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.