Armageddon Mode

CHAPTER 7

The message coming in over Tombstone’s helmet radio was routine but carried with it an undertone of urgency.

“Blue Viper, Blue Viper, this is Victor Tango One-niner,” the voice said, identifying itself as the tactical officer aboard an E-2C Hawkeye radar plane circling in the sky above Turban Station far to the west.

“Identify intermittent bogie, bearing your position zero-six-niner, range one-five-zero.”

“Copy, Victor Tango,” Tombstone replied. Outside of his Tomcat’s cockpit, the last traces of sunset had vanished. The only difference between up and down in the inky blackness was the dusting of stars overhead, brilliant at thirty thousand feet. The red, strobing pulse of Batman’s anticollision lights was visible a quarter mile to starboard.

“Coming to zero-six-niner.”

“Got ‘em, Tombstone,” Dixie said over the Tomcat’s intercom system. One of the ship’s medical officers had rated the young RIO fit for flight status that morning. “God, they’re on the deck and headed straight for the bird farm!”

Tombstone pictured the unfolding situation, like a complex and deadly game, the playing pieces scattered across a board hundreds of miles across. The bogies were coming out of Bombay, one hundred fifty miles to the northeast. A hundred miles southwest lay the Jefferson. Much closer, to the southeast, was the Biddle, still on ASW patrol at the northern fringes of the fleet.

And hanging in the night squarely between the approaching threat and the carrier were the two F-14s on BARCAP.

“Batman! You get all that?”

“Sure did, Boss. Lead the way.”

“Okay, let’s goose it,” Tombstone said. “Going to burner.” He pushed the throttle controls forward, letting the engines roar to full military power. His speed indicator climbed, passing five hundred knots … then six hundred. The fuselage shivered as the F-14 approached the speed of sound, the vibrations building and building until the Tomcat blasted past the sound barrier and into the smooth, silent sky beyond.

Batman paced him, the thunder of their passage trailing behind them.

Colonel Jamall Rajiv Singh studied the screen of his Ferranti Comed, a combined map and electronic display on the console before him. The screen was empty, the enemy target still hidden beyond the curve of the horizon.

But it would not be much longer now. The four aircraft of his command were in position to strike. They required only the final order from Bombay.

His plane was arguably the most modern and deadly attack aircraft in the inventory of the Indian air force, a SEPECAT Jaguar International.

Originally a joint design by the British RAF and the French Armee de Air, the Jaguar International was license-built by HAL in India as a single-seat, all-weather attack aircraft. Slung beneath his wings were a pair of sleek, ship-killing AM.39 Exocet antiship missiles, with a range of almost fifty kilometers.

“Krait, this is Mountain,” a voice in his headset informed him.

“Mountain” was the mission HQ in Bombay. “Execute. Execute. Execute.”

“Mountain, Krait,” Singh replied. The excitement rose inside him, making the reply difficult. “Understood.”

He shifted to the tactical channel. The other Jaguar pilots would have been listening in, but he had to make it official.

“Krait Attack, this is Krait Leader,” he announced. “Come to two-one-zero. The word is execute.”

The command thrilled in his blood, as the other pilots acknowledged. In unison, the four Indian Jaguars screamed toward the American targets at Mach 1.

Admiral Vaughn looked up from the map. “What is it?”

“This just in from VT Nineteen, sir.” Captain Bersticer handed him a printout. “Our BARCAP is closing on the bogies. CIC has ordered them to close and investigate.”

“What?” Vaughn looked up, surprised. “Why wasn’t I consulted?”

Bersticer’s eyebrows shifted upward. “Standard procedure, Admiral.

Those bogies are heading straight for-“

“Damn it, we have explicit orders from Washington not to take any action that could be interpreted as hostile!”

“Those bogies are closing at Mach 1, Admiral,” Bersticer said quietly.

“How close do they have to get before-“

“Order the BARCAP to hold their Position,” Vaughn snapped. “They are not, repeat, not to make any threatening moves toward those bogies.”

“Yes, sir.” Bersticer looked worried.

Well, damn it, Vaughn thought, he was worried too. He clenched his fists in frustration. What would they say in Washington if an international incident was blamed on him? It was possible, even probable that the Indians were deploying as a direct response to the sinking of their submarine the day before. But was it an attack, or bluff? This was definitely a fuzzy gray area of conflict in the political arena that he wanted no part of.

Politics … He thought again of Tom Magruder and suppressed another shudder.

“The word is, ‘hold position,’” Tombstone radioed over the tactical channel.

“Copy that,” Batman replied. He sounded furious. “What in God’s name are they playing at back there?”

“If I knew that, I’d be an admiral.” Tombstone studied the bogies, repeated to his screen from Dixie’s console. Four of them, fading in and out as they arrowed toward the BARCAP aircraft. They were pressing the very limits of the Tomcat’s radar. “Tell you what, Batman. Break high and right. Let’s see if we can clear up the picture some.”

“Roger that. We’re outta here.”

Batman’s aircraft stood on its wing for an instant, and then it was gone, vanished into the darkness. By separating the two aircraft they could get a clearer radar picture of the oncoming bogies.

Minutes passed. The four unidentified radar targets continued to close, a diamond-shaped cluster of four … No, eight points of light. Four more aircraft had been trailing the first four, masked by their radar shadow.

“Victor Tango One-niner, this is Blue Viper Leader,” he called. “Victor Tango One-niner, come in, please. Over.”

After a static-filled moment, the voice of the distant Hawkeye’s tactical officer came on the line. “This is Victor Tango One-niner. Go ahead, Viper Leader.”

“Victor Tango, we have eight, repeat, eight bogies inbound, bearing zero-six-niner. Range nine-two, speed seven-nine-oh knots.”

“Affirmative, Blue Viper. We copy two groups, designation Alpha and Bravo.”

“Roger, Victor Tango. Request weapons free. Repeat, request weapons free.”

“Blue Viper, Victor Tango One-niner. Wait one.”

Tombstone lightly fingered the firing trigger on his stick. The combat load for each Tomcat on tonight’s CAP consisted of two AIM-9M Sidewinders, two AIM-7M Sparrows, and four of the deadly, long-range AIM-54-C Phoenix air-to-air missiles. With the Phoenix they could hit a target up to one hundred twenty miles away.

His heart pounded in his chest. The current rules of engagement called for shooting back only if American planes or ships were fired upon, and only after confirmation from Jefferson’s CIC. But eight high-performance aircraft were on a beeline toward the fleet. No way could they ignore such a threat.

The gloved fingers of his left hand drummed against his thigh. What was the delay? More indecision? Surely the enemy’s intentions were more than clear!

“Victor Tango, Blue Viper. How about that release, over?”

And still the wait dragged on.

Admiral Vaughn had hurried down to the carrier’s Combat Information Center, the better to stay on top of events that were unfolding with bewildering speed.

“From our Hawkeye, Admiral,” Commander Barnes, the CIC officer, said. He stood behind one of the radar consoles, the padded cup of a radio headset pressed over his right ear. “BARCAP requests weapons free.”

“We don’t know they’re going to attack,” Vaughn said. He regretted the words as soon as he said them. Barnes’s mouth twisted in an unpleasant quirk, and several of the other officers in the room, including his own aides, exchanged dark glances.

“Begging the admiral’s pardon,” Captain Bersticer said. “But we sure as hell don’t have any reason to think they’re friendly!”

“Comm!” Vaughn snapped. “Can you contact those aircraft?”

“We can try, sir,” an enlisted rating sitting at one of the consoles said.

“Damn it, Admiral,” Barnes said. “There’s no time …”

“Warn them off.” It was all happening too fast. The best guess was that the incoming bogies were reconnaissance aircraft. How would this be interpreted by Washington?

Maybe it would be better to close with the bogies. Eight of them sounded like something more than a reconnaissance flight.

“Okay,” he said, deciding. “Order the CAP to close for a visual ID. Do you have Washington on the satellite yet?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“Well, get on it! Give them an update on our situation and request instructions.”

“Aye, sir.” Vaughn didn’t like the edge in the enlisted man’s voice.

CIC was air-conditioned, often to the point where it was too cool for the admiral’s comfort. He was sweating now, though. He reached up to loosen the collar of his khaki shirt. What they needed most now was time, but it didn’t look as though they would have that luxury. Not with the bogies closing at Mach 1.2.

Lieutenant Colonel Munir Ramadutta watched the two bogies that had just appeared on his radar screen, well beyond the tight knot of Jaguars his flight was escorting. American CAP aircraft, certainly, probably Tomcats.

He felt a shiver of anticipation. Only the day before, his Fulcrum squadron had been stationed at Jamnagar, escorting bombing strikes against Pakistan from the Kathiawar Peninsula. The transfer to Kurla had been completely unexpected. The orders to escort a strike against American ships off the coast had been more unexpected yet.

Long ago, Ramadutta had decided that it never paid to question the decisions of the politicians who set the country’s course. America could prove to be a formidable foe in war, but New Delhi must have decided that it was necessary to take them on, even while full-scale war was unfolding along the Radcliffe Line.

There were rumors of an Indian sub sunk by the Americans. He wondered if they were true.

“Mountain, this is Krait Cover Leader. Two contacts, probably enemy fighters.”

“Roger, Krait Cover. Proceed with intercept. Engage and destroy.”

That was it, then. “Krait Cover, this is Leader,” he said. “Come to two-five-eight and deploy, wing-and-wing. We’re going in.”

Breaking away from the Jaguars, the four Fulcrums thundered into the night.

The aircraft, two Tomcats and four Mig-29 Fulcrums, closed with each other in the darkness. As Tombstone watched the blips drifting across his VDI, he felt again the eerie sense of unreality that came with engaging an enemy he could not see directly. The night outside the cockpit seemed deceptively clear and quiet.

“Okay, Batman,” Tombstone said. “Just like a football play. Bravo’s the offensive line, Alpha’s their quarterback, We punch past Bravo and go for the guy with the ball.”

“You think the fighters’ll let us go through?”

“I guess that’s what we’re here to find out, isn’t it?”

Was he reading the enemy formation right? Alpha had to be attack planes, Probably Jaguars. Bravo would be Migs, running interference for the ship hunters.

And somehow, he and Batman had to get to the Jaguars before they could launch their Exocets.

Still invisible to one another, save as glowing pinpoints of light, the two groups Of fighters grew closer … merged … “Stoney!” Dixie called over the ICS. “Alpha’s changing course too! New heading one-seven-niner … it’s the Biddle! They’re lining up for an attack on the Biddle!”

Clever. Tombstone could trace the tactics in his mind. Four attack aircraft, four fighters, all dead on course for the carrier.

The carrier’s BARCAP puts itself between them and the carrier, and the fighters break off and crowd the Tomcats to keep them busy. Meanwhile, the attack flight changes course toward another target — less tempting but much closer — the Perry-class frigate U.S.S. Biddle.

“Dixie! What’s the range of Alpha to the Biddle?”

“Coming down to three-five miles, Stoney.”

“That’s it, Dixie! Almost within Exocet range. Too close! We’re not going to screw around with these guys. Select Phoenix, target Alpha.

Batman! You copy?”

“Copy, Tombstone. Weapons hot.”

“Maintain combat spread. Dixie, inform Homeplate that we are engaging Alpha.” He pressed the throttle controls forward to full military power, then clicked past the detents into Zone One afterburner.

Lieutenant Colonel Ramadutta heard the warbling tone in his headset which meant the Americans had just activated their powerful AWG-9 radar.

That could mean only one thing, that the Tomcats were preparing to fire on the Jaguars, now fifty kilometers behind his flight and preparing to launch on the American frigate.

His orders were concise and explicit, to protect the Jaguars at any cost. Swiftly he armed one of his deadly Apex radar homers, listening for the warning buzz of target acquisition. There!

“Mountain, this is Krait Cover Leader. Engaging!”

His finger closed on the trigger and the missile leaped away from his aircraft, trailing white flame. An instant later, his wingman fired a second Apex.

Battle was joined.

“Homeplate, Homeplate, we are under attack!” Tombstone fought the vibration in his Tomcat as he jinked high and left. “Repeat, BARCAP One under attack!”

“Two Missiles, range four miles!” his RIO called.

“Can’t shake ‘em!” Tombstone saw the blips closing on his own VDI, saw the rapid pulse of the console missile-warning light. He rammed the throttles forward, sending the Tomcat’s heavy engines into Zone Five as he turned to face the slightly nearer of the two threats. “Three miles!

Two …”

“Hit the chaff!” He felt the chaff canisters firing, then hauled the Tomcat back until it was standing on its tail. Stars wheeled across the sky through Tombstone’s HUD, unspeakably clear and close as the F-14 climbed past thirty thousand feet.

“We lost one!” Dixie yelled. His excitement was shrill, exuberant.

“Number two climbing to meet us. Range three miles!”

Tombstone dragged the stick over and back, flipping the Tomcat onto its back, then fighting it with a brutal half-twist. As the nose came up, his HUD targeting diamond tagged the oncoming enemy fighter that had fired the second Apex. He thumbed the switch on his stick. There was no time now for confirmation. Only survival … “Going for Sidewinder!” The HUD display showed target lock.

“Gotcha!” He squeezed the trigger and the Sidewinder dropped from its rail, trailing flame into the darkness. “Fox two! Fox two!”

Tombstone pulled the Tomcat into a snap roll that twisted it toward the sea. At the last moment, he saw the exhaust of the oncoming missile, an evil-looking pinprick of yellow light arcing toward him through the night.

“He’s breaking! Tombstone! He’s breaking!” Dixie’s cry brought a relief-driven gust of air from Tombstone’s lungs. By firing a Sidewinder at the other pilot, he’d forced his opponent to turn, breaking the Mig’s radar lock on the Tomcat. And when the approaching missile lost its semi-active guidance lock … “Second missile missed!” Dixie called. “God damn, Tombstone! You know how to push it to the edge!”

A moment later, a flash of white light pulsed against the night. The Sidewinder had found its target.

“Grand slam!” Dixie called. “Victor Tango, splash one! Splash one!”

Only then did Tombstone realize that he’d technically violated the ROES.

He’d been fired at, but he’d not received confirmation from Jefferson for weapons release.

The hell with it, Tombstone thought. It’s time to turn and burn.

Vaughn felt cold … cold … with the icy knowledge that events were now totally beyond his control. When that Tomcat pilot fired without waiting for a weapons-free confirmation, he’d crossed a boundary for the whole damned battle group.

He swallowed, working to stay calm, working to control the gnawing rasp in his stomach. This mess wasn’t his fault. But would Washington understand that?

“What’s going on?” he demanded. “Damn it, who fired first?”

“Hard to make out, sir,” an enlisted rating said. He was relaying radio messages and radar scans transmitted through the circling Hawkeye. The air battle was taking place at the very limit of the E-2C’s range, and information was fragmentary, the picture fuzzy. Confused bursts of noise and bits of conversation came over the loudspeaker mounted high on CICS bulkhead, allowing the tense officers and men standing in the red-lit room to listen in on the unfolding fight.

“Splash one! Splash one!”

The men in CIC broke into a ragged cheer at that. Vaughn scowled.

Despite all he’d been able to do, a dogfight had begun. Transfixed, he stared at the radar feed from the airborne Hawkeye. There was little to be seen, the smear of clouds associated with a weather front to the east, and a tangle of slow-moving blips where the dogfight was taking place between Bombay and the convoy.

“If I may suggest, Admiral,” Barnes said. “We should get some more guns into the area, fast. Before the enemy gets any closer.”

“We have two more F-14s on BARCAP east of the carrier,” Marusko pointed out. “And two more on Alert Five. We’ve got an honest-to-God furball up there, and our boys are going to need some help.”

So there it was. The decision that, either way, would be the mistake the buzzards in Washington would pounce on, once they caught the scent of blood. The order he was about to give might well be the crowning achievement of his career … or the end of it.

But the decision had to be made. “Order the BARCAP to engage,” he said.

“And launch the Alert Five. Confirm weapons release.”

If he’d made a wrong choice he’d end up like Tom Magruder, on the beach and under a cloud. He didn’t like the feeling.