Control reasserted itself. Whatever Pratap’s problem — equipment failure or accident in the rough seas, over-eagerness on the part of her weapons officer — what was done was done. He would have to make the best of it.
“Captain!” he barked. “Stand by to launch!”
“Sir!” Lieutenant Shahani, Pralaya’s commanding officer, snapped out in his best academy officer-on-parade voice. Afraid of crossing the tiny flotilla’s CO, Chaudry decided. The thought made him grin.
“We might as well hit them with everything we’ve got!”
“Sir!” Shahani began giving the orders to his weapons officer. The missiles’ inertial programming was already complete — it could have been a fault in Pratap’s inertial circuitry that had caused the premature launch, Chaudry thought — and all that remained was to release the safeties and fire. The SS-N-2s self-armed after launch.
Chaudry was aware that the Osa squadron’s part in Operation Python was a small one, a means of dividing the Americans’ defensive forces and forcing them to use up valuable anti-missiles, time, and fuel. Still, the thought that one of those sleek monsters now warming in their slatted tubes to port and starboard might be the one to strike the U.S. carrier and end the Yankees’ dreams of dominating India’s seas … “Pass the word to all boats,” he ordered. “Full launch, all craft.
Stand by!”
“Missiles one, two, three, and four ready,” Shahani replied.
“Very well.” He looked about the bridge, realizing that every eye was on him. “Signal the squadron. Fire.” He locked eyes with Shahani.
“Captain, you may launch.”
He’d been waiting for the order. “Missile one, fire!”
The narrow gray confines of Pralaya’s bridge were blasted by a deafening white sound, a waterfall of raw noise as flame and smoke engulfed the starboard bridge windows. Chaudry covered his ears with his hands.
While he’d been through training exercises often enough, this was the first time he’d ever fired an SS-N-2 for real. The sound was like nothing he’d ever imagined.
“Missile two … fire!” The weapons officer was shouting to be heard above the roar. “Missile three … fire!”
Pralaya rocked wildly as the blunt-nosed, two-and-a-half-ton missiles blasted away, first from one side, then the other. Chaudry realized with some surprise that his high-peaked cap had been knocked from his head and was lying on the deck by his feet.
“Missile four … fire!”
Other missiles were rising on flaming contrails from the other vessels in the squadron. The sky to the northwest was aflame with pinpoints of dazzling brilliance.
The Battle of the Arabian Sea had just begun in earnest.
0739 hours, 26 March
CATCC, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
Tombstone was in the 04 deck corridor just outside Jefferson’s CATCC when the GQ alarm sounded, the harsh clangor of the gong mingling with the metallic rattle of hundreds of feet hitting passageways and deck ladders.
“Now hear this, now hear this,” the 1-MC on the bulkhead brayed.
“General quarters, general quarters. All hands man your battle stations. Set Condition Alpha throughout the ship.”
He stepped through the door into the red-lit CATCC, brushing past the heavy curtains that kept light from the passageway from leaking through and ruining the night vision of the sailors manning the ranks of radar displays in the room. CAG was sitting on the leather-backed throne that gave him an unobstructed view of the principal displays and status boards.
Tombstone walked over to where several other squadron officers were looking on. He stood next to Lieutenant j.g. Pete Costello, another Navy aviator who was serving a stretch as VF-97’s CATCC liaison.
“Hey, Hitman,” Tombstone whispered, addressing the j.g. by his running name. “What’s the gouge?”
“Flash just came in from the Vickie,” Hitman replied. He nodded toward the forward bulkhead. Forty feet beyond it was the ship’s CIC, where white blips freckled a huge amber radar display. “Surface targets. Word is they’re Osa IIS and they’ve just popped their missiles!”
Osas. Tombstone knew what those were. The name was the NATO designation, osa being the Russian word for “wasp.” Over 128 feet long and displacing 215 tons, the Osa was a larger version of the American patrol torpedo boats of WW II. Instead of torpedos, however, they mounted four large, ribbed canisters, two to port, two to starboard. A twin 30-mm rapid-fire cannon was mounted forward, and another astern.
Light, handy, and powerful, an Osa II could make thirty-five knots and had a range of 750 miles at a cruising speed of twenty-five knots. The Indians were known to have eight of the machines, purchased in 1976.
A substantial body of opinion and debate had been hung from the threat of small, powerful missile boats like the Osas. Critics of the modern Navy, especially critics of the big nuclear carriers, repeatedly and vociferously insisted that the large surface vessel had gone the way of the dinosaur. Why, after all, spend billions of dollars on an enormous and relatively slow target that could be destroyed by a million-dollar missile fired from a boat small enough and cheap enough to be built by the hundreds?
The missile carried by Osas was a proven ship-killer. With a warhead weighing over half a ton and packed with 880 pounds of high explosive, it could do grievous damage to any modern warship. Three SS-N-2 missiles fired from Egyptian patrol boats in Alexandria Harbor had sunk the Israeli destroyer Elath in 1967. Others had sunk a number of Pakistani ships during the 1971 war, including the destroyer Khaiber.
It would take a large number of SS-N-2s to sink a carrier as large as Jefferson, or great luck, or both … but there were sixteen of the ship-killers out there now. And a hit by only one in the right place could cripple the aircraft carrier and make further launch and recovery operations impossible.
“Range twenty-six miles,” a voice said from a bulkhead speaker. Someone had set the CATCC intercom to pick up the voices from CIC. The only aircraft Jefferson had up at the moment were four Tomcats on BARCAP, a Prowler on ECM, and one of the ever-circling Hawkeyes. “Twelve missiles … correction. Fourteen missiles in the air, closing at six hundred knots.
Mach.9, Tombstone thought, calculating in his head. At that speed, the missiles would cover twenty-six miles in two and a half minutes. He glanced at a clock on the wall, a twenty-four-hour clock with a bright red sweep second hand. It was now 0740.
“Who’s got CAP?” CAG asked suddenly.
Tombstone glanced across at the flight status board and read the names grease-penciled onto the clear acrylic. “Garrison and Wayne are BARCAP One, CAG,” he said. “Marinaro and Kingsly are BARCAP Two. Grant and Rostenkowski are on Alert Five.”
He felt a bitter, growing frustration. His place was with his friends, with Batman and Coyote, not down here in the 04 deck caverns of CATCC.
“Prowlers?”
Tombstone checked the board again. “Samelli in 603.”
“Right. Let’s get the Alert Five up there,” CAG said. “Notify CIC.”
“Aye, sir,” a j.g. said. “And inform the Captain and the admiral that we’ve got a situation here. We’re going to need to get the rest of our Tomcats airborne, ASAP.”
“The admiral is in transit, CAG,” another officer reminded Marusko.
“Damn. What a time to be caught out of the office.”
“Shit, Tombstone,” Costello whispered. One of the displays had been set to show surface targets, a feed from CIC. The blips representing the missiles were edging closer with each sweep of the beam. “We won’t have time to launch any more aircraft!”
“Batman and Army will get them,” Tombstone whispered in reply. But he did not feel the confidence he put into the words. “The Indies goofed.”
“How, Stoney?”
“They launched from maximum range. Styx missiles only have a range of about twenty-seven, twenty-eight miles. Soviet doctrine is to close to ten or twelve nautical miles before launching. They just gave us l
onger to shoot them down.” He nodded toward another repeater display, this one with much of the west coast of India outlined in white light and showing those positions of India’s surface navy units that were known.
“I’m more worried about their heavier ships. Their destroyers carry an improved Styx. They’ll be able to hit us from out to about forty, maybe forty-five miles. But it’ll be a while before they can get in position.”
The intent of the Indians had been fuzzy until now. Because of the location of Turban Station, two hundred miles south of the Indian-Pakistan border, there’d been considerable question about whether the ships deploying out of Bombay and India’s west coast were preparing to attack the Soviet-American squadron, or to bypass Kreml and Jefferson in order to hit Karachi or blockade the Pakistani coast.
Tombstone watched the approaching missiles. Their plans had just grown considerably less fuzzy. The Indians were out for blood. The main body of their fleet — two carriers, a large cruiser, and at least eight destroyers — was still a hundred miles away. Tombstone had assumed that the first Indian strike, if it came, would be by air. “CAG!” a radarman chief called. “CIC reports new contacts … multiple contacts over Jamnagar. Bearing zero-four-oh, range one-six-five.”
“Multiple contacts over Rajkot,” another sailor announced. “Bearing zero-four-five, range two-double-oh.”
“Homeplate, Homeplate, this is Victor Tango One-one,” a radio voice announced over CATCC’s 1-MC. “We have evidence of massive air activity all along the coast.”
“Roger, Victor Tango One-one. We have them.”
“Ah, Homeplate, Victor Tango. We’re also running into considerable jamming activity. This looks like it could be a major attack.”
Stunned silence reigned in CATCC as the impact of what was happening sank in.
“Now hear this,” the Captain’s voice said over the speaker. “This is Captain Fitzgerald in CIC. Listen up, people. On my authority, weapons are free. Ready VF-97 and the rest of VF-95 for immediate launch. And I want more Prowlers up there now!”
The new contacts began appearing on the large display, positioned by the computers that recorded the radar contacts as they were relayed to the carrier by circling Hawkeyes or the other American ships. Aircraft were clustering over the main Indian fleet, and the coastline from the Pakistan border to Bombay was alive with moving lights, a semicircle of ragged contacts that all seemed to have the same focus. The ships at Turban Station.
0740 hours, 26 March
Tomcat 216, on CAP
Batman angled his F-14 onto a southwesterly course, his eyes on his cockpit VDI rather than on the view of clouds and ocean wheeling past outside. The coast of India was a gray shadow behind him. “We’ve got bogies,” he said. “Range eight-eight miles. Looks like ten or twelve of them, SSMS, spreading out and on a course for Homeplate.”
“Roger that, Batman.” The voice of Lieutenant Commander Fred Garrison, Army to the others in VF-95, sounded flat and hard. VF-95’s XO was a mile off Batman’s left wing. He could see the other F-14, its canopy flashing in the sun. “We have clearance from Homeplate. Weapons release. I say again, weapons release.”
Batman felt a surge of warm relief. At least there’d be no fumbling, half-measures delay in securing the ROES this time.
“Hey, Batman,” his RIO called from the backseat. “I think we got trouble.”
“Whatcha got, Malibu?” The Tomcat shuddered as Batman pushed the throttles forward, pressing the aircraft toward Mach 1.
“More bogies, Batman. About a million of ‘em.”
“Let me see.”
The RIO hit the control that fed his radar plot to the pilot’s VDI, an expanded plot that showed targets as far away as the Indian coastline, sixty miles to the north. “Three guesses where they’re headed, Batman.”
Batman studied the crawling confusion of radar targets. Half the Indian air force must be out there, all taking off at once. “Shit,” he said, almost to himself. “”Air raid, Pearl Harbor. This is no drill.’”
“Air raid Jefferson is more like it,” Malibu replied. “These guys are like deeply serious, man!”
“You’re getting this from the Jeff?”
“Tactical feed through Victor Tango One-one. On the fleet net.”
“Well, at least they know they’re coming.”
“Yeah, but what are we gonna do, Batman?”
Batman was surprised at his own steadiness. He worked the target designator, setting the pipper on one of the closer blips. First priority was to stop the missiles south heading for the carrier. After that, they might have time to worry about the planes to the north.
“Target Alpha,” he said simply. “Track and lock. Go for Phoenix kill.”
“Affirm,” his RIO said, flipping the switches that activated the Tomcat’s AWG-9 radar. Now the F-14 was seeing with its own eyes, instead of the eyes of the fleet. “Range seven-oh miles. We have lock.”
“Light ‘er off.”
“Rog,” Malibu called. The Tomcat bumped slightly as the heavy missile fell away, then ignited. “Fox three!” The Phoenix streaked toward the horizon, trailing flame.
0740 hours, 26 March
INS Viraat, 160 miles west-northwest of Bombay
Rear Admiral Ramesh stood on the walkway at the peak of Viraat’s island, his hands clutching the damp railing like a talisman. The Indian aircraft carrier was plowing steadily into the heavy seas, taking spray across her forepeak with each lunge of the vessel against the waves. The wind was from the northeast, an unseasonably raw and gusty breath from the distant Himalayas that set the pennants above Ramesh’s head snapping and cracking like gunfire. Captain Soni had swung Viraat’s oddly humped bow into the wind in order to assist the launching of the Sea Harriers.
The Sea Harriers. Ramesh watched as they continued to roll down Viraat’s flight deck, gathering speed as they hit the up-thrust of the carrier’s ski jump, then vaulted clear of the ship’s bows, engines shrieking as they forced their way into the air. The ex-British carrier was designed to handle the odd-looking V/STOL fighters with their four vectoring engine nozzles set into the hull beneath the high, sharply angled wings.
Contrary to popular belief, the Sea Harriers did not simply lift vertically off the carrier deck like a helicopter, though they certainly had that capability. They used far less fuel and could carry a larger combat load if they used a rolling takeoff. Since the carrier lacked a steam catapult, the twelve-degree “ski jump” bow ramp was designed to give the Harriers the extra lift they needed to fly off Viraat’s 226-meter flight deck.
With her newest refit, Viraat carried four Sea Harrier squadrons, twenty-four aircraft armed with Magic air-to-air missiles. When India first took possession of the carrier from the British in 1986, she’d only carried six of the V/STOL jump jet fighters, but the Indian navy had been acquiring more as quickly as possible. Ultimately, it was planned to carry thirty jump jets aboard Viraat and six more on the smaller Vikrant.
Another Sea Harrier taxied into position below his vantage point on the island. The bright national rounders, green-in-white-in-orange, stood out in sharp contrast to the plane’s overall blue-gray-over-white color scheme. “Indian Navy” was written in large English letters across the tail under a painted national flag, and the plane’s number, 101, was distinct on its nose. That was the force leader, Ramesh remembered, a young man of good family named Tahliani.
He felt a momentary sadness. Many young men of good families would die this day, and he could not forget that the combined navy-air force strike against the American fleet had been his idea.
Ramesh watched as the pilot slid his visor down over his face, saluted the deck officer, and grasped the throttle controls. The Harrier began moving forward, slowly at first, then gathering speed as the pilot vectored the engine nozzles aft. He hit the ramp with a swoop timed to the rising surge of the ship cresting the next wave. As the ship’s bow fell, the Sea Harrier was left hanging, fighting for altitude in the spray
-misted sky.
By now, Ramesh thought, the Americans would know they were coming. The Osas had already launched … a deliberate thrust to force them to commit their fighters.
Today’s action, Ramesh was confident, would be a slaughter. Years before, the Soviets had developed tactics for just this sort of war.
Attack … attack … and continue to attack, with wave after wave, until the enemy’s defenses were battered down by sheer weight of numbers. Viraat’s Sea Harriers would overwhelm the American defensive fighters, opening the way for Indian air force strike planes. There would be losses, to be sure, from the American AA defenses, but the Indians could afford to lose three planes to one and still come out of the engagement victorious.
Sooner or later, the American defenses would start leaking. Then the missiles would begin striking home. Young men would die on both sides, so that national honor, national policies could be upheld. And there was more to it than that.
He found himself thinking of lost Joshi. He gripped the railing tighter, tighter, and still tighter … squeezing until the pain steadied him.
We will win, Joshi, he thought. Win or die! I promise you that!
CHAPTER 17
0741 hours, 26 March
Seahawk 912, approaching U.S.S. Vicksburg
“What do you mean, ‘an alert’?” Admiral Vaughn had to shout to make himself heard above the racket of the helo’s rotors. “Who called it?”
The Seahawk’s crew chief shrugged and tapped his helmet’s earphone.
“Sorry, Admiral,” he shouted. “It just came down from the pilot!”
Angrily, Vaughn thrust himself past the crew chief and made his way forward toward the cockpit. The HH-60 Seahawk was relatively new in the Navy’s inventory, having been acquired to replace the older HH-3A Sea Kings in both the ASW roles and for combat search and rescue. The machine he was on was a SAR helo with two pilots, two crewmen, and room for eight passengers.
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