Lieutenant Colonel Munir Ramadutta watched the two bogies that had just appeared on his radar screen, well beyond the tight knot of Jaguars his flight was escorting. American CAP aircraft, certainly, probably Tomcats.
He felt a shiver of anticipation. Only the day before, his Fulcrum squadron had been stationed at Jamnagar, escorting bombing strikes against Pakistan from the Kathiawar Peninsula. The transfer to Kurla had been completely unexpected. The orders to escort a strike against American ships off the coast had been more unexpected yet.
Long ago, Ramadutta had decided that it never paid to question the decisions of the politicians who set the country’s course. America could prove to be a formidable foe in war, but New Delhi must have decided that it was necessary to take them on, even while full-scale war was unfolding along the Radcliffe Line.
There were rumors of an Indian sub sunk by the Americans. He wondered if they were true.
“Mountain, this is Krait Cover Leader. Two contacts, probably enemy fighters.”
“Roger, Krait Cover. Proceed with intercept. Engage and destroy.”
That was it, then. “Krait Cover, this is Leader,” he said. “Come to two-five-eight and deploy, wing-and-wing. We’re going in.”
Breaking away from the Jaguars, the four Fulcrums thundered into the night.
The aircraft, two Tomcats and four Mig-29 Fulcrums, closed with each other in the darkness. As Tombstone watched the blips drifting across his VDI, he felt again the eerie sense of unreality that came with engaging an enemy he could not see directly. The night outside the cockpit seemed deceptively clear and quiet.
“Okay, Batman,” Tombstone said. “Just like a football play. Bravo’s the offensive line, Alpha’s their quarterback, We punch past Bravo and go for the guy with the ball.”
“You think the fighters’ll let us go through?”
“I guess that’s what we’re here to find out, isn’t it?”
Was he reading the enemy formation right? Alpha had to be attack planes, Probably Jaguars. Bravo would be Migs, running interference for the ship hunters.
And somehow, he and Batman had to get to the Jaguars before they could launch their Exocets.
Still invisible to one another, save as glowing pinpoints of light, the two groups Of fighters grew closer … merged … “Stoney!” Dixie called over the ICS. “Alpha’s changing course too! New heading one-seven-niner … it’s the Biddle! They’re lining up for an attack on the Biddle!”
Clever. Tombstone could trace the tactics in his mind. Four attack aircraft, four fighters, all dead on course for the carrier.
The carrier’s BARCAP puts itself between them and the carrier, and the fighters break off and crowd the Tomcats to keep them busy. Meanwhile, the attack flight changes course toward another target — less tempting but much closer — the Perry-class frigate U.S.S. Biddle.
“Dixie! What’s the range of Alpha to the Biddle?”
“Coming down to three-five miles, Stoney.”
“That’s it, Dixie! Almost within Exocet range. Too close! We’re not going to screw around with these guys. Select Phoenix, target Alpha.
Batman! You copy?”
“Copy, Tombstone. Weapons hot.”
“Maintain combat spread. Dixie, inform Homeplate that we are engaging Alpha.” He pressed the throttle controls forward to full military power, then clicked past the detents into Zone One afterburner.
Lieutenant Colonel Ramadutta heard the warbling tone in his headset which meant the Americans had just activated their powerful AWG-9 radar.
That could mean only one thing, that the Tomcats were preparing to fire on the Jaguars, now fifty kilometers behind his flight and preparing to launch on the American frigate.
His orders were concise and explicit, to protect the Jaguars at any cost. Swiftly he armed one of his deadly Apex radar homers, listening for the warning buzz of target acquisition. There!
“Mountain, this is Krait Cover Leader. Engaging!”
His finger closed on the trigger and the missile leaped away from his aircraft, trailing white flame. An instant later, his wingman fired a second Apex.
Battle was joined.
“Homeplate, Homeplate, we are under attack!” Tombstone fought the vibration in his Tomcat as he jinked high and left. “Repeat, BARCAP One under attack!”
“Two Missiles, range four miles!” his RIO called.
“Can’t shake ‘em!” Tombstone saw the blips closing on his own VDI, saw the rapid pulse of the console missile-warning light. He rammed the throttles forward, sending the Tomcat’s heavy engines into Zone Five as he turned to face the slightly nearer of the two threats. “Three miles!
Two …”
“Hit the chaff!” He felt the chaff canisters firing, then hauled the Tomcat back until it was standing on its tail. Stars wheeled across the sky through Tombstone’s HUD, unspeakably clear and close as the F-14 climbed past thirty thousand feet.
“We lost one!” Dixie yelled. His excitement was shrill, exuberant.
“Number two climbing to meet us. Range three miles!”
Tombstone dragged the stick over and back, flipping the Tomcat onto its back, then fighting it with a brutal half-twist. As the nose came up, his HUD targeting diamond tagged the oncoming enemy fighter that had fired the second Apex. He thumbed the switch on his stick. There was no time now for confirmation. Only survival … “Going for Sidewinder!” The HUD display showed target lock.
“Gotcha!” He squeezed the trigger and the Sidewinder dropped from its rail, trailing flame into the darkness. “Fox two! Fox two!”
Tombstone pulled the Tomcat into a snap roll that twisted it toward the sea. At the last moment, he saw the exhaust of the oncoming missile, an evil-looking pinprick of yellow light arcing toward him through the night.
“He’s breaking! Tombstone! He’s breaking!” Dixie’s cry brought a relief-driven gust of air from Tombstone’s lungs. By firing a Sidewinder at the other pilot, he’d forced his opponent to turn, breaking the Mig’s radar lock on the Tomcat. And when the approaching missile lost its semi-active guidance lock … “Second missile missed!” Dixie called. “God damn, Tombstone! You know how to push it to the edge!”
A moment later, a flash of white light pulsed against the night. The Sidewinder had found its target.
“Grand slam!” Dixie called. “Victor Tango, splash one! Splash one!”
Only then did Tombstone realize that he’d technically violated the ROES.
He’d been fired at, but he’d not received confirmation from Jefferson for weapons release.
The hell with it, Tombstone thought. It’s time to turn and burn.
Vaughn felt cold … cold … with the icy knowledge that events were now totally beyond his control. When that Tomcat pilot fired without waiting for a weapons-free confirmation, he’d crossed a boundary for the whole damned battle group.
He swallowed, working to stay calm, working to control the gnawing rasp in his stomach. This mess wasn’t his fault. But would Washington understand that?
“What’s going on?” he demanded. “Damn it, who fired first?”
“Hard to make out, sir,” an enlisted rating said. He was relaying radio messages and radar scans transmitted through the circling Hawkeye. The air battle was taking place at the very limit of the E-2C’s range, and information was fragmentary, the picture fuzzy. Confused bursts of noise and bits of conversation came over the loudspeaker mounted high on CICS bulkhead, allowing the tense officers and men standing in the red-lit room to listen in on the unfolding fight.