A tone sounded in his headphones as his last Sidewinder locked onto one of the other planes. That would narrow the odds a little … and when Batman joined the game they’d crack these Russians wide open.
His finger clamped down on the firing stud, and the Sidewinder whooshed from the launching rail. “Fox two!”
Terekhov saw the heat-seeker leap from the Tomcat’s wing and streak toward his wingman’s plane. “Right! Break right!” he shouted, but it was too late. A moment later the MiG was consumed in flame and thunder.
He tried to match the American’s weaving course, but it wasn’t easy. This was one of the best pilots he had ever encountered. The other Tomcat’s pilot had guts combined with luck, a potent combination, but he couldn’t approach the skill this one showed.
Then the tone of a radar lock sounded in his ear, and Terekhov fired both his missiles in rapid succession.
“Cavalry’s on the way, Batman,” Coyote called. He could see the desperate fight unfolding on his radar screen, but he couldn’t do much about it yet. But Stramaglia was teaching the Russians the same tough lesson he’d been teaching to Top Gun students for years, and if he could just hold on for a little while longer …
A MiG vanished in an expanding fireball, and Coyote heard Malibu giving a cheer.
“Two-double-oh, splash another one,” he said. “Good shot, CAG!”
It’s just like a bicycle, Grant,” CAG responded. “You never forget how to do it … you just don’t want to fall off at Mach two!”
“Missiles! Missiles incoming!” Paddles shouted suddenly. “Two missiles-“
Then another fireball lit the sky.
And the CAG bird was gone, a cloud of debris raining onto the hungry sea below.
CHAPTER 18
Batman stared at the shattered Tomcat, breaking apart as it started to spin in toward the ocean, seeing the action as if it were playing in slow motion. It could only have taken a few moments, but it seemed like an eternity.
“Two-one-two, splash a MiG,” he heard Dallas Sheridan saying over the radio. For an instant he thought Big D was talking about CAG’s plane. Then he realized that Sheridan still hadn’t hooked up with the rest of the fast- shrinking command, and must be reporting an engagement of his own.
No one responded, and a long moment later Sheridan went on. “Hey, come on guys, talk to me! What’s going on?”
Coyote’s voice replied, choking on the words. “CAG’s bought it.” Then he seemed to gather his wits again. “Batman, form on me. Big D, get your ass back here now! Let’s do it!”
“Two-oh-four, roger,” Batman responded slowly. He banked left and gained altitude, looking for Coyote.
Behind him, Malibu seemed to share in the shock. Over the ICS his voice was bleak, a far cry from his usual bantering tone. “We’re not going to get out of this one, are we?”
Batman didn’t answer.
“Stralbo! Oganov! Form on me!” Terekhov couldn’t keep his voice from betraying his excitement now that total victory was almost in his grasp. “All planes, press the attack!”
“Comrade Captain,” another pilot broke in. “I have multiple targets on my radar, closing on us at high speed!”
Terekhov bit back a curse. The American reinforcements! Why hadn’t Glushko or the crew of the An-74 warned him? Were they still so concerned with organizing the defense of Soyuz that they were ignoring the possible danger to the attack squadron?
He had often wondered if the Soviet carriers would be able to stand up to the tests of combat conditions. For fifty years the Soviet Union had ignored the whole question of carrier aviation, and when they’d finally decided to deploy modern carriers they had been forced to learn the entire science virtually overnight. Measured against the Americans, who had been developing their carrier doctrine and technology gradually ever since the great carrier battles of the Forties, the Russians still looked like amateurs. The fact that officers like Glushko could hold key commands was only one of many symptoms of what was wrong with Soviet carrier aviation.
“Cossack, Cossack, this is Svirepyy Leader,” he said, switching to the command frequency. “Respond, please.”
“Svirepyy, this is Cossack,” Glushko replied.
“The second American force is nearly here,” Terekhov said slowly, trying to maintain his calm. “Request you send the other squadron back to support us. They outnumber my surviving planes and are fresh.”
“Nyet, nyet,” Glushko replied harshly. “This is only a feint. They want to draw off our defense so they can strike the carrier. Those planes will not be armed for air-to-air. Break off your current engagement and attack them!”
“That isn’t the plan!” he shot back. “We have these Americans in our sights!”
“That is a direct order, Captain Terekhov,” Glushko told him. “Are you disobeying me?”
“Negative, Cossack,” he said hastily. “We will begin a disengagement here and attack the new wave … but if they are armed as interceptors we will have to receive support or withdraw. We cannot fight another extended battle without rearming.”
“Just do it!” Glushko said.
Terekhov swung his MiG back toward the continuing air battle. The three surviving Americans were weaving in and out of a larger mass of seven or eight Russian planes, barely avoiding the overwhelming numbers. If they could finish off these three quickly, Glushko couldn’t protest too loudly. Wiping out a full American Tomcat squadron would give Terekhov too much credit for the air wing commander to quibble.
He had one missile left. If the second American wave really was fitted out for a strike mission he could fight them with guns alone … and if they weren’t, if they were carrying full air-to-air loads, one missile more or less wouldn’t make any difference.
Terekhov picked out the lucky Tomcat by the slapdash flying style of its pilot and turned to line up on him. One last attack, and the trap would be complete.
“Viking Seven-oh-four, this is Camelot.” Magruder recognized the voice — Owens, the junior air wing officer. He sounded worried. “Seven-oh-four, what’s your status out there?”
At Harrison’s nod Magruder took the radio mike. “Seven-oh-four, still hunting,” he said. “We scratched one sub, but we may be on the trail of another one. What can we do for you, Camelot?”
Owens was slow to reply. “Commander, CAG’s been hit,” he said at last. “Coyote just reported it. No survivors.”
“Goddamn!” Though he’d been infuriated by Stramaglia’s attitude toward him, angry at the restrictions he’d
