CARRIER 5: MAELSTROM By Keith Douglass

And this, Khenkin thought wryly, was what Vorobyev and his cronies called

a glorious victory?

Obviously, they were seeking to maintain morale in the fleet, but Khenkin

could easily read between the lines of the terse orders. The eyes of the

Motherland are upon you. That in itself was as much threat as praise. If

Vulcan proved successful he would be a hero. If not … well, Moscow would

know where to lay the blame. The fact that they’d put Ivanov, three months

Khenkin’s junior in the date of his commission, in overall charge of Operation

Vulcan was a stinging, if unstated, rebuke.

An order barked from the deck loudspeaker, capturing his attention. The

damage parties scuttled off the flight deck, clearing the way for an incoming

aircraft. Looking aft, past the arrestor wires stretched across the aft end

of Soyuz’s flight deck, he could make out two tiny specks hung in the sky to

the south, slowly growing larger.

Reinforcements–the first of the MiGs and Sukhois shuttled from the Black

Sea to Murmansk to the Soyuz to replace the aircraft lost two days before.

He’d heard that a massive air force operation had been put in place to divert

American attention from these aircraft as they made the final hop from bases

in the Kola Peninsula to rendezvous with the Soyuz.

It had been Khenkin’s decision to bring them aboard immediately, even

though there was still considerable danger from bolts and other

thumbnail-sized debris still lying on the flight deck after the explosions

that had nearly crippled the Russian carrier. Such fragments could easily be

sucked up by the fighters’ intakes, destroying fan blades and ruining engines,

but it was imperative that the air group be brought to full strength as

quickly as possible.

Khenkin was surprised that the Americans had not launched further attacks

against the Red Banner Fleet, but he doubted that they would hesitate much

longer. Moscow might still be convinced that the Americans remained divided

and isolationist … but Admiral Khenkin had only respect for American

technology, and for the will and the skill of their fighting men. Against

such an enemy, he needed every combat-ready aircraft he could muster.

As well as every scrap of his own experience, skill, and training.

So it was to be Ivanov in command of the operation against the Americans?

So be it. Khenkin had little confidence in Ivanov’s grasp of tactics, but

until the Lenin Fleet could force its way past the narrow bottleneck of the

Baltic, Khenkin remained here in the north, a continuing threat to the

American carrier group. And when Ivanov did arrive, he would be coming from

the south, up the Norwegian coast, with the Jefferson caught squarely between

the two Soviet fleets.

Hammer and Anvil indeed.

With the grace of a falcon stooping on its prey, the first aircraft

dropped gently toward the Soyuz’s stern. Sleek, deadly, and superbly

maneuverable, a Sukhoi-27 lightly touched the carrier’s deck, its tailhook

snagging the arrestor cable and dragging it to a halt. Khenkin released his

pent-up breath. The twin Tumanski engines continued to howl; there was no

sharp report of metal striking metal as fan blades shattered. Khenkin felt

the knot in his stomach relax like an unclenching fist.

His gamble was paying off. If they could bring fresh planes and pilots

aboard without more losses, they had a good chance to crush the American

carrier battle group.

After what the enemy had done to Soyuz and to his men, Khenkin found that

he wanted to destroy the Jefferson, wanted to see her burning and sinking in

the cold waters of the Norwegian Sea. His fist closed on his orders,

crumpling them. And he smiled.

CHAPTER 8

Thursday, 19 June

0330 hours Zulu (0430 hours Zone)

U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson

Viking Station, the Norwegian Sea

It was four-thirty in the morning–“zero-dark-thirty” as Navy hands liked

to say–but it was already fully light; at sixty degrees north June nights

were never really dark. There was a heavy mist lying across the surface of

the sea, though high above the deck a crisp breeze snapped the flags on the

yards and made the air feel more like March than June. Tombstone had returned

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