He had one more order for Commander Miller. “Have the formation go to general quarters.” Moments later, he heard the shrill boatswain’s pipe and the klaxon.
Lieutenant Dan Maguire, Seahawk 202’s sensor operator, yawned loudly, glad that the noise he made was swallowed up by the helicopter’s own rattling, pounding roar. Even when you were expecting trouble, flying a long patrol over the ocean could be boring. They were seventy miles and one hour out from Task Group 22.1.
Maguire was a short, wiry man, full of energy, in his mid-twenties and with two years of navy experience already under his belt, who found the Seahawk’s comfortable cockpit absolutely roomy. His black hair and dark, Irish looks were well hidden behind a flight helmet and visor.
He scanned the glowing displays in front of him in a rapid, practiced sequence. The Seahawk was a sensor platform as much as anything else — a long-range and mobile pair of eyes and ears for U.S. Navy formations. It carried a surface search radar, magnetic anomaly detection gear, or MAD, to spot the metal in a submerged submarine’s hull, and ESM, electronic intercept equipment, which told them the direction and type of any hostile radars.
“Anything interesting?”
Maguire glanced up from his instruments. The pilot of 202, Lieutenant Peter Chen, was busy with his own checks — keeping an eye on his flight instruments and periodically sweeping the sky and sea around them. “Nope. Plenty of surface contacts, but they’re all fishing trawlers or merchants. ESM shows nothing but low-power nav radars out there.”
“How about the Atlantique?”
“Still orbiting.” Maguire jerked his head to the left. “Over there. Off to port about ten miles.”
At that distance the twin-engine French aircraft was just a barely visible dot. Sunlight winked off its wings as it made another slow, lazy turn.
Maguire and Chen had flown together for six months now, and were a good match. Maguire knew his gear inside and out, while Chen was incessantly curious. In another time Maguire could easily imagine Chen, also short and wiry, on horseback, scouting for the enemy, riding the same way he flew the Seahawk, darting, probing, searching. Chen even bragged about being half-Mongol, on his mother’s side.
Maguire studied his sensors again. The radar display still showed the same scattered array of slow-moving ships. He froze. No, it didn’t. There were new blips near the edge of the screen — blips that were coming closer fast. He clicked his radio mike.
“Leyte Gulf, this is Seahawk 202. Many high-speed bogies bearing one seven six, forty miles, level zero!”
He heard the cruiser’s antiair warfare coordinator acknowledge the contact report and made sure the helo’s data link was working properly. It was. The men waiting in the Task Group’s darkened CICs were seeing everything he was.
“Bogies still bearing one seven six. Range now three five. Speed six hundred.”
The Seahawk turned and lost altitude, sliding down toward the ocean. The incoming planes would have to pass right by it on their way to the convoy. With luck, the helicopter’s two crewmen might be able to make a visual identification.
Maguire kept his eyes glued to the radar screen, still calling out rapidly decreasing ranges and a steady bearing. Chen leveled out five hundred feet above the water and watched the southern horizon.
“Range six. See ’em yet?”
“No… yes!” Chen saw three groups of four aircraft straight ahead. They were flying lower than the helo and growing larger every second. “Jesus, Dan, they’re coming in right on the deck.”
“Can you identify them, 202?” Leyte Gulf’s antiair coordinator asked.
“Negative. Hold on. Bogies are climbing… Christ!”
Engines roaring at full thrust, the EurCon jets screamed right over them — rocketing past with barely one hundred feet to spare. Eight were big-tailed, two-seater aircraft with German crosses painted on their fuselages and white missiles hung beneath their swept-back wings. The four trailing aircraft were marked with the tricolor roundel. Chen fought to regain control as the Seahawk, caught in their wake, rocked violently up and down before plunging toward the sea below.
Maguire grabbed his shoulder straps with one hand and keyed his mike with the other. “Bogies are Tornados and Rafales! Tornados are armed! Repeat, the Tornados are armed.”
Maguire hung on, ignoring the information dancing across his display screens. Attacking German aircraft were something you saw in old war movies. Were they really going to do it all over again?
Twelve arrowhead shapes appeared on the CIC’s main display. The incoming German attack jets and their French fighter escorts had finally been detected by the Aegis system as they climbed above the radar horizon. They were just sixty-six miles out and still closing. Ward felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.
“ESM warning! Multiple Ku-band radars bearing one seven six!” Even as they matched the bearing with the arrowhead symbols, the electronic warfare operator announced, “Transmissions ceased.” Simultaneously the SPY radar operator reported, “We’ve lost height data. They’ve gone below my horizon.”
Shit. Ward glanced at a smaller side screen, one showing the data-linked radar picture still being broadcast by Seahawk 202. The EurCon aircraft were still boring in. They’d dived back down to the deck, flying close to Mach 1 just above the waves. Because the Seahawk still tracked the aircraft, the computer could continue to show their positions accurately on the display.
He knew exactly what it meant. The Tornados had popped up and turned on their radars just long enough to find the convoy and feed targeting information into the antiship missiles they were carrying. From now on they could fly in low enough to launch an attack in near-perfect safety.
Ward kept his eyes on the Tornados’ symbols. He had the lead plane “hooked,” so that its speed, course, and most important, range were displayed on a small screen in front of him. A small line across the top marked each plane as “engaged.” The Aegis system had locked on and assigned missiles to each aircraft.
Before Task Group 22.1 linked up with the four SL-7 container ships, Washington had issued a warning notice, an “exclusion zone,” consistent with international law. Any aircraft approaching the convoy closer than fifty nautical miles would be fired on.
The Tornados were only sixty miles away now. They were closing at roughly ten miles a minute. He was running out of time to make decisions.
On a long-range, low-altitude mission, each of the eight German attack jets still barreling in could carry two Kormoran 2 antiship missiles. Sixteen missiles launched from close range might be enough to saturate even an Aegis cruiser’s defenses.
The Kormoran 2 had a thirty-nautical-mile range. It would take the Leyte Gulf, Monterey, or John Barry’s SM2 antiaircraft missiles a minute to cover that distance, and it would take another half a minute to launch enough missiles to destroy the German aircraft carrying the Kormorans. That meant that once the Tornados crossed the fifty-mile line, Ward would have just thirty seconds to decide whether or not to start a war.
Fifty-five miles. His mouth felt dry. Turning his head, he could see his missile engagement controller’s hand hovering over the console, waiting for a command.
Fifty-three miles. Any second now.
On the main display, the lines showing the Tornados’ course and speed suddenly shortened, then started to turn. In one moment they were definitely pointing away from the formation. In the next they were ninety degrees off of their original course. He glanced at the small screen in front of him. They were definitely slowing and turning, and the SPY radar held them again. The Tornados and their Rafale escorts were climbing. They were turning away!