Armageddon Mode c-3

by Keith Douglass

  “Ed, would you take the Admiral down to the Situation Room? Log him through on my say-so.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.” Magruder looked at the President, who grinned.

  “Go on down. I’ll see you there after my meeting with His Excellency, Mr. Nadkarni, who’d better not be late. Then we’ll see how the battle goes.”

  Magruder frowned. “Are you … managing the battle from there?” He remembered past attempts by Washington-based politicians and generals to manage fights halfway around the world. Carter had been in that same room while the helicopters were refueling at Desert One in Iran.

  “Hell, no,” the President said. “I’m no tactician. That’s Vaughn’s job. But we’ll sure as hell be the first to know if he screws up.”

  0756 hours, 26 March

  CATCC, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson

  On the PLAT monitor, a pair of VF95 Tomcats squatted side by side on the forward catapults. Tombstone did a fast calculation. All six of the current CAP aircraft, including the Alert Five, were from Viper Squadron: Army Garrison and Batman Wayne, Nightmare Marinaro and Ramrod Kingsly, Shooter Rostenkowski and Coyote Grant. Only two more Vipers remained to be launched in the dance on the deck, Tomcat 220 piloted by Lieutenant Hardesty—”Trapper” to his squadron mates — and number 208, Lieutenant “Maverick” Bowman.

  Trapper and Maverick were both replacement pilots, kids on their first blue-water deployment with a squadron. They’d flown in with Coyote on the COD aircraft, and Tombstone had not yet had an opportunity to get to know them well.

  He grimaced. How many “Trappers” and “Mavericks” were there in the Navy? Or “Slicks” and “Ramrods” and “Shooters.” The men — the boys — came and went. The running names never seemed to change … or the grinning faces and cocksure attitudes.

  He watched as red-shirted ordies completed their checks of each Tomcat’s weapons load, pulling the safing wires from the missiles’ fuzes, then holding them up so that the pilot could count the red tags affixed to the wires and verify that his ordnance was ready to arm and launch.

  Unlike the BARCAP, which had been armed strictly for long-range interdiction, Trapper and Maverick were carrying standard interception warloads: a mix of four Phoenix, two Sparrow, and two Sidewinder missiles. The Tomcat had originally been designed as a stand-off interceptor, little more than a weapons platform for the Phoenix, but recognition that modern air combat demanded close-in weapons for down-and-dirty dogfighting had quickly led to the adoption of mixed loads.

  They would need that range of distance and adaptability when the Indian horde closed with them. There simply were not enough Phoenix AIM54-Cs for every Indian target … or enough planes to launch them. Unless the Indians got cold feet and backed off at the last moment, this was going to be one nasty, toe-to-toe fight.

  The JBDS rose ponderously from the deck, and the Cat Officer stepped back from the Tomcats, vigorously cycling his hands above his head. The F14’s tailpipes glowed orange as their afterburners engaged.

  Safe behind the shelter of the raised jet-blast deflectors, the Tomcats of VF97, the War Eagles, were lining up to take their place at the catapults. First in line, he saw, was number 101, Lieutenant Commander Chuck Connelly’s bird. “Slick” Connelly had been given the vacant squadron CO slot after the death of the War Eagles’ previous skipper in Thailand. Tombstone heard Costello mutter something under his breath.

  “What was that, Hitman?”

  “Just wishing the skipper luck,” Costello replied. “Damn, I wish I was going with them.”

  Tombstone knew the young, black-haired j.g. wasn’t in hack the way he was. Someone had to draw CATCC duty, and today it was Costello’s turn.

  But Tombstone could sense the kid’s eagerness, his impatience.

  “So do I, Hitman,” he said. “So do I.”

  0758 hours, 26 March

  Sea Harrier 101, Blue King Leader

  Tahliani was in position. With his eyes on the radar returns indicating both the American Tomcat and the more distant U.S. carrier, he moved the targeting pipper on the screen, locked on, then pressed the launch button. With a whoosh of smoke and flame, one of the two bulky, black-and-red-painted missiles dropped from the Sea Harrier’s underwing ordnance pad and ignited.

  The Sea Eagle was a product of British Aerospace. Four meters long, four tenths of a meter thick, it had a range of well over a hundred kilometers. Far superior in every way to the small French Exocet, it had a 227-kilogram warhead that was believed capable of disabling even the largest warship.

  But Tahliani was less interested in the Sea Eagle’s target than he was in that target’s guardian. As the missile dropped to its programmed flight altitude and reached its cruising speed of Mach.85, the Indian pilot could see in the movements of his opponents the consternation the launch had caused.

  Sensing the right moment, he pulled back on his throttles, letting the missile skim ahead.

  0758 hours, 26 March

  Tomcat 201

  “Victor Tango One-one, this is Viper Two-oh-one! We have a launch, repeat, launch. Probably ASM, bearing one-seven-one, range thirty miles.”

  “Copy, Army Dixie. We are tracking.”

  “Victor Tango, Viper Two-oh-one is engaging.”

  Batman had managed to knock down a ship-killer earlier using guns alone.

  Perhaps Army could do the same. As Dixie fed him speed and course updates from the backseat, he became convinced that the missile he was tracking was not another Exocet. This one was larger and slower … possibly a Brit-made Sea Eagle.

  That fit with the notion that the air targets to the south and southeast were Sea Harriers off the Indian carrier. Well, there’d be time enough later to take them on.

  First things first. His course and speed were all wrong for a guns-only approach on the ship-killer. Working for maximum economy of time, he swung the Tomcat into a broad turn to starboard, one that allowed the missile to cruise past at six hundred fifty miles per hour. He checked his course and position. Jefferson was fifty miles ahead … four and a half minutes at the missile’s present speed.

  He cut back on the throttles and settled into the slot squarely behind the missile.

  “Army!” Dixie called. “I’m getting a radar signature from our six.

  Looks like Blue Fox multi-mode.”

  That meant a Sea Harrier on their tail. “Range!”

  “Twelve miles. Closing.”

  No problem. A Sea Harrier could barely manage Mach 1, if that. There was lots of time. “Ah … Batman, this is Army,” he radioed. “Where are you?”

  “Your two o’clock and high,” Batman replied. “Range five miles.”

  “Batman, I’m after this missile, but I’ve got a problem closing on my six. Can you brush him off, over?”

  “Roger, Army. The Batman’s on the way.”

  Army searched the horizon ahead for the enemy’s missile. The range was down to two miles now. He’d have to be a bit closer before he could spot it with the naked eye. For now, the radar-directed target box drifted from side to side on his HUD, marking an empty patch of blue just below the horizon.

  Gently, he eased his throttle forward, straining to catch up.

  0758 hours, 26 March

  Sea Harrier 101, Blue King Leader

  Lieutenant Commander Tahliani watched the small, drifting box on his HUD that marked the position of the enemy plane. Another computer-generated graphic marked the second American plane, now approaching nearly head-on from the northwest.

  He continued to concentrate on the first target, pushing his throttles full forward, picking up speed.

  His plan had worked well, but now he had to take advantage of the setup he’d created. By launching the missile at the American carrier, he’d drawn the enemy F14 into a chase, forcing his opponent to slow and turn in order to position himself behind the speeding ship-killer. As long as the American stayed behind the slower missile, trying to line up his shot, Tahliani had a chance — a small and ver
y brief chance — to get close enough for a Magic Kill.

  Unfortunately, the second American Tomcat was vectoring in to cut him off. It was going to be close, either way.

  CHAPTER 20

  0758 hours, 26 March

  Tomcat 216

  Batman adjusted his course, eyes glued to the graphic symbol marking the enemy Sea Harrier.

  He still had one Phoenix … but the AIM54 was not a dogfighting missile. With no Sidewinders left, he would have to make a head-on pass, guns blazing. He might get lucky on the fly-by, and if he didn’t, he should be able to swing around and take the bandit on his six.

  “Tomcat Two-one-six,” he radioed. “I’m in. Going for guns.” He flicked the guns control on his stick and saw the target reticle appear on his HUD.

  He closed with the enemy head-to-head at better than Mach 2.

  0759 hours, 26 March

  Sea Harrier 101

  The range to his target was eight miles, and slowly decreasing. With part of his mind Tahliani concentrated on the target, and with part he focused on the enemy F14, coming in almost head-on. The Tomcat pilot was trying for a pass with his guns.

  Grimly, Tahliani gripped the throttle with his right hand, the controls that vectored his four engine nozzles with the other. He waited, watching … The Tomcat exploded into view, a blur of motion felt more than seen.

  Tahliani’s glimpse of the muzzle flash stuttering on the left side of the nose beneath the cockpit was so brief it was almost subliminal.

  He yanked the vectoring throttles back …

  0759 hours, 26 March

  Tomcat 216

  Batman squeezed the trigger and felt the shudder of 20-mm Vulcan cannon shells spewing toward the target … Only the target wasn’t there! With a curse, Batman yanked back on the stick. The enemy plane had just performed a maneuver Batman had never encountered before in training or in combat. A maneuver that was impossible …

  0759 hours, 26 March

  Sea Harrier 101

  The maneuver was called viffing, a word derived by the Sea Harrier’s British designers from the acronym for Vectoring In Forward Flight. By swinging the engine nozzles around, he had abruptly chopped his forward speed. The Sea Harrier hovered, then skittishly drifted backwards, rising. From the American pilot’s perspective it must have appeared that he’d stopped in midair and started to fly backward and up.

  Cannon shells slashed into the wave tops a hundred feet in front of him, where the Sea Harrier was supposed to be if it had been an ordinary aircraft. The F14 pulled up and thundered overhead, its shadow momentarily blotting the morning sun astern.

  Then Tahliani rammed the vectoring controls forward again, returning to forward flight. He’d lost a few seconds in his pursuit but gained many seconds more on his target’s wingman. It would take a long time, long by the standards of modern aerial combat, for the wingman to swing around and come at him from behind.

  0800 hours, 26 March

  Tomcat 201

  Army squeezed the trigger and his M-61A1 Vulcan Gatling gun stuttered, sending a stream of 20-mm shells toward the target. He could see the missile now, a tiny black speck less than half a mile ahead.

  “Batman, where are you?” he called. “This guy’s still on my six!”

  “Damn, Army! I missed him! Airplanes can’t do that!”

  Army shook his head, not sure what Batman was talking about. Gently, he squeezed the trigger for another burst. Gouts of water exploded on the ocean beneath the hurtling missile.

  “Tomcat Two-oh-one, this is Victor Tango One-one. Break off pursuit!

  You are entering Homeplate’s point defense zone!”

  “Copy, Victor Tango! I’m out of there!”

  He pulled up. Jefferson’s point Phalanx cannons would be on automatic, and any aircraft that came within two miles of the carrier would be shot down.

  “We almost had the bastard, Dixie,” he said. The Tomcat clawed for altitude. He could see the carrier in the distance, huge and isolated on a vast, gray-blue sea.

  “Army!” Dixie yelled over the ICS. “That bandit’s making his move! He’s right on our tail! Range six miles!”

  “Shit!” Army pulled the Tomcat into a hard left roll. “He’s still with us, man! Still with us! Five miles! No … four! He’s lining us up for the shot!”

  0801 hours, 26 March

  Sea Harrier 101

  Tahliani had them in his sights. He let the aiming pipper meet the graphic symbol representing an American Tomcat as it twisted across his HUD less than four miles ahead, and heard the satisfying electronic warble in his headphones as one of his Magic AAMS “saw” the target. His finger closed on the trigger.

  The R-550 Matra Magic was a French weapon, one deliberately designed to compete on the world’s market with the notorious American Sidewinder. It had an extremely flexible range for an all-aspect heat-seeker and was capable of engaging targets as close as two tenths of a mile, or as distant as six miles. It could even be slaved to controls in the launching aircraft’s cockpit, allowing the pilot to guide it to the target. Its one quirk was the extremely large amount of smoke it released during firing.

  The exhaust cloud enveloped the Sea Harrier’s starboard wing, momentarily blinding Tahliani as it slid from the launching rail. Then he pulled out of the smoke in time to see the missile climbing rapidly on a billowing contrail, arcing up into the sky. The target was still too distant to be seen with the naked eye. Aware that the second Tomcat would be returning any moment, the Indian pilot pulled the Sea Harrier into a harsh turn to the left and struggled for more altitude fast.

  Seconds after launch, the Magic air-to-air missile hit Mach 3.

  0801 hours, 26 March

  Tomcat 201

  “Launch! Launch!” Dixie cried. “On our six, Army! Comin’ fast!”

  “Flares!” He heard no tone from a radar lock-on and assumed the missile must be IR-guided. He rolled hard to port, hearing the thump-thump-thump from astern as Dixie deployed flares in an attempt to confuse the missile. Trading altitude for speed, he let the Tomcat plummet toward the sea from sixteen thousand feet.

  0801 hours, 26 March

  Over the Arabian Sea

  The nitrogen-cooled PBS seeker head was not fooled. At Mach 3, the Magic AAM slid past the Tomcat’s tail pipes. With less than a meter’s separation, the twenty-seven-pound warhead was detonated by an IR proximity fuze.

  There was a flash, and chunks of nut-and bolt-sized metal sprayed across the F14’s engine housings. One piece slashed through the starboard engine compressor assembly, smashing the fan mechanism and sending pieces of turbine blade whirling through the engine’s guts like shrapnel. A fuel line from the wing tank was severed. JP5 sprayed across hot engine surfaces.

  The explosion was a searing flash that scattered chunks of burning debris across the sky. Trailing flame, what was left of Tomcat 201’s fuselage tumbled end for end in a long and spectacular funeral pyre toward the blue-gray sea.

  0802 hours, 26 March

  CIC, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson

  “Missile incoming!” Barnes yelled, rising in his seat. “Goddamn it, where’s point defense …!”

  The Sea Eagle launched minutes before had entered Jefferson’s innermost defensive zone. Computers, radars, and high-tech electronics were supposed to bring the carrier’s Phalanx guns to bear automatically … but they did not.

  It took an agonizing twenty seconds for the Sea Eagle to cross that final two-mile stretch to the Jefferson.

  Someone had switched Jefferson’s point defense system off so that the carrier could launch aircraft without shooting down its own planes as they cleared the flight deck. By mistake, both the Sea Sparrow and Phalanx systems had been shut down rather than being put into hold. It took long, wasted seconds to realize what the problem was and correct it.

  By that time the Sea Eagle was half a mile from the carrier’s starboard bow, five seconds away.

  Switches were thrown, the system brought back on line. On t
he starboard side of the island, the Phalanx gun dubbed Huey came to life, its J-band radar reaching out and acquiring a target within its range. Two seconds to acquire and track … The target was almost too close to reach by the time Huey’s silo slewed around and the Vulcan cannon fired its first short, sharp burst. The stream of ultra-dense slugs reached past the speeding missile, missing.

  Huey’s computer, following radar returns from both missile and rounds, corrected, shifted aim … Too late! The Sea Eagle struck Jefferson in the hull on her starboard side forward, halfway between her waterline and the flight deck, well forward of her Number One elevator.

  The five-hundred-pound warhead punched through the outer hull and several bulkheads before exploding.

  The ship lurched hard, knocking men on the flight deck to their knees, sending several men on the catwalk just above where the missile struck hurtling out and down into the sea. The clanging of an alarm bell cut above the yells and confusion. “Now hear this, now hear this! Damage control parties lay forward to the chain locker.”

  There was a gaping hole in the ship’s side, and smoke was beginning to boil from the carrier and across the surface of the sea.

  0802 hours, 26 March

  CATCC, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson In CATCC

  on the 04 deck, Tombstone had felt the deck shudder through his feet, but the impact was no more than a gentle rumble, like a far-off boom of thunder more felt than heard.

  But he knew at once that something was wrong. It takes a fairly powerful kick to make something the size of an aircraft carrier shudder.

  The call over the 1-MC a moment later for damage control parties to lay forward confirmed it.

  “We’ve lost one,” CAG said.

  That brought his attention back to CATCC’s domain. He could hear a chief at a nearby console calling a rescue helo.

  “Aircraft down, aircraft down,” the chief was saying, “Angel One, this is CATCC. We have an aircraft down at bearing one-zero-four, range three miles from the boat.”