The intent of the Indians had been fuzzy until now. Because of the location of Turban Station, two hundred miles south of the Indian-Pakistan border, there’d been considerable question about whether the ships deploying out of Bombay and India’s west coast were preparing to attack the Soviet-American squadron, or to bypass Kreml and Jefferson in order to hit Karachi or blockade the Pakistani coast.
Tombstone watched the approaching missiles. Their plans just grown considerably less fuzzy. The Indians were out blood.
Even so, New Delhi’s opening gambit was puzzling. The ;;imiin body of their fleet—two carriers, a large cruiser, and at pteast eight destroyers—was still a hundred miles away. Tomb-l-stone had assumed that the first Indian strike, if it came, would jbe by air. . “CAG!” a radarman chief called. “CIC reports new
174
Kefth Douglass
contacts . . . multiple contacts over Jamnagar. Bearing zero-four-oh, range one-six-five.”
“Multiple contacts over Rajkot,” another sailor announced. “Bearing zero-four-five, range two-double-oh.”
“Homeplate, Homeplate, this is Victor Tango One-one,” a radio voice announced over CATCC’s 1-MC. “We have evidence of massive air activity all along the coast.”
“Roger, Victor Tango One-one. We have them.”
“Ah, Homeplate, Victor Tango. We’re also running into considerable jamming activity. This looks like it could be a major attack.”
Stunned silence reigned in CATCC as the impact of what was happening sank in.
“Now hear this,” the Captain’s voice said over the speaker. “This is Captain Fitzgerald in CIC. Listen up, people. On my authority, weapons are free. Ready VF-97 and the rest of VF-95 for immediate launch. And I want more Prowlers up there now\”
The new contacts began appearing on the large display, positioned by the computers that recorded the radar contacts as they were relayed to the carrier by circling Hawkeyes or the other American ships. Aircraft were clustering over the main Indian fleet, and the coastline from the Pakistan border to Bombay was alive with moving lights, a ragged semicircle of contacts that all seemed to have the same focus.
The ships at Turban Station.
0740 hours, 26 March Tomcat 216, on CAP
Batman angled his F-14 onto a southwesterly course, his eyes on his cockpit VDI rather than on the view of clouds and ocean wheeling past outside. The coast of India was a gray shadow behind him. “We’ve got bogies,” he said. “Range eight-eight miles. Looks like ten or twelve of them, SSMs, spreading out and on a course for Homeplate.”
‘ ‘Roger that, Batman.” The voice of Lieutenant Commander Fred Garrison, Army to the others in VF-95, sounded flat and hard. VF-95’s XO was a mile off Batman’s left wing. He could see the other F-14, its canopy flashing in the sun. “We have
ARMAGEDDON MODE
175
clearance from Homeplate. Weapons release. I say again, weapons release.”
Batman felt a surge of warm relief. At least there’d be no fumbling, half-measures delay in securing the ROEs this time.
“Hey, Batman,” his RIO called from the backseat. “I think we got trouble.”
“Whatcha got, Malibu?” The Tomcat shuddered as Batman pushed the throttles forward, pressing the aircraft toward Mach 1.
“More bogies, Batman. About a million of ’em.”
“Let me see.”
The RIO hit the control that fed his radar plot to the pilot’s VDI, an expanded plot that showed targets as far away as the Indian coastline, sixty miles to the north. “Three guesses where they’re headed, Batman.”
Batman studied the crawling confusion of radar targets. Half the Indian air force must be out there, all taking off at once. “Shit,” he said, almost to himself. ‘”Air raid, Pearl Harbor. This is no drill.'”
“Air raid Jefferson is more like it,” Malibu replied. “These guys are like deeply serious, man!”
“You’re getting this from the Jeff}”
“Tactical feed through Victor Tango One-one. On the fleet net.”
“Well, at least they know they’re coming.”
“Yeah, but what are we gonna do, Batman?”
Batman was surprised at his own steadiness. He worked the target designator, setting the pipper on one of the closer blips. First priority was to stop the missiles south heading for the carrier. After that, they might have time to worry about the planes to the north. “Target Alpha,” he said simply. “Track and lock. Go for Phoenix kill.”