Countdown

CHAPTER 25

Lobo had a split second to make the right choice. Her Tomcat was pointed straight at the oncoming MiG, and her HUD was already set to air-to-air-missile mode. With the range between her aircraft and the MiG dwindling rapidly to nothing, she could break away and circle, trying to get on the bad guy's tail, or she could extend her climb for a critical few seconds in an attempt to make a kill. It would have to be a Sidewinder launch; she didn't have time to switch to guns.

Bring it to the left… There! Lock! Fire! "Fox one!" she shouted, and her last Sidewinder howled off the rail and toward the oncoming MiG. The range was already down to a scant few hundreds of yards.

Time seemed frozen in that one, stark instant. Lobo could see the MiG just to the left of her Tomcat's nose, could see such details as the numerals 744 painted on the side of its sharply raked left intake, and the red and white helmet of its pilot inside the clear bubble canopy.

The AIM-9M lanced beneath the Fulcrum's port LERX and straight into the gaping intake. The explosion blew out the MiG's left engine, a puff of smoke and glittering debris, deceptively gentle… and then the Russian plane's wing tank erupted in white-orange flame, and its nose was spinning end over end and hurtling straight toward her out of an expanding globe of destruction.

Lobo jinked right, trying to avoid the deadly cloud of debris, but she could still hear the sharp ping and pock of fragments striking her wings, fuselage, and canopy. The burning nose section flashed past, seemingly close enough to touch, though it must have missed her by fifty yards. The fire reached out toward her…

… and then she was through, in blue and empty sky once more.

"Right down the throat!" Vader cried from the back seat. "God, Lobo!

That was the gutsiest damn move I've ever seen!"

"Thanks. Shotgun One-three! One-three! This is Shotgun One-four! Do you copy?" There was no immediate answer. Damn! Where was he?

"Vader!" she called. "What's happening out there? Where is everybody?"

"Looks like the other MiGs were killed or they broke off, Lobo. Coyote's rallying Shotgun back behind the Intruders."

"Do you have Slider on your scope?"

"Bearing two-seven-five, range one mile."

She turned her head, searching… there! He was low, so low she'd missed seeing his gray aircraft against the monotonous gray terrain below. He had his wings extended and he was flying slowly toward the west, away from her.

"Shotgun One-three!" she repeated. "One-three! This is Shotgun One-four! Do you copy? Please respond!"

"One-four, this is One-three." Slider's voice sounded shaken.

"Slider! You radioed that you were hit. What's your damage?"

"Starboard engine out. Can't restart. And… Blue Grass's hit. He was screaming for a moment there. He's stopped now, but I can't raise him. I think he was hit pretty bad."

"Okay. Are your controls still working?" She was moving in closer now, watching Slider's Tomcat, a huge, gray spread-winged eagle against the horizon ahead.

"Affirmative. I've moved my wings forward to maintain lift."

"I see you. Hold it steady, Slider. I'm coming up behind your aircraft, on your five and low."

"Rog."

Gently, she eased closer, inspecting the other plane. "I see some damage, Slider. Some holes in your starboard nacelle, about where your intake compressor is, and forward from there. And… looks like three big holes right below your RIO's seat."

"Can you see Blue Grass?"

"I see his helmet. He's slumped over, not moving. He's either unconscious or dead."

"Oh, damn, damn…"

"Okay, Slider. I'll tell you what. You can still fly, so let's nurse your turkey back to the bird farm, okay?"

"I'll never make it, Lobo."

"Damn it, yes, you will! Now bring her around to three-five-zero, nice and easy." She shifted to another frequency. "Shotgun One-one, this is Shotgun One-three!"

"One-one. Go ahead, Lobo."

"My wingman's been shot up pretty bad. One engine out and his RIO's hit.

Permission to escort him back to the Jeff."

There was a brief hesitation. "Okay, Lobo. That's a roger. We splashed three of those MiGs, including your kill, and the others seem to have lost interest. You go ahead and get Slider and Blue Grass back to the boat."

"Roger. We'll be waiting for you with the beer when you get back." She shifted back to the channel she'd been using to talk to Arrenberger. "Okay, Slider. Let's see if you can get a bit more speed out of that thing."

Lieutenant Steve Strickland, Striker, had heard the brief exchange between Coyote and Lobo. His relief at hearing that Chris was all right had left him feeling weak and a little dizzy, enough so that he'd had to check his oxygen-flow panel to make sure his mask was still working.

He had no doubts now. His feelings for Chris Hanson had gone way beyond any merely sexual desire. Sex might have explained his initial attraction for her, that and their shared lust for the exotic and the dangerous that had led them to break the rules in the first place. But now, he knew he loved her, knew that he was going to marry her the moment Jefferson returned to Norfolk.

The thought of anything happening to Chris…

He glanced to his left out of the cockpit. Batman and Malibu were just off his port wing, and beyond them, Brewer and Pogie and C.T. and Junker.

None of them had been involved in that short, sharp dogfight a few moments before, and they were maintaining their position at one thousand feet, between the two White Lightning Intruder flights.

Striker still wasn't sure he knew what he thought about women flying combat jets. He'd always thought of himself as a progressive liberal, and that meant believing implicitly in a woman's right to do anything a man could do, including defend her country. Since he'd begun feeling this way about Chris, though, he'd started questioning the whole idea. Every time he thought of her going down in flames, maybe punching out over the cold, empty sea…

"Shotgun, Shotgun" he heard over his helmet phones. "This is Echo Whiskey Two-one. We've got more aircraft coming off the ground at Ura Guba, at least four new bogies. We're also reading four new contacts at very low altitude, heading in your direction just south of Port Vladimir."

"Copy that, Echo Whiskey Two-one," Coyote replied. "Heads up, Shotgun.

We've got more company coming."

Striker was already checking relative positions on a small map of the northern Kola Peninsula he carried clipped to a pad on his thigh. Two groups of Russian planes, one just a few miles to the west at Ura Guba, the other coming in behind them, from the north. That northern group, the Russian planes at Port Vladimir… they must be heading straight for Chris and Slider.

Chris!…

"Shotgun Two-one, this is Two-two!" he called. "Batman! Those Port Vladimir bogies must be moving to pick off Shotgun One-three and One-four!"

"I hear you, Striker," Batman replied. "Hold your formation."

"But Batman! We've got to-"

"Hold your formation, Striker! If those MiGs are after anyone, it's White Lightning!"

"Hey, Striker," Lieutenant j.g. Ken Barringer called from the back seat.

"Stay frosty, man! She'll be okay!"

"Stuff it, K-Bar!" he snapped back. White Lightning's target, a collection of dockyard facilities along the Kola Inlet, was less than five miles ahead. For one wild moment, he wondered what would happen if he broke formation heading north to cut off those Port Vladimir bandits before they jumped Chris.

Besides, of course, his being court-martialed the moment he got back to the Jefferson.

Batman glanced to his right, trying somehow to read the expression on the face of the masked and helmeted Striker, flying a few feet off his starboard wing. Could he depend on his wingman to stick with him?

"Batman, this is Coyote."

"Batman here. Go ahead."

"Take your flight high and to the north. See if you can pull an end run on those bandits coming in from Ura Guba."

"Roger. Everybody hear that?" One by one, the other three aircraft of Shotgun Two acknowledged. "Okay. Let's make our move. Break!"

The four Tomcats peeled off to the left, rolling onto an intercept course.

Podpolkovnik Yevgenni Averin pulled back on his stick, lifting the MiG smoothly off the runway. Excitement burned in his heart and gut and brain.

Yesterday, when the American air strikes had begun, he'd been furious at the orders his interceptor regiment had received from Kandalaksha, orders requiring them to remain on the ground in carefully hidden revetments, safely camouflaged from the spying senses of Yankee satellites or high-flying reconnaissance aircraft. It had seemed cowardly, hiding like that as bombing strikes and cruise missiles had slammed into military targets from Pechenga to Kandalaksha itself.

He and his men had followed orders, however, obeying the system even if they privately questioned the intelligence of the brass-heavy rear-echelon bastards running this colossal fuckup. Now, though, he realized that there'd been some strategic sense behind those orders after all. Everywhere, all over the Kola Peninsula, aircraft preserved from the general destruction of the past eighteen hours were rising from their airfields. Runways heavily pitted by American cluster munitions and cratering bombs had been hastily repaired during the night, by engineers dragging steel-link mats across the smaller holes, and filling in the larger ones with rubble.

It was like guerrilla warfare, but carried out with the high-tech weapons of modern air combat. American strike planes and their escorts deep inside Russian territory were suddenly being assaulted from all sides, by aircraft appearing out of bases the Americans thought had already been knocked out of action.

He checked his radar. Barely visible through the haze of jamming from enemy EA-6B Prowlers, he could make out several main groups of aircraft to the east, most of them heading toward Polyamyy.

"Volkodav Eight-seven-one," he called. The flight's call sign meant Wolfhound. "Airborne."

Seconds later, detailed vectoring data from Ura Guba air control began feeding through the radio in the "Snoopy" communications cap beneath his helmet.

Striker was sticking with his wingman, holding position on 202's right as Batman lined up with the lead Russian plane coming up from Ura Guba. "Let's take it with a Phoenix, K-Bar!" he told his RIO.

"We've got a lock," K-Bar replied. "Range five miles."

Damned close for an AIM-54C, but American and Russian aircraft would be mixing it up real close in another few moments. He wanted to save his Sidewinders and AMRAAMs for close engagements.

"Fire!"

The heavy Phoenix slid clear of the Tomcat's belly. "Fox three!"

The AIM-54 arced off toward the west, drawing a razor-crisp line of white across the sky.

Moments later, a tiny flash went off against the western horizon, leaving a tiny puff of white smoke. "Hit!" K-Bar shouted, "Splash one MiG!"

But then the remaining MiGs were arrowing in at better than Mach 1.

Contrails scrawled twisted trails across the sky as American and Russian planes joined in a savage dogfight.

"Pull up, C.T. Pull up!"

"I can't shake this guy!"

"Mustang, this is Coyote. Loose goose now. You hit him high, I'll tag him low!"

"One-two! I'm clear! I'm taking the shot!"

"C'mon, Mustang! Help me out here!"

"Break left, C.T.! Fox one!"

"It's comin'… it's comin'…"

"Hit! Splash another Fulcrum!"

Tombstone stood motionless in the unnatural stillness of Jefferson's Air Ops. Closing his eyes as he listened to the radio calls between the Tomcat crews, he could picture the dogfight, the tangling of contrails and machines, of speed and technology and three-dimensional dynamics that Navy aviators called a furball. According to the displays repeated from the Hawkeye orbiting Off Port Vladimir, two MiGs had already died, but at least eight more were now trying to brush past the fighters in an attempt to hit the two White Lightning groups ― six Intruders and two Prowlers.

It was murder, listening to his people fighting for their lives, unable to help.

"On your toes, Lobo!" Vader warned. "I read two bandits coming dead on and climbing. They're after us!"

"Which way?"

"Bearing three-five-three."

Between them and the Jefferson. "One-three, this is One-four. Stay put, Slider. I'm going on ahead, see if I can pop these bozos one."

"Roger that, Lobo. And… uh… thanks. For saving my ass back there."

"Don't mention it, Slider. It's all just part of our courteous and dependable service. Hang on, Vader. I'm going to burner."

Lieutenant Colonel Averin had broken away from the searing aerial dogfight when the MiG flying less than twenty meters off his right side had suddenly exploded in a dazzling flash and a fireball. Poor Yuri… struck down by one of the long-ranged American super-missiles before he'd even had time to acquire a target!

Averin was on the northern fringe of the battle, and as he studied the radar picture, he realized that he had an unprecedented opportunity. Two American aircraft had drawn off toward the north and appeared to be moving toward the sea. At the moment, several MiGs out of Port Vladimir had cut them off and were moving to intercept.

And Averin was in an ideal position to angle in on the Americans' rear, attacking them from the ideal set-up point off their tails while they were concentrating on the Russian forces in front of them.

He studied the images, which grew clearer moment by moment despite the jamming as he drew closer to them.

Yes… definitely two planes, one in the lead, the other trailing, possibly already damaged from the way it was moving. Averin selected one of his short-range R-60 missiles, the infrared homer Western pilots called "Aphid." If he could get close enough, he could send the R-60 right up the Yankee pilot's ass before he even knew he was being hunted.

"Hey, Striker!" K-Bar called. "Got a straggler, pulling off toward the north. Range about ten miles."

Striker stared at his display, trying to interpret the complex weave of moving blips. It looked like the MiGs were boxing Chris and Arrenberger in, with one lone straggler coming in on them from behind.

"Batman, Striker!" he called, going to zone-five burner. "I got a target! I'm in pursuit!"

"Damn it, Striker! Where the hell are you going?"

But Striker wasn't listening. His full concentration was focused on that lone Russian MiG, now eight miles ahead. He selected an AMRAAM and went for a radar lock.

Lock! Averin grinned behind his oxygen mask as he squeezed the firing trigger on his stick, loosing the R-60 heat-seeker from its cradle beneath his wing. The target was still on afterburner and arrowing directly away from him, providing a target he couldn't miss.

The Tomcat slammed toward the north, twin spears of flame roaring from its engines. The air was heavy with moisture, and streamers of mist appeared, streaking aft from both wings.

"Range four miles," Vader warned. "One of 'em's got a radar lock on us."

"Selecting AMRAAM," Lobo replied. "I've got him on my HUD."

"Missile launch! Radar-homing missile is locked onto us!"

"Lock! Tone! Fox one! Now hang on! Breaking right! Hit the chaff!"

As her AMRAAM shrieked toward the north, Chris pulled into a hard, tight turn, dumping clouds of chaff to break the approaching missile's radar lock.

The G-forces built, crushing her down against her seat until she'd come about a full one-eighty and was heading south once more.

"Lobo! Missile incoming, straight ahead!"

"What-"

She didn't have time to react or to analyze. For one fatal instant, she thought that Vader was referring to the radar horner fired by the Port Vladimir MiGs, a missile that was now behind them. As she jinked right, still dumping chaff, she realized that Vader had just picked up another missile, a heat-seeker, arrowing in from the south… now so close she could see it as a black pinpoint silhouetted against its own exhaust, rapidly growing larger.

As she pushed the Tomcat farther into the turn, the new missile slid toward her left shoulder but seemed to be moving much more quickly now, curving slightly to meet her turn, leaping straight toward her cockpit with heart-pounding speed.

"Flares!" she yelled at Vader. "Pop flares!"

"Fox one!"

The AMRAAM streaked toward the Russian MiG, now only three miles ahead… but Striker had already seen the flash of the MiG's missile launch. Shit!

Was he already too late?

Lobo knew it was already too late. Dropping flares, reversing her turn to take her toward the new missile instead of away, she knew there was nothing more she could do. The missile slammed into the Tomcat's left wing close by the engine. There was a shattering explosion, and then half of the F-14 was ablaze and she was tumbling through a dizzying spin, earth alternating with sky in her canopy. Centrifugal force pinned her for a moment against the side of the cockpit, but she was able to grope for the striped ejection ring between her legs.

"Vader!" she called. "Punch out!" There was no answer. "Vader! Eject!

Eject! Eject!"

Then she yanked the ring. The canopy exploded away over her head, and then the rocket motor built into the base of her ejection seat fired, kicking her into a roaring, shrieking hell of wind and noise and flame.