pointed up the critical nature of this operation, it was the air wing commander’s close personal supervision. Normally Glushko didn’t dirty his hands with ordinary day-to-day operations. Terekhov remembered the angry words he had heard in Glushko’s office before the mission briefing. The air wing commander had a lot riding on today’s operation.
“Svirepyy Leader, Cossack,” Glushko’s voice said at last. “Reports from the An-74 indicate additional launches under way from American aircraft carrier. Intentions not yet clear. Be prepared to withdraw on my orders if the enemy is launching a strike on Soyuz. Otherwise proceed with attack as planned.”
“Message understood, Cossack,” Terekhov replied, trying not to betray the uncertainties Glushko’s message had unleashed. If Glushko really was looking for a scapegoat of his own … “Proceeding with attack according to mission profile.”
The possibility of a threat to the carrier could ruin the entire plan. If Terekhov was too deeply involved in the air battle he might not disengage in time to support Soyuz. But if he held back from the fighting here he could be accused of disobedience or even cowardice. It was the kind of dilemma that had scuttled any number of careers before his.
But he couldn’t let doubts about the future keep him from doing his duty now. He pulled back on his stick as he rammed the throttles forward. The MiG-29D streaked skyward, the G-force slamming Terekhov back into his seat. The need for secrecy was past. It was time to let the Americans see what they were up against.
All he could do now was hit hard and hope for the best. The Soviets would have the advantage of striking from ambush and, at least for the moment, superior numbers. He could imagine the surprise the Americans would feel as the sleek fighters appeared on their radar.
That would have to be enough.
“Lancelot, Lancelot, this is Tango Two-fiver. Tracking additional targets. New aircraft on same bearing as Red Raid One, range from your position four-zero November Mikes, angels one point five and climbing. Course is one- five-zero degrees. Designating new targets as Red Raid Two.
“Shit!” Stramaglia cursed. “You see anything, Paddles?”
The RIO was slow replying. “I don’t … Good God! There they are! They just popped onto my screen!”
“That’s a hell of a reception committee,” Batman Wayne commented on the radio. “They must’ve been down on the deck to stay off our radars. Hiding in close to the bombers too.”
“I make it twenty … no, twenty-two aircraft, sir,” Russell reported from the backseat position. “They’re going supersonic.”
“Too small to be more bombers,” another voice chimed in. Stramaglia thought it was Wayne’s RIO, Lieutenant Commander Blake. “Looks like we got us one awesome batch of fighters to play with, compadres.”
“Cut the chatter,” Stramaglia snapped. He was having trouble concentrating with all the talk. “Paddles, what’s the status on the Phoenixes?”
“Still on target, CAG,” Russell answered. “First wave is twenty-five miles from Red Raid One.”
Frowning, Stramaglia knew a moment’s indecision, something he’d never felt in years of Top Gun dogfights. With all of the squadron’s Phoenixes already expended on the Backfires, the American planes would be short of ammunition to meet the new threat. Eight planes with two Sidewinders apiece couldn’t take out all the enemy aircraft, even assuming every missile found its intended target. And dueling with guns, up close and personal, was always chancy … especially against an enemy with plenty of missiles to throw away.
The prudent course would be to call off the pursuit of the Backfires and retire to the vicinity of the battle group, where they could link up with the Hornet squadrons and Jefferson’s Combat Air Patrol planes before risking an engagement.
But there was still a chance those Backfires could turn back and strike the carrier with the missiles they hadn’t fired already. And Soviet Fulcrums, like the American F/A-18 Hornets, were designed as dual-role fighter/attack planes. They couldn’t mount any of the larger Soviet antiship missiles, but they could carry bombs and rockets. Letting them get in close to the battle group was an open invitation to disaster.
Which should he choose? Stramaglia closed his eyes, trying to focus, trying to decide. He had never realized before now just how different life on the front lines was from the simulations at Top Gun. Technically, the experience a pilot racked up at Miramar was superb, and the aviators who came out of the course, the best of the best, really were equipped to squeeze every last ounce of performance out of their machines. But all the technical skill in the world couldn’t prepare a man to make decisions like the one that faced Stramaglia now.
“CAG? CAG, do you copy?” Coyote fought down a queasy feeling in his stomach when Stramaglia didn’t respond to the radio call. “Stinger, this is Coyote. How do you want to take these little red buggers?”
There was a long pause before Stramaglia replied. “Two-oh-one … engage. Engage at will. Hold ‘em ‘til the Hornets get here.” CAG’s voice sounded ragged, like he was nervous … or confused.
Coyote bit his lip. He had been afraid CAG might not be up to this. Now it looked as if his fears had been well-grounded. There was no room for indecision in the fast-paced action of air-to-air combat.
“Roger that, Stinger,” he responded, trying to maintain an outward air of calm. “All right, Vipers, time to earn our pay. Batman, Trapper, you guys go left. Big D, Loon, go right. Tyrone, you stick with me. We’ll go in right up the middle.” He hesitated. “CAG, may I suggest you back us up here unless you have another idea?”
“No, I’m with you and Tyrone.” Stramaglia’s voice sounded a little stronger, a little surer. Maybe he was snapping out of it.
Coyote knew the odds were against them but he’d seen Viper Squadron tackle tough odds before and come out on top. With a little bit of luck they could dish out more punishment than the Soviets were willing to take.
“All right, John-boy, give me the straight dope,” he said over the ICS. “What’ve you got?”
As the RIO started to talk, Coyote thumbed his selector switch to ready a Sidewinder.
The outnumbered American fighters streaked toward the Soviets, ready for battle.
CHAPTER 16
“Damage control!” Emelyanov gripped the intercom mike like a lifeline. Around him the bridge crew was slowly stirring again. The lights flickered a few times before the backup generators came on line. “Report!”
“He is damaged in the engine room. Stern compartments flooded.” The damage-control officer was shouting the report over a confused hubbub of background noise. “We have lost the screw and the towed array. Flooding is contained, but we must get him to the surface.”
The torpedo must have hit just as the sub began to turn away, Emelyanov thought. Had it hit forward, it might have taken the torpedo room. The secondary explosions would probably have finished the sub then and there.
Not that they were in much better shape this way. Staying submerged was a certain death sentence … but surfacing now, with an American sub hunter still in the area, was just as bad.
But if even a few of the men would get off before the Americans destroyed the boat, it would be worth it. Perhaps they would even accept a surrender. In any event Emelyanov was not going to throw lives away in a useless gesture of defiance when there was a chance some of the hands might survive.
“Emergency surface,” he said harshly.
“Surface! Surface!” Captain-Lieutenant Shvachko repeated slowly. The starpom looked dazed but otherwise unhurt. His beefy hand gripped a steel support that had come loose from the chart table, and he was looking at it
