"Missile launch, missile launch," a voice broke in over the tactical circuit. Probably the pilot of the S-3, rather than the TACCO. "Home Plate, I say again ― vampires inbound."
That decided it for Batman. He snatched up a radio microphone for the tactical circuit and said, "Hunter 701, you are weapons free on all Russian subsurface contacts. I repeat, weapons free."
The bloody speed leader of the missile materialized on the tactical screen, streaking up from the submarine contact symbol. You could see the intended target easily, tracing out the direction of the speed leader. It was headed directly for Jefferson.
The Aegis skipper saw it, too. "Got it, Jefferson." As he spoke, the screen showed the designation of the missile as a contact by the cruiser and a weapons assignment. Seconds later, a Standard missile shot out from the cruiser symbol.
"Jefferson, roger your last," the S-3 broke in. "We have a firing solution. Fire one." A pause. "Fire two." Evidently the pilot had been prepared for just this moment.
The submarine-launched missile continued its track inbound. Five inches of screen separated its symbol from that of the Jefferson, and the distance shrank measurably while we were watching.
Four inches A second, then a third missile arrowed out from the cruiser, the speed leaders intersecting that of the inbound missile.
Three inches The OOD onboard Jefferson activated the collision alarm.
"All hands brace for shock" came over the 1 MC. I saw the TAO reach down for his seat belt and buckle himself into his chair. I sat down on the deck, my back to a bulkhead.
Two inches The first missile the cruiser had fired was clearly a miss, although a close one. The two symbols passed so close to each other that they merged for a moment of time. I thought for a second she'd gotten it, but then the blotch of symbology broke apart into the incoming missile and the Standard missile. The second and third missiles still had a chance.
One inch The second missile veered away from its projected course and headed out toward open ocean. Something in the guidance system, maybe a propulsion problem ― we'd probably never know. "CIWS tracking," the TAO announced, repeating the report he'd heard over his headset. The Close-In Weapons System ― our last-ditch defense against incoming missiles. Not much of a defense, either. At the ranges at which it was effective, the shrapnel from the missile would do devastating damage to the flight deck, the superstructure, and the aircraft spotted on the deck.
The missile looked so close that I thought I'd be able to touch it.
Surely the lookouts could see it by now. Or maybe not ― even traveling that fast, it was still at least twenty miles out, a telephone pole arcing through the sky toward US.
Suddenly, a cheer rang out. "They got it ― they got it!" On the screen, the last Standard missile had merged with the incoming vampire, barely closer to it than any of the other anti-air shots had been.
But close enough. The plat camera aimed back at the stern of the carrier showed a black-and-white picture of an oily, billowing mass of smoke and fire.
With the missile destroyed, we now had to face taking out the platform that had launched it. The TAO reached out and turned up the volume on the USW CR. The S-3 TACCO's voice boomed out, giving us a running commentary on his own attack. "Two fish away. Acoustic indications ― they're lit off, entering search pattern." The torpedoes were programmed to commence a standard search pattern once they hit the salt water. "Searching… Searching… Contact. Torpedo one entering attack profile." The sonar dome inside the nose of the torpedo would have gone to the high-frequency, search-sector ping once it detected a target of interest. It was homing in on that now, guided partly by the acoustic sounds emanating from the submarine, as well as the reflection of its own sonar transmissions off the hull.
"Active countermeasures ― Home Plate, I have active countermeasures in the water. Submarine is evading ― he just knuckled and headed deep."
I stared off at the horizon, which was bland and featureless. There was nothing that would indicate to the naked eye that a deadly battle was taking place beneath its surface. Only cold, slate gray water and a few clouds. The aircraft and helicopters themselves were indistinguishable.
"Second torpedo acquiring. Commencing approach run."
"I've got him on the sonar dome," the first helicopter pilot reported.
"Holding good contact. I think the bastard's going deep, trying to get below the thermocline and try to evade. Going active now."
"Launch three. Launch four." The Viking pilot was taking no chances, peppering the water with warheads.
"He got him. Home Plate, this is Hunter 701," the pilot said, sheer glee plain in his voice. "I have explosive noise, breaking up. Should be ― yes, there it is. Home Plate, oil slick and debris in the water.
Classify one Russian submarine as destroyed."
"Admiral, flight deck supervisor. The submarine is clear of us, sir, and requests permission to submerge. She sends her thanks."
Batman nodded. "Tell her captain that he owes four guys on a Viking a steak dinner. They just rid that sub's neighborhood of a few pesky rodents." The strident gonging of the General Quarters alarm cut off his last word.
There are some advantages to being an admiral. One of them that during General Quarters, even with the entire crew of the carrier scurrying to their battle stations, you can still get through. The stream of sailors hurtling through the passageways at breakneck speeds parted slightly as Batman approached, even though we were going counter to the ordered flow of traffic. I stayed close on his heels as we made for TFCC.
We pounded to the conference room and into the small compartment located at the back of it. A sailor thrust flash gear and a gas mask at me as I got to the compartment.
The large scale display told the entire picture. Two waves of MiGs, fourteen per wave, were just leaving the coastline of Russia. This wasn't any escort force. Coupled with the submarines lurking to our north, it meant only one thing. As the gonging of the General Quarters alarm stopped, I heard the first sounds of the Tomcats turning their engines overhead. The structural steel and tarmac that separated us from the most potent weapons ever built in this century could only diminish, not block out, the thunderous sounds of those powerful engines.
Then another sound chimed in, the lighter, almost insect-like scream of the Hornet engines turning. Powerful in their own way, the perfect adversary against the MiG, yet lacking the legs and sheer firepower of their larger brothers. Either Tomcats or Hornets alone had disadvantages, but together they were deadly.
Russians have their own ways of making war, and this attack was no exception. Even before we'd left home port, we had worked up how we would fight an air war if necessary. The decades of the Cold War had taught us how the Russians liked to fight. They come in waves ― heavy, massive waves of aircraft, throwing sheer tonnage of steel and weapons against a carrier battle group. They seek out the carrier, the vital soft heart of the fighting force. Without it, the battle group retains some capacity for self-defense, particularly when there's an Aegis cruiser along. But even though that battle group might be able to stave off missiles, it couldn't fulfill the primary mission of an aircraft carrier and battle group to wreak devastation and damage on the soil of another nation.
Our Aegis cruiser was turning now, taking up her assigned station at flank speed. Her skipper was on the circuit, reporting all stations ready for battle. His ship would already have set General Quarters, being so much smaller than the carrier. Three minutes, four tops. It wouldn't have taken much longer. For the aircraft carrier it took longer.