Flame Out c-4

by Keith Douglass

  But sudden deceleration caught him by surprise as the tail hook caught the four wire and the Tomcat jerked to a halt. “Good trap! Good trap!” he heard in his headphones.

  They were down.

  2331 hours Zulu (2131 hours Zone)

  Tomcat 204, Hound Flight

  Over the North Atlantic

  “Gotcha! I’ve got our boy nailed, compadre. Bearing zero-four-one, range eighty-three miles. He’s down on the deck. A hundred, maybe a hundred fifty feet.”

  “Nice going, Malibu,” Batman replied over the ICS. He switched to his radio. “You got him, Tyrone?”

  “Affirmative,” Powers replied tersely. The young pilot seemed determined to fly the mission strictly by the book.

  “Hey, this dude’s really trying to catch a bodacious wave,” Malibu interjected. “He gets any lower and they’ll be scraping fish off the front of that thing.”

  “Trying to duck our radar,” Batman said. “And maybe sucker us into taking a bath if we try to buzz him. Listen up, Tyrone. The Russkies always get a big laugh when they con some capitalist nugget like you into hitting water. You watch your altitude and keep it cool, got it?”

  “Roger, Leader,” the other pilot replied.

  Tyrone’s RIO, Lieutenant William “Ears” Cavanaugh, spoke up. “I’ve got the bastard too.” He gave a dry chuckle. “Don’t worry, Batman, I’ll keep the kid out of trouble.” True to standard practice, Cavanaugh was an experienced hand teamed with one of the squadron’s rookies. But Batman had seen the RIO in action during the intensive air wing training program at NAS Fallon in Nevada before deploying to the carrier. Ears was a topnotch RIO, but sometimes he was a little too eager.

  “Question is, who’ll keep you out of trouble, Ears?” Batman responded. He didn’t give the others a chance to answer him. “Tango Two-fiver, Hound Two-oh-four. We’ve got him on our scopes. Going in to have a look.”

  “Roger, Two-oh-four,” came the reply from the Hawkeye. There was a pause. “Mind your ROES, boys. It ain’t a shooting war.”

  “Not yet,” Batman muttered. Ever since his first combat experience off North Korea he had mistrusted the limitations set by the Rules of Engagement. They had been designed to keep overeager pilots from precipitating an international incident in the heat of a tense encounter. But they also had the effect of hamstringing those same aviators. Often in modern air combat the first one to lock on and launch was the winner, and when the ROEs said not to fire unless fired upon …

  Against the sort of opposition the United States had met in the past — the Libyans in the Gulf of Sidra, for example — it didn’t matter so much. Technological and doctrinal superiority had allowed American pilots to survive enemy attacks and come back swinging. But against first-class Soviet opposition the same might not be true. If the Russians planned on starting something this flight might be Batman’s last.

  The dark thoughts flashed through Batman’s mind in an instant, but all he said aloud was, “Roger, Tango Two-fiver.”

  He dropped the Tomcat into a sharp bank and started the descent. The Bear was low, but the Russians had underestimated the accuracy of American radar surveillance. Thank God for the Hawkeye, Batman thought. Without the E-2C the Russians might have been able to get much closer before they were spotted.

  Bears were archaic by modern standards, but the Bear-D reconnaissance bird was still a deadly threat. That wasn’t so much because of the weaponry it could carry, but rather because it could help more sophisticated Badgers or Blackjacks to get a fix on American ships without exposing themselves to detection. And a Badger armed with stand-off missiles could play havoc with the battle group in a matter of minutes.

  Each Bear hunt had to be treated as if it was the real thing. And if the reports from Norway were true, tonight the threat was worse than ever before.

  He could feel the huge Soviet aircraft long before he saw it. The low, steady rumble of the plane’s four Kuznetsov turboprops shook the night sky like distant thunder. He strained to see ahead, looking for some sign.

  “Tally-ho!” The old aviator’s hunting call came over the radio. Excitement made Tyrone’s voice shrill. “Eleven o’clock, Batman, and right down on the deck!”

  Batman spotted it then, the constellation of red and green navigation lights that marked the Soviet plane. A red beacon strobed its anticollision warning. At least the Bear wasn’t coming in blacked out. That counted for something.

  “Tango Two-fiver, Hound Two-oh-four. We have visual on the bandit! Closing now.”

  “Two-oh-four, this is Domino.” That was CAG’s voice, relayed by the Hawkeye from Jefferson. “Go easy, but let that guy know he’s not welcome here.”

  “Roger, Domino,” Batman replied. “Tyrone, hang back and cover me. Stay one mile out.”

  “Roger,” came the laconic reply. Powers was shaping up as a steady hand after all.

  Batman turned to port and circled lazily around the Bear, crossing the turbulence of the larger aircraft’s slipstream and falling into place alongside. Batman fought to control his heartbeat and breathing. He was in easy range of the Russian’s NR-23 cannons, and all it would take was one slip to turn this from a routine encounter to the first shots of World War III.

  “Remember the time off Korea,” Malibu warned. “They’ll probably hit their searchlight.”

  The reminder came just in time. A blinding lance of light shot out from the searchlight mounting near the tail section, enveloping the Tomcat’s cockpit. Batman kept his eyes averted and blinked hard.

  Often in night encounters the Russians would illuminate their own plane with the searchlight. It helped avoid misjudged distances and accidental collisions. But within seconds Batman knew that wasn’t their intention this time around.

  The light held the Tomcat’s cockpit, challenging, probing.

  “Picking up emissions from Big Bulge,” Malibu said. That was the NATO code name for the ship-targeting radar system mounted in the oversized teardrop-shaped housing on the belly of the Bear. It was useless for air-to-air work. The only reason to use Big Bulge was to find surface ships … and maybe steer stand-off missiles toward them.

  Batman muttered a curse and rolled sideways, increasing speed slightly to clear the searchlight beam. He steadied the Tomcat back on course even closer to the Bear than before, close enough to see dark figures at the windows of the cockpit and the tail section. They could see him as well.

  He held up two fingers, then five, eight, and finally a clenched fist, the signal that he wanted to talk on Channel 258.0. That was common enough in a Bear hunt. In times past crews had exchanged comments, questions, even jokes.

  But the only response from the Russian was another light show. Were they deliberately trying to blind him, or were they just trying to take pictures? Photographs from encounters like these had helped both sides learn about the planes their opponents flew, but this didn’t feel like a photo session to Batman. They were doing their best to make things tough for him.

  Batman pulled his stick over sharply to port and shoved his throttle to afterburner zone five. The Tomcat surged up and to the left, crossing in front of and above the Bear’s cockpit. He could imagine the Soviet pilot scrambling to avoid the danger.

  Somewhere in the back of his mind he remembered Tombstone’s admonishment so long ago. He was risking it all.

  He cut power and circled again, watching the Bear warily. “Got anything, Malibu?”

  “Big Bulge is still on,” the RIO replied tautly, all trace of his California-surfer persona gone.

  “Right.” Batman switched to radio. “Tyrone, give this sucker something to think about. Give him a lock-on.

  “R-roger.” Powers sounded nervous. He had every right to be. If the Russian decided an attack was imminent there was no telling what he might do.

  Batman drifted close alongside again and repeated the 258.0 signal. This time there was a response, a gabble of Russian and broken English over the radio.

  “Stoy! Stoy! Nee stre
elyaee! Not shoot!”

  “Okay, Tyrone, cut the lock,” Batman instructed on their tactical channel. Then, switching to 258.0, he replied to the Soviet, “Russian aircraft, this is Hound Leader. I am the aircraft just off your port wing. Do you copy, over?”

  “Hound leader, is Hight Varon. Radar lock is flagrant provocation. I protest this act of aggression. Over.”

  “Protest all you want,” Batman shot back. “You are requested to come to course three-zero-zero and turn off that search radar. In the interests of international good will, you know.”

  “Nyet! Is not for Americans to order flight plans of Soviet aircraft! Or do you declare exclusion zone?”

  Jefferson hadn’t taken that step yet. In wartime or a particularly tense crisis an exclusion zone defined an area in which any unauthorized plane would be fired on automatically. That was a much larger escalation of the current tension than anyone had been willing to order so far.

  “Negative, Flight Varon. But in view of the current situation, don’t you think it would be a good idea to avoid … unfortunate incidents?”

  “Bah! Is blatant interference!”

  Batman switched channels again. “Give him another little tweak, Tyrone,” he said. “Just to remind him what he’s risking.”

  “Roger, Leader.” The younger pilot still sounded tense, but in control. “Got him.”

  “Flight Varon, this is Hound Leader,” Batman drawled, back on the common frequency. “Request you comply with our suggestion. My partner has an itchy trigger finger.”

  There was a long, tense pause. Technically there was nothing Batman could do to stop the Bear unless he was willing to risk a full-blown incident. He was banking on the Russians being as nervous as the Americans.

  It was a deadly game of chicken … and millions of lives could hang on the outcome.

  The rumble of the Bear’s engines rose in pitch a little as the aircraft accelerated and started to climb away from the encounter. “Big Bulge is off,” Malibu announced.

  He watched the Bear turn, not northwest as he’d suggested, but east instead. As it continued to swing slowly around onto a northeasterly heading, Batman rubbed the bridge of his nose. They were on the right heading for a return to Russia. Had the reconnaissance flight been on a routine mission, or had it been especially directed against the battle group?

  The answer to that question might tell a lot about Soviet intentions in the unfolding crisis.

  CHAPTER 4

  Monday, 9 June, 1997

  2345 hours Zulu (2145 hours Zone)

  Admiral’s quarters, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson

  The North Atlantic

  Rear Admiral Douglas F. Tarrant looked up from his computer terminal at the discreet tap on his door. “Come,” he said, saving the letter to his wife before shutting off the machine. He glanced at the clock over his desk and raised a surprised eyebrow. There were few people aboard who would knock on that door at this time of night, even if they knew Tarrant was accustomed to working late and snatching short catnaps.

  Jefferson’s CO, Captain Jeremy Brandt, looked apologetic as he entered. Short, stocky, with close-cut blond hair beginning to go gray, Brandt had a bulldog face and a temperament, so Tarrant had learned, to match. They’d never served together before, but Tarrant had heard nothing but good reports on the captain, and had confirmed them in a month’s direct contact. It was Brandt’s first cruise commanding a carrier, but he’d put in tours as CO aboard the Tripoli and the Kalamazoo, with a particularly good record as CAG aboard the Kennedy back in ‘93. The carefully planned career cycle of Navy carrier skippers ensured that the best men made it to the top, but even in that distinguished company Brandt stood out.

  “Sorry to disturb you, Admiral,” he said. “But Commander Sykes down in CR just processed a Priority Urgent message from CINCLANT.” He held up a bundle of teletype printouts.

  Tarrant frowned. The bulky ream of paper sent up from the ship’s Communications Department had to be detailed situation reports and orders for the battle group from Commander-in-Chief Atlantic Fleet, and the precedence code of “Priority Urgent” meant that it was important enough to require attention within three hours of transmission. That could mean only one thing.

  “We’re going in,” he said aloud. “We must be going in.”

  Brandt nodded slowly. “That’s my guess, sir. Looks like the folks up at NCA finally got off their collective butt and decided to make a move after all.”

  He took the papers from the captain. “Anything else?”

  “Mercury Flight’s on the deck, Admiral. Two Tomcats, two Intruders. Not a full replacement, but it’s better than nothing.”

  “Good.” Tarrant smiled. “I’ll bet CAG’s happy at least.”

  “Yes, sir,” Brandt said noncommittally. Everyone on board knew Stramaglia’s reputation for never being satisfied. “We also had confirmation from the Hawkeye that the Bear we were tracking changed course after our Tomcats intercepted.”

  “I’ll pretend you didn’t tell me,” Tarrant said. There was a certain amount of rivalry between Brandt as Captain of the ship and Stramaglia as CO of the Air Wing. In theory they were equals under Tarrant’s command, and it might have been considered a breach of protocol for Brandt to report developments that were entirely within the CAG’s purview. But Tarrant was more concerned at the moment with information rather than propriety. If the message from CINCLANT was what he thought it was, he was going to need every scrap of data he could lay his hands on in the next few hours.

  “All right, Captain,” he went on, adopting a more serious tone. “Pass the word for my staff to meet me in Flag Plot in half an hour. And I want a meeting of the battle group’s senior officers on board Jefferson tomorrow morning at 0900. Captains and Execs … CAG and his staff too.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Brandt responded formally. “I doubt Colby or Wolfe can get here for the meeting, though.”

  They were the skippers of CBG-14’s two 688-class attack subs, Galveston and Bangor. They were ranging far ahead of the surface ships, and it would be awkward to transport officers off the submarines to attend a briefing.

  A face-to-face meeting with his ship commanders wasn’t absolutely necessary, but it was something Tarrant always tried to arrange when there were important orders to be passed along. It gave him a better measure of the men who had to carry them out. He could see their reactions, hear their opinions. Despite all the myths of modern high-tech warfare it was still the men who counted most.

  “Don’t worry about them,” he told Brandt. He’d just have to depend on their skills sight unseen. From what he remembered of them from the short meetings he’d had with the two sub commanders at the beginning of the deployment, he had nothing to worry about from either man. “We’ll send them a transcript afterwards. But see to getting the others aboard.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” the captain repeated, glancing again at the printout with an unreadable expression before turning to leave.

  After Brandt was gone Tarrant picked up the printout and began to scan the pages. It was as he had feared. The situation in Norway was no longer to be considered a local problem.

  As was so often the case, the crisis had caught everyone, including America’s intelligence community, off guard. At the core of the matter lay a long-standing grievance between Norway and the Soviet Union, going back to post-World War II days. The argument over the exact location of territorial water boundaries in the Barents Sea had become a major issue almost overnight. Soviet military maneuvers on the Norwegian border had heightened the tensions without really changing the equation. That was just a routine adjunct to diplomacy as far as the Russians were concerned. The world community had looked on, unable and often unwilling to get involved as the war of words continued. Denunciations of both sides in the United Nations, mediation by the Secretary General — nothing had worked.

  But the Soviet President had made his mark on the world stage as a diplomat whose charm and personal style could make thi
ngs happen where the career negotiators were deadlocked. His well-publicized trip to Oslo on a mission of personal negotiation had been stage-managed with the modern Russian flair for grabbing Western audiences and selling them on the new Soviet Union’s dedication to peace and goodwill.

  At the time Tarrant had been convinced that the whole dispute with Norway had been engineered just so the President of the Soviet Union could produce another of his famed diplomatic miracles … and incidentally counteract the bad press Russia had been getting over the crackdowns on food rioters in Kiev and Smolensk. The Soviets had learned a lot about stage-managing public relations stunts from Gorbachev and Yeltsin. Then, on the fourth day of June, the unthinkable happened. In front of tens of millions of television viewers worldwide, a bomb planted in Norway’s parliament building had exploded just as the Soviet President had come forward to deliver a speech announcing the settlement of the dispute.

  The act had left the world stunned. Not only had the charismatic, reform-minded Soviet President perished in that blast, but along with him numerous high-ranking Norwegian government officials and members of the Storting had died as well. Within a matter of hours there were riots in Oslo and Bergen, and an air of desperation and near-anarchy seemed to dominate Norway.

  The Soviet reaction had been both swift and deadly. Declaring the bomb plot and the subsequent disorders in a neighbor country posed a direct threat to the stability of their own nation, Russian leaders announced their intention to restore order before the situation deteriorated further. Russian troops and planes were on their way into Norwegian territory within a day of that fateful assassination.

  Tarrant considered himself a student of history, and he couldn’t help but draw the parallels between the events the world had just witnessed and another assassination plot years ago in a Balkan city called Sarajevo. But where it had taken over a month for open warfare to break out after the death of Austria’s Archduke Ferdinand, this time fighting erupted in a matter of hours.