Flame Out

CHAPTER 18

Batman stared at the shattered Tomcat, breaking apart as it started to spin in toward the ocean, seeing the action as if it were playing in slow motion. It could only have taken a few moments, but it seemed like an eternity.

“Two-one-two, splash a MiG,” he heard Dallas Sheridan saying over the radio. For an instant he thought Big D was talking about CAG’s plane. Then he realized that Sheridan still hadn’t hooked up with the rest of the fast-shrinking command, and must be reporting an engagement of his own.

No one responded, and a long moment later Sheridan went on. “Hey, come on guys, talk to me! What’s going on?”

Coyote’s voice replied, choking on the words. “CAG’s bought it.” Then he seemed to gather his wits again. “Batman, form on me. Big D, get your ass back here now! Let’s do it!”

“Two-oh-four, roger,” Batman responded slowly. He banked left and gained altitude, looking for Coyote.

Behind him, Malibu seemed to share in the shock. Over the ICS his voice was bleak, a far cry from his usual bantering tone. “We’re not going to get out of this one, are we?”

Batman didn’t answer.

“Stralbo! Oganov! Form on me!” Terekhov couldn’t keep his voice from betraying his excitement now that total victory was almost in his grasp. “All planes, press the attack!”

“Comrade Captain,” another pilot broke in. “I have multiple targets on my radar, closing on us at high speed!”

Terekhov bit back a curse. The American reinforcements! Why hadn’t Glushko or the crew of the An-74 warned him? Were they still so concerned with organizing the defense of Soyuz that they were ignoring the possible danger to the attack squadron?

He had often wondered if the Soviet carriers would be able to stand up to the tests of combat conditions. For fifty years the Soviet Union had ignored the whole question of carrier aviation, and when they’d finally decided to deploy modern carriers they had been forced to learn the entire science virtually overnight. Measured against the Americans, who had been developing their carrier doctrine and technology gradually ever since the great carrier battles of the Forties, the Russians still looked like amateurs. The fact that officers like Glushko could hold key commands was only one of many symptoms of what was wrong with Soviet carrier aviation.

“Cossack, Cossack, this is Svirepyy Leader,” he said, switching to the command frequency. “Respond, please.”

“Svirepyy, this is Cossack,” Glushko replied.

“The second American force is nearly here,” Terekhov said slowly, trying to maintain his calm. “Request you send the other squadron back to support us. They outnumber my surviving planes and are fresh.”

“Nyet, nyet,” Glushko replied harshly. “This is only a feint. They want to draw off our defense so they can strike the carrier. Those planes will not be armed for air-to-air. Break off your current engagement and attack them!”

“That isn’t the plan!” he shot back. “We have these Americans in our sights!”

“That is a direct order, Captain Terekhov,” Glushko told him. “Are you disobeying me?”

“Negative, Cossack,” he said hastily. “We will begin a disengagement here and attack the new wave … but if they are armed as interceptors we will have to receive support or withdraw. We cannot fight another extended battle without rearming.”

“Just do it!” Glushko said.

Terekhov swung his MiG back toward the continuing air battle. The three surviving Americans were weaving in and out of a larger mass of seven or eight Russian planes, barely avoiding the overwhelming numbers. If they could finish off these three quickly, Glushko couldn’t protest too loudly. Wiping out a full American Tomcat squadron would give Terekhov too much credit for the air wing commander to quibble.

He had one missile left. If the second American wave really was fitted out for a strike mission he could fight them with guns alone … and if they weren’t, if they were carrying full air-to-air loads, one missile more or less wouldn’t make any difference.

Terekhov picked out the lucky Tomcat by the slapdash flying style of its pilot and turned to line up on him. One last attack, and the trap would be complete.

“Viking Seven-oh-four, this is Camelot.” Magruder recognized the voice — Owens, the junior air wing officer. He sounded worried. “Seven-oh-four, what’s your status out there?”

At Harrison’s nod Magruder took the radio mike. “Seven-oh-four, still hunting,” he said. “We scratched one sub, but we may be on the trail of another one. What can we do for you, Camelot?”

Owens was slow to reply. “Commander, CAG’s been hit,” he said at last. “Coyote just reported it. No survivors.”

“Goddamn!” Though he’d been infuriated by Stramaglia’s attitude toward him, angry at the restrictions he’d placed on Magruder’s employment, Tombstone had admired CAG. He couldn’t believe the Old Man had bought it out there.

Then it hit him. With Stramaglia dead, Jefferson had a new CAG. Commander Matthew Magruder.

“What’s the situation, Camelot?” he asked, forcing aside his emotion and trying to sound brisk and businesslike.

“Not good,” Owens responded. “Coyote’s flight ran into heavy opposition. Most of the Vipers are gone. The Javelins will be in the thick of it in a couple more minutes, and we’re still launching the Fighting Hornets, but it’s pretty grim. And all hell’s breaking loose in Iceland. Keflavik’s been hit pretty hard, and the planes that got off before the base went won’t be able to make it to an American base. Iceland’s refusing permission to let any Of our boys land … I guess they’re afraid the Russians’ll hit civilian fields next.”

Magruder didn’t like the sound of the younger man’s voice. Owens was clearly out of his depth, floundering, and Jefferson couldn’t afford an indecisive CAG in Air Ops now.

“All right, Camelot, I’m getting the picture. I’ll head back ASAP. Meantime tell the Javelins to get into that fight if they have to get out and push … and get in touch with those stranded Air Force boys and get an update on their status.”

Owens sounded better when he replied. “Aye, aye … CAG.”

“Seven-oh-four, clear.” Magruder replaced the mike and turned to Harrison. “Break off the hunt, Commander, and take us back to the Jeff.”

Harrison looked unhappy. “But what if this contact’s another sub?”

“Look, Commander, we don’t even know for sure that it was a separate contact. I’ve got to get back to the carrier and try to salvage something from this mess.” His thoughts turned to Batman and Malibu, who might already be dead. And Coyote too, who’d reported CAG’s death but could still go down before the Hornet squadron arrived on the scene. Despite their clash, he could feel that same gnawing, gut-wrenching emotion he’d felt the time Coyote and his RIO had been lost off North Korea. “Anyway,” he went on, trying to ignore the inner turmoil for a few minutes longer. “Anyway, that helo from Gridley’s due to get here in a few more minutes. They’ll take up the search.”

Harrison still looked doubtful, but at last he nodded. “I guess you’re the boss now,” he admitted. “Okay, crew, keep your ears open anyway. And if you’d be so kind, CAG, I’d appreciate it if you’d update Gridley and the ASW boys on the Jefferson.”

The Viking banked to port and picked up speed as Magruder reached for the microphone again. He was happy to have something to do, something to keep him from having to spend the whole flight back to the carrier thinking about his friends.

His name meant Red Knight, and he was a submarine of the class Westerners referred to as the “Oscar.” Captain First Rank Georgi Naumkin had commanded him for less than four months, having been selected for the task by Admiral Khenkin himself after the submarine’s previous captain had been pronounced too closely connected with republican elements to be trusted with such an important command.

Up until now the war in Norway hadn’t required the use of a sub like the Krasnly Ritsary. He was neither one of the vital boomers, armed with ballistic missiles, nor one of the far more glamorous attack subs designed to harass enemy surface ships and submarines. Against Norway’s ships using him would have been like using a sledgehammer on a mosquito. But with the Americans coming, Krasniy Ritsary could finally come into his own.

He carried twenty-four conventionally armed antiship cruise missiles, a formidable armament of high-tech weapons like the ones the Americans had used with such devastating effect in the Persian Gulf a few years before. Lurking here, near the edge of the exclusion zone, he was perfectly placed to strike from the depths at any American ship that came within range.

Right now the SSGN was drifting just over the rugged sea floor, waiting. Naumkin wasn’t the only man aboard whose eyes were turned upward. If he had been a religious man, he would have been uttering a prayer that the Americans would pass on and overlook the sub.

They had followed the savage battle between the American ASW aircraft and the sub’s escort, Komsomolets Thilsiskiy. The passive sonars had tracked the attack sub, and the sounds of torps in the water had been audible right through the hull. Everyone aboard knew that the other boat had been destroyed. There was no mistaking the death throes of a crippled submarine.

Then there had been nothing for a long time, nothing but the occasional bursts of sonar activity from the enemy sonobuoys. Now even those had fallen silent.

“They must have proceeded to a new leg of their search pattern, Comrade Captain,” Captain Second Rank Vitaly Maleshenko said quietly. “We are surely safe from detection now.”

“That will not last once we launch, Vitaly,” Naumkin told the executive officer with a frown. “We must be sure we can break contact and escape. Trading Krasniy Ritsary for one shot at the Americans is a useless waste.”

“But doing nothing would be an even greater waste,” the zampolit, a rabbit-faced man named Vorontsov, countered.

“True enough,” Naumkin admitted reluctantly. He paused. “Very well. Raise the antenna. We will update our situation report and find ourselves a worthwhile target for our missiles. Vitaly, pass the word to missile control to prepare all missiles for firing.”

“Sir!”

He turned away as his crew got to work. The next few minutes could cover them all in glory … or leave them as dead as their comrades aboard the stricken attack sub.

“Hang in there, Batman!” Coyote called. “I’m on him!”

He dropped the F-14 behind a Russian MiG that was trying to keep up with Batman’s desperate evasive maneuvers and triggered a short burst of 20-mm cannon fire, but he didn’t see any immediate damage from his attack. Still, it was enough to rattle the Soviet flyer, who banked his plane right and down in an effort to turn the tables on Coyote.

Grant turned into the enemy attack and tried his guns again, but though his burst stitched across one wing the Russian dropped out of the line of fire, trailing smoke from the damaged wing but still in action. Coyote cursed.

Then the shriek of a radar warning filled his ears, and he cursed louder as he twisted the plane to the left, trying to break the radar lock.

“It’s no good!” the RIO yelled. “He’s still got us!”

Pulling back on the joystick, Coyote clawed for altitude.

“Missile launch! Missile launch!” John-Boy reported.

“Chaff!” Coyote ordered, cutting power and rolling sideways into a steep dive now. The chaff dispenser chattered twice as the RIO popped a pair of antiradar decoys.

“Watch your six! Watch your six!” That was Sheridan’s voice. “You’ve got a bandit on your tail, Coyote!”

“Missile’s still coming,” John-Boy added.

“Chaff again!” Coyote snapped, weaving from side to side.

A moment later the missile exploded behind and below the Tomcat. Coyote fought the controls as the shock wave slammed into the plane, but managed to keep it steady.

Then cannon rounds were slamming into the Tomcat’s undercarriage, making the F-14 buck like a wild mustang. He jerked the stick hard over, but the Russian pilot kept with him.

“Batman!” he shouted. “Big D! Somebody give me an assist!” Even as he spoke he knew neither one could get there in time.

But then, incredibly, a Sidewinder smashed into the middle of the MiG, breaking the plane in two. Coyote looked around, trying to find the source of the fire. Had the Hornets made it? Where were they?

“Tomcat Two-one-one, reporting for duty!” a young, ragged voice called out. It was Powers, late but finally in the battle.

“All right Tyrone!” Batman said. “A kill for the kid!”

“I’ve got another one,” Powers announced. “Come on … come on … Tone! I’ve got tone! I’m taking my shot! Fox two! Fox two!”

“John-Boy, you okay back there?” Coyote asked over the ICS.

“Yeah … just shook up,” the RIO replied. “But my panel looks like a Christmas tree. That sucker really nailed us.”

“Coyote … hey, man, you look like shit,” Batman broke in. “Get the hell clear if you can. We’ll hold ‘em here.”

“Not much point in that,” Coyote countered. “If I try to break away you know they’ll be all over me. Might as well stick it out here as long as this turkey’ll hold together.”

He didn’t add that none of them had much time left in any event. He didn’t have to remind any of them of that.

Terekhov switched his selector switch from missiles to guns. With his last radar-homer expended, he was reduced to the same condition as the surviving Americans. It seemed like these Americans just didn’t know when they were beaten. Each time he thought they could do no more, they managed to pull off another surprise. The return of the Tomcat that had fled at the very start of the battle had been completely unexpected … and another MiG had been lost as a result. The second American Sidewinder hadn’t found its target, luckily, but the kill ratio was still far out of proportion to what the Russians had gained today.

And the clock was ticking. The longer he spent here, the more likely Glushko would be to accuse him of disobedience in not going after the new wave of Americans. Shaking his head, Terekhov knew they couldn’t keep up this fighting much longer.

“Comrade Captain! Comrade Captain!” That was Oganov, his voice panicky. “Radar lock! An American plane has radar lock on me!”

“Impossible!” he snapped. Or was it? Nothing the Americans did would surprise him any more.

He glanced at his radar screen and cursed aloud. The American reinforcements were just coming into range for their radar-homing Sparrow missiles. So much for Glushko’s conviction that they were strike aircraft armed for an attack on Soyuz.

“All planes, all planes, disengage now!” he shouted. “Return to base! Repeat, return to base!”

Naumkin leaned against the back of the radioman’s chair, looking over his shoulder as he adjusted his receiver with quick, precise movements of his stubby peasant’s fingers. With an antenna deployed to the surface, the sub could tap into the transmissions of the An-74 airborne warning and control plane circling far above the North Sea. The information from the plane’s sophisticated array of radars would locate every plane and ship in the area.

It was the ideal way to find a target without using his own active sensors. Though he ran the risk of an aerial searcher spotting the antenna while it was on the surface, that was a far slimmer risk than the prospect of using his own radar to seek out the enemy. Active sensors probing the enemy fleet from here would call down the full weight of the American battle group’s ASW force on Krasniy Ritsary, and Naumkin wasn’t prepared to do that yet. Not until it became absolutely necessary.

He straightened up and crossed to the chart table, where Maleshenko was already studying an electronic plot of the An-74 data. The Exec pointed to one coded symbol.

“The American carrier,” he said, looking up at Naumkin with a predatory grin. “Well within range … an ideal chance, Comrade Captain.”

Naumkin studied the chart, stroking his chin absently. He indicated another symbol, between the sub and the carrier but closer to Krasniy Ritsary. “What is this one?”

“Frigate,” the Exec said. “Oliver Hazard Perry class. An ASW vessel, not a major target. Not compared to the carrier.”

“Agreed, Vitaly. But notice the positions. We might slow their reactions somewhat by attacking both Americans. If they believe the frigate is the target of the full attack …”

“Their carrier defenses might not react in time,” Maleshenko finished. “Excellent, Comrade Captain. Excellent!”

“Prepare the attack,” Naumkin ordered. “Eight missiles. Six against the carrier, two more against the frigate. Be ready to follow up with another wave … or to maneuver if need be.”

The Exec began passing the orders, leaving Naumkin to study the map. If Krasniy Ritsary actually damaged or destroyed the American aircraft carrier, Admiral Khenkin would know his choice had been a good one. And a captain with such an achievement could expect to go to the very top in the Union’s New Order. He savored the thought until Maleshenko returned.

“Ready to launch, Comrade Captain.”

He smiled. “Begin the attack.”

“Madra de Dios!” Lieutenant Jimmy Mendez gasped as the sea erupted less than a mile ahead of the SH-60 Seahawk. “What are those? Nukes?”

His TACCO, Tom Jennings, shook his head emphatically. “SS-N-19,” he said, calm and controlled even in the face of this startling proof that the Russians were launching a major new strike. “Soviet cruise missile. Kind of a cheap version of the Tomahawk.” His voice changed as he switched on the radio. “Jericho, Jericho, this is Trumpet. We have visual on Sierra Sierra November One-Niner cruise missiles, inbound your position. Estimate six … seven … eight SSN-19 missiles. We are prosecuting the search for the launch platform. Over.”

“Trumpet, Jericho,” the ASW officer aboard Gridley replied. “We’ve got them on our screens. Thanks for the warning.”

“Good luck and Godspeed,” Jennings said. “Trumpet clear. All right, gentlemen, let’s find us a submarine!”

Gridley’s SPS-49 5 C/D band air-search radar tracked the flight of Soviet missiles from the moment they broke the surface, and the Tactical Officer on duty in CIC promptly sounded the battle stations warning. Crewmen swarmed through corridors and across the deck in response to the blaring siren.

The Mark 13 launcher on the forward deck could handle thirty-six Standard SM-1 medium-range surface-to-air missiles, the frigate’s main line of defense against aerial attack. Ten SAMs streaked skyward in response to orders from CIC, knocking out five of the eight cruise missiles while they were still several miles out. But the SS-N-19s were coming in fast, too fast for a second SAM launch.

As they closed the range, the Phalanx CIWS system took over. A 20-mm Vulcan Gatling gun mounted near the stern of the frigate, CIWS — standing for Close-In Weapon System and pronounced Sea-Whiz in the technical jargon of the Navy — would fire fifty depleted-uranium shells every second, tracking and locking on to its targets automatically using Pulse-Doppler radar. But the angle of the incoming missiles wasn’t ideal for the Phalanx to intercept the three remaining targets. Two of them, both targeted on the Jefferson, passed overhead and into the firing arc, and the Phalanx hummed like an angry buzzsaw.

The last missile, though, struck Gridley just above the waterline only a few feet forward of the Mark 13 launcher, the explosion ripping through the hull and setting off secondary blasts in the SAMs remaining in their launch tubes.

Within seconds, U.S.S. Gridley was ablaze from midships to bow.

“The Russkies are running! Hot damn, Coyote, they’re actually running away! We beat the bastards!”

Coyote Grant couldn’t believe Batman’s excited shout any more than he could believe the symbols crawling across his radar screen. Yet both told the same story. The Russian MiGs were withdrawing.

The fresh blips on the radar, the Hornets from the first wave of reinforcements, were the real reason for the enemy retreat, of course, but Coyote could understand how Batman felt. Despite the odds, Viper Squadron had stood up to a savage attack and escaped with their lives … some of them, at least. Eight men wouldn’t be going home, including Stramaglia.

“Lancelot, Lancelot, this is Galahad. Stand down, boys, and let some real birds take over from those turkeys of yours.” The voice belonged to Commander Bobby Lee “Tex” Benton, CO of VFA-161, the Javelins. Benton, his broad Texas accent even more pronounced than usual, sounded eager for a fight.

Letting out a long, shuddering sigh, Coyote cut back on his throttle and turned southeast. “Galahad, Lancelot. Good to see you, Tex, even if you guys are flying Tinkertoys.” Even after everything they’d been through, he couldn’t resist the chance to needle his counterpart. There was a long-standing rivalry between the Tomcat and Hornet squadrons aboard Jefferson, focused on the relative merits of the heavy but sturdy F-14 versus the versatile, light weight F/A-18.

“Ninety-nine aircraft, ninety-nine aircraft.” The voice of Lieutenant Commander Owens interrupted him with the general signal directed at all aircraft. “RTB. That’s Return to Base. All aircraft return to base.”

“Ah, shit,” Benton said. “Guess we don’t get to party with the Russkies after all!”

“Suits me fine,” Coyote responded. “Vipers, you heard the man. Let’s go home.”

“You think you can make it, Coyote?” Batman asked.

“I’ll sure as hell try!” he said. Coyote didn’t relish bailing out this far from the carrier and waiting for a SAR chopper.

“I’ll stick with you, man,” Wayne said. “Just to keep an eye on you.”

He started to thank him, then had another thought. “Thanks anyway, Batman, but that’s not your job. My wingman’s supposed to be looking out for me.” Powers had screwed up at the beginning of the fight, but it must have taken guts to get back into the battle the way he did. “Tyrone, you copy?”

When Powers answered, his voice was choked with emotions. “Copy, Two-oh-one. I’m with YOU.”

The joystick was mushy, the Tomcat sluggish, but Coyote barely noticed. He was still getting used to the idea that he had lived after all.