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.
0912 hours Zulu (0812 hours Zone)
Tomcat 201 Redwing Flight
“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.
CHAPTER 9
Wednesday, 11 June, 1997
0914 hours Zulu (0814 hours Zone)
Tomcat 204, South of the Faeroe Islands
“Still no change in heading. The bandits are still on heading one-nine-five.” The tension in Coyote’s voice was plain even through the distortion and static of the radio channel.
Batman Wayne didn’t like the edge in the squadron leader’s voice. The Soviets simply weren’t backing off, and Grant was sounding more and more frustrated with the situation. Would the Russians force the Americans to fire the first shots? Did they want to start a war?
He keyed in his radio. “Redwing Leader, Redwing Leader, this is Ajax Leader. Don’t worry ‘bout a thing, Coyote. We’re coming up fast.”
“One minute thirty,” Malibu chimed in from the backseat, all business. “Screen’s still empty except for our boys and their guests.”
“Keep watching them, Mal,” Batman said. He switched frequencies. “Ajax Flight, let’s show these gate-crashers what we do when we find unwelcome visitors.” He thought back to the intercept he’d done before. “Big D, you and the Loon take the left. Go for weapons locks on the Bear. Make ‘em sweat a little.
Tyrone, you and me are gonna play tag with the number-two MiG. Got it?”
“We’re on it, Caped Crusader!” That was Lieutenant Commander Dallas Sheridan, “Big D,” flying Tomcat 212. His aircraft peeled off, followed closely by Lieutenant Adam “Loon” Baird in number 205. “We’ll be all over that guy like ugly on my mother-in-law!”
“Let’s show the Commies what a real aviator can do!” Powers added. “They’ll never know what hit ‘em!”
“Just remember the ROES, children,” Batman said, mostly for the benefit of Powers and Cavanaugh. Even though they’d done a good job in the encounter Monday night he still regarded Powers as a potential troublemaker. The man wanted to score a kill, and Batman was afraid he’d get too eager. He could remember how it had felt when he’d been looking for his first ACM kill. “Do not fire unless fired upon, or until you get the Weapons Free call from the Jeff.”
“Yes, Mother,” Sheridan’s RIO, Lieutenant j.g. Edward “Fast Eddie” Glazowski, replied. “We’ll be good.”
Under the lighthearted banter there was an underlying seriousness. These men knew what was at stake today. After years of training for just this kind of confrontation, it was still hard to believe that they were so close to the brink this time.
“One minute, Batman,” Malibu announced quietly.
He tightened his grip on the stick and swallowed.
0916 hours Zulu (0616 hours Zone)
Tomcat 208 Redwing Flight
“Damn it, why don’t they let us do something?” Koslosky muttered. He was maintaining the Tomcat’s position above the Bear, but so far there was no sign that the Russians were willing to turn back. By now they would know about the four new fighters from Ajax Flight, and that hadn’t seemed to change things either.
“Stay frosty, kid,” Kirshner advised him.
Koslosky fumed. It seemed like everyone from the admiral down to his own RIO was letting the Russians get away with murder just because things were hot in Norway. He knew how the Soviets operated … hell, everybody knew. They would push as hard and as far as they could just to see how much they could get away with, but the first time they faced really determined opposition they caved in. That had been the story of the whole Cold War era. It had led to the end of the Wall and the retreat of the Red Army from Eastern Europe into the Russian heartland.
“The hell with this,” he said aloud. With a quick movement he banked the Tomcat right, standing it on one wing and letting the plane lose altitude. He’d give that Bear pilot the fright of his life. Then they’d see how long the Russians ignored the carrier’s exclusion zone!
“Jesus!” Kirshner swore. “What the hell’re you doing, Kos?”
“Trust me, Wild Card,” he said with a grin. “I’m just raising them another few dollars.”
His hands worked the stick and the throttles deftly, settling the fighter close alongside the huge reconnaissance plane’s starboard wing. It was a tricky maneuver, but nothing he couldn’t handle. Sliding up to a tanker for a midair refueling was no more hazardous than this. Slowly he edged his speed up so the Tomcat would pull forward alongside of the cockpit. Koslosky grinned again, his mind flashing back to the scene from the movie Top Gun where the hero had inverted his Tomcat a few feet over an enemy plane. There was no room for that kind of bravado out here … but you could make your point clearly enough just by crowding the opposition a little. Tomcat and Bear edged closer together.
0916 hours Zulu (0816 hours Zone)
Tu-95 Misha Three
Misha Flight
“New American aircraft have split up,” the electronics officer reported nervously. “Comrade Captain-Lieutenant, if they are serious about exclusion zone we will be easy targets.”
Captain-Lieutenant Viktor Petrovich Kolibernov had been thinking the same thing. It was easy enough for the Boishoi Chirey, the “Big Boys” who gave the orders, to claim that the Americans would never initiate hostilities. Things looked different from the cockpit of an antiquated Tu-95 with a swarm of American fighters closing in.
He realized he was sweating. Kolibemov wiped his forehead with one gloved hand and then reached up to adjust the large fan positioned above the right side of his seat. He darted a glance at the copilot, but if Lieutenant Adriashenko realized how nervous his commanding officer was he gave no sign of it.
Much as Kolibemov wanted to back off before the Americans got any more persistent, his instructions were specific and allowed him no freedom of action. If he deviated from the reconnaissance mission now, he would have to be ready to face the consequences back at Olenegersk. Captain-lieutenants were not supposed to take that kind of decision on themselves without a very good reason.
“Weapons lock! Weapons lock!” The electronics officer’s voice rose an octave. “They have a lock on us!”
Kolibemov hesitated. In ten years of flying maritime reconnaissance patrols Kolibemov had never felt so close to the edge before. He could finally understand how his father had felt when he served as an officer aboard one of the freighters that had tried to run the American blockade of Cuba back in the tense days of the Missile Crisis. Knowing that if both sides persisted on this course the only result could be war, perhaps the total war of nuclear annihilation. And for all the talk of glasnost and perestroika and the end of the age of confrontations, history was repeating itself again.
“Fuck it!” he said suddenly, wrenching the steering yoke to starboard. He wasn’t going to give the Americans an excuse to start something, no matter what the orders said. Next to him Adriashenko was gaping at him in disbelief.
“Look out! Look out!” someone shouted. Too late Kolibemov saw the American F-14 to starboard.
Too late …
0917 hours Zulu (0817 hours Zone)
Tomcat 208 Redwing Flight
Koslosky felt the Bear brush against the Tomcat’s wing, a jarring impact that drove the F-14’s wingtip downward with a screech of crumpled metal. He cursed and jerked his stick hard over, ramming the throttles full forward to afterburner zone five. The fighter shuddered as it turned, bucking like a Wild horse. He fought for control, but the combination of the Bear’s impact and the abrupt acceleration he’d applied to get clear made it that much harder to keep from falling into an uncontrolled spin.
“Shit!” Kirshner yelled. “You idiot!”
He ignored the RIO and wrestled with the stick. “Tomcat Two-oh-eight,” he announced on the radio. “He hit me! I’m hit!” The aircraft plunged toward the angry gray sea.
0917 hours Zulu (0817 hours Zone)
Tomcat 211 Ajax Flight
Powers heard Koslosky’s shout in his headphones. “I’m hit!”
“Goddamn!” he yelled. “They’ve hit Koslosky! The goddamned Russkies have opened fire!”
Don’t fire unless fired upon … Though he hadn’t seen the attack, Koslosky’s plane had been hit. That scrapped all the Rules of Engagement. The American aviators were in a whole new ball game now … one where speed and reaction time counted most. Victory in air-to-air combat went to the pilots who were quickest to acquire their targets and get off their shots.
He thumbed the selector switch on the stick to choose a Sidewinder. On his HUD the target reticule fixed on the distant bulk of the Bear and flashed red. The hum of a solid lock-on filled his ears.
“Tone … I’ve got good tone.” His thumb jabbed the firing stud. “Fox two! Fox two!”
The AIM-9M ignited and leapt from under the Tomcat’s wing, streaking toward its target. Mouth dry, Powers watched the plume of fire racing across the sky.
The heat-seeker struck the Bear squarely in the outermost engine on the port wing. Powers could see the fireball even from his position, a distant gleam of flame in the sky.
“Yahoo!” he shouted. “That’s a hit!”
He pushed the throttle forward into afterburner, ready to close in and finish the job.
0917 hours Zulu (0817 hours Zone)
Escort Leader Misha Flight
Terekhov’s head came a
round as the explosion lit up the overcast sky behind the MiG. He hadn’t believed it could happen. But it had … the Americans had fired on the Bear.
His orders covered what he was supposed to do in that case.
“Escort Leader to Escort Two,” he said grimly. “Weapons are free. Fire at discretion.”
They were outnumbered three to one, but the two MiGs of Soviet Naval Aviation would give a good account of themselves regardless of the odds. Senior Lieutenant Nickolaev was one of the squadron’s best pilots, despite his reputation for indulging in the kind of cowboy flying the Americans worshipped.
Terekhov cut in the MiG’s afterburners, feeling the thrust of the powerful Isotov RD-33 turbofans pressing him into his seat. Pulling back on his stick, he aimed for the clouds.
0917 hours Zulu (0817 hours Zone)
Tomcat 201 Redwing Flight
Coyote watched as flame engulfed the wing of the Tu-95, hardly able to believe what he was seeing. Sheered off by the blast, the wing fell away, and the aircraft spun off out of control, plummeting for the ocean below. As the Bear plunged, Coyote saw Koslosky’s Tomcat, its wing visibly damaged, obviously in trouble.
It had all happened too fast … so fast that he hadn’t been able to stop it. The horror of what had happened dulled his reactions. Viper Squadron had just fired the shots that could lead to outright war.
Then Nichols was shouting over the ICS. “Better look sharp, Skipper. Watch the MiGs!”
He jerked his attention away from the tableau of falling Bear and struggling fighter to see the lead MiG climbing fast ahead. “Batman! We’ve got a situation here!”
“On our way!”
“Skipper! Skipper! MiG two’s on my six! I can’t get control to dodge him!” That was Koslosky’s voice, sounding panicky.
Coyote banked and turned in time to see the MiG flash past in pursuit of the stricken Tomcat. With a curse Grant tried to bring his plane around, but he seemed to be moving in slow motion compared to the other planes.
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