CARRIER 4: FLAME-OUT By Keith Douglass

post-flight paperwork. “Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. I took care of your

uniforms and your quarters assignment as soon as I heard you were coming

aboard. Everything’s set.”

Magruder looked relieved. “Great. They stuffed us into those planes so

fast they didn’t even give us time to pack. You’re a real buddy, Willie.”

Coyote glanced at him. The words were sincere enough, but Grant couldn’t

help thinking how much they’d grown apart these last two years. It was like

he was meeting Matt Magruder for the first time, and there were barriers there

that old friendship just couldn’t get around.

CHAPTER 5

Tuesday, 10 June, 1997

0552 hours Zulu (0552 hours Zone)

Soviet Fulcrum 101, Strike Mission Letushiy

Over the Sognefjorden, Sogn Og Fjordane, Norway

“Letushiy Leader, Letushiy Leader, this is Khrahneetyehly. Aircraft

activity detected over target. Proceed with caution.”

Captain Second Rank Sergei Sergeivich Terekhov checked his radar but saw

no trace of the enemy aircraft reported by the An-74 Airborne Early Warning

plane circling far to the north of the Norwegian coastline. The lack of radar

traces didn’t surprise him. The eight MiG-29D ground-attack aircraft in his

squadron were less than fifty meters above the quiet gray waters of the fjord.

The undulating coastline and rugged mountains masked the MiG’s Pulse-Doppler

radar system, just as they shielded his planes from detection by the

Norwegians.

“Understood, Khrahneetyehly,” Terekhov replied on the radio channel to

the AEW plane. “Request instructions, over.”

That was an essential part of every Soviet pilot’s training, to work in

close conjunction with controllers in the rear. Aboard

Khrahneetyehly–Guardian–the controllers would be coordinating their

information with the other Soviet naval and air units in the area. Their

orders would take every aspect of the situation into account.

Terekhov had heard that most Western pilots, especially the Americans,

would be expected to make their own decisions at a time like this. He

wondered how their commanders expected to maintain control over a battle with

so much initiative left in the hands of junior officers who saw only their own

tiny portion of the conflict.

“Letushiy Leader, engage enemy aircraft at bearing zero-three-five your

position with four of your aircraft. Remainder to continue mission as

profiled.”

“Orders understood.” Terekhov switched frequencies and gave the

necessary orders. He allowed himself a smile of satisfaction as four of the

MiGs climbed sharply away from the rest of the squadron. They would be on the

Norwegian air-defense radar screens almost immediately, and distract the

patrols the An-74 had detected.

That would leave the way open for Strike Mission Volatile to carry out

its attack on the Norwegian defenses.

The high cliffs were narrowing on either side of them now as they raced

eastward. Soon they would see the target.

Three targets suddenly appeared on his radar, and mere seconds later he

spotted the fast-moving F-16 interceptors flashing overhead. They were gone

almost before he could react, and over his radio Terekhov could hear the first

warning shouts as the four decoys sighted the Norwegians and engaged. He was

tempted to take advantage of the situation and loop back to take them from

behind as they fought the rest of the squadron, but he resisted the impulse.

For the moment that fight was none of his concern. The mission came first.

Somewhere below a probing radar beam swept over the MiG, and Terekhov

felt a rush of adrenaline as the radar-warning receiver on his control panel

sounded an urgent alarm. It was always like this for Terekhov when a

potential enemy first appeared. Years of training, first with Frontal

Aviation and then as part of the expanded Aviatsiya Voenna-Morskovo Flota, had

focused on the moment of combat, but so far he had never fired a shot in

anger. Nonetheless, each time the probing fingers of an unknown radar brushed

his aircraft, he thought about the prospects of combat. Death or glory in the

service of Soviet Naval Aviation and the Rodina, the Motherland. That was the

goal of every fighter pilot.

Today there was no doubt. The moment for action had arrived at last.

Terekhov drew a deep breath and forced himself to stay calm. He was one

of the elite, one of the small number of Soviet pilots who had actually passed

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