Countdown c-6, page 28
part #6 of Carrier Series
1145 hours
Tomcat 202, Shotgun 2/1
Batman glanced to his right, trying somehow to read the expression on the face of the masked and helmeted Striker, flying a few feet off his starboard wing. Could he depend on his wingman to stick with him?
"Batman, this is Coyote."
"Batman here. Go ahead."
"Take your flight high and to the north. See if you can pull an end run on those bandits coming in from Ura Guba."
"Roger. Everybody hear that?" One by one, the other three aircraft of Shotgun Two acknowledged. "Okay. Let's make our move. Break!"
The four Tomcats peeled off to the left, rolling onto an intercept course.
1145 hours
MiG 871
Ura Guba
Podpolkovnik Yevgenni Averin pulled back on his stick, lifting the MiG smoothly off the runway. Excitement burned in his heart and gut and brain.
Yesterday, when the American air strikes had begun, he'd been furious at the orders his interceptor regiment had received from Kandalaksha, orders requiring them to remain on the ground in carefully hidden revetments, safely camouflaged from the spying senses of Yankee satellites or high-flying reconnaissance aircraft. It had seemed cowardly, hiding like that as bombing strikes and cruise missiles had slammed into military targets from Pechenga to Kandalaksha itself.
He and his men had followed orders, however, obeying the system even if they privately questioned the intelligence of the brass-heavy rear-echelon bastards running this colossal fuckup. Now, though, he realized that there'd been some strategic sense behind those orders after all. Everywhere, all over the Kola Peninsula, aircraft preserved from the general destruction of the past eighteen hours were rising from their airfields. Runways heavily pitted by American cluster munitions and cratering bombs had been hastily repaired during the night, by engineers dragging steel-link mats across the smaller holes, and filling in the larger ones with rubble.
It was like guerrilla warfare, but carried out with the high-tech weapons of modern air combat. American strike planes and their escorts deep inside Russian territory were suddenly being assaulted from all sides, by aircraft appearing out of bases the Americans thought had already been knocked out of action.
He checked his radar. Barely visible through the haze of jamming from enemy EA-6B Prowlers, he could make out several main groups of aircraft to the east, most of them heading toward Polyamyy.
"Volkodav Eight-seven-one," he called. The flight's call sign meant Wolfhound. "Airborne."
Seconds later, detailed vectoring data from Ura Guba air control began feeding through the radio in the "Snoopy" communications cap beneath his helmet.
1145 hours
Tomcat 211, Shotgun 2/2
Striker was sticking with his wingman, holding position on 202's right as Batman lined up with the lead Russian plane coming up from Ura Guba. "Let's take it with a Phoenix, K-Bar!" he told his RIO.
"We've got a lock," K-Bar replied. "Range five miles."
Damned close for an AIM-54C, but American and Russian aircraft would be mixing it up real close in another few moments. He wanted to save his Sidewinders and AMRAAMs for close engagements.
"Fire!"
The heavy Phoenix slid clear of the Tomcat's belly. "Fox three!"
The AIM-54 arced off toward the west, drawing a razor-crisp line of white across the sky.
Moments later, a tiny flash went off against the western horizon, leaving a tiny puff of white smoke. "Hit!" K-Bar shouted, "Splash one MiG!"
But then the remaining MiGs were arrowing in at better than Mach 1.
Contrails scrawled twisted trails across the sky as American and Russian planes joined in a savage dogfight.
1146 hours
Air Ops
U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
"Pull up, C.T. Pull up!"
"I can't shake this guy!"
"Mustang, this is Coyote. Loose goose now. You hit him high, I'll tag him low!"
"One-two! I'm clear! I'm taking the shot!"
"C'mon, Mustang! Help me out here!"
"Break left, C.T.! Fox one!"
"It's comin'… it's comin'…"
"Hit! Splash another Fulcrum!"
Tombstone stood motionless in the unnatural stillness of Jefferson's Air Ops. Closing his eyes as he listened to the radio calls between the Tomcat crews, he could picture the dogfight, the tangling of contrails and machines, of speed and technology and three-dimensional dynamics that Navy aviators called a furball. According to the displays repeated from the Hawkeye orbiting Off Port Vladimir, two MiGs had already died, but at least eight more were now trying to brush past the fighters in an attempt to hit the two White Lightning groups ― six Intruders and two Prowlers.
It was murder, listening to his people fighting for their lives, unable to help.
1146 hours
Tomcat 207, Shotgun 1/4
"On your toes, Lobo!" Vader warned. "I read two bandits coming dead on and climbing. They're after us!"
"Which way?"
"Bearing three-five-three."
Between them and the Jefferson. "One-three, this is One-four. Stay put, Slider. I'm going on ahead, see if I can pop these bozos one."
"Roger that, Lobo. And… uh… thanks. For saving my ass back there."
"Don't mention it, Slider. It's all just part of our courteous and dependable service. Hang on, Vader. I'm going to burner."
1146 hours
MiG 871
East of Ura Guba
Lieutenant Colonel Averin had broken away from the searing aerial dogfight when the MiG flying less than twenty meters off his right side had suddenly exploded in a dazzling flash and a fireball. Poor Yuri… struck down by one of the long-ranged American super-missiles before he'd even had time to acquire a target!
Averin was on the northern fringe of the battle, and as he studied the radar picture, he realized that he had an unprecedented opportunity. Two American aircraft had drawn off toward the north and appeared to be moving toward the sea. At the moment, several MiGs out of Port Vladimir had cut them off and were moving to intercept.
And Averin was in an ideal position to angle in on the Americans' rear, attacking them from the ideal set-up point off their tails while they were concentrating on the Russian forces in front of them.
He studied the images, which grew clearer moment by moment despite the jamming as he drew closer to them.
Yes… definitely two planes, one in the lead, the other trailing, possibly already damaged from the way it was moving. Averin selected one of his short-range R-60 missiles, the infrared homer Western pilots called "Aphid." If he could get close enough, he could send the R-60 right up the Yankee pilot's ass before he even knew he was being hunted.
1146 hours
Tomcat 211, Shotgun 2/2
"Hey, Striker!" K-Bar called. "Got a straggler, pulling off toward the north. Range about ten miles."
Striker stared at his display, trying to interpret the complex weave of moving blips. It looked like the MiGs were boxing Chris and Arrenberger in, with one lone straggler coming in on them from behind.
"Batman, Striker!" he called, going to zone-five burner. "I got a target! I'm in pursuit!"
"Damn it, Striker! Where the hell are you going?"
But Striker wasn't listening. His full concentration was focused on that lone Russian MiG, now eight miles ahead. He selected an AMRAAM and went for a radar lock.
1147 hours
MiG 871
East of Ura Guba
Lock! Averin grinned behind his oxygen mask as he squeezed the firing trigger on his stick, loosing the R-60 heat-seeker from its cradle beneath his wing. The target was still on afterburner and arrowing directly away from him, providing a target he couldn't miss.
1147 hours
Tomcat 207, Shotgun 1/4
The Tomcat slammed toward the north, twin spears of flame roaring from its engines. The air was heavy with moisture, and streamers of mist appeared, streaking aft from both wings.
"Range four miles," Vader warned. "One of 'em's got a radar lock on us."
"Selecting AMRAAM," Lobo replied. "I've got him on my HUD."
"Missile launch! Radar-homing missile is locked onto us!"
"Lock! Tone! Fox one! Now hang on! Breaking right! Hit the chaff!"
As her AMRAAM shrieked toward the north, Chris pulled into a hard, tight turn, dumping clouds of chaff to break the approaching missile's radar lock.
The G-forces built, crushing her down against her seat until she'd come about a full one-eighty and was heading south once more.
"Lobo! Missile incoming, straight ahead!"
"What-"
She didn't have time to react or to analyze. For one fatal instant, she thought that Vader was referring to the radar horner fired by the Port Vladimir MiGs, a missile that was now behind them. As she jinked right, still dumping chaff, she realized that Vader had just picked up another missile, a heat-seeker, arrowing in from the south… now so close she could see it as a black pinpoint silhouetted against its own exhaust, rapidly growing larger.
As she pushed the Tomcat farther into the turn, the new missile slid toward her left shoulder but seemed to be moving much more quickly now, curving slightly to meet her turn, leaping straight toward her cockpit with heart-pounding speed.
"Flares!" she yelled at Vader. "Pop flares!"
1147 hours
Tomcat 211, Shotgun 2/2
"Fox one!"
The AMRAAM streaked toward the Russian MiG, now only three miles ahead… but Striker had already seen the flash of the MiG's missile launch. Shit!
Was he already too late?
1147 hours
Tomcat 207, Shotgun 1/4
Lobo knew it was already too late. Dropping flares, reversing her turn to take her toward the new missile instead of away, she knew there was nothing more she could do. The missile slammed into the Tomcat's left wing close by the engine. There was a shattering explosion, and then half of the F-14 was ablaze and she was tumbling through a dizzying spin, earth alternating with sky in her canopy. Centrifugal force pinned her for a moment against the side of the cockpit, but she was able to grope for the striped ejection ring between her legs.
"Vader!" she called. "Punch out!" There was no answer. "Vader! Eject!
Eject! Eject!"
Then she yanked the ring. The canopy exploded away over her head, and then the rocket motor built into the base of her ejection seat fired, kicking her into a roaring, shrieking hell of wind and noise and flame.
CHAPTER 26
Tuesday, 17 March
1148 hours (Zulu +2)
Over the Kola Peninsula
Lobo fell through space, the roar of her ejection gone now, replaced by the eerie shriek of air rushing past her helmet. A moment later, her chute opened with a savage jerk at her shoulders and groin. Looking up, she was rewarded by the heart-filling sight of an open and undamaged canopy stretching overhead.
Where was Vader? His ejection seat should have triggered an instant after she'd cleared the cockpit, but she couldn't see him, couldn't see her stricken F-14, for that matter. There was a tangle of contrails off toward the south, where Shotgun was still battling the MiGs, but she was all alone in that wide, blue sky.
No… there was something in the distance, an aircraft approaching from the south. But was it a MiG or a Tomcat? She watched it as she dropped toward a barren and empty plain.
1148 hours
Tomcat 211, Shotgun 2/2
"Hit!" K-Bar yelled. "Splash one MiG!"
"Never mind the damned MiG! Do you see any chutes?"
"Negative, Striker. Negative. No! Wait a sec! At one-five-oh!"
Yes! A parachute! But only one…
"Shotgun, Shotgun, this is Shotgun Two-two," Striker called. "I see one chute. That's good chute, good chute at, I make it, eight miles southeast of Sayda Guba. That's map coordinates Victor three-one by Sierra niner-five."
"Striker, this is Coyote. Get back to formation."
"Ah, negative, Shotgun. I can see vehicles on the road below me, heading for that chute. I'm going in to provide cover."
"Shotgun Two-two, this is Shotgun One-one. Return to formation. Execute immediate."
But Striker's full attention was on that lone chute and the vehicles on the ground nearby. Was it Vader or Chris? There'd be no way of knowing until he or she could make contact with an SAR emergency radio.
Keeping his distance, Striker pulled his F-14 into a long, easy circle about the descending chute a mile and a half away.
1150 hours
Over the Kola Peninsula
There was no mistaking the distinctive bulk of that aircraft, huge for a fighter, its wings swept forward for low-speed flight. A Tomcat was circling her, though at this distance Lobo couldn't tell which one it was. The F-14's presence was comforting, however, a sign that her shipmates had not abandoned her.
The ground was coming up faster now. It was close enough for her to make out details ― the twin ruts of a dirt road between large patches of mud and snow, a hut or cottage with what looked like a thatched roof, and a nearby barn. There was a town or village a few miles to the northwest. Beyond that was the gunmetal blue-gray of the sea, and a smudge of black smoke where the Marines were storming ashore.
To Hanson, the landscape immediately below her dangling feet looked unutterably bleak, a flat and barren tundra, all bare earth, brown and stunted vegetation, and scattered patches of snow. She twisted back and forth in her harness, still trying to spot McVey's chute. Where the hell was he? Had he managed to punch out? She couldn't see him and that worried her.
And what she could see worried her even more. There, to the south was a line of vehicles, their shapes indistinct, a convoy of some kind picking its way north along that muddy track of a road.
The ground was really coming up fast now. It looked like she was going to touch down close to that house and barn.
1151 hours
Tomcat 211, Shotgun 2/2
Striker brought the Tomcat almost down to the deck, screaming over flat, empty tundra, patches of snow and earth blurring with the speed of his passage to a rippling brown-white-gray. The enemy convoy was a couple of miles ahead, several trucks and at least one armored vehicle of some kind, possibly a tank.
He gentled his F-14 slightly to the left, watching the column of vehicles swell behind his gun reticle, then squeezed the trigger, sending a hail of 20mm shells slashing into dirt, machines, and men.
1151 hours
Air Ops
U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
"Shotgun Two-two, this is Home Plate. Two-two, this is Home Plate.
Respond, please."
Tombstone's knuckles tightened around the microphone as he continued to stare at the radar display above the console in front of him. It was cluttered with aircraft, friendlies and hostiles. Russian planes had been coming up from every air base in the Kola Peninsula, and the American aircraft were fighting for their lives.
Striker had broken formation, was circling the area where Shotgun One-four had gone down. Damn it, why wouldn't he respond?
"Shotgun Two-two, Home Plate. Come in, please."
1153 hours
Tomcat 211, Shotgun 2/2
He'd lost sight of the chute. Chris ― it had to have been Chris! ― must be on the ground now.
He felt a small stab at the thought, then dismissed it. He scarcely knew Chris's RIO, McVey. It wasn't that he wanted the guy dead… but please, God, let Chris be alive and in one piece!
"Shotgun Two-two, Home Plate." That was CAG's voice. "Two-two, come in, please."
"Ah, listen, Striker," K-Bar said from the back seat. "Don't you think we ought to respond?"
"Screw 'em," Striker said. "We got radio difficulty."
"Oh. Right." K-Bar chuckled. "Yeah, I've been having all kinds of problems with this set."
"Just so you don't have any trouble tuning in on the SAR frequency."
"Roger that. I'm listening, but there's nothing yet."
"Well, keep on it, damn it!"
Shit. He was angry at himself for his own conflicting emotions, angry for disobeying orders, scared to death that Chris might be dead, and here he was taking it out on K-Bar by snapping the guy's head off. He tightened the F-14's turn, scanning the ground for more Russian troops. Several vehicles were burning on the road below, but others were still closing on the area where the chute had gone down.
There was the chute, blowing free across the ground! And had that been a lone figure he'd glimpsed running through a patch of snow?
Damn it, they needed a SAR flight in here, and right now!
"Home Plate, Home Plate," he called. "This is Shotgun Two-two. I've got a man on the ground, repeat, man on the ground. I don't think she's hurt-"
"Striker! I've got her on the SAR!"
"Let me hear!"
"… on the ground, about eight miles southeast of Sayda Guba. This is Lobo, calling Mayday, Mayday-"
"Chris!" he cut in. "Chris! This is Steve!"
"Steve! What are you doing here?"
"Looking after you, babe. Listen. I'll stay with you until a SAR chopper can reach you. Keep your head down. There are some bad guys about two miles south of you, and they looked real mad last time I got a close look."
"Christ, Steve! Get out of here!"
"Not a chance. Now find yourself a ditch and stay down!" He'd just glimpsed several more Russian vehicles to the south. Joy sang in the back of his mind. Chris was alive!
He brought the Tomcat into a long, flat trajectory, lining up for another strafing run.
1154 hours
Air Ops
U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
"How about it, Jim?" Tombstone asked the Operations Officer. He'd heard Striker talking to someone on the ground and inferred that it must be Hanson, though her SAR radio didn't have the range for him to pick up what she'd said.
