suddenly swirled with movement–seabirds startled from their nests by the
shriek of afterburners. A thread of white on blue, the AA-11 followed, its
tracking radar momentarily confused by the blurred images of target aircraft
and rock. There was a flash as the warhead slammed into a cliff.
“Nice move, Trapper!” Surprisingly, Coyote’s fear was gone now. In its
place was relief after this first, wild encounter … and adrenaline shouting
in his veins.
“Come and get it, you bastards!” he called. “Target lock! Fire
Phoenix!”
“Fox three!”
Relentless, the Russians continued their approach.
CHAPTER 13
Sunday, 22 June
0753 hours Zulu (0853 hours Zone)
cic, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
Romsdalfjord
“We have what appears to be two large groups of Russian aircraft, on a
direct heading for Trondheim, Admiral,” Tombstone said, speaking into the
telephone handset. “Cowboy is attacking with Phoenix. They’ve just splashed
their first bandit.”
“We’ve got it all on the screens over here,” the voice of Admiral Tarrant
replied. “How do you plan to proceed?”
“We’re still going according to plan, Admiral. I’ve issued orders to the
rest of Cowboy, told them to rally on Cowboy One.”
“Okay. Just remember, son. No plan survives contact with the enemy.”
“Yes, sir.”
Tombstone hung up the handset, annoyed. The old aphorism was true, there
was no denying that. But Tarrant’s warning was disturbing, like a bad omen.
He turned in the high, leather-backed chair from which he could survey
the domain of the CIC’s Air Ops suite.
Commander Brody was standing with a burly Navy chief, Earl Matchett. A
heavyset man with a down-home Kentucky drawl, Matchett was in charge of
coordinating communications between the disparate parts of Jefferson’s combat
operation.
“How’s our surprise shaping up, Chief?”
“Uh … Hvit Lyn,” Chief Matchett said, stumbling over the strange
Norwegian syllables and butchering the pronunciation. “They say they’re hot
and ready, CAG.”
“That’s ‘veet lewn,’ Chief,” Tombstone said, smiling. “White Lightning.”
“My granddaddy used to make white lightning,” the chief said with a wry
grin. “I wonder if these fellers’ll have the same kick to ’em that his
product did.”
“We’re about to find out.” Tombstone watched the air display as the
sixteen blips representing the Norwegian Falcons began moving toward the
northwest, each blip accompanied by an identifying tag of data. Sheltered by
the walls of Trondheimfjord, the Falcons would have been invisible to the
approaching MiGs until they literally popped onto their screens out of
nowhere.
“I’ll bet the Russkies are getting a hell of a shock about now,” Brody
said, echoing Tombstone’s thoughts.
“Are we ready to go with Summer Thunder?”
“All planes armed, up, and ready,” the Operations officer confirmed.
“Notify Pri-Fly. I want the whole strike airborne, ASAP. I want our
people ready to go when we’re sure the Russians have committed.”
“Right, CAG.”
Tombstone continued watching the air radar screens. The 1-MC brayed
warning. “Now hear this, now hear this. Commence flight deck operations.”
Moments later, he heard the rattle of steel on steel, felt a faint
shudder through the deck. On the PLAT monitor hanging from overhead in one
corner of the compartment, first one, then a second A-6 Intruder rushed
forward down the steaming slot of the number-one catapult and vaulted into the
skies off Jefferson’s bow. operation Summer Thunder had begun in earnest.
For the next hour, sweating deck crews would work flat out at all four
catapults, putting Intruders, Prowlers, Hornets, and Tomcats into the air.
Soyuz would be attacked by successive waves of aircraft, the timing and
direction of each strike carefully choreographed by CIC to confuse the Russian
combat centers and distract the enemy’s anti-air defenses.
Tombstone glanced at another monitor, this one showing the location of
surface elements in the operation, and the ragged coast of Norway outlined in
white light. The three parts of the equation were spaced apart at the corners
of a huge triangle. Northeast was Trondheimfjord, where Cowboy and White
Lightning blocked the Russian attack on the Intruders returning from Bodo.
One hundred miles southwest lay Romsdalfjord and Jefferson, where the aircraft
of Summer Thunder were gathering for their strike, and where the other surface
elements of CBG-14 deployed beyond the fjord’s mouth.
And at the northwestern corner of the triangle, two hundred miles from