The Tomcat CAP was responsible for the air defense zone. The missile defense zone was covered by missile fire from the ships. Point defense was handled by short-range missile fire and by the Phalanx Gatling guns mounted on each vessel. Protecting a task force like CBG-14 was envisioned as a layered battle, with the Tomcats knocking down everything they could, concentrating on eliminating aircraft and surface vessels before they could launch their deadly ordnance loads. Missiles that got past the Tomcats would be taken on by the fleet’s Sea Sparrows.
And any surviving missiles, the “leakers,” would be downed by the computer-controlled Gatlings.
At least, that was the way it was supposed to work. Things were feeling crowded already, since Jefferson’s hundred-mile air defense zone extended all the way to the Indian coast to the northeast, while Indian surface ships were entering the zone from the southeast. And those Osas were much closer, well inside the missile defense zone.
The British had used a similar system at the Falklands, but determined Argentinian attacks and some mistakes on the part of the Brits had resulted in the loss of several ships. More than once, it had not been just missiles but bomb-carrying aircraft that had made it into the British task force’s inner defensive perimeter … especially when the strike aircraft were able to get in close beforehand by utilizing the radar cover provided by the rugged mountains of the Falklands themselves.
There were no mountains to block radar here … but there was the heavy ocean swell, and radar jamming had already begun. Tombstone knew with a sure, sick certainty that those Indian aircraft would be moving south in waves any moment now. The Tomcats would never be able to stem that tide. How many Styx and Exocet missiles could the Indians throw at the American CBG? Would there be so many leakers that Jefferson’s three on-board Phalanx systems would be overwhelmed?
How many hits would it take to render Jefferson useless in the coming fight?
“Mr. Magruder?” Costello murmured at his side. “It’s not looking good, is it?”
“We’ve been in tough spots before, Hitman.”
But he knew Jefferson and her people had never faced anything like this.
Army Garrison studied the growing armada arrayed against them and wished Tombstone were here. The tall, quiet skipper of VF-95 had an uncanny tactical sense that had stood the squadron through some tough fights already, above Wonsan in Korea, and later over the Thai jungles.
What would Stoney do? he asked himself.
“Hey, Dixie,” he called. “Can you do anything about this fuzz on the radar?”
“Negative, Commander Garrison. I think they’re finding our windows and plugging them as fast as we open them.”
For the moment, it was a high-tech war of computers and radio. Right now, Jefferson’s EA-6B Prowlers would be doing their best to jam Indian radars while leaving clear windows for the Tomcats’ use. The Indians would be trying to locate those windows and fill them with snow. Finding the right combinations of clear frequencies for both radar and communications was part of the continuing Electronic Warfare battle between the two sides. The Indians, Army thought, probably had an EW aircraft patrolling somewhere near the coast. Where was it? he wondered.
And what were the Russians doing about EW right now? Army shook his head. This mess was becoming more confused by the second.
“Viper Two-one-six,” he called. “This is Viper-Two-oh-one.”
“Copy, Army,” Batman’s voice replied. “Go ahead.”
“We’re going to have to split up and take the missiles at knife-fighting distance.”
“Roger that.”
“See if you can run interference for Homeplate. I’ll try an end run and catch them from the flank.”
“Rog. We’ll take ‘em down on the deck.”
“Victor Tango One-one,” Army said, switching to the Hawkeye air controller’s frequency. “This is BARCAP One-One. Did you copy my last?”
“Affirmative, BARCAP One. We concur with your plan.”
The two Tomcats split apart as Batman pulled a wing-over and plummeted toward the sea. Army lined up with another target and started his descent.
With Phoenix missiles they could knock the Styx down six at a time, but that would leave them unarmed to face the Indian hordes. Perhaps the two Tomcats could take out their share of the ship-killers with gunfire.
Batman brought his Tomcat down to within two hundred feet of the ocean’s surface, skimming west at Mach 1.5. The F-14’s wings, folded all the way back along the hull, transformed the Tomcat into a giant, pale gray arrowhead. Somewhere ahead, one of the enemy missiles was already between him and the carrier, now some twelve miles ahead. “Gimme a vector, Malibu!”
“You’re fine on this heading,” his RIO replied. “Range three-one-double-oh.”
“I’m goosing it.” He pushed the throttles all the way forward into Zone Five, watching the F-14’s speed build past Mach 2. The air this close to the water was heavy with moisture. White clouds boiled off the Tomcat’s wings as water droplets were shocked into visibility by the fighter’s passage. They were well within the area covered by the CBG’s missile defenses now and rapidly approaching the innermost point defense zone. Jefferson was only nine miles ahead.
“Range two triple-oh!”
Batman eased back on the throttle. It wouldn’t do to skim past the target so quickly he couldn’t even see it. Malibu continued to read off the decreasing range as the same numbers flickered past on his HUD.
“Twelve hundred … one triple-oh … eight hundred … Still closing!”
Damn! He should see the thing by now. The Tomcat’s radar lock was projecting a small square on the HUD, defining the bit of sky where the target was located. The square jittered just below the horizon, but he couldn’t see anything inside it but water.
He cut the throttle some more, then opened his spoilers, letting the F-14 sink closer to the surface. If he could see the target against sky rather than sea … There it was! A flicker of motion, no more, just above the horizon line. Now that he saw the thing, it rapidly took on greater definition and detail, expanding as the Tomcat bore down on it from astern.
“Tally-ho!” Batman called. “I’m going to guns!”
Styx missiles were nearly as large as a small aircraft: twenty-one feet long, with a nine-foot wingspan. Traveling steadily at Mach.9, they offered a marksman’s dream, a target that was slow, steady, and completely predictable. He should have a chance of knocking the thing down with his M61 cannon.
The Styx was still little more than a black speck inside the targeting reticle on Batman’s HUD. Coming in hard on the target’s six, he didn’t need to draw much lead or try to anticipate its next move. He switched his gun-speed selector to its lowest setting, 4,000 rounds per minute.
At less than five hundred yards, he pressed the fire button.
The Tomcat’s M-61 six-barreled Gatling shrieked in a brief, precisely controlled burst. And again. And again … Black smoke puffed from the missile’s tail. The target was close enough now that Batman could see its blunt-nosed, dirigible shape, the three evenly spaced tail fins and the stubby wings amidships, the sustaining motor beneath the fuselage. Suddenly the Styx swerved up, nosed over, and plunged silently into the sea.
“That’s a kill!” Malibu said.
“Splash another Styx,” Batman reported over his radio.
“Roger that,” their Hawkeye air controller replied. “Nice shooting, guys.”