Flame Out

CHAPTER 8

“Redwing, this is Bravo Six-four. Vector right to oh-one-oh.” The voice of the controller flying in the Hawkeye patrol aircraft sounded tense in Coyote Grant’s headphones. “Go to buster for intercept with bogie at range two-one-nine November Mikes your position, Angels two.”

Grant started banking right as he responded. “Bravo Six-four, Redwing Leader. Roger that. Coming to zero-one-zero, buster. Target at two-one-nine, Angels two.”

“Wonder what they’re sending us after,” Lieutenant John “John-Boy” Nichols said over the ICS.

“Beats me,” Coyote replied. “Ours not to reason why …”

“Ours just to make ‘em fly!” the RIO finished.

Coyote smiled under his oxygen mask. He felt comfortable with Nichols riding the backseat, and picked him as RIO more often than not. Officially there was no such thing as permanent assignments teaming aviators and RIOs, but getting a well-matched pair to work together frequently paid off when things got hot. The Vipers had learned that lesson back when Matt Magruder was still their skipper, in the Pacific, and when he took charge of the squadron Coyote had encouraged the practice. Just one look at the way Batman and Malibu flew together, for instance, was proof of how teamwork could pay off.

He wished he could be more sure of his wingman today.

“Let’s get it in gear, Koslosky,” he said over the radio channel to the other Tomcat off his port wing. The new pilot was one of the replacements who’d flown out with Tombstone, and he was still an unknown element in the squadron. In fact Coyote had bumped Lieutenant Randy Martin from patrol duty this morning just to fly with Koslosky and try to get a feel for how he’d fit in. So far, he wasn’t happy with the nugget. “I’ve seen jumbo jets fly tighter formation than that!

“Sorry, Skipper,” Koslosky answered, sounding flustered. The Tomcat drifted closer, its speed increasing slightly. “Guess I wasn’t expecting anything but a routine patrol this morning.”

“CAG’s Third Commandment, kid,” Coyote said quietly. “‘Thou shalt expect the unexpected.’ I don’t know what they’ve been teaching you back home, but out here a patrol isn’t just an excuse to fly the plane and sightsee. You’re up here to respond to the unexpected. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” came the subdued reply.

“Redwing. Bravo Six-four. Be advised we have three, repeat three, bogies bearing oh-one-oh your position. Range is now one-seven-two, speed three-five-oh.”

“Roger, Six-four,” Coyote said. He read back the information. “Any idea what they are?”

“Redwing, wait one,” the Hawkeye replied.

“Four to one it’s another Bear hunt,” Nichols said.

“With those stats? Of course it is. Don’t try to take money from your CO, John-Boy. It isn’t healthy, know what I mean?”

Nichols chuckled over the ICS. “Hey, a guy’s got to supplement his income any way he can, right, Skipper?”

“Redwing, this is Dragon’s Lair. Do you copy?” That was CAG’s voice, patched in from Jefferson’s CIC through the orbiting Hawkeye.

“Affirmative,” Coyote replied. “Read you five by five.”

“Looks like you’ve got another Bear out of Olenegorsk, Redwing,” CAG said. “Main question is whether all three blips are Bears, or if they’ve got something else coming in too.”

“I read you, Dragon’s Lair,” Coyote said. He understood the edge of concern in CAG’s voice, an echo of what he’d heard from the Hawkeye. It wasn’t all that uncommon to send up two or three Bears in a single flight. But those other planes could also be escorts … or they could be Badgers or Blacjacks carrying antiship missiles depending on a Bear for targeting data.

“Get up close and personal with these jokers, Redwing,” CAG told him. “If it’s just some sightseers escort them off the premises gently. But eyeball them and keep us appraised.”

“Roger that,” Grant replied crisply.

“Good. I’ve got backups on the way. Dragon’s Lair out.”

Coyote gripped the control stick a little bit tighter. CAG wasn’t the sort to get spooked by shadows. If Stramaglia was worried, it was with good reason.

And Willis Grant didn’t like to think about what it might take to worry the Air Wing commander.

Jefferson’s Combat Information Center, a gloomy, red-lit cavern buried in the heart of the island on 0–4 level starboard, was alive with activity as Magruder entered. If the Bridge was the nerve center and brains of a combat vessel, CIC was the heart, where the military operations of the Jefferson were monitored and controlled by specialists of the 01 Division of the Operations Department. In a battle Captain Brandt would fight the ship from CIC, but for day-to-day operations it was the domain of the Tactical Action Officer and of CAG, who coordinated combat air operations in progress.

“Picking up some garbage on the screens now, sir,” a radarman was reporting as Magruder entered the control center. “I think they’re playing with some ECM just to see how well we can handle it.”

“How bad is it, Adams?” Lieutenant Commander Samuel Clayton, the duty TAO, leaned over the radar display to get a better look.

“Just intermittent so far, sir,” Radarman Second Class Adams replied.

Clayton straightened up and looked across at Stramaglia. “I don’t like this much, CAG. How soon ‘til you get some planes out there to eyeball the bastards?”

“It won’t be long now, Commander,” Stramaglia replied gruffly. He jabbed a finger at Lieutenant Bannon, who had been assigned to the CAG staff for a few days. “You … get on the batphone to Pri-Fly and find out from the Boss what the hell’s taking the backup planes so long.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Bannon responded nervously, hastening to carry out the order. Magruder wondered if putting him here, under CAG’s baleful eye, had been the right therapy for his problem. Bannon looked drawn, gaunt, like he hadn’t slept for days.

Stramaglia turned his glare on Magruder. “About time you got down here, Commander. I’ve got a job for you.”

“The backup mission, sir?” he responded eagerly. Since the first word of the trio of bogies had started spreading through the ship Magruder had been fighting the urge to call CAG and ask for a shot at them. Surely CAG wouldn’t stick to his decision about barring Magruder from fighter missions.

CAG’s laugh was a short, barking sound. “Nonsense. Grant and Wayne can handle whatever’s out there. No, I’m doubling up on ASW flights for a few hours. It’d be just like the Russians to wait until everybody was focusing all their attention on their radar screens and then try to slip a sub or two into range. You’ll fly copilot on Viking 700. Get down to the King Fishers’ ready room and start suiting. Launch is in fifteen minutes.”

Tombstone tried hard to conceal his disappointment. “Aye, aye, sir,” he said crisply.

As Magruder turned to leave, CAG added another comment. “Time to let somebody else share in the glory, Commander. Get your ass in gear!”

“Redwing, Redwing, this is Bravo Six-four,” Coyote heard in his headphones. “Backups have launched. Call sign is Ajax. I say again, Ajax.”

“Bravo Six-four, Redwing,” Coyote responded. “Roger. Backup call sign is Ajax.”

“I’m getting something now, Skipper,” Nichols reported from the back seat. “Yeah … that’s our party, all right. Three targets bearing zero-two-five, course one-nine-five, range one hundred three.”

“You copy that, Kos?” he asked over the radio.

There was a pause. It was Koslosky’s RIO, Lieutenant Ron “Wild Card” Kirshner, who finally replied. “Got ‘em, Skipper.”

“Change course to intercept,” he ordered. “Talk to me, John-Boy. What else’ve you got back there?”

“Speed is three-four-five,” Nichols came back. “They’re at angels two … no, I think they’re dropping. Heading down for the deck, Coyote.”

“Just like the other night,” he commented. “Those blips tell you anything worth knowing?”

“I read it as one big, two small,” John-Boy told him. “Like a B-52 with a couple of Eagles for escort.”

“Or a Bear and two large MiGs,” Coyote mused. “They’re flying with an escort. How sure are you?”

“I’m sure, sir,” Nichols said stiffly.

“Don’t get huffy with me now, kid,” Grant said. “I just want to be damned sure I’m feeding CAG the straight dope. If those are fighters on escort, the chances that the Russkies are just out for the scenery just went down. Okay?”

“Yeah. I get you, Coyote. And I’m sure on the sizes.”

Coyote reached for the radio switch again. He hoped Nichols really did know his stuff.

Captain Second Rank Sergei Sergeivich Terekhov cursed as the radar-threat warning announced the American radar lock. He had been told in the premission briefing that the Americans were likely to try this tactic again, but it still didn’t make it any easier to accept. Terekhov preferred strike missions against the Norwegians to the uncertainties of escorting reconnaissance patrols near the American carrier battle group. At least with the Norwegians the situation was clear. Any target that presented itself was fair game.

But out here it was different. The admiral had issued stern rules of engagement aimed at limiting the chances of escalation. It meant that patrols and their escorts had to accept the greater risks that went with giving up the advantages of shooting first. Even maneuvering to break the radar lock could be interpreted as hostile action. And that could be disastrous.

Terekhov forced himself to ignore the icy grip on his bowels. This was just another routine encounter, nothing more. He had engaged in this same kind of game when Soyuz first sailed from the Black Sea en route to her new duty station with Red Banner Northern Fleet. Then it had been patrolling aircraft from the carrier Eisenhower. This was just more of the same.

If all went as their orders had instructed the flight would not be engaging this morning … not unless the Americans decided to play at being cowboys and started something first. Flight Misha was supposed to test the American air defenses, and their resolve, but without provoking an incident. His orders from the commander of Soyuz’s air wing had been detailed and specific: push hard, don’t back down, but under no circumstances arm or fire weapons unless the Americans did so first.

“Cossack, this is Misha Escort Leader,” he said, keying in his radio. Cossack was the call sign for the carrier. A controller there was monitoring every move Flight Misha made. “I have radar-threat warning. Request instructions. Over.”

“Misha Leader, Cossack,” the radio voice replied. “Fly minimum altitude approach. Keep formation tight and remain on course as instructed. Update as required.”

“Paloochyena,” he responded. “Message received.” Terekhov pushed his stick forward as he switched frequencies. “Misha Flight, drop to minimum altitude and follow me.”

Low clouds enveloped the MiG as he descended. He could not help but be conscious of the intense scrutiny that would be focused on this mission. It was rumored the admiral himself had issued the orders to keep the Americans under observation.

Sergei Sergeivich Terekhov was determined to carry out Admiral Khenkin’s orders to the letter … or die trying.

Lieutenant Gary Koslosky could feel the excitement building inside him. This was what he’d joined the Navy for, what he’d become an aviator for … the thrill of feeling his Tomcat slicing through the clouds on its way to an encounter with the enemy. It wasn’t anything like duty with the RAG back in the States. Nothing was likely to happen on one of those flights. But out here, he could make a difference.

He’d often wondered if he would be afraid the first time he had to fly blue-water ops with the chance of running into a live enemy. But there wasn’t any fear, only a sense of purpose, the hope that he’d really get a chance to prove himself.

“Man, it could all happen today,” he said aloud over the ICS. “If the goddamned Russkies are really looking for trouble, we’ll give it to ‘em, right?”

From the backseat Kirshner sounded bored. “Throttle back, rookie,” he said scornfully. The RIO was an old hand, but his blase manner wasn’t enough to dampen Koslosky’s mood. “It’s just another Bear hunt.”

Koslosky edged the throttle forward a little. Maybe that’s all it was to Kirshner. “Come on, Wild Card, loosen up,” he protested. “If the Russkies do start something it’ll be our big chance. Wouldn’t you like to draw first blood for the squadron?”

“Sure. But we won’t.” He could almost see the RIO’s grimace of distaste. “First off, the Commies’ll back down, just like they always do. And second, even if something does go down, do you think the Old Man’s going to let a nugget get off the first shot? Try reality just for a change, okay, kid?”

Koslosky didn’t answer. If things started happening, he thought, he’d be in on it. Nothing was going to keep him from joining the ranks of the select, the fraternity of aviators who’d earned themselves a kill. If Scandinavia was really heating up, he might come out of this war another multiple ace like the Deputy CAG, Magruder.

That thought made him all the more anxious for action.

“Two-oh-eight, ease up your throttle and watch your heading,” Coyote snapped into the radio mike. The bogies would be on top of them soon, and he had better things to do than worry about some overeager fighter jockey who wouldn’t pay attention.

“Affirmative,” Koslosky said.

“They’re coming up fast, Coyote!” Nichols said. “Down on the deck and really moving!”

“Right,” Coyote said. “Kos, break left and come in over the Bear, parallel and on top of him. Don’t push him too much, but keep with him. And stay clear of his tail gun, just in case.”

“Yes, sir!” the younger flyer replied. The Tomcat started to bank away, turning as it lost altitude and cut back speed. The swing wings flared out, giving it the look of a predatory bird swooping low toward its prey. A moment later Coyote lost Koslosky’s plane in the clouds.

He pushed the stick to the right and started a descending turn of his own. “Talk to me, John-Boy. Talk to me.”

“Range fifteen, closing … closing …”

Mist enveloped the cockpit as the Tomcat dropped through the cloud layer. Coyote kept one eye on the altimeter and the other on his radar display. He wanted to close in fast, before the Russians had time to react to his maneuver.

Then they were out of the clouds, and the Russian planes were there.

He got a good look at the lead jet, one of the navalized MiG-29Ds known in the NATO F-for-fighter lexicon as Fulcrum. This model was pretty much identical to the ones that had been flying for years with front-line Soviet air units, with a minimum of conversions to fit it for the carrier fighter/attack role. The Russians had strengthened the undercarriage, added an arrester hook and some avionics that roughly matched the Tomcat’s ILS and ACLS gear. Other than that it remained what it had started out as — an extremely effective answer to the very best fighter craft in America’s modern arsenal.

The second MiG was close by the leader, not quite in a rigid welded-wing formation, but far tighter than the typical American flight. The Bear trailed them, turboprops thundering. He spotted Koslosky moving into position as he finished his turn and dropped easily into place alongside the Bear.

In the cockpit he could see a Soviet pilot wearing an old-fashioned leather flying helmet. The Russian was gesticulating at him, flashing three fingers repeatedly. So he wasn’t going to play coy like Batman’s quarry from the other night. This one wanted a chat on 333.3, and from the urgency of the gestures he wanted it in a hurry.

“American fighter, American fighter,” Coyote heard as he switched frequencies. “You are about to be violating restricted airspace. You are urged to withdraw for your own safety.”

“Redwing Leader to Russian aircraft.” Grant gave a thin smile as he made his reply. “You been taking lessons from Khadafy on maritime law, boys?” There was a veiled threat in the bantering words. When Colonel Khadafy had suddenly claimed the entire Gulf of Sidra as Libyan territorial waters back in the early eighties, America had sent in the carriers … and the colonel’s feeble attempts at enforcement had resulted in some spectacular shoot-downs, all of them of Libyans.

“Ye nye panyemayoo,” the reply came back in Russian.

“I not understand … Waters of Norwegian Sea declared part of combat zone in police action in Norway. Very dangerous for noncombatants. Very great risk of unfortunate incident. You are urged to withdraw.”

“Russian aircraft, Redwing Leader,” Coyote said. “Just for the record, are you guys seriously claiming the whole Norwegian Sea as an exclusion zone? Over.”

“Redwing Leader, this is Misha Escort Leader,” a new voice said, breaking in. “This is not a matter for pilots to debate, da? Is for politicians.”

“Misha Escort Leader, you will note that we are no longer flying toward the Norwegian Sea,” Coyote answered. It was time to change the subject. “We are, however, flying directly toward an American carrier battle group which has declared an exclusion zone of two hundred miles radius as of 0500 this morning. Since we’re not violating any exclusion zones, isn’t it your turn?”

There was a long pause. Coyote suspected the Russians were checking with their home base for instructions. Finally the Escort Leader’s voice came back on the channel. “We find exclusion zone around non-involved aircraft carrier most disturbing, Redwing Leader. America and Soviet Union are not enemies. Why do you treat us as such?”

“Now that’s something for the politicians to talk about, tovarish,” Grant told him. “I’m just doing my job, which is to see you out of this area. Now.”

“Redwing Leader, I have strict orders. I will not deviate. I repeat, I-“

“Heard you the first time, Ivan,” Coyote said sharply. He cut the channel off and switched to the link back to the Hawkeye. “Bravo Six-four, Redwing Leader. Got us a stubborn S.O.B. out here who won’t turn aside. Do I have permission to give him some encouragement?”

“Redwing, this is Dragon’s Lair,” CAG’s voice answered quickly. “Negative on your request. Negative. Ajax ETA your position in five minutes. Let’s see if four more Tomcats makes them cool off a little.”

“Roger, Dragon’s Lair. Redwing Leader clear.”

He switched to the tactical channel and passed the instructions on to Koslosky. The disappointment in the younger man’s voice carried over the radio clearly.

Coyote could sympathize with the frustration. He hoped CAG was right and reinforcements would frighten the Russians off. Every second was bringing them closer to the Jefferson, and sooner or later the Americans would have to take action. Drastic action, if necessary. They couldn’t allow the Russians to overfly the battle group. That would send the wrong signals to too many places, starting with the Kremlin and the White House.

But if they had to resort to force, they could end up with a tiger by the tail.