CARRIER 3: ARMAGEDDON MODE

Of course, there would be no second strike. If the first strike failed to slow the Indian advance, mere would be little more that the Russians—with fewer aircraft, more primitive targeting and delivery systems, and shorter-ranged strike aircraft—

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could hope to accomplish. Tombstone heard a low-voiced, angry murmur spreading around the room. He imagined most of the aviators had expected the Russians to share some of the risks of what was already a very high-threat mission. At the very least, more targets in the ak would cause more confusion on the ground and better each individual pilot’s chances of coming through intact

Another hand raised and Aubrey nodded. ‘ ‘Captain Fitzgerald. Yes, sir?”

Jefferson’s captain stood. “Yes, Dan. Is there an assessment yet on the possibility that the Indian fleet might sortie against this battle group? I mean no disrespect to our Russian guests, but two Tomcat squadrons and the interceptors off’ the Kreml are all we’ll have for outer zone fleet defense. The Indians could conceivably put a great many ASMs in the sky and saturate our defenses.”

“That would be better directed at Commander Neil,” Aubrey said. “Our understanding in OX is that the threat from surface elements is low. Commander Neil, do you have anything to add to that?”

“Only that the principal threat to the CBG will be from ground-based aircraft. The fleet assembling at Bombay is almost certainly targeted against Karachi. And the MiGs . . .” He looked at the Russians. “Your MiG-29s have look-down/shoot-down capability, do they not, sir?”

Captain Pokrovsky—his full rank translated as “Captain Third Rank,” lower than a U.S. Navy captain but higher than a commander—consulted briefly with Admiral Dmitriev, then stood, his hands clasped behind his back. “If I have meaning correct, da. Sahv’yehrshennah, MiG have capability kill cruise missile.” Kreml’s Air Officer appeared completely self-assured on the point. Tombstone wondered if he didn’t seem a bit too self-assured. His difficulties with English were obvious.

Aubrey spread his hands. “There you have it, sir. The Russians will be able to help cover our fleet while the Hornets are out.”

“God help us,” Vaughn said, his low-voiced comment unexpectedly loud in the near-silence of the room. There was no mistaking the disdain in the admiral’s words.

“Admiral Vaughn,” Dmitriev said with steady, icily correct

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control in the words. “Perhaps you disagree with your President’s order to operate together as a fleet?”

Vaughn’s mouth hung open for a moment until, with an effort, he closed it. “My apologies, Admiral,” he said. “No insult intended. But I have grave concerns about our squadrons operating together in an environment where identification and control are going to be serious problems. You have still not provided us with the IFF codes for your aircraft, and misiden-tification could lead to … unfortunate incidents.”

True enough, Tombstone thought. He remembered the Indian MiG he’d seen the night before. If the Russians didn’t give the Americans their IFF frequencies and codes, how were the U.S. ships going to distinguish between Indian and Russian aircraft? There were going to be problems enough telling Indian MiGs from Navy Hornets. . . .

“Clearance to exchange codes is out of my hands, Admiral,’ ‘ Dmitriev said, and Tombstone could hear the heaviness in his voice. No doubt he’d had to buck the question back to Moscow, where the bureaucracy there was still debating the question.

Suddenly, Tombstone felt sorry for the Russians, professional men forced to operate with their former opponents, with neither understanding nor support from their own people further up the chain of command.

This, he reflected, was going to be one hell of a way to run a war.

0715 hours, 26 March

Guided Missile Patrol Boat K91, INS Pralaya

The missile boat wallowed forward in heavy seas. Senior Lieutenant Javed Chaudry clung to the safety railing on the small craft’s weather bridge and wondered how they could possibly survive.

The storm front had moved out of the area the night before, taking with it the overcast skies and dirty weather that had trailed the storm. All that was left was this swell, vast waves that lifted the four small patrol boats like wood chips, then sent them rolling into the trench between spindrift-capped crests in a blast of spray and wind.

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