Nearly one hundred navy warplanes orbited high over the North Sea, a moving cloud of sophisticated aircraft growing steadily as more planes thundered off George Washington in clouds of catapult steam.
Thirty thousand feet above the wavetops, Commander Rudy Mann, USN, watched his squadron form up. So far, the launch had gone like clockwork, but that was expected. His pilots had better be able to take off and assume formation competently. A lot more would be demanded of them before lunch.
Mann’s youthful face was almost completely masked by his helmet, oxygen mask, and visor. His thinning hair, close-cropped like many pilots, gave a better idea of his age than his features. In his early thirties, he was at the typical age for a squadron commander, with years of experience “in type,” flying the Hornet.
Mann’s F/A-18 Hornets, the shortest-range of the strike’s aircraft, were the last to launch, but they wouldn’t have any trouble catching up with the rest of the raid.
“Hatchet” Mann swept his eyes over the instrument panel one last time, then ordered, “Mustangs, turn to zero eight five now.”
Looking over each shoulder, he watched the rest of the squadron, twelve planes in all, follow his movements. The new course would intercept the main air formation quickly. Proceeding at a stately 370 knots, his Hornets had almost a hundred-knot overtake on them.
In the clear early morning air, he could see dozens of planes from both George Washington and Theodore Roosevelt spread out below him in Alpha Strike formation. An attack against a land target was called an Alpha Strike. One against a naval target was a Sierra Strike. The size of the strike was determined by the target’s value — and by how badly you wanted it to die.
This was a big one. Admiral Ward had spent half the previous day juggling the two carriers’ planes so that only those actually going on the strike were on George Washington.
Fighters from Roosevelt, still outside enemy strike range itself, would cover her. In turn, land-based British Tornado and American F-15 and F-16 fighters covered Rosie.
If everything went according to plan, the air groups would unscramble automatically after the raid, each landing on its own carrier.
Mann’s squadron, one of the four Hornet squadrons involved, flew ahead and to port of the main formation. Six jammer aircraft, already radiating an invisible electronic fog, flew among the F/A-18s. Lower still and even further out were two flights of A-6 Intruders, armed with Harpoon antiship missiles. They would take out any enemy vessels that lay in the raid’s path.
George Washington’s air group commander, or CAG, rode in an E-2 Hawkeye, one of the two accompanying the raid. Their high-powered radars would allow the CAG to see the raid as it progressed, and make what adjustments he could.
Other aircraft orbited in the vicinity, watching. Mann could not see them, but they did not have to be close. An air force RC-135 and a navy ES-3, different aircraft with the same role, flew lazy circles at high altitude. Equipped with webs of antennas and other electronic sensors, they would listen to the signals made by both sides and learn what they could.
Radar on, Mann scanned the sky with his eyes as well. They were headed into trouble, and he wanted to see it coming.
A junior officer reported, “New airborne activity near George Washington.”
More aircraft symbols appeared around the closer of the two U.S. carrier groups. Desaix looked over at Gibierge and raised a single eyebrow in silent speculation.
The admiral nodded. “This could be their opening strike, Foreign Minister. I don’t think these new planes are interceptors. Our raid is still forming out of their radar observation. In any case, the Americans would not launch their fighters for some time — certainly not until they had a good idea of our numbers and destination.” He studied the display. “Those planes are forming at high altitude, in easy view of our radars. They certainly aren’t trying to conceal their movements. It’s as we thought. The Americans think they can simply overwhelm our defenses.”
Desaix nodded, approving Gibierge’s apparent certainty. The admiral knew his craft. Still, he had questions. “I thought your plan anticipated attacking those carriers before they could hit us.”
The tall man’s tone was calm, but the admiral thought he heard a hint of irritation beneath the measured words. He hastened to explain. “That is true, Foreign Minister. But this situation may work even more to our advantage. This inbound American strike must be escorted, and that means fewer fighters will be available to defend that carrier. If their primary target is Wilhelmshaven, the two raids will meet almost head-on. And in that case, I believe the Americans will abandon their own attack to concentrate on their own defense.”
“Can we handle them?” queried Desaix.
“Yes, Foreign Minister, we can. We have almost half of our frontline fighter strength concentrated here.”
Desaix appeared convinced, and the admiral turned to one of the display operators. “Any further information on the inbound strike?”
The young lieutenant nodded. “We have identified airborne radars consistent with F/A-18 and A-6 aircraft. Plus, there appear to be two E-2 Hawkeyes accompanying the group.” He shrugged in apology. “We don’t yet have a precise raid count, Admiral. There is very heavy jamming.”
Gibierge nodded, undismayed. “As we expected.”
Everything was still unfolding according to his earlier predictions. The Americans would never waste two of their prized E-2 radar warning and command and control planes on a mere probe. If they followed normal practice, the practice he had seen a dozen times as a NATO observer during peacetime exercises, the incoming raid would contain two squadrons of A-6 Intruder aircraft and two of Hornets, escorted by a full squadron of F-14 Tomcats and a pair of EA-6B Prowlers to jam French and German radars. Two Hawkeyes aloft could also indicate that the Americans were combining planes from both their carriers in this one strike. Well, he thought grimly, the more the merrier. He turned back to Desaix.
“Do the Americans have any other courses of action when we meet them?”
“They may choose to continue, trusting to their missile ships and the remaining fighters. That would be better for us, of course.”
“But what about the damage they might cause to Wilhelmshaven?”
Gibierge gave a very Gallic shrug. “We will be hit, of course, but we still have our SAMs and fighter defenses.”
Desaix nodded his understanding. Both men left unsaid the thought that Wilhelmshaven was German territory anyway.
The admiral leaned forward, pressing home his point. “Most important, sir, whichever way they move, the Americans will only be able to launch this one attack. By the time they turn for home, they will have no carrier to land on, only a patch of radioactive water,”
“Admiral!” Lieutenant Harada had to shout to get Admiral Jack Ward’s attention on the noisy bridge wing. At thirty-plus knots, the wind almost ripped the words out of your throat. Add the scream of dozens of jet engines, and you might as well use sign language.
The admiral turned to his aide. Harada thought he looked a little better than he had while he was stuck on shore. The stress of the past several days had aged his boss.
Watching the airborne phase of Counterweight get under way was a tonic, though. Nobody could watch plane after plane roar off the carrier’s flight deck without being encouraged. Things were finally moving, and when those planes reached their target, EurCon was in for a rough morning.