Tombstone moved the stick experimentally. Fifty thousand feet was close to the Tomcat’s service ceiling, and the controls had a tendency to mush somewhat at that altitude.
No problems so far. For the last five or ten minutes, they’d seen no Indian aircraft anywhere … a fact that Tombstone found strange. The F-14s must be registering on Indian ground radar. Where were the IAF interceptors?
There was nothing. They seemed to have the sky to themselves. The other F-14s in the squadron were spread across the sky, three groups of two traveling north at Mach .7. “Okay, Hitman. Whatcha got?”
“Not much, Tombstone,” his RIO replied. “Pretty lonely out … hold it. Got them! Bearing three-five-nine, range . . . make it one hundred two nautical miles. Four targets, heading east at four hundred fifty knots.”
“Rog. Feed it to me here.”
His VDI showed the targets painted in the F-14’s AWG-9 beam.
“Victor Tango One-one, this is Viper. We have reached Point Lima. We have four bogies, bearing now . , . zero-zero-zero. Due north. Range one-oh-two.”
“Roger, Viper. That is your target. Take them down.”
“Copy, Victor Tango. Wait one.”
Time seemed suspended in the cold, thin air almost ten miles above the Thar Desert. Tombstone, Batman, and Coyote readied their Phoenix missiles for launch. Shooter, Ramrod,
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and Nightmare flew cover for the others. Tombstone and Coyote would loose four missiles. Batman would hold his single Phoenix in reserve.
What were those targets? Judging from their course, they were flying on a straight line from Bahawalpur, a Pakistani city located on the northern fringes of the Thar Desert about seventy miles from the border. He sketched a line across his map, extending their flight path. The four bogies were flying across fairly empty territory. There was very little of importance along their course. Villages, mostly: Fort Abbas, Ma-hajan, Rajgarh . . .
Tombstone’s pencil stopped on a city and his blood turned cold. He thought now that he knew what those targets were, where they were going . . . and why.
“Vipers, Viper Leader,” he said. “On my command, launch AIM-54s.” He studied the VDI screen again. There were no other targets. The Indian air defenses must have been drawn to the south by Jefferson’s strike against the Jodhpur Road.
The Tomcats were far beyond the detection range of the aircraft they were stalking. Targets were already selected, locked in. …
“Fire!”
Two RIOs, Hitman and Radar, stabbed their fire control buttons, reset, then fired again. The heavy Phoenix missiles fell through cold, thin air, then ignited. One missile, for reasons unknown, failed to light, and Malibu loosed his remaining Phoenix from Tomcat 216.
At Mach 5, it took them less than two minutes to travel the 102 nautical miles to their targets, which were just crossing the border into India.
All hit.
0745 hours EST (1815 hours, Indian time), 26 March White House Press Room
The reporters had been gathering in the Press Room since the wee hours of me morning, as word circulated through Washington news circles that a major break in the Indian Ocean crisis had occurred. As early as three a.m., word had gone out over the wire services that the President would hold a major
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press conference at eight o’clock, timed to coordinate with the various morning news shows.
Admiral Magmder searched for a particular face among the sea of reporters, cameramen, and assistants. White House technicians were still adjusting the lighting, and the room was a tumble of confusion and noise as journalists and reporters traded notes and guesses.
He saw her.
It took a moment to attract her attention, but perhaps she remembered where he’d been standing before and looked his way deliberately. Pamela Drake saw him, nodded, and began making her way across the room toward where he was standing.
“Good morning, Miss Drake.”
“It’s Pamela,” she said. “Admiral, I should probably apologize—”
“Nonsense.” He kept his voice low, unwilling to steal the President’s thunder by giving anything away to other reporters who might be within earshot. “Listen, I just wanted to tell you. He’s safe.”
“Matt . . . ?”
Magmder nodded. “They’re all back aboard Jefferson. The battle group left Turban Station about two hours ago.”