“The cavalry has arrived!” the co-pilot yelled out.
“That’s right,” the pilot said. “Now let’s get us and the rest of these covered wagons the hell out of here …”
On the call of the Flight Two pilot, the four remaining airliners climbed and turned slightly southward, trying to put as much distance between them and the impending dogfight as possible. The sudden ascent also served to douse the flames of the lead 747’s stricken engine.
“Damn,” the 747 pilot said through a sigh of relief. “We might make it to Spain yet …”
Hunter led the four F-16s through the six Forgers with surgical precision.
The Soviet pilots, knowing full well the difference between the cumbersome A-10 and pistol-hot F-16, immediately tried to break and run.
But for most of them, it was too late.
Although they had the numbers in their advantage—it was, after all, six Soviets against four Americans—the Forgers were all but sitting ducks. Weighed down by their Rube Goldberg-like engine arrangements, the Soviet aircraft suffered nearly twice the turning radius of the smaller, quicker F-16. Plus, they had greedily expended most of their air-to-air missiles on the helpless airliners.
Now, they would pay.
Hunter keyed his offensive systems in on the lead Yak, figuring correctly that the airplane was being flown by the flight leader. Aligning his fire radar and arming two Sidewinders, Hunter hooked onto the Forger’s vulnerable six o’clock position and stayed there. The enemy tried to jink this way and that—but to absolutely no effect.
Coolly—maybe too much so, he would later think—Hunter aimed the first Sidewinder and let it fly. Unerringly, it sped to its target just a half mile away and obediently smashed into the rear of the fleeing aircraft.
There was a puff of smoke followed by an orange ball of flame. Then came the explosion …
It was silent, oddly silent. Hunter felt the F-16 shudder just a bit as he flew through the air ripple concussion resulting from the blast. Then, as he climbed and streaked by, all he could see was a cloud of black smoke, peppered with pieces of gray and barely flaming wreckage. Then there was nothing.
It had happened so quickly—no more than five seconds had elapsed. But, just like that, Hawk Hunter had killed his first human being …
Chapter 10
CAPTAIN SPAULDING HAD REFORMED the Thunderbolts and wheeled them in a big arc low over the churning waves.
It was true that he had done all he could for the airliners, but still his psyche was unsettled.
What now? Hug the waves all the way to Spain? Or get back up to an acceptable altitude and risk getting caught by more enemy fighters? Or should they play it safe, wait up for the final segment of the convoy and play Last Place Looie to the tail-ending AC-130 gunships? He was certain that’s what his commanders would want him to do. The whole idea, after all, was to get the A-10s to the battle zone where they were needed.
But something was gnawing at him. He knew the Forgers had iced at least two jumbo jets, if not more. That meant a minimum of 600 Americans had gone down. Could he, in good conscience, let such an act go unanswered?
His answer came as his A-10 broke through the fine ocean mist lingering just above its surface.
Dead ahead was a Soviet naval task force …
It was composed of an aircraft carrier (the Brezhnev, it would later turn out), plus a Kirov-class cruiser, two Sverdlov-class light cruisers, and a protective ring of six, Sovremennyy-class, guided-missile destroyers.
Their bows all pointed directly at the flight of A-10s, the big ships looked like skyscrapers looming up from the ocean surface, bristling with radars and missile launchers, and anti-air-craft guns that would soon be tracking the incoming attack planes, if not already.
Screw it, Spaulding thought. This is war …
“Okay guys,” he hollered into the radio, “ARMs and guns on this pass, on my command … Everyone ready?”
Spaulding heard a reassuring chorus of approval from his flight.
“All right,” he said, taking a quick succession of gulps of oxygen and checking to make sure his Anti-Radiation Missiles were now properly hot. “Let’s get some payback …”
Klaxons on all of the Soviet ships were blaring by the time the nine A-10s had turned and begun their dash across the wavetops in three groups. Instantly, each ship’s battle command center switched on its fire-control radars. SAM crews began sending out the searching pulses of radar waves and immediately started picking up louder and louder pings as the distance between the ships and the attacking airplanes rapidly decreased.
A ripple of panic went through the Soviet AA crews as the A-10s were coming in so low, the gunners strained to depress their guns to meet them.
“Hang in there, guys,” Spaulding urged his pilots as he tightened his grip on both his missile release switches and the Gatling triggers. He was leading the first wave of A-10s and they were heading for amidships of the Kirov-class heavy cruiser. “Just a little bit closer, make sure they can’t turn off the radars in time …”
The attack was crazy in and of itself—but it would be a complete disaster if their missiles didn’t have enough time to lock on.
“A little closer …” he urged his two wingmen. Puffs of long-range AA fire were now coming up to meet them. “Closer …”
The AA fire grew more intense as the cruiser suddenly lurched hard to port in an effort to dodge the attacking planes. Someone on board the Soviet ship launched an anti-missile rocket which streaked about crazily and fell harmlessly into the sea.
“Closer …” Spaulding urged. “Closer … Now! Fire ARMs!”
He found himself squinting his eyes as the dazzling rocket plume erupted under each of the Thunderbolt’s wings, sending the big white anti-radar missiles slicing through the sky toward the heavy cruiser.
The other two A-10s of his group did the same, and soon six vapor trails traced the paths of the streaking missiles, their inertial guidance system computers locking on to the cruiser’s SAM radars. Now, even if the Soviets turned the radars off, the missiles’ memories would home them in with deadly accuracy.
Too late, the Soviet sailors on the Kirov cruiser had seen the missile separations on their radar screens. Now they screamed for the fire-control officer to shut down the active radar, knowing it was a beacon for the American missiles to follow directly to them.
But it was useless.
In seconds, five of the six bulky missiles found targets on the cruiser’s superstructure and around the perimeter of the deck. Powerful explosions rocked the big ship as most of their air defense radars and SAM batteries blew up within a few seconds, spreading fire and shrapnel in their death throes.
Just before the Thunderbolts flashed over the heavy cruiser, Spaulding called out for Gatling fire. Their GE GUA-8 30mm seven-barrel nose cannons whirled, spitting flame and lead from the A-10s as they raked the center of the cruiser in a coordinated strafing run. Everywhere on the ships sailors were diving out of the path of murderous stream of cannon shells that poured forth from the attacking planes.
The second wave of A-10s roared in and almost perfectly mimicked the devastating attack. This time four of the six ARMs found targets, once again rocking the huge ship with a shudder of powerful explosions.
The third wave of ’Bolts executed another textbook attack on a nearby escort destroyer, hitting it with all six missiles, five of which impacted on its bow.
“Regroup and strafe!” Spaulding called excitedly as he wheeled his own A-10 up and around the Kirov-cruiser.
Once again coming in low and in three waves, the Thunderbolts roared over the two ships, covering each with withering cannon fire. The destroyer had been able to turn itself hard to port, thereby offering less of a target to the third group of A-10s. But the cruiser, its elongated bow now fighting against the suddenly choppy sea, took the full brunt of six Gatling guns in the first and second wave. Its starboard side was now awash in smoke and flame.
But not all the Soviet gun crews had been neutralized and some of the anti-aircraft crews on the protected portside began finding their mark. One A-10 in the first wave exploded in midair, its fuel tank riddled by tracers. Another ’Bolt, the leader of the second wave, caught an AA shell directly on its starboard engine, virtually disintegrating it. The A-10 immediately lost altitude and skipped heavily across the waves, finally exploding on impact near the side of one of the destroyers.
Although two of his pilots were killed, Spaulding felt he still had to press the attack. Neither enemy ship was out of commission yet, but two or three more strafing runs might do it.
But then suddenly, he was aware of a new threat.
Once the attack began, the Soviet carrier had turned away from the action. But now, somewhat recovered, its captain was launching Forgers to deal with the A-10s.
At that point, Spaulding knew his Thunderbolts would have one more pass at best before the Forgers were on them. He radioed instructions to the remaining A-10s to break their formations and independently target and drop their Rockeye cluster bombs on the two stricken Soviet ships. Then it would be time to tactically withdraw.
This last run was a lesson in confusion. The independently attacking A-10s were approaching from all angles, and thus harder for the surviving SAM crews to target. But the Rockeyes weren’t designed for bombing naval targets. More than a few of them fell off the mark, bracketing the pair of Soviet ships with huge geysers of sea water.
One cluster bomb, however, went off right on the foredeck of the big cruiser, sending a wall of fragments and shards into the ship’s superstructure, instantly destroying its bridge and combat control center.
Spaulding was the last plane in, dropping his Rockeyes on the stern of trailing destroyer, now directly behind the looming Soviet carrier. By this time it seemed as if the air was filled with Yaks. Spaulding looked back just in time to see one Forger on his tail, pumping away with his exterior gun pod. His A-10 shuddered as it simultaneously lost an engine and sustained heavy damage to the tail control surfaces.
Unable to climb or turn, the stricken Thunderbolt roared over the battered destroyer, and slammed into the carrier’s main superstructure, neatly clipping its radar mast off at the base with its left wing.
Somehow, Spaulding was able to hit his eject button just as his A-10 tumbled into the sea beyond the carrier.
Chapter 11
THE BATTLE BETWEEN HUNTER’S F-16s and the enemy Yak Forgers had been brief.
Three of the Soviet fighters—including Hunter’s first kill—had been destroyed. A fourth was smoking heavily as it left the battle and the remaining pair were last seen fleeing to the north.
With most of the Forgers disposed of, Hunter led the flight of F-16s at full speed back toward the last reported position of Spaulding’s A-10 flight. At the same time, the AC-130 gunships and the two remaining F-16s at the tail end of the air convoy were approaching the same area.
Hunter reestablished radio contact with his trailing F-16s. Minutes before, Crider had spoken to one of the six A-10 pilots that had been in Spaulding’s flight. The surviving ’Bolts, their ammunition gone and their fuel critically depleted, were now attempting to make it to Rota. The A-10 pilot told Crider of the Thunderbolts’ daredevil action against the Soviet surface ships and also provided him with the last known position of the enemy. Crider quickly relayed the report to Hunter.
Digesting the information, Hunter contacted the AC-130 flight, speaking to the lead ship’s senior Fire Control Officer, an Air Force Reserve lieutenant named Mike Fitch.
They quickly surmised—as Spaulding had before them—that this particular Soviet task force had probably positioned itself in the sea lane beneath the likely Langley-to-Rota air route days before the sneak attack on Western Europe. No doubt other similar Soviet naval groups were scattered strategically around other parts of the Atlantic as well.
The Soviets in this group, then, had somewhat cleverly evaded the AWACS and the F-15s by leaving their active search radars switched off as the first leg of the air convoy passed over, using only the less effective, but “cooler” passive radar systems. They, like the Americans, knew very well that, in war, a “hot” radar set was like hanging a bull’s-eye over one’s self, especially the long-range, juiced-up “active” radars.
Yet, Hunter knew that following the Thunderbolts’ attack, the Soviets had probably shut down most of their surviving active systems again—that was, until another air convoy passed over and the Forgers resumed their deadly stand-off raids. And then more defenseless air transports might be lost.
But it would take more than the cannons riding aboard the F-16s to destroy the heart of the Soviet task force.
So he quickly discussed an idea with his F-16 pilots and with Fitch on the lead AC-130 gunship. They compared current positions, timing and remaining fuel loads, and finally came to the conclusion that Hunter’s plan, though risky, had a chance of succeeding.
Like Spaulding before him, Hunter knew he had to take a gamble. But this one was a double long shot. He was betting not only that all the active radar sets on the Soviet ships were switched off, but also that the shitbox Soviet passive systems couldn’t tell the difference between the gunships and the regular transports, at least not until it was too late.
If the first two guesses were correct, then the third leg of the bet dictated that the Americans had to switch off their own AN/APG-70 digital fire control radar sets, as the “hot” sets would have given themselves away too soon.
The overall result would be that just about everyone involved would be shooting with one hand over one eye …
On board the Soviet aircraft carrier Brezhnev, the Soviet task force commander was feeling somewhat rattled, yet still confident.
His primary mission had been executed: his airplanes had shot down at least two of the American airliners, and damaged several more. And, in the strange air attack that followed, three of the American A-10s had been shot down.
But his task force had also paid a price. The Kirov-cruiser was heavily damaged, still afloat, but all but useless. The destroyer was burning badly and would most likely have to be abandoned. As many as six Forgers unaccounted for. And his own ship was missing its main radar mast after the last A-10 had sheared it off shortly before crashing.
Two airline transports and three A-10s at cost of two battered ships and a half-dozen Yak fighters, he thought. Who won this battle?
He had no time to think any more about it—rather, it was time to resume his mission. Stay hidden, avoid US submarines, wait for another American air convoy, and attack again. All in all, his own ship was in good shape. The few stray bomb hits that reached them hadn’t been serious. Ninety percent of his communication and command equipment was still working—and all his active radars were shut down. Even the troubling lack of the top mast radar wouldn’t be a problem for too long. His damage control parties had assured him that substitute radars were already working to pick up the slack.
And even now, he could see a repair crew was climbing to the top of the superstructure in order to mount a temporary radar dish near the top of the clipped-off mast.
It was these men who were the first to see the approaching F-16s …
Chapter 12
LIKE THE VALIANT A-10S before them, the F-16 Falcons came in just above wavetop level.
They would strike in two groups: Hunter, Rico and DuPont would go in first; a minute later, Crider would lead Christman and Samuels in for the follow-up.
“Cannon armed and powered,” DuPont radioed over to Hunter.
“Ditto here, Captain,” Rico confirmed.
Hunter checked and confirmed that his own big gun was ready.
“Roger, cannons ready,” he called back to them. “I read twenty and two miles to target …”
With their radars switched off, this would be an eyeball attack. But this didn’t worry Hunter—their target would be one of the biggest things afloat.
“There they ar
e,” Hunter called out calmly, spotting the silhouettes of the Soviet ships just above the horizon. Also visible were the half-dozen plumes of black smoke coming from the damaged cruiser and destroyer.
“And there’s the big guy,” Hunter continued, spotting the massive outline of the carrier, Brezhnev. “Everyone got a visual?”
“Roger,” came the near simultaneous reply from his two wingmen.
“OK,” Hunter said, feeling an invigorating rush of adrenaline wash through him. “It’s showtime …”
With a kick of their afterburners, the first three F-16s were in amongst the Soviet ships within seconds. For the first wave of the attack, the carrier would be the sole target—the rest of the ships would be left alone for the time being.
Although the carrier’s SAM crews were not prepared to fight, the Soviet anti-aircraft gunners saw them coming. In seconds the air was filled with AA fire. But the nimble fighters, roaring in three abreast, were able to jink around the heavy stuff with aplomb, turning wing-tip up in order to reduce their target profile. They were heading toward a point off the port side of the carrier’s bow, rising above the waves ever so slightly to bring their noses level to the uplifted front ramp of the carrier’s flight deck.
“Ready …” Hunter yelled into his radio as the airplanes approached the 500-foot-to-target mark. “Fire!”
Instantly their cannons spoke with one terrifying voice. Spitting 20mm shells across the crowded flight deck, the exploding rounds gashed several waiting aircraft, then walked up the side of the superstructure to pepper it with holes. Then the three fighters screamed up and over the massive ship.
It took less than four seconds, but Hunter knew all three of them had inflicted damage.
But this was just the beginning …
No sooner had Hunter and the others gone into their steep near-vertical escape climbs, when Crider, Christman and Samuels roared in. They too found targets up and down the front part of the ship, including a direct hit on a Soviet Ka-25 Hormone ASW helicopter.
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