of VF-95.
“I got tone,” Batman called. “Fox one!”
“Missile launch, CAG,” the radarman said. Tombstone could see the
rapidly moving pinpoint of the Sparrow. Backstop was using an eyeball-shooter
formation, with Loon painting the target while Batman popped the missile. A
second Sparrow sped toward the targets as he watched.
The Fulcrums had been closing steadily on Coyote’s limping Tomcat, but
they seemed to become aware of the approaching Backstop F-14s at that moment,
probably when their own radar receivers detected the SARH lock. On the radar
screen, they seemed to be drifting apart. The missiles followed, curving
steadily to either side as they pursued their respective targets.
It had grown very quiet in Air Ops, as the duty personnel listened to the
unfolding drama. The Russian MiGs were still close enough to Coyote that they
could finish the job on his damaged Tomcat quite easily. But as second
followed second, it became clear that they were leaving the field, plunging
back toward the Norwegian coast at high speed, each pursued by a tiny, deadly
hound.
“They’re running!” Batman called. “Camelot, Camelot, this is Backstop.
Bandits have decided to get out of Dodge!”
The Sparrows pursued. One, the missile guided by Loon, merged with the
target, then kept on going, as the MiG jinked hard to the right. Evidently,
the Russian had decoyed the Sparrow with chaff.
The second missile closed … merged … and then the blip marking the
distant Fulcrum seemed to expand, then fade. Individual pieces flickered in
and out of existence as their radar aspects changed. The wreckage was falling
into the sea.
“Camelot, Backstop One. Splash one MiG!”
Cheers rang out in CIC, as sailors yelled, stabbed clenched fists in the
air, or slapped each other’s backs and hands.
“Belay that!” Tombstone snapped. “We’re not out of this yet!” He picked
up the microphone. “Icewall, Icewall, Camelot One. What is your condition,
over?”
“Camelot, Icewall. I’m … okay. I think John-Boy might be hit, though.
Can’t raise him on the ICS. Losing fuel, but not too bad. Down to twelve
hundred pounds on one engine. All in all, I’m doing okay, I guess. Damn,
those bastards can shoot!”
“Roger. We read you in the clear. Backstop will bring you in. Do you
copy?”
“Affirmative, Camelot. Copy. But I hope I’ve got a place to land this
piece of junk when I get there. You’ve got six buzz bombs on the way.”
“We see ’em, Icewall, and it’s up to Surface Ops now.” He kept his voice
light. “You just get yourself down on the deck in one piece. That’s an
order.”
“Affirmative, CAG. I’ll see what I can do.”
But Tombstone’s eyes strayed to the rapidly moving cluster of dots
closing on the carrier. Coyote’s fears were real. If Jefferson and her
escorts couldn’t stop that deadly formation of supersonic death, he was going
to have to find a friendly airfield in Norway on which to land.
Because Jefferson might very well not be available within another few
minutes.
1437 hours Zulu (1537 hours Zone)
Bridge, U.S.S. Esek Hopkins
Viking Station, the Norwegian Sea
The Esek Hopkins was a frigate, one of the ubiquitous Oliver Hazard
Perry-class FFGs that now played such a important role in U.S. Navy operations
around the globe. Smaller than a destroyer, but crammed with nearly a DDG’s
punch in weapons and advanced electronics, she carried a crew of two hundred.
Designed for antisubmarine warfare, her effectiveness crippled, her critics
insisted, by budget cuts before the first of her class had been launched,
Hopkins and her sister FFGs still performed a wide variety of duties, from
tanker escort to air screen, from ASW to show-the-flag.
Hopkins was currently serving as part of the ASW screen protecting the
heart of CBG-14, the U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson. The carrier was visible now as
a vast, gray shadow on the western horizon five miles off the frigate’s port
bow. The ship had been at battle stations for a tension-filled two hours
already. When word of the enemy missile launch crackled over the bridge
speaker from CIC, it was like releasing a powerfully wound spring.
“Bridge! CIC! We have missile launch! Multiple contacts! Multiple
contacts, bearing zero-eight-five, range one-six-zero!”