critical few minutes they needed.
He glanced at Lieutenant Fracasetti in the B/N’s seat beside him. “So
what do you think, Spoiler? Of CAG’s hot-shot idea.”
“I think it’s kind of hard on the King Fishers.” He kept his head
forward, his face pressed against the radar scope.
“Roger that. That Magruder’s ice, man. Like a glacier.”
“I’m just glad I don’t have to give that kind of order, Sluf. Wouldn’t
be able to sleep nights. Okay, here we go. I’ve got three solid targets
burning right through the hash, bearing zero-zero-eight, range eight-five.
Start setting up the approach.”
Sluf spared another glance for the nearest pair of Tomcats–Coyote
Grant’s 200 bird and his wingman, Trapper Martin in 209. At the moment, Sluf
felt tired enough that he thought he’d be able to sleep for a week, no matter
what the provocation. But he knew what Spoiler meant.
Sometimes command carried with it a damned heavy price tag.
0611 hours Zulu (0711 hours Zone)
CIC, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
The Norwegian Sea
Jefferson had burst from the confines of Romsdalfjord less than thirty
minutes earlier and was making her way due north now at thirty-three knots.
Coming out of the northeast, the wind had picked up a bit. The carrier was
pitching in roughening seas, spray bursting past the bow each time the carrier
plunged into another wave.
The motion was noticeable in CIC but easy to ignore. A stiff head wind
might slow the alpha strike, delaying them by a few minutes, but it would not
become a danger unless it became much worse. It actually aided the aircraft
still launching from the pitching deck, translating as a few extra miles of
airspeed as the catapults slammed them headlong into the wind on streamers of
steam.
Tombstone pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead.
Despite CIC’s air-conditioned chill, he was sweating enough to soak the back
of his khaki shirt. Sitting there in his chair, he could sense his own stink,
mingled exhaustion and fear. Replacing the handkerchief, he returned his gaze
to the large tactical display, a screen that repeated data transmitted both
from Bifrost and from the U.S.S. Shiloh, now cruising parallel to Jefferson’s
track, five miles to the west. It showed the many pieces of the alpha strike,
code-named Asgard, the home of the gods in Norse myth.
The individual pieces of Operation Asgard had been given less classical
code names. The Intruders were called Dealer, tucked in with Viper and doing
their best to look like Tomcats. Down on the desk was Fisher, closing now
with the targets at attack speed. Nearby was another four-plane group, EA-6B
Prowlers of VAQ-143, call sign Smokescreen. Forming up over Jefferson were
Eagle and Javelin, the F-14s of VF-97 and the Hornets of VFA-161. They
composed the second wave, a chance to strike Soyuz again if Dealer only
damaged the prey.
The Hornets were armed with Paveway laser-guided bombs, but the real
money was on the Intruders and their Harpoons. If the A-6s couldn’t get
through, the Hornets’ smart bombs could seriously damage the Soyuz but were
not as likely to get a kill.
Everything depended on the Intruders, and on the deception Tombstone had
worked out to get them close to their target. The plan had been hastily
conceived, hastily assembled. Tombstone wondered if it could possibly work as
he’d planned it.
Fisher was creeping ahead of the cluster of contacts marking Viper and
Dealer. “Damn it,” he said, shifting forward in his chair. “Fisher’s racing
ahead of the pack. Get them back in line.”
“Fisher, Fisher, this is Camelot,” a first class air controlman sitting
at the console in front of Tombstone said, speaking into a microphone. “Come
in, Fisher.”
“Camelot, this is Fisher One-one.” Tombstone recognized Harrison’s
voice, relayed through Bifrost. “We are commencing our attack run.”
Damn, he was playing to a Russian audience, and he was making the attack
look good. But it was also exposing him to quick annihilation.
“Fisher, you are out of position. Please maintain original course and
speed.”
“Camelot, we are commencing attack run.” The Vikings were now well ahead
of the others.
“Okay,” Tombstone said. “Have the attack group match ’em.” The