Harada hated to call the admiral in, but it was important. He cupped his hands. “New enemy contacts, sir! Airborne over Germany.”
Ward nodded and quickly ducked through the weather deck door.
The Tactical Flag Command Center was Ward’s turf, and he loved it. Information from dozens of sensors could be displayed in as many different ways, and secure communications links put him in touch with his commanders. Unlike an army or marine officer, Ward couldn’t ever expect to see much of the battlefield. The TFCC took its place. From here, he could run the war in the North Sea and the Baltic.
It was a dark, quiet place, the hum of subdued voices indicating a well-trained team. The man responsible for that, his new chief of staff, approached Ward as he came in.
Captain Harry March should have been a lawyer or a CPA, but the navy had been lucky enough to get him. Business colleges cost money, but the academy had offered a black city kid a degree for free. His passion for detail was Ward’s secret weapon.
Now he didn’t waste time. “SIGINT planes are picking up a lot of airborne radio traffic over several German air bases, including Bremerhaven and Cuxhaven. Traffic is in both German and French. Some aircraft radar signals, too.” Although he spoke softly, he sounded worried.
“What’s your evaluation, Harry? An air strike?”
“Probably, sir, and we’re the only logical target.” He sighed. “The problem is, we don’t have a clear picture of what’s going on over there. Our radar coverage is nil.”
Ward frowned. His intelligence officers’ best guess had been that EurCon wouldn’t come after his carriers from the air. Computer-run wargames and analyses had showed such an attack would absorb too much of French and German air strength to make it worthwhile. Apparently the enemy’s own staff studies had come to a different conclusion. He said as much to March.
“I agree, Admiral. I’ve run the numbers, though. Based on what we do know, and their aircraft ranges, we’re the only worthwhile target out here right now.”
Ward felt a small chill run through him. “If they are going to hit us, Harry, it won’t be a half-assed attempt.” What went unspoken was the obvious fact that the incoming EurCon strike force would meet their own outbound raid head-on. “How long till we know for sure what they’re up to?”
March answered instantly. “About ten minutes or so, Admiral, based on their course and speed, plus their time in the air. I recommend tanking our outbound planes now and launching more tankers to refuel our own top cover. I’ve already passed our data over to Roosevelt.“
“As well as giving Rosie’s CAG a heads-up, I bet.” Ward rubbed his face, then stared at the map display for a minute. “It means losing some range on the strike if we tank now, ahead of schedule, but I agree. Launch another E-2 and get the SAR helos alerted.” He glanced at his watch. “We’ll decide whether to abort or press on in ten minutes.”
“Our strike is outbound,” announced an operator.
Gibierge studied the cluster of blue symbols just north of Cuxhaven with satisfaction. Two squadrons of Mirage 2000Ns armed with ASMP nuclear missiles. Two more squadrons of German Tornados armed with antiradar missiles and conventional antiship missiles. A squadron of Rafales, two of Mirage 2000s, and two of German fighters accompanied the strike force as escorts. He and his fellow commanders were throwing nearly 120 aircraft into this battle — the cream of the Confederation air forces.
“They’re headed straight at us, Admiral.” March’s voice was filled with suppressed excitement. “There’s some jamming but we’re dealing with it. Raid count in excess of one hundred aircraft.”
Ward stood taller. Years dropped away from his face along with all the doubts and worries of the past few weeks. They were committed now. “Tell Rancher to execute as soon as his planes have finished tanking.”
Mann watched the last of the F-14s nose into the tanker’s drogue and hurriedly take on fuel. Thank God they’d decided to do this in daylight. In-flight refueling was a fine art and demanded a high level of skill. Passing a baton from one car to another on a superhighway was child’s play in comparison.
But they needed the fuel. The navy planes heading for the German coast had already expended a quarter of their load, and combat could drain their tanks in a few minutes. All together, almost two squadrons of A-6 Intruders had been dedicated to tanker duty.
They were just finishing up now. His Hornet squadron had already refueled.
“All Counterweight units, this is Rancher. Chuckwagons and outriders to the rear.” Captain Macmillan, the CAG, had a spread in Montana, and cowboy slang always seemed to figure in the radio codes he developed. Mann was a city boy at heart, but he had to admit that they seemed more appropriate than anything he might have dredged up out of a childhood spent in Brooklyn.
Mann knew that Macmillan would rather be flying his F-14 than riding a Hawkeye, but his job could not be performed in a fighter cockpit. Someone had to lead.
Now Rancher sent the A-6 tankers and the antishipping aircraft home, stripping the formation for action. The jammers spread out, where they would stay clear of the fight, and the E-2s’ dedicated fighter escorts moved in closer to their charges.
“All units, this is Rancher. Execute.”
Mann pushed his throttle forward.
Gibierge watched the two clusters of symbols move toward each other. They were still two hundred miles apart, but with both formations flying at almost four hundred knots, they would be in missile range in about fifteen minutes. The American F-14s with their Phoenix missiles would be able to fire sooner, but long-range shots were effective only against clumsy bomber aircraft.
He focused his attention on the American formation. Which way would they jump?
One of the situation room’s secondary screens showed an expanded view of the two raids. The French and German planes were neatly labeled with aircraft types and call signs for each flight, along with their course, speed, and altitude.
The opposing American raid, though, simply showed up as a muddle of hostile aircraft symbols and a crisscross tracery of ESM detection lines. Where they intersected, a label marked the type of radar detected and the aircraft fitted with it. Several small groups of planes near the fringes of the raid were marked with “APG-65/Hornet” or “AWG-9/Tomcat.” The center of the formation was marked with “APQ-156/Intruder.” Radar and ESM gave him a good idea of the enemy raid’s composition. So far there hadn’t been any surprises.
His eyes narrowed. The American commanders would have to make their decision soon. Would they press ahead toward Wilhelmshaven or turn back to defend their own ships? The range was down to 150 nautical miles.
Some of the American symbols shifted in relation to their counterparts. Simultaneously several of the lines indicating radar signals disappeared. The signals for fighters remained, but the Intruder radars had gone away.
Desaix leaned closer to him, wanting to know what was going on, but Gibierge waited a moment more before turning to respond. “It looks like they are sending their attack aircraft home, Foreign Minister. It was the logical course for them, and I’ve alerted our raid commander. We are prepared…”
Desaix was still watching the screen while the admiral explained. Suddenly the Foreign Minister’s eyes widened in puzzlement and alarm. Gibierge checked the display again and felt his jaw drop open.
A new network of lines, thicker than a spider’s web, covered the American raid. Every one of them was labeled “APG-65” or “AWG-9”. In addition, only a few aircraft symbols had disappeared. The bulk of the raid was not turning back, but accelerating. He watched as the speed values next to the aircraft symbols changed and changed again, always increasing. They were already well over six hundred knots, while a loaded Intruder could not even make five hundred. “Gibierge, what is this?” Desaix demanded. The admiral was already reaching for a red command phone.