Flame Out

CHAPTER 24

Magruder reached for the microphone, feeling dead inside. They had come so close …

“Asgard, Asgard, this is Odin,” Coyote’s voice boomed from the speaker. “The Sukhois are on the run! I think they’ve had enough. Request instructions, over.”

Tombstone swallowed and studied the plotting board again. There was still a chance to stop those Russians … but only if the Vipers could get to them in time. If only he had gone up with them. He knew that he and Batman could have done it, just like at Wonsan and in the last wild fight of the Indian Ocean intervention …

He shook his head. He didn’t have to be up there. Coyote and Batman were two of the best, and the rest of the Vipers were as good as he had been three years back. It was time he realized that the torch had been passed on.

Magruder’s fingers closed around the mike and he spoke with sudden animation and urgency. “Odin, this is Asgard. New orders. Proceed toward Target Thor, repeat Target Thor. Use any means available to support Thor Strike against enemy aircraft. Do you copy, Odin?”

“Odin copies,” Coyote came back, sounding cool and calm, more like his old self than he’d been for a long time now. “We’re on our way, Stoney!”

He bit his lip, deep in thought. It was an unplanned diversion of the Tomcats, and that could play havoc with the logistical side of the operation. The Vipers were as fast as the enemy MiGs, so they should be able to close the range before Thor Group arrived on the scene. But by the time they finished those F-14s would be flying on fumes. He would have to send a Texaco to rendezvous with them.

There was something else he could do too to turn up the pressure on the enemy. If they wouldn’t respond to a threat, perhaps they would react better to something stronger. He raised the microphone again, and now he was smiling.

“All Lokis, all Lokis, stand by for new orders.”

Bannon cocked his head as Magruder’s voice came from the radio. Was Jefferson ordering a recall already? It was early for that, according to the mission timetable … unless something had gone seriously wrong.

“Loki Flight, primary target is now designated active. Repeat, active. Commence attack runs.”

The words sent a thrill through Bannon. This was what he had been waiting for! He felt his grip on the yoke tightening. “You heard the man, Gordo. Time to send them a little something to remember us by!”

Quinn formed them up into two waves of four Intruders each, with the Hornets thrown out ahead in case any more interceptors tried to block the attack. Bannon was part of the second wave, holding back from the battle until the first four planes had taken their shot at the Soviet carrier.

“Tighten up your formation,” he heard Quinn order as the Intruders dipped low over the ocean and started their run. “Watch those SAMs …”

“They’ve got a lock on me!” another pilot shouted.

“Climb! Climb! Drop some chaff and climb!”

The radio crackled once. Then Quinn announced somberly, “They got Hoops.” That would be Lieutenant Commander Jack “Hoops” Wilson.

“Firing,” another voice announced calmly. Seconds passed. “Shit! Defensive fire’s too damned heavy!”

Then Quinn again, sounding disgusted. “Second wave, take your shots. We didn’t even scratch ‘em.”

Bannon pushed the throttles ahead and swooped down, ready to start his attack.

“Range?” Coyote demanded.

“One hundred fifty miles,” John-Boy replied. “Still closing … one-thirty now.”

Coyote flipped the selector switch to the Phoenix setting. “All right, Vipers, let’s get some value for the taxpayers’ dollars. Make every one count.”

“Don’t I always?” Batman interjected. Somebody else, probably Malibu, was chuckling.

“Minds on the job, boys,” Coyote admonished. “Batman, you’ll just have to pretend.”

“One hundred ten miles,” John-Boy announced. That was the maximum range of a Phoenix, but Coyote didn’t want any slipups.

There were just four of them left, Coyote and Batman, and Sheridan and Lieutenant Joe Travers, running name “Shorty.” The other Tomcat had gone down during the brief struggle with the Sukhois, about the same time as Powers. Seven Phoenixes — all the reduced squadron had left — wouldn’t account for all of the defenders by any means, but they would surely disrupt the Russians. And the Vipers still had a few Sidewinders and Sparrows ready for when they closed the range.

“Ninety-five miles, Coyote. I’ve got one in my sights.”

He held his fire a few seconds longer, then hit the stud. “Fox three! Fox three!” The Phoenix dropped from its hard-point and ignited, driving across the darkening twilit sky.

The others joined the cry in chorus. “Fox three!”

Bannon squinted into the dim sky, picking out the shape of the lead Intruder up ahead. Hacker Hackenberg was flying her, having traded his LSO job for the pilot’s seat tonight. The thought brought an unpleasant reminder of things best forgotten. The last time he’d spoken directly to Hacker, it had been over the radio, ending in shouts of “Wave off!”

Now Hackenberg’s voice was tightly controlled. “Firing now,” he said. One of the two Harpoons slung under his wings ignited and sped into the distance. A moment later a flash lit up the sky. “No good,” Hacker said. “They’re knocking everything down when we fire from out here. I’m getting closer … if I have to ram it right down their throats.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Lieutenant,” Quinn broke in. “You won’t have a chance dodging that crap. It’s like the night sky over Baghdad in there!”

“We didn’t lose that much over Baghdad!” Hacker said. His Intruder surged forward, jinking back and forth to dodge missile and cannon fire erupting from the decks of an Udaloy-class DDG.

Bannon let the range open. Hackenberg was right, they would never get a missile in past all those defenses unless they could close the range and let go at the last possible moment. But it took guts to drive in past all that SAM and Triple-A fire. He wasn’t sure he was up to that.

“Ready … ready … Not yet …” a voice chanted. Bannon thought it must be Hacker’s Bombardier/Navigator, but he wasn’t sure.

“She’s coming up!” Hackenberg shouted. “Coming up fast! This is it-“

Another flash, farther off this time, lit the sky like a flare. It was right on the line Hackenberg had taken. “I’m hit!” Hacker said, as if to confirm his thoughts. “I’m hit. Can’t hold her …” Then came the brightest explosion of all.

The impact made Glushko stagger. “We’ve been hit!” someone shouted. Smoke was billowing from a bank of radar screens, acrid, tangy. Glushko bent over, coughing.

“Fucking Yankee rammed us,” someone said, hacking on the smoke. “Crashed right on the flight deck.”

The Air Operations center was buried deep in the shelter of the island, but even here they weren’t safe from collateral damage from the fiery impact. The ventilator fans whirred, but they weren’t adequate for the job.

Eyes tearing, Glushko pushed open the watertight hatch and staggered into the corridor outside. He was still coughing, and his lungs felt like they were on fire. Fresh air … he had to get some fresh air.

A tiny voice of conscience protested that he should stay at his post, help fight the fire. If the admiral found out he had deserted Air Ops, his career would be over.

Gasping, wheezing, he started up the nearest ladder. Glushko was past caring about career or duty anymore.

Even this far out, Bannon could see the flames rising from Soyuz where Hackenberg had plowed his Intruder into her flight deck. It brought back his own crash in a flood of images and memories, but Bannon clenched his teeth and denied them all.

Hacker had shown the way … and his sacrifice was sure to distract some of the defenders for a few moments at least. Now was the time to follow up that explosion with a missile attack that would compound the damage to the Russian carrier.

“Get ready, Gordo,” he warned. “We’re going in.”

“We’re what?” The B/N looked incredulous. “Didn’t you see what just happened, man?”

“We’re going in,” he repeated. “Hold on!”

The Intruder plunged into the maelstrom.

Time seemed to move in slow motion as they weaved through the defensive fire, skimming almost at wavetop height. After his first protest Gordon was quiet, his face set in a grim frown of concentration as he prepared to hit the release button.

The Intruder seemed to stagger as something exploded just ahead, but Bannon fought her, kept the ungainly bomber on course. We can make it, he told himself. We can make it …

And for a disconcerting instant he thought he heard Jolly Green answering him. You can do it, kid. Take her in … make me proud …

“Firing!” Gordon shouted, triggering one of the Harpoons.

“Give ‘em both barrels, Gordo!” Bannon urged, trying to hold the Intruder steady.

The second Harpoon followed smoothly in the trail of the first, and Bannon banked left, climbing, climbing …

“Radar lock! They’ve got lock!” Gordon’s voice rose an octave. “Evasive-“

The SAM struck them amidships, and Intruder 507 vanished in a ball of raw heat and light.

With an effort Glushko threw open the hatch and emerged into the dim twilight of the deck, gulping down clean air. He leaned against the hatch frame, still coughing a little. Finally he straightened, chest heaving, and looked up.

The first Harpoon smashed into the side of the island directly above him. He never saw the second missile. Captain First Rank Fyodor Arturovich Glushko was already dead.

Even over the static, Terekhov could hear the confusion that surrounded the hits on the carrier. It was plain that Soyuz had come under genuine attack this time. And he had turned his back on him in the crisis.

Sergei Sergeivich Terekhov raged inwardly. The Americans had caught him neatly between two equal threats, and tonight they had been the ones to earn the victory. Even his gesture in returning to the invasion fleet had gone wrong. He knew that now with the same certainty that he knew it would be almost impossible to evade the incoming wave of American AIM-54 missiles. They were the most dangerous weapon in the enemy arsenal, hard to evade, harder to stop, and though he went through all the motions Terekhov knew it would be useless in the long run.

Seconds before impact he pulled the ejection lever. The canopy blew clear, and a second later he had the sensation of having his seat slam upward into his spine.

Terekhov was well clear, his parachute deploying, when the Phoenix hit his MiG. In the end, it seemed, the Americans had retained the edge, in technology and in strategy. The Rodina could claim to be a superpower, but with inferior men and machines, that claim would continue to be a hollow one.

The Tomcats from Viper Squadron had already broken up the defending squadrons, first with long-range Phoenix missiles, then with shorter-range weapons, before Thor Group reached their target. Their attack had plainly rattled the Soviets, who put up no more than a token defense before fleeing northeast.

The Hornets made the first attack run, launching a wave of Harpoons toward the Soviet escorts. Lacking the central control of the American Aegis system, without an AEW aircraft to sort through threats, and hampered by jamming from the Prowler accompanying Thor Flight, the Russian ships were hard-pressed to defend themselves, much less extend their protection to the ill-assorted fleet of transports in their care.

That was the moment Commander Max Harrison had been waiting for. All ten S-3Bs had been pressed into service as attack planes under Magruder’s plan. Harrison had opposed it from the start. A Viking was a sub-hunter, not a poor man’s Intruder, and he hadn’t believed it possible to open up the enemy defenses far enough for the slow, ill-armed Vikings to actually challenge the Soviet Red Banner Fleet.

But it fell into place as Magruder had predicted, and by the time the twenty Harpoons were on their way it was almost an anticlimax. The Vikings turned for home, but behind them rippling flashes of light marked the end of the Soviet amphibious force … and perhaps of Russian hopes for completing the conquest of Norway.

Admiral Khenkin slumped in his seat, overwhelmed by the reports streaming in from all sides. Soyuz was on fire, with half her complement of aircraft destroyed or fled and most of the rest trapped useless on deck or in her hangars. The ship’s captain had requested permission to turn him about and withdraw to the north, farther from the Americans, in case they planned to rearm and launch a follow-up strike.

And the invasion ships were scattered or destroyed. There would be no hope of supporting the paratroops at Brekke now, no hope of the quick breakthrough that would carry the Soviets to victory. The only good news in any of it was the recovery of some of the pilots lost off Cape Bremanger. Fortunately the captain of the Kiev had deployed helicopters to carry out search and rescue as soon as he had seen the air battle develop.

Young Terekhov was one of the survivors. Now that the incompetent Glushko was dead, Khenkin thought, there was no better officer in the air wing to take his place than Terekhov, though he lacked the seniority for such a position. Terekhov’s ideas made up for his junior rank, though. If he had been in charge from the start, perhaps the Americans would never have found the opening they exploited.

Khenkin picked up an intercom handset. “Captain,” he began reluctantly. “Khenkin. Da. Order the fleet to steer north. All ships will rendezvous around North Cape. And inform me when you have repairs in hand.”

He set down the handset again and let out a sigh. It had been a costly defeat, and it might be costlier still for him once the Kremlin started seeking a scapegoat. But the war was not over yet, and if he remained in command he would not underestimate the Americans again.

They were cheering in CIC again, this time in response to word passed from the Hawkeye that enemy ships had been detected turning north. The Soviets were in retreat … at least for the moment.

Commander Matthew Magruder sagged back in his chair, physically and emotionally drained. Now that the crisis was over, he wanted nothing more than a chance to seek out his quarters and sleep for a week or two.

But that wouldn’t be possible yet, of course. The strike forces were only now beginning to return to Jefferson. They would need to be debriefed, and their planes would have to be checked over by the technical people in the Air Department. Combat Air Patrols would have to be organized, and perhaps a Tomcat carrying a TARPS pod would have to be sent to confirm the initial estimates of the damage to the Soviet fleet. Until the Russians had withdrawn further it would be necessary to maintain a high state of readiness, just in case they were still able to lash out against the American battle group.

And there would be the butcher’s bill to deal with too. Some good men had died out there, including Bannon and the unfortunate Lieutenant Powers. Commander Henderson of the Fighting Hornets had been lost while keeping a pair of Sukhois from breaking through to the Intruders during their final attack run, and there were sure to be others Magruder hadn’t heard about yet. They would have to rebuild the CVW-20 with reinforcements from the States before they could put up a fight again.

Yes, there was a lot to be done before he could rest. In some ways victory was harder to deal with than defeat. So much to do, so many details.

“CAG?”

For a moment Tombstone didn’t realize that the question was directed at him. He turned slowly to face Lieutenant Commander Owens. “CAG, the Hopkins is reporting a sonar contact about fifty kilometers west of us. They’ve got one helo down for repairs, and they’re asking if we can loan them some support so they can prosecute the contact. What do you want me to tell them?”

As he straightened up to check the plotting board and see what assets he had available to support the frigate, Magruder allowed himself a smile. Once they had their planes on deck and the Maintenance boys had worked their arcane magic, maybe he could put together an Alpha Strike to help the Norwegians clean up the pocket around Brekke. Even with its reduced numbers, CVW-20 could still make a difference.

Tombstone was in the middle of giving Owens his orders when a sudden realization hit him, and he broke off and started to laugh. The Deputy CAG looked at Magruder like he was crazy, and Tombstone didn’t know if Owens would understand the joke.

The fact was, he was actually looking forward to settling in to his new job. Hard as these past days had been, he’d carried it off. Maybe someday, he thought with another smile, he would be a real CAG, not just a substitute. And perhaps somewhere, in the Valhalla where Tomcat pilots gathered after the last shoot-down, Stinger Stramaglia would look down at Tombstone Magruder and be proud.

General Vladimir Nikolaivich Vorobyev watched as the jackals gathered, and under a stony visage he had to fight hard to keep from smiling. They were so predictable, these politicians. Doctorov, the KGB plotter, was licking his figurative lips as he contemplated the chance of eliminating Vorobyev from the inner circle, while Comrade President Ubarov vacillated between relief over the military’s failure and fear for what the future might bring. So very predictable … and so foolish to think that the wounded lion could not hold off such a band of jackals.

“Obviously we must rethink our entire strategy,” Foreign Minister Boltin was saying. “The West may yet be inclined to let the whole question of war slide if we move quickly to evacuate Norway and Finland. They did not interfere in Iraqi affairs once they had achieved their stated goal of liberating Kuwait, and the peace movement is still strong. But delay would give them time to rally against us.”

“We must not be stampeded in this,” Doctorov countered. “Our esteemed colleague here has allowed his vaunted military to set back our plans, but with a redirection of leadership resources we may yet be able to salvage something from this debacle.” He favored Vorobyev with an oily smile. “Don’t you agree, Comrade General?”

Vorobyev matched his smile, enjoying the uncertainty that spread across his face as the KGB man realized that the crisis in Scandinavia hadn’t shaken Vorobyev’s composure. “Yes, Comrade Doctorov, new leadership may well be needed, and at the very highest levels. To retrieve our position and carry through Rurik’s Hammer successfully, all elements of the national leadership must be working smoothly together, and not wasting time pursuing shortsighted political goals.”

He looked toward the double doors where Korotich was standing, the patient aide. Vorobyev gave a curt nod. Then Korotich threw open the doors.

The soldiers who filed into the room were elite Guardsmen, handpicked by Vorobyev for this assignment long before the developments in Scandinavia had taken their unexpected turn. His men had been well-briefed, and took up their positions ringing the conference room with smooth efficiency.

“On the other hand,” Vorobyev continued calmly. “On the other hand, it may be no replacements at all need be made, once all are aware of the need for absolute military authority. I am sure all of you will be glad to cooperate in this effort?”

No one answered for long moments. Then Ubarov nodded. “Of course, Comrade General, of course. You are correct. We must have unity of purpose.”

“If the general has plans to redeem our situation in Norway, I am sure we are all eager to hear them,” Boltin added. The other politicians chimed in with their own platitudes.

All but Doctorov. He sat still, his eyes on Vorobyev. At last he nodded his head slowly, a gesture which was as much one of respect as it was of submission.

“Now we can get down to business, Comrades,” Vorobyev said, his smile growing broader. “Let us see what we may do to turn this setback to our advantage.”