CARRIER 6: COUNTDOWN By Keith Douglass

they privately questioned the intelligence of the brass-heavy

rear-echelon bastards running this colossal fuckup. Now, though, he

realized that there’d been some strategic sense behind those orders

after all. Everywhere, all over the Kola Peninsula, aircraft preserved

from the general destruction of the past eighteen hours were rising from

their airfields. Runways heavily pitted by American cluster munitions

and cratering bombs had been hastily repaired during the night, by

engineers dragging steel-link mats across the smaller holes, and filling

in the larger ones with rubble.

It was like guerrilla warfare, but carried out with the high-tech

weapons of modern air combat. American strike planes and their escorts

deep inside Russian territory were suddenly being assaulted from all

sides, by aircraft appearing out of bases the Americans thought had

already been knocked out of action.

He checked his radar. Barely visible through the haze of jamming from

enemy EA-6B Prowlers, he could make out several main groups of aircraft

to the east, most of them heading toward Polyamyy.

“Volkodav Eight-seven-one,” he called. The flight’s call sign meant

Wolfhound. “Airborne.”

Seconds later, detailed vectoring data from Ura Guba air control began

feeding through the radio in the “Snoopy” communications cap beneath his

helmet.

1145 hours

Tomcat 211, Shotgun 2/2

Striker was sticking with his wingman, holding position on 202’s right

as Batman lined up with the lead Russian plane coming up from Ura Guba.

“Let’s take it with a Phoenix, K-Bar!” he told his RIO.

“We’ve got a lock,” K-Bar replied. “Range five miles.”

Damned close for an AIM-54C, but American and Russian aircraft would be

mixing it up real close in another few moments. He wanted to save his

Sidewinders and AMRAAMs for close engagements.

“Fire!”

The heavy Phoenix slid clear of the Tomcat’s belly. “Fox three!”

The AIM-54 arced off toward the west, drawing a razor-crisp line of

white across the sky.

Moments later, a tiny flash went off against the western horizon,

leaving a tiny puff of white smoke. “Hit!” K-Bar shouted, “Splash one

MiG!”

But then the remaining MiGs were arrowing in at better than Mach 1.

Contrails scrawled twisted trails across the sky as American and Russian

planes joined in a savage dogfight.

1146 hours

Air Ops

U.S.S. Thomas jefferson

“Pull up, C.T. Pull up!”

“I can’t shake this guy!”

“Mustang, this is Coyote. Loose goose now. You hit him high, I’ll tag

him low!”

“One-two! I’m clear! I’m taking the shot!”

“C’mon, Mustang! Help me out here!”

“Break left, C.T.! Fox one!”

“It’s comin’ … it’s comin’ …”

“Hit! Splash another Fulcrum!”

Tombstone stood motionless in the unnatural stillness of Jefferson’s Air

Ops. Closing his eyes as he listened to the radio calls between the

Tomcat crews, he could picture the dogfight, the tangling of contrails

and machines, of speed and technology and three-dimensional dynamics

that Navy aviators called a furball. According to the displays repeated

from the Hawkeye orbiting Off Port Vladimir, two MiGs had already died,

but at least eight more were now trying to brush past the fighters in an

attempt to hit the two White Lightning groups–six Intruders and two

Prowlers.

It was murder, listening to his people fighting for their lives, unable

to help.

1146 hours

Tomcat 207, Shotgun 1/4

“On your toes, Lobo!” Vader warned. “I read two bandits coming dead on

and climbing. They’re after us!”

“Which way?”

“Bearing three-five-three.”

Between them and the Jefferson. “One-three, this is One-four. Stay

put, Slider. I’m going on ahead, see if I can pop these bozos one.”

“Roger that, Lobo. And … uh … thanks. For saving my ass back

there.”

“Don’t mention it, Slider. It’s all just part of our courteous and

dependable service. Hang on, Vader. I’m going to burner.”

1146 hours

MiG 871

East of Ura Guba

Lieutenant Colonel Averin had broken away from the searing aerial

dogfight when the MiG flying less than twenty meters off his right side

had suddenly exploded in a dazzling flash and a fireball. Poor Yuri …

struck down by one of the long-ranged American super-missiles before

he’d even had time to acquire a target!

Averin was on the northern fringe of the battle, and as he studied the

radar picture, he realized that he had an unprecedented opportunity.

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