Armageddon Mode

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.

“Sorry, Admiral,” he shouted. “It just came down from the pilot!”

Angrily, Vaughn thrust himself past the crew chief and made his way forward toward the cockpit. The HH-60 Seahawk was relatively new in the Navy’s inventory, having been acquired to replace the older HH-3A Sea Kings in both the ASW roles and for combat search and rescue. The machine he was on was a SAR helo with two pilots, two crewmen, and room for eight passengers.

The ship’s pilot turned as he stepped onto the cramped flight deck.

“Word just came through, Admiral,” the man said. “The Indians have launched missiles at the fleet from about twenty-five or thirty miles out. They don’t know the target yet.”

“Well. find out! No, belay that! Find someone I can talk to!”

“Aye, sir.” As the copilot began speaking on the radio, Vaughn fumed.

What should he do? He’d left the Jefferson five minutes before. It would be minutes yet before they landed on the Vicksburg. Should they return to the Jefferson, or press on?

He could see the Aegis cruiser through the windscreen ahead, long and gray with a knife’s-edge prow, the twin fortress towers fore and aft giving her an ungainly, top-heavy look. The seas were a lot heavier than he’d been aware of back on the stolid and unyielding bulk of the Jefferson. As he watched, a wave broke over the bow in an explosion of white, engulfing her forward five-inch mount and smashing itself against the forward deckhouse. It looked like they’d be in for a rough ride.

Vicksburg’s fantail was clear. It made no sense to turn around. He would be in the cruiser’s command suite in another few minutes.

“Admiral?” the copilot yelled, one hand pressed to his headset.

“Jefferson CIC!”

“Patch me in!” A radio jack was plugged into his helmet, tying him into the comnet. “Jefferson! Jefferson! This is Admiral Vaughn!”

“Commander Barnes, CIC, Admiral. Go ahead.”

“What the hell’s going on, Commander?”

“We have a full battle group alert, sir. We are tracking between twelve and sixteen missiles inbound.”

“From where?”

“Probable launch platforms were four OSA IIS, Admiral. That means SS-N-2s.”

“Target?”

“Safe money would be on the Jefferson, sir.”

“Yes …”

“We’ve launched the Alert Five,” Barnes said. “Captain Fitzgerald has authorized weapons free.”

“Yes,” Vaughn said. “Yes, quite right.” He felt sick. The carrier … his carrier … was under a mass attack.

The SS-N-2 Styx flew more like an aircraft than a missile. Once it was launched from its storage pod with an assist from a solid-fuel booster, cruise propulsion was maintained by a conventional air-gulping turbojet slung under the missile’s belly. The Styx was a direct descendant of the V-1 buzz bombs employed by the Germans in WW II.

As it traveled a few meters above the wave crests, its inertial programming carried it into a specific target area. Once it was within five nautical miles of its projected impact point, two separate on-board terminal guidance systems — an active radar-homing device and an infrared sensor — switched on, identifying and locking onto the largest target within the missile’s electronic field of view.

Sophisticated as it was, the Styx had no defense of its own. The Phoenix missile hurtled in from the north at Mach 5 and exploded as it passed low above the missile’s back. A fraction of a second later, the SS-N-2’s warhead detonated.

The thunderous shock wave raised a geyser of water against the sky.

Before the geyser had collapsed, the sky was alive with the contrails of more missiles, still bearing on the carrier. Phoenix missiles sweeping in from the north connected with the ship-killers, one by one. There were more explosions, and missiles died.

But they weren’t dying fast enough.

“That’s a grand slam! Splash another one!”

Tombstone looked up as Batman’s voice rasped over the CATCC speaker. He could imagine the tension in the cockpit of the F-14 now, as the RIO monitored the horde of airborne targets.

“Tomcat Two-one-six, roger your kill,” a CATCC controller said. But more missiles were coming in fast.

“Two-oh-one,” Army Garrison’s voice added. “Phoenix away.”

Hurt twisted at Tombstone’s gut. Although carrier aviators did not always fly the same aircraft, one plane in the squadron was generally thought of as “theirs.” Further, there were no hard and fast rules to the practice, but tradition reserved the “01” aircraft to the squadron’s leader. As skipper of VF-95, Tombstone generally flew Tomcat 201.

Today, with his XO standing in for him, Army was flying the 201 bird.

He looked across the room at CAG. Marusko had just replaced a telephone handset and was now holding a microphone to his mouth. “Now hear this,” he said, his voice sounding over the bulkhead speakers. “I’ve just had word from Commander Barnes. The admiral is about to touch down on the Vicksburg and will be assuming control of the battle from there momentarily. Meanwhile, he has confirmed weapons free. As of now, the squadron is on full Battle Alert Status. Current ROES are suspended and weapons are free. That is all.”

“BARCAP Two is ready to fire,” a sailor reported. “They’re at extreme range.”

“How long before they get into position?”

“A few minutes, sir.”

“We don’t have a few minutes. How long before the Alert Five gets up?”

Tombstone glanced up at the PLAT camera suspended from the CATCC overhead. The view was forward from the island, toward Cats One and Two on the bow. Deck crewmen were prepping a pair of Tomcats for launch, “Shooter” Rostenkowski in his 248 bird, Coyote in the Tomcat Army usually flew, number 204. The squat, boxy, yellow-painted tractors called mules were hauling the F-14s up to the catapult shuttles.

“Another two-three minutes on the Alert Five,” Tombstone called.

“Closest missile now at twelve miles,” a technician at one of the consoles said. “We now have four positive Phoenix locks, closing.”

“They’re suckering us,” CAG said suddenly, as though the thought had just struck him. “Damn them, they’re suckering us into eating up our outer line!”

Tombstone had already arrived at the same conclusion. Each of the four Tomcats aloft on CAP had been armed with six long-range Phoenix missiles. Two of the F-14s — the planes of Barcap Two — were far to the north, badly positioned to defend against the Osa-launched attack from the southeast.

The Osas carried four Styx ship-killers apiece. Jefferson’s CAP could knock out those first sixteen missiles easily enough, but they would then have just eight AIM-54-Cs left between them if the Indian aircraft launched a major assault. Besides the Alert Five, the carrier was preparing for an emergency launch, hoping to get every Tomcat it could into the air before the attackers could get close enough to fire more ship-killers, but the first wave of Styx missiles would arrive long before all of the carrier’s defenders could get aloft.

And even for missiles not yet launched, it would be a deadly race, and with the numbers arrayed against the CBG, it was a race that the Americans were certain to lose.

Modern naval strategy placed the all-important aircraft carrier at the center of the task force inside a series of concentric rings. Each ring defined a volume of airspace, called a task force air defense zone, extending from sea level to 90,000 feet. The outer ring, reaching out to one hundred nautical miles from the carrier, was designated the aircraft defense zone. The middle ring covered an area out to forty miles from the carrier and was called the missile defense zone. The inner ring, a speck of sea only two miles high and reaching five nautical miles from the carrier, was the point defense zone.

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.”

The gray mass of the U.S.S. Jefferson appeared on the horizon, swelling rapidly as Batman and Malibu hurtled toward it. He eased back on the stick, pulling the F-14 into a climb.

That missile had come far too close to the Jeff for comfort.

“Hit!” a technician announced. One of Army’s missiles had just tagged another Styx. “Splash five …”

“Ninety-nine aircraft, this is Homeplate,” CAG said, using the code meaning all planes in the air. “Break off attack on incoming missiles.

Repeat, break off! CIC says to leave something for the boys at home.”

Tombstone watched the radar blips identified as Jefferson’s Tomcats. The missile wave had pulled them all in tight, clustering around the Jefferson as they tried to deal with the Styx missiles one-on-one. That kind of clumping would play havoc with the carrier’s ability to defend herself. It was better for Tomcats to veer off and leave the Jefferson room to swing.

“Roger, Homeplate,” Army’s voice said. “BARCAP One copies.”

“Affirmative, Homeplate,” the leader of the second BARCAP element, Lieutenant “Nightmare” Marinaro, echoed. “BARCAP Two copies.”

The electronic quality of the communications gear added to the timbre of the various voices, giving them an oddly detached character. Some voices sounded calm and professional, others flat or expressionless. As the aviators became caught up in the heat of battle or the chase, they tended to lose the pro words and the measured cadences of their training, to shout as though trying to make themselves heard, to become profane or vulgar. The tensions in the sky east of the carrier were raw, Tombstone could tell, and he found the waiting more and more intolerable as the minutes dragged by.

He glanced at the clock on the bulkhead. Zero seven forty-two. The missiles were seconds away now.

“Right,” Fitzgerald’s voice announced from CIC. “Point defense on automatic. Fire control ready?”

“Fire control tracking,” Barnes’s voice replied. “Nearest target now at six miles and closing …”

“Pass the word,” Fitzgerald said. “To all ships that can hear. Commence fire!”

The Styx missiles had begun their flight close together, but their launch programming and slight differences of altitude and speed had caused them to drift apart, a deliberate strategy to scatter the defenders’ attention and to hit the target from as many directions as possible. Several of the attacking missiles were being directed toward target points well past the Jefferson, so that when their terminal guidance systems engaged, they would begin searching for their target from the ship’s far side.

By the time the first Sea Sparrow shrieked away from the launcher on Jefferson’s starboard side forward of the island, seven Styx missiles out of the original sixteen were approaching the American carrier from as many different directions, at distances ranging from six miles to twelve.

Guided by the carrier’s fire-control radar, a second missile launched seconds later … then a third. Contrails drew white traceries into the western sky as missile sought missile in a fast-paced electronic game of hide-and-seek, a game that unfolded far too rapidly for humans to follow it.

Then the sky exploded into flame.

A Sea Sparrow launched from the Jefferson rocketed into an oncoming Styx, detonating in a fireball that sent pellet-sized fragments slamming into the water for a hundred yards around. The proximity fuze on a second Sea Sparrow warhead touched off when the missile was several yards behind the Styx. The explosion sprayed the SSM with shrapnel, punching holes in wings and fuselage, but the sturdily built SS-N-2 continued to fly, smoke trailing now from the exhaust bell of its turbojet.

Another Sea Sparrow scored a hit, the explosion visible from Jefferson’s deck as a brief, sharp flash on the horizon. There were five leakers still closing … then four … Jefferson mounted three CIWS Mark 15 Phalanxes. Their cartoon-character names had been inspired by the robotic heroes of a ‘70s SF movie: Huey, Dewey, and Louie.

Huey was mounted alongside Jefferson’s island, set outboard and facing to starboard. Dewey was aft, set on the port side of the fantail gallery beneath the flight deck ramp. Louie was on the port side forward, mounted on a faring flush with Jefferson’s hull midway between flight deck and waterline.

All three Phalanx weapons came to life as the Styx missiles entered the carrier’s point defense zone. On the Jefferson’s stern, Dewey’s erect white silo spun under totally automatic control, swiveling to face the nearest of the approaching threats. The six barrels extending from the gray metal box beneath the silo whirled furiously, the discharge sounding like the whine of a high-speed motor. Within two seconds of a target entering its electronic domain, it had tracked, fired, tracked, and fired again.

Painted by J-band pulse-doppler radar, the Styx plunged headlong into a cloud of depleted uranium projectiles. Metal shredded, the missile’s alloy hull punctured in a dozen places. The turbojet engine tore free from its mountings, the stubby port-side wing was ripped away like paper.

Before the shattered missile hit the waves, Dewey had already swung left to engage another target … and then another.

The last Styx missile, its radar guidance equipment smashed, smoke streaming from its propellant tanks, hurried past Jefferson’s island fifty feet above the flight deck. Sailors scattered or ducked as the projectile shrieked overhead. “Jesus!” one AE/2 shouted to the man lying beside him on the steel. “It’s fuckin’ World War Two!”

“More like War Number Three, man,” his friend yelled back. The rest of the reply was lost in the thunder of the warhead detonating in the sea a hundred yards off Jefferson’s port quarter.