“Nothing else?” Dog asked.
“Nothing yet.”
Aboard Shiva in the South China Sea
1630
Kali was the goddess of destruction, Shiva’s wife, the embodiment of the idea that true life begins only with death.
It was an apt name for a weapon, and a perfect name for the missiles in Shiva’s forward tubes.
Admiral Balin looked again at the chart where their position had been plotted. Balin studied the map carefully; his target should lay just within the range of his weapons, though he still needed fresh coordinates to fire.
The Vikrant and her escorts would be twenty-four hours away. It was time.
Varja remained with the radio man, translating the coordinates received by the ELF. ELF—extremely-low-frequency—transmissions were, by technical necessity, brief, but this one did not need to contain much information—simply a set of coordinates and a time. With those few numbers, the device could be launched. Once fired, the weapon was on its own, relying first on its stored data to take it to the target area, then using its low-probability-of-intercept radar to take it the rest of the way. As their earlier tests had shown, as long as the target ship was within five miles when the radar activated, it would be hit.
“Precisely as the earlier coordinates predicted,” said Varja finally. “It is a good day, Admiral.”
Balin watched the crewman mark the map, then nodded.
“Launch in three minutes,” said Captain Varja, passing the word to the weapons controllers and the men in the torpedo room.
Aboard Iowa
1645
“Sharks Ears reporting possible contact,” said Rosen.
He gave Dog a set of coordinates almost due north, taking them rougly parallel to the Chinese carrier task force about forty miles away. And Australian container ship was plying the seas about ten miles ahead of them, going roughly in the direction of the carriers, though undoubtedly it would steer well clear as it approached.
As Iowa changed direction and waited for an update, another set of Sukhois came over to check them out. Unlike the earlier pilots, there jocks were cowboys, clicking on their gun radars at long range. The Tomcats riding shotgun for the Navy patrol plane further south didn’t particularly appreciate the gesture, though they maintained good discipline, staying in their escort pattern. They could afford to, knowing they could splash the Su-33’s in maybe ten seconds flat if that was what they decided to do; the Chinese planes were well within reach of their long-legged Phoenix missiles.
“Contact—I have—a launch—two launches,” said Rosen suddenly. “Shit—tracking—we have a cruise missile—two cruise missiles, breaking the surface. Fifty miles, bearing on nine-zero, exactly nine-zero.”
There was no time to consider whether the missiles were aimed at the Chinese carrier or the Australian ships; both were in range.
“Target Scorpions,” said Dog.
“Need you to cut, uh, need you at two-seventy,” said Rosen, giving Dog the turn they needed to launch their missiles. “Tracking One. Tracking Two. Okay, okay. No locks. Come on, baby.”
Dog pushed his stick to the left, riding the big plane hard. He nosed the plane down at the same time his hand reached for the throttle bar, picking up speed for the launch. The AMRAAM-pluses sat in their launchers near the wingtips, their brains seething for the targeting data.
“Okay—locked on Two!” said Rosen.
“Fire.”
“Launching. Launching. Two missiles away. Good read. Still looking for One. Still looking—can you cut twenty north—north, I need you north.”
Dog pushed the jet hard, following his copilot’s directions. Rosen gave another correction—they were almost out of time, the missile hunkering low against the waves, accelerating. Dog slid the stick back, his body practically jumping in the ejection seat to slap the Megafortress onto the proper bearing.
“Locked on One! Locked!”
“Fire,” said Dog softly.
The first Scorpion came off the wing with a thud so loud, Dog first thought there had been a malfunction, but it burst ahead a second later when the main rocket ignited, its nose rising briefly before settling down.
The Sukhois had rolled downward and were now five miles behind the Megafortress, closing fast.
The RWR blared.
“Flares,” Dog told Rosen calmly. “Hang on everyone.”
He threw the big plane onto its wing as the Chinese interceptors launched a volley of missiles. After seeing the Megafortress launch, they had incorrectly concluded it had fired on their ship.
“Two more Sukhois,” said Rosen as Dog whipped them into a seven-G turn. “Bearrrrrrrrring—”
Gravity slurred Rosen’s words as Dog whipped the plane back and then pushed the wing down, not merely changing direction, but dropping altitude dramatically. The Megafortress temporarily became more brick than aircraft, whipping toward the waves just barely under control. The two Russian-made heat-seekers sailed well over them; by the time they realized they’d missed their target and lit their proximity fuses, Dog had already wrestled Iowa level in the opposite direction. He was nose-on to one of the Sukhois and had he harbored any hostile intent—or a cannon in his nose—he could have waxed the Chinese pilot in a heartbeat. Instead, he merely pushed the throttle glide for more giddyyap. The Sukhoi shot below as Dog upward toward a stray bank of clouds, looking for temporary respite.