First Strike

SIXTEEN

Korsov and his flight were cruising at an altitude of 29,000 feet. He kept a close eye on his fuel indicator. In theory, at this altitude, the incoming aircraft should have more than sufficient fuel to reach Bermuda, with even some to spare should they have to delay their landing.

But he’d never planned to engage in a full-on dog fight and have to fight his way into the landing strip and refueling area. No, between Maskiro and his truck-launched weapons and the Americans’ reluctance to risk casualties, it was supposed to be an unopposed landing. Looking at the radar now and the gaggle of American fighters sweeping north along the west side of the island, he knew that would not be the case.

No matter. The mood among his group of aircraft had been growing all day, all of them hyped on adrenaline and itching for a fight. They were fighter pilots, and the drive to see combat was never far from the surface in each of them. Deeper down was the fear, the knowledge that you might not make it, the memory of having seen so many comrades lost in training, stupid accidents, or in combat. But it always happened to someone else, never to you. You would have been smarter at the last second, have made the right choice, have known immediately what to do instead of wasting precious seconds and altitude realizing you were in deep, deep shit.

The tension in the group had eased during the long transit, but now, with the island a fuzzy blur on their radar and the American fighters heading for them, everyone was on edge, itching for a fight. When the warning bowl of the ESM gear sounded, Korsov almost jumped out of his seat. “Where?” he demanded.

“To the west — Tomcats. It’s the AWG-9 system, no doubt,” his backseater said, his voice rushing over the words, talking too fast. “They’re out of range of the trucks — they’re headed for us.”

“Well, what of it? They want a fight, they’ll get one.” The adrenaline was surging through his system now, blanking out any possibilities that there was anything but one logical conclusion to the pending encounter. “How many?”

“Ten — no, sixteen. Maybe more.”

Did they launch the entire fighter complement off the aircraft carrier? No, they wouldn’t have — not and leave the carrier unprotected. There were still the MiGs already on the island to contend with, although they had remained on the ground since they’d landed. Still, just knowing that they were there would keep the aircraft carrier off balance.

“Roger,” he said. “Lenin flight, remained on course, engage at will. Bolshoi flight, follow me.” With that, leader pulled off half of the squadron and ascended, increasing his radar range as well as gaining valuable altitude. Altitude meant safety.

“Lenin flight — do nothing until you have launch indications,” he ordered. “Same thing, Bolshoi flight — if we can get on deck and under the antiair cover, that’s what we’ll do. And if not, well, we’ll wipe the sky clean, won’t we?” Listening to the cheers rattling over the circuit, he could feel the combat lust that filled each cockpit.

He put Bolshoi flight into a long, slow turn to the south, lining up now on the island. He could see it easily from his canopy, a lush, green expanse, its edges trimmed with white. The beaches, he’d heard, were outstanding. Not that he would have a chance to see them. None at first.

But perhaps later. Yes, definitely later. A walk along the beach, barefoot, the sun bleaching my hair, with a piña colada in my hand and a woman — no, two women — with me. They will be — exotic.

And the only thing standing between me and my beach is a few Tomcats.

“Half of them are heading for the deck,” the Hawkeye announced. “They probably intended to do a quick refuel while the other half covers them.”

“Be nice if we could keep that from happening,” Bird Dog said. “And I got just the thing that might persuade them.”

Bird Dog listened to the warnings over international air distress and military air distress, ordering the MiGs to turn away from the island. There was no response to the repeated warnings, each one promising dire consequences and harsher terms. Finally, after the last one, Bird Dog heard Coyote’s voice. “Weapons free. All Russian targets declared hostile. I repeat, weapons free.”

“Tally ho on the lead MiG,” Bird Dog said promptly. “Your dot, RIO,” he said, giving his backseater permission to fire. It was a privilege he normally would have reserved for himself, but he was trying to make amends. “Shaughnessy, take your shot — AMRAAM now. Maybe we’ll scare the little bastards off.”

“Roger. But I get the feeling they came to play, not to run.” As she spoke, an AMRAAM shot out from under her wings, nosed over a bit, then headed straight for the second MiG in the pack.

At the first missile launch, the MiG flight broke formation, scattering into fighting pairs in the same style that the American used. Bird Dog listened as voices called out targets over the circuit. Sixteen Tomcats against twenty MiGs — well, that was close enough to being fair. The AMRAAM would even up their numbers quickly, and they’d polished off the rest of them at their leisure.

He bore in on it, keeping the MiG targeted, hand poised over the weapons selector switch, watching the AMRAAM close in. The MiG knew it was in trouble, and began jinking around the sky, frantic to evade the missile. Finally, two seconds before the missile intersected the fuselage, the canopy blew off and the Russians’ ejection seats shot out at right angles to the plane. Bird Dog watched them floating down to the ocean, glad in some way that they made it out.

“Good kill,” the E-2 said. “You too, Shaughnessy.” Bird Dog moved his pip to the next target.

“MiGs! They’ve got a lock!” his RIO shouted. Bird Dog saw it immediately. He punched out chaff and flares, initiated jamming, and watched as the missile arced down cleanly from above, seeking out the Tomcat 5,000 feet below it. Bird Dog toggled off an AAMRAM at the aggressor.

Korsov snarled as he saw the missile symbols emerging from the Tomcat symbols. “You think that long-range weapons worry me?” he sneered. “I have a little something for you as well.” He pickeled off his own long-range antiair missile, then turned his attention to the countermeasures and maneuvers he would need to evade the American missiles.

The Russian missile was not new technology. The seeker head was reverse-engineered from the American AMRAAM, the missile slightly longer, while the payload remained about the same. This particular warhead contained a net of expanding steel rods that would snag a Tomcat out of the air like a cat dipping into a fish tank. The missile was a bit slower than the AMRAAM but made up for it in endurance. It possesses a retargeting capability as well.

Because of the extended range and retargeting capability, it also possessed the small IFF receiver in the nose. In theory, it could tell friendly aircraft from enemy ones — in theory, at least. He knew that in every operational test so far, the system has proved less reliable than the rest of the missile. He would bet his life on it, but it did provide an additional measure of safety.

The disadvantage to the long-range Russian missiles was that, since it was slightly heavier, the MiG could carry fewer of them. And, like the Hornet counterpart, the MiG packed less overall firepower than one Tomcat. Still, the MiGs were adept at working as small wolf packs and several smaller aircraft could easily bring down any number of larger ones as long as they worked together.

But working together without a GCI, or ground control interceptor, was a relatively new skill for them. Sure, they’d practiced, drilled, and trained for it, but in actual fact, maintaining coordination was only slightly more difficult than getting the IFF to work.

Still, as Korsov tracked the incoming AMRAAM, he saw his own missile was having the desired effect. The American forces below him were already scattering, breaking apart into pairs, some dodging and twisting now trying to evade the missiles homing in on them, others remaining rock steady and launching their own missiles before executing evasive maneuvers.

“Bolshoi flight, engage at will,” Korsov ordered. “Lenin flight will refuel and rejoin on you shortly.”

The SEALs moved west and south, seeking out the next missile launcher location on their chart. The final installation was downwind slightly from the mishap area, a fact that worried Parto somewhat. But, it seemed to be far enough away that the nerve agent might be disbursed before it reach them — or maybe not. They would watch the birds overhead carefully as they approached, assessing the possibility of danger. At this slightly lower altitude, the vegetation was even thicker, and it was almost impossible to move quickly and silently. But there was no time for caution, no time for a careful, invisible survey of the scene, a deliberate approach to maximize their advantage.

Whoever commanded this detachment ran a tight ship. Or perhaps someone had put out a warning, noting that four other truck installations had failed to answer routine security checks. Whatever the reason, there were four men with weapons at the ready, each one intently scanning the jungle around them, alert and ready to act. The SEALs would have to do this one the hard way.

“On my command,” Parto said, his voice barely audible as he spoke into the whisper-mike. “Guard’s first, then the rest of them. Watch the missile.” A series of clicks acknowledged his command.

Right, like I had to tell them that. Not after what Lacar saw.

The guard nearest to Parto was making the classic error of any watchstander. He was clearly assigned to cover a sector of ninety degrees of the jungle, and he had taken to pacing back and forth along his perimeter, falling into a rhythm as he scanned the jungle for intruders.

Suddenly, the radio slung on one man’s hip blared to life. Parto could make out words, but he couldn’t tell what they were saying. It sounded like Russian — he crept closer, hoping to be able to make out the orders.

“—launch now—” was the only phrase he was able to decipher. That alone was enough to make his blood run cold.

They would have to move in, and move in now. If there was a launch order, then there was no time to waste.

Parto waited until the man was as close to him as possible, and whispered, “Now!”

Before he could finish the word, gunfire crackled in the jungle. Parto fired himself, bringing down his man with a short burst of three rounds. The SEALs charged forward, weapons at the ready, to the very edge of the camp.

The Russian team was panicking, but panicking with a purpose. Everyone had a weapon drawn, and they were formed up in three small clusters, their backs to each other as they covered all angles of approach. One brave soldier scrambled to the control panel and was frantically typing, glancing over his shoulder as he did. The missile launcher started to move. It was already completely extended. A second round of gunfire rang out and the three clusters of men dropped. They were firing as they died, the shots going randomly to the jungle. But a random shot could kill you just as easily as a well-aimed one. Leahy hit the ground, sighted in on the man standing at the console, then put one round through his lower back, hoping that it didn’t ricochet up into the missile.

It didn’t. But before he died, the man had evidently completed his task. As Parto’s last shot rang out, the missiles belched fire from its ass. A second later, it rattled off the rails, vaulted through the gap in the canopy overhead, and arrowed out into the blue sky.

Lacar fired at it as it came off the rails, hoping against hope to hit it, knowing that if he did he may have killed them all. But it launched untouched, and for a moment he wondered whether some subconscious instinct of self-preservation had skewed his aim. But sometimes lousy shooting was just lousy shooting.

“They got it off!” Lacar said, as he pointed up at the sky. He followed with a string of curses, as any of them were prone to do when they failed to do the impossible.

“But six others didn’t,” Parto pointed out.

All across the island, missiles were boiling up out of the green hills, gleaming white and shining against the deep blue sky. They were visible for only a few moments before they were out of range. “Could be more,” one said, and Parto wasn’t sure whether he meant that they could have eliminated more, or that there could be more launched. Either way, it didn’t matter. Their window of opportunity was over.

“Come on, let’s get out of here,” Parto said. “We’ve got things to do.”