Armageddon Mode c-3

by Keith Douglass

  “Pakistani forces in the region are digging in and preparing to defend the city, but satellite reconnaissance shows that they are badly out-matched. Pakistan has lost at least eighty percent of its air. They had one armor division here at Naya Chor, but that was overrun and largely destroyed in the fighting yesterday. With the other Pakistan forces tied down fighting Indian advances in the north and the threat to their capital, there isn’t much standing between the Indians and Hyderabad.

  “Beyond that, well … Karachi is the next logical target, and that port is absolutely vital to Pakistan’s whole effort. If Pakistan loses Karachi, they will probably lose the war. Certainly they’ll have lost most of their capability for bringing in supplies and arms from outside.

  It’s a fair bet that the Indian task force now putting to sea is headed for Karachi. They will blockade the port, and there is a good chance that they will launch an amphibious assault on Karachi itself.

  “So far, the Indians have been careful to maintain good, in-depth air defense as far as three hundred miles behind the Pakistani border. You can expect primarily SA-2 and SA-3 SAM batteries, as well as ZSUS and conventional triple-A.” He paused and surveyed his audience. “Are there questions?”

  There were none. “If not,” Neil added, “I’ll relinquish my pointer now to Commander Aubrey.”

  Daniel Aubrey was a slight, rumpled-looking man with a brushy, unkempt mustache and a quick wit. He was the senior officer of Jefferson’s Strike Ops, a separate component of the carrier’s OX Division. Strike Ops published the ship’s pink and green sheets that listed upcoming operational events, prepared the daily flight schedule, and planned and coordinated underway replenishments.

  And as their name suggested, Strike Ops was responsible for targeting and planning all tactical air strikes.

  Aubrey accepted the telescoping pointer from Neil. “Thank you, Commander Spook,” he said with a grin. He gestured at the TENCAP photos of SAM sites in the Indian state of Gujarat. “Now that we all know where not to go, maybe I can shed some light on where the party’s going to be at.

  “As our spook friend told us,” Aubrey said, “the Indian’s have been heavy into snakes this week. Assuming, of course, that the crypto boys in OS Division have their ears screwed on tight, our radio intercepts suggest that New Delhi is calling their big push into Pakistan “Cobra.’

  “Naturally, that suggested the code designation for our counterstrike.

  Operation Mongoose will be directed at the principal logistical routes that are supplying Indian forces at the front.” He used the pointer on the map. “The Indians have one pretty blatant Achilles’ heel, and that’s their logistical network into southern Pakistan. In this whole area, between Punjab and the salt marshes down here by the sea, they have exactly one decent road and rail line: Jaipur to Jodhpur, then across the border and through Naya Chor, Mirpur Khas, and …” He smacked the pointer tip against the map with a loud crack. “Hyderabad. We’re calling that road Highway 101. Hit that supply line, hit it hard, and we could stall the entire Indian advance.” He paused and looked at Admiral Vaughn. “And that, of course, is exactly what we want to do.”

  He gestured to the slide projector operator. A photograph appeared on the screen, replacing an earlier shot of a SAM site in Gujarat. It showed a line of vehicles shot from overhead, canvas-covered trucks mostly, but there were a pair of ZSU23S escorting them. The colors were the odd blend of greens, whites, and yellows that marked the slide as an infrared photo. The truck and tank chassis engines showed as hot smears of white against the cooler greens of the background. “This came through from a KH-12 early this morning,” Aubrey continued. “It shows one portion of a supply convoy on Highway 101 east of Naya Chor that numbered over two hundred vehicles.

  “Now, I don’t want any of you to get the idea that cutting the Indian supply lines is as simple as just bombing the crap out of this road. The Great Thar Desert is largely hardpan gravel and is perfectly able to support tanks, trucks, or whatever. There are some sandy places. In the ‘72 war, a Pakistan armor advance bogged down in soft dunes near Ramgarh and got picked off. Most places, though, the Indians can choose their own route across the desert.

  “But we have to keep in mind that the convoys themselves need supplies.

  Food. Water. Fuel. It’s two hundred miles from Jodhpur across the desert to Naya Chor, three hundred to Hyderabad. The road not only helps the supply vehicles cross the desert faster, it serves as access for the supplies that keep those vehicles moving. If we knock out the roads, the Indians will be able to reroute their convoys to the north or south, but it is going to cripple their logistical efficiency. We could expect lots more vehicle breakdowns in off-road travel, especially in rocky or gravel-covered areas.

  “The real high-priority targets, of course, will be the bridges. Every time Indian pioneers have to build or repair a bridge in this region, it’s a major engineering operation, with the equipment and material being ferried all the way up from Jodhpur. The Indians are especially vulnerable here, with eight major streams or canals to bridge or ford between Naya Chor and Hyderabad. Some of these aren’t more than a trickle in the sand, but the Nara Canal is a major obstacle. And, of course, once they get to Hyderabad, there’s the Indus River itself. The Indians are probably planning massive bridging operations coupled with paratroop or commando landings to get across the Indus. If we can delay them here, we could cripple their whole operation.”

  Tombstone listened carefully as Aubrey laid out the essentials of Operation Mongoose. The Hornets would perform double duty, as usual.

  VFA-161 would be the first ones to go feet dry, striking at Indian radar facilities, airfields, and SAM sites along the coast. VFA-173 would fly TARCAP for the main strike force, protecting the bombers to and from the target. TARGET Combat Air Patrol was intended to discourage enemy aircraft from attacking rather than actually shooting them down.

  The A-6 Intruders, with their heavy bomb loads and laser designators, would be assigned the bridges and road convoys between Hyderabad and Naya Chor, with a priority on trucks carrying fuel, water, and ammunition, the essentials for desert warfare. Cratering munitions would be used to ruin sections of the road, most of which was dirt and gravel anyway. Low-level precision attacks would knock out the railway.

  And the Tomcats would fly CAP for the CBG.

  Each element of Operation Mongoose was designed to minimize casualties, both American and Indian, as much as possible. No one dared to think that the operation could be pulled off with no casualties at all. The weapons of modern warfare were too fast, too hard-hitting, too deadly for that to be a possibility.

  Code names for each element of the plan were assigned. The two Intruder squadrons, eight planes each in the VA-84 Blue Rangers and VA-89 Death Dealers, were tagged Blue Strike and Gold Strike. The ten Hornets from the VFA-161 Javelins, tasked with hitting ground targets, were designated Lucky Strike, while eight Hornets from VFA-173, the Fighting Hornets, were split into two flights code-named Blue and Red Camel.

  EA-6B Prowlers from VAQ-143, the Sharks, would accompany each strike group, providing ECM jamming to mask Mongoose’s deployments. Hawkeyes from VAW-130, the Catseyes, would circle above the carrier and just off the Indian coast, providing early warning for both the fleet and the strike missions. The two Tomcat squadrons would retain their squadron code names, Vipers and Eagles.

  It was a gigantic enterprise, as large and as complex as Operation Righteous Thunder, when Jefferson had covered the Marine landings in North Korea. One problem stood out sharply, though. The Russian forces were not listed in the operational lineup.

  Perhaps, Tombstone thought, it had been decided that it would take too long to get Russian and American aviators to work with one another.

  Certainly, with no time for practice or training runs, joint air operations could be more dangerous to the allies than to the enemy. Even so, Russian participation was conspicuous by its absence.

  “The ordies began armi
ng operations yesterday, and as of 0600 this morning they were ahead of schedule. Our current scenario calls for launch operations to commence at 1200 hours today. Hawkeye and tanker assets will be put up first, of course, followed by Red Camel and Blue Camel. At 1240 hours, launch operations will begin for the strike elements, beginning with Lucky Strike.

  “Mongoose will be coordinated so that the various strike elements will arrive over their separate targets at approximately the same time. By maintaining an element of surprise, this will maximize both their chances of achieving successful runs and for avoiding enemy ground fire and fighters.

  “We expect that the entire strike phase of Mongoose will take no more than thirty minutes over the target, with separate elements coming in at low altitude from different directions, to keep the enemy off balance, and to divide and scatter his triple-A defenses.” His pointer slid down the map from the Sindh to an oval drawn near the Indian coast. “All aircraft will rendezvous here, at Point Juliet just off the Kori Creek inlet. Tankers will be waiting there to refuel them for the final leg back to the Jefferson. Are there any questions?”

  Tombstone raised his hand. “What about the Russians?”

  Aubrey looked from Tombstone to Vaughn, then back again. Tombstone was aware of the hard silence in the room as each man waited for the answer.

  “Ah … it’s been decided,” Aubrey said slowly, “that a joint ground attack mission would present us with unacceptable risk. Russian interceptors will be available on a standby basis to help deal with threats to the fleet. However, Russian strike aircraft will be readied in case a second strike on Indian targets is necessary.”

  Of course, there would be no second strike. If the first strike failed to slow the Indian advance, there would be little more that the Russians — with fewer aircraft, more primitive targeting and delivery systems, and shorter-ranged strike aircraft could hope to accomplish.

  Tombstone heard a low-voiced, angry murmur spreading around the room. He imagined most of the aviators had expected the Russians to share some of the risks of what was already a very high-threat mission. At the very least, more targets in the air would cause more confusion on the ground and better each individual pilot’s chances of coming through intact.

  Another hand raised and Aubrey nodded. “Captain Fitzgerald. Yes, sir?”

  Jefferson’s captain stood. “Yes, Dan. Is there an assessment yet on the possibility that the Indian fleet might sortie against this battle group? I mean no disrespect to our Russian guests, but two Tomcat squadrons and the interceptors off the Kreml are all we’ll have for outer zone fleet defense. The Indians could conceivably put a great many ASMS in the sky and saturate our defenses.”

  “That would be better directed at Commander Neil,” Aubrey said. “Our understanding in OX is that the threat from surface elements is low.

  Commander Neil, do you have anything to add to that?”

  “Only that the principal threat to the CBG will be from ground-based aircraft. The fleet assembling at Bombay is almost certainly targeted against Karachi. And the Migs …” He looked at the Russians. “Your Mig-29s have look-down/shoot-down capability, do they not, sir?”

  Captain Pokrovsky — his full rank translated as “Captain Third Rank,” lower than a U.S. Navy captain but higher than a commander — consulted briefly with Admiral Dmitriev, then stood, his hands clasped behind his back. “If I have meaning correct, da. Sahvyehrshennah, Mig have capability kill cruise missile.” Kreml’s Air Officer appeared completely self-assured on the point. Tombstone wondered if he didn’t seem a bit too self-assured. His difficulties with English were obvious.

  Aubrey spread his hands. “There you have it, sir. The Russians will be able to help cover our fleet while the Hornets are out.”

  “God help us,” Vaughn said, his low-voiced comment unexpectedly loud in the near-silence of the room. There was no mistaking the disdain in the admiral’s words.

  “Admiral Vaughn,” Dmitriev said with steady, icily correct control in the words. “Perhaps you disagree with your President’s order to operate together as a fleet?”

  Vaughn’s mouth hung open for a moment until, with an effort, he closed it. “My apologies, Admiral,” he said. “No insult intended. But I have grave concerns about our squadrons operating together in an environment where identification and control are going to be serious problems. You have still not provided us with the IFF codes for your aircraft, and misidentification could lead to … unfortunate incidents.”

  True enough, Tombstone thought. He remembered the Indian Mig he’d seen the night before. If the Russians didn’t give the Americans their IFF frequencies and codes, how were the U.S. ships going to distinguish between Indian and Russian aircraft? There were going to be problems enough telling Indian Migs from Navy Hornets.

  “Clearance to exchange codes is out of my hands, Admiral,” Dmitriev said, and Tombstone could hear the heaviness in his voice. No doubt he’d had to buck the question back to Moscow, where the bureaucracy there was still debating the question.

  Suddenly, Tombstone felt sorry for the Russians, professional men forced to operate with their former opponents, with neither understanding nor support from their own people further up the chain of command.

  This, he reflected, was going to be one hell of a way to run a war.

  0715 hours, 26 March

  Guided Missile Patrol Boat INS Pralaya

  The missile boat wallowed forward in heavy seas. Senior Lieutenant Javed Chaudry clung to the safety railing on the small craft’s weather bridge and wondered how they could possibly survive.

  The storm front had moved out of the area the night before, taking with it the overcast skies and dirty weather that had trailed the storm. All that was left was this swell, vast waves that lifted the four small patrol boats like wood chips, then sent them rolling into the trench between spindrift-capped crests in a blast of spray and wind.

  The patrol boats were Osa IIS, purchased from the Soviet Union in 1976.

  Their primary armament consisted of four Russian-built SS-N-2b antiship missiles that carried the NATO designation “Styx.” The Osas could spring ahead at thirty-five knots, but for the time being they were barely making way, riding with the heavy, following seas at just eight knots. It would have been far better, the lieutenant thought, if they could have blasted ahead at full speed, taking the waves, riding them, instead of this incessant up-and-down wallowing.

  The Pralaya crested another wave, angled forward, then began the long slide into the trench. Chaudry clung tighter to the railing as his stomach suddenly twisted with a gut-wrenching pang that brought him to the very edge of being explosively sick.

  For one desperate moment, he thought he was going to suffer the humiliation of vomiting in front of his men. Then, as Pralaya halted her plunge, he managed to look around at the other men on deck or on the bridge. Judging from the expressions on some of their faces, he wasn’t the only one suffering. The thought steadied him.

  The heavy seas were a blessing, Chaudry told himself. The tiny squadron was only the advance element of the Indian navy, which was trailing eighty miles astern. The Indians were under no illusions as to the sensitivity of American radar. Sneaking up on a Yankee carrier would be next to impossible.

  But it might — just might — be possible to mislead the Americans by a critical few minutes. The American radar would not immediately be able to pick the Osas from the clutter of the surrounding waves. They would continue their stealthy approach, their own radars off but their receivers tuned to warn them at the first touch by a hostile beam. Soon, very soon now, they would be close enough to loose their missiles.

  And then it would be a fast turn and a run for home, safety, and solid, unmoving ground. The thought cheered Lieutenant Chaudry immensely.

  CHAPTER 15

  0727 hours, 26 March

  Flight deck, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson

  Admiral Vaughn held his cap to his head as the Russian Helix gunned its rotors and lifted
from the American carrier’s flight deck. His free hand clenched into a fist at his side. Damn Washington for ordering him to transfer to the Vicksburg. And damn the Russians! Rather than fly across in their Aeroflot Helix, he’d snagged one of Jefferson’s HH-60 Seahawks to transfer himself and several aides to the Vicksburg.

  As if an American admiral could consent to be flown aboard an American command ship by the Russians, for God’s sake! But the use of two helos would mean a delay. The Russian helo would drop off the three liaison officers on the Vicksburg first, then return to the Kreml with Rear Admiral Dmitriev. Vaughn’s helo would hang back until the Helix cleared Vicksburg’s fantail.

  Every time he turned around, it seemed, the Russians were in his way. It was almost as if Moscow was carrying on some monstrous, clandestine plan to personally frustrate the plans and career of Rear Admiral Charles Lee Vaughn.

  It was early in 1980 when he’d first run afoul of the bastards. Oh, he’d crossed swords with the Russians plenty of times during his rise up the Navy’s command pyramid. It was impossible to command any American ship anywhere in the world during the ‘60s and ‘70s without meeting Russian Bear bombers and Soviet trawlers, aggressive sub contacts and games of chicken … “chicken of the sea,” as the encounters were called. It was all part of the global muscle-flexing of the Cold War, a way for each side to test the other’s defenses, and to polish its own.