“All Dragons, all Dragons!” he called. “Split up and jink! Don’t give
them a steady target!”
Like a blossoming flower, Intruders and Hornets scattered across the sky.
One A-6, positioned badly for a run on the Kreml, elected instead to
target one of the towering, floating fortresses cruising beyond. Both
missiles plunged into the Kirov-class cruiser, one on the superstructure near
the bridge, the other plunging into the hull. Flames seared from gaping holes
where the missiles had struck. Tombstone saw fragments, gun mounts, boat
davits, pieces of radar antennae and funnel spinning wildly through the air,
but gun and missile fire from the big ship continued almost unabated. Oil
glittered like metallic water, staining the surface of the sea.
Were the handful of Intruders and Hornets from Narvik the only American
aircraft that had made it? Tombstone searched the sky, dividing his attention
between an eyeball inspection of the blue around his canopy and the crawling,
static-blasted images on his displays. The Tomcats of Viper Squadron had been
deployed to Evanskjaer. Where … no, there they were. Just coming through
the Lofotens forty miles northeast. But what about the other Intruders?
“Dragon Leader, this is Dealer. Look what followed us in! Can we keep
them?”
Tombstone glanced at his displays, then at a new line of aircraft
thundering in from the north. There were six Death Dealer Intruders out of
Andoya … and they were accompanied by twelve stubby-looking aircraft with
wings that canted down sharply from their fuselages.
“Dragon Leader, this is Sea Strike,” a new voice called. “Thought you
Navy boys could use some help. How about lettin’ us join the party?”
Harriers. Marine Harriers off the Iwo Jima and the Nassau. “You’re just
in time, Marines,” Tombstone replied. “Come on in! There’s plenty to go
around!”
0912 hours Zulu (1012 hours Zone)
Soviet Red Banner Baltic Fleet
The Norwegian Sea
From miles away the damage to Kreml did not look serious, but aboard the
Russian carrier itself it seemed as though Hell was opening from the skies.
Admiral Ivanov stood on Kreml’s bridge, leaning against the instrument panel,
trying to stand upright as the shudders of repeated explosions banged and
thudded through the deck beneath his feet. Shattered glass was everywhere;
the bridge windows had been blown out. Blood dripped down the aft bulkhead
where the quartermaster had died moments before, his arm sliced away by a
whirling, scalpel-edged splinter of glass.
Ivanov turned, and his eyes met those of Kamarov, the captain. The man’s
lean, Siberian-weathered face was bloody, the mouth set in a disapproving
scowl. “We cannot stand much more of this, Admiral,” Kamarov said. “Kreml
cannot take such punishment!”
Numbly, Ivanov nodded. “I agree, Captain.” He flinched as an American
Intruder shrieked toward the carrier, howling out of the north. Flames blazed
from the aircraft’s shattered tail as CIWS weapons tracked it. Like a missile
it hurtled low over the deck, then burst like a bomb in the sea a hundred
meters astern.
“Another carrier!” Ivanov gasped. “Another American carrier!”
Kamarov’s scowl deepened. “Another carrier? What carrier?”
Weakly, he waved an arm toward the north, where fresh contrails were
painting themselves above the horizon. “These aircraft are not coming from
the Jefferson, but from the north! From the beachhead! Another supercarrier
must have arrived. Eisenhower. It must be the Eisenhower!”
It was clear to Ivanov. The fierceness of the American air strike was
overwhelming, totally unexpected. Ivanov’s advisors had insisted that the
Americans would be unable to get more than a couple of squadrons aloft in the
short time they had after discovering Kreml’s movement, that Kreml’s air
search would detect the launch, that the enemy would be totally incapable of
launching a coordinated attack on the Soviet carrier battle group, at least
not before Kreml’s own air wing had crippled or destroyed the Jefferson.
Intelligence. His fist came down on the console in front of him.
Intelligence. A perennial problem within the Soviet military system was the
slowness with which intelligence from, say, spy satellites was disseminated to
the field commanders who needed it. Eisenhower must have joined the Marine
forces last night, but Moscow had not yet gotten around to passing on that