“Butch, where are you?”
“I got one! Buns, I got one!” The Eagle pulled up alongside.
Nakamura looked around. Suddenly the sky was clear. Where had they all gone?
“Navy Hawk-One, this is Golf, do you read, over?”
“Roger, Golf.”
“Okay, Navy. We just smoked four, repeat four, Badgers for you.”
‘Make that five, Buns!” the other element leader called in.
“Something’s wrong, sir.” The radar operator on Hawk-One motioned to his scope. “We have these buggers just popped through, and they say they bagged some, gotta be three, four hundred miles away.”
“Clipper Base, this is Hawk-One, we just had contact with an Air Force ferry flight eastbound. They claim they just splashed five Badgers northbound several hundred miles north of us. Say again northbound.”
Toland’s eyebrows went up.
“Probably some had to abort,” Baker observed. “This is close to their fuel limit, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Air/Ops. He didn’t look happy with his own answer.
“Burn-through,” announced the radar operator. “We have reacquired the targets.”
The Kelts had flown on, oblivious to the furor around them. Their radar transponders made them look like hundred-ten-foot Badgers. Their own white-noise jammers came on, somewhat obscuring them yet again on the radar scopes, and autopilot controls began to jerk them up, down, left, right, in hundred-meter leaps as an aircraft might do when trying to avoid a missile. The Kelts had been real missiles once, but on retirement from front-line service six years earlier, their warheads had been replaced with additional fuel tankage, and they had been relegated to a role as target drones, a purpose they were serving admirably now.
“Tallyho!” The first squadron of twelve Tomcats was now a hundred fifty miles away. The Kelts showed up perfectly on radar, and the intercept officers in the back seat of each fighter quickly established target tracks. The Kelts were approaching what would have been nominal missile-launch distance-if they were the bombers everyone thought they were.
The Tomcats launched a volley of million-dollar AIM-54C Phoenix missiles at a range of a hundred forty miles. The missiles blazed in on their targets at Mach-5, directed by the fighters’ targeting radars. In under a minute the forty-eight missiles had killed thirty-nine targets. The first squadron broke clear as the second came into launch position.
USS NIMITZ
“Admiral, something is wrong here,” Toland said quietly.
“What might that be?” Baker liked the way things were going. Enemy bomber tracks were being wiped off his screen just as the war games had predicted they would.
“The Russians are coming in dumb, sir.”
“So?”
“So thus far the Soviets have not been very dumb! Admiral, why aren’t the Backfires going supersonic? Why one attack group? Why one direction?”
“Fuel constraints,” Baker answered. “The Badgers are at the limit of their fuel, they have to come in direct.”
“But not the Backfires!”
“The course is right, the raid count is right.” Baker shook his head and concentrated on the tactical plot.
The second squadron of fighters had just launched. Unable to get a head-on shot, their missile accuracy suffered somewhat. They killed thirty-four targets with forty-eight missiles. There had been a hundred fifty-seven targets plotted.
The third and fourth Tomcat squadrons arrived together and launched as a group. When their Phoenixes had been fully expended, nineteen targets were left. The two fighter squadrons moved in to engage the remaining targets with their cannon.
“Clipper Base, this is SAM Boss. We’re going to have some leakers. Recommend we start lighting up SAM radars.”
“Roger, SAM Boss. Permission granted,” answered the group tactical warfare coordinator.
NORTH ATLANTIC
“I have air-search radars, bearing zero-three-seven,” the Bear ESM officer noted. “They have detected us. Recommend we illuminate also.” The Bear lit off its Big Bulge look-down radar.
USS NIMITZ
“New radar contact. Designate Raid-2.”
“What?” snapped Baker. Next came a call from the fighters.
“Clipper Base, this is Slugger Lead. I have a visual on my target.” The squadron commander was trying to examine the target on his long-range TV camera. When he spoke, the anguish in his voice was manifest. “Warning, warning, this is not a Badger. We’ve been shooting at Kelt missiles!”
“Raid-2 is seventy-three aircraft, bearing two-one-seven, range one-three-zero miles. We have a Big Bulge radar tracking the formation,” said the CIC talker.
Toland cringed as the new contacts were plotted. “Admiral, we’ve been had.”
The group tactical warfare officer was pale as he toggled his microphone. “Air Warning Red. Weapons free! Threat axis is two-one-seven. All ships turn as necessary to unmask batteries.”
The Tomcats had all been drawn off, leaving the formation practically naked. The only armed fighters over the formation were Foch’s eight Crusaders, long since retired from the American inventory. On a terse command from their carrier, they went to afterburner and rocketed southwest toward the Backfires. Too late.
The Bear already had a clear picture of the American formations. The Russians could not determine ship type, but they could tell large from small, and identify the missile cruiser Ticonderoga by her distinctive radar emissions. The carriers would be close to her. The Bear relayed the information to her consorts. A minute later, the seventy Backfire bombers launched their hundred forty AS-6 Kingfish missiles and turned north at full military power. The Kingfish was nothing like the Kelt. Powered by a liquid-fuel rocket engine, it accelerated to nine hundred knots and began its descent, its radar-homing head tracking on a preprogrammed target area ten miles wide. Every ship in the center of the formation had several missiles assigned.
“Vampire, Vampire!” the CIC talker said aboard Ticonderoga. “We have numerous incoming missiles. Weapons free.”
The group antiair warfare officer ordered the cruiser’s Aegis weapons system into full automatic mode. Tico had been built with this exact situation in mind. Her powerful radar/computer system immediately identified the incoming missiles as hostile and assigned each a priority of destruction. The computer was completely on its own, free to fire on its electronic will at anything diagnosed as a threat. Numbers, symbols, and vectors paraded across the master tactical display. The fore and aft twin missile launchers trained out at the first targets and awaited the orders to fire. Aegis was state-of-the-art, the best SAM system yet devised, but it had one major weakness: Tico carried only ninety-six SM2 surface-to-air missiles; there were one hundred forty incoming Kingfish. The computer had not been programmed to think about that.
Aboard Nimitz, Toland could feel the carrier heeling into a radical turn, her engines advanced to flank speed, driving the massive warship at over thirty-five knots. Her nuclear-powered escorts, Virginia and California, were also tracking the Kingfish, their own missiles trained out on their launchers.
The Kingfish were at eight thousand feet, one hundred miles out, covering a mile every four seconds. Each had now selected a target, choosing the largest within their fields of view. Nimitz was the nearest large ship, with her missile-ship escorts to her north.
Tico launched her first quartet of missiles as the targets reached a range of ninety-nine miles. The rockets exploded into the air, leaving a trail of pale gray smoke. They had barely cleared the launch rails when the mounts went vertical and swiveled to receive their reloads. The load-and-fire time was under eight seconds. The cruiser would average one missile fired every two seconds. Just over three minutes later, her missile magazines were empty. The cruiser emerged from the base of an enormous gray arch of smoke. Her only remaining defenses were her gun systems.
The SAMs raced in at their targets with a closing speed of over two thousand miles per hour, directed in by the reflected waves of the ship’s own fire-control radars. At a range of a hundred fifty yards from their targets, the warheads detonated. The Aegis system did quite well. Just over 60 percent of the targets were destroyed. There were now eighty-two incoming missiles targeted on a total of eight ships.
Other missile-equipped ships joined the fray. In several cases two or three missiles were sent for the same target, usually killing it. The number of incoming “vampires” dropped to seventy, then sixty, but the number was not dropping quickly enough. The identity of the targets was now known to everyone. Powerful active jamming equipment came on. Ships began a radical series of maneuvers like some stylized dance, with scant attention paid to station-keeping. Collision at sea was now the least of anyone’s worries. When the Kingfish got to within twenty miles, every ship in the formation began to fire off chaff rockets, which filled the air with millions of aluminized Mylar fragments that fluttered on the air, creating dozens of new targets for the missiles to select from. Some of the Kingfish lost lock with their targets and started chasing Mylar ghosts. Two of them got lost, and selected new targets on the far side of the formation.
The radar picture on Nimitz suddenly was obscured. What had been discrete pips designating the positions of ships in the formation became shapeless clouds. Only the missiles stayed constant: inverted V-shapes, with line vectors to designate direction and speed. The last wave of SAMs killed three more. The vampire count was down to forty-one. Toland counted five heading for Nimitz Topside, the final defensive weapons were now tracking the targets. These were the CIWS, 20mm Gatling guns, radar-equipped to explode incoming missiles at a range of under two thousand yards. Designed to operate in a fully automatic mode, the two after gun mounts on the carrier angled up and began to track the first pair of incoming Kingfish. The portside mount fired first, the six-barrel cannon making a sound like that of an enormous zipper. Its radar system tracked the target, and tracked the outgoing slugs, adjusting fire to make the two meet.