the wing of a parked aircraft all hurled into the air like chips in a gale.
Smoke boiled from Kreml’s flanks as repeated hits by surface-to-surface
and air-to-surface missiles took their toll. Farther away, nearly ten miles
distant, flashes of light rippled along the superstructure of both Kirov
cruisers, and a Soviet destroyer, its bow nearly sheared away by the explosion
of a Harpoon, foundered and sank.
Tombstone could see the American ships in the distance now, flecks of
gray on the southern horizon. He saw pillars of smoke there and felt a chill.
Those were burning ships. How many had been hit … how many destroyed?
Dozens of missile trails were crisscrossing in the sky between the two fleets,
a battle of epic, of titanic proportions waged by radar and high-speed
computers and long-range missiles flailing at one another across a range of
only a few short miles. The contest would not, could not last much longer.
CHAPTER 27
Thursday, 26 June
0917 hours Zulu (1017 hours Zone)
MiG 1010
Over the Norwegian See
Flying north low above the water, Terekhov noted the lone American
Hornet, circling like a hawk beyond the reach and snap of Soviet antiaircraft
fire. He was trembling inside, the adrenaline surge of seeing his missiles
strike the American carrier warring with shock as he saw the pall of smoke
rising from the Kreml.
Waterspouts towered on either side as missiles were deflected by Kreml’s
chaff blooms or were shot down by point-defense Gatlings. But other missiles
were getting through. Flash followed flash from the Soviet carrier, as
fragments scattered across the surface of the sea, and flames licked roiling
tatters of smoke rising from rents in the carrier’s hull and deck. His
instruments proved what he’d already guessed. The Hornet was a spotter,
locking its radar onto the carrier for the missile barrage from the American
ships. Pulling back on his stick, he rammed the throttle forward, piling on
speed. His targeting pipper slid across his HUD, centering on the distant
aircraft. He would kill this American pilot … now.
0918 hours Zulu (1018 hours Zone)
Hornet 300
Over the Norwegian Sea
A threat warning chirped, and Tombstone searched the sky. Someone had a
radar lock on him, but where? …
There it was, a MiG-29 Fulcrum, tiny shape rocketing toward him from the
sea. The radar lock was like a challenge, a gauntlet thrown down, a demand
for satisfaction.
The American battle group no longer needed his spotting. They had the
target now, and missiles were continuing to slam into all of the Russian
ships. Breaking contact with the Kreml, Tombstone turned toward the
approaching MiG.
Launch! He saw the puff of smoke, the flare of ignition beneath the
Fulcrum’s wing. Pushing his throttle control forward, Tombstone took the
enemy missile head-on, closing with it, until the air-to-air killer’s white
contrail seemed to be probing right into his canopy. Then he pulled the
control stick over, breaking left in a savage, high-G maneuver and plunging
toward the sea. Diving, loosing chaff, he twisted in his seat, keeping his
eye on the contrail until certain that it had been decoyed and cleanly missed
the Hornet.
“Altitude low,” a soft and feminine voice warned him. The tone of the
Hornet’s computer was almost sexy and infuriatingly calm. “Altitude low …”
“Quiet, lady,” he said. “I’m busy now!”
Water swept beneath the Hornet as he pulled out, scant yards above the
surface. As the F/A-18 climbed, he realized that the one thing he missed in
the Hornet was the reassuring chatter of a backseater. The computer voice was
simply not the same.
Tombstone saw the MiG centered in his HUD, squarely under his target
pipper. He was close enough for a Sidewinder but decided to go for a radar
lock instead. The MiG was pulling east, toward the sun, and that could
scramble a heat-seeker’s lock.
The Russian was turning away. “Stay with him, Tombstone,” he muttered to
himself. Damn, why didn’t they build Hornets with personalities that could
talk like a real backseater? “Stay with him …”
0916 hours Zulu (1018 hours Zone)
MiG 1010
Over the Norwegian Sea
The American was good … too good. Terekhov had been breaking right to