Operation Red Mediterranean
Scenario Name: Operation Red Mediterranean
Time and Date: October 25, 1973, 08:00:00 (Zulu)
Friendly Forces:
Primary Country/Coalition: Soviet Union
Bases of Operation:
Airbase: Mozdok Air Base, North Ossetian ASSR, Soviet Union (43.7836° N, 44.5883° E)
Order of Battle:
Aircraft:
4x 3M-5 'Bison-B' Bombers
Loadout (per aircraft): 2x AS-6 Kingfish A Mod 1 [KSR-5, ASM, 350kT Nuclear] 1
Home Base: Mozdok Air Base
Adversarial Forces:
Primary Country/Coalition: United States
Bases of Operation:
Naval Task Force: US Sixth Fleet, Carrier Strike Group operating south of Crete.
Order of Battle (Known and Suspected):
Naval Assets:
Forrestal-class Aircraft Carrier, USS Independence (CV-62): The primary target of the strike. (Approximate starting location: 34.0° N, 25.5° E)
Belknap-class Cruiser, USS Belknap (CG-26): Providing long-range air defense with Terrier SAMs.
Leahy-class Cruiser, USS Harry E. Yarnell (CG-17): Providing long-range air defense with Terrier SAMs.
Charles F. Adams-class Destroyers (x2): Providing medium-range air defense with Tartar SAMs.
Aircraft:
F-4J Phantom II: Multiple squadrons flying Combat Air Patrol (CAP) from the USS Independence.
E-2B Hawkeye: AEW&C aircraft providing long-range surveillance for the fleet.
Mission & Objectives:
Geopolitical Situation:
The Yom Kippur War has escalated to a global crisis. The US Sixth Fleet and the Soviet 5th Eskadra are shadowing each other in a tense standoff in the Mediterranean. As the United States continues its massive arms airlift to Israel, the Soviet Politburo has become convinced that the US is preparing to directly intervene against its Arab allies. In a desperate and irreversible decision, Soviet High Command has issued a preemptive nuclear strike order. The objective is to neutralize the centerpiece of American power in the region—the aircraft carrier USS Independence—with tactical nuclear weapons.Friendly Mission:
You are the commander of a four-ship regiment of 3M-5 'Bison-B' bombers. Your mission is to execute a long-range, stand-off nuclear strike against the USS Independence carrier strike group. You will follow a Hi-Hi-Hi profile, cruising at 36,000 feet to the launch point. 2 Your bombers must penetrate the outer screen of the carrier's CAP and launch their nuclear-tipped AS-6 Kingfish missiles. The survival of your bombers is secondary to the complete destruction of the primary target.Success Criteria:
Primary Objective: Destroy the USS Independence (CV-62).
Secondary Objective: Destroy at least one of the escorting cruisers.
Constraint: You must launch your missiles from their maximum range of 180 nm to maximize standoff distance. 3
Constraint: This mission represents a strategic nuclear release; all other considerations are secondary to the destruction of the designated targets.
Operation Red Mediterranean: Probability Assessment
Scenario Overview
Mission: Four Soviet 3M-5 'Bison-B' bombers execute a stand-off nuclear strike against the USS Independence carrier strike group, launching AS-6 Kingfish missiles from 180 nm.
Adversary: US Sixth Fleet (USS Independence, two cruisers, two destroyers), with F-4J Phantom II CAP and E-2B Hawkeye AEW&C.
Success Criteria: Destroy the carrier (primary), destroy at least one cruiser (secondary), launch from maximum standoff range, with bomber survival secondary.
Key Threats and Mission Factors
1. Detection and Interception
E-2B Hawkeye AEW&C provides early warning at 200+ nm, detecting incoming bombers well before missile launch.
F-4J Phantom II CAP can intercept at long range, with Sparrow and Sidewinder missiles, and are likely to engage before the bombers reach the 180 nm launch point.
Probability at least one bomber reaches launch point: ~55%
2. Missile Launch and Penetration
AS-6 Kingfish missiles have a maximum range of 180 nm, supersonic speed (Mach 3+), and a 350kt nuclear warhead.
USN air defense (Terrier/Tartar SAMs, F-4J interceptors) can engage incoming missiles, but nuclear warheads require only a near miss for catastrophic effect.
Probability of at least one missile reaching and destroying the carrier: ~65%
Probability of a second missile destroying an escorting cruiser: ~50%
3. Bomber Survivability
Bomber survival is secondary; the main threat is from F-4J CAP and long-range SAMs. Losses are expected and do not affect mission success.
Probability Table
Combined Full Mission Success
Probability of destroying the USS Independence and at least one cruiser:
0.55×0.65×0.50=0.180.55 \times 0.65 \times 0.50 = 0.180.55×0.65×0.50=0.18 (~18%)
Primary Success (Carrier destroyed, regardless of cruiser):
0.55×0.65=0.360.55 \times 0.65 = 0.360.55×0.65=0.36 (~36%)
Failure (Carrier survives):
1−0.36=0.641 - 0.36 = 0.641−0.36=0.64 (~64%)
Summary Table
Key Points
Most likely outcome: At least one bomber launches missiles, but heavy USN air defenses and CAP make complete success challenging. Carrier destruction is plausible (~36%), but simultaneous destruction of a cruiser is less likely (~18%).
Greatest risks: Early detection by AEW&C, rapid F-4J interception, and layered SAM engagement of both bombers and incoming missiles.
Best practices for success:
Maximize use of standoff range and coordinated simultaneous missile launches.
Exploit any gaps in CAP coverage or USN alertness for higher penetration odds.
In summary:
Odds of full mission success (carrier and a cruiser destroyed): ~18%
Odds of primary success (carrier destroyed): ~36%
Odds of failure (carrier survives): ~64%
Operation Red Mediterranean is a high-risk, high-impact nuclear strike scenario, with the main threats being robust USN air defenses and the challenge of achieving overwhelming destruction against a well-defended carrier group.
The air inside the 3M-5 'Bison-B' bomber, callsign Krasnyy Molot-1 (Red Hammer-1), was stale and cold, recycled for hours, yet it felt thick with a suffocating, unspoken dread. Colonel Yuri Andropov stared through the reinforced glass of the cockpit at the star-dusted blackness of the Mediterranean sky. Below him, somewhere in that darkness, the American Sixth Fleet sailed, blissfully unaware that Armageddon was descending upon it at 800 kilometers per hour.
It was October 25, 1973. The Yom Kippur War had become the world's funeral pyre. The final, coded message had been received and authenticated an hour after they left Mozdok: Execute Operation Red Mediterranean. Authorization level: Zenith. There was no ambiguity. This was not a drill. This was the end of the world as they knew it.
Yuri’s mission was to command a regiment of four bombers, each carrying two AS-6 Kingfish anti-ship missiles. The warheads were not conventional. They were 350-kiloton tactical nuclear devices. Their target was the centerpiece of American power in the region, the aircraft carrier USS Independence. The survival of his bombers was secondary.
"The final check is complete, Comrade Colonel," his weapons officer reported from the station behind him, his voice hollow. "The payload is armed and ready for launch."
Yuri nodded, his throat too dry for words. He looked at his crew, their faces illuminated in the eerie red glow of the instrument panels. They were ghosts already, men condemned by the orders they were sworn to obey. The mission analysis had given them a 36% chance of destroying the carrier, and only an 18% chance of taking out a cruiser as well. The most likely outcome, at 64%, was failure—that the American fleet would survive, and their sacrifice would merely be the opening salvo of a global nuclear exchange.
"We are approaching the outer patrol limits," the navigator announced. "The American Hawkeyes will see us soon."
As if on cue, a sharp, insistent tone filled their headsets. The electronic warfare officer confirmed it. "We're painted. E-2B Hawkeye. The fleet is awake."
The illusion of a stealthy approach was shattered. On the massive flight deck of the Independence, klaxons would be blaring. In the ready rooms, pilots would be sprinting to their F-4J Phantoms. The hornet's nest had been kicked.
"Multiple contacts scrambling!" the EWO yelled. "Phantoms, climbing fast to intercept!"
Yuri watched the radar scope, the green line sweeping methodically, revealing the angry red dots ascending to meet them. "Hold your course," he commanded, his voice a low growl. "Maximum power to the jammers. We fly through them."
The American interceptors were magnificent and terrifying. They rose with incredible speed, their powerful radars cutting through the Soviet ECM. The first volley of long-range Sparrow missiles streaked towards the bomber formation.
"Molot-3 is hit!" a voice screamed over the radio, a sound of pure panic before it was consumed by static.
Yuri didn't look. He couldn't. He saw the icon for Molot-3 vanish from his tactical display. One quarter of his force, erased from existence in a silent, distant flash.
The Phantoms closed the distance, swarming the remaining bombers. The sky became a lethal three-dimensional web of missiles and cannon fire. The Bisons' defensive guns chattered defiantly, but they were swatting at supersonic hornets with fly-swatters.
"Molot-4 is breaking up! We've lost control!"
Another icon vanished. Half his force was gone. They were still 250 nautical miles from the launch point.
"Press on," Yuri ordered, his voice a cold, hard thing. He felt strangely calm, a man who had already accepted his fate. His life was now measured in the distance to the target.
They flew through the wreckage of their comrades, a grim gauntlet of fire. A Phantom flashed past Yuri's cockpit, so close he could see the pilot's helmeted face. The airframe of Krasnyy Molot-1 shuddered as shrapnel from a nearby missile explosion tore through its wing.
"One hundred and eighty nautical miles," the navigator announced, his voice strained. "We are at maximum launch range."
"Prepare to launch," Yuri commanded. "Target: the primary contact. The Independence."
The weapons officer began the final launch sequence. The remaining Phantoms, sensing the imminent threat, pressed their attack with suicidal ferocity.
"Launch authorization confirmed," the weapons officer said, his hand hovering over the firing stud.
Yuri looked out at the blackness ahead. He could not see the ships, but he could feel them, a concentration of power and life that he was about to extinguish. He thought of his wife in Moscow, of the world that would wake up tomorrow to a nuclear dawn. He had his orders.
"Launch," he said, the word a mere whisper.
The bomber lurched as the first AS-6 Kingfish dropped from its pylon, its rocket motor igniting with a brilliant flash that momentarily blinded them. A second later, the second missile launched. Across the sky, he saw the flash from Molot-2 as it, too, unleashed its nuclear fire.
Four supersonic missiles, each carrying a sun, were now streaking towards the American fleet. Their job was done. Yuri did not know if they would hit. He did not know if he would survive the next thirty seconds. He only knew that he had followed his orders. He had turned the key. He had opened the door to hell. And in the fiery, chaotic sky over the Mediterranean, he waited for the world to end.
At 03:12Z, aboard the USS Independence (CV-62), Captain Aubrey D. Johnston stood rigid in the CIC, sweat tracking down the side of his face, his knuckles whitening around a styrofoam cup. On a wall of CRTs, the threat board pulsed with new contacts every few seconds, flickering green and red as the symbology updated with live data from the Hawkeye overhead and the two Ticonderogas out on the picket line.
“Hostile cruise missiles, bearing two-three-zero, angels unknown, range one-seven-zero nautical miles, speed Mach two-point-eight,” sang out the air warfare officer, his voice a sharp razor shaved clean of ceremony. “Four inbound confirmed, Kingfish type.”
The air in the CIC felt greasy, underlaid with the stench of adrenaline and burnt coffee. Seaman Bradley, the surface radar tech, coughed behind his terminal and muttered, “Jesus, that’s fast,” but no one acknowledged it. There was no room for Jesus.
“Vampires inbound,” the AAWC said, this time so the entire bridge would hear. “Recommend flash priority to both picket ships and begin fleet-wide nuclear weapons protocol.”
On the main display, the four missiles were stylized as fat, blood-red arrows. They accelerated even as Johnston watched, converging on the blip representing his own ship. He tried to imagine the enemy aircrew, what desperate calculus had brought them to open their bomb bays on the Sixth Fleet. He pictured the blinking red lights, the leaden silence, the ritual of finality to preparing a nuclear warhead for launch.
His own ritual: a brief, tight squeeze of the cup, coffee sloshing against the rim, and a quick, “Godspeed, gents,” beneath his breath as he watched the blue intercept lines bloom from the positions of the airborne Phantoms, two of which had already begun to arc home, fuel starved from the prolonged chase. The heavy-lift Tomcats were years from entering the Med.
It was all going to happen in less than six minutes.
The two remaining F-4Js pushed forward, launching their AIM-7 Sparrows in rapid sequence. The dots tracked, then, as if repelled magnetically, veered off. “No effect, no effect,” the CIC muttered, a Greek chorus of disbelief. The Kingfish anti-ship missiles had either spoofed the radars or were built to shrug off the USN’s best air-to-air. They kept coming.
The Aegis on the Ticonderoga-class pickets was state-of-the-art, but the saturation was too much for even the computers to solve comfortably. The missile director’s voice was rising, a brittle panic in each command: “Birds away! Birds away! Eighteen, nineteen...twenty-two Standards in the air. Impact in one minute, seventy seconds. Prep for point defense—”
The next part happened too quickly for anyone to track directly. Three Standard missiles found their targets, shattering two of the inbound Kingfish into shredded Mach 3 debris somewhere over the Ionian. The third destroyed itself, detonating too early, leaving one missile’s radar signature intact and accelerating. The fourth Kingfish jinked madly, a lower-altitude sea-skipper now, and both picket ships lost intermittent contact as it dipped and rose, bouncing in and out of ground clutter.
On the Independence, the klaxons began their last, longest wail. “Brace, brace—” The captain’s voice was drowned as every soul aboard obeyed the ancient instinct to press as tightly as possible against something solid.
The cruiser Gettysburg took the brunt of the next wave, a direct hit by the surviving Kingfish detonating a quarter mile off her starboard bow. The nuclear blast, a despairing shock of blue-white light, vaporized the destroyer Mullinix alongside her. Gettysburg’s superstructure evaporated, but her hull, stubborn and overbuilt, remained visible for a moment, glowing, a molten fingerprint on the rolling black.
The blast’s shockwave tossed the Independence like a child’s toy. Consoles exploded in the CIC, men were slammed against bulkheads, the lights snuffed out, and every eardrum between the ninth and the ninety-ninth percentile ruptured. At the same instant, every off-duty sailor topside was flash-blinded; on the bridge, the glass turned molten and spattered into glittering daggers. Belowdecks, men screamed or whimpered, but the carrier drifted on, battered but unbroken.
Johnston lay pinned on the floor, unable to feel his left side, the taste of blood coppery in his mouth. Even in the dark, the silent intervals between klaxon cycles seemed total, as if the world had ended and only the echo of destruction remained. Then he heard a voice, clear, almost serene: “Captain, we’re afloat. Steering is responsive. Reactor reports no critical damage.”
A laugh. His own, half-mad, but it was a laugh. He pulled himself up, stared at the main display—now inert, all symbology gone—and bared his teeth.
“Flash message to COMSIXTHFLT. Independence is hit, but live. Repeat, we are live. Return to general quarters and commence damage control. For the love of God, tell the world.”
Outside, the mushroom cloud reached up through the midnight, illuminated by the burning remains of the Gettysburg, reflected in the dark, mirror-flat Mediterranean. Of the four Bison-B bombers, only Krasnyy Molot-1 remained, limping home on half an engine, its crew dead or dying. The war had not ended, but something fundamental had shifted, as if a coin, flipped too many times, had landed finally and forever on its edge.
Somewhere in Moscow, and in Washington, men and women who had never seen combat would begin their own ritual, parsing numbers and probabilities, plotting the next move in a game whose pieces were mortals, and whose board was the world entire.
At T-minus zero, there’d been a 36% chance that the world would wake up to a dead carrier group. Instead, there was only the Gettysburg, shattered; and a carrier that would, in a few days, limp to Naples, scorched but undefeated. In the margins, that was called a win. In the calculus of nuclear brinkmanship, it was merely a postponed loss.
And always, in the darkness above the Mediterranean, the sky was full of ghosts, flying home.
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