both Jefferson’s location and Trondheim, lay the Soyuz battle group, four
capital ships behind a screen of frigates and destroyers. Beyond them, a
hundred miles more to the west, a pinpoint marking Galveston’s last-recorded
position followed in the Russian carrier’s wake, seeking an opportunity for
Harpoon launch or torpedo strike. Tombstone was not counting on that
possibility, though. So far, the Russian’s ASW work was damned good, and the
attack sub might never get a clear shot.
Their best hope lay in the strike force of Intruders, Hornets, and
HARM-loaded Prowlers now launching from Jefferson’s flight deck.
A seaman interrupted his thoughts. “Commander Magruder? Excuse me, sir.
They said you were waiting for this.”
Tombstone accepted the manila envelope from the messenger and looked at
the typewritten report inside. It was a listing of Jefferson’s aviations
stores, including her supplies of Harpoons, AIM-54Cs, and other combat
expendables.
The picture painted by the report was not good. Two weeks of war,
including three major combat operations, had seriously depleted Jefferson’s
military stores. They would need to rendezvous for UNREP damned soon after
Summer Thunder, or CVW-20 was going to be fangless.
UNREP–UNderway REPlenishment–referred to resupply from oilers or cargo
ships while at sea. Two UNREP vessels, the fast combat support ship Provender
and the replenishment oiler Kalamazoo, had accompanied the Marine forces from
Norfolk. Tombstone made a mental note to discuss the details of the
rendezvous with Tarrant as soon as the present crisis was past. They would
have to make arrangements to take on ammo and missiles from Provender by
tomorrow at the latest, or risk facing a Soviet counterattack with neither
Phoenix missiles or Harpoons in Jefferson’s inventory.
Replacing the report in the envelope, Tombstone turned his attention back
to the Air Ops display. Two groups of aircraft, Russians on one side,
Americans and Norwegians on the other, were merging now over the waters off
Trondheimfjord. On the PLAT monitor, Intruders and Hornets continued to vault
off Jefferson’s bow two-by-two.
It was a curious feeling for Tombstone. He was supposed to be managing
this battle, but now that he’d set things in motion, there was little for him
to do.
Except wait … and worry.
0759 hours Zulu (0859 hours Zone)
Tomcat 200
Over the Norwegian Sea
“This is our last shot, Teejay,” Coyote called. “Make it count!”
“Lock on,” his RIO replied. “Fox three!”
The last of their six Phoenix missiles sped from the Tomcat’s body,
leaving the F-14 weaponless now, save for the 675 rounds in the magazine drum
of the six-barrel Gatling cannon tucked into the aircraft’s nose on the port
side. Coyote flicked the weapons-selector switch to guns. How many kills had
they scored so far? He was amazed to discover that he’d lost track. The
skies above the azure waters of the Frohavel were scratched and scored now by
the vapor trails of tangling aircraft. The screen of his AXX-1 was tracking
an enemy MiG, still beyond eyeball range but crisp and clear on the TCS
display.
“Delta Tango, Delta Tango,” he called. “This is Cowboy One-one. We’re
clean now. Where’s the cavalry? Over.”
“One-one and One-two, cavalry on the way. You are clear to break off and
RTB.”
“Roger that,” Coyote replied. “One-one, RTB.”
“Amen,” Trapper replied. “We’re dry too. One-two, RTB.”
RTB–Return to base. They’d survived another dogfight, though this one
had been a remote, long-distance affair. Coyote brought the Tomcat into a
hard turn to port.
“Hey, Coyote!” Teejay called on the ICS. “We got company, man!”
“What, more bandits?”
“Negative. Looks like the cavalry, just like the man said!”
“Cowboy One, Cowboy One,” a strange voice called over Coyote’s headset.
It was heavily accented, almost unintelligible, and distinctively Scandinavian
in its musical lilt. “Dis ist Hight Hvit Lyn, coming to your rear.”
Coyote glanced at his VDI and saw the V-shaped formation several miles
astern of the two Tomcats, coming up fast. They were squawking IFF codes that
identified them as friendly, Norwegian F-16s.
White Lightning. He’d been briefed on the Norwegian operation that
morning, but he’d not realized that their allies could assemble so many
interceptors so quickly. “We see you, White Lightning,” he replied. “The
Russians are all yours. We’re going back to rearm.”