“Hey, Hitman? Hitman! Are you still with me?”
There was no response over the ICS. The nine-G turn had knocked his RIO out.
“Viper Leader, Viper Leader, this is Victor Tango One-one.”
Tombstone jumped, wondering if the Hawkeye controller had spotted his rather unprofessional breach.
“Victor Tango, this is Viper Leader. Go ahead.”
“Viper Leader, please give stores listing, over.”
Stores? “Uh, roger, Victor Tango.” He switched the VDI display to his stores listing and read them off, not trusting to memory in his current, somewhat battle-fogged state. “Two AIM-9Js, two AIM-54s. Six hundred seventy-five rounds.”
He’d taken off with two Phoenix, one Sparrow, and four Sidewinder missiles. They’d already launched the Sparrow and two Sidewinders. What was Victor Tango One-one looking for?
“We copy you have two Phoenix missiles, Viper Leader. What about your squadron?”
Three of the other five Tomcats still had AIM-54 Phoenix missiles on board. Shooter and Ramrod had both already fired both of their Phoenix missiles, while Coyote still had his two and Nightmare and Batman each had one left.
“Viper Leader, we copy you have six missiles remaining in your squadron.”
“That’s a roger,” Tombstone replied.
“Hey, Stoney?” Hitman said over the ICS circuit. “What the hell’s goin’ on?”
“Wish I knew, Hitman. Orders.”
“Viper Leader, we have a new target for you. Ah … be advised that this is an extremely hazardous target … but it is also extremely important. Extremely important.”
“Give us the vector.”
“Roger. Come to new heading zero-four-zero at angels base plus thirty-nine. Make your speed five-five-zero knots. Do you copy that?”
“Copy. Zero-four-zero at five-five-zero knots, angels base plus three-niner.”
“Hold that course and speed for fourteen, that’s one-four minutes.”
“Roger. Fourteen minutes.”
“Endpoint is designated Point Lima. Your target will be at extreme Phoenix range at that time, bearing zero-zero-zero to zero-one-zero.”
Tombstone was doing some fast calculations in his head. He reached down to the clipboard on his thigh and shuffled through the papers and checklists, exposing a map of northwest India.
Their current location was north of Highway 101, close to the Indian-Pakistan border and thirty miles from a border town called Gadra.
He used the stub of a pencil to lightly sketch in lines. Point Lima, if he’d followed the instructions of the Hawkeye controller right, was deep within the Thar Desert, just south of the Rajasthan Canal. The closest settlement marked on the map was a village called Bikampur. He measured north one hundred nautical miles — the approximate range of a Phoenix missile. The end point was across the border into Pakistan, somewhere near a nondescript town called Fort Abbas.
“Okay, Victor Tango. I’ve got all that. Uh … we may have a problem, though.” He was staring at his fuel gauge. “Fuel state eight point five.”
They’d used a lot of JP-5 in the dogfighting over the border. Now the Hawkeye controller was telling them to fly another one hundred thirty miles inland. Then, from Point Lima, it would be almost four hundred more long desert miles before they were back over the Arabian Sea.
Well over five hundred miles before they could refuel, or even before they could eject with any hope of being picked up by friendly forces.
They might just make it … but it would be damned tight.
“Copy your fuel state, Viper. I repeat, target is extremely important.”
He sighed. “Roger, Victor Tango. How many missiles will target require, over?”
“Estimate four, Viper.”
But he already knew he would have to take all six aircraft, just to make sure that at least four AIM-54s made it to Point Lima.
And God help their fuel state if they were forced to dogfight along the way. “Okay, Victor Tango One-one. That’s roger. Viper Squadron is in.” He swung the Tomcat onto its new heading, the other five F-14s matching the maneuver.
The dun and barren wastes of the Thar Desert flashed past beneath them as they accelerated, climbing toward fifty thousand feet.
CHAPTER 29
1235 hours, 26 March
Blue King Leader
The Sea Harriers had been stalking their prey, traveling slowly and at low altitude in an attempt to lose themselves in the radar clutter at the surface of the ocean. The waves that had been so high and powerful earlier had dwindled, and the sea was relatively calm. But Lieutenant Tahliani knew that death was near.
They’d first been challenged by an American frigate, one of the escorts that formed the picket line of ships around the American fleet, and had detoured far out of their way to evade it. Standard missiles had arced through the sky, locking onto the Harriers as they scattered, spewing chaff. One aircraft — Chani’s — had been hit, the missile’s warhead blasting it apart. A second — young Prakash Garbyal’s — had flown into the sea while trying to evade the American missile that had locked onto him.
And now, like raptor birds circling above their prey, the Russian Migs were stooping on the Sea Harriers from above.
The American carrier was less than sixty kilometers away … close enough! Admiral Ramesh might have vowed vengeance against the American and Russian forces … but the fight was over. Over! India had thrown everything she could muster at the invaders off her shores, and the result had only served to weaken her in the fight against the real enemy, Pakistan.
“Blue King Leader to Blue King,” he radioed. “All aircraft … lock on primary target and launch missiles!”
He had already let his payload “see” the target and store it in its mindless memory. His thumb came down on the firing trigger.
“Blue King Leader! Launch! Launch! Enemy missiles …” He saw the telltale blips of enemy missiles sprinkled across his own VDI. There wasn’t much time left now. He pressed the trigger and felt his Sea Harrier leap as the pair of Sea Eagle missiles dropped away, one following the other.
Within seconds, a spread of twenty missiles were racing toward the Jefferson, now thirty-six miles away.
1241 hours, 26 March
Soviet Fulcrum 515, Over the Arabian Sea
“They have launched antiship cruise missiles,” Kurasov said. “Lavrov!
Call the Americans. Warn them.
“Da, Captain.”
He was already plunging through the sky toward the sea, adding power to his paired Tumansky R-33D turbofans as he brought his nose up, following the Indian missiles. The electronics of his cockpit suite were as sophisticated as any in the West. Course, range, and elevation flashed onto his HUD in precisely lettered Cyrillic characters. He locked on.
Captain Kurasov carried six AA-10s slung beneath his wings. Code-named Alamo by NATO, the AA-10 had been designed for use with the Mig-29 but had not been part of the various arms packages sold to India. Kurasov’s ordnance load consisted of all radar-seekers, with look-down/shoot-down lock-on capability that let him target the speeding Indian missile.
In his headset he heard the warble of target acquisition. “Strelyat!” he yelled, calling to no one in particular. Fire!
His thumb closed on the firing switch, and an AA-10 speared from beneath his wing. He shifted his aim, locking onto a second missile.
“Strelyat!”
1242 hours, 26 March
CIC, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
“We have missiles inbound, Captain,” Commander Barnes announced. “The Hawkeyes have a good plot … at least twenty missiles, range thirty miles. Our Russian friends just alerted us.”
Captain Fitzgerald nodded. “What do we have that can reach them?”
“Kearny is in a good position, sir. So’s the Winslow. They’ll take out some along the way with Standard missiles. We can begin launching Sea Sparrow in another …” He checked his watch. “About two minutes, sir.”
>
“Very well. Defenses on automatic.”
“Aye, sir.”
Fitzgerald watched the battle board, the pattern of blips closing on Jefferson’s position. Strange … but he’d never gotten used to fighting a battle this way. In the cockpit of an F-4 Phantom, with SAMS lighting up the sky and Migs turning and burning all around, yes, but this sterile, button-pushing war of nerve and waiting …
1242 hours, 26 March
U.S.S. Lawrence Kearny
The Kearny was an Arleigh Burke-class guided missile destroyer (DDG).
One of the newest ships in the U.S. inventory, she was equipped with the SPY-1 radar and was intended to supplement the Ticonderoga-class Aegis cruisers. Her primary weapons were two sets of Mark 41 Vertical Launch Systems set into her forward and after decks, loaded with Standard SM-2(MR) SAMS and Tomahawk cruise missiles.
Her SPY-1 had been tracking the missile flight for several minutes already, their course and speed fed into the ship’s CIC computers.
Missiles broke from Kearny’s deck, fore and aft, in clouds of white smoke, and a shower of plastic shavings blasted from the protective covers of the Mark 4s. Guided by the Aegis computer system on board, the Standard SAMS accelerated into the sky, locked onto their targets, and descended.
1243 hours, 26 March
Russian Fulcrum 515
The last of his AA-10s left the launch rail on a trail of flame.
“Strelyat!” He’d winnowed twenty cruise missiles down to sixteen and perhaps given the Jefferson a fighting chance.
But any closer and he would risk being downed himself by American point defenses. He pulled back on the Fulcrum’s stick, arcing into the sky.
Across the water, a battle raged as Russian Fulcrums engaged Indian Sea Harriers. Magic missiles and AA-10s stabbed and twisted. A Harrier disintegrated as it banked too low, catching one wingtip in the sea.
Vectoring in high and behind an enemy Sea Harrier, Kurasov lined up the gun reticle on his HUD with the Indian aircraft’s cockpit. At four hundred knots, he closed slowly, until the enemy plane filled his sights … an easy kill. His thumb closed on the firing button … The Indian plane was no longer there! Bewildered, the Soviet pilot pulled up, looking left and right as the Mig flashed past the spot where the Sea Harrier should have been. Too late, he caught the flash of wings in his rearview mirror. He’d forgotten that maneuver, that impossible maneuver that Harrier pilots called viffing … And now the Sea Harrier was squarely behind him, a Magic AAM sliding off its wingtip rail.
The missile’s detonation kicked the Fulcrum over, crumpling one wing and shredding the hull. The fireball lit up the sky three miles south of the Kearny. The sailors on the DDG’s deck, not knowing the identity of the target, cheered wildly and tossed their white hats in the air.
Jefferson’s CIWS and short-ranged Sea Sparrows began marking down the remaining Sea Eagle missiles.
None hit the carrier, but the officers in CIC were subdued.
They knew one of their own had fallen to hostile fire.
1244 hours, 26 March
Ministry of Defense, New Delhi
Defense Minister Kuldip Sundarji sat alone in his office, the latest stack of reports before him. The information was fragmentary. The Americans had an annoying habit of shooting down reconnaissance and communications aircraft as quickly as the Indians could put them up.
Despite this, there was no question in his mind at all.
India was losing the battle.
The losses so far had been horrifying. Fifty-seven aircraft confirmed shot down, and as many more might never fly again. Reports of air losses were still coming in as the American strike force thundered over the western frontier. The last bold stroke by a Sea Harrier squadron had not achieved a single hit. The most recent report on his desk was from the young navy lieutenant, Tahliani. He and four other Sea Harriers were enroute for Kathiawar. The others had been shot down in a dogfight with Russian Migs.
Russian Migs! He put his face in his hand. So much had depended on the inevitable friction between Russian and American commanders. Somehow, the enemy factions had managed to work together, something Sundarji had thought impossible.
The Bombay naval squadron had been stopped cold. Kalikata was sinking, and both Viraat and Vikrant were limping into port. Damage was so bad that they’d not yet been able to recover Admiral Ramesh’s body. He thought of the dark, intense naval officer etched by the pain of his dead son, wondering if he’d found peace before he died.
So much suffering.
The telephone on his desk buzzed, and he stared at it. An earlier message had warned him to expect the call, and he’d been able to guess much when he learned who the caller would be. He had to will himself to pick up the receiver.
“Sundarji,” he said.
He listened to the voice on the other end for a long while. “You’re sure of your information?” he finally asked. “Yes, I suppose you would be. I … I agree. There is no other way.”
He listened some more. “I cannot speak for my government,” he said. “I will see what I can do with the Air Ministry. I have some small influence there.” He allowed himself a smile. “Or at least, I did before this morning.”
He hung up without ceremony, thought for several minutes, then picked up the phone again. “Get me the Air Ministry,” he said. “Quickly. There is little time.”
1259 hours, 26 March
Tomcat 200
They had reached the point on Tombstone’s map, twenty-five miles southeast of Bikampur. The desert nine and a half miles below was barren and trackless, though sun flashed from the waters of the Rajasthan Canal far to the west.
Tombstone moved the stick experimentally. Fifty thousand feet was close to the Tomcat’s service ceiling, and the controls had a tendency to mush somewhat at that altitude.
No problems so far. For the last five or ten minutes, they’d seen no Indian aircraft anywhere … a fact that Tombstone found strange. The F-14s must be registering on Indian ground radar. Where were the IAF interceptors?
There was nothing. They seemed to have the sky to themselves. The other F-14s in the squadron were spread across the sky, three groups of two traveling north at Mach.7. “Okay, Hitman. Whatcha got?”
“Not much, Tombstone,” his RIO replied. “Pretty lonely out … hold it.
Got them! Bearing three-five-nine, range … make it one hundred two nautical miles. Four targets, heading east at four hundred fifty knots.”
“Rog. Feed it to me here.”
His VDI showed the targets painted in the F-14’s AWG-9 beam.
“Victor Tango One-one, this is Viper. We have reached Point Lima. We have four bogies, bearing now … zero-zero-zero. Due north. Range one-oh-two.”
“Roger, Viper. That is your target. Take them down.”
“Copy, Victor Tango. Wait one.”
Time seemed suspended in the cold, thin air almost ten miles above the Thar Desert. Tombstone, Batman, and Coyote readied their Phoenix missiles for launch. Shooter, Ramrod, and Nightmare flew cover for the others. Tombstone and Coyote would loose four missiles. Batman would hold his single Phoenix in reserve.
What were those targets? Judging from their course, they were flying on a straight line from Bahawaipur, a Pakistani city located on the northern fringes of the Thar Desert about seventy miles from the border.
He sketched a line across his map, extending their flight path. The four bogies were flying across fairly empty territory. There was very little of importance along their course. Villages, mostly: Fort Abbas, Mahajan, Rajgarh … Tombstone’s pencil stopped on a city and his blood turned cold. He thought now that he knew what those targets were, where they were going … and why.
“Vipers, Viper Leader,” he said. “On my command, launch AIM-54s.” He studied the VDI screen again. There were no other targets. The Indian air defenses must have been drawn to the south by Jefferson’s strike against the Jodhpur Road.
The Tomcats were far beyond the detect
ion range of the aircraft they were stalking. Targets were already selected, locked in.
“Fire!”
Two RIOS, Hitman and Radar, stabbed their fire control buttons, reset, then fired again. The heavy Phoenix missiles fell through cold, thin air, then ignited. One missile, for reasons unknown, failed to light, and Malibu loosed his remaining Phoenix from Tomcat 216.
At Mach 5, it took them less than two minutes to travel the 102 nautical miles to their targets, which were just crossing the border into India.
All hit.
0745 hours EST (1815 hours, Indian time), 26 March
White House Press Room
The reporters had been gathering in the Press Room since the wee hours of the morning, as word circulated through Washington news circles that a major break in the Indian Ocean crisis had occurred. As early as three a.m., word had gone out over the wire services that the President would hold a major press conference at eight o’clock, timed to coordinate with the various morning news shows.
Admiral Magruder searched for a particular face among the sea of reporters, cameramen, and assistants. White House technicians were still adjusting the lighting, and the room was a tumble of confusion and noise as journalists and reporters traded notes and guesses.
He saw her.
It took a moment to attract her attention, but perhaps she remembered where he’d been standing before and looked his way deliberately. Pamela Drake saw him, nodded, and began making her way across the room toward where he was standing.
“Good morning, Miss Drake.”
“It’s Pamela,” she said. “Admiral, I should probably apologize-“
“Nonsense.” He kept his voice low, unwilling to steal the President’s thunder by giving anything away to other reporters who might be within earshot. “Listen, I just wanted to tell you. He’s safe.”
“Matt …?”
Magruder nodded. “They’re all back aboard Jefferson. The battle group left Turban Station about two hours ago.”
Her eyes widened. “Then there was a raid! The rumors have been flying in this town all night-“
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