to prove himself.
“Man, it could all happen today,” he said aloud over the ICS. “If the goddamned Russkies are really looking for trouble, we’ll give it to ‘em, right?”
From the backseat Kirshner sounded bored. “Throttle back, rookie,” he said scornfully. The RIO was an old hand, but his blase manner wasn’t enough to dampen Koslosky’s mood. “It’s just another Bear hunt.”
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.
“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
“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.”
