that a subject like this would be handled as a routine business matter! Do you think he'd be discussing a possible coup in a routine scheduled meeting!”
“I keep telling you that his information has never been confirmed, not by us, not by the Brits, not by anybody.”
“Ryan, would you expect that a conspiracy leading to a military coup, especially in a country like the Soviet Union, would be handled in the utmost secrecy?” Fowler asked.
“Of course.”
“Then would you necessarily expect to have it confirmed by other sources?” Fowler asked, talking like a lawyer in a courtroom.
“No, sir,” Ryan admitted.
“Then this is the best information we have, isn't it?”
“Yes, Mr. President, if it's true.”
“You say that you have no firm evidence to confirm it?”
“Correct, Mr. President.”
“But you have no hard information to contradict it, either, do you?”
“Sir, we have reasons—”
“Answer my question!”
Ryan's right hand compressed into a tight, white fist. “No, Mr. President, nothing hard.”
“And for the past few years he's given us good, reliable information?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So, based on the record of Mr. Kadishev, this is the best available information?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you. I suggest, Dr. Ryan, that you try to develop additional information. When you get it, I'll listen to it.” The line clicked off.
Jack stood slowly. His legs were stiff and sore from the stress of the moment. He took one step to the window and lit a cigarette. “I blew it,” he told the world. “Oh, Christ, I've blown it…”
“Not your fault, Jack,” Goodley offered.
Jack spun around. “That'll look real good on my fucking tombstone, won't it? 'It wasn't his fault' the fucking world blew up!”
“Come on, Jack, it's not that bad.”
“Think so? Did you hear their voices?”
The Soviet carrier Kuznetzov didn't launch aircraft in the manner of U.S. carriers. Rather, it had a ski-jump bow configuration. The first MiG-29 raced forward from its starting point and went up the angled ramp and into the air. This manner of takeoff was hard on pilots and aircraft, but it worked. Another aircraft followed, and both turned to head east. They'd barely gotten to altitude when the flight leader noted a buzz in his headphones.
“Sounds like an emergency beeper on the guard frequency,” he said to his wingman. “Sounds like one of ours.”
“Da, east-south-east. It is one of ours. Who do you suppose it is?”
“I have no idea.” The flight leader passed this information on to Kuznetzov, and received instructions to investigate.
“This is Falcon-Two,” the Hawkeye reported. “We have two inbounds from the Russkie carrier, fast movers, bearing three-one-five and two-five-zero miles from Stick.”
Captain Richards looked at the tactical display. “Spade, this is Stick. Close and warn them off.”
“Roger,” Jackson replied. He'd just topped his fuel tanks off. Jackson could stay up for another three hours or so, and he still carried six missiles.
“'Warn them off?'” Lieutenant Walter asked.
“Shredder, I don't know what's going on, either.” Jackson brought the stick around. Sanchez did the same, again splitting out to a wide interval.
The two pairs of aircraft flew on reciprocal courses at a closing speed of just under a thousand miles an hour. Four minutes later, both Tomcats went active on their radars. Ordinarily that would have alerted the Russians to the fact that American fighters were in the area, and that the area might not be totally healthy. But the new American radars were stealthy, and were not picked up.
It turned out that this didn't matter. A few seconds later, the Russians activated their own radar systems.
“Two fighters coming in towards us!”
The Russian flight leader checked his own radar display and frowned. The two MiGs were only supposed to be guarding their own task force. The alert had come in, and the fighters went up. Now he was on what might be a rescue mission, and had no particular desire to play foolish games with American aircraft, especially at night. He knew that the Americans knew he was about.
His threat receiver did detect the emanations from their airborne early-warning aircraft. “Come right,” he ordered. “Down to one thousand meters to look for that beeper.” He'd leave his radar on, however, to show that he didn't wish to be trifled with.
“They're evading to the left, going down.”
“Bud, you have the lead,” Jackson said. Sanchez had the most missiles. Robby would cover his tail.
“Stick, this is Falcon-Two, both inbounds are breaking south and diving for the deck.”
As Richards watched, the course vectors changed on both inbound aircraft. Their course tracks were not actually converging with the Roosevelt group at the moment, though they would be coming fairly close.
“What are they up to?”
“Well, they don't know where we are, do they?” the Operations Officer pointed out. Their radars are on, though.'
“Looking for us, then?”
“That would be my guess.”
“Well, now we know where the other four came from.” Captain Richards picked up the mike to talk to Jackson and Sanchez.
“Splash 'em,” was the order. Robby took high cover. Sanchez went down, pulling behind and below both MiGs.
“I've lost the Americans.”
“Forget them! We're looking for a rescue beeper, remember?” The flight leader craned his neck. “Is that a strobe light? On the surface at two o'clock…?”
“I have it.”
“Follow me down!”
“Evading, down and right!” Bud called. “Engaging now.”
He was a bare two thousand yards aft of the MiGs. Sanchez selected a Sidewinder and lined his aircraft up on the “south guy,” the trailing wingman. As the Tomcat continued to close, the pilot got the warbling tone in his earphones, and triggered off his missile. The AIM-9M Sidewinder leaped off its launch rail, straight into the starboard engine of the MiG-29, which exploded. Barely had that happened when Sanchez triggered off a second 'Winder.
“Splash one.”
“What the hell!” The flight leader caught the flash out the comer of his eye and turned to see his wingman's aircraft heading down before a trail of yellow. He wrenched his stick left, his throttle hand punching the flare/chaff- release button, as his eyes searched the darkness for his attacker.
Sanchez's second missile missed right. It didn't matter. He was still tracking, and the MiG's turn brought the target right into the path of his 2omm cannon. One quick burst detached part of the MiG's wing. The pilot barely
