Blackmail

84 ARABIAN SEA

On USS Truman’s Flight Deck, Lieutenant Commander Bill Houston, call sign Samurai, waited in the cockpit of his F/A-18E Super Hornet. He’d lost count of how many times he’d returned to the carrier for rearming and refueling. To save time, Truman’s crew was hot pumping, refueling his jet with the engines still running, one at a time. Houston kept the port engine running while they refueled starboard, then they’d reverse the procedure for port. Meanwhile, Ordies were attaching more ordnance to his fighter, all air-to-air missiles this time, as he’d be heading out to engage the Indian air wings.

Wisps of smoke occasionally drifted across the Flight Deck, partially obscuring his vision. Although most of the black smoke was pouring from the aircraft carrier’s port side, blowing away from the ship as it rose skyward, some leaked from the elevators on starboard as the crew battled the fires raging inside the ship. He had to give credit to Truman’s crew, keeping the aircraft carrier operational despite the extensive damage.

Truman’s crew completed refueling and rearming Houston’s aircraft, and the yellow-shirted Shooter guided him toward CAT One, the starboard bow catapult. Houston pulled up beside his new wingman, Lieutenant Dave Hernandez, call sign TexMex, who had just dropped his launch bar into CAT Two. It was an ill omen for the Mexican from Texas. Houston had lost two wingmen already, one during the night and another one this morning. Perhaps the third time would be the charm.

Houston dropped his launch bar into CAT One’s shuttle hook, and the Flight Deck crew verified his aircraft was ready for launch. The Shooter then lifted his arm skyward, then back down to a horizontal position, directing Houston to kick in the afterburners. Houston pushed the throttles past the détente, then turned toward the Shooter and saluted. The Shooter returned the salute, then bent down and touched the deck, but not before Houston caught the reflection of the Rising Sun off the canopy of his aircraft.

Thus far, Houston hadn’t needed the reflective tape affixed to his helmet, having made it back to Truman after each mission rather than splashing into the ocean. He hoped it wasn’t a premonition, catching the reflection just before takeoff. He didn’t have much time to dwell on the matter, however. The operator in the Catapult Control Station took his cue from the Shooter and the starboard catapult fired; six hundred pounds of steam sent Houston’s aircraft streaking toward Truman’s bow. As Houston climbed to ten thousand feet, TexMex pulled up alongside and both jets headed east.

It wasn’t long before Houston and Hernandez reached the task force perimeter, joining what remained of the combat air patrol. The original thirty-two F/A-18s had engaged over twice that number of Indian fighters, and Samurai and TexMex brought the total number of F/A-18s aloft to twenty. Houston checked his AN/APG-79 radar display, noting four more aircraft on their way out, including a pair from Reagan. The heavily damaged carrier was back in business. That was good news, as there were another thirty-five Super Hornets returning from the assault on the Russian surface ships, and the Flight Deck crews could refuel and rearm them only so quickly.

Samurai and TexMex joined the northern end of the combat air patrol, which was strung out on a north-to-south line facing the three Indian strike groups. It was quiet for the time being, as the Indian aircraft returned to their carriers to refuel and rearm. The reprieve was welcomed, as the additional Super Hornets trickled in from Truman and Reagan. However, the reprieve drew to a close when the three Indian air wings assembled above their carriers, then headed west.

As the Indian aircraft approached, Houston counted them up. Forty-seven aircraft. They’d lost twenty-five on their last assault, compared to fourteen F/A-18s lost. The odds were still two to one, though, with the combat air patrol now up to twenty-four Super Hornets. The three Indian air wings combined again, and it took only a few minutes to close the distance.

Samurai and the other F/A-18s fired two volleys of AMRAAM missiles as the two air wings approached each other, then evaded a barrage of incoming missiles. Moments later, the thirty-eight remaining Indian aircraft slammed into the twenty remaining American fighters, and the sky was filled with a dizzying array of aircraft and missiles as pilots dispensed chaff and targeted enemy fighters while weaving past exploding aircraft and streaking missiles.

This time, however, the Indian fighters didn’t continue in toward the American task force. They had learned their lesson the last time, taking a beating from the American combat air patrol despite their numerical superiority. For this assault, every Indian fighter was fully armed with air-to-air missiles and they remained engaged with the F/A-18s. Their objective became clear: they were going to wipe out the American CAP.

The sky began to thin and the hectic melee degenerated into individual dogfights. Houston did well, shooting down two Indian fighters, and as the second one splashed into the ocean, his wingman’s voice broke across his headset.

“Samurai, tally two bandits on your six!”

Houston glanced at his APG-79 radar display, locating the two Indian fighters settling in behind him. “I see ’em,” he replied.

TexMex said, “I can’t help. I’m tied up with two of my own.”

Samurai spotted his wingman headed south with two bandits in trail, then banked hard right to bring his Super Hornet around toward the two Indian aircraft behind him. He flicked a switch on his flight stick during the turn, selecting another AMRAAM. As his F/A-18 came around, he identified the two bandits as MiG-29Ks and targeted the closest one.

He fired the AMRAAM and its internal radar took over, locking on to the MiG-29. The Indian fighter dispensed chaff and banked hard left, but the AMRAAM detected the aircraft speeding away from the chaff and adjusted course. As the missile sped toward the evading aircraft, Samurai turned his attention to the second MiG-29. It had launched one of its missiles, which Bitching Betty dutifully notified him of—“Missile inbound!”—and Samurai’s Radar Warning Receiver identified as a radar-homing Vympel R-77.

There was an explosion to Samurai’s left. His AMRAAM had found its target, with the missile and MiG-29 morphing into a cloud of fire and shrapnel. There was no time to celebrate, as the R-77 was closing fast. Houston dispensed a burst of chaff, then banked right and inverted, turning his F/A-18 upside down. Pulling back on his flight stick, he streaked down toward the water, away from his chaff. The R-77 continued toward the reflective cloud of aluminum-coated fibers, passing through it. After verifying the missile lost track of his aircraft, Houston pulled back on his flight stick, leveling off at eight thousand feet, headed back toward the incoming MiG-29 as Bitching Betty alerted again.

“Missile inbound!”

The MiG-29 pilot had fired a second R-77 during Houston’s maneuver, and the missile was already dangerously close. Houston selected another AMRAAM and fired at the Indian jet, then dispensed a second round of chaff and banked hard right again. The R-77 stayed locked on to Houston’s F/A-18, veering toward his aircraft as it ignored the chaff. Houston dispensed another round and banked hard left, looking through his canopy to see if the chaff worked.

This time, the chaff deployment was a success; the missile stayed locked on to the reflective aluminum fibers. He was about to return his attention to the MiG-29 when Bitching Betty alerted a third time. Houston’s APG-79 identified this missile as an infrared homing R-73. The MiG-29 had worked its way behind Houston, and after watching two radar-homing missiles fail, the pilot had shifted to a heat-seeker.

Samurai dispensed a round of infrared decoys, then banked hard right, but the missile stayed locked on, swiftly closing the last few hundred yards. Houston tried another burst of infrared decoys and a hard bank to the left, but the missile remained locked on to the larger heat signature of the F/A-18’s twin engines.

Houston banked hard left again just as the missile reached his aircraft, and a bright flash was accompanied by the sound of shrapnel tearing through his aircraft. Samurai’s F/A-18 began trailing orange flames and black smoke from its starboard engine as Bitching Betty informed him of the obvious.

“Engine right! Engine right!”

Another engine gone, Samurai thought. This time, however, he wouldn’t make it back to the carrier. In addition to an engine on fire, Houston’s flaps were damaged and he had difficulty maintaining a straight course. His F/A-18 was shuddering and losing altitude rapidly, despite pushing his left engine to maximum power.

Being half Japanese and with his aircraft going down, Houston entertained the thought, if only for a few seconds, of a kamikaze attack. However, there were no enemy surface ships nearby and better judgment prevailed anyway. He reached between his knees and pulled the ejection handle beneath his seat. The canopy’s explosive bolts blew, sending the top of his cockpit spiraling away, and Houston was blasted into the air along with his seat.

After his parachute opened and he began drifting toward the ocean, Houston realized that the reflective tape on his helmet was going to come in handy.