fire-control radars and launching Goblet missiles when possible, then shutting
down as Prowler-launched antiradar missiles came streaking in.
And Soyuz continued to hurl aircraft into the sky. Much depended on the
fighter battle, as the Soviet interceptors attacked the American fighter
cover. With their F-14s out of the way, the defenseless U.S. attack planes
could be easily swept from the sky.
0616 hours Zulu (0716 hours Zone)
Tomcat 200, “Viper One”
Over the Norwegian Sea
Coyote split his attention between the data on his HUD and the screen
displaying the telescopic television image from the Tomcat’s TXX-1, which was
automatically tracking the cluster of pinpoints that seemed to be spreading
out through the sky just above the northern horizon. The enemy aircraft were
too distant for him to identify yet, but he knew what they would be: Soviet
navalized MiG-29s and Su-27s.
“Bifrost, Bifrost, this is Viper One-one,” Coyote called. “Tallyho. We
have visual contact, bearing three-five-eight to zero-zero-five, range eight
miles at angels twenty.”
“Roger, Viper One-one. We are tracking bandits. We make it … twelve
targets, repeat, twelve targets. Estimate Mach one-point-seven. You are
clear to engage.”
“Roger, Bifrost. Engaging.” He switched frequencies. “Viper One-one,
Viper Two-one. Where are you, Batman?”
“On your six, Coyote, half mile back and a mile high.”
“Right. It’s show time. Get on in there and show us how it’s done.”
“Roger that. Watch and learn while we wax their tails. Two-one to Viper
Two. We’re outta here.”
As one, in perfect unison, the four Tomcats that comprised “Viper Two”
executed left wing-overs and broke away from the main group, leaving the four
F-14s of Viper One still closely grouped with the four Intruders of Dealer
Flight.
Coyote looked right. His wingman, Trapper Martin in Tomcat 209, was
hanging off his starboard wing. Beyond him were the Intruders in their
close-spaced diamond formation, and beyond that were the remaining two Tomcats
of his flight, Baird and Whitman in 205, Sheridan and Glazowski in 212.
“Viper One, Viper Leader,” he called. “Hang tight, boys, and look
casual. Two’s blocking for us while we go for the quarterback.”
“Viper Leader,” Dealer Leader,” another voice said. “We’ve got the
target. Preparing for target run.”
Coyote felt his stomach muscles tightening. Batman was wheeling off to
take the approaching Russian fighters on at one-to-three odds, but in some
ways he and the other three F-14s of Viper One had the tougher job: riding all
the way in to the Soviet carrier, escorting the Intruders long enough for them
to discharge their deadly packages. As soon as the Soviets realized that
Fisher was a decoy, all hell, as the saying went, would be out for noon.
He was tense, wound so tight that every detail of cockpit, sea, and sky
seemed to stand out in his vision with a stark, crystal clarity. But fear
stayed in the background, an undercurrent that focused mind and will but
otherwise could not touch him.
“Copy, Dealer. You tell us when and we’ll follow you in.”
Ahead and below, the contrails of Viper Two merged with the more numerous
traces of the Russian planes. Go get ’em, Batman, he was chanting silently,
willing the Soviet planes to fall from the sky. Get them!
0616 hours Zulu (0716 hours Zone)
Tomcat 204, “Viper Two”
Over the Norwegian See
Batman deployed his flight in two elements of two F-14s each: him and
Mustang Davis in 2 1 0, Beaver Camerotti and Mad Dog Dubois in 233 and 236.
“Two-two, this is Two-one,” he called. “Malibu here has a SARH target.
Would you care to do the honors?”
“Roger that, Batman,” Mustang replied. “The Walkman’s got it.”
Lieutenant Bruce R. Davis was a newbie, on his first carrier deployment
at sea. The kid had picked a hell of a time to get himself assigned to a
carrier, Batman decided, but he’d handled himself well so far; at Cape
Bremanger, in the action over Trondheim, and finally that morning at
Romsdalfjord. He still hadn’t gotten a kill, however–probably more because
of bad luck than lack of skill–and Batman was setting him up for an easy one.
In the back seat, Malibu was painting one of the MiGs so that Mustang and his