Cauldron

CHAPTER 14 Narrow Margin

European developments dominated CNN’s afternoon news wrap-up.

“Furious at Washington’s plans to ship more arms to Poland and the Czech Republic, the European Confederation’s fledgling Foreign Secretariat issued a stinging condemnation at a hastily called press conference in Paris.”

The camera view cut away from the Atlanta anchor desk to a prerecorded clip taped hours earlier outside the French Foreign Ministry. Sheltered from a spring drizzle by umbrellas held aloft by his aides, an unidentified official stood reading a prepared statement in French. An English-accented voice translated his angry words for American viewers. “The Confederation utterly rejects this latest cynical attempt by the United States to inject itself in Europe’s internal affairs. At a time of unfortunate rising tensions, it is an act of madness to ship more weapons to a region already bristling with arms. If this regrettable confrontation explodes out of hand, it will be the United States itself which has furnished the gasoline and struck the match…”

The scene shifted to a military airfield identified by caption only as being somewhere in “Northern Germany.” Crewmen could be seen working on several camouflaged warplanes, while other jets taxied past them in the background. Patrolling soldiers and guard dogs were visible near a barbed-wire fence in the distance. An off-camera reporter narrated this segment. “While its diplomats express their outrage at the administration’s actions, the EurCon Defense Secretariat is taking sterner measures. CNN has learned that several squadrons of German and French combat aircraft have been placed on a higher state of alert. A high-ranking Secretariat official characterizes this as a ’sound precautionary move, given the large number of American warships now operating so close to our northern coast.’”

Eight ships raced southeast at high speed, slicing through long, gray-green waves rolling steadily eastward. A long line of low-lying dark clouds stretched across the western horizon behind them — the leading edge of a slow-moving storm they’d punched through while rounding the northern tip of Scotland.

Four of the vessels were massive SL-7 container ships, each nearly a thousand feet long but still able to move at thirty-three knots. Together the freighters carried enough M1 Abrams tanks, M2 Bradley infantry fighting vehicles, artillery pieces, helicopters, spare parts, and ammunition to completely refit a Polish mechanized brigade. They were ringed by four sleek, antenna-studded U.S. Navy warships — two Aegis-class guided-missile cruisers, Leyte Gulf and Monterey; John Barry, a Burke-class guided-missile destroyer; and an improved Spruance-class destroyer, Conolly.

Task Group 22.1 was a powerful force to guard just four cargo ships, far more powerful than standard naval doctrine would have dictated. With tensions in Europe still climbing, Washington was using this arms convoy to send a strong signal to the leaders in Paris and Berlin: America would not back away from its Polish and Czech allies. Not even under growing EurCon pressure.

Vice Admiral Jack Ward lowered his binoculars, satisfied by what he could see from Leyte Gulf’s bridge wing. He’d been working the whole group incessantly since their mid-Atlantic rendezvous, running drill after drill against every imaginable threat. Now all that hard work was starting to pay off. Even the civilian-manned container ships were keeping station with almost military precision.

The admiral was a middling-tall man with broad shoulders and a long reach that had served him well as a boxer at the Naval Academy. Snow-white hair topped a tanned, square-jawed face that only turned red when he was ready to jump down somebody’s throat. That didn’t happen often, just often enough to keep his subordinates on their toes.

Since joining the fleet during the mid-sixties, Ward had seen steady, if not spectacular, promotion. Along the way he’d attended all the right staff and command schools, held several commands both ashore and afloat, and managed to finagle more sea duty than any of his contemporaries. For the admiral, being a sailor meant being aboard a warship at sea — not confined to sailing a desk or navigating the Pentagon’s labyrinthine corridors.

Now he commanded Task Force 22, the collection of American warships assigned to provide escorts for the oil and LNG tankers keeping Poland and the Czech and Slovak republics alive. Task Group 22.1 and their charges was only one of several similar formations under his control.

His cruisers, destroyers, and frigates had been hard at work for more than six weeks now, shepherding the mammoth floating bombs from Scotland and Norway through the narrow straits to Gdansk. At first, their biggest problems had come when Greenpeace demonstrators tried chaining themselves to the tankers or forming small boat blockades. Lately, though, his captains had been reporting increasing Franco-German air and naval activity — barely disguised harassment, really — along the sea approaches to the Baltic.

Ward was expecting even more trouble this time. Egged on by their political leaders, EurCon’s military commanders were taking more serious measures to turn their anger into action. Over the past several days, they’d stepped up their air patrols over the Atlantic and the North Sea, put several squadrons of maritime attack aircraft on higher states of alert, and sortied an unusually large number of diesel and nuclear submarines. But it was all part of the same dangerous game of intimidation they’d been playing with his oil and gas convoys. Probably.

The admiral frowned. He didn’t scare easily. Of course, he also didn’t plan on making his opposing numbers’ lives any easier. That was why he’d brought this convoy around Scotland rather than through the English Channel. The SL-7s were so fast that going the extra distance cost very little time. And taking the northern route avoided the bulk of the French coast — making it that much more difficult for EurCon’s search planes to find them.

Ward looked up as a bright light began flashing from the closest destroyer, John Barry.

He checked his watch. Probably the noon position report.

All communications between his ships were being passed the old-fashioned way, either by signal flags or by blinker light. Task Group 22.1 was operating in EMCON, or emission control. Traveling in radio and radar silence would make the convoy harder for the French or Germans to find. The less they knew about his position, course, and speed, the happier he was.

Naturally, the closer the group got to the funnel called the Skagerrak, the easier it would be to find. But then it wouldn’t matter so much. With their own trade lifelines at risk, Denmark and Sweden were enforcing strict operating restrictions on ships and aircraft near the straits. And with both EurCon and U.S. diplomats wooing the two countries, neither side wanted trouble there. No, the only place with enough room for real monkey business was the North Sea. Here.

Ward took one last breath of crisp, clean salt air and left the bridge wing, headed for Leyte Gulf’s CIC. It was time to settle down to business. The boatswain’s announcement “Admiral’s left the bridge” followed him as he headed for the ship’s brain.

The days when opposing ships met yardarm-to-yardarm were long gone. Modern naval battles were fought at long range by men hunched over computer displays in darkened, air-conditioned compartments.

CIC was one deck down, behind a door with a cipher-key lock on it. A brass plaque proudly proclaimed the ship’s name, builder, and dates of launching and commissioning. As he punched the combination and pushed the door open, he stepped into a different world.

The darkened space was crammed with equipment, its huge size hidden by row after row of displays and panels. Two “alleys,” lined with consoles on either side, ran almost the full length of the space. Capping the alleys at one end were four special consoles for Ward and Leyte’s captain in the center, and their watch officers on the sides.

Equipment didn’t just cover the deck. Overhead, TV screens replaced the old Plexiglas and grease-pencil status boards, displaying ship’s status, contacts, the Aegis computer’s health, and other vital information. TV cameras mounted fore and aft showed views of the bow and stern, while any spot on the overhead not already used held pencil-beam lights, air-conditioning equipment, or mysterious gray boxes filled with electronics. While the space was neatly laid out, it was so jammed with gear that Ward’s first impression was that he had somehow stepped inside a piece of electronic equipment.

He nodded to his staff watch officer, Commander Miller, and the ship’s tactical action officer. These two posts were always manned, and they would have to “fight the ship” if a threat suddenly appeared. Before sitting in his own chair, he scanned the displays, trying to understand their situation.

Laid out in front of the command consoles were four huge computer screens, each four feet square and able to show any part of the world that an operator desired. Right now they seemed almost blank — robbed of input by the group’s EMCON status.

They showed a computer-generated map of the North Sea, overlaid with symbols showing the estimated positions of reported air, surface, and subsurface contacts. A cluster of eight symbols in the center of each screen showed “TG22.1.” Several officers and men were busy constantly updating the display from the sources they did have — visual sighting reports and even long-range sonar contacts.

Some of the data they were using came from the Task Group’s passive sensors. While Ward’s ships were electronically silent, they were still listening with every antenna they had. Emissions from EurCon’s search planes and ships could be analyzed and dissected to reveal their bearings and their identities. The information gathered by passive sensors was never very precise, but it was better than nothing. John Barry even mounted a special intelligence-collection van on her fantail. The admiral wasn’t privy to exactly what went on in there, but he knew the van carried enough electronics equipment to spy on the little green men on Mars, if the operators wanted to. Most of the data they gathered would go straight back to the Joint Chiefs. The Pentagon wanted to know just how well the French and the Germans were working together. How closely did they cooperate? How did they manage tactical communications? Were EurCon’s armed forces still using standard NATO tactics or were they developing new methods?

Other pieces of the information came from the British. Royal Navy and RAF units were scouring the region — shadowing their French and German counterparts, or complicating matters for the EurCon searchers by giving them more potential targets to track and identify.

He settled into the chair and put on his headset. As he listened to the calm, businesslike interplay, Ward studied the screen, trying to see the pattern behind what appeared at first to be a random scattering of EurCon planes, ships, and submarines. There was a pattern, he was sure. There must be. It took careful planning to mount an efficient sea search — to formulate a precise, synchronized ballet that took into account varying scouting platform speeds, endurances, sensor ranges, and the weather. Guessing the next moves in that intricately choreographed dance might help him spot a gap big enough for Task Group 22.1 and its four valuable charges to slip through undetected. Or, failing that, he might be able to tear open the hole he needed — using British vessels as decoys to lure the hunters off target.

Pieces of the puzzle started falling slowly into place. Most of EurCon’s assets seemed to be concentrated further south, along the approaches to the English Channel. They were mounting an aerial sweep northward to cover the waters between Britain and Norway, but the coverage seemed tentative, almost incomplete. Odd…

An enlisted man operating the electronic warfare console sat bolt upright. His voice betrayed a little excitement, but he still kept his report precise. “Racket bearing one six five. Evaluated as Iguane airborne radar. Strong signal. Time one two one nine.” A symbol appeared on the display, and selecting it, Ward saw a line of bearing appear, running from Leyte Gulf out in the direction the radar had been detected. There was no telling exactly how far away the plane carrying that radar was, but a strong signal meant it was probably close — too close.

Miller, seated to his left, scanned his own console and nodded. “An Atlantique, sir.”

Damn. The French Atlantique was a long-range patrol plane similar to the U.S. Navy’s P-3C Orion. Ward checked the display. Nothing showed. No earlier sightings or distant radar emissions that correlated. For all practical purposes this guy had materialized out of nowhere. Hell, that EurCon pilot out there must have been hugging wave tops since takeoff. He suppressed a quick flash of admiration for the flying skill that showed, and asked a single question. “Does he have us spotted?”

“Probably, sir. Signal strength is still increasing.”

Another operator passed word over the circuit. “We’re picking up a high-frequency radio transmission, sir. Same bearing as the radar.”

Ward scowled. The Atlantique must be radioing in a contact report. Terrific. They’d been tagged. He looked at the plot again. The French plane had to be close. And it was flying in from a direction he’d picked out earlier as a possible gap in the EurCon search pattern. Either French sensors were better than the navy’s intelligence community thought they were, or some Frog staff officer had practically read his mind.

Well, that was something to ponder later. Right now he had bigger fish to fry, or at least to illuminate. He caught the TAO’s eye and nodded. “Okay, Jerry, light ’em off. Tell the Task Group to energize all radars and data links. Let’s see just what we’re up against.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” The lieutenant commander spoke softly into his microphone, passing orders to his own ship and the others in the formation. Ward also heard him inform Leyte’s captain of the change in the ship’s status.

The tempo picked up in CIC as screen after screen came to life. The main display suddenly filled with hundreds of air and sea contacts, quickly sorted out by the Aegis system’s computers. Most commercial aircraft carried radar transponders that identified them as such, while friendly military aircraft could be identified down to type and side number. EurCon military aircraft also carried transponders, but they would only answer to their own coded transmissions.

Task Group 22.1’s data links were as important as its radars. The links allowed computers on each ship to communicate with each other, sharing information on targets and weapons status. Since they required the use of radio, they had been shut down to avoid detection. Once the data links were active, the group’s cruisers and destroyers could fight welded into a single, integrated unit instead of operating as a loosely knit team.

Ward focused on the main screen, looking for the snooper who’d picked them up. A small inverted vee shape showed the position of the EurCon Atlantique, while a line from it showed its course and speed. The patrol plane was sixty miles out, orbiting at medium altitude. In wartime, he could have had that aircraft shot from the sky in moments. Now all he could do was watch it pace his convoy, counting, classifying, and reporting.

He glanced toward his staff watch officer again. “We need more information, so let’s go out and get it. Throw a picket line of helos out in front of us.”

Within minutes, three SH-60 Seahawk helicopters — half the group’s total strength — were clattering away to the east, southeast, and south. Once on station, they would form a picket line sweeping eighty miles out in front of the formation before turning back to refuel. Although Leyte Gulf’s SPY-1 radar could pick out large targets at high altitude up to several hundred miles away, it couldn’t spot smaller warplanes or missiles flying low until they came over the horizon, just fifty miles away. Not even a phased array radar could see through the earth itself. Deploying the Seahawks with their own data-linked radars, ESM gear, and sharp-eyed crews gave the group that much more warning time.

“Advise CINCLANTFLT that we expect company shortly. And contact the British. See if they can rustle up some kind of top cover for us.”

Ward would have preferred having U.S. Navy fighters flying overhead on combat air patrol. They were used to working with Aegis-equipped ships. But there weren’t any F-14 Tomcats or F-18 Hornets available. The nearest American aircraft carrier was still far out in the North Atlantic — nearly a thousand miles away. Reluctant to escalate tensions any further, Washington had ruled out committing a carrier battle group to the North Sea. He understood the politics involved. He just didn’t like the naked feeling he got operating without the aviators backing him up.

He had one more order for Commander Miller. “Have the formation go to general quarters.” Moments later, he heard the shrill boatswain’s pipe and the klaxon.

Lieutenant Dan Maguire, Seahawk 202’s sensor operator, yawned loudly, glad that the noise he made was swallowed up by the helicopter’s own rattling, pounding roar. Even when you were expecting trouble, flying a long patrol over the ocean could be boring. They were seventy miles and one hour out from Task Group 22.1.

Maguire was a short, wiry man, full of energy, in his mid-twenties and with two years of navy experience already under his belt, who found the Seahawk’s comfortable cockpit absolutely roomy. His black hair and dark, Irish looks were well hidden behind a flight helmet and visor.

He scanned the glowing displays in front of him in a rapid, practiced sequence. The Seahawk was a sensor platform as much as anything else — a long-range and mobile pair of eyes and ears for U.S. Navy formations. It carried a surface search radar, magnetic anomaly detection gear, or MAD, to spot the metal in a submerged submarine’s hull, and ESM, electronic intercept equipment, which told them the direction and type of any hostile radars.

“Anything interesting?”

Maguire glanced up from his instruments. The pilot of 202, Lieutenant Peter Chen, was busy with his own checks — keeping an eye on his flight instruments and periodically sweeping the sky and sea around them. “Nope. Plenty of surface contacts, but they’re all fishing trawlers or merchants. ESM shows nothing but low-power nav radars out there.”

“How about the Atlantique?”

“Still orbiting.” Maguire jerked his head to the left. “Over there. Off to port about ten miles.”

At that distance the twin-engine French aircraft was just a barely visible dot. Sunlight winked off its wings as it made another slow, lazy turn.

Maguire and Chen had flown together for six months now, and were a good match. Maguire knew his gear inside and out, while Chen was incessantly curious. In another time Maguire could easily imagine Chen, also short and wiry, on horseback, scouting for the enemy, riding the same way he flew the Seahawk, darting, probing, searching. Chen even bragged about being half-Mongol, on his mother’s side.

Maguire studied his sensors again. The radar display still showed the same scattered array of slow-moving ships. He froze. No, it didn’t. There were new blips near the edge of the screen — blips that were coming closer fast. He clicked his radio mike.

“Leyte Gulf, this is Seahawk 202. Many high-speed bogies bearing one seven six, forty miles, level zero!”

He heard the cruiser’s antiair warfare coordinator acknowledge the contact report and made sure the helo’s data link was working properly. It was. The men waiting in the Task Group’s darkened CICs were seeing everything he was.

“Bogies still bearing one seven six. Range now three five. Speed six hundred.”

The Seahawk turned and lost altitude, sliding down toward the ocean. The incoming planes would have to pass right by it on their way to the convoy. With luck, the helicopter’s two crewmen might be able to make a visual identification.

Maguire kept his eyes glued to the radar screen, still calling out rapidly decreasing ranges and a steady bearing. Chen leveled out five hundred feet above the water and watched the southern horizon.

“Range six. See ’em yet?”

“No… yes!” Chen saw three groups of four aircraft straight ahead. They were flying lower than the helo and growing larger every second. “Jesus, Dan, they’re coming in right on the deck.”

“Can you identify them, 202?” Leyte Gulf’s antiair coordinator asked.

“Negative. Hold on. Bogies are climbing… Christ!”

Engines roaring at full thrust, the EurCon jets screamed right over them — rocketing past with barely one hundred feet to spare. Eight were big-tailed, two-seater aircraft with German crosses painted on their fuselages and white missiles hung beneath their swept-back wings. The four trailing aircraft were marked with the tricolor roundel. Chen fought to regain control as the Seahawk, caught in their wake, rocked violently up and down before plunging toward the sea below.

Maguire grabbed his shoulder straps with one hand and keyed his mike with the other. “Bogies are Tornados and Rafales! Tornados are armed! Repeat, the Tornados are armed.”

Maguire hung on, ignoring the information dancing across his display screens. Attacking German aircraft were something you saw in old war movies. Were they really going to do it all over again?

Twelve arrowhead shapes appeared on the CIC’s main display. The incoming German attack jets and their French fighter escorts had finally been detected by the Aegis system as they climbed above the radar horizon. They were just sixty-six miles out and still closing. Ward felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.

“ESM warning! Multiple Ku-band radars bearing one seven six!” Even as they matched the bearing with the arrowhead symbols, the electronic warfare operator announced, “Transmissions ceased.” Simultaneously the SPY radar operator reported, “We’ve lost height data. They’ve gone below my horizon.”

Shit. Ward glanced at a smaller side screen, one showing the data-linked radar picture still being broadcast by Seahawk 202. The EurCon aircraft were still boring in. They’d dived back down to the deck, flying close to Mach 1 just above the waves. Because the Seahawk still tracked the aircraft, the computer could continue to show their positions accurately on the display.

He knew exactly what it meant. The Tornados had popped up and turned on their radars just long enough to find the convoy and feed targeting information into the antiship missiles they were carrying. From now on they could fly in low enough to launch an attack in near-perfect safety.

Ward kept his eyes on the Tornados’ symbols. He had the lead plane “hooked,” so that its speed, course, and most important, range were displayed on a small screen in front of him. A small line across the top marked each plane as “engaged.” The Aegis system had locked on and assigned missiles to each aircraft.

Before Task Group 22.1 linked up with the four SL-7 container ships, Washington had issued a warning notice, an “exclusion zone,” consistent with international law. Any aircraft approaching the convoy closer than fifty nautical miles would be fired on.

The Tornados were only sixty miles away now. They were closing at roughly ten miles a minute. He was running out of time to make decisions.

On a long-range, low-altitude mission, each of the eight German attack jets still barreling in could carry two Kormoran 2 antiship missiles. Sixteen missiles launched from close range might be enough to saturate even an Aegis cruiser’s defenses.

The Kormoran 2 had a thirty-nautical-mile range. It would take the Leyte Gulf, Monterey, or John Barry’s SM2 antiaircraft missiles a minute to cover that distance, and it would take another half a minute to launch enough missiles to destroy the German aircraft carrying the Kormorans. That meant that once the Tornados crossed the fifty-mile line, Ward would have just thirty seconds to decide whether or not to start a war.

Fifty-five miles. His mouth felt dry. Turning his head, he could see his missile engagement controller’s hand hovering over the console, waiting for a command.

Fifty-three miles. Any second now.

On the main display, the lines showing the Tornados’ course and speed suddenly shortened, then started to turn. In one moment they were definitely pointing away from the formation. In the next they were ninety degrees off of their original course. He glanced at the small screen in front of him. They were definitely slowing and turning, and the SPY radar held them again. The Tornados and their Rafale escorts were climbing. They were turning away!

Ward breathed out. He’d been granted a reprieve. The EurCon planes had only been conducting a “live” exercise. It was harassment, but also training in its purest form, for both sides. The men in Paris and Berlin didn’t want a shooting war — at least not yet.

The map and radar displays in Leyte Gulf’s CIC showed the Polish coast just ninety miles ahead. Task Group 22.1 and its four laden charges were four hours away from Gdansk.

Ward sipped a scalding-hot cup of coffee, his fifth in as many hours, and pondered the situation. Since that first mock air attack, EurCon’s commanders had thrown everything they had at his convoy — more aircraft, diesel submarines, small missile attack boats, armed helicopters, even surface groups of German destroyers and frigates. It reminded him of the sixties and early seventies. He had been a junior officer then, serving in the Mediterranean. For years the U.S. Sixth Fleet and the Soviet Fifth Eskadra had played hardball, seeing just how far each could push the other. Now old allies were playing the same dangerous game with each other. EurCon played the game well, even better than the Russians.

At least the confrontations were useful training for his bleary-eyed crews. With the fragments of the Russian Navy now staying very close to home, America’s warships had the world’s oceans pretty much to themselves during the past several years. Each nerve-racking brush with a potentially hostile force lent new urgency and new impetus to the group’s combat and damage control drills.

The four-day-long simulated “battle” had taught him to regard submarines as the biggest EurCon threat. With enough warning and enough sea room for maneuvering, his three Aegis-armed ships could fend off most air or missile attacks. Finding and sinking enemy subs in these confined waters was a very different story.

By definition, modern submarines were designed to be unseen and unheard killing machines. Anyone trying to hunt them had to sort out the soft sounds made by their propellers and machinery from a confusing mix of background, or ambient, noise. Since both the North Sea and the Baltic were so shallow, even a little chop on the surface could raise the ambient noise level significantly. Add to that the engine sounds made by all the other military and civilian ships operating in the area and the weird sounds of marine life and you had a real mess. Without deep water for their towed arrays, his sonar crews were like deaf men straining to hear serpents slithering through a boiler factory.

And an undetected submarine attacking from close range could smash the convoy with a spread of wire-guided torpedoes or submerged-launched missiles.

As a result, every time his antisubmarine warfare coordinator reported a half-reliable sonar contact, Ward had been forced to turn the entire Task Group away from it — zigzagging back and forth at high speed. They’d lost several hours that way, but he considered the time well spent. The key to defeating torpedo attacks was to stop subs from ever getting close enough to launch them.

He’d also had the antisubmarine air controller, the ASAC, drive his overworked helicopter pilots all over the area, dropping strings of active sonar buoys. Pinging the hell out of a detected submarine was a good way to keep its skipper more worried about survival than about conducting any attacks.

As far as Ward could tell, the combination of maneuver and aggressive ASW patrolling had worked. No French or German sub had been able to get within firing range of his ships.

“New air contacts, Admiral. Bearing two five five. Range eight zero and closing.” After four days under almost constant pressure, his chief of staff’s voice was strained and hoarse.

Ward downed the rest of his coffee in one swift gulp and focused on the display. Symbols showed the new EurCon aircraft. Others showed aircraft identified as Polish MiG-29s moving to intercept. “Go on.”

“Sierra Foxtrot evaluates the bogies as Mirage 2000s mixed with more Luftwaffe Tornados. He’s vectoring the Poles in to chase them away.”

The admiral nodded. Sierra Foxtrot was the call sign for an American E-3 Sentry orbiting over Gdansk. The AWACS plane had been dispatched from its base in Great Britain to coordinate air cover for the convoy once it crossed into the Baltic. He glanced at the young, brown-haired officer standing somewhat uncertainly in the one relatively clear corner of the crowded CIC. Clad in the unfamiliar steel-blue uniform of the Polish Air Force, the major had been helicoptered aboard Leyte Gulf to act as a liaison during Task Group 22.1’s approach to the Polish port city.

Ward and his subordinates monitored the intercept by watching it on radar and listening to it over radio circuits assigned to the Poles and their controllers aboard the circling American E-3. Voices crackled over loudspeakers, distorted by high g-forces as the opposing jets turned and turned tighter still — caught in a swirling, tangled fur ball just above the Baltic.

The admiral frowned. The Polish pilots were doing an effective job, forcing the EurCon strike aircraft and their escorts further and further away from his convoy. But they were taking big risks to do it. His displays showed planes crisscrossing back and forth across each other’s flight paths — often with very little room to spare. Normal safety restrictions were being ignored by both sides. He waved the antiair warfare coordinator over.

“Oh, shit.” The soft, shocked exclamation came from several officers at the same moment.

Ward spun back to the display. Two of the aircraft symbols, one for a Polish MiG, the other for a French Mirage, had just merged — colliding at four hundred knots. Now both were tumbling toward the sea below.

The voices on the radio circuit took on a new urgency. Some were in Polish. Others, emanating from the E-3, were in English.

“Green Two, this is Sierra Foxtrot! Eject! Eject! Get the hell out!”

Both of the stricken aircraft disappeared off Leyte Gulf’s radar.

“Green flight, this is Sierra Foxtrot.” The airborne controller’s voice sounded shaken. “Can anyone see Green Two?”

An angry, accented voice answered. “Negative, Foxtrot. He hit the water. No parachute.”

“What about the Mirage?”

“It’s down, too. No chute, either.”

Ward felt cold. EurCon’s “mock” attacks had just turned deadly.

A new voice came on the radio circuit, furiously demanding something.

Ward saw the Polish liaison officer turn pale. “What the hell’s going on, Major?”

The younger man swallowed hard before replying. “Green Leader is asking for permission to fire!”

“Jesus Christ.” Ward grabbed the antiair coordinator. “Get Sierra Foxtrot on the horn! Tell them to pull the MiGs back! Now!”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

No midair collision was worth a full-scale conflict.

The Mirages and Tornados were changing course, turning back toward Germany. His EurCon counterpart must have come to the same conclusion.

Four hours later, Task Group 22.1 crossed into Polish territorial waters.

Standing on Leyte Gulf’s bridge wing and leaning wearily on the railing, Jack Ward thought that the rust-streaked cranes and shipyards of Gdansk were one of the most beautiful sights in the world. He had accomplished his mission without having to shoot anyone. This time.