Flame Out

CHAPTER 13

They called it the “Dirty Shirt Wardroom” because it was the officers’ mess hall set aside for informal meals, where an officer could eat without changing from his work clothes into the regular uniform of the day. Lieutenant Roger Bannon felt conspicuous in his neatly pressed khakis as he hunted for a place to sit with his breakfast tray. His neat uniform was an unhappy reminder of his new duties, and he felt as if every eye was on him and every tongue was wagging with the story of the crash and his decision to give up flying.

An aviator who lost it, who couldn’t go back up again, became a pariah among his peers, and the center of gossip for half the carrier. Bannon suppressed a shudder as he found a chair. It was hard to face the crowded corridors aboard Jefferson with the specter of failure forever before him.

Probably the crash was forgotten, and outside of his own squadron no one had even noted Bannon’s decision. The half-dozen officers from the Air Department at the next table, still wearing their motley array of colored jerseys that identified their individual duties and roles on the flight deck, were no doubt entirely preoccupied with the increased tempo of operations that had kept them busy ever since CAG had ordered the higher state of readiness for Jefferson’s extra fighter contingent. They looked too tired from duty to be interested in Roger Bannon’s sins.

But that thought wasn’t even comforting. It only intensified his feelings of guilt. When he had taken Commander Magruder’s advice and asked for some time off flight status, CAG had posted him to duty as an aide in the Air Wing office, a job that consisted of little more than running errands and pouring coffee for the regular staff officers. So now, while the rest of the carrier was bracing for the confrontation everyone knew was coming with the Soviets, it was as if he was taking a vacation from his duty.

Yet the thought of climbing back into the cockpit of his Intruder still gave him the shakes. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to fly again without reliving the horrors of the crash and the guilt of losing Commander Greene.

He took a sip of coffee and tried to consider his future objectively. If he turned in his wings and walked away he would have to live with the knowledge of failure for the rest of his life. They probably wouldn’t even let him stay on board Jefferson longer than they absolutely had to. It was never considered wise to keep a failed aviator on his old ship. Short of resigning his commission and looking for a civilian pilot’s job, he might never fly again.

And yet flying was all he had ever wanted to do. As a boy he’d hoped to earn his wings and then look for a shot at astronaut training, but once he’d been in the cockpit it was enough just to be in the air, in control, free of the restrictions of an earthbound existence. Until he’d run up against the Deputy CAG and lost his confidence, Bannon had been in love with flying, and even Jolly Green’s criticism hadn’t been enough to dampen his enthusiasm for his chosen life.

That had only come after the criticism had stopped forever. After Greene’s death.

He shook his head slowly and stared down at his cup. He would have to face his fears again if he was ever going to be whole … but he didn’t know if he had that kind of courage inside him.

Then the blare of the klaxon jerked him out of his reverie. “Now hear this! Now hear this! Battle stations! Battle stations! All hands to battle stations. That is, battle stations! This is not a drill!”

His battle station was in the Air Ops module of CIC, with CAG. Bannon pushed back his chair and stood, gulping the rest of his coffee. Then he was caught in the swirling mob of men rushing from the wardroom.

Thoughts of the future would have to wait.

“We just got an update in from SOSUS Control, sir. Feeding in the new info now.” The AW/2 looked too young to be in the Navy, but he knew his job. Lieutenant Eric Nelson leaned forward to study the electronic display map as new contacts appeared.

“I don’t like the looks of these,” he said softly. “Rodriguez, what’ve you got on this contact?” He used his keyboard to highlight one of the symbols.

AW/2 Carlos Rodriguez checked his own terminal before replying. “Victor III,” he said. “The SOSUS trace reported it was probably diving and increasing speed as it was picked up.” He paused. “The triangulation isn’t real accurate, sir. That could mean more than one contact, or it could just be bad conditions.”

“Could be …” Nelson shook his head. “‘Could be’ could get us killed. This guy’s not that far away. How’d the sub-hunters miss him?”

The Hispanic sailor shrugged. “He’s probably been laying low, sir. Running on minimal power and waiting.”

“Well, he’s not waiting now.” Nelson picked up a handset. “Get me the Air Ops module.” He masked the phone with one hand. “Rodriguez, make sure this gets passed on to the rest of the battle group pronto. Especially Gridley. She’s closest.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Air Ops,” Stramaglia growled into the batphone. “CAG speaking.”

“This is Nelson in ASW. I’ve got at least one SOSUS sub contact two hundred thirty miles north-northwest. Possibly multiple contacts. I think you’d better check it out.”

“All right. I’ll get on it as soon as I can. We’ve got some other problems to get to first.” He slammed down the handset and turned to study the map. “Any change, Howard?”

Radarman Second Class David Howard shook his head. “No, sir. Still reading twenty aircraft. Same course and speed as before.”

That was the other problem, and right now it loomed higher on Stramaglia’s list of concerns than the sub contact Nelson had reported. They had appeared on Tango Six-five’s radar screens a few minutes earlier, flying at low altitude and on a course that could only have brought them from one of the Soviet air bases in the Kola Peninsula. Launching during a window when there were no U.S. spy satellites overhead, they had very nearly taken the battle group by surprise.

But their course, so far, wasn’t bringing them directly toward the carrier. They had been curving west and south, parallel to the Norwegian coast. That could mean they were going after a target in Norway.

Or it might be that the Russians weren’t sure of the exact location of the Jefferson. Stramaglia couldn’t be sure but he wasn’t planning on taking any chances.

At that moment the screen came alive with new symbols, three-letter ID codes next to each of the dots representing an enemy plane. BKF … that meant Tu-22Ms, Backfires in NATO’s B-for-bomber code. They were a powerful threat to the Jefferson.

Stramaglia drummed his fingers on the console, frowning as he stared at the moving symbols on the screen. Viper Squadron was on Alert Fifteen this morning, and he’d ordered them to start launching as soon as the bombers had first appeared. The Tomcats were ideal for this situation. Their Phoenix missiles were designed to knock out Soviet cruise missiles as well as the bombers themselves, and if those Badgers really were searching for the Jefferson Viper Squadron might just turn the tide.

He found himself wishing the other Tomcat squadron, the War Eagles of VF-97, had drawn this watch. Stramaglia wasn’t sure how much he trusted some of those hotheads in Grant’s outfit.

Probably the War Eagles were no better. They needed a tight rein to keep them in check, though, and with Magruder already out on a Viking sub hunt, that left Stramaglia with very few options. It went against the grain to leave CIC at a time like this, but he might just be able to show the youngsters what a real Tomcat pilot could do.

“What’s the word on the flight deck?” he asked Bannon, who was hovering nearby.

The Intruder pilot looked up, holding a hand over the batphone to answer him. “Three planes are up, CAG, and already starting to refuel. The Boss says he’ll have four more up in the next five minutes if he has to go out there and throw them off the deck himself!”

That brought laughs to the men in the Air Ops module, but Stramaglia didn’t even smile. This was the kind of situation every carrier officer dreaded, with the battle group sitting exposed to a massive strike by Russian bombers armed with stand-off weapons.

On the screen the lines showing the Backfire flight paths were altering. The bombers were changing course, driving west now away from the Norwegian coast. They were still well to the north of the carrier battle group, but if they turned again they would be in range in no time.

“Tell the Boss to ready the double-nuts bird too,” he ordered. “And find me an RIO. I’m going up with them!” He stood up, looking across at Bannon. “Call Owens to relieve me here, Mr. Bannon. And pass on the SOSUS info to Magruder in 704. Let’s get moving, people!”

He looked down at the screen again and prayed they wouldn’t be too late.

“Snowman, Snowman, this is Watchdog. Snowman, this is Watchdog. Respond, please. Over.” The radio voice was heavily spiked with static, but even through the distortion Major Peter Kelso could hear a note of desperation.

“Watchdog, Snowman. Can you boost your signal, over?” Kelso replied. Watchdog was an orbiting E-3A AWACS Cape Straumnes on the northern coast of Iceland. There shouldn’t have been that much static.

“Snowman, this is Watchdog. We’re already on maximum. Heavy jamming on radar and radio. Repeat, heavy jamming on radar and radio. Do you copy, Snowman?”

“Roger, Watchdog,” Kelso told him. “Do you have any radar contacts? Over.”

“Cannot confirm … Wait one! Wait one!” There was a long pause before the message resumed. “Snowman, Watchdog. Flash priority, Warning Red. We have multiple contacts. Multiple contacts! Zombies are inbound, repeat zombies inbound bearing between zero-zero-zero and zero-one-zero. Range is two-five-zero November Mikes. Angels two. Speed is four-five-zero.” The E-3 crewman paused again. “Snowman, we now make at least twenty-four zombies inbound, maybe more. Radar interference makes count unreliable. Over.”

Kelso read back the figures for confirmation even as his hand moved to hit the button that sounded the alert. Klaxons began to blare around him.

This was the situation Keflavik had rehearsed for thousands of times in the past. But this time it was real.

Through the windows overlooking the base Kelso could see men in motion on the field, pilots racing for their F-15 interceptors and ground crewmen hastening through their paces in an effort to get the planes aloft. Activity inside Air Ops had intensified as well, as controllers took their positions and started trying to find order in the middle of chaos.

“Watchdog, do you have an India Delta on the zombies? Over.”

“Snowman, our best estimate is Badgers, repeat best estimate is Tango Uniform One-sixers.” Kelso nodded at the words. The Tu-16 family of Soviet aircraft, “Badger” in the NATO lexicon, dated back to the same era as the ubiquitous Bears. The turbojet bomber had been adapted to a wide variety of functions, from missile carrier to ECM platform, recon aircraft to tanker.

Recon planes and tankers didn’t travel in packs of twenty or more. Each one of those Badgers could carry a pair of air-to-surface missiles and a conventional bomb load as well, more than enough to ruin all four of Keflavik’s runways.

Outside an F-15 screamed past the windows as it took off. The 57th Fighter Interceptor Squadron, the “Black Knights,” was the only line of defense for the base. There were six Eagles already airborne, and twelve more in reserve. If they couldn’t stop the Badgers …

At least they hadn’t used Backfires. The Tu-22 was a supersonic bomber, far more capable than the antiquated Badger.

“Major!” An enlisted communications man looked up from his console. “Message from CBG-14. They are tracking twenty Backfires over the Norwegian Sea. Target uncertain. Could be the battle group-“

“Or us,” Kelso finished. His mouth was dry. The Russians weren’t fooling around. He raised his voice. “Radio CINCLANT that we’re under attack. And get every bird airborne … the Orions and those two transports too. I don’t want anything on the ground when those bastards start shooting!”

“We have been detected, Comrade Lieutenant.”

Lieutenant Stanislav Dzhiorovich Meretskov gave a curt acknowledgment to the report from the commander of the reconnaissance aircraft. The planes of Strike Mission Thunderous — Gremyashchiy — had flown in low to avoid detection for as long as possible, but it had been certain from the start that the American AWACS would spot them far out in the waters north of Iceland. Even the jamming from the Tu-16J accompanying the strike mission had only bought them a few extra minutes.

But it was all part of the mission profile. Now that the enemy was tracking them, it was time to press home the attack.

“Gremyashchiy Leader to all aircraft,” Meretskov announced. “Proceed with attack run.”

He pulled back on the yoke and increased speed, and the bomber began to climb. A low altitude was best for dodging enemy radars, but the optimum altitude for a missile launch was eleven thousand meters. The Tu-16G angled sharply upward, clawing for altitude.

“An American plane approaching from the southeast, Comrade Lieutenant,” his copilot reported. “F-15 interceptor at Mach two point five, altitude eight thousand meters, range thirty kilometers, closing.”

“Ready countermeasures,” Meretskov ordered. He checked his instrument panel. They were still climbing, past nine thousand meters … 9500 …

“Radar lock! They have radar lock!” someone shouted. “They are firing!”

“Chaff!”

“Chaff released, Comrade Lieutenant,” the copilot replied. The cloud of metallic strips would distort the American radar lock, and hopefully carry the enemy missile off course.

Ten thousand meters …

“Weapons officer,” Meretskov said. “Stand by.”

“Second F-15 coming into range,” the copilot warned.

“Fire missiles!”

The aircraft shuddered as the first AS-6 missile dropped from the left wing pylon. Flame leapt from the rocket motor and the missile streaked ahead. A moment later the second missile followed. As Meretskov started a banking turn he saw both missiles rising according to their flight profile. They would reach eighteen thousand meters and a cruise speed of Mach three before locking on to radar emissions from the enemy base and diving toward their targets. More missiles raced south as the rest of the bombers released their loads.

Their mission was accomplished. In minutes the defenses at Keflavik would be overwhelmed by the onslaught Of forty radar-homing missiles. The enemy would be blind … and at the mercy of the follow-up strike already on the way.

He enjoyed his satisfied smile for less than thirty seconds before the first American missile slammed into the Tu-16G.

“Fox one! Fox one!” The voice on the radio was wild with excitement. “Whoo-ee! Talk about a target-rich environment!”

Captain Frank Gates pulled the trigger to launch another Sparrow as he replied. “Never mind the commentary, Tarzan. Just nail the bastards while they’re in range.”

He checked his fuel and shook his head slowly. Gates and his wingman, Lieutenant John Burroughs, had been on station with the AWACS over northern Iceland, and they had been near the end of their patrol when the enemy bombers had first appeared. They had been the two best-placed Eagles to mount an intercept, but their fuel state wouldn’t allow them to engage for long. Pursuit was out of the question … and by the time the rest of the Black Knights made it to the threatened sector this batch of enemies would be long gone.

But the Russians had left a calling card Keflavik couldn’t ignore.

He switched frequencies on the radio. “Snowman, Snowman, this is Echo Leader. We are engaging. Badgers have released missiles. Repeat, missiles released by Badgers. Estimate thirty-five-plus Kingfish inbound to you.”

“Roger that, Echo Leader,” a controller back at Keflavik replied. He sounded remarkably calm for a man who was about to be on the receiving end of that much Soviet ordnance. Each AS-6 Kingfish missile carried a thousand kilograms of conventional explosives or a 350kiloton nuclear warhead.

He didn’t think the Russians would be using nukes … not yet. But conventional warheads would be bad enough.

He checked his fuel again and switched back to the tactical channel. “Tarzan, I’m on bingo fuel now. We’ve got to break it off and look for a gas station, man.”

“Fox one! Fox one!” Burroughs said as he fired again. “That was my last Sparrow anyway, Crasher. Damn! We could’ve taught those Commies a real lesson if we’d had some more avgas.”

“Never mind, son,” Gates said. “They’ll be back. I guarantee!”

The Russians would be back … if there was anything left of the American air base after this attack.