the signal that he wanted to talk on Channel 258.0. That was common enough in
a Bear hunt. In times past crews had exchanged comments, questions, even
jokes.
But the only response from the Russian was another light show. Were they
deliberately trying to blind him, or were they just trying to take pictures?
Photographs from encounters like these had helped both sides learn about the
planes their opponents flew, but this didn’t feel like a photo session to
Batman. They were doing their best to make things tough for him.
Batman pulled his stick over sharply to port and shoved his throttle to
afterburner zone five. The Tomcat surged up and to the left, crossing in
front of and above the Bear’s cockpit. He could imagine the Soviet pilot
scrambling to avoid the danger.
Somewhere in the back of his mind he remembered Tombstone’s admonishment
so long ago. He was risking it all.
He cut power and circled again, watching the Bear warily. “Got anything,
Malibu?”
“Big Bulge is still on,” the RIO replied tautly, all trace of his
California-surfer persona gone.
“Right.” Batman switched to radio. “Tyrone, give this sucker something
to think about. Give him a lock-on.
“R-roger.” Powers sounded nervous. He had every right to be. If the
Russian decided an attack was imminent there was no telling what he might do.
Batman drifted close alongside again and repeated the 258.0 signal. This
time there was a response, a gabble of Russian and broken English over the
radio.
“Stoy! Stoy! Nee streelyaee! Not shoot!”
“Okay, Tyrone, cut the lock,” Batman instructed on their tactical
channel. Then, switching to 258.0, he replied to the Soviet, “Russian
aircraft, this is Hound Leader. I am the aircraft just off your port wing.
Do you copy, over?”
“Hound leader, is Hight Varon. Radar lock is flagrant provocation. I
protest this act of aggression. Over.”
“Protest all you want,” Batman shot back. “You are requested to come to
course three-zero-zero and turn off that search radar. In the interests of
international good will, you know.”
“Nyet! Is not for Americans to order flight plans of Soviet aircraft!
Or do you declare exclusion zone?”
Jefferson hadn’t taken that step yet. In wartime or a particularly tense
crisis an exclusion zone defined an area in which any unauthorized plane would
be fired on automatically. That was a much larger escalation of the current
tension than anyone had been willing to order so far.
“Negative, Flight Varon. But in view of the current situation, don’t you
think it would be a good idea to avoid … unfortunate incidents?”
“Bah! Is blatant interference!”
Batman switched channels again. “Give him another little tweak, Tyrone,”
he said. “Just to remind him what he’s risking.”
“Roger, Leader.” The younger pilot still sounded tense, but in control.
“Got him.”
“Flight Varon, this is Hound Leader,” Batman drawled, back on the common
frequency. “Request you comply with our suggestion. My partner has an itchy
trigger finger.”
There was a long, tense pause. Technically there was nothing Batman
could do to stop the Bear unless he was willing to risk a full-blown incident.
He was banking on the Russians being as nervous as the Americans.
It was a deadly game of chicken … and millions of lives could hang on
the outcome.
The rumble of the Bear’s engines rose in pitch a little as the aircraft
accelerated and started to climb away from the encounter. “Big Bulge is off,”
Malibu announced.
He watched the Bear turn, not northwest as he’d suggested, but east
instead. As it continued to swing slowly around onto a northeasterly heading,
Batman rubbed the bridge of his nose. They were on the right heading for a
return to Russia. Had the reconnaissance flight been on a routine mission, or
had it been especially directed against the battle group?
The answer to that question might tell a lot about Soviet intentions in
the unfolding crisis.
CHAPTER 4
Monday, 9 June, 1997
2345 hours Zulu (2145 hours Zone)
Admiral’s quarters, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
The North Atlantic
Rear Admiral Douglas F. Tarrant looked up from his computer terminal at
the discreet tap on his door. “Come,” he said, saving the letter to his wife