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.
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.
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
“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.