Batman paced him, the thunder of their passage trailing behind them.
Colonel Jamall Rajiv Singh studied the screen of his Ferranti Comed, a combined map and electronic display on the console before him. The screen was empty, the enemy target still hidden beyond the curve of the horizon.
But it would not be much longer now. The four aircraft of his command were in position to strike. They required only the final order from Bombay.
His plane was arguably the most modern and deadly attack aircraft in the inventory of the Indian air force, a SEPECAT Jaguar International.
Originally a joint design by the British RAF and the French Armee de Air, the Jaguar International was license-built by HAL in India as a single-seat, all-weather attack aircraft. Slung beneath his wings were a pair of sleek, ship-killing AM.39 Exocet antiship missiles, with a range of almost fifty kilometers.
“Krait, this is Mountain,” a voice in his headset informed him.
“Mountain” was the mission HQ in Bombay. “Execute. Execute. Execute.”
“Mountain, Krait,” Singh replied. The excitement rose inside him, making the reply difficult. “Understood.”
He shifted to the tactical channel. The other Jaguar pilots would have been listening in, but he had to make it official.
“Krait Attack, this is Krait Leader,” he announced. “Come to two-one-zero. The word is execute.”
The command thrilled in his blood, as the other pilots acknowledged. In unison, the four Indian Jaguars screamed toward the American targets at Mach 1.
Admiral Vaughn looked up from the map. “What is it?”
“This just in from VT Nineteen, sir.” Captain Bersticer handed him a printout. “Our BARCAP is closing on the bogies. CIC has ordered them to close and investigate.”
“What?” Vaughn looked up, surprised. “Why wasn’t I consulted?”
Bersticer’s eyebrows shifted upward. “Standard procedure, Admiral.
Those bogies are heading straight for-“
“Damn it, we have explicit orders from Washington not to take any action that could be interpreted as hostile!”
“Those bogies are closing at Mach 1, Admiral,” Bersticer said quietly.
“How close do they have to get before-“
“Order the BARCAP to hold their Position,” Vaughn snapped. “They are not, repeat, not to make any threatening moves toward those bogies.”
“Yes, sir.” Bersticer looked worried.
Well, damn it, Vaughn thought, he was worried too. He clenched his fists in frustration. What would they say in Washington if an international incident was blamed on him? It was possible, even probable that the Indians were deploying as a direct response to the sinking of their submarine the day before. But was it an attack, or bluff? This was definitely a fuzzy gray area of conflict in the political arena that he wanted no part of.
Politics … He thought again of Tom Magruder and suppressed another shudder.
“The word is, ‘hold position,’” Tombstone radioed over the tactical channel.
“Copy that,” Batman replied. He sounded furious. “What in God’s name are they playing at back there?”
“If I knew that, I’d be an admiral.” Tombstone studied the bogies, repeated to his screen from Dixie’s console. Four of them, fading in and out as they arrowed toward the BARCAP aircraft. They were pressing the very limits of the Tomcat’s radar. “Tell you what, Batman. Break high and right. Let’s see if we can clear up the picture some.”
“Roger that. We’re outta here.”
Batman’s aircraft stood on its wing for an instant, and then it was gone, vanished into the darkness. By separating the two aircraft they could get a clearer radar picture of the oncoming bogies.
Minutes passed. The four unidentified radar targets continued to close, a diamond-shaped cluster of four … No, eight points of light. Four more aircraft had been trailing the first four, masked by their radar shadow.
“Victor Tango One-niner, this is Blue Viper Leader,” he called. “Victor Tango One-niner, come in, please. Over.”
After a static-filled moment, the voice of the distant Hawkeye’s tactical officer came on the line. “This is Victor Tango One-niner. Go ahead, Viper Leader.”
“Victor Tango, we have eight, repeat, eight bogies inbound, bearing zero-six-niner. Range nine-two, speed seven-nine-oh knots.”
“Affirmative, Blue Viper. We copy two groups, designation Alpha and Bravo.”
“Roger, Victor Tango. Request weapons free. Repeat, request weapons free.”
“Blue Viper, Victor Tango One-niner. Wait one.”
Tombstone lightly fingered the firing trigger on his stick. The combat load for each Tomcat on tonight’s CAP consisted of two AIM-9M Sidewinders, two AIM-7M Sparrows, and four of the deadly, long-range AIM-54-C Phoenix air-to-air missiles. With the Phoenix they could hit a target up to one hundred twenty miles away.
His heart pounded in his chest. The current rules of engagement called for shooting back only if American planes or ships were fired upon, and only after confirmation from Jefferson’s CIC. But eight high-performance aircraft were on a beeline toward the fleet. No way could they ignore such a threat.
The gloved fingers of his left hand drummed against his thigh. What was the delay? More indecision? Surely the enemy’s intentions were more than clear!
“Victor Tango, Blue Viper. How about that release, over?”
And still the wait dragged on.
Admiral Vaughn had hurried down to the carrier’s Combat Information Center, the better to stay on top of events that were unfolding with bewildering speed.
“From our Hawkeye, Admiral,” Commander Barnes, the CIC officer, said. He stood behind one of the radar consoles, the padded cup of a radio headset pressed over his right ear. “BARCAP requests weapons free.”
“We don’t know they’re going to attack,” Vaughn said. He regretted the words as soon as he said them. Barnes’s mouth twisted in an unpleasant quirk, and several of the other officers in the room, including his own aides, exchanged dark glances.
“Begging the admiral’s pardon,” Captain Bersticer said. “But we sure as hell don’t have any reason to think they’re friendly!”
“Comm!” Vaughn snapped. “Can you contact those aircraft?”
“We can try, sir,” an enlisted rating sitting at one of the consoles said.
“Damn it, Admiral,” Barnes said. “There’s no time …”
“Warn them off.” It was all happening too fast. The best guess was that the incoming bogies were reconnaissance aircraft. How would this be interpreted by Washington?
Maybe it would be better to close with the bogies. Eight of them sounded like something more than a reconnaissance flight.
“Okay,” he said, deciding. “Order the CAP to close for a visual ID. Do you have Washington on the satellite yet?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“Well, get on it! Give them an update on our situation and request instructions.”
“Aye, sir.” Vaughn didn’t like the edge in the enlisted man’s voice.
CIC was air-conditioned, often to the point where it was too cool for the admiral’s comfort. He was sweating now, though. He reached up to loosen the collar of his khaki shirt. What they needed most now was time, but it didn’t look as though they would have that luxury. Not with the bogies closing at Mach 1.2.