Flame Out

CHAPTER 15

“Torpedo! Torpedo in the water!”

Emelyanov looked up at the call from the sonar operator. The atmosphere in the cramped, red-lit control room had been thick with tension ever since the passive towed sonar array had first detected the passing American aircraft above them. It hadn’t taken the enemy long to begin the hunt, using sonobuoys to send out pings of sound that had echoed through the sub’s steel hull. Nonetheless the captain had counted on more time before the hunters triangulated on the Komsomolets Thilsiskiy. Whoever the American was, he’d been incredibly lucky to spot the boat before Emelyanov’s evasive maneuvers had taken him out of harm’s way.

Too late now to dwell on the question of luck. “Take him to three hundred feet,” Emelyanov snapped. “Fire control, ready decoys.”

“Fifteen degrees down angle on planes.” That was Captain-Lieutenant Yuri Borisovich Shvachko, the submarine’s starpom. The Exec picked up a PA microphone and pressed the switch. “Dive! Dive!”

As the deck began to angle downward Emelyanov swallowed and looked across the control room toward the sonar repeater station. “Sonar, report.”

“Range eight hundred meters, closing,” the sailor at the repeater answered promptly. “Bearing one-one-six. Speed fifty knots”

The Americans had dropped the torpedo almost on top of the sub. Emelyanov didn’t waste time cursing. “Helm, come to course one-one-six. Flank speed!”

“Left full rudder. Increase to flank speed.” The Exec’s voice was cold, level, giving away no hint of emotion or concern. Emelyanov felt a flash of admiration for the way the young officer carried himself. Shvachko knew as well as anyone just how risky the maneuver his captain had just ordered really was. It was a testament to the way he had trained all of his crew, officers and seamen alike.

In theory turning into the enemy torpedo was the most effective defense they had. In the best-case scenario, the torp would hit the sub before it had time to arm. At least they might hope to get past it, buy a few more minutes of safety before it could turn around and use its sonar to reacquire and home in on the sub. But it was still incredibly risky.

“Decoys ready, Captain!” the fire-control officer announced.

“Range five hundred, closing,” the sonar operator added.

Emelyanov’s hands gripped the edge of the chart table of their own accord. He could feel the sweat trickling down his face. He had been through countless exercises in preparation for a moment like this, but the reality was nothing like the simulations or the practice runs against Soviet hunters.

“Four hundred … three-fifty … three hundred …”

“Depth now two-twenty-five meters,” the planesman reported.

There was an inversion layer somewhere around 250 meters beneath the surface, a layer of water where the temperature rose sharply. Thermal variations could distort or block sonar signals, providing a narrow pocket of safety where a sub could disappear from its pursuers for a time. If they could get there, they might be able to break contact.

If …

“Range two-fifty … two hundred …” The ping of the torpedo’s active sonar was growing steadily louder and faster as the range closed.

“Fire decoy!” Emelyanov ordered. “Helm, come to course one-two-five!” Silently, he uttered an old prayer his Ukrainian mother had taught him.

His eyes met Dobrotin’s. He wondered for an instant what the zampolit would think if he knew the captain was seeking solace in the religion still officially rejected by the Communist Party despite all the efforts of the liberal reformers.

Then the torpedo struck.

Tombstone Magruder found it hard to believe that they were involved in a battle. There was none of the excitement, the adrenaline, the feeling of life and death hanging on every move they made that characterized the combats he was used to. The Viking crew was cool, professional, almost matter-of-fact as they waited to see the results of their first attack.

“Torpedo running,” Curtis reported. “Running … sub’s put out a decoy now … Hit!” His voice rose suddenly, cracking with sudden emotion for the first time. “That’s got to be a hit, by God!”

“Get on those sonars, Curtis,” Harrison ordered. “Confirm the kill.”

The S-3B started a long, banking turn, skimming low over the ocean. Magruder scanned the angry waters, looking for some outward sign of the battle. There was something unreal about a fight where you couldn’t even be sure you’d scored a hit. Even when a Phoenix knocked out an enemy plane at a hundred miles’ range, the bogie would disappear from the radar screen. But ASW warfare remained a matter of guesswork, surmise, assumption, from first contact to the very end of the engagement.

He cut his reverie short and pointed. “Down there, Commander,” he said.

Harrison grunted acknowledgment. A froth of bubbles was rising to the surface, along with a few unidentifiable bits of debris. “Not much junk,” the pilot said. “Curtis, what are you getting?”

“Decoy’s obscuring it,” Curtis replied. “But I don’t think the bastard’s out of action yet.”

Submarines customarily carried decoys that simulated a sub’s engine noises to confuse enemy sonars. The decoy dropped by the enemy Victor was still emitting its signal, which made it hard for Curtis to interpret the other noises his passive sonar receivers were picking up. But if he was right, the Russian was still down there, status unknown.

“Don’t worry, Commander,” Harrison said. He seemed to sense Magruder’s train of thought. He gave a wolfish grin. “Down there’s the deep blue sea. We’re the devil. I wouldn’t want to be in that Russkie’s shoes right now!”

Captain First Rank Porfiri Grigorevich Margelov pushed the throttles forward and listened to the roar of the twin Kuznetsov NK-144 turbofan engines with a tiny smile of satisfaction. The Tu-22M’s variable-geometry wings slid further back as the bomber gathered speed. He pulled back on the steering yoke, and the bomber angled upward, clawing for altitude.

“Missile launch! Missile launch!” the copilot shouted in warning. “American air-to-air missiles … AIM-54 type … Reading eight … ten … twelve!”

“Range?” Margelov asked sharply.

“One hundred fifty kilometers.”

Margelov frowned. The American Phoenix was a lethal weapon, capable of striking at targets far from their launch platforms. But it was a mixed blessing for the Americans to be able to open fire from such a long range. The bombers of Strike Mission Burlivyy — Tempestuous — would have plenty of time to react to the launch and get off their own missiles … and the Americans would face a significant time lag before they could engage at closer range with more conventional air-to-air missiles. The Phoenixes might cause heavy damage to the Tu-22Ms, but they weren’t going to stop the attack.

“Range to target?” he asked.

The weapons officer responded quickly. “Four-two-five kilometers, Comrade Captain.”

That put them within range of the American base in Iceland, but only barely. They could afford to wait a few minutes longer.

Margelov switched his radio to the strike mission tactical frequency. “Burlivyy Leader to all aircraft. Prepare for missile launch on my signal.”

The other bombers acknowledged the signal in rigid order as the bombers gained speed and altitude. The copilot called off the range of the approaching Phoenixes in a voice edged with worry. The reputation of the American missiles was enough to shake even the steadiest hand.

“Range six-zero kilometers, closing. Fourteen missiles.”

Over the radio Margelov heard a low-voiced exclamation. “Bojemoi! Picking up another missile launch from American aircraft!”

“Confirmed! Confirmed!” someone else added. “Six missiles incoming … nine … twelve …”

“I have them on our screens,” the copilot agreed. “It looks like two waves of fourteen missiles each. Enough to take all of our planes out of action.”

“Relax, Mikhail Mikhailovich,” Margelov said quietly. “The Americans have good weapons, but they are not infallible.” He checked his altitude and activated the radio again. “Burlivyy Leader to all strike aircraft. Commence missile launches … now!”

He listened to the babble of acknowledgments as the Tu-22M shuddered with the release of one of the two AS-4 air-to-surface missiles. The Badger strike on Keflavik had concentrated on crippling the air defense systems of the base, especially radar installations. This wave of missiles would be directed at more general targets, while each of the missile-equipped Tu-22Ms would hold back one AS-4 to use at closer range … if they could run the gauntlet of the American Phoenixes and whatever aircraft had survived the first attacks over Iceland.

Even more important than delivering another wave of missiles, though, was the protection of the four Tu-22M bombers armed with BETAB antirunway loads. Those were conventional iron bombs slung on racks mounted under the air intakes on each wing. Those weapons would complete the destruction of Keflavik as a functional air base.

Getting those four planes over the target was the crucial thing now, Margelov thought. He reached for the radio, switching channels. “Svirepyy Leader, this is Burlivy Leader. Commence Operation Kutuzov. Repeating, Commence Operation Kutuzov.”

Margelov smiled grimly. It was time the complacent American attitude with regard to their naval air superiority was shattered once and for all. And Operation Kutuzov was designed to do exactly that.

They would soon be entirely too busy to interfere with the bombers.

“Burlivyy Leader, Svirepyy Leader,” Captain Second Rank Sergei Sergeivich Terekhov responded to the call from the Backfire flight. “Orders acknowledged. Commencing breakaway maneuver … now!”

He banked sharply to the left to get the MiG-29D clear of the bombers and turned toward the oncoming American interceptors. Thirteen other MiGs and eight Su-27D fighters followed the plane in a tight formation, skimming less than two hundred meters above the wave tops.

Escort Mission Svirepyy — Ferocious — consisted of attack aircraft from the carrier Soyuz. They had shadowed the bombers for nearly an hour now, flying right down on the deck. The mission planners believed that they might escape detection by the Americans, who would naturally tend to focus on the bombers. If so, the MiG-29s and Su-27s might just take the enemy by surprise.

He hoped so. The plan he had submitted for North Star had involved a considerable risk in this mission, dispatching three of the four available fighter squadrons to escort the Backfires and, with luck, to ambush the Americans. That left only one squadron of Su-27s to provide CAP over Soyuz. With both Royal Norwegian Air Force fighters and planes from the American carrier battle group in range of Soyuz, it must have taken iron nerves for Admiral Khenkin to order the air wing to leave his flagship exposed.

But of course the Norwegians were having enough trouble contesting air superiority against land-based Soviet fighters, and as for the Americans … well, if everything had gone according to plan the Americans would only now be realizing that there were Soviet fighters over the Norwegian Sea. By the time they could hope to organize a strike mission the opportunity would be gone. That had been his reasoning in writing up the operation, but he had never expected Khenkin or Glushko to go along with it.

“Cossack, Cossack, this is Svirepyy Leader,” Terekhov said, switching to the carrier control frequency. “Beginning Operation Kutuzov. Request situation update and instructions.”

“Svirepyy Leader, wait one,” came the reply. The voice belonged to Captain First Rank Glushko. If anything pointed up the critical nature of this operation, it was the air wing commander’s close personal supervision. Normally Glushko didn’t dirty his hands with ordinary day-to-day operations. Terekhov remembered the angry words he had heard in Glushko’s office before the mission briefing. The air wing commander had a lot riding on today’s operation.

“Svirepyy Leader, Cossack,” Glushko’s voice said at last. “Reports from the An-74 indicate additional launches under way from American aircraft carrier. Intentions not yet clear. Be prepared to withdraw on my orders if the enemy is launching a strike on Soyuz. Otherwise proceed with attack as planned.”

“Message understood, Cossack,” Terekhov replied, trying not to betray the uncertainties Glushko’s message had unleashed. If Glushko really was looking for a scapegoat of his own … “Proceeding with attack according to mission profile.”

The possibility of a threat to the carrier could ruin the entire plan. If Terekhov was too deeply involved in the air battle he might not disengage in time to support Soyuz. But if he held back from the fighting here he could be accused of disobedience or even cowardice. It was the kind of dilemma that had scuttled any number of careers before his.

But he couldn’t let doubts about the future keep him from doing his duty now. He pulled back on his stick as he rammed the throttles forward. The MiG-29D streaked skyward, the G-force slamming Terekhov back into his seat. The need for secrecy was past. It was time to let the Americans see what they were up against.

All he could do now was hit hard and hope for the best. The Soviets would have the advantage of striking from ambush and, at least for the moment, superior numbers. He could imagine the surprise the Americans would feel as the sleek fighters appeared on their radar.

That would have to be enough.

“Lancelot, Lancelot, this is Tango Two-fiver. Tracking additional targets. New aircraft on same bearing as Red Raid One, range from your position four-zero November Mikes, angels one point five and climbing. Course is one-five-zero degrees. Designating new targets as Red Raid Two.

“Shit!” Stramaglia cursed. “You see anything, Paddles?”

The RIO was slow replying. “I don’t … Good God! There they are! They just popped onto my screen!”

“That’s a hell of a reception committee,” Batman Wayne commented on the radio. “They must’ve been down on the deck to stay off our radars. Hiding in close to the bombers too.”

“I make it twenty … no, twenty-two aircraft, sir,” Russell reported from the backseat position. “They’re going supersonic.”

“Too small to be more bombers,” another voice chimed in. Stramaglia thought it was Wayne’s RIO, Lieutenant Commander Blake. “Looks like we got us one awesome batch of fighters to play with, compadres.”

“Cut the chatter,” Stramaglia snapped. He was having trouble concentrating with all the talk. “Paddles, what’s the status on the Phoenixes?”

“Still on target, CAG,” Russell answered. “First wave is twenty-five miles from Red Raid One.”

Frowning, Stramaglia knew a moment’s indecision, something he’d never felt in years of Top Gun dogfights. With all of the squadron’s Phoenixes already expended on the Backfires, the American planes would be short of ammunition to meet the new threat. Eight planes with two Sidewinders apiece couldn’t take out all the enemy aircraft, even assuming every missile found its intended target. And dueling with guns, up close and personal, was always chancy … especially against an enemy with plenty of missiles to throw away.

The prudent course would be to call off the pursuit of the Backfires and retire to the vicinity of the battle group, where they could link up with the Hornet squadrons and Jefferson’s Combat Air Patrol planes before risking an engagement.

But there was still a chance those Backfires could turn back and strike the carrier with the missiles they hadn’t fired already. And Soviet Fulcrums, like the American F/A-18 Hornets, were designed as dual-role fighter/attack planes. They couldn’t mount any of the larger Soviet antiship missiles, but they could carry bombs and rockets. Letting them get in close to the battle group was an open invitation to disaster.

Which should he choose? Stramaglia closed his eyes, trying to focus, trying to decide. He had never realized before now just how different life on the front lines was from the simulations at Top Gun. Technically, the experience a pilot racked up at Miramar was superb, and the aviators who came out of the course, the best of the best, really were equipped to squeeze every last ounce of performance out of their machines. But all the technical skill in the world couldn’t prepare a man to make decisions like the one that faced Stramaglia now.

“CAG? CAG, do you copy?” Coyote fought down a queasy feeling in his stomach when Stramaglia didn’t respond to the radio call. “Stinger, this is Coyote. How do you want to take these little red buggers?”

There was a long pause before Stramaglia replied. “Two-oh-one … engage. Engage at will. Hold ‘em ‘til the Hornets get here.” CAG’s voice sounded ragged, like he was nervous … or confused.

Coyote bit his lip. He had been afraid CAG might not be up to this. Now it looked as if his fears had been well-grounded. There was no room for indecision in the fast-paced action of air-to-air combat.

“Roger that, Stinger,” he responded, trying to maintain an outward air of calm. “All right, Vipers, time to earn our pay. Batman, Trapper, you guys go left. Big D, Loon, go right. Tyrone, you stick with me. We’ll go in right up the middle.” He hesitated. “CAG, may I suggest you back us up here unless you have another idea?”

“No, I’m with you and Tyrone.” Stramaglia’s voice sounded a little stronger, a little surer. Maybe he was snapping out of it.

Coyote knew the odds were against them but he’d seen Viper Squadron tackle tough odds before and come out on top. With a little bit of luck they could dish out more punishment than the Soviets were willing to take.

“All right, John-boy, give me the straight dope,” he said over the ICS. “What’ve you got?”

As the RIO started to talk, Coyote thumbed his selector switch to ready a Sidewinder.

The outnumbered American fighters streaked toward the Soviets, ready for battle.