Modern warfare did not give the combatants that kind of luxury. Blows were exchanged, casualties taken, within a space of minutes, sometimes of seconds.
Biddle’s Close-in Weapons System, or CIWS for short, commonly pronounced “sea-whiz,” housed its tracking radar, six-barreled Galling gun, magazine, and control electronics inside a prominent, white-painted silo fifteen feet high; hence, its other popular nickname, “R2D2.” The weapon, also called Phalanx, was mounted aft on Perry-class frigates, high atop their helicopter hangars and overlooking the helo pad on the fantail. As soon as the Indian Jaguars had launched, Captain Parrel had immediately ordered the ship turned away from the oncoming missiles in order to give the CIWS an unobstructed view of the targets.
The only problem was, Phalanx had been designed as a last-ditch, close-defense weapon, its effective range limited to about twenty-one hundred meters, less than a mile and a half.
An Exocet could cover that distance in something like seven seconds.
The missiles came in from Biddle’s stern, ten feet above the water. The heavy thump of her chaff launchers sounded like cannonfire as they attempted to divert the deadly Exocets. On
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the frigate’s hangar, the Phalanx tower slewed about sharply on its axis, the six-barreled cannon swinging into line as the target came into range.
The barrels spun, rotating over one another like eggbeater blades, accompanied with a short, sharp, buzzsaw shriek. The flare of light from the muzzle flash lit up Biddle’s afterdeck like a stream of liquid fire.
“Firing phasers!” one sailor yelled, shouting above the screaming weapon, his hands pressed against his ears.
Phalanx fired depleted-uranium rounds, spin-stabilized slivers manufactured from the waste product of various nuclear programs. Neither explosive nor radioactive, each round was two and a half times heavier than steel, 12.75 millimeters thick, and was hurled from the gun at a velocity of 1000 feet per second. With a fire rate of fifty rounds per second, the CIWS was capable of dropping what was in effect a solid wall squarely in a missile’s path. The Phalanx’s J-band pulse-doppler radar simultaneously tracked target and projectiles, correcting the aim for each brief burst.
The CIWS fired again, corrected, then fired once more. A blossom of living light erupted in me darkness of the frigate’s starboard side, illuminating the ink-black sea. The Phalanx Galling slewed again, its computer tracking ihe second target. Again, the shriek like a living thing . . . and a second flash lit up the night
Total engagement time: 5.2 seconds.
And Biddle would survive to fighl again.
2209 hours, 24 March Tomcat 201
“Tomcal Two-oh-ohe,” the voice in Tombstone’s headset intoned. “You’re clear for approach. Wind fifteen to eighteen at zero-four-five. Charlie now.”
“Roger, Homeplate,” Tombstone said, acknowledging Ihe call to come in for his trap. He was tired. The weight of his flight helmet seemed intolerable, and the inside of his pressure suit was clammy with old sweat and fatigue.
They’d been summoned back to the carrier almost as soon as il was clear that the IAF aircraft were on the run. The
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Americans had been the clear victors in that nighttime dogfight, with at least four kills to their credit and no losses. It had been a close-run thing, however. One of the Indian MiG pilots had been a real pro, and only the rapid approach of more Tomcats had convinced the guy to break off and run for home.
Tombstone found himself wondering who that pilot he’d briefly seen was . . . where he lived, what he thought of the orders that had sent him against the U.S. battle group. That was never a particularly healthy thing to do, not when your life or the lives of others in your squadron might depend on your shooting that other pilot out of the sky, but Tombstone had always found it difficult to think of the enemy as unmanned drones, as lifeless targets to be racked up and taken down.
His thoughts complemented his mood. He’d become involved in a savage dogfight in pitch darkness, guided only by the impersonal flickers of light on his radar screen and the tersely coded guidance of his computer. With that one terrifying exception he”*d not even seen the other aircraft in the battle, including the ones he’d chalked up as kills.