Red Storm Rising by Tom Clancy

NORWEGIAN SEA

Cruising at an altitude of thirty-six thousand feet the Tomcats flew racetrack-shaped patterns north and south of the predicted course for the Soviet tankers. Their powerful search/missile-guidance radars were shut down. Instead, they swept the skies with a built-in TV camera that could identify aircraft as far as forty miles away. Conditions were ideal, a clear sky with only a few high cirrus clouds; the fighters left no contrails that might warn another aircraft of their presence. The pilots curved their fighters around the sky, their eyes shifting out to check the horizon, then in to check engine instruments, a cycle repeated every ten seconds.

“Well, lookie here . . .” the squadron commander said to his weapons operator. The flight officer in the Tomcat’s back seat centered the TV camera on the aircraft.

“Looks like a Badger to me.”

“I don’t suppose he’s alone. Let’s wait.”

“Roge.”

The bomber was over forty miles off. Soon two more appeared, along with something smaller.

“That’s a fighter. So, they have fighter escorts this far out, eh? I count a total of . . . six targets.” The weapons operator tightened up his shoulder straps, then activated his missile controls. “All weapons armed and ready. Fighters first?”

“Fighters first, light ’em up,” the pilot agreed. He toggled up his radio. “Two, this is Lead, we have four tankers and a pair of fighters on a course of about zero-eight-five, forty miles west of my position. We are engaging now. Come on in. Over.”

“Roger that. On the way, Lead. Out.” Two brought his interceptor into a tight turn and advanced his throttles to the stops.

The leader’s radar activated. They now had two fighters and four tankers identified. The first two Phoenixes would be targeted on the fighters.

“Shoot!”

The two missiles dropped clear of their shackle points and ignited, leading the Tomcat to the targets.

The Russian tankers had detected the fighter’s AWG-9 radar and were already trying to evade. Their escorting fighters went to full power and activated their own missile-guidance radars, only to find that they were still outside missile range to the attacking fighters. Both switched on their jamming pods and began to jink their aircraft up and down as they closed in hope of launching their own missiles. They couldn’t run away, there wasn’t enough fuel for that, and their mission was to keep the fighters off the tankers.

The Phoenix missiles burned through the air at Mach 5, closing the distance to their targets in just under a minute. One Soviet pilot never saw the missile, and was blotted from the sky in a ball of red and black. The other did, and threw his stick over, a second before the missile exploded. It nearly missed, but fragments tore into the fighter’s port wing. The pilot struggled to regain control as he fell from the sky.

Behind the fighters, the tankers split up, two heading north, the other pair south. The lead Tomcat took the northern pair and killed both with his remaining two Phoenixes. His wingman racing up from the north fired two missiles, hitting with one, and missing with the other, as the missile was confused by the Badger’s jamming gear. The Tomcat continued to close, and fired another missile. By this time he was close enough to track the bird visually. The AIM-54 missile ran straight and true, exploding only ten feet from the Badger’s tail. Hot fragments ripped into the converted bomber and detonated the remaining fumes in its refueling tanks. The Soviet bomber disappeared in a thundering orange flash.

The fighters swept their radars around the sky, hoping to find targets for their remaining missiles. Six more Badgers were a hundred miles off, but they had already been warned by the leading tankers and were heading north. The Tomcats didn’t have enough fuel to pursue. They turned for home and landed at Stomoway an hour later with nearly dry tanks.

“Five confirmed kills and a damage,” the squadron commander told Toland. “It worked.”

“This time.” Toland was pleased nevertheless. The U.S. Navy had just completed its first offensive mission. Now for the next one. Information was just in on the Backfire raid. They’d hit a convoy off the Azores, and a pair of Tomcats was waiting two hundred miles south of Iceland to meet them on the return leg.

STENDAL, GERMAN DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC

“Our losses have been murderous,” said the General of Soviet Frontal Aviation.

“I will tell our motor-rifle troops just how serious your losses have been,” Alekseyev replied coldly.

“We have lost nearly double our projections.”

“So have we! At least our ground troops are fighting. I watched an attack. You sent in four attack fighters. Four!”

“I know of this attack. There was a full regiment assigned, more than twenty, plus your own attack helicopters. The NATO fighters are engaging us ten kilometers behind the front. My pilots must fight for their lives simply to get where your tanks are-and then all too often they are engaged by our own surface-to-air missiles!”

“Explain,” ordered Alekseyev’s superior.

“Comrade General, the NATO radar surveillance aircraft are not easy targets-they are too well protected. With their airborne radar, they can vector their fighters against ours to launch their missile attacks from beyond visual range. When our pilots learn that they are being attacked, they must evade, no? Do your tankers sit still to give their enemies an easy shot? This often means that they must drop their bombs to maneuver. Finally, when they do manage to reach the battle zone they are frequently shot at by friendly missile units who don’t take the time to distinguish between friend and foe.” It was an old story, and not merely a Soviet problem.

“You are telling us that NATO has command of the air,” Alekseyev said.

“No, they do not. Neither side does. Our surface-to-air missiles deny them the ability to control the air over the battle line, and their fighters helped by their surface-to-air missiles, and ours!-deny it to us. The sky over the battlefield belongs to no one.” Except the dead, the Air Force General thought to himself.

Alekseyev thought of what he had seen at Bieben, and wondered how correct he was.

“We must do better,” the Theater Commander said. “The next massed attack we launch will have proper air support if it means stripping fighters from every unit on the front.”

“We are trying to get more aircraft forward by using deceptive maneuvering. Yesterday we tried to feint NATO’s fighters to the wrong place. It nearly worked, but we made a mistake. That mistake has been identified.”

“We attack south of Hannover at 0600 tomorrow. I want two hundred aircraft at the front line supporting my divisions.”

“You’ll have them,” the Air Force General agreed. Alekseyev watched the flyer leave.

“So, Pasha?”

“That’s a start-if the two hundred fighters show up.”

“We have our helicopters, too.”

“I watched what happens to helicopters in a missile environment. Just when I thought they’d blast a hole through the German lines, a combination of SAMs and fighters nearly annihilated them. They have to expose themselves too greatly when they fire their missiles. The courage of the pilots is remarkable, but courage alone is not enough. We have underestimated NATO firepower-no, more properly we have overestimated our ability to neutralize it.”

“We’ve been attacking prepared positions since this war began. Once we break into the open-”

“Yes. A mobile campaign will reduce our losses and give us a much more even contest. We have to break through.” Alekseyev looked down at the map. Just after dawn tomorrow, an army-four motor-rifle divisions, supported by a division of tanks-would hurl itself into the NATO lines. “And here seems to be the place. I want to be forward again.”

“As you wish, Pasha. But be careful. By the way, the doctor tells me the cut on your hand was from a shell fragment. You are entitled to a decoration.”

“For this?” Alekseyev looked at his bandaged hand. “I’ve cut myself worse than this shaving. No medal for this, it would be an insult to our troops.

ICELAND

They were climbing down a rocky slope when the helicopter appeared two miles west of them. It was low, about three hundred feet over the ridge line, and moving slowly toward them. The Marines immediately fell to the ground and crawled to places where they might hide in shadows. Edwards took a few steps to Vigdis and pulled her down also. She was wearing a white patterned sweater that was all too easy to spot. The lieutenant stripped off his field jacket and draped it around her, holding her head down as he wrapped the hood over her blond hair.

“Don’t move at all. They’re looking for us.” Edwards kept his own head up briefly to see where his men were. Smith waved for him to get down. Edwards did so, keeping his eyes open so that he could look sideways at the chopper. It was another Hind. He could see rocket pods hanging from stubby wings on either side of the airframe. Both the doors to the passenger compartment were open, revealing a squad of infantrymen, weapons at the ready, looking down. “Oh, shit.”

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