Charles Taylor - First Salvo

Admiral Pratt considered the location of his Hawkeye recon aircraft in relation to the Russian bombers. Identified as Backfires, they were electronically advanced, missile-firing craft. “Are we jamming?” Pratt asked Clark.

Clark looked over from his position, brows furrowed nervously. “You mean those closing jets?”

“Are there any others?” Pratt snapped.

“No, sir. Nothing within the zone.”

“My understanding was that they were in an attack profile, using target-acquisition radar and with a satellite backup. Why don’t we just send up some balloons with arrows on them to point to the battle group.” Pratt’s voice was rising evenly, the pitch controlling the atmosphere in the command post. “We should be jamming everything they can use. There is no reason in my book — and that’s the one you are operating under now — for them to receive one pulse of information from any one of their satellites. No reason that anything should get back to their targeting computers except whatever garbage we want to send them. No reason there should even be a reason for them to activate the target-acquisition radar in those missiles of theirs.”

Pratt rose to his feet and placed himself directly in front of the displays. He left no room for doubt that he expected the attention of every man in the room. “Those Russian aircraft are coming in because the Soviet Union has just declared war on the United States. It will be a while before we get word. In the meantime, they are following the normal pattern they have utilized in the past because we’re so complacent about it that they think we’ll just wait to see if their pilots will wave when they go by. Before you know it, I’ll have to tell the computer to take over the decision-making process for this entire battle group because the staff did not anticipate this war.”

The faces looking back at him reflected shock. Perhaps I can convince some of them war has been declared , Pratt thought. Jesus, I hope so. I want to see their pale faces. I want to see the cold sweat on their foreheads. I want to see the fear in their eyes. I want them to think about their families back home and imagine that the ICBMs might already be in the air — even though this is still a drill .

“I want a direct voice order sent to that on-scene commander. Better yet, I’ll do it.” Pratt turned to his communications officer. “Which circuit do I want?”

“Twenty-seven, Admiral.”

Pratt picked up the speaker in one hand while he punched in 27 on the black box. “Call sign?”

“Bulldog Two.”

Pratt pressed the key on the mike. “Bulldog Two, this is Archer himself. Over.”

“This is Bulldog Two. Over.”

“This is not a drill. I repeat this is not a drill. Commence jamming on all Soviet frequencies as follows — satellite recon, search, anything else you can damn well find. Is that understood? Over.”

“Roger, Archer. Will comply. Out.”

He turned to Clark, who was obviously waiting for the next bombshell. “Who’s controlling the intercept?”

“We have a flight of F-14s on the way, sir.”

“I certainly hope so, but what I asked is who the hell is controlling the intercept?”

“They’re reporting to Bulldog One.”

“And what are his instructions?”

“They will track at a distance, sir.”

“Like hell they will. Just as soon as they’re within lock-on, they will commence a head-on attack, vectored in by Bulldog One. They will await a firing order from me.” He nodded toward his communications officer. “Now.”

“Yes, sir.”

Pratt turned to the air-status board. “Take me out to full scale on that board. Use a satellite picture if you have to. There has never been a Russian attack designed against one of our battle groups that didn’t have a second or even third flight directed at the same target. Saturation ,” he bellowed, pounding his fist into his palm for emphasis. “Saturation is their doctrine.” He continued to slam his fist down. “Attack from different angles and altitudes and fill the air with missiles. That’s what they do. Don’t wait for them — look for them! And while you’re finding those other flights, I want to put our electronic-countermeasures plan into effect — jamming, deception, everything we can do to confuse their missiles.”

He gave them time. There was no doubt they knew their business. It was just that they had never carried the exercises through to completion before. They had always assumed enough warning to react, but that wouldn’t happen now. The Russians will keep the pressure up. Wear us down , Pratt thought. Put us at ease. Then, blam, and we’ll feel just like Custer . But that’s what he also liked about the Russians. They were predictable. They followed doctrine, making it easier to handle them. It was more a question of how well Pratt and his men could defend the battle group when the air was full of missiles. Could they limit the number of hits?

“Next — subsurface picture, Mr. Loomis.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You have four submarines closing — a wolf-pack approach, I assume.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You have them all tracked?”

“Three of them, sir. One has broken off. We still have him in the passive listening mode, but no course or speed.” He looked more confident than Clark. “I expect a second to break off soon. O’Bannon has orders to detach two frigates as soon as the second one goes.” Again, doctrine said a Russian wolf pack would do just that as they came in for attack. It also said that they never limited themselves to a frontal attack. There had to be one or more submarines coming in from another direction.

“Have you opened up your detection range in other directions?” Pratt asked.

“Yes, sir. No contacts out to fifty miles.” Fifty miles was nothing for a forty-knot submarine!

“Run a line of sonobuoys every twenty-five miles just like they taught you in school, Mr. Loomis. You’ll find them. Next!” Here his voice rose again. “I want you to put everything in the water you can think of that will make noise. I want those bastards so confused they won’t have the vaguest idea where this group is or what we’re going to do next. If we’re keeping their aircraft busy, those subs will become useless so fast…” His voice trailed off.

He saw recognition gradually spread over various faces, some that had been unsure of his intent only moments before. They would react instantaneously should there be any indication the Russians had orders to complete their missions. No longer would there be a chance of a lost moment, a lost moment that might mean the survival or loss of a carrier battle group.

“ Kharkov — where is she now?” That was the Soviet carrier that had been patrolling the southeastern sector of the Med for the past week. Her Forger aircraft ranged to only three hundred miles, and Pratt was determined to haunt her as soon as she showed any interest in closing the battle group. Saratoga had been detached with full battle group escort to keep tabs on the Soviet carrier, but Pratt knew that when the time came Sara would be the first to bear the brunt of the first salvo. Kharkov and her escorts would then once again become his responsibility. Quite possibly the Soviet carrier Minsk would also be out of the Black Sea to bother Sara by then.

“ Kharkov ’s still hanging offshore of Alexandria, Admiral, covering pretty much the same area as yesterday. This morning’s satellite photos indicate that she’s expanded her screen to include two Udaloy-type destroyers and one ASW cruiser. I expect that means she’s getting ready to turn west.”

“What kind of tail do we have on her now?”