Tombstone Magruder found it hard to believe that they were involved in a battle. There was none of the excitement, the adrenaline, the feeling of life and death hanging on every move they made that characterized the combats he was used to. The Viking crew was cool, professional, almost matter-of-fact as they waited to see the results of their first attack.
“Torpedo running,” Curtis reported. “Running … sub’s put out a decoy now … Hit!” His voice rose suddenly, cracking with sudden emotion for the first time. “That’s got to be a hit, by God!”
“Get on those sonars, Curtis,” Harrison ordered. “Confirm the kill.”
The S-3B started a long, banking turn, skimming low over the ocean. Magruder scanned the angry waters, looking for some outward sign of the battle. There was something unreal about a fight where you couldn’t even be sure you’d scored a hit. Even when a Phoenix knocked out an enemy plane at a hundred miles’ range, the bogie would disappear from the radar screen. But ASW warfare remained a matter of guesswork, surmise, assumption, from first contact to the very end of the engagement.
He cut his reverie short and pointed. “Down there, Commander,” he said.
Harrison grunted acknowledgment. A froth of bubbles was rising to the surface, along with a few unidentifiable bits of debris. “Not much junk,” the pilot said. “Curtis, what are you getting?”
“Decoy’s obscuring it,” Curtis replied. “But I don’t think the bastard’s out of action yet.”
Submarines customarily carried decoys that simulated a sub’s engine noises to confuse enemy sonars. The decoy dropped by the enemy Victor was still emitting its signal, which made it hard for Curtis to interpret the other noises his passive sonar receivers were picking up. But if he was right, the Russian was still down there, status unknown.
“Don’t worry, Commander,” Harrison said. He seemed to sense Magruder’s train of thought. He gave a wolfish grin. “Down there’s the deep blue sea. We’re the devil. I wouldn’t want to be in that Russkie’s shoes right now!”
Captain First Rank Porfiri Grigorevich Margelov pushed the throttles forward and listened to the roar of the twin Kuznetsov NK-144 turbofan engines with a tiny smile of satisfaction. The Tu-22M’s variable-geometry wings slid further back as the bomber gathered speed. He pulled back on the steering yoke, and the bomber angled upward, clawing for altitude.
“Missile launch! Missile launch!” the copilot shouted in warning. “American air-to-air missiles … AIM-54 type … Reading eight … ten … twelve!”
“Range?” Margelov asked sharply.
“One hundred fifty kilometers.”
Margelov frowned. The American Phoenix was a lethal weapon, capable of striking at targets far from their launch platforms. But it was a mixed blessing for the Americans to be able to open fire from such a long range. The bombers of Strike Mission Burlivyy — Tempestuous — would have plenty of time to react to the launch and get off their own missiles … and the Americans would face a significant time lag before they could engage at closer range with more conventional air-to-air missiles. The Phoenixes might cause heavy damage to the Tu-22Ms, but they weren’t going to stop the attack.
“Range to target?” he asked.
The weapons officer responded quickly. “Four-two-five kilometers, Comrade Captain.”
That put them within range of the American base in Iceland, but only barely. They could afford to wait a few minutes longer.
Margelov switched his radio to the strike mission tactical frequency. “Burlivyy Leader to all aircraft. Prepare for missile launch on my signal.”
The other bombers acknowledged the signal in rigid order as the bombers gained speed and altitude. The copilot called off the range of the approaching Phoenixes in a voice edged with worry. The reputation of the American missiles was enough to shake even the steadiest hand.
“Range six-zero kilometers, closing. Fourteen missiles.”
Over the radio Margelov heard a low-voiced exclamation. “Bojemoi! Picking up another missile launch from American aircraft!”
“Confirmed! Confirmed!” someone else added. “Six missiles incoming … nine … twelve …”
“I have them on our screens,” the copilot agreed. “It looks like two waves of fourteen missiles each. Enough to take all of our planes out of action.”
“Relax, Mikhail Mikhailovich,” Margelov said quietly. “The Americans have good weapons, but they are not infallible.” He checked his altitude and activated the radio again. “Burlivyy Leader to all strike aircraft. Commence missile launches … now!”
He listened to the babble of acknowledgments as the Tu-22M shuddered with the release of one of the two AS-4 air-to-surface missiles. The Badger strike on Keflavik had concentrated on crippling the air defense systems of the base, especially radar installations. This wave of missiles would be directed at more general targets, while each of the missile-equipped Tu-22Ms would hold back one AS-4 to use at closer range … if they could run the gauntlet of the American Phoenixes and whatever aircraft had survived the first attacks over Iceland.
Even more important than delivering another wave of missiles, though, was the protection of the four Tu-22M bombers armed with BETAB antirunway loads. Those were conventional iron bombs slung on racks mounted under the air intakes on each wing. Those weapons would complete the destruction of Keflavik as a functional air base.
Getting those four planes over the target was the crucial thing now, Margelov thought. He reached for the radio, switching channels. “Svirepyy Leader, this is Burlivy Leader. Commence Operation Kutuzov. Repeating, Commence Operation Kutuzov.”
Margelov smiled grimly. It was time the complacent American attitude with regard to their naval air superiority was shattered once and for all. And Operation Kutuzov was designed to do exactly that.
They would soon be entirely too busy to interfere with the bombers.
“Burlivyy Leader, Svirepyy Leader,” Captain Second Rank Sergei Sergeivich Terekhov responded to the call from the Backfire flight. “Orders acknowledged. Commencing breakaway maneuver … now!”
He banked sharply to the left to get the MiG-29D clear of the bombers and turned toward the oncoming American interceptors. Thirteen other MiGs and eight Su-27D fighters followed the plane in a tight formation, skimming less than two hundred meters above the wave tops.
Escort Mission Svirepyy — Ferocious — consisted of attack aircraft from the carrier Soyuz. They had shadowed the bombers for nearly an hour now, flying right down on the deck. The mission planners believed that they might escape detection by the Americans, who would naturally tend to focus on the bombers. If so, the MiG- 29s and Su-27s might just take the enemy by surprise.
He hoped so. The plan he had submitted for North Star had involved a considerable risk in this mission, dispatching three of the four available fighter squadrons to escort the Backfires and, with luck, to ambush the Americans. That left only one squadron of Su-27s to provide CAP over Soyuz. With both Royal Norwegian Air Force fighters and planes from the American carrier battle group in range of Soyuz, it must have taken iron nerves for Admiral Khenkin to order the air wing to leave his flagship exposed.
But of course the Norwegians were having enough trouble contesting air superiority against land-based Soviet fighters, and as for the Americans … well, if everything had gone according to plan the Americans would only now be realizing that there were Soviet fighters over the Norwegian Sea. By the time they could hope to organize a strike mission the opportunity would be gone. That had been his reasoning in writing up the operation, but he had never expected Khenkin or Glushko to go along with it.
“Cossack, Cossack, this is Svirepyy Leader,” Terekhov said, switching to the carrier control frequency. “Beginning Operation Kutuzov. Request situation update and instructions.”
“Svirepyy Leader, wait one,” came the reply. The voice belonged to Captain First Rank Glushko. If anything
