CARRIER 3: ARMAGEDDON MODE

Tombstone grinned and tossed them a casual salute. “Watch my back, guys.”

Then he was through the door and pounding down the passageway toward the VF-95 Ready Room.

CHAPTER 21

0605 hours, 26 March Tomcat 216

Batman took the Tomcat up to twenty thousand feet, giving Malibu a clear view on the radar for sixty miles in every direction as they searched for the Indian fighter that had given them the slip. There were plenty of targets in the area, but the unidentified bogies seemed to be drawing off toward the east and Batman wasn’t about to follow them, not when there were at least ten of them and only one of him.

“Any sign of the bastard, Mal?” He was still feeling stupid for having forgotten about the Sea Harrier’s incredible maneuvering capability.

“He could be one of those guys on the run,” Malibu said. “Or he could be wave-hopping to hide in the surface clutter. What you wanna do?”

“I don’t know,” Batman said. He was still feeling shaken by the encounter, and more shaken still by the sudden loss of Army and Dixie. That Sea Harrier must have put a heat-seeker into Army just as he was breaking off from his pursuit of the enemy missile. Two-oh-one had dropped from the screen like a stone. Then, nothing.

Batman had already made one quick pass over the area looking for chutes, but had seen nothing before Jefferson’s CATCC chased them away. A helo, they’d been tersely informed, was on its way to look for the downed aviators. The carrier’s automated point defense was on and random overflights of the area would be dangerous.

“We’re picking up a ninety-nine-aircraft alert,” Malibu

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informed him. “Those Indie planes up north. They’re moving.”

“Great,” Batman replied. “And us with one rock left to throw.”

He put the Tomcat into a hard turn, heading north.

0605 hours, 26 March 1AF Jaguar 102, Okha

Colonel Jarnall Rajiv Singh felt himself pressed back into his ejection seat as his SEPECAT Jaguar hurtled down the runway, then lifted into a morning sky of blue and gold. The runway vanished beneath the belly of his aircraft replaced immediately by the murky blue-green waters of the Gulf of Kutch.

“Okha tower, Jaguar One-zero-two airborne,” he said over the radio. “Coming right to one-seven five.”

“Roger, One-zero-two,” the control tower replied. “Switch to tactical command, three-five-five point three. Over.”

He put the aircraft into a gentle right-hand turn. Water gave way to gravel, scrub brush, and palm trees as he circled back over the Kathiawar Peninsula. Looking up through his canopy, he could see other elements of the massive Indian air armada gathering above him.

“Switching to three-five-five point three, roger.” He adjusted the frequency on his radio. “Rama Command, Rama Command,” he called. “This is Python Strike Leader, Jaguar One-zero-two. Do you read, over?”

“Python Strike Leader, this is Rama Command. We read you. You are clear to proceed.” The new voice sounded tense, even harsh.

What do you have to be worried about? Singh thought, silently questioning the voice. “Very well, Rama. We’re on our way.”

Below, the dun-colored wastes of the western tip of Kathiawar blurred past, then gave way once more to the sea, the deep, cobalt blue of the Arabian Sea this time instead of the muddy shallows of Kutch. Around him, the other Jaguars of his flight group closed up, settling into the tight formation that they would hold for most of the trip to the target.

Singh was uncomfortably aware that this mission would

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have little in common with his strike against the American supply ships two days before. That attack had been against relatively undefended targets and in the confusion of night. This time, the enemy was fully warned and prepared, aircraft in the sky and ready, ships on full alert. It was going to be a bloodbath. He was afraid.

0608 hours, 26 March 1AF Fulcrum 401, Jamnagar

Sixty miles to the east of Okha, a pair of sleek Indian Air Force MiG-29 Fulcrums lifted into the sky above the airfield at Jamnagar, their landing gear folding into their bellies while they were still a few meters above the tarmac.

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