Through the open side windows of the Bridge, Randle heard his ship’s defensive systems engage. Sea Sparrow and Rolling Airframe missiles streaked from their launchers, leaving trails of white smoke. A moment later, the three Phalanx CIWS Gatling guns engaged.
Four more missiles hit Truman, the ship shuddering with each blast, and four more spires of black smoke rose skyward from the carrier’s port side, joining seven others.
This attack on Truman brought the total to five. Five Russian guided missile submarines had approached close enough to launch their missiles at the task force’s carriers. Three of the four aircraft carriers had been hit, with only USS Eisenhower spared thus far. Bush was down hard, with fires raging inside the hangar bays. Reagan, on the other hand, despite taking additional missile impacts, was inching closer to resuming flight ops.
That left two operable carriers, but two were sufficient for the remaining seventy Super Hornets. The task force had lost almost two-thirds of its fighter complement, but they had accomplished their mission. The Russian combat air patrol had been annihilated, and every Russian surface combatant had been sunk or heavily damaged. Only Pyotr Velikiy and Kuznetsov were putting up a fight now, and Kuznetsov could no longer support flight operations. The Russian surface Navy was in its death throes. Unfortunately, the Russian Submarine Force was not.
Randle examined the horizon; the hazy gray dawn had given way to a spectacular day — a cloudless blue sky with moderate winds, blowing the columns of black smoke rising from three American carriers northward. On the Flight Deck below, two Super Hornets glided toward the bow catapults, preparing for another assault on the two remaining Russian surface combatants. Now that the Russian combat air patrol was nonexistent, the F/A-18 weapon mix had been changed, trading their air-to-air missiles for more anti-surface weapons. It wouldn’t be long before every Russian surface ship had a new, permanent berth on the bottom of the ocean.
“Bridge, CDC.”
Randle answered, “Captain.”
“Captain, OPSO. We’re detecting activity from the Indian carriers.”
Randle acknowledged the report, then switched one of the quad screens below the Bridge windows to the COP — Common Operational Picture. The three Indian aircraft carriers to the east, including their newest one allegedly on sea trials, had begun launching. Randle watched the yellow neutral icons accumulate on the screen as the Indian air wings assembled above the carriers. India was preparing to join the battle, and given there had been no official coordination between the American task force and Indian Navy, the scenario did not bode well.
He shifted his radio to Strike, listening as the strike controllers in CDC vectored the combat air patrol to the east and launched all ready aircraft. On the Flight Deck, Aviation Ordnancemen hustled to the two F/A-18s on the bow catapults, swapping out their surface attack missiles with anti-air. It didn’t take long, and the two F/A-18s streaked forward as the bow catapults fired. Randle watched the two fighters turn east to join the rest of the CAP.
As the three Indian fighter wings headed toward the American task force, Randle did the math. Seventy-two inbound tactical fighters opposed by thirty-two Super Hornets. The American aircraft were superior, but quality overcame only so much quantity. Additionally, although there were several cruisers and destroyers on the back side of the formation, the task force was lightly defended in that area compared to the front and flanks.
Randle listened as the strike controllers recalled all aircraft headed toward the Russian surface combatants, ordering them back to Truman and Eisenhower to swap out their air-to-surface weapons with air-to-air. That would take time, unfortunately, during which the task force’s CAP of thirty-two fighters would have to suffice.
The battle unfolded quickly. The Indian aircraft closed within range of the task force’s protective screen of cruisers and destroyers, and the bulk of the seventy-two inbound aircraft launched their missiles: over two hundred inbound bogies.
The Aegis Warfare Systems aboard the American ships performed admirably, but two dozen missiles made it through, striking the six destroyers and cruisers in that sector. Randle watched in dismay as three of the ships dropped off the grid, including the heavily armed cruiser Vicksburg. A review of the visual feed from that sector revealed black smoke billowing up from all six ships.
The Indian aircraft launched a second volley of missiles, this time bypassing the damaged ships, their missiles headed toward Eisenhower. Twenty made it through. Luckily, the aircraft air-to-surface missiles were much smaller than Russian Shipwrecks, and Eisenhower survived. Unfortunately, the damage was severe enough to halt flight operations.
Black smoke was now spiraling up from all four American carriers, with only Truman operable at the moment.
84
ARABIAN SEA
On USS Truman’s Flight Deck, Lieutenant Commander Bill Houston, call sign Samurai, waited in the cockpit of his F/A-18E Super Hornet. He’d lost count of how many times he’d returned to the carrier for rearming and refueling. To save time, Truman’s crew was hot pumping, refueling his jet with the engines still running, one at a time. Houston kept the port engine running while they refueled starboard, then they’d reverse the procedure for port. Meanwhile, Ordies were attaching more ordnance to his fighter, all air-to-air missiles this time, as he’d be heading out to engage the Indian air wings.
Wisps of smoke occasionally drifted across the Flight Deck, partially obscuring his vision. Although most of the black smoke was pouring from the aircraft carrier’s port side, blowing away from the ship as it rose skyward, some leaked from the elevators on starboard as the crew battled the fires raging inside the ship. He had to give credit to Truman’s crew, keeping the aircraft carrier operational despite the extensive damage.
Truman’s crew completed refueling and rearming Houston’s aircraft, and the yellow-shirted Shooter guided him toward CAT One, the starboard bow catapult. Houston pulled up beside his new wingman, Lieutenant Dave Hernandez, call sign TexMex, who had just dropped his launch bar into CAT Two. It was an ill omen for the Mexican from Texas. Houston had lost two wingmen already, one during the night and another one this morning. Perhaps the third time would be the charm.
Houston dropped his launch bar into CAT One’s shuttle hook, and the Flight Deck crew verified his aircraft was ready for launch. The Shooter then lifted his arm skyward, then back down to a horizontal position, directing Houston to kick in the afterburners. Houston pushed the throttles past the détente, then turned toward the Shooter and saluted. The Shooter returned the salute, then bent down and touched the deck, but not before Houston caught the reflection of the Rising Sun off the canopy of his aircraft.
Thus far, Houston hadn’t needed the reflective tape affixed to his helmet, having made it back to Truman after each mission rather than splashing into the ocean. He hoped it wasn’t a premonition, catching the reflection just before takeoff. He didn’t have much time to dwell on the matter, however. The operator in the Catapult Control Station took his cue from the Shooter and the starboard catapult fired; six hundred pounds of steam sent Houston’s aircraft streaking toward Truman’s bow. As Houston climbed to ten thousand feet, TexMex pulled up alongside and both jets headed east.