703 has two possible unid Indian vessels in vicinity and placed them in the link. Do you have the link?”
“Negative link. Repeat that, 703?”
Guppy was waving for his attention. “203 has three thousand pounds and a little.”
“Cut him loose, call the next one in.”
“Who?”
“You decide, you did the math.” No time to baby Gup now. He was swimming so far, and Soleck was gaining confidence in him. He leaned back. “Take the plane, Gup.”
“I got her.”
Soleck took his hands off the controls and flexed them, realizing he had been flying like a nugget with a clench. He looked at ESM, saw a targeting radar come up on the Kashin-class destroyer.
“101, prepare for another missile. Get out of there!”
“Roger, evading. Going to burner. Chaff and flares.”
Soleck pulled up a factoid from his remarkable memory. “Missiles will be first-generation radar-homing.”
“Thanks, 703.”
“101, they should suck at look-down.”
“Roger, copy, going on the deck.”
Soleck waited. He was sure the old Russian missiles would be poor at finding targets below them. Almost sure. For a moment, he could
see
the missiles on ESM as their radar homing warheads flickered. Then they vanished.
Then 101’s voice: “Two missiles past timeout overhead, I can see the exhaust at burnout. Owe you a beer.”
Soleck made himself breathe. He activated his radio. “AW, this is 703. 101 is under fire from an Indian Navy vessel, Kashin class.”
And if I had a Harpoon, I could whack him from here.
“Copy, 703.” Captain Lash, again. “Break, break, 101, what’s your status?”
“Peachy, Alpha Whiskey.”
Soleck thought that was just adrenaline talking. In fact, if that Tomcat had just turned low with his burners on, he’d used more fuel than he had to spare, and Soleck didn’t have any extra. He unclipped his harness, leaned way out over Gup and plucked the kneeboard off his lap.
“We’re going to need gas, Alpha Whiskey,” 101 said.
Yeah.
And without Stevens, he could see they were already short. Somebody wasn’t going to make it. He did the math while 101 reported the incident to AW and repeated that there was a man in the water. Soleck walled off the idea that Stevens and Goldy might be gone. He was walling a lot off. He heard Alpha Whiskey scramble his own helo, already busy doing search and rescue on pilots who had punched off the
Jefferson
‘s burning deck, to get the man in the water up north.
He went to the Alpha Whiskey freq and requested another line. He wasn’t ready to go public yet. Then he got 203 on Donitz’s squadron freq. “Donuts?”
“Yeah, Soleck?”
“I got a problem. The Tomcat had to burn gas—”
“I heard.”
“And Stevens’s plane is down. Somebody is screwed for Trincomalee. Or anywhere.”
“Relax, Ev. We’re not. I can make it—altitude’s good. And if I can make it, all the Hornets—”
“Not the Hornets, Chris.”
Four of the Hornets had already tanked. They couldn’t give the gas back if they wanted. The Tomcats farther north had limited options and their options were getting smaller by the second.
“Gotcha.” Donuts had thought it through without Soleck’s having to spell it out: one of the Tomcats was going in the drink. Almost certainly the one that had just saved itself from that very fate. And Soleck was telling Donuts that he was going to have to make the call.
Welcome to command.
Even while he listened for Donuts, Soleck was back on the ESM, watching the Godavari-class destroyer as she closed with the Kashin-class. She had a number of radars, French, German, and Russian, and while they baffled even Soleck’s knowledge he could see their types. The Modified Godavari, a middle-aged Indian ship with a curious mix of British and Russian technology, was illuminating something with a high PRF radar that almost had to be for gun-control. She was
way
out of range of the Tomcats.
That meant she was about to shoot the Kashin.
The world was going to
“Negative link. Repeat that, 703?”
Guppy was waving for his attention. “203 has three thousand pounds and a little.”
“Cut him loose, call the next one in.”
“Who?”
“You decide, you did the math.” No time to baby Gup now. He was swimming so far, and Soleck was gaining confidence in him. He leaned back. “Take the plane, Gup.”
“I got her.”
Soleck took his hands off the controls and flexed them, realizing he had been flying like a nugget with a clench. He looked at ESM, saw a targeting radar come up on the Kashin-class destroyer.
“101, prepare for another missile. Get out of there!”
“Roger, evading. Going to burner. Chaff and flares.”
Soleck pulled up a factoid from his remarkable memory. “Missiles will be first-generation radar-homing.”
“Thanks, 703.”
“101, they should suck at look-down.”
“Roger, copy, going on the deck.”
Soleck waited. He was sure the old Russian missiles would be poor at finding targets below them. Almost sure. For a moment, he could
see
the missiles on ESM as their radar homing warheads flickered. Then they vanished.
Then 101’s voice: “Two missiles past timeout overhead, I can see the exhaust at burnout. Owe you a beer.”
Soleck made himself breathe. He activated his radio. “AW, this is 703. 101 is under fire from an Indian Navy vessel, Kashin class.”
And if I had a Harpoon, I could whack him from here.
“Copy, 703.” Captain Lash, again. “Break, break, 101, what’s your status?”
“Peachy, Alpha Whiskey.”
Soleck thought that was just adrenaline talking. In fact, if that Tomcat had just turned low with his burners on, he’d used more fuel than he had to spare, and Soleck didn’t have any extra. He unclipped his harness, leaned way out over Gup and plucked the kneeboard off his lap.
“We’re going to need gas, Alpha Whiskey,” 101 said.
Yeah.
And without Stevens, he could see they were already short. Somebody wasn’t going to make it. He did the math while 101 reported the incident to AW and repeated that there was a man in the water. Soleck walled off the idea that Stevens and Goldy might be gone. He was walling a lot off. He heard Alpha Whiskey scramble his own helo, already busy doing search and rescue on pilots who had punched off the
Jefferson
‘s burning deck, to get the man in the water up north.
He went to the Alpha Whiskey freq and requested another line. He wasn’t ready to go public yet. Then he got 203 on Donitz’s squadron freq. “Donuts?”
“Yeah, Soleck?”
“I got a problem. The Tomcat had to burn gas—”
“I heard.”
“And Stevens’s plane is down. Somebody is screwed for Trincomalee. Or anywhere.”
“Relax, Ev. We’re not. I can make it—altitude’s good. And if I can make it, all the Hornets—”
“Not the Hornets, Chris.”
Four of the Hornets had already tanked. They couldn’t give the gas back if they wanted. The Tomcats farther north had limited options and their options were getting smaller by the second.
“Gotcha.” Donuts had thought it through without Soleck’s having to spell it out: one of the Tomcats was going in the drink. Almost certainly the one that had just saved itself from that very fate. And Soleck was telling Donuts that he was going to have to make the call.
Welcome to command.
Even while he listened for Donuts, Soleck was back on the ESM, watching the Godavari-class destroyer as she closed with the Kashin-class. She had a number of radars, French, German, and Russian, and while they baffled even Soleck’s knowledge he could see their types. The Modified Godavari, a middle-aged Indian ship with a curious mix of British and Russian technology, was illuminating something with a high PRF radar that almost had to be for gun-control. She was
way
out of range of the Tomcats.
That meant she was about to shoot the Kashin.
The world was going to
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