Flame Out

CHAPTER 16

“Damage control!” Emelyanov gripped the intercom mike like a lifeline. Around him the bridge crew was slowly stirring again. The lights flickered a few times before the backup generators came on line. “Report!”

“He is damaged in the engine room. Stern compartments flooded.” The damage-control officer was shouting the report over a confused hubbub of background noise. “We have lost the screw and the towed array. Flooding is contained, but we must get him to the surface.”

The torpedo must have hit just as the sub began to turn away, Emelyanov thought. Had it hit forward, it might have taken the torpedo room. The secondary explosions would probably have finished the sub then and there.

Not that they were in much better shape this way. Staying submerged was a certain death sentence … but surfacing now, with an American sub hunter still in the area, was just as bad.

But if even a few of the men would get off before the Americans destroyed the boat, it would be worth it. Perhaps they would even accept a surrender. In any event Emelyanov was not going to throw lives away in a useless gesture of defiance when there was a chance some of the hands might survive.

“Emergency surface,” he said harshly.

“Surface! Surface!” Captain-Lieutenant Shvachko repeated slowly. The starpom looked dazed but otherwise unhurt. His beefy hand gripped a steel support that had come loose from the chart table, and he was looking at it with a startled expression, as if he didn’t recognize what it was. But his experience and professionalism were still unshaken despite his obvious confusion. “Blow all tanks! Surface!”

“You don’t mean to surrender, Captain?” Dobrotin broke in, sounding groggy. He had hit his head on the chart table in the instant of the torpedo’s impact, and there was a smear of blood on his forehead. The blow hadn’t dimmed the fanatic light in his eyes. “We must fight!”

Emelyanov shrugged. “I invite your suggestions, Comrade Zampolit,” he said reasonably. “Our opponent is an American aircraft, and we cannot reach him. Our propeller is ruined. We cannot escape. And remaining submerged will put an unbearable strain on the hull, which is already weakened. How do you propose that we fight? With Marxist rhetoric perhaps?”

“We are officers of the Red Banner Fleet. Surrender is a betrayal of the Rodina!” Dobrotin took an unsteady step toward him. “You are relieved, Captain.”

“Perhaps the blow to your head has hurt you more than we first thought,” Emelyanov said in the same reasonable tones. He gave a single sharp nod.

Shvachko took a step forward, raising the hand that still gripped the metal support. It slammed down across the back of the zampolit’s head. Dobrotin sagged to the deck. Unconscious or dead, it didn’t really matter. At least he was silent now.

“Idiot,” Emelyanov said. He spat. “Come on, you landsmen, look alive! Surface!” He looked toward the communications shack. “Can you broadcast a surrender, starshina?”

The radioman was the one who had been on duty when the orders came in. Emelyanov remembered his excitement. He shoved the thought from his mind and concentrated on the man’s reply. “Radio is out, Comrade Captain! I cannot trace the fault!”

That meant they would not be able to call off the Americans if they were waiting for the attack boat to surface. The Soviets would have to abandon ship and hope the enemy didn’t attack until the life rafts were clear.

Emelyanov looked across at Shvachko. “Make preparations to abandon ship, Comrade Starpom.” They were the most difficult words he had ever spoken.

The stricken submarine rose through the dark waters slowly, awkwardly. Now he had two enemies to fear … the unseen Americans, and time.

“There she is!” It was the pilot who was pointing this time, and Magruder squinted into the morning sunlight. The submarine broke the surface slowly. Even Tombstone’s untrained eye could pick out the clues to her state — the decks almost awash, the stern lower in the water than the bow, the plume of smoke that poured from a hatch aft of the low, narrow conning tower as someone threw it open and staggered out on the exposed hull. The twisted remnants of a pod mounted on top of the sub’s tail were all that showed of the sub’s stern.

More figures emerged, some carrying bundles. In a matter of seconds the first life rafts were inflating on the deck.

“They’re abandoning!” Magruder said.

“Yeah.” Harrison looked grim. “But we still have to finish the bastard off. No way to tell how bad the damage is …”

“And we can’t afford to leave a Victor III in any state to come after the battle group,” Meade added. “I concur, Skipper.”

The pilot glanced across at Magruder. “You’re the head honcho, Commander.”

Magruder nodded reluctantly. “Do it,” he said. It was hard to give the order. The sub was helpless out there …

But this was war.

“Do it,” he repeated. “Take her out.”

“Torps?” Meade asked.

“Negative,” Harrison told him. “Save ‘em for the ones we can’t get at. Let’s make it a Harpoon this time.”

Though designed primarily for ASW work, the S-3B also mounted Harpoon antiship missiles on pylons below each wing. The AGM-84A antiship missile had proved its mettle in combat from the waters of the Libyan coast to the narrow confines of the Persian Gulf and beyond. Though it was now considered one of America’s most versatile weapons systems, Magruder had only recently learned from his fellow sub-hunters that the Harpoon had originally been conceived as a means of knocking out Soviet Echo-class cruise-missile submarines on the surface. It was ironic that the Harpoon was reverting to that old role again today, though the target was an attack sub this time.

The pilot banked left and began to climb away from the surfaced submarine. Magruder watched the ocean surface recede below them, and thought again of the Russians who would lose their lives. In an air-to-air duel it was a test of skill, courage, and training. Each pilot had a chance to win the victory. This was more like shooting fish in a barrel … the Soviets couldn’t even shoot back.

Next to him Harrison pulled up the cover that shielded the missile firing button. “Harpoon ready,” he said quietly, his voice almost drowned out by the sound of the Viking’s engine. The pilot started another turn, and in seconds the wallowing submarine was visible ahead once more, surrounded by the tiny dots of life rafts attempting to get clear of the vessel.

“Firing,” Harrison said. “Missile away!”

The Harpoon dropped from the right wing pylon, flames kindling from the missile’s tail. It streaked toward the target.

As if in slow motion Magruder saw the missile strike just below the low hump of the conning tower, tearing into the hull with a gout of fire, smoke, and debris. The whole submarine shuddered at the impact. It began to settle into the water.

The Viking skimmed low over the stricken hulk as Meade, Curtis, and Harrison let out whoops of triumph. “One for the King Fishers!” Harrison said with a grin.

“Good shooting, Commander,” Magruder told him. “A nice morning’s hunting!”

Harrison laughed. “The hunt’s only starting, Commander. We’ve got a patrol to finish.”

Over the ICS Meade added, “I’m still not happy about those signals we got at the beginning. The Russkies like to send their attack subs out in teams, Mr. Magruder, and I’m afraid there might be more lurking out here somewhere.”

Tombstone shrugged. “Well, back to the old grind then, I guess,” he said. “I hope the next one’s that easy.”

“That was beginner’s luck, Commander,” Harrison said with a wry smile. “You still haven’t seen a real sub hunt.”

With a sigh, Magruder looked down at his instruments. “What do you want me to do?” he said resignedly. The momentary thrill of the hunt had faded.

He wished, just for a moment, that he could be flying with a Tomcat strapped on and a hot dogfight around him.

“Tyrone, you take the eyeball,” Coyote ordered.

“Two-one-one, eyeball. Roger.” Powers sounded tense as he acknowledged the command, but his Tomcat accelerated smoothly as he maneuvered to take up his assigned position. The “loose deuce” formation preferred by American aviators deployed each pair of F-14s into an “eyeball” and a “shooter.” Powers would move a mile above and a mile and a half ahead of Coyote’s Tomcat, where he would act as a spotter during the critical opening moments of the engagement.

He hoped the kid was up to it. If Powers made another mistake like the one in the Bear encounter, he could land his wingman in serious trouble. And Grant still wasn’t sure if Stramaglia, whose Tomcat was now falling behind 201, could be relied on. CAG’s sluggish reactions were worrying him.

“Two-eight miles to the closest bogie,” John-Boy reported. “They’re still maintaining course and speed. Angels eight now.”

“Launch! Launch! Two-one-one has visual on Flanker launch!” Powers was shouting. He sounded on the ragged edge of panic.

“Confirmed! Confirm two missiles launched!” Cavanaugh, his RIO, was calmer. “Two-one-one, two-five miles.”

“Let’s get in there and mix it up, Vipers!” Coyote said. He pushed the throttles up to Zone-Five afterburner and felt the G-forces pressing him back into his seat.

The American planes had been loaded out for long-range interception, with four Phoenix and two Sidewinder missiles apiece. Now that the Phoenixes were gone, they no longer had a long-range attack option to match the Soviet AA-10 Alamo, a radar-guided missile similar in performance to the U.S. Sparrow. That meant that the Americans would have to press to close range if they were to put up any kind of fight at all.

Meanwhile they’d be running the gauntlet.

“Hold launches! Hold launches!” Terekhov shouted into the radio. “Make your missiles count, you stupid peasant!”

He hadn’t realized how much on edge he was until the words were out. The pilot of the lead Su-27 had let loose two long-range radar-guided missiles, probably without even attempting to get a lock on any of the Americans. Even among the carrier-based elite of Soviet Naval Aviation there was a tendency to let sheer volume of fire replace accuracy.

Terekhov wasn’t going to tolerate that today. They would make every shot count.

“Svirepyy aircraft, spread out and prepare to engage,” he ordered, keeping tighter control over his voice this time. “Pick your targets and bring them down For the Rodina!”

He was gratified to hear the answering calls of “The Rodina!” from the rest of his command. With this force, he would sweep the skies clear of the American flyers.

The threat light on his instrument panel blazed, and Powers felt his blood run cold. “They got lock on me!” he shouted. “Coyote! They’re locking on!”

It was as if all his training and practice counted for nothing. All he could do was stare at the threat indicator. He was going to die.

“Missile launch! Missile launch!” Cavanaugh reported from the backseat. “Multiple launches. Looks like there’s one … two … no, four headed our way. Better run for it, kid.”

He heard the words, but they didn’t mean anything. Powers tried to focus on the voice, tried to figure out what the RIO was trying to tell him.

“Come on, kid!” he heard Cavanaugh’s voice, loud and angry, over the ICS, but it sounded distant, remote. “Damn it, Tyrone, do something! Do something!”

Powers shook his head, trying to get a grip on himself. All at once he was able to react again. He pulled back on the stick and rammed the throttles forward. The sudden acceleration was like a giant fist against his chest. “Hit the chaff, Ears,” he gasped, but Cavanaugh was silent now. The RIO had passed out from the G-force.

One sluggish hand groped for the chaff-dispenser switch, found it. The launcher rattled once, twice as the Tomcat continued its high-speed climb. Blood pounded in his ears, and a red haze obscured his vision.

“Hold on, kid,” Coyote grated. “Hold on.”

The panicky voice of the young Tomcat pilot seemed to echo in his ears, but there wasn’t much he could do to help Powers yet. The nearest Russians were still almost twenty miles away, beyond the range of Coyote’s two AIM-9M Sidewinders. His fighter was already pushing the edge of the performance envelope. No amount of prayer, cursing, or wishful thinking would close the range any faster.

“Tyrone’s climbing,” John-Boy reported. “He’s got two missiles on his tail. Whoa! One’s gone! Still got one on his tail … climbing … climbing … Second one just went off! The kid’s clear!”

“Good dodging, Tyrone!” Coyote called on the radio. “Good dodge! Now get the hell out of there!”

There was no answer for several long seconds, then only a dull “Aye, aye” from Powers. Grant bit his lip. The kid was finding out that a real air battle was a lot different from shooting down a helpless Bear.

The question now was whether the strain of learning that lesson would be too much for him.

“Fifteen miles to nearest bogie,” Nichols reported from the backseat. “Still closing.”

“Target! Target!” That sounded like Batman, flying eyeball on the left side. “Where’s the damned tone?” There was a pause. “Tone! I’ve got tone! I’m taking the shot! Fox two! Fox two!”

“Look out, Batman!” Trapper Martin shouted. “You’ve got a bunch of shit coming your way!”

“Got one!” Batman called, ignoring Martin’s warning. Excited, eager, he sounded ready to take on all of Soviet Naval Aviation by himself. “That’s another kill for the Batman!”

Coyote’s HUD display came alive with targeting symbols. “Two-oh-one, in range,” he said. He banked sharply to the left, trying to line up a shot, but with the two forces closing so fast it was hard to get a target lock.

“Two coming at us,” John-Boy warned.

Coyote nodded. Two planes, no more than dots in the distance, were streaking toward the Tomcat, weaving from side to side, too slippery to nail down. “I’m going to take them down the right side,” he said. “CAG, you copy?”

“Copy,” Stramaglia’s voice answered.

The tiny dots swelled suddenly and flashed past the right side of the fighter. In the instant he could see them clearly he identified them as Su-27 Flankers, long, lean birds with a characteristic goose-necked fuselage that made them look like birds of prey stooping in on their victims. Then they were gone.

Coyote heeled the Tomcat over in a tight right hand turn that stood the fighter on its wing. In seconds he had settled in behind the second Flanker. The Russian bucked and jinked, but Grant clung to him doggedly. “Come on, you bastard, hold still,” he grated. “Come on …”

The lock-on tone sounded loud in his ear and Coyote’s finger tightened … wo!” he shouted. “Fox two!”

The Sidewinder streaked from its launch rail, trailing fire and smoke. Moments later it found its target, slamming into the Su-27’s port engine. Flame engulfed the Flanker.

“Two-oh-one, splash one!” Coyote called.

“Just one?” Batman asked. “Hell, boy, I just got my second. Going to guns now! This might be my chance to finally even up with old Tombstone!”

“Keep on ‘em, Batman,” Coyote said, searching for the second Flanker. He was glad to hear that Wayne was still in the fight, still sounding the same. Batman was older and wiser than he’d been back in the Indian Ocean, but down deep he hadn’t changed that much. Dogfighting was like a game to him, a game he played very, very well.

“Two o’clock, Coyote! Look to your two!” Nichols shouted.

That was the second Sukhoi, climbing fast and trying a tight turn to get behind the Tomcat. Coyote answered with the high yo-yo, matching the Flanker’s turn and pulling back sharply on his stick to lose airspeed and keep from overshooting. An instant later the targeting tone sounded again and he fired his second Sidewinder. The missile struck the Soviet plane’s left wing, sending the Flanker spinning out of control. Coyote caught a glimpse of a blossoming parachute. “Splash two,” he announced. “Two-oh-one, splash two. Come on, John-Boy, find me somebody else to play with!”

“Break left! Break left!” Terekhov screamed the order into the radio. Captain Second Rank Stralbo, commander of the second MiG squadron, had been dodging a team of aggressive American fighters, but somehow one of them had still wound up on Stralbo’s tail. Luckily the American cowboy had already used up his infrared homing missiles. Two long bursts of gunfire hadn’t scored any hits on Stralbo’s MiG as yet, but it was only a matter of time. It was clear that Stralbo was completely outclassed.

Terekhov rolled his plane into position above and behind the American, still shouting for Stralbo to break to the left so he could line up his shot. The targeting diamond centered on the F-14 and turned red, the locking tone sounded in his ear, but Terekhov held his fire. “Roll left, Stralbo!” he bellowed again.

It was as if the American pilot had a charmed life. Just as Stralbo started his turn the Tomcat banked in the opposite direction, as if suddenly aware of the threat. Terekhov stabbed at the firing stud, but too late. He had lost the target, and the missile streaked off into the distance, harmless.

Then his threat indicator lit up.

Turning his head back and forth, he spotted the second F14 angling in from his aft port quarter. He had forgotten the American fighting style, the “loose deuce” that allowed wingmen to cover each other flexibly. Soviet fliers rarely used anything but a tight “welded wing” formation, and it was easy to forget that not all adversaries followed the tactics he had become used to in half a lifetime in the cockpit.

He caught sight of a plume of flame below the Tomcat’s wing. This one still had missiles.

Terekhov wrenched his stick back and shoved his throttles full forward. Acceleration pressed him into his seat as he climbed. Fighting to retain consciousness, he watched his radar through a red haze, saw the blip that was the heat-seeker closing … closing …

In a smooth motion he cut his power with a swift jerk of the throttles and triggered a pair of flares. It was a risky move that could lead to a flame-out or an uncontrolled spin, but by suddenly killing his hot afterburners and throwing out the flares he stood a good chance of defeating the American A-9M.

The missile went off a good hundred meters behind and below him, and he instantly shoved the throttles into the highest afterburner zone and turned sharply toward the American plane.

“It’s getting too damned thick here, Mal,” Batman said. “There’s too many of the bastards!”

The RIO’s reply was all business. “That MiG’s coming down on Trapper! Three o’clock!”

Batman cursed and accelerated into a turn. “This guy’s starting to piss me off,” he commented. The same MiG had spoiled his chances of taking out another Russian a few moments before. The Russkie was good, that much was certain. The guy had dodged Martin’s Sidewinder and then turned to carry the attack back to the Americans.

“Watch him, Trap!” he warned. “I’m on the way!”

“He’s all over me!” the lieutenant responded, sounding worried. “Hurry up, Batman! Hurry up!”

He spotted the two planes, Martin climbing sharply, the Russian matching him move for move. “Lead him this way! Come left! Left!” Then a missile leapt from the MiG’s wing. Martin’s Tomcat was turning, climbing … And then there was nothing left but a fireball.