“Splash one! Splash one!”
The men in CIC broke into a ragged cheer at that. Vaughn scowled.
Despite all he’d been able to do, a dogfight had begun. Transfixed, he stared at the radar feed from the airborne Hawkeye. There was little to be seen, the smear of clouds associated with a weather front to the east, and a tangle of slow-moving blips where the dogfight was taking place between Bombay and the convoy.
“If I may suggest, Admiral,” Barnes said. “We should get some more guns into the area, fast. Before the enemy gets any closer.”
“We have two more F-14s on BARCAP east of the carrier,” Marusko pointed out. “And two more on Alert Five. We’ve got an honest-to-God furball up there, and our boys are going to need some help.”
So there it was. The decision that, either way, would be the mistake the buzzards in Washington would pounce on, once they caught the scent of blood. The order he was about to give might well be the crowning achievement of his career … or the end of it.
But the decision had to be made. “Order the BARCAP to engage,” he said.
“And launch the Alert Five. Confirm weapons release.”
If he’d made a wrong choice he’d end up like Tom Magruder, on the beach and under a cloud. He didn’t like the feeling.
CHAPTER 8
“Tally-ho!” Tombstone yelled, using the age-old call that meant the quarry was in sight. He could see the other plane as a starlit shape approaching in the darkness, marked by twin pencils of flame as the other pilot kicked in his afterburners. “He’s climbing for us.”
“Hot damn!” Dixie replied. “We’re goin’ head-to-head!”
“AIM-9.” At close range, a Sidewinder launch gave them their best shot.
“What’s he flying anyway?”
“Can’t tell,” Tombstone said. “It’s damned hot, though. Look at him jink!”
Tombstone watched the bandit’s approach narrowly as he cut his engine back to eighty percent. Standard tactical doctrine for ACM — Air Combat Maneuvers — called for passing an opponent as closely as possible when meeting him head-on, not giving him room to turn and latch onto your tail.
The Indian pilot was good, he thought. Way too good for Tombstone’s peace of mind. By jinking his aircraft up, down, and sideways during the approach, he was making it impossible for Tombstone to calculate how much leeway to give him. The darkness didn’t help. The other plane was almost invisible … and there was no way to judge distance by eyeball alone. “Two thousand,” Dixie warned.
Tombstone felt himself tense as the other plane loomed close.
Munir Ramadutta watched the oncoming aircraft swell in his Fulcrum’s HUD. This American was good … but he’d expected no less. U.S. Navy aviators had a worldwide reputation independent of the militant posturings of their government.
He thumbed the switch arming his short-range AA-8 Aphid missiles. He was at a sharp disadvantage for close-in combat. The Aphid was not an all-aspect missile, meaning it had to “see” the enemy’s engine exhaust in order to achieve target lock.
In any case, he was too close to the American now, approaching too quickly to allow any time for thought or action. He would pass the Tomcat close on his left, then pull a half-loop-and-roll to get on the enemy’s tail.
The American drew still closer …
… and then the other plane was past, flashing close by the Tomcat at supersonic speed. Tombstone immediately pulled into a vertical climb and went to Zone Five burner, hoping to do a half-loop-and-roll that would drop him on the other pilot’s six, squarely behind him and a mile to the rear.
“Damn it, Stoney! Watch out!”
Tombstone yanked his head back at the warning, looking through the top of his canopy. The other plane was there, also climbing, cockpit-to-cockpit with the Tomcat.
It happened so quickly that he didn’t have time to react to the icy fear that struck him in that instant. The other plane was eerily illuminated by stars and the glow from Tombstone’s own afterburners, and so close that he could make out the other pilot’s helmeted shape in the light of his cockpit instrumentation, could see the bold numerals 401 on the other plane’s nose.
The other aircraft was close enough he could clearly identify it as a Mig-29, a Fulcrum, though his first impression had been that the nimble, twin-tailed aircraft was an American F/A-18 Hornet. The Indian pilot’s skill had saved them both. He’d been pulling the identical maneuver as Tombstone, but at the last moment had recognized the danger and avoided a midair collision. For perhaps two seconds, the fighters climbed, canopy to canopy, a scant ten meters apart, aimed at the stars … and then the Indian Mig rolled left and vanished into the darkness.
Tombstone reacted instantly, breaking right. He was now less interested in getting on the Indian Mig’s tail than he was in disengaging. A wrong move in the darkness at such close quarters would end in fiery disaster.
ACM was especially hard when you couldn’t pick up visual clues about the other pilot’s attitude, speed, angle of attack, or energy state.
“Blue Viper, Blue Viper, this is Victor Tango One-niner.” The Hawkeye’s call came over Tombstone’s headset as he started angling back toward the Indian Jaguars.
“Victor Tango, this is Viper Leader. Go ahead.”
“Blue Viper, you’ve got new targets entering your area. Be advised they are friendly, repeat, friendly. Over.”
“Hot damn,” Batman said. “Cavalry to the rescue!”
Tombstone glanced at his VDI. He saw the new blips … and apparently the Migs had seen them as well. They were turning, making for the mainland at high speed.
Which left the Indian Jaguars, dead ahead and in the clear, range thirty miles.
Colonel Singh checked his radio frequency. “Mountain, this is Krait Attack, inbound. Estimate range now sixty-five kilometers. Beginning attack run.”
He glanced left and right at the other Jaguars in his flight, faintly visible on either side of his aircraft as they skimmed the black ocean toward the southwest. The Exocet missiles they carried were just within range of the target now clearly painted on his radar screen, dead ahead.
“Krait Leader to all Kraits,” he said over the tactical frequency.
“Initiate targeting procedure. Gyros up now.”
They would launch in thirty seconds.
“Victor Tango, this is Blue Viper,” Tombstone said. “We’ve got four Alpha bandits lined up in our sights. Commencing Phoenix run.”
“We copy, Viper Leader,” the Hawkeye tactical officer replied. “Message from Homeplate. Green light. You’re go for missile release.”
“About damned time,” Tombstone muttered. He didn’t even stop to think whether the missile-release order referred to the attack planes ahead or his earlier request to fire on the Indian Migs.
Time enough to sort that out later. “Copy that, Victor Tango.”
Tombstone reached out and flipped a switch on his console. “Master arming switch on.” He opened the ICS. “Dixie? How about a solution on those bogies.”
“Got it, Tombstone. We’ve got four targets, range now three-oh nautical miles. On track-and-scan. Acquisition. AWG-9 locked in. We’re hot.”