deadly beauty.
The Blackjack, Coyote realized, was the source of the ECM jamming. This
was an aircraft designed nose to tail to penetrate enemy radar, and survive.
The most disquieting aspect of the bomber’s appearance, however, was more
political than technical. Everything Coyote had ever read about that enormous
machine suggested that it was–like the B-1–a strategic weapon, one meant to
carry heavy bomb loads or long-ranged cruise missiles, possibly with nuclear
warheads. The Blackjack was designed to attack an enemy country, not a single
ship.
“Camelot, Camelot,” he called, urgency rushing his words. “I have
contact Bravo in sight. Target is one Blackjack, repeat Blackjack, with three
Fulcrums as escort, on course two-seven-five, angels base plus thirteen, speed
Mach two point two.”
1435 hours Zulu (1535 hours Zone)
CIC, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
Viking Station, the Norwegian Sea
Aboard the Jefferson, all personnel were at their battle stations as the
carrier’s far-flung electronic web of sensors followed the oncoming threat.
In CIC, Tombstone listened to Coyote’s voice over a speaker as the aviator
described the Soviet flight.
A Blackjack, of all goddamned things. Hearing movement behind him, he
glanced back over his shoulder.
Admiral Douglas F. Tarrant, commander of the carrier battle group, and
Captain Jeremy Brandt, skipper of the Jefferson, stood behind him, along with
several of their senior staff people. Tarrant was tall, slim, and
distinguished, immaculate as always; Brandt seemed the admiral’s opposite,
bull-dog-ugly, short, and stocky, with a stubble of blond hair shading to
gray. His khakis looked like he’d slept in them … as indeed he probably
had. Everyone in CBG-14 had been running minus on sleep for the past several
days.
“Excuse me, Admiral, Captain,” Tombstone said, stiffening. “I didn’t
hear you.”
“Carry on, CAG,” Tarrant said. “Don’t mind us. What’s the word?”
“One of our F-14s is down, Admiral.”
“Damn!”
“The other one just ID’d the intruders. Blackjack with fighter escort.”
“A Blackjack!” Brandt said. “Only one?”
“Apparently so, Captain. Coyote–ah, Two-oh-one–has the group in sight.
One bomber, three fighters.”
“I’d like that confirmed, Paul,” Brandt said, turning to Aiken. “See
what you can come up with.”
“Aye, Captain.”
“What’s worrying me,” Tarrant said, his brow creasing as he scratched his
jaw and studied a large repeater screen hanging from the CIC overhead, “is the
fact that Blackjack’s supposed to be strictly strategic. What the hell is it
doing here?”
“It could be a message,” Tombstone pointed out. “A warning not to widen
the war.”
“Back off, or we’ll switch to strategic bombing?” Tarrant pulled at his
chin. “Maybe. That’s going to be something for Washington to work out.”
“How long till it gets here?” Brandt asked.
Tombstone studied the data on a computer display. Range now … one
hundred eighty miles. Speed fourteen-seventy. Make it seven and a half
minutes. If they’ve got missiles, they’ll launch earlier. How much earlier
depends on their warload.”
From what he’d read of the new Soviet bomber, Tombstone knew Blackjacks
were supposed to carry the new AS-15, a cruise missile similar in most
respects to the American Tomahawk. It could carry a nuclear or chemical
warhead, though any launch against U.S. ships at this point in the conflict
would probably be with high explosives.
Even so, AS-15s packed a terrific wallop. That Blackjack posed a serious
threat to the Jefferson.
Brandt evidently agreed. “I want that bastard out of here,” he snarled,
his doleful features more like a bulldog’s than ever. “Shoot him down!”
It was a difficult decision, but the only one possible. There was no
time to relay the question back to Washington. There were only the realities
of the moment, the realities of tactics, defense, and survival.
Tarrant nodded. “Agreed. What do we have up there available for
intercept?”
Tombstone glanced at a clock on the wall. “Backstop One and Two launched
ten minutes ago, Admiral. They’re almost in position now, but at the moment
it’s Coyote Grant who’s running the show.”
“Right. Pass the word. Take the bastard down.”
“Yes, sir.” Tombstone turned back to the console and picked up a
microphone. “Icewall, Icewall, this is Camelot. Over.”
“Camelot …” The reply sounded strained, as though forced out against
the stress of a high-G maneuver. “Icewall! …”