air-to-air operations, had seen their fair share of the action. Each time
another plane rose from the Soviet carrier’s deck, one of Henderson’s Fighting
Hornets would swoop in to engage, spreading a trail of chaff and flares in
their wakes and dodging SAM fire from the ships.
But the Intruders, so far, had spent all their time setting up attack
runs that they weren’t allowed to press home. It was all part of the original
plan, of course, to harass the Soviets by continually threatening to attack.
If they ever actually released their Harpoon missiles, the Intruders would
pose no further threat, and that could undo the whole plan to draw the enemy
planes away from the critical target to the east.
Knowing it was part of the plan didn’t make it any easier to keep
breaking off, though. Since most of the Sukhoiz on BARCAP had been sent after
Viper Squadron, the Soviets were open to a quick stroke now. It was just
possible that they might actually inflict damage on the Russian carrier, and
turn the diversion into a genuine triumph.
His Bombardier/Navigator, seated beside him, was looking at Bannon with
an unhappy expression. “C’mon, Banshee,” Lieutenant j.g. Scott Gordon
protested. “Ease up a little. You don’t have to make it look so damned
realistic!”
“You want to end up on the wrong end of one of their SAMs, Gordo?” he
shot back. “You just sit and think nice thoughts. I’ll do the flying, thank
you very much!”
Maybe if he’d taken that attitude with Jolly Greene right from the start
the accident might not have happened. He should never have let the man in the
B/N position rattle him, no matter how big a hero he was or how important his
position aboard Jefferson had been. There was only room for one pilot in an
attack plane.
“Okay, Death Dealers, circle back for another run,” Quinn ordered.
“Let’s see if we can get close enough this time to smell the borscht!”
Smiling for the first time in days, Banshee Bannon swung his Intruder
into formation and started plotting his next run.
0015 hours Zulu (0015 hours Zone)
Tomcat 203, Odin Flight
Over the Norwegian Sea
“Talk to me, John-Boy,” Coyote said. “Find me a playmate.”
“Bearing zero-four-two,” the RIO replied laconically. “He’s closing
fast.”
Coyote banked right and thumbed his selector switch to the Sparrow
setting. The targeting reticule flashed almost immediately, and he opened
fire. “Fox one! Fox one!”
The missile lanced toward the target, but veered off suddenly and dropped
toward the ocean below. The AIM-7 Sparrow was probably the least reliable
weapon in the naval aviator’s arsenal, which was one reason why they were
generally unloaded earlier in a dogfight. Their weight was another factor,
since a Tomcat without Sparrows slung under the wings performed slightly
better in tight maneuvers. That didn’t count today, though. He still had a
Phoenix, and those were a lot bulkier and heavier than a Sparrow.
“Coyote! Watch your six!” John-Boy warned.
He twisted to look over his shoulder and saw the Sukhoi dropping into
place behind his tail. “Damn,” he swore, throwing the Tomcat into a sharp
turn. His adversary clung to him, and Coyote swore again.
“Tyrone! Tyrone! Get this bastard off me!”
The threat alert screamed a warning as the enemy targeting radar locked
on.
0016 hours Zulu (0016 hours Zone)
Tomcat 211, Odin Flight
Over the Norwegian Sea
“On my way!” Powers said, wrenching his joystick forward and to the left
with a violent motion. He had let himself get distracted by a pair of Sukhois
weaving a complex pattern around Sheridan’s Tomcat, and he wasn’t in the best
position to save his wingman.
“Whoa, there, Tyrone!” Ears Cavanaugh protested. “Pass the Dramamine,
for God’s sake!”
Powers ignored him as the Tomcat dropped like a stone toward the dueling
planes. He rammed the throttles full forward and rolled to the right. The
acceleration pressed him back into his seat, blurring his vision.
The two planes flashed on either side of the cockpit as he plunged
between them.
0016 hours Zulu (0016 hours Zone)
Tomcat 203, Odin Flight
Over the Norwegian Sea
“Good God!” Coyote exclaimed. “What the hell was that, Tyrone?”