to choose from. For hours, more ships had been arriving at Bear Station
from the west: the amphibious warfare ships and their escorts of II MEF,
a joint British-Norwegian squadron of destroyers and guided-missile
frigates, and the supply ships and escorts of an American at-sea
replenishment convoy.
Altogether, there were some thirty Allied ships in the area, not
counting the far-flung submarine assets that prowled the depths from the
north Russian coast to beneath the Arctic ice. Still more ships, the
Nimitz Carrier Battle Group, were scheduled to arrive the next day.
In a savage, one-hour running battle, ninety-two cruise missiles were
launched against the task force at Bear Station, but the American air
defenses, sharpened by the attacks on Friday, met each assault with
practiced efficiency. Guided by Shiloh’s Combat Direction Center and
vectored by the E-2C Hawkeye airborne control centers, the Kitchen
antiship cruise missiles were downed almost as fast as they were picked
up on radar.
One missile, though, skimming in at wave-top height, slipped through the
American defenses and struck the Spruance-class destroyer John Worden,
demolishing her bow clear back to the vertical-launch missile cells
forward of her bridge. Watertight doors and superb damage control saved
the ship, at least for the moment, but the Worden was left wallowing in
the sea, helpless until the frigate Talbot took her in tow. Fifteen
minutes later, a second destroyer with the Eisenhower battle group, the
J. L. Davis, took an AS-4 amidships, broke in half, and sank with all
364 men aboard in less than eight minutes.
At about the same time, 250 miles to the southeast, an American SSN, the
Scranton, was picked up on Russian seabed sonar detectors in the
approaches to the White Sea, a few miles off Grimikha. Hounded by a
flotilla of Krivak II frigates sortieing from Arkhangelsk and by flights
of Ka-27 Helix-A ASW helicopters from air stations ashore, it was forced
to the surface after a three-hour chase that pinned it against the coast
in shallow water, then sunk by torpedoes fired from the Kynda-class
cruiser Groznyy.
Meanwhile, the interceptor squadrons flying off three supercarriers
waged a desperate stand in the skies above the Barents Sea.
1445 hours
Tomcat 202
Over the Barents Sea
Batman rolled out of a split-S, pulling the Tomcat’s nose up hard and
extending the wings, deliberately killing his speed and bringing the
F-14 to the shuddering edge of a stall. The MiG-29 Fulcrum that had
been weaving in on his tail slammed past him at four hundred knots,
unable to compensate for Batman’s sudden braking maneuver.
And then it was too late, because Batman had rammed his throttles clear
to zone-five burner, folded his Tomcat’s wings like those of a stooping
eagle, and slid neatly into the six slot squarely behind the Fulcrum.
The unexpected change in roles caught the Russian pilot completely by
surprise. From less than one hundred feet behind the other aircraft,
Batman could see the white dot of the Russian pilot’s helmet bobbing
frantically inside the MiG’s canopy as he twisted and turned in his
seat, trying to see the Tomcat and guess its next move.
“Too close for missiles,” Batman told Malibu. At this range, even a
Sidewinder might scoot past the target before its one-track mind could
track on the MiG’s exhaust and correct the missile’s course, and if he
dropped back for more room, the more maneuverable Fulcrum would give him
the slip. “Goin’ to guns!”
A flip of the selector, and his HUD flashed to the guns configuration.
The target reticle drifted across the MiG-29’s fuselage and Batman
squeezed the trigger. The F-14’s Vulcan cannon shrieked … but the
Fulcrum was already rolling clear of the floating burst of tracers that
seemed to slide past the MiG’s twin tail and wing tip, missing by
inches. Then the MiG was clear, falling toward the sea twelve thousand
feet below. Batman rolled after him.
“Striker! Batman!” he yelled over the tactical channel. If his wingman
could close in, they could squeeze this guy, one Tomcat moving in close,
the other covering from behind. “Where the hell are you, boy?”
“I’m on your four, one mile,” Striker’s voice replied.
Strickland and his RIO, K-Bar, had become separated from Batman and