First Strike

NINETEEN

Infuriated, Korsov watched the rest of his flight head toward the island. So, they would obey Maskiro rather than him, would they? Well, that would be their undoing.

Korsov had no illusions about being able to permanently hold out against the Americans. Indeed, he was willing to sacrifice a certain percentage of his forces — a large percentage — for the eventual victory. As long as they could hold off the Americans for a while, the Americans would soon have other worries besides Bermuda. With the missiles in flight now, it was simply a matter of time until they could consolidate their position on Bermuda unopposed.

Korsov had prepared for the possibility of a temporary defeat. Maskiro had not.

Somewhere, approximately 400 miles to the south, there was an AGI, a Russian fishing boat. For decades the AGIs had patrolled off the coast of the United States, yes, indeed fishing, while they performed other missions as well. Their superstructures bristled with antennas, far more than one would expect on a simple fishing boat. And, inside, half of the upper deck contained electronics and interception devices. Yes, the AGIs knew these waters well, and would respond immediately to his emergency distress beacon.

Korsov did not consider himself a coward, although to many running away from the fight would appear to be exactly that. He thought of his invasion plans in terms of the larger picture. He was the one with the vision, the determination to restore Russia to her rightful place in the world. It was essential that he survive. And, to that end, this was the entirely necessary and logical course of action to conclude the Bermuda operation.

He estimated that it might take as long as a week for the Americans to completely abandon their attack on Bermuda and turn their attention back to their own mainland. Korsov was prepared to wait them out, counting on Maskiro to keep any other aircraft from landing for just a few days. After that, the Americans would have already embargoed Bermuda.

He switched the radio transponder over to the preassigned frequency, and contacted the AGI. The master answered immediately, his voice uneasy. He hadn’t been told of all the details — it had not been necessary. But by now he would have some clue as to what was happening, both over the military channels he had access to and local radio reports.

Fine, it made no difference at all. The master would still do his duty and retrieve Korsov from the sea.

And then it would begin again.

“They’re running,” Bird Dog yelled, glee in his voice. “Couldn’t take the heat, could you?”

“And just where are they running to?” Shaughnessy’s tart voice asked. “You think they’re planning on heading out to open ocean and ejecting? Because I have to tell you, Bird Dog, I find that pretty improbable. They’re heading for the island to refuel, and I for one would very much not like that to happen.”

“Where the hell are you?” Bird Dog demanded, a cold feeling starting in his gut. Surely she wouldn’t try to take on half a squadron of MiGs on her own? “I don’t have you in the LINK.”

“Neither do I,” the Hawkeye confirmed. “She’s not breaking mode four.”

“Shaughnessy, you are RTB — I repeat, RTB. Your mode four is down, sweetheart, and I don’t want to take the chance that you—”

“I’m not breaking because I secured my IFF,” Shaughnessy’s calm voice replied. “I’m due south of you, eight miles off the coast — pretending to be a Cessna.”

Bird Dog’s jaw dropped. “You’re my wingman,” he shouted. “What the hell—?”

“Oh, but you don’t need a wingman, do you? Or, at least that was the impression I got in the ready room.”

“I don’t. But that doesn’t mean you can take off on your own and secure your IFF,” Bird Dog shot back. “Dammit, Shaughnessy, you turn that gear back on and get back up here. You know that what you’re doing is—”

“Intercepting them before they can turn back to the island?” she finished for him, her voice sharp. “Maybe if you’d been less worried about the chase and more focused on the eventual objective, you might have noticed what they were doing. I tried to tell you, but you didn’t want listen. So I came out here to handle it myself.”

By then, Bird Dog had turned south, kicked in the afterburner, and was heading buster for his errant wingman. One look at his HUD showed that every member of the flight was doing the same.

Her tail number flashed on his HUD, indicating she had turned her IFF back on. “Catch me if you can,” Shaughnessy said.

War was a hard business. There were always casualties. The trick was to pile up more on the other side than on your own.

Somewhere along the way, Korsov’s original dream of a Russian resettlement of America had gradually transformed itself into a victory of a more personal nature for Maskiro. Certainly, the glory of Russia remained the most important consideration. Of course it did.

Didn’t it?

Yes, of course. Maskiro ran a finger around his collar, wondering if the launch of the special weapons had somehow tainted his own air. He felt odd, disoriented. So much had gone wrong.

Of the twenty MiGs comprising the second flight, only eleven remained. And, of that eleven, ten were flat out running for the island, all at 3,000 feet. Their fuel consumption at that altitude was brutal due to the drag of the denser, thicker air. Only the tail-end aircraft was still above 3,000 feet, and he was descending rapidly. But he’d started too late, and the geometry wasn’t going to cut him any breaks.

If I don’t act now, the American aircraft will be within weapons release range. If they’re carrying ground attack missiles, everything is lost. If the missile discriminator IFF is ever going to work, it has to work now.

Knowing he had the Aegis to deal with and that he might be signing the last MiG’s death warrant, Maskiro ordered all the remaining antiair batteries to open fire on the Americans.