They’d first been challenged by an American frigate, one of the escorts that formed the picket line of ships around the American fleet, and had detoured far out of their way to evade it. Standard missiles had arced through the sky, locking onto the Harriers as they scattered, spewing chaff. One aircraft — Chani’s — had been hit, the missile’s warhead blasting it apart. A second — young Prakash Garbyal’s — had flown into the sea while trying to evade the American missile that had locked onto him.
And now, like raptor birds circling above their prey, the Russian Migs were stooping on the Sea Harriers from above.
The American carrier was less than sixty kilometers away … close enough! Admiral Ramesh might have vowed vengeance against the American and Russian forces … but the fight was over. Over! India had thrown everything she could muster at the invaders off her shores, and the result had only served to weaken her in the fight against the real enemy, Pakistan.
“Blue King Leader to Blue King,” he radioed. “All aircraft … lock on primary target and launch missiles!”
He had already let his payload “see” the target and store it in its mindless memory. His thumb came down on the firing trigger.
“Blue King Leader! Launch! Launch! Enemy missiles …” He saw the telltale blips of enemy missiles sprinkled across his own VDI. There wasn’t much time left now. He pressed the trigger and felt his Sea Harrier leap as the pair of Sea Eagle missiles dropped away, one following the other.
Within seconds, a spread of twenty missiles were racing toward the Jefferson, now thirty-six miles away.
“They have launched antiship cruise missiles,” Kurasov said. “Lavrov!
Call the Americans. Warn them.
“Da, Captain.”
He was already plunging through the sky toward the sea, adding power to his paired Tumansky R-33D turbofans as he brought his nose up, following the Indian missiles. The electronics of his cockpit suite were as sophisticated as any in the West. Course, range, and elevation flashed onto his HUD in precisely lettered Cyrillic characters. He locked on.
Captain Kurasov carried six AA-10s slung beneath his wings. Code-named Alamo by NATO, the AA-10 had been designed for use with the Mig-29 but had not been part of the various arms packages sold to India. Kurasov’s ordnance load consisted of all radar-seekers, with look-down/shoot-down lock-on capability that let him target the speeding Indian missile.
In his headset he heard the warble of target acquisition. “Strelyat!” he yelled, calling to no one in particular. Fire!
His thumb closed on the firing switch, and an AA-10 speared from beneath his wing. He shifted his aim, locking onto a second missile.
“Strelyat!”
“We have missiles inbound, Captain,” Commander Barnes announced. “The Hawkeyes have a good plot … at least twenty missiles, range thirty miles. Our Russian friends just alerted us.”
Captain Fitzgerald nodded. “What do we have that can reach them?”
“Kearny is in a good position, sir. So’s the Winslow. They’ll take out some along the way with Standard missiles. We can begin launching Sea Sparrow in another …” He checked his watch. “About two minutes, sir.”
“Very well. Defenses on automatic.”
“Aye, sir.”
Fitzgerald watched the battle board, the pattern of blips closing on Jefferson’s position. Strange … but he’d never gotten used to fighting a battle this way. In the cockpit of an F-4 Phantom, with SAMS lighting up the sky and Migs turning and burning all around, yes, but this sterile, button-pushing war of nerve and waiting …
The Kearny was an Arleigh Burke-class guided missile destroyer (DDG).
One of the newest ships in the U.S. inventory, she was equipped with the SPY-1 radar and was intended to supplement the Ticonderoga-class Aegis cruisers. Her primary weapons were two sets of Mark 41 Vertical Launch Systems set into her forward and after decks, loaded with Standard SM-2(MR) SAMS and Tomahawk cruise missiles.
Her SPY-1 had been tracking the missile flight for several minutes already, their course and speed fed into the ship’s CIC computers.
Missiles broke from Kearny’s deck, fore and aft, in clouds of white smoke, and a shower of plastic shavings blasted from the protective covers of the Mark 4s. Guided by the Aegis computer system on board, the Standard SAMS accelerated into the sky, locked onto their targets, and descended.
The last of his AA-10s left the launch rail on a trail of flame.
“Strelyat!” He’d winnowed twenty cruise missiles down to sixteen and perhaps given the Jefferson a fighting chance.
But any closer and he would risk being downed himself by American point defenses. He pulled back on the Fulcrum’s stick, arcing into the sky.
Across the water, a battle raged as Russian Fulcrums engaged Indian Sea Harriers. Magic missiles and AA-10s stabbed and twisted. A Harrier disintegrated as it banked too low, catching one wingtip in the sea.
Vectoring in high and behind an enemy Sea Harrier, Kurasov lined up the gun reticle on his HUD with the Indian aircraft’s cockpit. At four hundred knots, he closed slowly, until the enemy plane filled his sights … an easy kill. His thumb closed on the firing button … The Indian plane was no longer there! Bewildered, the Soviet pilot pulled up, looking left and right as the Mig flashed past the spot where the Sea Harrier should have been. Too late, he caught the flash of wings in his rearview mirror. He’d forgotten that maneuver, that impossible maneuver that Harrier pilots called viffing … And now the Sea Harrier was squarely behind him, a Magic AAM sliding off its wingtip rail.
The missile’s detonation kicked the Fulcrum over, crumpling one wing and shredding the hull. The fireball lit up the sky three miles south of the Kearny. The sailors on the DDG’s deck, not knowing the identity of the target, cheered wildly and tossed their white hats in the air.
Jefferson’s CIWS and short-ranged Sea Sparrows began marking down the remaining Sea Eagle missiles.
None hit the carrier, but the officers in CIC were subdued.
They knew one of their own had fallen to hostile fire.
Defense Minister Kuldip Sundarji sat alone in his office, the latest stack of reports before him. The information was fragmentary. The Americans had an annoying habit of shooting down reconnaissance and communications aircraft as quickly as the Indians could put them up.
Despite this, there was no question in his mind at all.
India was losing the battle.
The losses so far had been horrifying. Fifty-seven aircraft confirmed shot down, and as many more might never fly again. Reports of air losses were still coming in as the American strike force thundered over the western frontier. The last bold stroke by a Sea Harrier squadron had not achieved a single hit. The most recent report on his desk was from the young navy lieutenant, Tahliani. He and four other Sea Harriers were enroute for Kathiawar. The others had been shot down in a dogfight with Russian Migs.
Russian Migs! He put his face in his hand. So much had depended on the inevitable friction between Russian and American commanders. Somehow, the enemy factions had managed to work together, something Sundarji had thought impossible.