Ward nodded toward the symbols showing fighters chasing after the EurCon strike planes. “What’s their fuel state?”
“Tankers are already on the way, sir.”
Ward nodded and went back to watching the displays. It wasn’t really a feeling of being superfluous, he decided. Events were just out of his hands now. His plan was in motion, and everyone else had a job to do but him.
“All units, this is Rancher, break off and steer zero four five.”
Mann gauged the distance to the remaining bandits and reluctantly turned to the ordered course — heading away from George Washington and the enemy. The EurCon aircraft were too far ahead and too close to the battle group’s SAM envelope to catch.
He added his own “Mustangs, form on me” to the CAG’s command and waggled his wings. It was time to count noses.
Behind him, the remains of four EurCon attack squadrons tucked into two tight formations. Of nearly fifty attack aircraft that had ventured out to challenge the Americans, only eight were left. Others were limping home, nursing damage that made it impossible to press on. Most were gone — blown out of the sky by guns or missiles. Three far out in front were German Tornados. The five trailing behind were Mirage 2000s carrying ASMP nuclear missiles.
Decimated by the navy fighters, the French and German pilots knew they were on borrowed time. They no longer watched their fuel gauges, but simply poured on all the speed they had. Their only hope of survival was to reach launch range and salvo their weapons. After that, each of them could evade and try to make it home while the Americans tried to deal with the missiles. Even a rubber raft looked attractive after the hellride they’d all gone through.
In accordance with their attack plan, the Tornados, well out in front now, fed targeting data to the Mirage pilots. The French plane’s short-range radar could not see the U.S. ships at this distance, and precise targeting data was crucial. Their ASMP missiles didn’t have radar seekers that could home in on moving targets. Designed to attack stationary objects on land, they mounted only a plain inertial seeker. Just before launch, each pilot would set his missile’s target as a simple geographic location.
As the Mirage crews took the range and bearing supplied by the Germans, they tried to calculate flight times, the American carrier’s course and speed, and come up with the proper impact point. Even with a nuclear warhead, a sure kill could only be guaranteed against a warship if it landed within a mile and a half. The damage radius was twice that. At the distance they were firing from, that worked out to a margin of error of less than two percent. But then, all they needed was one good hit.
With their target locked in, the Mirages fired. Five finned missiles dropped from centerline pylons and flew northwest, accelerating rapidly past the speed of sound.
When the French planes banked away, heading for home, the German Tornados dove for the deck, barreling in only fifty meters above the water. While the ASMP had a range of 150 nautical miles, the Kormoran antiship missiles they carried had to be launched within thirty miles of their intended target.
Dale’s skipper had already decided to fire before Admiral Ward’s order came over the circuit. He was not the sort to stand on formality where enemy aircraft were concerned.
The Leahy-class missile cruiser and Klakring, her Perry-class frigate escort, occupied a missile picket station thirty miles out in front of George Washington.
Those thirty miles could be added directly to the range of her SM2ER missiles. She was the first line of the carrier’s defense.
Dale’s crew had been at general quarters for hours. Since then her well-drilled CIC team had monitored every stage in the air battle — watching carefully as the fight moved closer. Their radars had shown the surviving EurCon attack jets break out of the dogfight. Now they saw several small contacts appear in front of one group of enemy planes.
The cruiser’s tight-faced captain watched the new blips just long enough to be sure they were real. His missile engagement controller reported, “They’re still climbing and accelerating, Skipper. They won’t be in our SAM envelope for another minute. I count five.”
“All right, Steve. What’s the threat?”
“Unknown, sir.” The lieutenant paged rapidly through a loose-leaf book with red plastic covers. “Supersonic, high altitude, doesn’t fit any French or German antiship missile.
No radar signal from them yet.” Half to himself, he wondered, “An ARM targeted on our radars?”
Still leafing, the lieutenant glanced up at his display. “Speed’s up to Mach three, Skipper.”
He looked down at the book again and stiffened. Then he carefully studied the page, comparing the data there with the numbers on his screen. The blood drained from his face.
They were tracking the same inbound missiles in the carrier’s flag command center, and Ward’s staff recognized them the same instant that Dale’s lieutenant did.
His voice tight with control, the antiair warfare coordinator reported, “Admiral, inbounds are probably nuclear! Evaluated as ASMPs… about two minutes out.”
Ward fought the impulse to panic. He had too much to do. “It’s too late to disperse the formation. Emergency turn. Put every ship stern-on to them, and order all ships to individual maximum speed. Get all exposed personnel belowdecks! And send a flash message to the NCA!”
Facing away from a nuclear detonation would offer his ships limited but still significant protection. A blast wave running down a ship’s long axis would meet less resistance and hit its stronger stem first. Going to full speed might give each ship enough extra maneuverability to ride out the explosion and resulting sea surge.
He looked around and found his chief of staff. “Anything I missed, Harry?”
“Turn off and isolate nonvital radars. It might help with EMP effects.”
“Do it,” Ward confirmed. “That’s about all we have time for.”
Under his breath, he muttered, “Those bastards. I’ll make them regret this day.” But another voice ghosted through his brain reminding him he might not live long enough to keep that promise.
“Dale reports she’ll engage in thirty seconds.”
Under the original attack plan, Germany’s Tornados were expected to attack all American missile defense ships ahead of the ASMPs — clearing a path for the nuclear-tipped missiles. Now, instead of saturating the carrier’s defenses, the three surviving planes aimed for the keystone, and hoped that would be enough.
While the Germans had been passing information to the French planes, they had also used their radars to locate the picket missile cruiser. With its location, course, and speed locked into their computers, they’d plunged to the deck. Howling in only fifty meters above the waves, the Tornados were below Dale’s radar horizon — out of sight and out of the line of fire. Of course, they couldn’t see the American cruiser, either.
Their computers knew where she was, though, and guided them toward the target. Just over thirty miles out, HUD indicators prompted the crews to fire. The Tornados popped up, climbing to five hundred feet. First one missile, then a second, left each Tornado.
Gratefully the Germans turned away, beginning a long and perilous journey back to base.
A dozen miles overhead, the five ASMPs sped on.