CARRIER 5: MAELSTROM By Keith Douglass

see shit through the clutter and the jamming. You wanna pop up for a

look-see?”

“Hell, no!” Sluf shook his head for emphasis. “I like it down here,

playing submarine. Safer.”

“Affirmative.” The B/N lowered his face to the radar hood again. “Looks

like the fighter jocks are on the ball. I got one air contact at

three-five-oh. Looks like a helo … probably ASW. No fighter cover at all.”

“Well, they’re gonna see us soon enough, and then it gets fun. How’re

the babies?”

“Gyros engaged. Target-acquisition mode, set. All hot, primed, and

ready.”

Behind his mask, Sluf smiled. Today, his Intruder was carrying roughly

the same weight of ordnance as those old B17s: four AGM84A Harpoon long-range

antiship missiles, slung two beneath each wing, each weighing 522 kilos–about

1,150 pounds. They made his Intruder the high-tech nemesis of any vessel

afloat. His last naval target, a week before, had been barges and amphib

ships off Cape Bremanger.

This time he was getting a shot at the Soyuz herself.

If they could manage to sort the Russian carrier from the clutter on the

screen. Enemy jamming was heavy, and distinguishing targets was difficult.

“Sliding into our approach vector now, Sluf. Come left two degrees …

hold it …”

Sluf kept his eyes glued to the VDI monitor on his console. Unlike other

aircraft, the Intruder was flown with a Heads Down Display, the scene ahead

painted on the screen in lines of light, as the aircraft’s computer fed data

lines–weapons cues and flight information–across the display. Sluf could

fly the aircraft, from launch to trap, without even looking up through the

windscreen. The A6’s electronic imaging was what made the Intruder such a

versatile attack aircraft, able to make low-level penetrations in pitch

darkness, rain, snow, thick fog … or, as now, sleeting sea spray.

Keeping the steering bug lined up with the nav pipper on the screen, Sluf

brought the A6 precisely into line with the still-unseen target. Voices

crackled intermittently over his headset. With the radio set to the Death

Dealers’ attack frequency, he could monitor the calls of the other A6 pilots

as they made their runs.

So far, two other Death Dealers had already gone in: Collins and Jakowicz

in 505, and Bemedewski and Keogh in 516. No casualties yet, but the enemy

sure as hell knew they were on the way. Things were liable to start getting

interesting any time now.

“Four-eight miles, Sluf,” the B/N announced. “We’re in range now.”

Harpoon had a range of about fifty nautical miles.

“Let’s ride ’em in a ways,” Sluf replied.

“You’re the boss.”

Eight miles of water whipped past with each passing minute. The Intruder

thumped heavily. The air at wave-hopping levels was rough, and Sluf had to

fight to keep the Intruder steady. The smallest mistake and the A6 could slam

its belly into the waves; the slightest loss of control and Sluf could drag a

wingtip in the sea.

But this close to the water there was a measure of safety, at least for a

time, from the prying radars of enemy fire-control systems.

“Looking good,” Spoiler said, his face still buried. “Range

three-three.”

A light winked on the console, accompanied by the electronic warble of a

threat signal. “Shit,” Sluf said. “Someone’s tracking.”

“I-band. Sounds like Top Dome.”

Top Dome was the NATO designation for the missile-guidance radar

associated with Soviet SA-N-6 surface-to-air missiles. It was installed in

some of their largest surface ships, including the Slava and the Kirov

classes.

“They may not be getting us through the clutter. What’s air activity

look like?”

“Got some bogies, far-off stuff. Tangling with our Tomcats.”

“They don’t see us. Hot damn! I think we’re gonna pull this off!”

“Range two-seven. C’mon, Sluf! Let’s do it!”

“Roger that.” Sluf brought the Intruder’s stick back and pushed the

throttles forward. The sea dropped away as the A6 clawed for enough altitude

to release its warload without dropping the Harpoons into the water. “You

acquired?”

“Tracking. Safeties off. Your pickle is hot. Range two-five. Shit,

Sluf! I’ve got missile launch! They’re shooting at us!”

“Thar she blows.” Sluf’s thumb mashed the pickle trigger on his stick.

The Intruder lurched skyward as literally a ton of airframe, solid-fuel

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