Countdown

CHAPTER 20

Early in the afternoon, the Russians launched another air strike against the gathering American armada at Bear Station. Composed mostly of long-range bombers carrying air-to-surface missiles, the strike force included Tu-22 Blinder-B and Tu-26 Backfire-B bombers, most of them drawn from the Northern Fleet's Aviatsiya Voenno-Morskoyo Flota, or Naval Aviation groups.

Deadliest were the Backfires, sleek, swing-wing, supersonic aircraft originally designed specifically for missions against naval targets. Since the strikes were decidedly short-ranged and fuel load wasn't a problem, each Tu-26 carried three AS-4 "Kitchens," cruise missiles with one-ton conventional warheads and a range of 170 nautical miles. The bombers were escorted in by tight groups of MiG-25 Foxbats, Su-21 Flagons, and MiG-29 Fulcrums, some with naval markings, others in the livery of neo-Soviet Frontal Aviation.

The American defenses were tougher now, but there were also more targets 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.

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 Malibu minutes before, when they'd been jumped by a pair of Fulcrums. "I'm clear and I'm moving in."

"See if you can cut this guy off. You take the left, I'll stay on his right."

"Rog."

Half a mile ahead and below, the Fulcrum was pulling out of its dive and cutting to the right. Batman brought his stick over, trying to lead the Russian with a tighter turn to starboard. A thousand feet off the deck, the Fulcrum hurtled past an American helicopter carrier, the huge LHA Nassau.

Batman had just switched back to missiles when the hurtling Russian interceptor disintegrated in midair, silvery fragments spraying out like a shotgun blast, then ignited in a billowing cloud of orange flame.

"Scratch that MiG," Malibu said in Batman's headset. "I think he just got nailed by one of Nassau's CIWS."

"I think you're right." He pulled the F-14 up sharply. Phalanx point-defense systems sometimes had trouble telling the good guys from the bad, and Batman had no wish to fly into its deadly, mile-deep kill zone.

Pulling level at six thousand feet, Batman checked his stores. They'd launched with four Phoenix, two AMRAAMs, and a pair of Sidewinders. They were down to two AIM-54s and one each of the others. "Talk to me, Malibu," he said. "Where's a target? Gimme some ass to kick."

"Nothing close. I think the leakers all got capped. I'll see if I can tag a Hawkeye for a vector."

Strickland's Tomcat drew alongside to the left. Looking across the distance separating them, Batman could see Striker in the front seat, K-Bar in the back, the numerals 211 of the other aircraft's modex number vivid on its nose.

"How's the score standing now, Batman?" Striker asked.

Batman shook his head. "I got four, but two of 'em were Phoenix kills at extreme range, and we might not get credit." With so many missiles in the air at the same time, it was sometimes difficult to assess whose AIM-54s had killed which enemy aircraft. "I don't know how Brewer did."

"Why not ask her?" Brewer's voice cut in. Brewer's 218 Tomcat pulled in on the right. "What, Batman? Only two confirmed kills? You're slipping.

Pogie'n me got four already! Fox threes, every one!"

"Tracked 'em all the way to target," Damiano added. "And no others anywhere close, so we know we scored."

"Nuggets' luck," Malibu said.

"Yeah," Batman added. "What's that make it now, Brewer? Nine to eight?"

"Nice try, Batman," Brewer replied. "We're still only counting confirmed kills. Make that nine to six!"

"Damn, Batman," Malibu said, sounding hurt. "We can't let a mere slip of a girl do this to us!"

"I'll 'slip-of-a-girl' you, Mal."

"Gee, I don't know, Batman," Malibu said. "What do you think? I don't feel these Phoenix kills should count, do you? I mean, did John Wayne shoot down a bad guy from a hundred miles away? We oughta just keep score on the ones that're up close and personal!"

"Uh-uh," Brewer replied, and Batman heard her chuckle. "No changing the bet. Score's nine to six, women's advantage."

"I think we're being taken, Malibu. These women nowadays. You can't-"

"Gold Eagles, Gold Eagles, this is Eagle Two-oh-one," Coyote's voice said, cutting in. "Gather in, chicks. Time to head for home."

"Two-oh-one, Two-oh-two," Batman called. "Hey, Coyote! What's the gouge?"

"Batman, Coyote. We're going back in by squadrons for refuel and rearm, and we're up first in the Marshall Stack."

"On our way. Are the bad guys gone?"

"Most of 'em. But we're leaving the ones that're left to the Ike and the Nimitz. We've got other fish to fry."

"Two-oh-one, Two-one-one," Strickland called. "What fish did you have in mind?"

"The skipper's got a job for us, Striker," Coyote said. "And man, if you've been having fun so far, you're gonna love this!"

Lieutenant Chris Hanson slumped back into her chair in VF-95's ready room, aware of the rustle and thump of other NFOs filing in, aware of the murmuring conversations around her, but mostly aware only of how tired she was. It seemed like the Vipers had been on alert for years. She'd been aloft on CAP last night until 0730 that morning, had just gotten to sleep when an alert had been sounded, had just gotten to sleep again when the Russians had launched this latest attack. She and her RIO, Lieutenant McVey, had catapulted off Jefferson's deck, and been aloft for over an hour. They'd made two Phoenix kills, then had a narrow scrape with a Fulcrum over the Norwegian coast. On the way back, they'd used their last two Phoenix missiles downing a couple of sea-skimming cruise missiles.

God, she was tired.

She looked across at the young, black-haired man slumped in the seat beside her. Roy G. McVey was about as young and raw as they came. Somehow, they'd all started calling him Vader, playing on his last name. His head was back, his eyes closed, his lips parted. He looked like he was asleep.

"Hey, Lobo."

She looked up. Striker was standing behind her, his hands on the back of the chair.

"Hello, Steve."

He bent over, so his lips were close by her ear. "Listen," he said, whispering so no one else could hear. "I was wondering about tonight?"

"Uh-uh," she said. "Uh-uh! If they let me, I am going to sleep for about five hundred years. Call me in 2500."

He smiled. "Actually, I had the same thing in mind. This watch-on, watch-off stuff is-"

"Attention on deck!"

The men and women in the room rose to their feet as Tombstone walked in, Coyote close behind him. "At ease. At ease." He took his place behind the podium at the front of the room. "Sit down and listen up. We don't have much time."

At his back, Coyote was tacking up a large-scale map of the Kola Peninsula. Lines of bright red quarter-inch tape had been stretched across it, all starting at Bear Station, reaching along several distinct paths through several doglegs, and terminating at various points inland.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Tombstone said. "The air phase of Operation White Storm."

Chris's exhaustion faded back, replaced by intense excitement. An alpha strike, an all-out assault against Russian targets in the Kola Peninsula!

And the Vipers were going to be in it up to their necks!

"The lead attack elements will be Jefferson's VAQ-143 and Eisenhower's VAQ-132. They'll go in first, using HARMs to hit the radar sites at Ozerko, Titovka, and Port Vladimir. Right behind them will be our attack squadrons, VA-89 and VFA-161, plus VA-66 from the Eisenhower. Their targets will be those SAM sites and radar installations we've been tagging with our Hawkeyes, plus naval installations up and down the Kola inlet.

"VF-95 will fly close escort on the Intruders."

There were several groans in the room. "Aw, CAG!" Arrenberger said from the back. "Why us? We've been at full throttle for the last forty-eight hours!" Other voices chimed in, agreeing with him.

Tombstone gave Slider a long, gray stare. "You have a problem, mister?"

"Yeah, I got a problem! How long are we supposed to keep pumping at this pace?"

"We can't keep going like this, CAG," Mustang Davis put in. "The squadron's beat."

Chris held her breath, wondering just how close to mutiny the squadron might be. If everyone in the squadron just refused to fly…

Tombstone kept his eyes on Slider. "You want to stand down, Slider?

Turn in your wings?"

Slider paled. "No, CAG."

"I don't want one man or woman up there who can't take the strain. If you can't take the heat, Arrenberger, I want to know it."

"I can handle it."

"What about the rest of you people? I'll fly this mission by myself if I have to."

Chris joined with the others in a low-voiced murmur that filled the compartment. "We can do it, CAG."

"We're okay, Tombstone."

"We're with you, CAG."

Tombstone waited a moment, hands on hips. Then he nodded. "Okay.

That's the way professionals handle it. I know you're tired. We're all tired, right down to the thin ragged edge. But Washington thinks this one is damned important. Today, it's up to us to start hammering away at the northern Kola defenses. Tomorrow morning, it'll be the Marines' turn."

That got their attention, Chris thought. There wasn't a sound in the compartment now, save the faint, faraway boom of a catapult launch.

"So, let's look at the mission profile," Tombstone continued. "You can expect heavy triple-A and SAM fire. The Hornets will be tasked with opening a corridor through for the Intruders, but we all know that they're going to miss a hell of a lot. The Russians will keep lots of their stuff in reserve, switched off so they can surprise us later. With luck, though, their local fighter defenses will have been whittled down a bit by the actions of the past couple of days. Our satellite reconnaissance of their bases shows they're pretty weak in aircraft. But don't let yourselves get complacent. There're sure to be several regiments of Soviet Frontal Aviation still on tap, hidden somewhere in camouflaged casements, and you can expect them to throw everything they have against us.

"We've got the first watch. By tomorrow morning, the Marines will be going ashore. They'll be covered by the Tomcat squadrons off the Nimitz, and by their own Harriers. You should be able to stand down then, or at least take a little breather." He hesitated, then gave a haggard grin. "At least, we can hope so."

Chris had never seen the CAG looking this beat. Judging from the condition of his khaki uniform, he must have been up all night… and probably most of the previous few nights as well. Did the man have a breaking point?

Tombstone continued with the briefing, laying out the specifics of VF-95's part in the mission. The first elements of the raid would start launching within the hour, and VAQ-143's Prowlers, armed with HARM and Tacit Rainbow antiradar missiles, would make their turn toward the Russian coast at 1715 hours, launching at stand-off distance to begin clearing the way for the squadrons to follow. Mixed flights of Tomcats, Hornets, and Intruders would fly through the radar-blind corridor, accompanied by Prowlers providing ECM cover and flying "close enough to the ground to sandblast your bellies," as Tombstone put it. Each flight would be vectored in by Hawkeyes orbiting offshore, which would also warn them of enemy aircraft in the vicinity.

Combat. Lobo shook her head. She was going to be flying into combat.

Oh, she'd had her fill of combat flying CAP over the carrier group during the past few days. They'd all had. Somehow, though, the thought of taking the fight to the enemy, attacking him over his own territory, was intensely exciting, exciting enough to banish her fatigue in a warm flush of adrenaline.

Both of her kills so far had been at a range of ninety miles; hell, she hadn't even pushed the button. Vader McVey had done that, trackin the targets and launching the big Phoenix missiles when he had a lock. That engagement with the Fulcrum had been scary, but anticlimactic; the MiG had just tagged her with his radar when Slider and Blue Grass dropped in on the bad guy's six.

There'd been a confused few moments of high-G maneuvers… and then the MiG was dead and she and McVey were in the clear. And the cruise missiles they'd downed could hardly shoot back.

Chris loved the idea of danger, though she'd kept her feelings carefully hidden throughout her Navy career. Hot-dogs and thrill-seekers never made it far as aviators. But ― she could admit it now ― it was the danger that had led her to try bungee jumping and rock climbing back when she was a teenager, then flying, and skydiving after that. She'd joined the Navy when she heard the Navy was accepting female aviators. To learn how to fly jets…

Now she was flying jets, F-14 Tomcats, and she loved it. But the thought of hitting the Russians inside their own territory left her feeling warm and weak, her heart hammering inside her chest.

This was why she'd worked and trained and fought to become a Navy aviator!

"Okay, people," Tombstone said, ending his briefing. "You know your jobs. Fly safe, stick close with your wingmen, and don't be heroes. We don't care about you, but your airplanes are extremely expensive pieces of equipment. Your plane captains will have your heads if you get them dinged up. So bring 'em back! And God fly with you all!

"That is all."

"Attention on deck!"

He strode from the room, and Chris wondered why he looked so grim. This was what every naval aviator spent his or her whole life training for, this moment.

She joined the others as they crowded up toward the front of the room, examining the Kola Peninsula map and asking questions of Coyote. Her aircraft, she saw, would be covering an Intruder strike against SAM batteries just west of Polyamyy.