heavy clot of blips, crossing the Norwegian coast near North Cape and
still heading toward the CBG. The nearest targets were already within
sixty miles of the orbiting Tomcats.
“Hotspur, Gold Eagle One,” Coyote said, calling Shiloh’s Combat
Information Center. “Request weapons free.”
“Gold Eagle, Hotspur. Negative on weapons release. Situation still
confused. We need confirmation of hostile intent.”
“How much confirmation do they need?” Cat asked from the back seat.
“Yeah,” Coyote replied. “They’ve already crossed Norwegian airspace,
and that doesn’t look like the formation for a welcoming parade.”
“Uh-oh,” Cat said. “I’ve got …”
“What?”
“Wait one. Okay, we’re reading J-band pulse-doppler. Coyote, I think
we’ve got some Badger-Gs out there.”
“Shit,” Coyote said. “Okay, send it.”
This did not sound good.
0712 hours
Hawkeye 761
Twenty miles north of North Cape
The E-2C Hawkeye was still following the massive aerial deployment of
aircraft, now crossing the Norwegian coastline near Tanafjorden, less
than one hundred miles to the southeast.
“Echo-Tango, this is Gold Eagle One,” sounded in the air controller’s
headset … a woman’s voice. Gold Eagle One must have a female RIO.
“Gold Eagle, Echo-Tango Seven-six-one. Copy.”
“Echo-Tango, we’re picking up attack radar from the bogies. I’ve got
steady J-band transmissions. Sounds like Shorthorn.”
Shorthorn was the NATO code for a particular type of Soviet
weapons/navigation radar. It was carried by naval aircraft armed with
AS-5 and -6 antiship missiles.
The Hawkeye’s radar operator flicked a dial, narrowly watching several
of his dials. “That’s confirmed, sir. J-band, weapon control radar. I
think we’re tracking Badger-Gs.”
“Send it,” the CIC officer said. Holding his headset mike to his lips,
he said, “Gold Eagle, Echo-Tango Seven-six-one, we confirm Shorthorn.
BARCAP is clear to go to Tango-Whiskey-Sierra. Let ’em know you’re
there.”
TWS–shorthand for track-while-search–was the AWG-9 radar mode that
allowed the F-14 to track enemy targets. When switched on, it would
light up Russian threat warnings up to ninety nautical miles away.
On the radar display, meanwhile, the blips marking approaching Russian
aircraft began to spread out, to resolve into clusters of three and four
separate targets in tightly grouped formations. Suddenly, the radar
operator leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Sir! I have a launch!”
The CICO had already seen the same thing, smaller blips detaching
themselves from the larger ones.
If the firing aircraft were Badger-Gs, the missiles slung under their
wings were AS-5 or AS-6 air-to-surface missiles, ship-killers with
one-ton HE warheads.
“Hotspur! Hotspur! Echo-Tango!” he called. “Launch, we have
cruise-missile launch!”
“Ninety-nine aircraft” came the call back from the Aegis cruiser Shiloh,
using a code phrase meaning all aircraft. “Ninety-nine aircraft,
Hotspur.
Weapons free. I say again, weapons are free!”
The message was instantly relayed via data link through the E-2C to
every American plane already in the air. The Battle of North Cape had
begun.
CHAPTER 10
Friday, 13 March
0713 hours (Zulu +2)
Tomcat 201
Over the Barents Sea
“Let’s go with a Phoenix launch first,” Coyote told Cat. “We’ve for
damned sure got targets enough to choose from.”
“Definitely what they call a ‘target-rich environment,’ Boss,” Cat
replied. “We’re tracking on four.”
In all the arsenals of all the world’s powers, even in the arsenals of
other U.S. military services, there was nothing like the AIM-54C
Phoenix. A 985-pound missile with a range of over 120 miles and a speed
of better than Mach 5, the weapon could be fired only by the F-14 Tomcat
with its advanced AWG-9 radar guidance system, and was therefore
available only to the U.S.
Navy. The Tomcat’s radar, set to track-while-scan, could lock onto six
separate targets while simultaneously guiding six missiles at once.
Coyote was carrying only four AIM-54s, so Cat had selected four targets,
tagging them on her radar screen in the back seat.
“Let ‘er rip, Cat,” he told her.
“That’s fox three,” she replied, using the aviator’s code for a Phoenix
launch.
Cat hit the launch button and the Tomcat lurched higher as it was freed
of nearly a half-ton weight slung beneath its belly. Igniting beneath
the F-14, the missile speared forward into a crystal-blue sky, a
cotton-white contrail streaming astern.
“And firing two,” Cat said. “Fox three!”
“Gold Eagle One, Eagle Two.” That was Mustang Davis, Coyote’s wingman.