Flame Out c-4

by Keith Douglass

  Over the ICS Meade added, “I’m still not happy about those signals we got at the beginning. The Russkies like to send their attack subs out in teams, Mr. Magruder, and I’m afraid there might be more lurking out here somewhere.”

  Tombstone shrugged. “Well, back to the old grind then, I guess,” he said. “I hope the next one’s that easy.”

  “That was beginner’s luck, Commander,” Harrison said with a wry smile. “You still haven’t seen a real sub hunt.”

  With a sigh, Magruder looked down at his instruments. “What do you want me to do?” he said resignedly. The momentary thrill of the hunt had faded.

  He wished, just for a moment, that he could be flying with a Tomcat strapped on and a hot dogfight around him.

  0935 hours Zulu (0935 hours Zone)

  Tomcat 201

  Northwest of the Faeroe Islands

  “Tyrone, you take the eyeball,” Coyote ordered.

  “Two-one-one, eyeball. Roger.” Powers sounded tense as he acknowledged the command, but his Tomcat accelerated smoothly as he maneuvered to take up his assigned position. The “loose deuce” formation preferred by American aviators deployed each pair of F-14s into an “eyeball” and a “shooter.” Powers would move a mile above and a mile and a half ahead of Coyote’s Tomcat, where he would act as a spotter during the critical opening moments of the engagement.

  He hoped the kid was up to it. If Powers made another mistake like the one in the Bear encounter, he could land his wingman in serious trouble. And Grant still wasn’t sure if Stramaglia, whose Tomcat was now falling behind 201, could be relied on. CAG’s sluggish reactions were worrying him.

  “Two-eight miles to the closest bogie,” John-Boy reported. “They’re still maintaining course and speed. Angels eight now.”

  “Launch! Launch! Two-one-one has visual on Flanker launch!” Powers was shouting. He sounded on the ragged edge of panic.

  “Confirmed! Confirm two missiles launched!” Cavanaugh, his RIO, was calmer. “Two-one-one, two-five miles.”

  “Let’s get in there and mix it up, Vipers!” Coyote said. He pushed the throttles up to Zone-Five afterburner and felt the G-forces pressing him back into his seat.

  The American planes had been loaded out for long-range interception, with four Phoenix and two Sidewinder missiles apiece. Now that the Phoenixes were gone, they no longer had a long-range attack option to match the Soviet AA-10 Alamo, a radar-guided missile similar in performance to the U.S. Sparrow. That meant that the Americans would have to press to close range if they were to put up any kind of fight at all.

  Meanwhile they’d be running the gauntlet.

  0936 hours Zulu (0936 hours Zone)

  Fulcrum Lead, Escort Mission Svimpyy

  Northwest of the Faeroe Islands

  “Hold launches! Hold launches!” Terekhov shouted into the radio. “Make your missiles count, you stupid peasant!”

  He hadn’t realized how much on edge he was until the words were out. The pilot of the lead Su-27 had let loose two long-range radar-guided missiles, probably without even attempting to get a lock on any of the Americans. Even among the carrier-based elite of Soviet Naval Aviation there was a tendency to let sheer volume of fire replace accuracy.

  Terekhov wasn’t going to tolerate that today. They would make every shot count.

  “Svirepyy aircraft, spread out and prepare to engage,” he ordered, keeping tighter control over his voice this time. “Pick your targets and bring them down For the Rodina!”

  He was gratified to hear the answering calls of “The Rodina!” from the rest of his command. With this force, he would sweep the skies clear of the American flyers.

  0937 hours Zulu (0937 hours Zone)

  Tomcat 211

  Northwest of the Faeroe Islands

  The threat light on his instrument panel blazed, and Powers felt his blood run cold. “They got lock on me!” he shouted. “Coyote! They’re locking on!”

  It was as if all his training and practice counted for nothing. All he could do was stare at the threat indicator. He was going to die.

  “Missile launch! Missile launch!” Cavanaugh reported from the backseat. “Multiple launches. Looks like there’s one … two … no, four headed our way. Better run for it, kid.”

  He heard the words, but they didn’t mean anything. Powers tried to focus on the voice, tried to figure out what the RIO was trying to tell him.

  “Come on, kid!” he heard Cavanaugh’s voice, loud and angry, over the ICS, but it sounded distant, remote. “Damn it, Tyrone, do something! Do something!”

  Powers shook his head, trying to get a grip on himself. All at once he was able to react again. He pulled back on the stick and rammed the throttles forward. The sudden acceleration was like a giant fist against his chest. “Hit the chaff, Ears,” he gasped, but Cavanaugh was silent now. The RIO had passed out from the G-force.

  One sluggish hand groped for the chaff-dispenser switch, found it. The launcher rattled once, twice as the Tomcat continued its high-speed climb. Blood pounded in his ears, and a red haze obscured his vision.

  0938 hours Zulu (0938 hours Zone)

  Tomcat 201

  Northwest of the Faeroe Islands

  “Hold on, kid,” Coyote grated. “Hold on.”

  The panicky voice of the young Tomcat pilot seemed to echo in his ears, but there wasn’t much he could do to help Powers yet. The nearest Russians were still almost twenty miles away, beyond the range of Coyote’s two AIM-9M Sidewinders. His fighter was already pushing the edge of the performance envelope. No amount of prayer, cursing, or wishful thinking would close the range any faster.

  “Tyrone’s climbing,” John-Boy reported. “He’s got two missiles on his tail. Whoa! One’s gone! Still got one on his tail … climbing … climbing … Second one just went off! The kid’s clear!”

  “Good dodging, Tyrone!” Coyote called on the radio. “Good dodge! Now get the hell out of there!”

  There was no answer for several long seconds, then only a dull “Aye, aye” from Powers. Grant bit his lip. The kid was finding out that a real air battle was a lot different from shooting down a helpless Bear.

  The question now was whether the strain of learning that lesson would be too much for him.

  “Fifteen miles to nearest bogie,” Nichols reported from the backseat. “Still closing.”

  “Target! Target!” That sounded like Batman, flying eyeball on the left side. “Where’s the damned tone?” There was a pause. “Tone! I’ve got tone! I’m taking the shot! Fox two! Fox two!”

  “Look out, Batman!” Trapper Martin shouted. “You’ve got a bunch of shit coming your way!”

  “Got one!” Batman called, ignoring Martin’s warning. Excited, eager, he sounded ready to take on all of Soviet Naval Aviation by himself. “That’s another kill for the Batman!”

  Coyote’s HUD display came alive with targeting symbols. “Two-oh-one, in range,” he said. He banked sharply to the left, trying to line up a shot, but with the two forces closing so fast it was hard to get a target lock.

  “Two coming at us,” John-Boy warned.

  Coyote nodded. Two planes, no more than dots in the distance, were streaking toward the Tomcat, weaving from side to side, too slippery to nail down. “I’m going to take them down the right side,” he said. “CAG, you copy?”

  “Copy,” Stramaglia’s voice answered.

  The tiny dots swelled suddenly and flashed past the right side of the fighter. In the instant he could see them clearly he identified them as Su-27 Flankers, long, lean birds with a characteristic goose-necked fuselage that made them look like birds of prey stooping in on their victims. Then they were gone.

  Coyote heeled the Tomcat over in a tight right hand turn that stood the fighter on its wing. In seconds he had settled in behind the second Flanker. The Russian bucked and jinked, but Grant clung to him doggedly. “Come on, you bastard, hold still,” he grated. “Come on …”

  The lock-on tone sounded loud i
n his ear and Coyote’s finger tightened … wo!” he shouted. “Fox two!”

  The Sidewinder streaked from its launch rail, trailing fire and smoke. Moments later it found its target, slamming into the Su-27’s port engine. Flame engulfed the Flanker.

  “Two-oh-one, splash one!” Coyote called.

  “Just one?” Batman asked. “Hell, boy, I just got my second. Going to guns now! This might be my chance to finally even up with old Tombstone!”

  “Keep on ‘em, Batman,” Coyote said, searching for the second Flanker. He was glad to hear that Wayne was still in the fight, still sounding the same. Batman was older and wiser than he’d been back in the Indian Ocean, but down deep he hadn’t changed that much. Dogfighting was like a game to him, a game he played very, very well.

  “Two o’clock, Coyote! Look to your two!” Nichols shouted.

  That was the second Sukhoi, climbing fast and trying a tight turn to get behind the Tomcat. Coyote answered with the high yo-yo, matching the Flanker’s turn and pulling back sharply on his stick to lose airspeed and keep from overshooting. An instant later the targeting tone sounded again and he fired his second Sidewinder. The missile struck the Soviet plane’s left wing, sending the Flanker spinning out of control. Coyote caught a glimpse of a blossoming parachute. “Splash two,” he announced. “Two-oh-one, splash two. Come on, John-Boy, find me somebody else to play with!”

  0940 hours Zulu (0940 hours Zone)

  Fulcrum Leader

  Northwest of the Faeroe Islands

  “Break left! Break left!” Terekhov screamed the order into the radio. Captain Second Rank Stralbo, commander of the second MiG squadron, had been dodging a team of aggressive American fighters, but somehow one of them had still wound up on Stralbo’s tail. Luckily the American cowboy had already used up his infrared homing missiles. Two long bursts of gunfire hadn’t scored any hits on Stralbo’s MiG as yet, but it was only a matter of time. It was clear that Stralbo was completely outclassed.

  Terekhov rolled his plane into position above and behind the American, still shouting for Stralbo to break to the left so he could line up his shot. The targeting diamond centered on the F-14 and turned red, the locking tone sounded in his ear, but Terekhov held his fire. “Roll left, Stralbo!” he bellowed again.

  It was as if the American pilot had a charmed life. Just as Stralbo started his turn the Tomcat banked in the opposite direction, as if suddenly aware of the threat. Terekhov stabbed at the firing stud, but too late. He had lost the target, and the missile streaked off into the distance, harmless.

  Then his threat indicator lit up.

  Turning his head back and forth, he spotted the second F14 angling in from his aft port quarter. He had forgotten the American fighting style, the “loose deuce” that allowed wingmen to cover each other flexibly. Soviet fliers rarely used anything but a tight “welded wing” formation, and it was easy to forget that not all adversaries followed the tactics he had become used to in half a lifetime in the cockpit.

  He caught sight of a plume of flame below the Tomcat’s wing. This one still had missiles.

  Terekhov wrenched his stick back and shoved his throttles full forward. Acceleration pressed him into his seat as he climbed. Fighting to retain consciousness, he watched his radar through a red haze, saw the blip that was the heat-seeker closing … closing …

  In a smooth motion he cut his power with a swift jerk of the throttles and triggered a pair of flares. It was a risky move that could lead to a flame-out or an uncontrolled spin, but by suddenly killing his hot afterburners and throwing out the flares he stood a good chance of defeating the American A-9M.

  The missile went off a good hundred meters behind and below him, and he instantly shoved the throttles into the highest afterburner zone and turned sharply toward the American plane.

  0942 hours Zulu (0942 hours Zone)

  Tomcat 204

  Northwest of the Faeroe Islands

  “It’s getting too damned thick here, Mal,” Batman said. “There’s too many of the bastards!”

  The RIO’s reply was all business. “That MiG’s coming down on Trapper! Three o’clock!”

  Batman cursed and accelerated into a turn. “This guy’s starting to piss me off,” he commented. The same MiG had spoiled his chances of taking out another Russian a few moments before. The Russkie was good, that much was certain. The guy had dodged Martin’s Sidewinder and then turned to carry the attack back to the Americans.

  “Watch him, Trap!” he warned. “I’m on the way!”

  “He’s all over me!” the lieutenant responded, sounding worried. “Hurry up, Batman! Hurry up!”

  He spotted the two planes, Martin climbing sharply, the Russian matching him move for move. “Lead him this way! Come left! Left!” Then a missile leapt from the MiG’s wing. Martin’s Tomcat was turning, climbing … And then there was nothing left but a fireball.

  CHAPTER 17

  Thursday, 12 June, 1997

  0942 hours Zulu (0942 hours Zone)

  Tomcat 201

  Northwest of the Faeroe Islands

  “They got Trapper! Trapper’s hit!”

  Coyote heard the edge in Batman’s voice. Wayne had already fired both Sidewinders, so he was down to nothing but guns … and now his wingman had been hit. “Get the hell out of there, Batman!” he called. “Disengage! Disengage!”

  “No can do, man,” Batman replied, sounding calmer now, grim and determined. “They’d be all over me if I tried.”

  “We’ll get you some support.” Grant cursed under his breath. Powers was still clear of the fighting after his first brush with Russian missiles, but he hadn’t made much of an effort to get back into the game, and Coyote wasn’t about to depend on him for anything. That left it to Grant … or to Stramaglia. “CAG … can you give Batman some backup?”

  There was a moment’s pause. “On my way,” Stramaglia said at last, sounding more animated than before. On the radar monitor the blip that represented the double-nuts bird was already angling to the left.

  Coyote let out a sigh and hoped he’d done the right thing. But he couldn’t waste time on the might-have-beens. For good or ill the choice was made, and he had a battle to fight.

  0943 hours Zulu (0943 hours Zone)

  Fulcrum Lead

  Northwest of the Faeroe Islands

  Terekhov heard exultant shouts over his radio and smiled. It was strictly against regulations for pilots to clutter up the communications channels with useless noise, but he wasn’t about to reprimand anyone. The sight of the American fighter engulfed by his missile’s fireball had given him the same feeling of elation. The plan was working. The Americans had fallen into the trap and this time they would be defeated.

  “Svirepyy Leader, this is Cossack,” Captain First Rank Glushko’s voice grated over the radio. “The An-74 now reports ten more American planes in the air. We cannot afford to continue to leave Soyuz uncovered. Cancel Operation Kutuzov and return to base. Repeat, return to base!”

  “Nyet!” Terekhov muttered under his breath. They were so close to making this work. One enemy plane destroyed … six to go. And not all of them were flying aggressively enough to press in close and use the short-range firepower that was all any of them had left. To turn back now when they had the opportunity to defeat these Americans in detail was worse than foolish. It was suicide. The best way to guarantee that the Americans would keep their distance from the fighting in Norway was to cripple their combat power here and now. With the bombers taking out Keflavik and a large chunk of their carrier air wing crippled, they would be stymied for the critical weeks it would take to finish off the Norwegian resistance. Then the Rodina could consolidate her gains with little hope of a Western counterattack.

  Didn’t Glushko realize that the Americans couldn’t possibly be planning an attack on the carrier? It took time to plan a strike mission, arm attack aircraft, brief pilots … such an effort couldn’t be mounted in the short time since the first strike on Keflavik. Ev
en if the Americans had been foolish enough to keep fully armed strike aircraft ready on the flight line just in case they might be needed — an there was no way anyone would do something that dangerous except in the direst emergency — the reaction time was just too short. These were fighters, kept on a high state of alert, being dispatched to shore up the weak squadron facing Terekhov now. That was the only possible explanation.

  He reached for the radio mike. “Cossack, Cossack, this is Svirepyy Leader. We cannot break off now! The enemy is running low on ammunition. We can sweep the sky if you just give us a few more minutes!”

  There was a long pause on the other end. Terekhov could imagine Glushko’s dilemma. It was easy enough to say that those couldn’t be attack planes on their way to hit Soyuz … but suppose they were? If Glushko abandoned the operation entirely he would be throwing away the best hope of victory. But if he gambled with the survival of the carrier and lost it would be a disaster. Would the air wing’s commander pass the decision to higher authority, or would he make the choice himself in hopes of restoring his sagging credit with the admiral?

  At last Glushko replied. “Detach the Sukhoi squadron,” he ordered. “They will return to cover the carrier. Your MiGs may remain, and do what further damage you can.”

  It was a compromise … and like most compromises it was a poor one. Even without the Sukhois Terekhov could probably defeat these Americans easily enough, but if those planes really were reinforcements they would catch his squadron in the same relative state as he had caught the Tomcats — low on ammo, perhaps on fuel, and unable to risk a prolonged engagement.

  But he knew it was the best Glushko was likely to offer. Best to continue the fight with whatever the air wing commander would leave him rather than risk an unequivocal recall order. “Acknowledged, Cossack,” he said. As he switched frequencies he allowed himself a grim smile. His own enthusiasm for continuing the battle would fit in nicely with Glushko’s private agenda. Leaving Terekhov with reduced numbers to finish the dogfight was the best way to get rid of a troublesome subordinate.