your orders. But at this point, the launch itself is of more importance
than the continued threat of your vessel. You could launch immediately,
as soon as you are clear of the cavern.”
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Karelin waited
patiently, the phone to his ear. In the distance, outside the walls of
his bunker, he could hear the dull thunder of a far-off bombing raid,
the crump of antiaircraft guns, the distant wail of a siren. Things
were going wrong, very wrong. Hours ago, Leonov’s 5th Blue Guard had
crossed the Volga at Simbersk.
Krasilnikov’s senior strategists felt they were making an all-out drive
on Novgorod, four hundred kilometers east of Moscow. Leonov’s forces
had to be stopped now, before they managed to isolate Moscow and the far
north from loyal troops and supplies east of the Urals.
“You want me to launch as soon as I am clear of the cavern.”
“Exactly, Comrade Captain. One missile, targeted on Chelyabinsk. After
that, you will make your way up the inlet and into the Barents Sea.”
“If possible.” Chelyag sounded bitter.
“Yes, Chelyag. If possible.”
“American air superiority-”
“Fuck American air superiority! I am giving orders now to the 23rd and
47th Frontal Aviation Regiments at Revda and Kirovsk to scramble
immediately, to put everything they have into the skies over the Kola
Inlet. The American air groups are tired and over-extended. They have
already suffered heavy casualties. In one hour, you will see nothing
but MiGs above Polyamyy. You have that long to get Leninskiy
Nesokrushimyy Pravda under way.”
There was another hesitation. “Very well, Admiral. It will be done.”
“I am counting on you, Chelyag. Marshal Krasilnikov is counting on
you.”
“I am very sure my men will appreciate that. Sir.”
Had that been sarcasm putting a bite to Chelyag’s voice? As he hung up
the phone, Karelin could not be sure.
1245 hours
Viper ready room
U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
Tombstone walked into the ready room changing area without knocking.
After all, most of the squadron’s flyers were either in the air or up in
Ops or the CIC. But Lieutenant Commander Joyce Flynn was already there,
and Tombstone caught a glimpse of long legs and small, bare breasts
before he hastily looked away. Carefully avoiding either looking at her
or too obviously looking away, he began pulling off his own uniform.
“I heard you’re going up, CAG,” Flynn said behind him. He turned to
answer, and blinked. Wearing nothing but a pair of plain, white
panties, she was watching him with a frank lack of embarrassment or
self-consciousness. In one hand she held one of the bulky, rubberized
survival suits. “Whatcha say, sailor? Can I hitch a ride?”
He gave her a wry smile. Nightmare had been disgusted at having his
aircraft downgrudged, but he’d accepted Tombstone’s suggestion that he
make himself useful in Ops without argument. That had left Tomboy, his
RIO, with some unexpected downtime. As hard as everyone in the squadron
had been driving, he’d not expected her to squawk about that.
“You know, Commander,” he told her carefully, “that might not be a real
smart career move.”
“Hey, you need an RIO, right?” She ran her free hand through her red
brush-cut hair and dramatically tossed her head. She had pale skin
highlighted by densely scattered freckles that went clear down to her
chest and shoulders, green eyes, and an impish grin, all of which
contributed to her decidedly less-than-military look at the moment. “I’m
your man!”
Damn, he would need a RIO. The F-14 could be flown solo, barely, but it
wasn’t a pleasant experience–about like playing piano with one hand
while typing a letter with the other–and it was suicide in a dogfight.
He’d not been thinking ahead. Hell, maybe he needed someone in the back
seat just to watch over him.
Tombstone sighed, then shook his head. “Get your shit on, Commander.
And move your tail. We don’t have much time.”
CHAPTER 28
Tuesday, 17 March
1305 hours (Zulu +2)
Flight deck
U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
Twenty minutes later, helmets in hand, Tombstone and Tomboy strode side
by side across the flight deck toward Tomcat 200, parked on Jefferson’s
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