Or perhaps not. The Indian Sea Harriers were flying at an extremely low altitude and beneath a solid blanket of friendly jamming. The Americans’ attention would be focused in a different direction, toward the northeast and the Indian mainland. If they were watching the Indian fleet at all, it was with the assumption that Viraat and her consorts were bound for Karachi and the blockade of Pakistan.
The Americans would be in the midst now of launching their carrier-based aircraft. There would be a certain amount of confusion, both on the carrier’s deck and among the pilots in the air as they formed up against the oncoming Indian aircraft. The Sea Harriers would have a good chance to strike a telling—and unexpected—blow.
He glanced again at the clock. Only a few more minutes . . .
198
Ketth Douglass
0750 hours, 26 March Tomcat 216
“Missile closing with target,” Malibu said. “Closing . . . got him!”
On Batman’s VDI, the blip marking the Indian EW aircraft, circling over the Gir Hills of southern Kathiawar, flared and fragmented as the marker for the Phoenix missile connected across nearly sixty miles.
“Victor Tango One-one!” Batman called. “Splash that bandit!”
The radar screen was clear! As though wiped by a cloth, the smears of light and static were gone, leaving the crisp images of moving bogies.
“Copy, Two-one-six,” the Hawkeye controller replied. “Good shooting.”
“I’m not sure I wanted to see the big picture, Batman,” Malibu said. “I think those guys are mad now.”
“Roger that.” He put the Tomcat into a starboard turn, angling back toward the southwest. “Where’s Army? I think we lost him back there.”
“Got him,” Malibu replied. “Range twelve miles, at two-seven-five. Got his IFF.”
“I see him.” He opened the tactical frequency. “Viper Two-oh-one,” he called. “This is Batman. Do you copy? Over.”
“Copy, Batman.”
“What’s the score?” It had been several minutes since he’d last heard from the Jefferson. He was wondering about her fate with so many missiles bearing down on her.
“Homeplate is in the clear,” Army replied. “Alert Five is up and on the way. All … hold it. Wait one.”
“Rog.”
“Shit. Batman, can you get a reading on possible targets, bearing one-nine-zero to one-seven-five? Range . . . about ten miles.”
“Got ’em,” Malibu said. “Damn, Batman! Where’d they come from?”
“Roger, Army,” Batman said, replying to Garrison’s ques-
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199
tion. “We see them. I make it … eight . . . maybe ten bogies, heading west to west-northwest at five-five-oh.”
“That’s them. Too big to be missiles.”
“My guess would be Sea Harriers, Army.”
“Roger that. Victor Tango One-one, did you copy that, over?”
“Roger, BARCAP One-one. We are monitoring. Come to new heading one-nine-zero and intercept. Over.”
“Roger, Victor Tango. We’re in.”
“BARCAP One-two, come to one-nine-five and intercept. Over.”
“Copy, Victor Tango. The Batman’s in.”
He rammed his throttles to Zone Five burner and thundered toward the south.
0751 hours, 26 March Tomcat 204
Army held his Tomcat level at ten thousand feet, racing south as Dixie plotted the bogies ahead. They seemed to be strung out across the sky. If they were Sea Harriers off an Indian carrier, (hey must have simply launched and flown, without waiting to assemble into a larger formation.
“Victor Tango One-one,” he called. “Army Dixie Two-oh-four. We are tracking estimated twelve to sixteen bogies, now at three-five miles. They’re low, wave-hopping. Two birds on board. Over.”
“Roger that, Two-oh-four. You are clear to fire.”
“Army Dixie Two-oh-four is engaging.”
Two Phoenix missiles against sixteen targets. After that, they’d have nothing going for them but their guns.
“Locking onto Target Alpha,” Dixie informed him. “Solid AWG track. For three!”
The Phoenix dropped clear of the Tomcat and ignited. The contrail etched a dazzling white scratch across the blue sky to the south.
“We have lock number two,” Dixie said.
“Launch.”
“Fox three!” The F-14 shuddered. “Okay, Army. We’re empty.”
200
Keith Dougtoss
“Right. Victor Tango, this is Two-oh-four. We’ve popped the last of our six-pack.”
“Copy, Two-oh-four. Come right to two-eight-five and hold, angels base plus five.”
“Rog.”
Army was known as a fastidious dogfighter, preferring to make a kill from long distance, with air-to-air missiles, rather than getting “up close and personal” as the more flamboyant kids in his squadron liked to say.