Strike Mission Thunderous–Gremyashchiy–had flown in low to avoid detection
for as long as possible, but it had been certain from the start that the
American AWACS would spot them far out in the waters north of Iceland. Even
the jamming from the Tu-16J accompanying the strike mission had only bought
them a few extra minutes.
But it was all part of the mission profile. Now that the enemy was
tracking them, it was time to press home the attack.
“Gremyashchiy Leader to all aircraft,” Meretskov announced. “Proceed
with attack run.”
He pulled back on the yoke and increased speed, and the bomber began to
climb. A low altitude was best for dodging enemy radars, but the optimum
altitude for a missile launch was eleven thousand meters. The Tu-16G angled
sharply upward, clawing for altitude.
“An American plane approaching from the southeast, Comrade Lieutenant,”
his copilot reported. “F-15 interceptor at Mach two point five, altitude
eight thousand meters, range thirty kilometers, closing.”
“Ready countermeasures,” Meretskov ordered. He checked his instrument
panel. They were still climbing, past nine thousand meters … 9500 …
“Radar lock! They have radar lock!” someone shouted. “They are firing!”
“Chaff!”
“Chaff released, Comrade Lieutenant,” the copilot replied. The cloud of
metallic strips would distort the American radar lock, and hopefully carry the
enemy missile off course.
Ten thousand meters …
“Weapons officer,” Meretskov said. “Stand by.”
“Second F-15 coming into range,” the copilot warned.
“Fire missiles!”
The aircraft shuddered as the first AS-6 missile dropped from the left
wing pylon. Flame leapt from the rocket motor and the missile streaked ahead.
A moment later the second missile followed. As Meretskov started a banking
turn he saw both missiles rising according to their flight profile. They
would reach eighteen thousand meters and a cruise speed of Mach three before
locking on to radar emissions from the enemy base and diving toward their
targets. More missiles raced south as the rest of the bombers released their
loads.
Their mission was accomplished. In minutes the defenses at Keflavik
would be overwhelmed by the onslaught Of forty radar-homing missiles. The
enemy would be blind … and at the mercy of the follow-up strike already on
the way.
He enjoyed his satisfied smile for less than thirty seconds before the
first American missile slammed into the Tu-16G.
0915 hours Zulu (0815 hours Zone)
Echo Leader
Over the Greenland Sea
“Fox one! Fox one!” The voice on the radio was wild with excitement.
“Whoo-ee! Talk about a target-rich environment!”
Captain Frank Gates pulled the trigger to launch another Sparrow as he
replied. “Never mind the commentary, Tarzan. Just nail the bastards while
they’re in range.”
He checked his fuel and shook his head slowly. Gates and his wingman,
Lieutenant John Burroughs, had been on station with the AWACS over northern
Iceland, and they had been near the end of their patrol when the enemy bombers
had first appeared. They had been the two best-placed Eagles to mount an
intercept, but their fuel state wouldn’t allow them to engage for long.
Pursuit was out of the question … and by the time the rest of the Black
Knights made it to the threatened sector this batch of enemies would be long
gone.
But the Russians had left a calling card Keflavik couldn’t ignore.
He switched frequencies on the radio. “Snowman, Snowman, this is Echo
Leader. We are engaging. Badgers have released missiles. Repeat, missiles
released by Badgers. Estimate thirty-five-plus Kingfish inbound to you.”
“Roger that, Echo Leader,” a controller back at Keflavik replied. He
sounded remarkably calm for a man who was about to be on the receiving end of
that much Soviet ordnance. Each AS-6 Kingfish missile carried a thousand
kilograms of conventional explosives or a 350kiloton nuclear warhead.
He didn’t think the Russians would be using nukes … not yet. But
conventional warheads would be bad enough.
He checked his fuel again and switched back to the tactical channel.
“Tarzan, I’m on bingo fuel now. We’ve got to break it off and look for a gas
station, man.”
“Fox one! Fox one!” Burroughs said as he fired again. “That was my last
Sparrow anyway, Crasher. Damn! We could’ve taught those Commies a real