Armageddon Mode

CHAPTER 10

Tombstone walked out onto the flight deck, accepting a helmet — a “cranial” in Navy parlance — from a sailor outside the mangler’s shack, where the deck handlers plotted each on-board movement of every aircraft in Air Wing 20. He was officially on duty in CATCC, but things were slow in Air Ops and he’d checked out for a stroll up on deck to get some fresh air.

The cloud cover had thickened during the night, bringing rain and gale-force gusts of wind, together with towering waves that had crashed over Jefferson’s bows in the darkness with the fury of an avalanche.

That morning the wind had abated to a steady fifteen knots, but the sky was still a dirty gray overcast anchored only a few feet above Jefferson’s highest radar mast. The ocean swells were running seven feet.

The carrier had come about so that the wind was blowing down her angled deck from bow to stern. Jefferson was pitching enough in the heavy waves to make any trap a challenge, and the rolling seas had imparted an extra twist to her movements. Tombstone could feel the corkscrewing motion through his legs as he settled the helmet on his head and stepped onto the open deck.

An E-2C Hawkeye had just completed its trap and was taxiing toward the ship’s starboard side, its wings already twisting sideways and folding back along its flanks in order to avoid the twenty-four-foot, frisbee-shaped rotodome above its back. A yellow-jerseyed deck director led the way, signaling come-ahead with his hands.

Tombstone had been following the incoming air traffic down in CATCC and knew that the next aircraft due on board was a C-2A Greyhound. A long-range twin-engine prop plane used to deliver supplies, personnel, and mail to the battle group at sea, the Greyhound was called a COD, for Carrier On-board Delivery. Outwardly similar to the Hawkeye from which it was derived, the Greyhound had a larger fuselage than the E-2C and a rear-loading cargo ramp, and of course, it lacked the radar frisbee.

Looking aft, he could make out the COD aircraft already in the slot a mile behind the carrier, a silvery speck swelling rapidly against the overcast as it dropped toward Jefferson’s roundoff. He watched as the pilot made a slight, last-second correction, adjusting for the changing pitch of the carrier’s flight deck. Then the Greyhound swept across the ramp and its landing gear slammed onto the roof, the lowered tail hook snagging the number-two wire and yanking the boxy aircraft to a halt.

The propellers continued to describe brilliant silver arcs as the COD plane spit out the wire, then began creeping after the deck director toward the mid-deck directly opposite the island.

Unlike the aircraft of CVW-20 that were based aboard the Jefferson, the COD Greyhound was not permanently a part of the carrier’s complement. It would be shot off the Number One Catapult as soon as its cargo and personnel were off-loaded, the bags of mail from Jefferson’s crew lugged aboard, and its tanks refueled.

Tombstone was waiting as the COD’s rear ramp whined down and a line of men began climbing down onto the deck. All wore civilian clothes and life jackets, all were lean, hard, and young. One saw Tombstone and broke into a broad, lopsided grin.

“Tombstone, you son of a bitch!”

“Coyote!” Their hands clasped, then they embraced, pounding each other’s backs. “God damn, Coyote, welcome aboard!”

Lieutenant Willis E. Grant, call sign “Coyote,” had been Tombstone’s very good friend since they’d first been stationed together at Miramar several years before. Both assigned to VF-95 out of CVW-20, they’d joined Jefferson before she left San Diego almost nine months earlier.

Coyote had been Tombstone’s wingman until a Mig-21’s missile had knocked him out of the sky over the Sea of Japan six months before. Coyote had been captured by the North Koreans, escaped with the help of a Navy SEAL team reconning the camp where he was being held, and been wounded. He’d been medevaced to Japan and finally wound up at the Naval Regional Medical Center, Camp Pendleton.

They walked toward the island. “So!” Tombstone said. “How’s the leg and arm?”

“No problems.” Coyote flexed his arm, demonstrating. “I was out of the hospital inside of six weeks, but they had me humping in the RAG at Miramar until last week. Then they decided you guys needed me.”

Tombstone grinned. “RAG,” for Reserve Air Group, was an obsolete term still used by Navy fliers for the Fleet Readiness Squadrons from which the carriers drew their replacements. “I don’t know, Lieutenant. We’ve been managing okay without you.”

“Ah! Ah!” Coyote held up an admonishing finger. “Can that “Lieutenant’ crap, mister. I pulled another half stripe. Came through while I was in the hospital.”

“Well! Congratulations! It’s about time. Lieutenant Commander, huh?”

“On the road to fame and glory, son. My future career looks rosy as one of our Navy’s elite.”

Coyote’s banter raised a small sting in the back of Tombstone’s mind. It was ironic. Here his friend had finally made it back to VF-95 … and Tombstone was going to be leaving for good in another few weeks.

Well, that was Navy life. Good friends and good-byes.

“Hell, what’s this elite garbage?” Tombstone said roughly, covering his feelings. “You look like a damned civilian to me.”

Coyote looked down at his civvies. “Yeah. Didn’t have time to change.

They routed that COD out of Masirah. We had a few hours in Dawwah, but they wouldn’t let us wear our uniforms. The locals are sensitive about American servicemen on their turf.”

They entered the island and removed their helmets. A seaman took Coyote’s life jacket. “Well,” Coyote said. “I’d better get checked in.

Hey, I hear your uncle’s not the Flag anymore. How’s the new guy?”

Tombstone’s lips compressed, then he shrugged. “Still settling in. You hear about our dustup last night?”

“No. What went down?”

“I imagine they’ll fill you in. We had a run-in with the Indian air force.”

“No shit?” Coyote whistled.

“No shit. We knocked down three of theirs.”

“So it’s gone to a shooting war!”

“Just this side of one anyway.”

“Were you in on it?” Coyote grinned. “You get yourself another kill?”

The question bothered Tombstone. “Yeah. I got a kill.”

“Then you can tell me about it. How about lunch?”

“I’ve got the duty down in CATCC. I’ll see you tonight at chow.”

“Roger that.” Coyote flashed a broad grin and was gone.

Heading in a different direction, Tombstone clattered down a ship’s ladder to the 0–3 deck, then made his way past Combat toward CATCC once more. There was a lot more he’d wanted to tell Coyote. His being grounded, for one thing, and the doubts he’d felt the night before when he kept asking for clearance to fire, with no response. Fog of war was one thing, but Tombstone had the feeling that someone at a high level had not been snapping off the decisions in an efficient and military manner.

True, the tactical situation always looked a lot different on the amber radar screens of CIC than it did in the cockpit of an F-14 on BARCAP, but the orders had been coming too little and too late during the evening’s engagement.

Well, that was no longer Tombstone’s concern. He brushed past the curtains that excluded outside light and entered the red-lit semidarkness of CATCC.

CVIC was more than Jefferson’s briefing-room-cum-TV-studio. The acronym was also applied to the carrier’s entire intelligence department, which was the joint domain of the ship’s OS and OZ divisions. OS was made up of the cryptology technicians who encoded and decoded Jefferson’s communications. OZ — the two-letter designation led to the department’s inevitable nickname of “the Emerald City”—was responsible for providing intelligence data to Jefferson’s decision makers. Divided into five interlocking work centers, including Mission Planning and Briefing (MP&B) and Multi-Sensor Interpretation (MSI), OZ was regarded by the rest of Jefferson’s people as a truly magical kingdom that provided the battle group with a day-to-day picture of what was going on around them.

Of course, there was plenty of wry commentary when Intelligence was wrong, jokes about Naval Intelligence being a contradiction in terms, or how they used the Meteorological Division’s blindfold and dart board to come up with their predictions.

The division head was the Carrier Group Intelligence Officer, Commander Richard Patrick Neil. Boston-born and educated, Neil had a slow manner of speech laced with the broad vowels of New England. He stood at the podium before row upon row of folding chairs, facing the senior battle group officers gathered in the room. A projection screen had been unfolded behind him, next to a map of India’s west coast.

The morning’s briefing had been called for all of Jefferson’s division heads, as well as all senior personnel in Jefferson’s Operations Department. CAG Marusko and two of his staff officers were present representing the air wing, though individual squadron skippers were not.

Also in attendance were a number of special guests, visitors from other ships of the battle group. Captain Cunningham of the Vicksburg and several officers from his CIC and tactical staff, were sitting near the front. If a major air or surface engagement with the Indians was in the offing, the squadron would be counting heavily on the Ticonderoga-class CG and her SPY-1B radar.

“Attention on deck,” someone snapped from the back of the room. Admiral Vaughn entered, trailed by his senior staff. The officers in the room rose as a body.

“As you were, as you were,” Vaughn said, making his way to the front-row seats reserved for his party. The others sat down as he did, with a loud rustle and squeaking of chairs. “Let’s get on with it, Neil.”

“Admiral,” he said, nodding. “Gentlemen. Good morning.

“By now, all of you have been informed that CBG-14 is being augmented this afternoon by the arrival of a Commonwealth naval squadron. I’ve been asked to brief all of you on the types and capabilities of the Russian ships, and on the opposing lineup we are likely to face if we’re forced to engage Indian naval forces. Lights, please.”

The room lights dimmed, and a slide projector at the back of the room winked on. Ships appeared on the projection screen, photographed in crisp, colorful detail. The largest vessel was a carrier caught obliquely in early morning light. Her wake was a pale green-blue trail in the dark purple water.

“These came down from MSI this morning,” Neil said, unfolding a telescoping pointer. “SOVINDRON consists of six surface ships and one submarine. We managed to catch these three in a TARPS run at zero-six-fifteen hours. The carrier you see here is the Kreml. Her escorts are a Kresta II-class guided-missile cruiser, the Marshal Timoshenko, and a Kotlin-class destroyer, the Moskovskiy Komsomolets.”

He signaled with his hand and the slide projector chunked. A magnified image of the carrier from a slightly different angle appeared. “Kreml, gentlemen. The Kremlin. Second of the Soviet supercarriers, he was laid down at the Nikolayev south shipyard in December of 1985 and completed in 1991. He is nuclear-powered, with four reactors and a speed of better than thirty knots.”

“She,” Admiral Vaughn interrupted.

“Sir?”

“You said ‘he.’ Ships are female.”

“In our Navy, yes, sir. The Russians refer to ships as ‘he.’ I just thought-“

“You’re briefing Americans, damn it. You can use American terminology.”

“Yes, sir.” Neil turned back to the screen. “She has a displacement of about seventy thousand tons and an overall length of one thousand feet, which puts her in Jefferson’s class.

“Kreml carries a wing of approximately sixty-five to seventy aircraft.

You can see some of them lined up here, starboard side aft. These here, as you can see, are Yak-38MP Forgers. Nothing new there. They appear to be identical to the V/STOL aircraft carried aboard the smaller Kiev-class carriers in both fighter and strike roles. Four wing pylons.

The usual combat configuration is two external tanks and two Aphid missiles. Actually, the Forger has about a twenty-five percent payload advantage over the AV-8B Harrier, but it is generally considered to be an inferior aircraft.” Neil cracked a rare smile. “if it’s any indication, the Indian navy turned down a chance to buy some of these babies a few years ago and bought the Harrier instead.”

The pointer moved to a cluster of aircraft lining the side of the flight deck, wings tightly folded. “These are Russia’s naval version of the Su-27 Flanker. It is highly maneuverable and is probably roughly comparable to the American F-15 Eagle. It has the same track-while-scan radar as the Mig-29, has look-down/shoot-down capability, and can handle all-weather operation. Armament for the fighter version is eight AA-10 Alamo missiles. The Russians are supposed to be working on a strike version, but we have no information on that at this time, and we don’t know whether any might be aboard the Kreml. Originally, the Flanker appeared with a variable-geometry wing like our Tomcat. We have to assume they ran into some problems with it, though, because current production models have been strictly fixed-wing. Next.”

The slide projector chunked. The image on the screen captured an aircraft just off the Soviet carrier’s ski-jump bow. The detail was sharp enough that the viewers could make out Russian crewmen frozen in various mid-action positions about the deck. There was an audible intake of breath from several corners of the room. The aircraft, its red stars sharp on wings and tail, looked remarkably like an American F/A-18 Hornet.

“This baby’s their prize,” Neil said. “Mig-29, naval version. Jane’s calls it the first completely new generation of Soviet fighters. For air-to-air it carries six missiles, AA-8 or AA-9. Look-down/shoot-down, all-weather capability. Track-while-scan. Improved HUD. This is the best Soviet plane in service. Maybe the best in the world.”

“Bullshit,” someone said near the front of the room.

“Helicopter roles, rescue and ASW, are filled by the Ka-27 Helix, the successor to the Ka-25 Hormone. We think that Kreml carries four of them.”

“You know, Commander,” Vaughn interrupted again. “I notice your briefing is filled with a hell of a lot of ‘maybes’ and ‘we thinks.’ is there anything about the Russkies you’re sure of?”

“Intelligence work is largely guesswork, Admiral,” Neil said stiffly.

“Educated guesswork, to be sure, but still guesswork. OZ Div has assembled the best picture they can from various-“

“Guesses, huh? Well I guess that tells us something about our intelligence department, eh, boys?”

There were subdued chuckles from the front row of chairs, but the rest of CVIC remained cold and silent. Neil ran a hand through his short red hair and decided to press ahead.

“We have tentatively identified the other ships of the Soviet squadron.

An Oscar-class nuclear attack sub, no known name. A second Kotlin-class DD, the Vliyatelnyy. Two Krivak I-class ASW frigates, Letushiy and Svirepyy. Washington’s assessment of SOVINDRON is that it is a tight, well-run, highly disciplined squadron,” he said. “The Soviet frigates do not have the range or sensitivity of our ASW ships, and they lack helicopter capability. However, they are probably the most heavily armed frigates afloat, with SA-N-4 Gecko missiles and large torpedo and gun batteries. They are highly versatile and could be deployed in an antiair role as well as for ASW.”

Vaughn snorted with open contempt. Neil paused, then plunged ahead, wondering if Vaughn was going to let him complete the briefing.

“The destroyers are old designs — mid-fifties — but have been partly converted to missile configurations. The cruiser will be a definite asset to the battle group. He, excuse me, she mounts a twin launcher for the SA-N-3 Goblet, and two quad launchers for SS-N-14 Silex antisub missiles. Both weapons can double in an antiship role. I … sir?”

Admiral Vaughn was standing. “Commander, this isn’t getting us anywhere. I think we all know that the Russkies aren’t going to pull their own weight out here, not if it comes to a stand-up fight. Let’s hear what the Indians have.”

Neil swallowed his anger. “Yes, sir. Phil? Let’s go to number twelve.” It took a moment for the projectionist to skip ahead several slides and find the first one dealing with Indian ships. As he waited, Neil summarized the Indian forces.

“As I’m sure you’re all aware, India has designs on being the number-one power in the Indian Ocean littoral. They have the third largest standing army in the world, the fifth largest air force, and the eighth largest navy. While we will be primarily concerned with their naval capability, we have to keep in mind that the Indians will be able to support their naval operations against us with a sizable fraction of their ground-based air force. All together, the IAF maintains some 960 combat aircraft. The Indian navy consists of at least sixty combat aircraft, including twenty-six attack helicopters. Of course, these one-thousand-plus aircraft are spread out over the whole Indian subcontinent, and the majority are already tied down in action against Pakistan. Our best guess …” He hesitated. “Our best approximation is that the Indians can deploy between one and two hundred aircraft of various types against us here at Turban Station.”

Another aircraft carrier flashed on the screen behind him, an odd-looking ship with a long island and a massive, up-swept hump at the bow end of her flight deck.

“Okay. Here we go. India currently has two aircraft carriers, gentlemen,” Neil said. “This is their latest, the Viraat. The name means “Mighty’ in Hindi. Her displacement is almost 24,000 tons. She has an illustrious history. Originally, she was the British Hermes, one of the two Brit carriers that supported the Royal task force in the Falklands campaign. The British sold her to the Indians in ‘86.

“For a while, the Indians operated her as a commando carrier and later used her for ASW. That ski jump you see forward lets her handle Sea Harrier V/STOL aircraft. Until recently, she carried one six-plane Sea Harrier squadron, plus a number of helicopters, but Intelligence believes the Indians have been upgrading her capabilities. Last year they completed purchase of thirty additional Sea Harriers from the British, and many of those are probably destined for the Viraat. She also still has provisions for 750 troops and carries four landing barges to facilitate landing operations. Next.” A new slide appeared on the screen.

“The other Indian carrier is the Vikrant. She started off as a World War II-era Glory-class carrier, the HMS Hercules. She was purchased by India in 1957. She’s smaller than Viraat — only 15,700 tons — but she carries six Sea Harriers. Vikrant is scheduled to be replaced by a 40,000-ton, Indian-built carrier sometime later in the late nineties, but that one’s not off the drawing board yet.”

Neil went on with a rundown of the Indian navy, concentrating on the warships known to be operating out of Arabian Sea ports. There was one nuclear sub, the Chakra — a Charlie I-class vessel on loan from the Soviet Union, but it was unlikely that the Indians would be in the mood to trust the Soviet technicians aboard her during the current crisis.

There was a new Soviet Kresta-II cruiser, the Kalikata, recently arrived at Bombay. All together, the Indian navy included over fifty capital ships, plus numerous missile and patrol boats, auxiliaries, and the like.

As he continued speaking, he was distracted by the sight of Admiral Vaughn leaning over to the captain at his side, apparently in deep conversation.

Just what the hell was going on with the flag staff today anyway? It was as though Vaughn simply didn’t care … or at least felt that the information was superfluous. It was impossible not to make comparisons with Admiral Magruder. That man might not always have agreed with OZ assessments, but at least he listened. And his questions had always been good ones, sharp and to the point.

Vaughn’s indifference sent an icy tingle down Neil’s spine, and he could sense that it was affecting the other officers in CVIC as well. Did he simply distrust his own intelligence department? Or was this something more than that, something deeper?

Neil didn’t know, but he knew that Vaughn’s attitude was being marked by the others, and that it could be deadly to the mission, to the men.

Deadlier, perhaps, than a third Indian carrier.