NationStates Jolt Archive

Somewhere

The ULCC Black Dawn pushed its way through the oceans at a leisurely ten knots, unaware of its unfortunate future. Flying the Prestonian colours proudly from her rear, it had taken weeks for the captain of the Hogsweatian Victor Class submarine 887D to find a Prestonian ship, and today he was in luck, because his submarine was sitting just a mere two kilometres off the starboard aft of the Black Dawn. The Captain had no idea where she was heading, and wasn't at all bothered. Nor was he particularly interested in sinking civilian shipping, but after all, orders were orders and capitalism was capitalism, and there was a certain degree of satisfaction from a job well done. Cigarette stuck firmly in his mouth, he gave the order to fire two 533m torpedoes. His tubes flushed water and moments later the two torpedoes shot out, one guided for amidships and the other the steering. Both impacted, and the weapons officer managed a "Target Hit, amidships, aft." Onboard the ULCC, a great crash probably either sent the crew flying or left wondering what the hell had happened, while the men in engineering were met with a sudden shock when their rudder and props were blown clean.

Time to finish the job. The Captain thought to himself, and letting the smoke from his last drag filter its way away through the submarine, gave the order to fire again. A pair of 650mm torpedoes shot forth, cruising their way to the doomed ship and exploding just five metres underneath her keel, fifty metres apart. The submarine's sonar was turned off, so they did not register the crunching of the hull that sent shockwaves throughout the water, but as the submarine's black hull broke the surface of the water, the Captain got a glimpse of the last of the ULCC as it broke apart in the water, thick oil spreading out. It would only be minutes before it set alight, and he had already moved several kilometres away, but after recording the thoughts in his head, ordered the submarine to dive without a second glance at the site of destruction. As the submarine turned away, the last of the ULCC dissapeared underwater, raging fires being almost extinguished by the salt water before they spread across the thick, crude oil, setting it alight and burning alive any remaining crew who had not managed to escape otherwise while sending huge plumes of thick, acrid smoke into the atmosphere.

Such a thing did not go unnoticed, especially when the ULCC had sent out an SOS signal before sinking. The Captain, a competent man and with time to burn, decided to stay behind for a number of hours to see if any more Prestonian ships turned up. He could not believe his eyes when the periscope found a target on the horizon, a ship waving from side to side in the distance. As it got closer, the submarine was able to identify it as the Prestonian cruise liner Traveler of The Seas, and unbeknownst to the Hogsweatian Captain, the host of ten thousand Prestonians. A grin spread across his face as the man, fully believing that after his death there was nothing, nobody to answer to, prepared to raise his second skull and crossbones of the day. Lowering the periscope, the 887D crawled towards the Prestonian ship as its shocked and dismayed navigation crew steered a path to where the SOS had been launched. The sides of the ship were packed full of Prestonians and other foreigners looking at the blaze that tore its way through the once-clean ocean air, corrupting everything around it. Had he seen these, the Captain may have hesitated before putting four 533m torpedoes and 2 650mm keelbreakers into the Traveler of The Seas.

As the ship began to sank, the 887D surfaced, flying the hammer and sickle and the skull and crossbones, and observed for a number of minutes the drowning Prestonians whose ship's back had snapped underneath them. Leaving them to their watery graves, the submarine dived and moved off. It had more prey to hunt, and after all, there were another six Hogsweatian subs in these waters looking for Prestonian targets.

PS 128
Downtown Hudson
1100 Hours


Today was, at first glance, a normal day at this inner-city Hudson elementary school. Mrs. Johansson's Kindergarten class was a flurry of activity as usual, the children squirming in anticipation of lunch and recess. In one area of the classroom, three boys were building a block tower, looking the part of architects as they stacked the tower higher and higher.

A ways away, a similar sized group of girls were playing with dolls, going through a mock daily routine. As one looked around the room, one found that there were several small groups, each engaged in an activity of interest. Everything appeared normal.

Normal, that is, except for the well-dressed man and five armed guards sitting idly in the room. This man, you see, was President Aaron Preston, and the guards members of the elite Republican Guard committed to his protection.

Preston was due to make a speech at the elementary school about citizenship, one of several gigs he did throughout the year. These served two main functions; first, to get children interested in politics and second, to show the media he cared for the whole of the populace. For the meantime, however, he was sitting in a rocking chair reading The Cat in The Hat to several interested children sitting on the rug before him. All in all, this was one of Preston's easier days of late.

In one short minute however, the tranquility of the day was turned upside down. From the corner of his eye Preston could see one of his bodyguards talk briefly on his cell phone, then hang up. As the guard strode over to him, Preston felt a sinking feeling in his stomach as he awaited whatever news was to come. Whispering in the President's ear, the guard said "Sir, we've been attacked. Two ships got hit by a submarine. You're needed back at the Presidential Mansion ASAP."

In an effort to keep his composure, Preston turned back to his students, eagerly awaiting the conclusion of the story. "Kids, that was my doggie. He said to tell you hi, and to remind you to all be good little boys and girls. Now I have to go visit the Enchanted Kingdom for a tea party with Cinderella, but I'll be back real soon, ok?," Preston ad-libbed. After letting out a collective moan, the kids, at the urging of the teacher, all called out "Goodbye President Aaron," in their youthful singsong voice. The teacher was not informed of the real reason behind the sudden departure, but one grave look from Preston said everything.

From the confines of the armored limo in which the President rode, Preston dialed the Defense Department, speaking rapidly but calmly. "I want my entire cabinet and High Command in the War Room by the time I get there, clear?," he barked. "Yes, sir." came the voice of the secretary on the other end. With the first of several worries taken care of, Preston then dialed the Federal Shipping Administration. "Get me Director Slayton ASAP," he barked into the receiver as he anxiously waited. Seconds later, a gruff voice answered. "What do you want, I've got a very busy schedule," the director's voice sounded. Preston, not amused, responded "address me that way again and I'll have your job. I want you to put out an emergency dispatch to all vessels in the area of Black Dawn and Traveler of the Seas instructing them to search for survivors and take caution. There's a sub, possibly a rogue, in the area and the whole fucking sector is going to hell in a handbasket. Black Dawn just got torped and we have reason to believe Traveler got hit as well. Every ship not involved with the Navy or the SAR effort is to make for the nearest safe port immediately. Are we clear?" After about 45 seconds of stunned silence, the normally-tough Director Micheal Slayton, a former Marine, stammered his reply. "Y-y-yes sir, I'll d-do that at o-once," came the incredulous response.

A short time later, Preston stood in the War Room, deep underground and rumored to be bomb-proof. "Gentlemen I want to know everything you have and I want to know it NOW," he roared, slamming his fist down on the table. Immediately, CPIA and Naval Intelligence analysts began offering what they had. "The first ship to go under was the Black Dawn, operating out of St. Andrews and registered to Republic Oil. The second ship sunk was the cruise liner Traveler of the Seas, registered to Circus Cruise Lines and operating out of Venice. Body counts are just now coming in but estimates are running into the vicinity of 10,000 to 11,000 dead or missing. The Traveler managed to get a dispatch off before she got hit, indicating the submarine surfaced to inspect her kill and was flying the Hogsweatian banner. Sir, we've been attacked by Hogsweat," the chief analyst concluded. "Alright. I've got my publicist working on an 8 PM press conference. In the mean time, I want you guys crunching the numbers on a possible invasion route if need be. All shipping not related to the Navy is to be frozen in port. I do not want to lose any more ships!," Preston said. In the space of a few short minutes, his day had gone from tranquil to hectic, and was about to get worse.

Somewhere

The 887D surfaced, its transponders blinking several times as they took down data given to it by a Tupolev-142H and a US-A ocean radar satellite. Within minutes it was being processed as the Submarine once again hid under the waves. They had, however, the right information. Just sixty miles north of them, a Prestonian cruise liner was making full and desperate speed northwest to escape into safe waters. The Captain smiled. A third kill, and surely a promotion for him. Indeed, Captain Antoy'ev was not driven by ideology, not by the undying hate of capitalism that others of his social status had. No, because deep inside, Antoy'ev despised the system. Communism. What had it done for him? Deep down, he wanted to escape - to get out of that wretched system once and for all, but how? He couldn't just up and leave. He couldn't cross the border north, because he'd be shot, and in any case he was an atheist and would probably be shot by the Doomani. The only way was up, up, up and up. The more 'money' he earned, the more nice clothes he could buy for his wife, the better quality rations he could squabble for at the Credit Ration Store, perhaps someday he could be an Admiral and afford a detached house...

So, the only way was up, and the only way up was killing people. Not particularly the best approach to life, Antoy'ev thought, as he ordered the submarine to surface once more and push the pressurised water reactor to 32 knots. Within twenty minutes he'd be in torpedo range, which gave Antoy'ev the chance to get a taste of the salt water air from the conning tower as the hammer and sickle and the skull and crossbones fluttered in the ocean breeze. Such a sad thing, he thought, that something as beautiful and majestic as the ocean and all its life was now a gigantic hunting ground for him and his submarine. The cruise liner had noticed him and had likely sent out an SOS, and at the very least informed his Government of the Hogsweatian sub's nationality. That was, for some reason, the objective. Antoy'ev didn't understand why, nor was he allowed to know, so he followed his orders in the dark and didn't bother with the light switch. Really, the cruise liner didn't stand a chance. The four torpedoes finished the job and as the cruise liner began to sink, the well prepared crew put every effort into evacuating civilians. As quickly as it had appeared the Questarian submarine began to slink away into the setting darkness. Three kills in one day. Not bad. Captain Antoy'ev sighed and signed out of the ops room to get a few hours sleep.

The AV-MF Tu-95RTs sat at ten thousand metres, its Big Bulge radar illuminated and looking for targets. Behind him, nine Tu-22Ms of Naval Aviation slowly cruised at a lower altitude, impatiently awaiting orders as their turbofans coughed sheer power into the air. Finally, a blip flashed on the Big Bulge radar, then another, and consistently, the I band scanning device continued to pick these targets up. Accelerating and dropping altitude for a better look, the Bear identified them as a pair of Prestonian VLCCs heading at full steam for what would be the safest port. The Raid Commander in the bear grinned and rubbed his hands together. Time to kill some Capitalists. Ordering his little raketonosets - his 'children', whom he had trained for months - squadron into action, the nine Tupolev bombers sent their engines into reheat, breaking the speed of sound and swooping past the Bear at a thousand three hundred kilometres an hour. Two hundred kilometres from the convoy, a pair of Kh-22 missiles dropped from each wing, and as the Tupolevs continued their flight, slowing down some, they watched as their missiles fell downwards, only one failing to initiate its rocket engine.

The seventeen missiles threw themselves into the air at five hundred metres per second, and within half a minute they were at 20,000 metres and still climbing. Just breaking the 21,000 metre mark, they switched on their active radars, the Tupolevs having slowed down and spread their variable-geometry wings were now giving them mid-course updates as the two Prestonian crude carriers found themselves illuminated by ten different radars. Turning ever so slightly to the starboard, the Kh-22's rolled over and descended, accelerating further. The crude carriers didn't even have time to react, and the raid commander cackled with joy as his radar showed seventeen Raduga-22 missiles at almost 1,600 metres per second rush towards their targets. As the terminal dive had begun they switched on their radars, locking the targets presented to them in their radar boresight box. A few corrected course via radio command to avoid lumping, and with eight missiles on one and nine on another, each VLCC had to deal with eight thousand and nine thousand kilograms of HE respectively, at mach 4.5 bearing down on their oil-laden hulls. Leaning backwards in his seat, the Raid Commander gave congratulations to his crews over the radio and assured them their place in the mess drinking lounge that night.

Presidential Mansion
Hudson
1955 Hours

President Preston was well-dressed, walking toward the press room with several aides surrounding him. The day had not been kind to him, and it was sure to get worse. All day long PBG News had been covering the story, and death tolls had kept climbing. As Preston approached the entrance to the stage, an aide rushed up to him, looking haggard from a day's worth of calls and confirmations of what was one of the worst attacks on Prestonian shipping ever. "Sir, we just got another dispatch in from PBG. Two more ships, tankers, got hit. A fishing trawler called it in a few minutes ago. This is literally hot off the press," the aide said hurriedly.

"Well, this speech is no good to me now," Preston said, passing a stack of papers to an aide standing behind him. "No use in calling for diplomacy when your enemy does something like this." As he walked to the podium, he straightened his tie and attempted to keep some composure.

My fellow Prestonians, this is a grave day in our history. On this day, five ships bearing the sons and daughters of Prestonia have been sent to the bottom. These were all civilian vessels, fired upon without cause or warning. The death toll is currently estimated to be eleven thousand people. These were not military personnel. They were men, women and children. Fathers, daughters, grandmothers, husbands and wives. They had committed no crime, yet were so cruelly cut down.

We have a culprit. The communist nation of United Hogsweat has killed our citizens and destroyed countless lives. The evils of this communist regime no no bounds. Their leader, Alexi Sorovsky, has not only allowed this piracy to happen, he by all available intelligence ordered it to happen. This nation is unfit to exist on the face of the earth, and must be destroyed. By the Grace of God Almighty we the people of the Prestonian Republic will smite the Red Menace from the face of the Earth!

To the Hogsweatian people, I say this: Our quarrel is not with you, but with your ruthless cabal of leaders. I will therefore give the Hogsweatians one recourse for avoiding their certain doom: The captain of the sub which sunk three of our vessels is to be turned over to Prestonian custody, and the Hogsweatian government will pay the Prestonian Republic ten billion Prestonian dollars in damages and compensation. You have twenty-four hours to comply. Hogsweat has two choices: surrender, or death. For the sake of your people Mr. Sorovsky I suggest you surrender. Failure to do so will see your nation destroyed and you hung for the war criminal you are. God Bless Prestonia!

The press corps in attendance gave a standing ovation lasting a full five minutes. Within less than a day, Preston knew the video would be viral on Youtube, and circulated to every major news agency in the world, including Pravda in Hogsweat.

Hogsingrad
Politburo Special Building

Sorovosky leant back in his chair and threw a hearty laugh as he read the Prestonian press statement. The politburo watched intensely as silently, Sorovosky leant forwards and poured himself some more vodka. The only other man in the room smiling was the Defence Minister Vasily Sashannovich Volodkin. Not another in the entire country felt as confident as those two men. Sorovosky chuckled once more, and after savouring the fine taste, addressed his right hand man. "Comrade Volodkin, a Capitalist military victory is impossible, correct?"

Volodkin nodded. "Yes Comrade. Absolutely."

"And a Hogsweatian victory assured?" Sorovosky already knew the answer he would be presented with, but it made him all the more confident to hear it again.

"Again Comrade, absolutely." Volodkin replied. "We will defeat the Capitalists in sea, land, and air. As we talk, our Naval Aviation is conducting further strikes on their shipping. There is no chance that they can defeat our mighty armed forces."

"Then there is no need for a reply!" Sorovosky cried. "Actually. Let us issue a flat out denial of these things. It was not us - all the images were faked, and that was a most un-Communistic action. Remember, do not inform the people. They... do not need to know how we deal with their defence."

The group nodded and finished their vodkas before collectively leaving to attend to more pressing tasks.

Somewhere, the next day

The Raid Commander stretched his arms and yawned. A long night at the mess, drinking with his comrades had left him somewhat worse for wear the following day, but it wasn't as if the mission was any harder. With the help of radar satellites and another accompanying Tu-95, they had located three Prestonian tankers, each about a hundred klicks apart and scattering in different directions. Like it'll do them any good. The Commander snickered. This time, only three Tupolevs had accompanied his aircraft, and the pattern was the same. Upon being given the information, they flew over. Each was loaded down with three Kh-22s, so they were somewhat slower than they ought to be, but given the lack of Prestonian military presence, that was something lacking in importance. The Raid Commander licked his lips with anticipation that soon, all three targets would dissapear off his radar. The flight path of his "troops" was laid out on the radar screen. They would swoop north, turn east sharply and then south as they fell back to base. Perfect. Not that there was anything that could go wrong... it was like taking candy from a baby.

The three Tupolevs came at the first tanker at eight hundred klicks a second, each dropping a Kh-22 that climbed to 12,000 metres with no engine initiation problems (what a wonder the new -22MAH models were!). At this height, they began to cruise and switched on their active radars, and with the box given to them for searching, found their targets and locked on, taking themselves into a shallow dive, just breaking the speed of sound before impacting their target, the radio altimeter of the death-dispensing device keeping it well balanced. The Tupolevs were long gone northeast before the three missiles struck their target, searing through its hull and leaving just a millisecond of peace before exploding inside, tearing the tanker apart and sending bright yellow strobes of flame into the air. It would be almost impossible for there to be a survivor from the stricken vessel that was now collapsing inwards and sinking at an alarming rate, indicative of the future of its comrades. The Raid Commander, with much glee, ticked off another target in his score-book. One down.

Turning sharply east after drifting north for some time, the Tupolevs were guided down onto their next target by the pair of Bears searching for and identifying Prestonian shipping. They would follow the exact same pattern as the last, dropping off their missiles and continuing to the third target. As, just under two minutes later, the Kh-22s exploded inside the second tanker, there was no majestic or graceful death, just fire, smoke, and hot, hot water. The third vessel was a car carrier, and with its stern towards the missiles had cleverly managed to minimise the damage struck to it. One missile missed and flew into the sea, another exploded in the air next to the smart captain's ship. The third smashed through the waves and exploded behind the rudder, knocking out most machinery but keeping the ship barely afloat. The Raid Commander curled his fist up and bit his lip uncomfortably hard as his bombers reported that the third target was likely not a hard kill like the other two had been. It would have to suffice... he told himself before picking up the GLONASS receiver to report to headquarters. Still, another raid that was technically a success was no stain on his record...

14 Hours Later

Raid Commander Dzershensky brushed the sleep out of his eyes. HQ had assured him that the last two ships sunk was an outstanding success, but he was not convinced so. Months of training dictated that three kills would have been achievable, but it was not. Was it a training fault? Was it a fault in the equipment? He had stayed awake until the early hours of the morning evaluating the faults and had still not come up with an answer. His comrades had told him to let it drop, but how could he? When the real shooting started, a 80% success rate was not good enough. He had been told that the Prestonian fleet numbered in the thousands. No failure, no matter how small, was acceptable to Dzershensky. It must be absolute, total victory. Next time I will perform better, he whispered, and composing himself with a small glass of vodka, ordered his avionics man to begin searching for targets. A few words with the Ocean's Station Commander onboard the Ulyanovsk carrier Nikita Kruschev and Dzershensky had wriggled his way into command of the six-plane Su-33 strike group. He would avenge his conscience, at least...

"Tovarisch. ESM is suggesting a cargo ship, bearing 295-345, range box 200 to 550 klicks, unknown speed or heading..." The Avionics officer cried out as the advanced systems in the Tupolev's nose began receiving radar transmissions and signals from the cargo ship.

"Tovarisch, how did we get an ESM signal?" The Raid Commander turned around. "Are you sure this isn't a military ship?"

"Um..." The Avionics officer waited a moment, recalibrating and reseting his signals. The ESM picture jumped slightly, but this was to be expected as ESM could never be too accurate at that range. "The signal is fading. Perhaps he was just communicating? Maybe he's looking for something." The Avionics officer scratched his nose. "I suppose the important thing is that he's there... the Kruschev can lok for him, after all?"

Dzershensky slowly nodded his head. "Make a move for him and illuminate as soon as possible. Tovarisch Pobhinsky, bring up a line to the [i]Nikita Kruschev...

Nikita Kruschev
650km east

The last Su-33 positioned itself on the launch spot. Flag-waving deck crew moved up the first aircraft, and most of them scattering aside apart from a scant few required men, they watched as the Sukhoi's Lyulka AL-31F turbofan kicked into gear, and with the aid of a catapult shot the aircraft across the deck, and after a momentary lull over the edge of the carrier, it gained speed and at a slow rate began to climb as its comrades followed the same pattern, and within eight minutes the whole flight was in the air and in a long echelon formation. Each had two FAB-500 500kg - or thousand pound, depending on how you looked at it - bomb slung underneath their wings, nestled in next to the large engines. Climbing to three thousand metres they accelerated to eight hundred kilometres an hour and were taking orders from the Kruschev, which in turn was receiving information from Raid Commander Dzershensky's Tu-95RTs. Within an hour they were flying almost the cargo vessel, its decks stacked high with whatever it happened to be transporting. The six Su-33's turned and using FLIR and their targeting systems as well as manual skill, acquired firing solutions for their weapons.

The lead plane and his wingman broke off and rolled over, ordering the rest of the group to follow, and keeping steady descending to a thousand metres while putting himself into a shallow dive. Pulling up slightly he released his bombs, with his five comrades hot on his tail doing the same. Twelve 500kg bombs floated down, four missing and one bouncing off as it obliquely hit the freeboard at the wrong angle. However, the other six weapons exploded as soon as they hit the deck, six great explosions tearing the ship from seam to seam and allowing water to pour in. Lacking the range, the Sukhoi fighter-bombers turned and headed for home as fires from the Prestonian cargo ship raged, and finally an undetonated bomb that had plunged three decks down exploded, tearing a hole in the ship and sending it underwater. As news of the seven weapons hit reached Commander Dzershensky, a slow smile came across his face. He didn't have any direct way of knowing whether the ship was sunk, but seven 500kg bombs was enough to finish most vessels in the Soviet Navy, let alone a hundred kiloton cargo ship. As the lumbering Bear brought itself around and turned for home, Dzershensky swore that the contra-rotating propellers were leaving permanent marks on his hearing...

post above edited :D

M/V Orion
Car Carrier
Somewhere in Open Waters

Darrel Jordan stood on the deck, smoking a cigarette and idly chatting with another member of the crew. "Man, I'm worried about this shit. Those damn commies have been fucking with anything flying our flag," Darrel said, taking a long drag on the cheap cigarette.

"Don't worry man, there hasn't been an attack in a week. I'm pretty sure the commies are done," the other man responded.

Suddenly, a loud siren pierced the air as the sound of the captain's voice cracked over the speakers. "Planes inbound! Everyone away from the rails!"

The ship kicked hard to port, trying desperately to provide as small a target as possible. Darrel breathed a sigh of relief as the first missiles missed the vitals of the vessel. However, both ship and crewman were unlucky with the last missile; Darrel, standing directly behind the bridge on the stern, was blown into the water by the impact of the last missile.

After a few minutes, a shivering Darrel Jordan was hauled aboard the Orion to discover that a protector no less than the Prestonian Navy was inbound.

CPS Admiral Rogers
Pilot Ready Room

"Alright, listen up! We've got an important mission here people, do not screw this up!" Colonel Jacob McCarthy addressed the group of about forty pilots sitting in front of him in his usual manner, though this was by no means a normal mission. "I know we told you this would be a noncombat exercise, but things have changed folks. The Prestonian Republic is at war with Hogsweat, and the commies are ripping our ships to pieces. For the longest time, we couldn't trace their attacks since the ships sunk before radioing detailed information. This time however, the commies fucked up. Their last mark, the car carrier Orion, didn't sink, and managed to tell us what they got hit by. He says he didn't see any sub, so he's pretty sure the missiles had to be air-launched. Given that we know their AShM and what it can go on, we're fairly certain there's a carrier or a tanker out there refueling their stuff. Personally, I'm inclined to believe it's a carrier. A Carrier means we have a target. The problem is, we don't have a fix on her. An AWACS is being scrambled to find her if indeed there is one out there. I want you all on standby, and armed up. First fix we get, we kill that sonofabitch. Dismissed!" With that, the pilots departed to their aircraft, patiently waiting in line for the orders to come.

Ten minutes later, the aircraft had received orders, with the AWACS accelerating rapidly towards the most likely location of the enemy carrier group. While twenty F/A 15 Cardinals flew top cover, another twenty A-6 Intruders would attack the fleet with Harpoon AShMs, a long-range missile similar to the Kh-22 used by their enemy. Orders were to stay airborne only as long as the Intruders' fuel held out. If they got into reserves, the attack planes were to turn home while the Cardinals carried on their BARCAP. The attackers would remain on alert, armed to the teeth with AShMs. If they found the group, the escorts would die first. The carrier was to be left in the capable hands of Carrier Battle Group Seven, 4th High Seas Fleet's destroyers and cruisers. If all went well, the Communists would have one less battle group with which to harass Prestonian shipping.

E-2D Hawkeye "SkyEye"
157 miles from CBG-7
"Fuck, this is pointless. Let's turn back." Lieutenant Micheal Henderson was growing impatient. He, his pilot, and the other three crewmen that made up their AWACS had been flying for nearly an hour, flipping the RADAR on and off in ten minute intervals so as not to be picked up on enemy RADAR. So far the picture had been clear, save for the occasional airliner passing high overhead. "Let's give it another twenty minutes before we call it a day. Reserves look good, and the brass really wants to find this beast before she bugs out," the pilot, Lieutenant Commander George Matthews, responded. "She's probably halfway to Hogsingrad by now, but you're the boss. Let's see what we can do."

Several minutes later, the RADAR lit up. Encouraged, Matthews radioed to the battlegroup. "This is SkyEye. We've got medium signal, bearing 249. Range estimated at three hundred nautical miles. I think we got 'em, over." After a few seconds the Air Boss came back with the response. "Roger that, our attack group is inbound. Can you uplink data to our Aegis control room? The missile nerds want to start their firing solutions." "Yeah, we can do that," came the response as the data stream was sent off to the waiting battle group. Kicking his plane around, Matthews began the flight home. Low on fuel, he would need a top-off before coming back to support the attack group.

OOC: ORBAT of the carrier group:
1x Hermes Class CVN
3x Lion Class BBGN
5x Ticonderoga Class CG
10x Drake Class DDG
2x Shadow Class SSN
2x Ohio Class SSBN
1x Mercy Class Hospital Ship
2x La Belle Class Oiler

Kruschev's Battlegroup

The ESM antennae on the aircraft carrier's mast lit up as they bent backwards in the wind, giving detailed information of the intermittently flashing RADAR that kept lighting them up. They had no real information, given the length of range, but on the tracking screen bright yellow strobing lines shot forth from the carrier's graphical representation attempting to pinpoint the signal. It was, however, enough to warn the Soviet battlegroup that they had been detected and that action had to be taken. The entire battlegroup's ESM crossfix managed to ascertain the vector of the escaping aircraft, and with the rough knowledge of the location of the Prestonian carriers, put their defensive plan into action. With AV-MF assistance some 700km north and west, it would be some hours and at least time for one strike from the Prestonians before a correct response could be called in. Enough bombers were prowling these waters to deal enough damage, but tanking and reorganising them would be a hassle and the taskgroup was on its own for the time being.

The first thing that was ordered was 'All ships to EMCON 0'. That said, all ships were already at EMCON zero, but the order was given anyway to ensure the battlegroup refrained from accidentally turning on any very loud sensors like air search radars. They would, afterall, be uneccessary. The twelve ship battlegroup detached a pair of Slava cruisers, running silently, on the vector that the commander assumed the enemy to approach from, the idea being that two options would be presented to himself and his enemy; either that they would go undetected and take the enemy ship by surprise, or the enemy would give away their attack position and discover these ships at least 150 kilometres away from the actual battlegroup. Simultaneously he swung his group around and moved it at top speed the other way, again on silent. If the Prestonians found the pair of Slavas - very well, they would likely sink them, but this would buy the carrier commander his secrecy and his valuable time, and it would also allow him a follow-up attack of sorts, or at least a chance to escape. As the two Slavas moved east towards the Prestonian carriers, his task group moved west at full speed. This game him the added advantage of heading into the wind, allowing him to escape and launch two Yak-44 AWACs.

The Yak-44s slowly crept up to 11,000 metres, but still silent and waiting. Meanwhile, the fleet had been in light contact with Naval Command, and passing over there heads a US-A RORSAT lit up its orbit to sea radar and began looking. Via a secure downlink, it 'talked' to a certain Tu-95RTs, which, on station at 800km from the Prestonian fleet and at 10,000 metres altitude, decided the time was ripe for action. In the theatre, the Raid Commander had thirty six Tu-26M3 aircraft loitering which had just finished tanking, and another thirty six approaching from the south, reheating at two thousand kilometres an hour. Each group of Tu-26M3 aircraft was accompanied by six Tu-26MP variants and slightly ahead of them, twelve Tu-16P aircraft. Everything was fitting into plan, and as the Prestonian pilots began to close in, the loitering aircraft began to move into position, over a thousand klicks north of their southern brothers. They too were running silent and hoping on their three Tu-95RTs, only one of which was anywhere near search range, to provide them with accurate firing data for the three KSR-5 missiles each had slung under their wings and fuselage. Luckily, the RORSAT received rough coordinates, which the Tu-95RTs was able to home on to, but obviously unable to find any targets. Yet.

As the A-6s got within 200km of the two Slava class cruisers, detected by a single high-flying Yak-44 on a large patrol radius, flashing its active radar intermittently and randomly at different heights and vectors and codenamed ANDREI, the Yak-44 AWACs that was another 200 klicks north of them began to let loose all sorts of signals, especially attempting to persuade the A-6s that she was circling a battlegroup northwest of their position. Meanwhile, the AWACs that had buzzed them several times earlier was now running silent, low, and east at top speed. Communicating to the two Slavas, the northern active RADAR Yak-44, codenamed SERGEI, began to fly straight towards the A-6s, attempting to lock them with its radar, which it finally managed to do. The A-6s now had three targets, two of which they knew about and one which they may discover. SERGEI, who had just popped up on their air search radar and was flashing their RWRs - ANDREI, who had totally disappeared and was, yet unbeknownst to them, flying directly at them, and the two Slava cruisers whos presence was not at this time known to the Prestonian pilots. A confusing and potentially deadly situation indeed.

What they didn't know was that ANDREI was informing the Raid Commander's Tu-95RTs - MATVEI - the vector that the A-6s had approached on. The Raid Commander could not as of yet assume it was a straight line, but there was no reason not to do so, and crossmatching the RORSAT data with the information he had been given by the Yak-44, drew several straight, and several wonky lines as to where he believed the Prestonian fleet could be. Flying low and fast, his Tu-26M3 and Tu-26MP aircraft would hopefully go straight past the Prestonian fleet at a distance of 500km south and north respectively and then raise their altitude and strike from the rear at a range of around 600km. Each of them holding a distance of 700km south and north respectively of the closest assumption line to them, they slowed and waited for their Tu-16s to begin the operations. Again approaching closer, the Tu-95RTs began to pick up a CAP on its big-bulge radar. Turning and retreating, a second RORSAT scan revealed more accurate information which was cross-referenced with the position of the CAP to achieve a rough 70 by 70 kilometre box where the Prestonian fleet could be in, easily small enough for a KSR-5 to achieve a radar home on lock.

As they approached the Prestonian fleet at 500km, all 32 of the Tu-16P aircraft simultaneously switched on their ELINT gear, getting accurate readings of the Prestonian battle group and CAP location. Now the CAP was presented with an option that it would have less than thirty seconds to decide to take, assuming they figured out what was going on in that time. Any electronic or real attack made on the Tu-16s which were now loitering would be met with a barrage of ECM, ECCM, and walls of chaff. If they were pinged by air or sea radars they would immediately fall under electronic attack, a confusing precursor to the actual engagement. At 650km, northeast and southeast of the Prestonian fleet, the 72 Tu-26M aircraft had climbed to 7,000 metres and released their weapons. The 216 KSR-5 weapons accelerated and climbed to 20,000 metres, which at the slant surface to air angle they were approaching on, was well out of normal SAM ceiling. Up there, they would cruise at Mach 1, before approaching the target box they had programmed to scan. Upon doing so, they would switch on their active RADARs, presumbly finding the Prestonian fleet within half a minute, and they roll over into a steep dive some 150 klicks away, accelerating to four times the speed of sound before bringing 1,000kg of TNT down on top of the target their active RADARs had locked onto. The Hogsweatian modification to the KSR-5 included intelligent programming taken from the P-800 Onyx which allowed missiles to communicate with each other, distribute targets, and prioritise targets. With twenty missiles per carrier and the rest distributed evenly, maximum damage was ensured.

As quickly as they had arrived, the Tu-26s swung south at maximum speed and altitude, each turning on their ECM gear, the powerful electronic countermeasures of the Tu-26MP sending out godlike amounts of interference for Prestonian RADARs, be they from aircraft or ships to deal with, as well as the incoming 216 Vampires. The Tu-16s began to turn away too, but depending on their speed and the choice of the Prestonian BARCAP, they may not be lucky enough to escape.