircraft, approximately a third of our total IAF assets. The strike force will include long-range bombers, cruise missiles, and multi-wave strikes by attack planes armed with Exocets, as well as our maritime aircraft operating off of Viraat and Vikrant. Losses should not be higher than ten percent, which leaves adequate forces to return to the Pakistan front.”
Admiral Karananidhi stood, shaking the papers in his fist. “This is insane! You are saying we must abandon our blockade of Karachi!”
The murmurs grew louder. “I must protest,” another officer in the back shouted. “This could stall the entire offensive!”
Sundarji raised his voice. “I must emphasize … Gentlemen, if you please! I must emphasize that this redeployment is for the short term only! Admiral Karananidhi, you are correct. The fleet assembled for the blockade of Karachi is to be diverted to support the attack on the Soviet-American forces. But the strike is expected to take less than four hours altogether and can be accomplished while your ships are enroute to the Pakistan coast. The aircraft deployed for this exercise are those already in place within range of the targets. The delay will be minimal! And in exchange …” He spread his hands. “One lightning blow to cripple foreign air operations in the Arabian Sea! A strong message to the world that India is the master of her own destiny, her own ocean! A demonstration to Islamabad that we will see this through, regardless of world opinion! It will be, gentlemen, the gateway to our own future as a global power!”
Ramesh returned the orders to the folder unread. He didn’t need to see them to know their content … or to know that, after a few hours of argument, the military staff would give it their stamp of approval. The possible benefits were enormous, the risks relatively small. There was a stronger possibility of Pakistan deciding to employ nuclear weapons, but perhaps Intelligence was correct in assuming that Islamabad was not yet able to deploy such weapons in the field.
Those considerations did not really touch him closely in any case, because he had seen one section of those orders, the paragraphs dealing with Indian navy deployment. The Indian aircraft carrier Viraat had been designated the flagship of the naval operation against the Americans.
And Rear Admiral Ajay Ramesh was commander of Viraat’s task force, with the carrier as his flag. It would be he who led the attack against the foreigners, opening the way for the IAF bomber strikes.
It would be a suitable revenge for poor Joshi’s death.
1725 hours, 25 March
Dirty Shirt Mess, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
“Yeah, Coyote, it’s true,” Tombstone said. The clatter of dishes and silverware rose around them, mingled with the low conversations of several dozen of the ship’s officers. Tombstone was clad in his khakis, but Coyote was still wearing his flight suit after an afternoon of patrol and practice touch-and-goes off Jefferson’s roof.
“God, man, I don’t believe it! How can they can the goddamned squadron commander?”
Tombstone pushed his dinner tray back on the table. He’d not felt much like eating. “By not making it an official canning. They’ll just take their time getting around to the investigation and hope I go away in the meantime.”
“Kiss of death, man! They can’t pull that shit! An aviator’s got to get out there and strap on that airplane every day, or he loses the edge!”
“Hell, they’re doing it. Can’t fight city hall. You know that.” He shrugged. “Anyway, it’s not bad. Gives me a chance to catch up on my paperwork. The Vipers are down two aircraft, and getting IM-2 moving on our work orders is like shoveling mud.” The IM-2 division of Jefferson’s Aircraft Intermediate Maintenance Department (IMD) was responsible for all inspection, testing, calibration, and repair of the aircraft embarked aboard the carrier. He knew his offhand statement was not entirely fair; IM-2 consisted of eight officers, 420 men, and thirty civilian technical reps with an impossible backlog of orders and requests. “Officially, I guess I’m still in charge.”
“So who’s running the squadron, guy? Unofficially, I mean?”
“Army. Fred Garrison. Remember him? He’s squadron XO now. Anyway, he bosses ‘em in the air and I take care of the paperwork. Good trade.”
Coyote leaned back in his chair, a mug of coffee in his hand. “You can’t fool me, Stoney. This has got you pissed off royally.”
“Maybe.” He wondered whether to tell Coyote that he was planning on resigning. It wasn’t the sort of thing you just blurted out. There was an unspoken attitude among Navy aviators. The guys who turned in their wings or resigned were failures, fallen gods no longer possessing the edge, the all-important ri
ght stuff.
Tombstone valued Coyote’s friendship and didn’t want to risk it.
Another thought occurred to him. “Listen, Coyote. I haven’t had a chance to ask. How’s Julie?”
“Fine, fine. She told me to send her love.”
Tombstone and Coyote both had dated a good-looking insurance claims rep named Julie Wilson years before, when they’d first been stationed at Coronado. The rivalry had been friendly. In the end, Tombstone had been best man at their wedding.
“So tell me,” Tombstone said uncertainly. “What does Julie think of your coming back out here? I mean, you came pretty close to buying the farm last time around. How’d she take it?”
Coyote studied his coffee mug for a moment. “Hell, I’d be lying if I said she wasn’t worried. But she knows that Navy aviation is what I do.
She knows I miss her like nobody’s business when I’m gone, but that flying is the next best thing to sex there is.” He hesitated. “You want to tell me what’s behind that, Stoney?”
“Oh, nothing important.” He knew the lie was transparent. “Just trying to figure where my own career is going, that’s all. I met a girl.”
“Yeah?”
“TV news-type person. Met her in Bangkok during all the excitement there. I … I’m in love with her.”
“But there’re the old questions about whether love and salt water mix, hey?”
“Something like that.” Tombstone grinned suddenly. “You know the old saying. “If the Navy wanted you to have a wife, they’d have issued you one with your seabag.’” He looked at his watch. “Shit. I gotta go.”
“Hey, wait.”
But Tombstone didn’t want to talk about it, not now. He stood, picking up the tray with his unfinished supper. “Catch you later, Coyote.”
“Yeah. Later.”
Why was he telling Coyote his problems? He shook his head as he returned the tray to the galley window and shoved it through. The Coyote had it made, excited about his career, about flying … and a smart and pretty woman waiting for him back in the World.
He sure as hell wouldn’t understand. Tombstone knew he was going to have to face his problems with Pamela alone.
CHAPTER 12
1810 hours, 25 March
Bridge, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
“Now hear this,” the 1-MC speaker on the bulkhead intoned. “Now hear this. Commence fuel transfer operations. The smoking lamp is out throughout the ship.”
Captain Fitzgerald scarcely heard the announcement. His attention was fixed on the activity to starboard. Jefferson rode the heavy seas at reduced speed, her massive bows rising and plunging with each wave.
Sliding along in her shadow one hundred feet to starboard, dwarfed by the supercarrier’s bulk, the U.S.S. Amarillo paced her larger consort, matching her plunge for plunge.
Jefferson’s three starboard flight deck elevators had been lowered to the hangar deck level, giving men of the deck division places to stand as fuel hoses from the AOE were snaked across along span wires stretched from Amarillo’s topping lifts to pelican hooks secured to Jefferson’s side. Red flags, warning of the fire hazard, snapped in the breeze on both ships as deckhands secured the hoses. Suspended from the span wires by sliding pulleys called trolleys, the hoses were draped in a series of deep loops between the vessels, allowing plenty of give and slack as the ships went their separate up-and-down ways.
The carrier’s two Westinghouse A4W nuclear reactors could keep Jefferson steaming for thirteen years without refueling, but she still carried over two million gallons of JP-5 in her aviation fuel compartments.
During typical peacetime operations, fifty or sixty planes were flown off a carrier twice daily, each mission consuming two to three thousand gallons of fuel, and at-sea replenishment was scheduled about every two weeks. During the Vietnam War when fuel expenditures were much higher, reprovisioning at sea had taken place as often as once every three or four days.
Jefferson’s last UNREP — Underway Replenishment — had been carried out ten days earlier, in the waters north of Diego Garcia. Captain Fitzgerald looked down on the Amarillo from his vantage point on the supercarrier’s bridge and wondered how soon he could expect the next resupply. UNREP ships were limited, and they had a long way to steam to reach CBG-14 in the isolated vastness of the Arabian Sea.
The Amarillo’s 194,000 barrels of fuel translated as over seven and a half million gallons, most of it JP-5 destined for Jefferson’s air wing.
Normally, that was enough for six weeks of air operations — ASW patrols and CAPS, as well as daily proficiency flights as the aviators logged in their hours aloft.
The AOR Peoria, a second UNREP vessel, carried petroleum for the rest of the battle group, 160,000 barrels of it, enough for over a month of cruising for the CBG’s non-nuclear vessels.
But if the tense political situation turned into outright war, fuel use would go up dramatically as the carrier’s aircraft tripled or quadrupled consumption, and the non-nuclear vessels were forced to travel farther and faster each day. A worst-case scenario could see the Peoria and the Amarillo both emptied by the battle group’s maneuvers within the next week.
And if either reprovisioning ship was sunk or badly damaged during that time, CBG-14 could be crippled within a matter of days.
He turned and walked the width of the bridge back to his leather swivel chair, stenciled “CO” and set near the port wing where it overlooked the flight deck. To the west, the sun was setting in a glorious burst of golds and reds that spilled across the horizon. Despite the still-heavy seas, the dirty weather appeared to be breaking up. The meteorologists down in the OA division had scrutinized their satellite photos and promised clear weather for the next forty-eight hours.
There’d been no further threats from the Indians since the previous evening’s attack. That didn’t mean the danger was over, but the immediacy of the crisis seemed to have eased somewhat. An hour earlier, CINCPAC had reported over Jefferson’s satellite com-link that the diplomatic exchanges were continuing in Washington. Perhaps they were going to find a negotiated way out of this confrontation.
In any case, it was out of his hands. He was on station and on full alert. There was nothing else to be done until someone else pushed the button.
To the west, Fitzgerald could make out the familiar, boxy mass of the Vicksburg’s superstructure. Somewhere beyond the Aegis cruiser, well over the horizon, the Commonwealth task force was steaming on a northerly course parallel with CBG-14. Fitzgerald still wasn’t certain what he thought of the orders to join the two squadrons into a single, international task force. Even if he trusted the Russians — which he did not, as yet — there would still have been an endless list of details to be worked out before the two forces could act together. And Kontr-Admiral Dmitriev, Vaughn’s opposite number aboard the Kreml, had so far shown little enthusiasm for integrating the two fleets. SOVINDRON was steaming north in a tight-packed bundle, seemingly oblivious to the American ships out around them across a hundred miles of ocean. Nor did the Russians seem willing to make the exchanges of codes, call signs, and radio frequencies necessary for allowing U.S. and Russian ships and planes to work together.
The IFF codes alone were already causing considerable confusion in the fleet. Each aircraft in Jefferson’s air wing possessed a transponder that transmitted a coded signal when it was touched by radar beams from an American ship or plane. The system, called IFF for “Identification Friend or Foe,” caused American radar displays to show the flight number of each U.S. plane in the air. The Russians had the same system, but with different codes responding to different radar wavelengths. So far, Russian planes flying above the Kreml were tagged as unknowns when they were painted by U.S. radar … just the same as the Indian aircraft during the attack the night before. If the joint squadron was attacked now, before IFF codes and protocol could be exchanged, the battle would very quickly become an unmanageable free-for-all.
What would Moscow think if some of their
Naval Aviation Migs were downed by American Sea Sparrows? Fitzgerald didn’t even want to think about the consequences.
“Admiral on the bridge.”
Fitzgerald slid out of his seat and turned to face Vaughn. “Good evening, Admiral.”
“Captain.”
Vaughn looked terrible. There were circles under his eyes, and he looked pale. He was chewing on something — an antacid tablet, Fitzgerald decided — and his eyes were focused past the bridge windscreen on something in the distance. The Russians. Of course.
“Any problem with the replenishment, Captain?”
“Not a thing, Admiral. Everything’s going smoothly. First stage refueling should be complete before it’s fully dark.” Because of the late hour, it had been decided to transfer fuel in two batches, one this evening, the rest the next morning. The dry stores and refrigerated supplies ticketed for the Jefferson, less critical at the moment than the JP-5, would be swayed across with the second refueling.
The admiral grunted, still staring at the western horizon. “So. What about the Russkies?”
Fitzgerald shook his head. “They don’t seem to be in much of a hurry, do they, sir? Captain Krylenko sent me personal greetings a while ago.
And I gather we’re due for a joint conference tomorrow morning.”
“Yeah. More damned socializing and politicking. Useless crap. These vodka-swilling bozos aren’t going to be any help to us at all.”
Fitzgerald studied the admiral, controlling his own growing worry. There was something about Vaughn. He groped for the right word. Irrational?
No … that wasn’t right. There was nothing wrong with the man that Jefferson’s captain could put his finger on. But he did seem preoccupied, his attention unfocused, and his derisive and egotistical attitude during that morning’s briefing had not helped matters.
Perhaps it was just Vaughn’s fear. Fitzgerald could smell it, could see it in the nervous way his eyes flicked back and forth as he studied the horizon, could hear it in his terse words and harsh judgment of the Russians.
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