His little scene with the men minutes before had turned the trick, Pratt decided. These guys were professional, well educated. They just needed a kick in the ass. They’d been through so many exercises in the past few months that the recent intelligence reports just hadn’t sunk in. They thought they were to react when that first shot was fired, but he expected them to act faster, perhaps to squeeze off their own first shot just a split second more quickly. Anything that would give him the upper hand over the superior Russian numbers was what he was looking for. After that, he felt he could handle it. There were more of them, but he had the advantage when it came to equipment and manpower. Since Pratt knew time was short, the most vital gift he could give this battle group was his knowledge of what was about to happen — and his confidence.
He reviewed the organization in his mind once more, just to be sure that he could apply the notes originated at the Naval War College months before. He knew how he wanted to fight the group against each type of attack — air-to-surface missile, surface-to-surface missile, and submarine — and how to respond to one of them or all together. Most important of all, he had no doubt how he would coordinate the electronic warfare. That, he had decided, would determine the victor — electronic warfare, the magic of the black box.
Now he would see exactly how his staff reacted — both to the Russians and to his demands. He tilted his cap rakishly over one eye, once again the recruiting-poster admiral, and headed for the ship’s nerve center.
His command post in the darkened, red-lit center was a well-padded swivel chair surrounded by a half-moon of electronic displays. In addition to a comprehensive picture of the Med, there was a display each for the air, subsurface, and surface scenes. It was easier to comprehend once your mind adapted to the futuristic environment. There was one color for your side, a separate one for the other. The shapes of the electronic images designated various ships and aircraft. Courses, speeds, heights, depths, distances, even time-to-impact-after-firing appeared beside the images or above the display boards. Continuous printouts of tactical information flowed from IBM machines in front of them. The computer could respond to almost any question put to it, but the inquiry had to be accurate, for it often concerned objects closing the force at supersonic speeds. AEGIS took command when man’s decision-making could no longer keep up with the weapons he had designed.
Admiral Pratt considered the location of his Hawkeye recon aircraft in relation to the Russian bombers. Identified as Backfires, they were electronically advanced, missile-firing craft. “Are we jamming?” Pratt asked Clark.
Clark looked over from his position, brows furrowed nervously. “You mean those closing jets?”
“Are there any others?” Pratt snapped.
“No, sir. Nothing within the zone.”
“My understanding was that they were in an attack profile, using target-acquisition radar and with a satellite backup. Why don’t we just send up some balloons with arrows on them to point to the battle group.” Pratt’s voice was rising evenly, the pitch controlling the atmosphere in the command post. “We should be jamming everything they can use. There is no reason in my book — and that’s the one you are operating under now — for them to receive one pulse of information from any one of their satellites. No reason that anything should get back to their targeting computers except whatever garbage we want to send them. No reason there should even be a reason for them to activate the target-acquisition radar in those missiles of theirs.”
Pratt rose to his feet and placed himself directly in front of the displays. He left no room for doubt that he expected the attention of every man in the room. “Those Russian aircraft are coming in because the Soviet Union has just declared war on the United States. It will be a while before we get word. In the meantime, they are following the normal pattern they have utilized in the past because we’re so complacent about it that they think we’ll just wait to see if their pilots will wave when they go by. Before you know it, I’ll have to tell the computer to take over the decision-making process for this entire battle group because the staff did not anticipate this war.”
The faces looking back at him reflected shock. Perhaps I can convince some of them war has been declared, Pratt thought. Jesus, I hope so. I want to see their pale faces. I want to see the cold sweat on their foreheads. I want to see the fear in their eyes. I want them to think about their families back home and imagine that the ICBMs might already be in the air — even though this is still a drill.
“I want a direct voice order sent to that on-scene commander. Better yet, I’ll do it.” Pratt turned to his communications officer. “Which circuit do I want?”
“Twenty-seven, Admiral.”
Pratt picked up the speaker in one hand while he punched in 27 on the black box. “Call sign?”
“Bulldog Two.”
Pratt pressed the key on the mike. “Bulldog Two, this is Archer himself. Over.”
“This is Bulldog Two. Over.”
“This is not a drill. I repeat this is not a drill. Commence jamming on all Soviet frequencies as follows — satellite recon, search, anything else you can damn well find. Is that understood? Over.”
“Roger, Archer. Will comply. Out.”
He turned to Clark, who was obviously waiting for the next bombshell. “Who’s controlling the intercept?”
“We have a flight of F-14s on the way, sir.”
“I certainly hope so, but what I asked is who the hell is controlling the intercept?”
“They’re reporting to Bulldog One.”
“And what are his instructions?”
“They will track at a distance, sir.”
“Like hell they will. Just as soon as they’re within lock-on, they will commence a head-on attack, vectored in by Bulldog One. They will await a firing order from me.” He nodded toward his communications officer. “Now.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pratt turned to the air-status board. “Take me out to full scale on that board. Use a satellite picture if you have to. There has never been a Russian attack designed against one of our battle groups that didn’t have a second or even third flight directed at the same target. Saturation,” he bellowed, pounding his fist into his palm for emphasis. “Saturation is their doctrine.” He continued to slam his fist down. “Attack from different angles and altitudes and fill the air with missiles. That’s what they do. Don’t wait for them — look for them! And while you’re finding those other flights, I want to put our electronic-countermeasures plan into effect — jamming, deception, everything we can do to confuse their missiles.”
He gave them time. There was no doubt they knew their business. It was just that they had never carried the exercises through to completion before. They had always assumed enough warning to react, but that wouldn’t happen now. The Russians will keep the pressure up. Wear us down, Pratt thought. Put us at ease. Then, blam, and we’ll feel just like Custer. But that’s what he also liked about the Russians. They were predictable. They followed doctrine, making it easier to handle them. It was more a question of how well Pratt and his men could defend the battle group when the air was full of missiles. Could they limit the number of hits?