Flame Out

CHAPTER 17

“They got Trapper! Trapper’s hit!”

Coyote heard the edge in Batman’s voice. Wayne had already fired both Sidewinders, so he was down to nothing but guns … and now his wingman had been hit. “Get the hell out of there, Batman!” he called. “Disengage! Disengage!”

“No can do, man,” Batman replied, sounding calmer now, grim and determined. “They’d be all over me if I tried.”

“We’ll get you some support.” Grant cursed under his breath. Powers was still clear of the fighting after his first brush with Russian missiles, but he hadn’t made much of an effort to get back into the game, and Coyote wasn’t about to depend on him for anything. That left it to Grant … or to Stramaglia. “CAG … can you give Batman some backup?”

There was a moment’s pause. “On my way,” Stramaglia said at last, sounding more animated than before. On the radar monitor the blip that represented the double-nuts bird was already angling to the left.

Coyote let out a sigh and hoped he’d done the right thing. But he couldn’t waste time on the might-have-beens. For good or ill the choice was made, and he had a battle to fight.

Terekhov heard exultant shouts over his radio and smiled. It was strictly against regulations for pilots to clutter up the communications channels with useless noise, but he wasn’t about to reprimand anyone. The sight of the American fighter engulfed by his missile’s fireball had given him the same feeling of elation. The plan was working. The Americans had fallen into the trap and this time they would be defeated.

“Svirepyy Leader, this is Cossack,” Captain First Rank Glushko’s voice grated over the radio. “The An-74 now reports ten more American planes in the air. We cannot afford to continue to leave Soyuz uncovered. Cancel Operation Kutuzov and return to base. Repeat, return to base!”

“Nyet!” Terekhov muttered under his breath. They were so close to making this work. One enemy plane destroyed … six to go. And not all of them were flying aggressively enough to press in close and use the short-range firepower that was all any of them had left. To turn back now when they had the opportunity to defeat these Americans in detail was worse than foolish. It was suicide. The best way to guarantee that the Americans would keep their distance from the fighting in Norway was to cripple their combat power here and now. With the bombers taking out Keflavik and a large chunk of their carrier air wing crippled, they would be stymied for the critical weeks it would take to finish off the Norwegian resistance. Then the Rodina could consolidate her gains with little hope of a Western counterattack.

Didn’t Glushko realize that the Americans couldn’t possibly be planning an attack on the carrier? It took time to plan a strike mission, arm attack aircraft, brief pilots … such an effort couldn’t be mounted in the short time since the first strike on Keflavik. Even if the Americans had been foolish enough to keep fully armed strike aircraft ready on the flight line just in case they might be needed — an there was no way anyone would do something that dangerous except in the direst emergency — the reaction time was just too short. These were fighters, kept on a high state of alert, being dispatched to shore up the weak squadron facing Terekhov now. That was the only possible explanation.

He reached for the radio mike. “Cossack, Cossack, this is Svirepyy Leader. We cannot break off now! The enemy is running low on ammunition. We can sweep the sky if you just give us a few more minutes!”

There was a long pause on the other end. Terekhov could imagine Glushko’s dilemma. It was easy enough to say that those couldn’t be attack planes on their way to hit Soyuz … but suppose they were? If Glushko abandoned the operation entirely he would be throwing away the best hope of victory. But if he gambled with the survival of the carrier and lost it would be a disaster. Would the air wing’s commander pass the decision to higher authority, or would he make the choice himself in hopes of restoring his sagging credit with the admiral?

At last Glushko replied. “Detach the Sukhoi squadron,” he ordered. “They will return to cover the carrier. Your MiGs may remain, and do what further damage you can.”

It was a compromise … and like most compromises it was a poor one. Even without the Sukhois Terekhov could probably defeat these Americans easily enough, but if those planes really were reinforcements they would catch his squadron in the same relative state as he had caught the Tomcats — low on ammo, perhaps on fuel, and unable to risk a prolonged engagement.

But he knew it was the best Glushko was likely to offer. Best to continue the fight with whatever the air wing commander would leave him rather than risk an unequivocal recall order. “Acknowledged, Cossack,” he said. As he switched frequencies he allowed himself a grim smile. His own enthusiasm for continuing the battle would fit in nicely with Glushko’s private agenda. Leaving Terekhov with reduced numbers to finish the dogfight was the best way to get rid of a troublesome subordinate.

He switched frequencies and passed the word to the other planes, encouraging his MiG pilots to redouble their attack and cover the withdrawal. Then Terekhov checked his instruments and scanned the horizon, seeking out a foe of his own.

The American pilot with the charmed life was making an impossibly tight turn off to the left, trying to launch another attack on Terekhov. That one, at least, wasn’t shy about joining battle, even though he had no missiles showing below his wings and must be running low on cannon rounds by now. It was almost a shame to think of shooting the man down. He was a warrior, a modern knight, like one of the Order of the Round Table that had followed King Vladimir.

Terekhov pushed the thought from his mind. There was no room for mercy today.

In a sudden decision Terekhov jerked his stick hard over and swung the MiG around in pursuit of the American. His enemy weaved from side to side, like a fish on the hook, but Terekhov clung to his prey with grim determination.

Then the reticule centered on the Tomcat and flashed red. The tone sounded in his ear as the heat-seeker locked on.

“Now I have you,” Terekhov said aloud, finger tightening on the trigger. This time his prey would not escape him.

Batman knew something was wrong even before Malibu’s shout came over the ICS. “Incoming! One missile … two! They’re coming right up the tail pipe!”

“Hold tight, buddy!” Batman shouted, ramming the throttles forward and pulling back on his stick. “Nap time!”

Acceleration pressed against his chest, and a red haze obscured the HUD in front of him. Batman could hardly move against the powerful G-force, but somehow his hand groped its way to the flare-dispenser panel.

With a grunt, he cut the throttles back and released three flares in quick succession, rolling left at the same time. For an instant the Tomcat hung inverted at the top of its climb, with the cold gray waters of the Atlantic spread out far below.

The two missiles went off in rapid succession behind and below the F14, decoyed by the hot-burning flares. “Not this time, you bastard,” Batman said, letting gravity help the fighter complete its loop and advancing the throttles back to the zone-five afterburner setting. The Tomcat’s engines growled at the punishment, but responded.

“Ho, Malibu,” he said, still gasping from the effects of the hard climb. “Let’s go, man! Reveille! The taxpayers ain’t paying for you to sleep through the battle!”

Even though they were outnumbered, the Americans had to keep the initiative, and that meant attacking whenever they could. That would break the rhythm of the battle, throw the Russians off their stride. Once they could control the tempo of the fighting, the battle would be over.

Wayne’s Tomcat stooped down into the aerial battlefield once more, seeking out a new victim.

“Some of the Russkies are breaking off! Some of them are running, fer Chrissakes!”

Terry Powers didn’t know who had called out the news, but he could see the Russian planes breaking away on his radar screen. The sight of those blips turning away helped steady his shattered nerves, and he slowly became aware of Cavanaugh’s voice raging at him over the ICS. His hand was locked in a painfully tight grip around the joystick, but as he forced himself to relax it started to shake uncontrollably.

“Come on, you bastard! Get in the game! What the hell do you think you’re doing? Snap out of it, kid, and get in there before any more of my buddies buy it!”

In his daze he had been flying blind, running without even realizing it, and the Tomcat had left the fight a long way behind. Shaking his head from side to side to try to clear it, Powers gritted his teeth and banked left.

He had allowed himself to give in to panic, and that was something he could never atone for. But Cavanaugh was right. They had to get back into the battle. Even if he had to die today, Powers would die fighting. The alternative — living with the knowledge of having turned his back on the others when they needed him — was unthinkable.

“All right, all right, Ears,” he said, his voice quavering. “I’m taking us back in! Now shut up and find us a target!”

He pushed the throttle all the way forward, and his hand only shook a little bit.

“Two bogies, three o’clock! Watch ‘em, Coyote, they’re closing fast.”

Grant glanced to the right at John-Boy’s warning and saw the two MiGs streaking toward them, flying wing-to-wing. He stiffened as the threat receiver shrilled a warning.

“They’re locking on!” John-Boy called unnecessarily.

“Tell me something I don’t know!” Coyote shot back, jerking the stick hard to the right to turn into the two attackers.

The enemy planes crossed behind the Tomcat at a sharp angle, the radar lock momentarily broken. Coyote looked back again over his left shoulder in time to see the lead MiG starting to match his right bank. The second Russian aircraft was slipping to the outside of the turn, reacting slowly to the change or more concerned with guarding his wingman’s tail than he was with maintaining the tight formation.

The tone sounded a second time as the lead MiG lined up again, and this time Coyote swung sharply back to the left. His finger tightened on the trigger on his joystick as the Tomcat’s nose swept past the trailing MiG, but there was no apparent effect. Guns were chancy at best except at very close range, despite their popularity with Hollywood filmmakers. But with both his Sidewinders expended the M-61A1 20-mm cannon was the only firepower he had to work with.

“Goddamn!” Lieutenant Commander Sheridan swore. “They got Loon and the Saint! No chutes. I don’t see any chutes …”

Another Tomcat gone. Lieutenant Adam Baird, “Loon,” had been planning to marry his girl after this cruise was over. Now he never would. Coyote hadn’t seen much of Whitman, who’d only come aboard with Magruder’s flight. Was it only three days ago? It seemed like an eternity.

He couldn’t let himself think about it. Instead he cut back across the two MiGs again in another right-hand turn. The trailing plane was trying to cut back toward him now, its role reversed by the new situation. Coyote squeezed the trigger again in a series of short, fast bursts as he lined up. In a defensive situation like this there wasn’t time to wait for a sure target. All a flyer could do was take his best shot and trust to luck.

And this time luck was with him. As he flashed past the MiG Coyote saw the port-side wing coming apart, ripped loose by his cannon fire. Over his shoulder he saw the canopy pop and the Russian pilot hurtle clear of the disintegrating aircraft. His chute opened a moment later.

This far from the Russian fleet, though, there wasn’t much chance the man would live long enough to be picked up alive.

“Beautiful!” John-Boy exalted from the backseat. Then, serious again, the RIO went on. “Watch your six, Coyote. His buddy’s coming in mad!”

He glanced at the radar display and cut back on his throttle just as the threat indicator shrieked its warning once more. The MiG shot past to the left of the Tomcat, and for an instant Coyote considered pursuing. But right now he couldn’t afford to keep up this running battle. By his best count there were still at least ten MiGs in the air, and with Baird gone and Powers still out of the battle there were only four American planes still in action. They had to tighten up and try to support one another if they were going to hold out long enough for the reinforcing Hornets from the carrier to join them.

“Two-one-two, this is Leader. Close in around Batman and CAG,” he ordered.

“Copy,” Dallas Sheridan responded laconically.

He turned away from the MiG and kicked in his afterburners again, trying to put as much distance as possible between his plane and the opposition.

This one didn’t press the pursuit … but there were plenty of other Russians out there who were still fighting hard. The withdrawal of the Sukhoi squadron had given the Vipers a fighting chance to hold out. But the odds were still against them, and at this point it still looked like the Hornets would come in time to avenge the Tomcats, but too late to rescue them.

“Break right! Break right!”

Batman responded to the urgency in Malibu’s voice and banked to port. Most of the MiGs seemed to be swarming around his plane now, presumably because they’d spotted CAG’s bird moving in to support him. As the F14 turned he spotted a MiG matching his maneuver and cursed. The fight was starting to remind him of a Top Gun exercise where the instructors just kept pressing, never letting up until all the students had been pronounced eliminated.

This time, though, defeat wasn’t just a radar lock and a lecture back on the ground. The Russians were pulling out all the stops. It was worse than Korea … even worse than the desperate fighting over the Indian Ocean.

“Damn it,” he said aloud. “There’s just too many of them!” Stramaglia’s gruff voice broke in. “What’s the matter, Wayne? Aren’t the bad guys playing fair?” The CAG bird had appeared as if by magic on Batman’s radar display, and even as he watched he saw a Sidewinder streak toward the MiG that had been maneuvering after him. “Fox two! Fox two!” CAG continued smoothly. A moment later the heat-seeker struck, breaking off the Russian’s tail in a spectacular blast.

“Thanks, CAG,” Batman said, letting out a shuddering breath. He hadn’t been counting on Stramaglia. The captain had seemed so disoriented at the beginning of the fight. But now CAG was in the battle, and even though his one remaining Sidewinder wasn’t much, it was better than any of the other Tomcats had.

“Save it,” Stramaglia growled. “Now let’s get in there and show these bastards what a Top Gun really is! You take the lead, and I’ll cover your tail … compadre.”

Behind him, Malibu chuckled, and Batman gave a wolfish grin. “On my way, CAG!”

“Up here it’s Stinger. Stop talking and start shooting!”

The two Tomcats streaked toward the nearest MiGs, carrying the fight to the enemy.

Terekhov saw the newly arrived American hit one of his MiGs with a heat-seeker and cursed. He’d thought that the Americans would have fired off all their missiles by this time, but some of the pilots had held back. Some of his planes were out of missiles already, even though they’d started with full loads. If only more of his men would be as disciplined as the Americans! The Rodina would have nothing to fear if fewer Russian pilots substituted firepower for tactics.

It was frustrating to watch the battle unfold, to know that the Americans were out-flying and outfighting his elite Naval Aviation men at every turn. The kill ratio was running close to four-to-one despite the numerical superiority of the MiGs. Even though the enemy could ill afford any losses, they kept on coming, attacking against the odds and somehow, by sheer nerve apparently, getting away with it.

He wished now that he hadn’t consented to giving up the Sukhoi squadron to Glushko’s over-caution. The object of the ambush was to crush this American force quickly and completely, and those extra aircraft might have allowed him to finish off the enemy with fewer losses to his own planes.

No matter. The Americans were still outnumbered and would soon be eliminated, even if it did cost more MiGs to destroy them.

He spotted the two Americans driving toward Lieutenant Oganov, who had impressed Terekhov as one of the finest pilots in his squadron. Oganov’s wingman had been shot down in the first exchange with the talented American who kept cheating Terekhov. He was just the man to call on now, cool and cautious, the kind of aviator who could time a maneuver right down to the second.

“Oganov,” he called. “Draw out the Americans. Let them think they have you. I will support you.”

He increased his speed and double-checked his missile load. He only had two more radar-homers. That would be enough.

“He’s running! I’m on him!” Batman could feel the adrenaline surging through his veins. Drugs had never tempted him, because no drug could substitute for the thrill of combat. “I’m gonna nail this bastard, Malibu!”

“Watch out for company,” the RIO warned. “Stay frosty, man.”

Batman grinned under his oxygen mask. Despite the odds he felt like nothing in the skies could beat him today.

The MiG ahead was running flat out, hardly even jinking. It would take time to get close enough to hit him with guns, but as long as he kept this up it would be an easy kill. With Stramaglia back there covering his six, he didn’t have anything to worry about now.

“Two-oh-four! Two-oh-four!” It was Stramaglia. His voice was flat, but Batman thought he could detect a note of concern. “Break off your attack, Batman! I’ve got company back here, and I need some help.”

He broke to the left in a tight turn and spotted Stramaglia almost immediately. CAG had understated the situation. A quartet of MiGs were harrying the Tomcat, keeping him on the defensive. Stramaglia dodged and twisted with all the skill of the best of Top Gun, but the MiGs clung to him with bulldog tenacity.

“On my way, Stinger!” he called. He cursed under his breath. One of those Russians would have been a sitting duck for a Sidewinder … but Batman didn’t have one.

He could only watch and wait, praying he could get in range before it was too late for Stinger Stramaglia.

Stramaglia turned hard to port and started a dive, fighting his controls and trying to keep track of the MiGs swarming around him. It was a situation he’d never envisioned. himself in a dogfight where he couldn’t instantly see the solution to the tactical problem.

“Talk to me, Paddles,” he said. “Stay on top of them.”

“Four o’clock! Closing in fast! Turn right! Right!” The RIO’s voice was on the ragged edge of panic, but somehow that just helped Stramaglia throw off the last of the lassitude that had gripped him before.

When the fight had begun the reality of it all had overwhelmed him. Even the toughest situation was easy enough when it was an exercise, but with real lives at stake it had simply been too much. In those critical opening minutes of the battle Grant had stepped in and taken charge, and it gratified Stramaglia to know that the squadron leader had been there. After the Bear incident he’d been worried about how Coyote would handle his next encounter, but it had been Stramaglia himself who couldn’t deal with the problem of leading men into battle. The irony would have been funny but no one was laughing.

He’d finally found his combat rhythm again, but even as he struggled to stay a step ahead of his opponents the differences between real life and simulated combat gnawed at him. Instinct and training told him what to do, but there was a part of him, a scared part, that knew all too well the price of a single mistake or miscalculation.

A tone sounded in his headphones as his last Sidewinder locked onto one of the other planes. That would narrow the odds a little … and when Batman joined the game they’d crack these Russians wide open.

His finger clamped down on the firing stud, and the Sidewinder whooshed from the launching rail. “Fox two!”

Terekhov saw the heat-seeker leap from the Tomcat’s wing and streak toward his wingman’s plane. “Right! Break right!” he shouted, but it was too late. A moment later the MiG was consumed in flame and thunder.

He tried to match the American’s weaving course, but it wasn’t easy. This was one of the best pilots he had ever encountered. The other Tomcat’s pilot had guts combined with luck, a potent combination, but he couldn’t approach the skill this one showed.

Then the tone of a radar lock sounded in his ear, and Terekhov fired both his missiles in rapid succession.

“Cavalry’s on the way, Batman,” Coyote called. He could see the desperate fight unfolding on his radar screen, but he couldn’t do much about it yet. But Stramaglia was teaching the Russians the same tough lesson he’d been teaching to Top Gun students for years, and if he could just hold on for a little while longer …

A MiG vanished in an expanding fireball, and Coyote heard Malibu giving a cheer.

“Two-double-oh, splash another one,” he said. “Good shot, CAG!”

It’s just like a bicycle, Grant,” CAG responded. “You never forget how to do it … you just don’t want to fall off at Mach two!”

“Missiles! Missiles incoming!” Paddles shouted suddenly. “Two missiles-“

Then another fireball lit the sky.

And the CAG bird was gone, a cloud of debris raining onto the hungry sea below.