*s SS-N-2 canisters open and empty, the cloud of smoke from the
•:j double launch still boiling across the water’s surface. /•; He’d hoped to get closer before launching, much closer. The American carrier was barely in range of the giant missiles now, ,.’ and the launch would alert the U.S. squadron that it was under attack.
Control reasserted itself. Whatever Pratap’s problem— ^ equipment failure or accident in the rough seas, overeagemess ?-.” On the part of her weapons officer—what was done was done. He would have to make the best of it.
“Captain!” he barked. “Stand by to launch!” “Sir!” Lieutenant Shahani, Pralaya’s commanding officer, mapped out in his best academy officer-on-parade voice. Afraid of crossing the tiny flotilla’s CO, Chaudry decided. The ^/•thought made him grin.
,; “We might as well hit them with everything we’ve got!” * “Sir!” Shahani began giving the orders to his weapons _6″ officer. The missiles’ inertia! programming was already J|J. «onaplete—it could have been a fault in Pratap’s inertial e&cuitry that had caused the premature launch, Chaudry
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thought—and all that remained was to release the safeties and fire. The SS-N-2s self-armed after launch.
Chaudry was aware that the Osa squadron’s part in Operation Python was a small one, a means of dividing the Americans’ defensive forces and forcing them to use up valuable anti-missiles, time, and fuel. Still, the thought that one of those sleek monsters now warming in their slatted tubes to port and starboard might be the one to strike the U.S. carrier and end the Yankees’ dreams of dominating India’s seas . . .
“Pass the word to all boats,” he ordered. “Full launch, all craft. Stand by!”
“Missiles one, two, three, and four ready,” Shahani replied.
“Very well.” He looked about the bridge, realizing that every eye was on him. “Signal the squadron. Fire.” He locked eyes widi Shahani. “Captain, you may launch.”
He’d been waiting for the order. “Missile one, fire\”
The narrow gray confines of Pralaya’s bridge were blasted by a deafening white sound, a waterfall of raw noise as flame and smoke engulfed the starboard bridge windows. Chaudry covered his ears with his hands. While he’d been through training exercises often enough, this was the first time he’d ever fired an SS-N-2 for real. The sound was like nothing he’d ever imagined.
“Missile two . . . fire\” The weapons officer was shouting to be heard above the roar. “Missile three . . . fire\”
Pralaya rocked wildly as the blunt-nosed, two-and-a-half-ton missiles blasted away, first from one side, then the other. Chaudry realized with some surprise that his high-peaked cap had been knocked from his head and was lying on die deck by his feet.
“Missile four . . . fire\”
Other missiles were rising on flaming contrails from the other vessels in the squadron. The sky to the northwest was aflame with pinpoints of dazzling brilliance.
The Battle of the Arabian Sea had just begun in earnest.
0739 hours, 26 March
CATCC, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
Tombstone was in the 904 deck corridor just outside Jefferson’s CATCC when the GQ alarm sounded, the harsh clangor
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of the gong mingling with the metallic rattle of hundreds of feet hitting passageways and deck ladders.
“Now hear this, now hear this,” the 1-MC on the bulkhead brayed. “General quarters, general quarters. All hands man your battle stations. Set Condition Alpha throughout the ship.”
He stepped through the door into the red-lit CATCC, brushing past the heavy curtains that kept light from the passageway from leaking through and ruining the night vision of the sailors manning the ranks of radar displays in the room. CAG was sitting on the leather-backed throne that gave him an unobstructed view of the principal displays and status boards.
Tombstone walked over to where several other squadron officers were looking on. He stood next to Lieutenant j.g. Pete Costello, another Navy aviator who was serving a stretch as VF-97’s CATCC liaison.
“Hey, Hitman,” Tombstone whispered, addressing the j.g. by his running name. “What’s the gouge?”
“Flash just came in from the Vickie,” Hitman replied. He nodded toward the forward bulkhead. Forty feet beyond it was the ship’s CIC, where white blips freckled a huge amber radar display. “Surface targets. Word is they’re Osa Us and they’ve just popped their missiles!”