sound didn’t come for several more seconds. By then more missiles were
hitting, and the popping, rumbling, tearing sounds of successive blasts merged
into a single cacophony of sound.
Kelso felt rather than saw the blast that struck to the south of the
building. It was a close hit, and sound and pressure rolled through Air Ops
like a giant hand sweeping aside all it encountered. The force of the
explosion knocked him off his feet.
An unknown amount of time later–seconds? minutes? Kelso realized he
was lying facedown on the hard floor.
There were shards of glass everywhere like a shimmering blanket. A radio
was squawking a request from one of the Eagles, but no one answered. The
rumble of missile hits went on.
Kelso struggled to rise, but his body wouldn’t obey his will. Something
warm and sticky soaked the front of his uniform.
Slowly it dawned on him that it was blood, but by then it was too late
for Major Peter Kelso.
0920 hours Zulu (0920 hours Zone)
Flight deck U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
Southwest of the Faeroe Islands
The catapult officer dropped to one knee and a tremendous force pressed
Stramaglia back into his seat as the F-14 roared off the deck. As the Tomcat
clawed its way skyward he hit the radio switch. “Good shot! Good shot!
Tomcat Two-zero-zero, Good shot!”
“Squadron’s formed up at Point Bravo, sir,” his RIO said. Lieutenant
Dennis Russell was Viper Squadron’s apprentice Landing Signals Officer, but
he’d been pressed into service in his old calling as an RIO to fly with
Stramaglia. His running name, true to his new job, was “Paddles.”
“Lancelot Two-zero-zero, this is Camelot,” a voice said over the radio.
He recognized Owens, the Junior Deputy CAG who had relieved him in CIC. “Be
advised, Keflavik has been attacked by Soviet Badgers carrying Alpha Sierra
Six radar-homing missiles. Red Raid One still heading course two-eight-zero.”
“Copy, Camelot,” he replied curtly.
Keflavik …
The course of the Russian Backfires, designated Red Raid One on
Jefferson’s plotting boards, suggested that they were also heading for
Iceland. That would make sense if they were designed to be the second half of
a one-two punch, with the Badgers delivering antiradar missiles designed to
neutralize the defenses and the Backfires coming in to clean up what was left.
Backfires could carry either missiles or bomb racks, and were capable of
delivering enough ordnance, including specialized loads like the
five-hundred-pound BETAB retarded antirunway bomb, the Russian equivalent to
NATO’s Durandal, to wipe out the main American base in Iceland beyond all
possibility of quick repair. That could have devastating effects. Iceland
was the only possible staging point for reinforcements while England remained
on the fence, and the P-3C sub-hunting patrols out of Keflavik were vital in
sealing off those parts of the GIUK gap out of range of the carrier-based
S-3s.
It had taken balls for the Russian commander to order the Backfires to
swing so far south before striking out for Iceland, Stramaglia told himself
with a grim smile. They’d kept the American forces off balance by threatening
multiple targets–Bergen, the battle group, and Keflavik all at once–but they
had also exposed those Backfires to a quick stroke that could blunt their
attack … if the Tomcats could get there in time.
“Camelot, Lancelot Leader,” he transmitted. “I want both Hornet
squadrons prepped for air-to-air ASAP. Get ’em up and feed ’em in as quick as
you can, boys. We’re going to bite those Russkies right on the ass!”
“Roger, Leader,” Owens replied. Stramaglia could hear the excitement in
his young voice and felt his resolve waver. After everything he had said to
Magruder he had still elected to join the interceptors in the air. Had it
been the right decision? Or had he just let the years of frustration and
bitterness get to him at last?
No. They needed a firm hand up here, and Commander Grant still hadn’t
shown Stramaglia that he knew how to apply that firm hand.
And he was Stinger Stramaglia, who had never been defeated at Top Gun,
finally doing for real what he’d practiced for over the course of nearly a
decade.
“All right, Paddles,” he said to the RIO. “Talk to me, son. Where’s the