Cauldron

CHAPTER 22 Storm Front

The Defense Ministry meeting room was furnished in a Baroque splendor more appropriate to Versailles or the Élysée Palace. Crystal chandeliers scattered light onto oil paintings and antique furniture. The centerpiece of the room was an almost impossibly long mahogany table, easily big enough to seat thirty people, with space at the sides of the room for their functionaries and attendants.

The room was about half-filled now, a mixture of middle-aged and older men in expensive suits and bemedaled uniforms. Weary of the spartan discomfort of the underground war headquarters at Rochonvillers, and wary of a prolonged absence from Paris, the French members of the Defense Committee had insisted on gathering here.

Now Admiral Henri Gibierge, a solid-looking, almost stout man, prepared to brief them on the naval situation. He was uncomfortable, fidgeting with his briefing book and maps. Although he was the navy’s chief of staff, many of these men wielded far more power than he did. They could make or break careers with a single word.

Some of his nervousness came from facing these exalted figures. The rest arose from the news he had to bring them. A delicate, measured chime from a Baroque clock marked the hour and the start of the meeting.

Gibierge opened briskly. “We believe that the Americans and British will move against us soon — sometime in the next few days. As our ground forces turn north toward Poznan, the Polish government must be issuing increasingly frantic appeals for immediate assistance. And with good cause. Once we take Poznan, two of their five largest cities will be in our hands. That should give the Poles ample reason to seek peace talks on our terms. That and a shortage of fuel, spare parts, and munitions. Intelligence estimates they have only two weeks’ worth of war supplies remaining.”

“We heard that same estimate three days ago, Admiral. Have the Poles found themselves some new savior who can make diesel fuel out of water and tank shells out of stones?” Nicolas Desaix spoke softly, with just enough of an edge to cut into Gibierge’s briefing. His acid tone invited, almost demanded, that the admiral respond.

Gibierge shook his head doggedly, knowing that Desaix despised servile cowardice even more than he disliked being contradicted. “No, Foreign Minister. But the bad weather moving through Poland over the past forty-eight hours has reduced the tempo of all military operations, reducing consumption of critical supplies.”

Several of the uniformed men seated at the table nodded sagely.

Gibierge had many supporters in the ministry. He was a professional, heir to centuries of French military tradition. Rumor had it that he was an arrogant bastard, sure of his abilities, but a competent one nevertheless. The admiral shared Desaix’s vision for France, but he was only one of thousands that did so.

“In addition, we believe the Poles have been stripping supplies and spare parts from their divisions still stationed along the border with Belarus. Naturally those expedients can only be taken so far. Poland’s armed forces will soon reach the end of their logistical rope.”

He left carefully unmentioned the fact that the German and French divisions already deep inside Poland were experiencing their own supply problems. The admiral would let the generals take the heat for their own errors.

Impatiently Desaix nodded and waved the admiral on.

Gibierge returned to his notes. “Present enemy strength includes the entire U.K.-based Royal Navy and Air Force, minus a few planes and small ships that we have already accounted for in action. In addition, the United States has now moved four combat wings and at least two carrier battle groups into the area.” He looked up. “Human intelligence also indicates that advance elements of the American 101st Airborne Division have arrived in England. Other, heavier American divisions are said to be mobilizing or heading for ports of embarkation.”

The admiral frowned. “In short, gentlemen, if the enemy succeeds in opening the surface line of communication through the Baltic to Gdansk, we can expect American ground troops and supplies to pour in. Details are on page four of your briefing books.”

Several men glanced down at the books lying open in front of them. Each of the principals at this meeting had been provided with a bound notebook, labeled “Top Secret” — full of maps, statistics, and other supporting information. No video or computer screens would intrude on the antique splendor of this room. The printed page was much more tasteful.

The rest looked at the admiral expectantly, waiting for him to go on.

“I believe that the Americans and the British, these so-called Combined Forces, have been husbanding their strength — hoarding their ships and planes until they can mount a strong challenge to our control of the Baltic.” He paused. “That time has arrived.

“We have already seen the opening phases of their developing attack. British antisubmarine patrols have been strengthened in the North Sea. We know that American submarines have probed along our coasts. We have also seen a marked upsurge in enemy surveillance flights.” Gibierge was into the rhythm of the briefing now. Even Desaix seemed less impatient.

“When they do attack, we don’t expect anything subtle. They don’t need it. Their strike aircraft outrange ours. They have a greater variety of assets, including cruise missiles and stealth aircraft, which we will find very hard to stop. In some areas, such as submarines, they outclass us in both numbers and individual unit quality.” The admiral hammered each of his points home with a forceful, certain tone. It was essential that he make these men understand the difficulties facing the Confederation’s naval and air forces. Only then could they be persuaded to make the difficult and dangerous decision needed for victory.

“There is little point in further Confederation naval operations in the North Sea. With enemy bases lining both its western and eastern shores, it has become a hostile body of water. We have already lost two of our conventional submarines there, for no appreciable return.

“Our real strength, though, is in the Baltic. Our own bases in Germany and our minefields have made the narrow waters impassable to Combined Forces shipping. Their transport aircraft must use long routes to avoid our fighters. The Americans and the British know that as long as we hold both the Baltic and the North Sea approaches, they cannot effectively resupply the Poles or their other Eastern European allies.”

Gibierge paused again and looked about the room. Fixing his gaze on each man in turn, he said with certainty, “Trying to clear the Baltic by destroying our air and sea bases there and along the North Sea coast is more than the obvious move. It is their only move.”

He shook his head grimly. He had chosen the next words carefully, but there was no way to make it sound good. “And they will succeed.”

The admiral raised his voice a little, cutting off the anticipated questions and protests. “The outcome is almost as certain as the answer to a simple mathematical equation. We have good intelligence about the enemy’s capabilities, and we know the limits of our own resources. The Americans and British have the firepower, both in numbers and technology. The battle will take time, but when it is over we will have lost control of the Baltic. And with it, we will have lost any hope of bringing this war to a swift and victorious conclusion.”

Gibierge focused on Desaix. Of all the formidable men in this room, the Foreign Minister was the most formidable. The others would follow his lead. “Working within those parameters, the naval staff can only see a single option: a massive, concentrated air attack on a single enemy carrier, just as it comes within striking range of our coastline. Destroying one of the two American carriers would significantly weaken their offensive. More important, it would deal a severe political blow to the United States.”

Desaix and the others nodded. With five or six thousand sailors and airmen aboard each carrier, the losses suffered in any sinking would certainly shake American public opinion. They might even turn it against continued intervention in Europe.

All right, Gibierge thought, he’d given them hope. Now to dash those hopes. “Unfortunately this plan will not work, either — not as it stands.”

He could see them sitting up, puzzled, ready to object. “Without long-range missiles with large warheads, any attack on an American carrier battle group would only result in serious aircraft losses for us — with very little chance of success. Soviet anticarrier tactics were based around missiles with ranges of five or six hundred kilometers, equipped with one-ton explosive warheads. Our air-launched weapons are shorter-range and carry warheads only a fraction of that size. So any strike we mount using conventional missiles would require too many planes operating too far from home with too few fighter escorts. America’s Tomcat and Hornet interceptors would chop our attack force to ribbons before it could even fire.”

The admiral straightened to his full height and delivered his own bombshell. “There is one way and only one way to assure success. We must use nuclear weapons.”

The room erupted in a chorus of agitated exclamations all mixed together. Words like “impossible” and “madness” emerged from the confused babble.

Gibierge waited patiently for Defense Committee members to settle down. As he had expected, so did Desaix.

The Foreign Minister fixed Gibierge in a steady gaze, then said, “I would like to hear your reasoning, Admiral.” His tone made it clear that what he really meant was, “This had better be good.”

Gibierge nodded his head. “Of course, Minister.” He’d practically lived with the relevant numbers for the last week. “Our longest-range conventional antiship missile is the ANL, with a range of one hundred eighty kilometers. It is a stealthy, supersonic seaskimmer, and a fearsome antiship weapon. One or two hits will sink a frigate or destroyer. Unfortunately we would need dozens of hits by those same missiles to cripple something as large as a carrier. Penetrating an American battle group’s defenses and achieving that many hits would require at least fifty successful launches. Factoring in likely losses from the enemy’s fighter interceptors, that means we would have to commit four full squadrons of aircraft just as missile carriers. That is too much of our air strength, leaving nothing for the vital supporting roles.

“Our supersonic, nuclear-tipped ASMP nuclear missile has a longer range and mounts a three-hundred-kiloton warhead. And one hit from one missile will obliterate an American aircraft carrier.” He stopped, letting the assembled commanders and politicians savor that.

“The military implications are clear, Admiral, but what about the risk of escalation? After all, the United States has its own nuclear forces — forces that far outmatch ours.” Desaix’s measured tone held no criticism or approval. Gibierge guessed that the jury was still out.

He had expected the Foreign Minister’s question. “If we limit our attacks to naval targets in the open ocean, I do not believe that America will dare use its nuclear weapons against us. The risks are too high and the rewards are too few. Our air and sea bases are largely surrounded by civilian population centers. Striking them would mean killing tens of thousands of innocents. No American or British political leader could authorize such an attack — especially not if we threaten to retaliate in kind. Although our strategic nuclear weapons cannot reach American territory, we could devastate Britain — and they know it.”

The admiral saw Desaix and most of the other committee members nodding. America’s space-based missile defenses couldn’t hope to block all the ballistic missiles fired at such short ranges. Even if they could, the French Air Force possessed enough aircraft-carried nuclear bombs to turn its island neighbor into a radioactive slag heap. A few of the men in the room, mostly Germans, looked horrified at the turn their planning had taken.

Gibierge ignored them. “If the strike works, and there is no reason to think it will not, we can repeat it against the other American carrier.” The admiral felt his own enthusiasm rising again. In his professional opinion, the limited tactical use of nuclear weapons at sea was the only realistic option. Any other course doomed his beloved navy to certain destruction. “The loss of even one battle group will break the back of the Combined Forces offensive. And the Americans and British will not have time to make another effort before Polish and Czech munitions and fuel supplies are exhausted or they come begging for peace.”

From their expressions, Gibierge could tell that his reasoning had convinced many of the assembled military and political leaders. Desaix seemed to have made the same calculation, because he asked, “When could you mount such a strike?”

“Both carriers are in the North Sea now, but they’re well out of our range. I doubt we’ll have a chance to attack until they begin closing our coast to launch their own air strikes on us.”

Desaix nodded. “Very well.” He glanced at his colleagues before continuing. “Although I’m sure we’ll need further discussion before issuing any final approval, I suggest you begin making all the necessary preparations, Admiral.”

Guichy, Morin, and the others murmured their agreement. Given the French hold over the EurCon military command structure, further discussion would be mostly for form’s sake only. Despite the alliance with Germany, the French nuclear arsenal remained under unilateral French control.

Gibierge felt a mixture of relief and tension pass though him. The prospect of using nuclear weapons was frightening, even to the man who proposed their use. He was relieved, though, because he really saw no other military solution to their situation.

Desaix had agreed quickly, almost too quickly, he thought. That was fine in this case, though, since he’d agreed with Gibierge. Desaix had a reputation for fast action, and for strong, straightforward action. This certainly fitted in that category.

“We will be ready long before the carriers are in striking range, sir,” the admiral answered.

Desaix continued. “In the meantime, I suggest we order our commanders inside Poland to step up their attacks. Let’s try to break the Poles before the damned Americans can intervene.” Nicolas Desaix turned to Michel Guichy. “Tell your commanders to turn up the heat.”

“Alert!”

An incredibly loud klaxon pulled Tadeusz Wojcik out of his lounge chair and a sound sleep. He awoke to find every light on and every door in the operations building opening automatically.

Habit and adrenaline propelled him down the hall and out a pair of double doors onto the flight line. It was already light outside, though the sun wouldn’t be fully up for another few minutes.

Pilots spilled outside into the crisp, clear morning air, jumping into waiting jeeps. Other figures, ground crews and antiaircraft gunners, ran for their posts as well.

Gdynia’s shelters were crammed with aircraft, the compressed remains of much of Poland’s fighter force. One of them was Tad’s. His experience, and his nine kills, had entitled him to a new aircraft, one of the precious replacement aircraft flown in from the States. The F-15’s exhausted ground crew had taken the time to put five German Maltese crosses and four French roundels under its cockpit, along with his name and new rank: captain.

Once the starter turbine was running, feeding power into his Eagle, Tad hooked up his radio leads. “Ocean Leader, checking in.”

The other three pilots in his four-plane flight were also on the circuit within moments. They were all good men, following a well-rehearsed drill.

Tad hurriedly brought the fighter to life. His start-up procedure differed from that for a normal mission. In a scramble, time is everything. The F-15’s inertial navigation system took five minutes to spin up, so rather than wait for it to stabilize, Tad would fly without it, getting steering commands from ground controllers. For an intercept over home territory, that and a magnetic compass should be good enough.

More voices from other flights checked in on the same frequency. Some were voices he recognized easily. Others, less familiar, belonged to pilots from the 34th Fighter Regiment. Polish air losses had been so severe that the higher-ups had combined the 34th and the 11th into one composite unit.

He was halfway through start-up when Major Dmowski, the 34th’s operations officer, came on the line. “Ocean, Razor, and Profile flights, forty-plus bandits inbound. Heavy jamming. Steer two eight zero magnetic after takeoff.”

Tad whistled to himself, letting his hands work while his brain absorbed the size of the raid. The biggest yet. There wouldn’t be any lack of targets out there. The needles on two dial gauges in the middle of his instrument panel quivered and stopped rising. His tailpipe temperatures were stable.

He signaled the shelter crew. As they pulled the chocks and swung the armored door open, Wojcik gently advanced his throttles and started to taxi.

Over the radio, Dmowski issued orders positioning the twelve Polish fighters he was sending into the sky for battle. “Flights, step at one, two, and three thousand meters. Attack anything without positive IFF.”

Craning his neck behind him, Tad saw the three remaining aircraft of Ocean flight following him. Other F-15s swung into place behind them. Speeding up, he turned onto the runway and waited a moment while his wingman rolled up alongside him.

“All flights, new data. There is another raid behind the first. Count unknown, but many. Wait one…”

Tad shoved the throttles forward again and watched the runway race past beneath him. Whatever was coming, he needed to get aloft. He pulled the F-15 up steeply, accelerating fast.

Dmowksi came on the air again, concern filling his voice. “All flights, this is Castle. College is off the air, Climax is under attack. All flights go to free search. Good luck.” He sounded like he really meant it.

The enemy was going after Poland’s radar and ground control network with a vengeance — trying to blind Tad and his fellow pilots before they could close with the incoming raids.

“Ocean, this is Ocean Leader, radars on, turn left now.” Tad pressed his own radar switch and swung the F-15’s nose to the west. The screen came alive, filled with dots and masses of flickering snow. His threat receiver also lit up, cluttered with so many signals that he was tempted to just shut it off.

Despite the EurCon jamming, the Eagle’s radar had already locked onto a target, almost seventy miles out. Now if he could just keep himself and his flight alive long enough to close the range.

Under his oxygen mask, Tad Wojcik started sweating. This was going to be a hard day.

The Loire River, the longest in France, seemed designed by God to frustrate those who coveted its waters for recreation or for commerce. Quicksand, whirlpools, and swirling, strong currents made the Loire too dangerous for swimming or for shipping cargoes between the towns and cities lining its banks. The river was something to look at, not something to use.

At least not for most.

But there were a few, some of those born and bred beside its levees, for whom the Loire held few terrors. They had learned to “read” the river and each of its capricious moods. They knew its traps and they knew the safe passages between each watery snare.

Jacques Liboge was such a man. Still supple despite his sixty-six years, he rose early almost every day to fish in the Loire. As a boy, it had been a way to help feed his family during the war. After that, he had kept on fishing — for the peace it offered as much as the food.

This Sunday morning, as he tramped down the path to the tiny boat tied to a small wooden dock, he could tell the day would be a warm one. The river coiled west toward the distant ocean, its surface as smooth and unruffled as glass. It was still dark, so he was careful of his footing as he loaded his tackle and sat down. Then, with sure, swift motions born of long habit, Liboge cast off, picked up the oars, and glided easily out onto the river.

To the south, the land rose gradually, decked with vineyards and bright yellow sunflowers. His farm, now run by his sons, and those of his neighbors were to the north. Cows grazed placidly in small pastures, cropping the grass beneath fruit trees.

The Liboge farm wasn’t a large place, just a few dozen acres. The farmhouse was two hundred years old, built by his ancestors. He resembled the house, square and gray and a little weather-beaten, but strong and solid. There were thousands of farms like Liboge’s in France, and thousands of farmers as well.

He fished, enjoying the soft, muted light as it crept into the Loire valley. First there were shapes where there had been only darkness, then the shapes had shadows, and finally color blossomed, spilling east with the rising sun.

Liboge sat quietly content. He’d already caught several fine fish. Now all he had to do was decide between staying out on the river while they were biting and rowing back to start his chores. Church bells pealed in the distance. The village priest was summoning his congregation to early morning mass. The old fisherman cocked his head to listen and smiled lazily, knowing his wife would be furious if he missed the service. Then he shrugged. God would understand. After all, had not Saint Peter himself been a fisherman? And had not God made this perfect day and the fish who seemed so eager to strike at his lures?

A sound, something between a roar and a whine, shattered the morning’s peace. He looked up from his rod just in time to see a dark shape race past him, only a few dozen meters above his head. Surprised, he dropped his rod, fumbled for it, and gripped it tightly just as another went by. A third followed the first two only seconds later.

This time his eyes tracked the slender, finned shape as it flew down the length of the valley, neatly turning to follow the winding river as it passed over an old abandoned windmill.

A fourth made the same turn in exactly the same place, and another after that. In all, Liboge counted twelve of the missiles — because that was what they must be. He had seen enough aircraft during the war, and these were simply too small to hold a pilot.

They were flying east, up the river. France was at war again. Were these enemy weapons? If so, at least his own village was safe.

After the last missile disappeared to the east, Liboge put down his tackle and grabbed his small boat’s oars. Rowing quickly, he headed for the dock. He would tell the mayor. Yes, the mayor would surely know what to do.

The Tomahawk cruise missiles flew in single file, hugging the river valley. Landmarks like the ruined windmill were useful checkpoints for each missile’s guidance systems as it matched stored images of the landscape with what it actually saw.

All twelve of these missiles, fired from a single U.S. submarine a hundred miles off the Atlantic coast, followed the same route. Normally they would have been split into smaller groups — flying two or three separate paths to reduce the risk of interception. But the men who had planned this mission in London were swamped. They had only had time to lay out one track for each target.

In this case, it didn’t matter. EurCon radars, even the American-built E-3s in French service, couldn’t pick out the twelve tiny, RAM-coated missiles hugging the river valley. Most of France’s eyes were turned east or north anyway.

When they were seen by farmer Liboge, the first Tomahawk was just four minutes from its target. It continued to use the Loire as a highway, flying just high enough to clear the occasional bridge or other structure on its banks.-

Ten miles from Tours, the cruise missile banked sharply right, then climbed for a moment to fix its position one last time against the landscape. This time, the scene included its target, a Thompson-CSF factory complex. Part of a massive French defense conglomerate, this site was responsible for the manufacture and repair of fighter radars.

Each Tomahawk’s specific aiming point had been picked by an American industrial expert — a man who had years of experience in building and running similar facilities. Asked to select twelve vital locations from satellite photos, he’d marked the production line, parts storage, critical machine-tools sheds, and other areas.

Carrying a thousand-pound warhead, the first missile slammed into the plant’s executive offices. The explosion and fire that followed did not destroy radar components themselves. They wrecked something even more important — the computers containing the factory’s design data and manufacturing records. Their loss would cripple any attempt to resume production.

One after the other, the eleven Tomahawks trailing behind it popped up and then dove into the factory complex. Successive blasts gutted the plant and shattered windows all over Tours.

By the time the twelfth warhead detonated, three of the factory’s five vast buildings were reduced to piles of mangled steel and shattered concrete. The other two were burning. Dozens of highly skilled workers lay dead or badly injured in the rubble. Although it was early morning and a Sunday to boot, three shifts had been working night and day to supply EurCon’s military needs.

Led by Desaix and his cronies, France had already bloodied half of Europe trying to bring it under EurCon control. The United States wanted the French people to know they would pay the price for their government’s aggression.

An American reconnaissance satellite passed overhead later that morning. The images it data-linked down allowed intelligence analysts to report that Thompson-CSF’s Tours facility had been eighty percent destroyed. Reconstruction time was estimated at six months for the first production line alone. Bringing the full plant back into operation would take the French at least three years and cost tens of millions of dollars.

Liboge’s report of the missiles he had sighted reached the French Air Force about the same time that damage assessment photos were laid on the President’s desk in Washington, D.C.

In addition to being a major commercial port and shipyard, Wilhelmshaven was Germany’s largest naval base on the North Sea coast. While Germany’s small missile boats functioned well in the Baltic, the wilder, rougher weather of the North Sea demanded bigger, more capable ships. For that reason most of the German Navy’s frigates and destroyers were based there.

It also made the Germans very protective of this valuable port. Constant fighter and helicopter sweeps above the water were matched by patrolling submarines and minefields below the water.

Germany’s naval staff was confident of Wilhelmshaven’s defenses. A combination of interceptors, SAMs, and antiaircraft guns had already driven off one abortive American air raid against the base, inflicting what were reported as heavy losses on the enemy.

Now ships sheltering inside the protected port would be used to strengthen other areas along the coast. The minelayer Sachsenwald, escorted by two frigates and two minesweepers, had been ordered to lay a new barrier across the Elbe River mouth, near Cuxhaven and the western entrance to the strategically and economically vital Kiel Canal. The canal connected the Baltic with the North Sea. In addition, Germany’s second largest city and most important port, Hamburg, lay only seventy kilometers up the Elbe.

While the shoreline hinted at easy access to the river, the actual shipping channel was long and narrow. Silt filled the rest of the bay, forming shallows barely covered with water. That narrow entrance made it easy to “lock the front door” with a mine barrier.

With an entrance and exit route known only to Germany’s own harbor pilots, a defensive minefield would make any naval attack on Hamburg or the Kiel Canal, by stealth or strength, a risky undertaking.

Defensive minefields are an important, if low-profile, part of naval warfare. Mines, even sophisticated modern ones, are cheap, never sleep, and are very hard to remove. They have been used for over a hundred years. When Farragut damned the torpedoes and ordered full speed at Mobile Bay during the American Civil War, he was actually referring to Confederate-laid mines. Farragut’s Union ships had broken past those primitive mines and captured the port. Germany’s naval commanders doubted the American admiral’s successors would find it easy to duplicate his feat.

With the sun gleaming on their gray camouflaged superstructures, the five German warships sortied out of the Jadebusen, through the wide mouth of the bay. They were careful to stay not just in the buoyed channel, but in a special passage marked on their charts. Wilhelmshaven had its own large defensive minefield.

The minesweepers led the way. Using ultrahigh-frequency sonars, they swept the channel for enemy mines that might have been laid by submarines or aircraft during the past several days.

Sachsenwald followed, flanked on either side by guided missile frigates. With their sonars and radars energized, they would screen their charge from air, surface, or submarine attack. This was not a job for stealth or concealment. This close to home they could count on a lot of help if they came under attack.

Just to be on the safe side, an antisubmarine helicopter crisscrossed the formation’s path, dipping its sonar into the water for periodic searches. Even the fighter patrols orbiting high overhead followed racetrack patterns that kept them close to the group.

Proceeding at fifteen knots, the formation steamed northeast for four hours, crossing in front of the Weser River mouth and Bremerhaven on their way to the Elbe. The German warships actually had to go out a fair distance into the North Sea to clear the shallows, before they could make the turn back toward Cuxhaven.

Nothing menaced them during the short voyage. Once they rounded the western point of the river’s mouth, the covering force spread out while the minelayer went to work.

Sachsenwald was an old ship, but minelayers don’t need fancy sensors or weapons systems. She was fitted with the latest navigational gear, and her capacious holds carried almost a thousand SAI moored mines. Steering a slow, straight course, her sailors planned to spend the entire day rolling the deadly devices out ports in her stern. Each would be dropped as part of a carefully predetermined pattern, weaving a deadly and nearly impenetrable web.

When the conflict started, the British submarine Ursula had been in port. Acting under orders issued by the admiralty, her crew had worked rapidly to off-load some of her Tigerfish and Spearfish torpedoes and to replace them with a smaller but equally deadly cargo — Stonefish mines.

Ursula had sailed from its Scottish base that same night and arrived off the Elbe four days later — intact and undetected despite a few close brushes with EurCon ASW patrols. The same shallow seas that hampered British and American sub-hunting efforts cut both ways.

Creeping in on her whisper-quiet electric motor, the small submarine had maneuvered in close to the German coast, crowded by the shallows and bucking the currents at the river’s mouth. The same eddies that made it difficult to maneuver, though, helped hide her from enemy sonar. The mix of fresh and salt water where the Elbe met the North Sea further confused the sonar picture.

With her tubes loaded with mines instead of torpedoes, Ursula had moved along a preplanned track — firing them one after another during an hour-long, nerve-racking cruise down the main shipping channel. Then, its mission accomplished, the British submarine had crept out by the same way it had come, with no one the wiser.

One of those Stonefish mines now lay in Sachsenwald’s path.

Other German ships had already come near the mine as it lay half-buried in the mud on the channel floor, but each of them had been rejected as a potential target by the microchip in its brain. Most had been fishing craft or patrolling gunboats. A pressure sensor measured their wake as they passed, and spurned them as too small. Several vessels — mostly freighters and barges — were large enough, but the mine’s acoustic sensor rejected them because they didn’t match the sound signatures loaded in its memory.

One of the ships the Stonefish had ignored was a minesweeper towing a magnetic and acoustic sweep. Although the German vessel’s minehunting sonar passed right over it, the mine lay off to one side, not directly beneath the ship. Its plastic construction and rubberized coating didn’t return much of an echo, and it was missed.

Now Sachsenwald approached. She was on the third leg of her pattern, plowing through the river mouth’s choppy waters at twelve knots. The destroyer-sized pressure wave she created fulfilled the mine’s requirements, and the sounds her diesel engines made matched a set loaded into its memory. The weapon waited. There was still a chance that this enemy ship would not approach within lethal range.

The noise of Sachsenwald’s engines grew and grew. When the acoustic sensor’s calculations said it was close enough to inflict damage on the target, the mine armed itself. But it didn’t detonate yet. Although the German minelayer was only about seventy meters away, the noise level was still increasing as she drew nearer.

Sachsenwald plowed on, her twin mine chutes dropping packages at precise intervals. The mine listened, sensing but not understanding the thrum of the propellers and the clattering of her engines.

She passed ten meters to port and started to open the distance.

The Stonefish’s sensors picked up the drop in noise level and triggered the fuse.

Five hundred kilograms of PBX, half a ton of modern explosive, detonated on the seabed just thirty-two meters away from Sachsenwald’s steel hull.

The violence of the explosion knocked the ship almost all the way onto her port side. A massive column of dirty water shot fifty meters high into the air before cascading down on the heeled-over minelayer with crashing force.

Anyone standing was instantly thrown to the deck, or into a bulkhead. The shock was hard enough to break bone. It also knocked dozens of pieces of machinery and electronic equipment out of commission as it rippled through the hull. The ship’s screws, turned slightly toward the mine, were both shattered, and the propeller shafts were twisted out of true. Worst of all, both diesel engines, massive multiton blocks of steel, were torn off their foundations and slammed into bulkheads.

As the force of the explosion whipped through the minelayer it sprung the seams on several hull plates. Some of her structural members were broken and a spot on the hull nearest the blast was dished in. The ship’s keel was actually bent, wrenched out of alignment. But Sachsenwald was still watertight. Her hull was not breached.

The worst result was fire. Diesel fuel pipes, cracked by the shock and still under pressure, spewed a fine mist into the engineering compartment. The minelayer had righted itself, and was starting a roll in the other direction, when a spark ignited the fuel-air mixture. Another explosion rumbled through the ship, killing every man in engineering instantly.

Those of the bridge crew who could stand were getting up when they heard and felt the thunder aft. A quick glance back confirmed their worst fears. A wide, dark column of black smoke billowed high above their ship. Flames licked red and orange deep in the heart of the smoke.

Sachsenwald’s captain, sitting on the deck with a broken ankle, ordered damage control teams into action on the double. He had already determined to fight for his ship’s life as long as she was above water. He had no choice. If the fire burned out of control, no one abandoning ship could possibly get far enough away in time.

But the fire was already out of control. Ruptured bulkheads had allowed the flames to reach the mine hold aft. Broken in a dozen places, its automatic sprinkler system couldn’t put out enough water to keep the mines cool.

Only a fifth of Sachsenwald’s mines had been laid, so the compartment was still packed to capacity. Heated to near-red heat by the flames roaring through the hold, several of them “cooked off,” detonating and starting a chain reaction. SAI mines were smaller than the British Stonefish, but there were eight hundred of them aboard the minelayer — more than sixty tons of high explosive crammed together in a small space.

Sachsenwald disappeared in a wall of water, fire, smoke, and hurtling debris — shredded by a stuttering series of explosions, each big enough to have wrecked the ship by itself. Separate blasts followed each other so closely that they were almost indistinguishable. It took almost forty-five seconds for all the mines to explode.

Several were blown clear and burst in midair, or in the water after they landed.

The shock wave roaring outward from the fireball and smoke cloud was strong enough to rock the furthest ship, Koln, a Bremen-class frigate nearly three kilometers away. Pieces of Sachsenwald’s shattered hull cascaded onto her deck, smashing radar and radio antennas and killing several sailors caught out in the open. All of the minelayer’s escorts were damaged by flying debris.

There was worse to come.

While racing to the scene, Bayern, the other escorting frigate, fell afoul of another of Ursula’s Stonefish mines. Gutted by the resulting blast, she also sank. Unlike Sachsenwald, though, some of her crewmen survived.

Some years ago, the Defense Ministry’s old basement storage areas had been gutted and replaced by a state-of-the-art situation room. Although not a true command center, the room did allow ministry officials, as well as the rest of the French national leadership, to see the big picture while still being close to their offices and the comforts of the capital.

The gleaming facility, filled with floor-to-ceiling color map displays and computer terminals, was the pride of French industry. High-ranking foreign visitors were often taken on tours, to showcase the technology that France might provide to them, for a price.

With most of the Confederation’s Defense Committee there, the room was crowded to capacity. French and German officers of all services filled the space, tensely discussing the unfolding events. Nicolas Desaix, flanked by Admiral Gibierge, sat in one of the elevated seats near the center.

They were watching a battle. Gibierge had alerted his superiors the evening before that the Combined Forces were moving.

An increased number of enemy surveillance flights, a sharp rise in the amount of coded radio traffic, and unusual activity at British airfields had convinced him that the offensive he had predicted was about to begin. He was right.

Some officials, notably the Defense Minister and his closest military subordinates, arrived before dawn. They were in time to see the Tomahawk strikes raining down all over France and Germany, to hear the reports of Sachsenwald’s and Bayern’s loss, and to receive news of a commando attack on the naval base at Brest. All were bad in themselves, but the men in the situation room knew they were just the opening moves. Like the first drops of rain, these pinprick raids around the periphery would continue throughout the storm. Everyone waited for the lightning.

The center screen had been set up to show the Channel coast, the Low Countries, Germany’s north coast, and the southern half of the North Sea. Data from many sources, including an American-built E-3 radar plane, was fused into a single integrated picture. As Desaix watched, a second E-3 took off from its base at Avord, reinforcing the one already aloft.

Colored symbols flowed across the display, showing aircraft and ship positions, courses, and speeds. Even an amateur could see patterns in the movement: fighters and antisubmarine planes on their patrols, ships entering and leaving port, and, in the center, two massive groups of red symbols.

Tracking the American carrier battle groups had been easy. In the crowded North Sea, information was more important than concealment, so almost every American radar was on. EurCon surveillance units had located each radiating ship and classified them based on the types of radars they carried. Other ships, not radiating, could be seen by airborne radar.

One symbol was labeled George Washington, another Theodore Roosevelt.

Each was surrounded by a cluster of red ship symbols — their escorts, tankers, and replenishment ships. Circles, centered on the carriers, showed the range of their aircraft and their escorts’ land attack cruise missiles. Other circles, centered on French and German air bases, showed the range of the aircraft based there. The range circle for George Washington almost touched the German coast near Wilhelmshaven.

Gibierge checked the clock, then leaned over and whispered to Desaix. “Our strike is launching now, Foreign Minister. With luck, we can catch the Americans right in the act of launching their own attacks.”

“Won’t they see it coming?” asked Desaix.

The admiral shook his head confidently. “We have jammer aircraft screening the attack formation, both standing off and providing direct escort for our strike planes. By the time the Americans can get a clear picture, our strike will be in the air and well on its way.” He smiled wolfishly. “These Combined Forces are moving exactly as we expected them to. We will make them pay for their predictability.”

Nearly one hundred navy warplanes orbited high over the North Sea, a moving cloud of sophisticated aircraft growing steadily as more planes thundered off George Washington in clouds of catapult steam.

Thirty thousand feet above the wavetops, Commander Rudy Mann, USN, watched his squadron form up. So far, the launch had gone like clockwork, but that was expected. His pilots had better be able to take off and assume formation competently. A lot more would be demanded of them before lunch.

Mann’s youthful face was almost completely masked by his helmet, oxygen mask, and visor. His thinning hair, close-cropped like many pilots, gave a better idea of his age than his features. In his early thirties, he was at the typical age for a squadron commander, with years of experience “in type,” flying the Hornet.

Mann’s F/A-18 Hornets, the shortest-range of the strike’s aircraft, were the last to launch, but they wouldn’t have any trouble catching up with the rest of the raid.

“Hatchet” Mann swept his eyes over the instrument panel one last time, then ordered, “Mustangs, turn to zero eight five now.”

Looking over each shoulder, he watched the rest of the squadron, twelve planes in all, follow his movements. The new course would intercept the main air formation quickly. Proceeding at a stately 370 knots, his Hornets had almost a hundred-knot overtake on them.

In the clear early morning air, he could see dozens of planes from both George Washington and Theodore Roosevelt spread out below him in Alpha Strike formation. An attack against a land target was called an Alpha Strike. One against a naval target was a Sierra Strike. The size of the strike was determined by the target’s value — and by how badly you wanted it to die.

This was a big one. Admiral Ward had spent half the previous day juggling the two carriers’ planes so that only those actually going on the strike were on George Washington.

Fighters from Roosevelt, still outside enemy strike range itself, would cover her. In turn, land-based British Tornado and American F-15 and F-16 fighters covered Rosie.

If everything went according to plan, the air groups would unscramble automatically after the raid, each landing on its own carrier.

Mann’s squadron, one of the four Hornet squadrons involved, flew ahead and to port of the main formation. Six jammer aircraft, already radiating an invisible electronic fog, flew among the F/A-18s. Lower still and even further out were two flights of A-6 Intruders, armed with Harpoon antiship missiles. They would take out any enemy vessels that lay in the raid’s path.

George Washington’s air group commander, or CAG, rode in an E-2 Hawkeye, one of the two accompanying the raid. Their high-powered radars would allow the CAG to see the raid as it progressed, and make what adjustments he could.

Other aircraft orbited in the vicinity, watching. Mann could not see them, but they did not have to be close. An air force RC-135 and a navy ES-3, different aircraft with the same role, flew lazy circles at high altitude. Equipped with webs of antennas and other electronic sensors, they would listen to the signals made by both sides and learn what they could.

Radar on, Mann scanned the sky with his eyes as well. They were headed into trouble, and he wanted to see it coming.

A junior officer reported, “New airborne activity near George Washington.”

More aircraft symbols appeared around the closer of the two U.S. carrier groups. Desaix looked over at Gibierge and raised a single eyebrow in silent speculation.

The admiral nodded. “This could be their opening strike, Foreign Minister. I don’t think these new planes are interceptors. Our raid is still forming out of their radar observation. In any case, the Americans would not launch their fighters for some time — certainly not until they had a good idea of our numbers and destination.” He studied the display. “Those planes are forming at high altitude, in easy view of our radars. They certainly aren’t trying to conceal their movements. It’s as we thought. The Americans think they can simply overwhelm our defenses.”

Desaix nodded, approving Gibierge’s apparent certainty. The admiral knew his craft. Still, he had questions. “I thought your plan anticipated attacking those carriers before they could hit us.”

The tall man’s tone was calm, but the admiral thought he heard a hint of irritation beneath the measured words. He hastened to explain. “That is true, Foreign Minister. But this situation may work even more to our advantage. This inbound American strike must be escorted, and that means fewer fighters will be available to defend that carrier. If their primary target is Wilhelmshaven, the two raids will meet almost head-on. And in that case, I believe the Americans will abandon their own attack to concentrate on their own defense.”

“Can we handle them?” queried Desaix.

“Yes, Foreign Minister, we can. We have almost half of our frontline fighter strength concentrated here.”

Desaix appeared convinced, and the admiral turned to one of the display operators. “Any further information on the inbound strike?”

The young lieutenant nodded. “We have identified airborne radars consistent with F/A-18 and A-6 aircraft. Plus, there appear to be two E-2 Hawkeyes accompanying the group.” He shrugged in apology. “We don’t yet have a precise raid count, Admiral. There is very heavy jamming.”

Gibierge nodded, undismayed. “As we expected.”

Everything was still unfolding according to his earlier predictions. The Americans would never waste two of their prized E-2 radar warning and command and control planes on a mere probe. If they followed normal practice, the practice he had seen a dozen times as a NATO observer during peacetime exercises, the incoming raid would contain two squadrons of A-6 Intruder aircraft and two of Hornets, escorted by a full squadron of F-14 Tomcats and a pair of EA-6B Prowlers to jam French and German radars. Two Hawkeyes aloft could also indicate that the Americans were combining planes from both their carriers in this one strike. Well, he thought grimly, the more the merrier. He turned back to Desaix.

“Do the Americans have any other courses of action when we meet them?”

“They may choose to continue, trusting to their missile ships and the remaining fighters. That would be better for us, of course.”

“But what about the damage they might cause to Wilhelmshaven?”

Gibierge gave a very Gallic shrug. “We will be hit, of course, but we still have our SAMs and fighter defenses.”

Desaix nodded his understanding. Both men left unsaid the thought that Wilhelmshaven was German territory anyway.

The admiral leaned forward, pressing home his point. “Most important, sir, whichever way they move, the Americans will only be able to launch this one attack. By the time they turn for home, they will have no carrier to land on, only a patch of radioactive water,”

“Admiral!” Lieutenant Harada had to shout to get Admiral Jack Ward’s attention on the noisy bridge wing. At thirty-plus knots, the wind almost ripped the words out of your throat. Add the scream of dozens of jet engines, and you might as well use sign language.

The admiral turned to his aide. Harada thought he looked a little better than he had while he was stuck on shore. The stress of the past several days had aged his boss.

Watching the airborne phase of Counterweight get under way was a tonic, though. Nobody could watch plane after plane roar off the carrier’s flight deck without being encouraged. Things were finally moving, and when those planes reached their target, EurCon was in for a rough morning.

Harada hated to call the admiral in, but it was important. He cupped his hands. “New enemy contacts, sir! Airborne over Germany.”

Ward nodded and quickly ducked through the weather deck door.

The Tactical Flag Command Center was Ward’s turf, and he loved it. Information from dozens of sensors could be displayed in as many different ways, and secure communications links put him in touch with his commanders. Unlike an army or marine officer, Ward couldn’t ever expect to see much of the battlefield. The TFCC took its place. From here, he could run the war in the North Sea and the Baltic.

It was a dark, quiet place, the hum of subdued voices indicating a well-trained team. The man responsible for that, his new chief of staff, approached Ward as he came in.

Captain Harry March should have been a lawyer or a CPA, but the navy had been lucky enough to get him. Business colleges cost money, but the academy had offered a black city kid a degree for free. His passion for detail was Ward’s secret weapon.

Now he didn’t waste time. “SIGINT planes are picking up a lot of airborne radio traffic over several German air bases, including Bremerhaven and Cuxhaven. Traffic is in both German and French. Some aircraft radar signals, too.” Although he spoke softly, he sounded worried.

“What’s your evaluation, Harry? An air strike?”

“Probably, sir, and we’re the only logical target.” He sighed. “The problem is, we don’t have a clear picture of what’s going on over there. Our radar coverage is nil.”

Ward frowned. His intelligence officers’ best guess had been that EurCon wouldn’t come after his carriers from the air. Computer-run wargames and analyses had showed such an attack would absorb too much of French and German air strength to make it worthwhile. Apparently the enemy’s own staff studies had come to a different conclusion. He said as much to March.

“I agree, Admiral. I’ve run the numbers, though. Based on what we do know, and their aircraft ranges, we’re the only worthwhile target out here right now.”

Ward felt a small chill run through him. “If they are going to hit us, Harry, it won’t be a half-assed attempt.” What went unspoken was the obvious fact that the incoming EurCon strike force would meet their own outbound raid head-on. “How long till we know for sure what they’re up to?”

March answered instantly. “About ten minutes or so, Admiral, based on their course and speed, plus their time in the air. I recommend tanking our outbound planes now and launching more tankers to refuel our own top cover. I’ve already passed our data over to Roosevelt.“

“As well as giving Rosie’s CAG a heads-up, I bet.” Ward rubbed his face, then stared at the map display for a minute. “It means losing some range on the strike if we tank now, ahead of schedule, but I agree. Launch another E-2 and get the SAR helos alerted.” He glanced at his watch. “We’ll decide whether to abort or press on in ten minutes.”

“Our strike is outbound,” announced an operator.

Gibierge studied the cluster of blue symbols just north of Cuxhaven with satisfaction. Two squadrons of Mirage 2000Ns armed with ASMP nuclear missiles. Two more squadrons of German Tornados armed with antiradar missiles and conventional antiship missiles. A squadron of Rafales, two of Mirage 2000s, and two of German fighters accompanied the strike force as escorts. He and his fellow commanders were throwing nearly 120 aircraft into this battle — the cream of the Confederation air forces.

“They’re headed straight at us, Admiral.” March’s voice was filled with suppressed excitement. “There’s some jamming but we’re dealing with it. Raid count in excess of one hundred aircraft.”

Ward stood taller. Years dropped away from his face along with all the doubts and worries of the past few weeks. They were committed now. “Tell Rancher to execute as soon as his planes have finished tanking.”

Mann watched the last of the F-14s nose into the tanker’s drogue and hurriedly take on fuel. Thank God they’d decided to do this in daylight. In-flight refueling was a fine art and demanded a high level of skill. Passing a baton from one car to another on a superhighway was child’s play in comparison.

But they needed the fuel. The navy planes heading for the German coast had already expended a quarter of their load, and combat could drain their tanks in a few minutes. All together, almost two squadrons of A-6 Intruders had been dedicated to tanker duty.

They were just finishing up now. His Hornet squadron had already refueled.

“All Counterweight units, this is Rancher. Chuckwagons and outriders to the rear.” Captain Macmillan, the CAG, had a spread in Montana, and cowboy slang always seemed to figure in the radio codes he developed. Mann was a city boy at heart, but he had to admit that they seemed more appropriate than anything he might have dredged up out of a childhood spent in Brooklyn.

Mann knew that Macmillan would rather be flying his F-14 than riding a Hawkeye, but his job could not be performed in a fighter cockpit. Someone had to lead.

Now Rancher sent the A-6 tankers and the antishipping aircraft home, stripping the formation for action. The jammers spread out, where they would stay clear of the fight, and the E-2s’ dedicated fighter escorts moved in closer to their charges.

“All units, this is Rancher. Execute.”

Mann pushed his throttle forward.

Gibierge watched the two clusters of symbols move toward each other. They were still two hundred miles apart, but with both formations flying at almost four hundred knots, they would be in missile range in about fifteen minutes. The American F-14s with their Phoenix missiles would be able to fire sooner, but long-range shots were effective only against clumsy bomber aircraft.

He focused his attention on the American formation. Which way would they jump?

One of the situation room’s secondary screens showed an expanded view of the two raids. The French and German planes were neatly labeled with aircraft types and call signs for each flight, along with their course, speed, and altitude.

The opposing American raid, though, simply showed up as a muddle of hostile aircraft symbols and a crisscross tracery of ESM detection lines. Where they intersected, a label marked the type of radar detected and the aircraft fitted with it. Several small groups of planes near the fringes of the raid were marked with “APG-65/Hornet” or “AWG-9/Tomcat.” The center of the formation was marked with “APQ-156/Intruder.” Radar and ESM gave him a good idea of the enemy raid’s composition. So far there hadn’t been any surprises.

His eyes narrowed. The American commanders would have to make their decision soon. Would they press ahead toward Wilhelmshaven or turn back to defend their own ships? The range was down to 150 nautical miles.

Some of the American symbols shifted in relation to their counterparts. Simultaneously several of the lines indicating radar signals disappeared. The signals for fighters remained, but the Intruder radars had gone away.

Desaix leaned closer to him, wanting to know what was going on, but Gibierge waited a moment more before turning to respond. “It looks like they are sending their attack aircraft home, Foreign Minister. It was the logical course for them, and I’ve alerted our raid commander. We are prepared…”

Desaix was still watching the screen while the admiral explained. Suddenly the Foreign Minister’s eyes widened in puzzlement and alarm. Gibierge checked the display again and felt his jaw drop open.

A new network of lines, thicker than a spider’s web, covered the American raid. Every one of them was labeled “APG-65” or “AWG-9”. In addition, only a few aircraft symbols had disappeared. The bulk of the raid was not turning back, but accelerating. He watched as the speed values next to the aircraft symbols changed and changed again, always increasing. They were already well over six hundred knots, while a loaded Intruder could not even make five hundred. “Gibierge, what is this?” Desaix demanded. The admiral was already reaching for a red command phone.

With the tankers and antishipping planes gone, Mann felt like a ball and chain had been removed. Under Rancher’s direction, the Counterweight raid accelerated from attack aircraft cruising speeds to fighter intercept speeds. Blips representing hostile aircraft covered his radar now, although enemy jamming still cluttered parts of the scope with fuzzy white blotches.

He could only spare a short glance at the radar screen itself. Much of the data on it was automatically fed to his Hornet’s HUD anyway, and a pilot who spends too much time heads-down is sure to get surprised one day. And surprises in air-to-air combat are usually fatal. He scanned the sky and double-checked his weapons settings. It would be several more minutes before they were in Sparrow range.

But the F-14s would be in range a lot sooner than that. He looked down at them now, wings swept back and still spreading out from a close formation used by attack planes to one more suitable for high-altitude missile combat.

“Cactus, Lasso, Longhorn, you are clear to engage assigned targets. Out.” Rancher’s voice ordered the three Tomcat squadrons under his command to attack. Each of the thirty F-14s carried four long-range Phoenix air-to-air missiles, two shorter-range Sparrows, and two Sidewinders for dogfighting. Like Mann’s Hornet, they also carried two drop tanks. The tanks were slowing them down, but the Tomcats would hang onto them — until the fuel they carried was gone, or until the fighters were going into a close-in fight where maneuverability counted for more than endurance.

Now, almost before Rancher finished his transmission, each F-14 fired once. White lines, tipped with fire, appeared in front of the Tomcats. They shot straight out ahead of the big, twin-tailed planes for a fraction of a second, then suddenly pitched up and climbed almost out of sight.

The smoke trails flashed past the formation, but Mann’s eyes followed the missile tracks as long as possible. Just as the first group of missiles disappeared, the three F-14 squadrons fired again.

Following the first wave, the second wave of Phoenix missiles climbed until they were out of the troposphere entirely. Following preset flight commands, they leveled off at over 100,000 feet. The near vacuum twenty miles up allowed each missile to reach Mach 5 and hold it, even after its rocket motor burned out. Their targets were seventy miles down-range — well within the missiles’ range. They would reach the EurCon formation in a minute and a half.

Stunned and panicked shouts echoed in his ears. The crowded situation room filled with questions and accusations as Gibierge tried desperately to concentrate on the voice at the other end of the command circuit.

Desaix, rising out of his chair, shook the admiral’s shoulder, demanding that he explain, that he act.

Gibierge, shouting into the handset to make himself heard, yelled, “Attack now! Push them in at full speed! Remember, we only need one hit!”

He hung up, and realized that the man demanding his attention was not some aide but the Foreign Minister of France, the controlling mind of the European Confederation.

“Explain this,” ordered Desaix in a barely controlled voice.

“It’s an offensive fighter sweep, sir. Based on the information there” — Gibierge waved an arm at the display — ”we are facing the combined fighter strength of both aircraft carriers.”

He shook his head in astonishment. “The Americans are not conducting an attack on Wilhelmshaven or any other land target. They flew the same profile as attack aircraft, and mixed enough attack planes into their formation to fool us.” Gibierge pushed down a sneaking admiration for his American counterpart. This Admiral Ward was wilier than he had thought.

Desaix still looked lost.

The admiral hastily sketched out his deductions with one eye locked on the display. “If we had not been launching our own strike, we would have thrown every fighter we had at them. The Americans would have met our planes with their own and outnumbered us. Then, with our air defense forces crippled, their real strikes would suffer fewer losses.”

Desaix scowled. “So now instead of our air defenses, they are going to decimate ‘the cream of our air forces.’ We must abort the strike now, before they get in range.”

“At this stage that would be almost impossible, Foreign Minister. It would also be unnecessary.” Gibierge half argued, half pleaded with the politician. “Our own fighters almost match theirs in numbers. While they occupy the Americans, our Mirage attack jets can accelerate to maximum speed and slip past. And they will be in launch range in just a few minutes.”

Desaix started to object, but Gibierge stopped him. “It’s too late, Foreign Minister. Events move too quickly in an air battle. The orders have already been given.”

A display operator’s voice cut through the confusion. “Strike leader reports they are under missile attack.”

The Phoenix missiles, linked back to their launching aircraft, nosed over, plunging almost straight down at the enemy planes a dozen miles below them.

Both waves of American missiles flashed through the enemy formation in an eyeblink. Every EurCon plane immediately pulled up into a weaving climb, trying to force each attacking missile to waste energy turning and climbing itself.

The Mirage 2000 and Tornado crews could have jettisoned their loads and lived. With a few exceptions, they chose to keep their own missiles and trust to luck. Without those weapons, their mission would be a failure. Most managed to evade the attacking Phoenixes by jinking and dropping chaff.

The jammer aircraft suffered the worst. Six elderly Mirage F1 fighters each carried a centerline jammer pod. Weighing half a ton, the pod sent out signals that could hide a whole squadron of aircraft from radar, as long as they stayed within a few miles.

Their electronic noise served as a perfect beacon for the Phoenix’s “home-on-jam” feature. Each F1 was swarmed by several missiles. Roughly half the pilots realized what was happening and switched them off, but it was a futile gesture.

Only one Mirage F1 survived.

The long-range American attack had stripped the EurCon strike of its jamming support. Dodging the missiles had also wasted precious time and fuel and disrupted their formation.

But their orders were clear. Nosing into a shallow dive, the EurCon planes went to full military power.

As their radar scopes cleared, new commands vectored the U.S. Navy squadrons toward the accelerating EurCon raiding force. The opposing groups of aircraft were forty miles apart at thirty thousand feet, heading straight for each other at a combined speed of twelve hundred knots.

The EurCon side fielded about sixty fighters of three types, all equipped with long-range air-to-air missiles. A squadron of Rafales were the newest and deadliest of the three, accompanied by delta-winged Mirage 2000s, old but still effective. The German contribution was limited to the elderly F-4F Phantom II. They were still escorting more than forty French and German Tornado and Mirage attack jets.

The Americans had just over eighty planes and they launched first. Two Hornet squadrons carried the AMRAAM, a “smart” air-to-air missile. It outranged all French and German weapons. Twenty-four white smoke trails drew arcs from one group to the other.

Diving down into the enemy’s scrambled formation, the advanced AMRAAM seekers ignored the lone EurCon jammer.

The AMRAAMs were targeted on the greatest threat, the Rafale squadron. Each plane pulled up into a wild series of maneuvers. Many missiles missed, but five aircraft, the best fighters in the EurCon arsenal, were hit and disappeared in black and gray explosions. The rest were prevented from firing back for a few precious moments.

The other EurCon fighters were not maneuvering, and the Mirage 2000s fired a salvo of active radar homing Mica missiles. The German Phantoms added their own fire, American-built Sparrows. Almost fifty missiles arrowed toward the oncoming navy planes.

Simultaneously the Americans fired again. More AMRAAMs and Sparrows leapt from under gray-painted wings, speeding toward the EurCon planes still twenty-five miles away. Both sides saw each other only as blips on glowing radar screens and target designator boxes on HUDs.

That was a serious problem for the French and German aircraft. Their screens were still cluttered with American jamming. It didn’t stop them from launching missiles, but it slowed them down, and in air combat, time is a weapon of its own.

Surrounding the navy fighters were six EA-6B Prowlers. Packed with antennas and electronics, their transmitters were so powerful that the signals were lethal to nearby personnel on the ground. They felt out the electronic spectrum, found the enemy radar and radio frequencies, then poured electronic radiation into them like a waterfall. Tied together by their own data links, the six jamming planes were welded into a single unit, sharing information and assigning targets.

Another missile salvo flashed out from the American planes, matched by a more ragged salvo from the EurCon side. Planes from the opposing sides were just coming into visual range. Tracks from half a dozen different missiles filled the air between the two formations. Even as the missiles struck aircraft of both sides, the two formations merged.

Radar tracking of the combat was now meaningless. Gibierge could only see a hash of blue and red symbols on the left-hand screen. One thing was clear. There were fewer and fewer blue symbols.

The only sound in the room was the formation radio circuit. Like commanders half a century before, all the waiting men could do was try to pick out stray scraps of information from the frantic calls of the pilots, fighting hundreds of miles away.

“… three planes to port… launching now… stand by, break now!.. I’m hit, my port wing’s gone…” Each voice had its own background of warning beeps and howls, and one was accented by the roar of a rocket motor igniting as a missile launched.

On a separate frequency, emergency locator beacons sent out their beep-beep-beep signals, marking the locations of downed pilots. They appeared on the display, too, but there was no way to tell which side they belonged to. There were a lot of them, though, and their numbers grew steadily.

Mann hoped like hell his wingman was all right. He’d lost sight of the other F/A-18 only a minute into the fight, and he’d been far too busy since then to look for him.

There were too many planes climbing, diving, and turning through too little airspace. Over half his attention was devoted to avoiding a midair collision, not to killing the enemy. He’d nearly lost it once already, when a hard break away from somebody’s missile had almost slammed him into a scissoring German Phantom.

He looked around, rapidly scanning a sky full of arrowed shapes at every aspect and angle possible. Streaks of smoke marked the passage of missiles between the rival aircraft, as well as the places where planes had died. The lower edge of the dogfight was marked by colored parachutes.

It was a battle of snap shots and fleeting chances. He’d scored one gun kill early on, firing instinctively as a Mirage filled his canopy. The French jet had fireballed, rocking his Hornet. Since then, though, he’d felt like a ball in a pinball machine.

A Tomcat appeared out of nowhere, passing in front of him at high speed. Beyond it was a Rafale, facing away from him, nose-up.

With Sidewinder already selected, he brought his Hornet’s nose over, waiting for a tone. Nothing. Damn it!

He switched to guns and increased the throttle, intending to close the range before firing. Instead, the track light on his radar warning receiver lit up. A frantic glance over his shoulder revealed a Mirage at his five o’clock.

Abandoning his quarry, Mann chopped the throttle and pushed the stick forward, unloading the Hornet’s wings. Then he broke hard left, turning into the delta-winged French fighter. They passed within a dozen yards of each other, canopy-to-canopy.

Another Tomcat hurtled toward him, approaching almost head-on and in pursuit of the Mirage. Mann brought his nose right to clear the F-14, and had a spectacular view of the Tomcat’s Sidewinder as it left the rail. He didn’t see the result. He’d spotted a German Phantom above and to starboard. Increasing the throttle, he pointed the Hornet’s nose up a little, risking a stall to bring the enemy aircraft into his sights. The Phantom’s engines weren’t as stealthy as a Rafale’s and this time his heat-seeking missile’s tone was clear and strong. Perfect!

Mann’s thumb pressed the fire button on his stick. The Sidewinder dropped off its rail and covered the quarter mile between the two planes in an eyeblink. It scored a direct hit, slamming into the German’s left wing and blowing it off.

He watched the F-4 start to spin, almost too slowly. Still in slow motion, its canopy popped off, and Mann saw a blast of smoke and flame flare in the cockpit. The Phantom’s ejector seat tumbled free of the torn aircraft, carrying its pilot to the relative safety of the North Sea.

“Mustang. This is Rancher. All units, vector three one five. Bandits inbound at level ten. Buster.”

Mann recognized the CAG’s voice, and the meaning of the call. Three one five degrees was a rough bearing back to George Washington. Some of the EurCon attackers had broken clear of the dogfight. “Buster” meant to intercept at full power.

He keyed his mike. “Roger, Rancher, all Mustangs to three one five. Hatchet out.”

He advanced the F/A-18’s throttle. He felt his aircraft’s speed build up quickly, carrying him out of the fight. He adjusted his course, then cast a quick glance at his six o’clock. At full military power, his engines made a dandy IR target. Fortunately nobody was following him.

Mann spotted several other Hornets, all on the same course, scattered above and below him. His radar showed a cluster of contacts in front and below him at twenty miles — all headed toward the carrier at high speed. They were still out of launch range but wouldn’t be for long. The F/A-18 was light now, without its drop tanks and half its missile load, almost clean.

Mann noticed the “Bingo” indicator light come on. Building up this last burst of speed had drained his fuel supply. He was going to need a tanker, and soon.

He selected his last Sparrow and locked up a target. “Mustang Lead, engaging.”

“Admiral, we’ve got ten-plus inbounds at five-fifty knots. Fighters are engaging. We’ve got Dale on that side, weapons tight. She’ll be in range soon, but we have to get the fighters out of there first.”

March’s report and implied recommendation was half formality, but it was Ward’s decision to make. Sitting in his command chair, surrounded by displays, he felt a little superfluous. “Clear the fighters and tell all ships to go to weapons free.”

It was the only logical thing to do. He had missile ships facing an incoming enemy attack with their hands practically tied behind their backs. Going to weapons-free status would clear them to fire SAMs more effectively. Any air target not positively identified as friendly would be fair game.

Ward nodded toward the symbols showing fighters chasing after the EurCon strike planes. “What’s their fuel state?”

“Tankers are already on the way, sir.”

Ward nodded and went back to watching the displays. It wasn’t really a feeling of being superfluous, he decided. Events were just out of his hands now. His plan was in motion, and everyone else had a job to do but him.

“All units, this is Rancher, break off and steer zero four five.”

Mann gauged the distance to the remaining bandits and reluctantly turned to the ordered course — heading away from George Washington and the enemy. The EurCon aircraft were too far ahead and too close to the battle group’s SAM envelope to catch.

He added his own “Mustangs, form on me” to the CAG’s command and waggled his wings. It was time to count noses.

Behind him, the remains of four EurCon attack squadrons tucked into two tight formations. Of nearly fifty attack aircraft that had ventured out to challenge the Americans, only eight were left. Others were limping home, nursing damage that made it impossible to press on. Most were gone — blown out of the sky by guns or missiles. Three far out in front were German Tornados. The five trailing behind were Mirage 2000s carrying ASMP nuclear missiles.

Decimated by the navy fighters, the French and German pilots knew they were on borrowed time. They no longer watched their fuel gauges, but simply poured on all the speed they had. Their only hope of survival was to reach launch range and salvo their weapons. After that, each of them could evade and try to make it home while the Americans tried to deal with the missiles. Even a rubber raft looked attractive after the hellride they’d all gone through.

In accordance with their attack plan, the Tornados, well out in front now, fed targeting data to the Mirage pilots. The French plane’s short-range radar could not see the U.S. ships at this distance, and precise targeting data was crucial. Their ASMP missiles didn’t have radar seekers that could home in on moving targets. Designed to attack stationary objects on land, they mounted only a plain inertial seeker. Just before launch, each pilot would set his missile’s target as a simple geographic location.

As the Mirage crews took the range and bearing supplied by the Germans, they tried to calculate flight times, the American carrier’s course and speed, and come up with the proper impact point. Even with a nuclear warhead, a sure kill could only be guaranteed against a warship if it landed within a mile and a half. The damage radius was twice that. At the distance they were firing from, that worked out to a margin of error of less than two percent. But then, all they needed was one good hit.

With their target locked in, the Mirages fired. Five finned missiles dropped from centerline pylons and flew northwest, accelerating rapidly past the speed of sound.

When the French planes banked away, heading for home, the German Tornados dove for the deck, barreling in only fifty meters above the water. While the ASMP had a range of 150 nautical miles, the Kormoran antiship missiles they carried had to be launched within thirty miles of their intended target.

Dale’s skipper had already decided to fire before Admiral Ward’s order came over the circuit. He was not the sort to stand on formality where enemy aircraft were concerned.

The Leahy-class missile cruiser and Klakring, her Perry-class frigate escort, occupied a missile picket station thirty miles out in front of George Washington.

Those thirty miles could be added directly to the range of her SM2ER missiles. She was the first line of the carrier’s defense.

Dale’s crew had been at general quarters for hours. Since then her well-drilled CIC team had monitored every stage in the air battle — watching carefully as the fight moved closer. Their radars had shown the surviving EurCon attack jets break out of the dogfight. Now they saw several small contacts appear in front of one group of enemy planes.

The cruiser’s tight-faced captain watched the new blips just long enough to be sure they were real. His missile engagement controller reported, “They’re still climbing and accelerating, Skipper. They won’t be in our SAM envelope for another minute. I count five.”

“All right, Steve. What’s the threat?”

“Unknown, sir.” The lieutenant paged rapidly through a loose-leaf book with red plastic covers. “Supersonic, high altitude, doesn’t fit any French or German antiship missile.

No radar signal from them yet.” Half to himself, he wondered, “An ARM targeted on our radars?”

Still leafing, the lieutenant glanced up at his display. “Speed’s up to Mach three, Skipper.”

He looked down at the book again and stiffened. Then he carefully studied the page, comparing the data there with the numbers on his screen. The blood drained from his face.

They were tracking the same inbound missiles in the carrier’s flag command center, and Ward’s staff recognized them the same instant that Dale’s lieutenant did.

His voice tight with control, the antiair warfare coordinator reported, “Admiral, inbounds are probably nuclear! Evaluated as ASMPs… about two minutes out.”

Ward fought the impulse to panic. He had too much to do. “It’s too late to disperse the formation. Emergency turn. Put every ship stern-on to them, and order all ships to individual maximum speed. Get all exposed personnel belowdecks! And send a flash message to the NCA!”

Facing away from a nuclear detonation would offer his ships limited but still significant protection. A blast wave running down a ship’s long axis would meet less resistance and hit its stronger stem first. Going to full speed might give each ship enough extra maneuverability to ride out the explosion and resulting sea surge.

He looked around and found his chief of staff. “Anything I missed, Harry?”

“Turn off and isolate nonvital radars. It might help with EMP effects.”

“Do it,” Ward confirmed. “That’s about all we have time for.”

Under his breath, he muttered, “Those bastards. I’ll make them regret this day.” But another voice ghosted through his brain reminding him he might not live long enough to keep that promise.

“Dale reports she’ll engage in thirty seconds.”

Under the original attack plan, Germany’s Tornados were expected to attack all American missile defense ships ahead of the ASMPs — clearing a path for the nuclear-tipped missiles. Now, instead of saturating the carrier’s defenses, the three surviving planes aimed for the keystone, and hoped that would be enough.

While the Germans had been passing information to the French planes, they had also used their radars to locate the picket missile cruiser. With its location, course, and speed locked into their computers, they’d plunged to the deck. Howling in only fifty meters above the waves, the Tornados were below Dale’s radar horizon — out of sight and out of the line of fire. Of course, they couldn’t see the American cruiser, either.

Their computers knew where she was, though, and guided them toward the target. Just over thirty miles out, HUD indicators prompted the crews to fire. The Tornados popped up, climbing to five hundred feet. First one missile, then a second, left each Tornado.

Gratefully the Germans turned away, beginning a long and perilous journey back to base.

A dozen miles overhead, the five ASMPs sped on.

“New raid, bearing one six three, correlates with the Tornados we saw earlier. Probable prelaunch maneuver.”

Dale’s tactical action officer turned toward the captain. The cruiser would launch her first pairs of Standard 2ER SAMs in a few seconds.

The captain turned his head to look at the TAO, but his attention was still concentrated on coping with the first threat they’d detected.

“If they’ve fired Kormorans, Skipper, we won’t see them until they’re twenty miles out — about one minute from now. Klakring’s the only other ship in range.”

“Then tell Klakring to unmask and engage.”

The TAO replied, “I estimate five-plus missiles, sir. She probably can’t do it alone.”

Dale’s captain turned and gave him his full attention. He nodded slightly. “Understood, Tom.”

Protecting George Washington took precedence over self-defense.

The lieutenant at the missile console announced, “Birds away.” A rippling roar from fore and aft confirmed his statement.

At each end of the ship, a massive twin-armed missile launcher swung back down to near level. In the metal skin of the ship just behind them, small doors opened up and needle-nosed missiles slid out quickly, belying their ton-and-a-half weight. Now carrying a three-ton load, the launchers slewed up and out again.

It took about thirty seconds for each launcher to go through its reloading cycle. In that time, Dale’s first four SAMs were halfway to the rapidly closing targets.

Klakring fired as well. Her single-arm launcher fired a shorter-range, older version of Dale’s missile, but the smaller launcher was quicker — pumping out a missile every ten seconds. The frigate’s deck and launcher were soon black with scorched paint and missile exhaust.

Her SM1 missiles had a hard time with the sea-skimming Kormorans. The German missiles hugged the wavetops, only a man’s height above the water. At that height, the water itself returned an echo to the missile’s seeker.

The first salvo of Dale’s long-range SAMs reached the ASMPs just as the first of Klakring’s missiles missed one of the Kormorans. Both sets of targets were difficult. One high-flying and very fast, the other not so fast but very low.

Dale’s missiles were newer and had a clearer view of their targets. Two of the four connected, shredding the ASMPs’ airframes and their warheads.

Klakring’s second SM1 struck a Kormoran, slamming it into the water in an explosion of spray. The third, intended for the same target, missed and the frigate’s missile director quickly shifted to another missile in the same group.

The German seaskimmers were much closer now. As Dale’s third group of four missiles left her launchers, chaff blossomed over both ships. At the same time, the frigate’s three-inch gun opened up, pumping out round after round at one-second intervals. A puff of black-gray smoke marked each shell as it burst.

The second group of four SAMs from Dale intersected the ASMPs’ track. Two more nuclear missiles died, leaving just a single attacker.

So far Klakring’s launcher had spat out eight missiles, but she’d only been graced with a single hit. Now, as the Kormorans converged on the cruiser, the frigate’s last shot missed. She still carried plenty of SAMs in her magazine, but the German missiles were too close. If she fired again, she would be more likely to hit her larger companion.

The Kormorans were only seconds from impact.

Dale’s starboard Phalanx fired, sending an almost solid stream of tungsten projectiles out in a quarter-second burst. As it fired, the six-barrel Gatling gun’s dual radars tracked both the target and its bullet stream, bringing the two together. A mile away, a small black dot suddenly blossomed into an ugly black ball of smoke. The automated gun did not pause to admire its accuracy, but fired again — exploding another incoming missile. Both engagements took only seconds, but while the gun knocked down those two Kormorans, three others reached the ship.

Two missiles hit, slamming into her port side — one in the after deckhouse, the other near the bridge. Each carried nearly five hundred pounds of explosive moving just under the speed of sound.

Sections of Date’s superstructure were torn out, while red-hot fragments slashed through her interior. In seconds, Dale was a pyre. The last four SAMs she had fired, deprived of their guiding hand, flew harmlessly past the remaining ASMP.

Ships in the inner screen were now in firing range. In a ragged salvo, an Aegis cruiser on the far side of the carrier, a Perry-class frigate, and a Kidd-class missile destroyer all launched SAMs.

Twenty miles out, at thirty thousand feet, one of the American missiles hit home.

Unlike the other French missiles, this ASMP had gotten close enough to arm itself. “Salvage-fused,” it sensed its own death and detonated.

Sailors who hadn’t yet taken cover belowdecks saw a bright sphere, the size of a small coin, appear in the sky — glowing like a weak red sun.

There wasn’t any real danger at that distance. After averting their eyes from the initial flash, everyone stared at the angry symbol of Armageddon. Twenty seconds later, a sudden puff of warm wind swept past — the only tactile sign of temperatures and pressures that had briefly rivaled the sun itself.

Admiral Gibierge’s masterstroke had failed.

Ward was busy with the search-and-rescue efforts and the air battle’s aftermath. The fireball had almost dissipated by the time he stepped outside. Off to the southeast, the sky was littered with shredded white smoke trails, while a black column of smoke closer in marked Dale’s demise.

They’d been damn lucky, he thought. He’d made an unexpected move, caught the enemy off guard, and come out relatively intact. They’d lost one cruiser, about twenty fighters, but they’d decimated EurCon air power. It had cost the lives of about five hundred sailors and airmen, he reflected sadly, but without the victory they could have lost many times that number.

Another missile ship was already steaming over to take Dale’s position. His fighter squadrons were recovering on board the two carriers. Once his pilots had time to rest and eat, each bird farm would launch the first in a long series of Alpha Strikes aimed at French and German air and naval bases. He planned to make sure EurCon paid dearly for what it had done.

Better yet, the carrier Vinson would arrive in the area in several more days, allowing him to keep two carriers on the line continuously while the other pulled back to replenish and rest its air crews.

In the meantime, Ward had some serious planning to do. EurCon’s step across the nuclear threshold presented him with new military challenges. For a start, formations that had been closed up to offer better protection against conventional air attack would have to be dispersed to prevent multiple losses if another nuclear weapon got through.

He’d leave the bigger issues to the politicians in Washington and London. But one thing was already clear. The whole nature of this war had changed in the blink of an eye.