“All right Tyrone!” Batman said. “A kill for the kid!”
“I’ve got another one,” Powers announced. “Come on … come on … Tone! I’ve got tone! I’m taking my shot! Fox two! Fox two!”
“John-Boy, you okay back there?” Coyote asked over the ICS.
“Yeah … just shook up,” the RIO replied. “But my panel looks like a Christmas tree. That sucker really nailed us.”
“Coyote … hey, man, you look like shit,” Batman broke in. “Get the hell clear if you can. We’ll hold ‘em here.”
“Not much point in that,” Coyote countered. “If I try to break away you know they’ll be all over me. Might as well stick it out here as long as this turkey’ll hold together.”
He didn’t add that none of them had much time left in any event. He didn’t have to remind any of them of that.
Terekhov switched his selector switch from missiles to guns. With his last radar-homer expended, he was reduced to the same condition as the surviving Americans. It seemed like these Americans just didn’t know when they were beaten. Each time he thought they could do no more, they managed to pull off another surprise. The return of the Tomcat that had fled at the very start of the battle had been completely unexpected … and another MiG had been lost as a result. The second American Sidewinder hadn’t found its target, luckily, but the kill ratio was still far out of proportion to what the Russians had gained today.
And the clock was ticking. The longer he spent here, the more likely Glushko would be to accuse him of disobedience in not going after the new wave of Americans. Shaking his head, Terekhov knew they couldn’t keep up this fighting much longer.
“Comrade Captain! Comrade Captain!” That was Oganov, his voice panicky. “Radar lock! An American plane has radar lock on me!”
“Impossible!” he snapped. Or was it? Nothing the Americans did would surprise him any more.
He glanced at his radar screen and cursed aloud. The American reinforcements were just coming into range for their radar-homing Sparrow missiles. So much for Glushko’s conviction that they were strike aircraft armed for an attack on Soyuz.
“All planes, all planes, disengage now!” he shouted. “Return to base! Repeat, return to base!”
Naumkin leaned against the back of the radioman’s chair, looking over his shoulder as he adjusted his receiver with quick, precise movements of his stubby peasant’s fingers. With an antenna deployed to the surface, the sub could tap into the transmissions of the An-74 airborne warning and control plane circling far above the North Sea. The information from the plane’s sophisticated array of radars would locate every plane and ship in the area.
It was the ideal way to find a target without using his own active sensors. Though he ran the risk of an aerial searcher spotting the antenna while it was on the surface, that was a far slimmer risk than the prospect of using his own radar to seek out the enemy. Active sensors probing the enemy fleet from here would call down the full weight of the American battle group’s ASW force on Krasniy Ritsary, and Naumkin wasn’t prepared to do that yet. Not until it became absolutely necessary.
He straightened up and crossed to the chart table, where Maleshenko was already studying an electronic plot of the An-74 data. The Exec pointed to one coded symbol.
“The American carrier,” he said, looking up at Naumkin with a predatory grin. “Well within range … an ideal chance, Comrade Captain.”
Naumkin studied the chart, stroking his chin absently. He indicated another symbol, between the sub and the carrier but closer to Krasniy Ritsary. “What is this one?”
“Frigate,” the Exec said. “Oliver Hazard Perry class. An ASW vessel, not a major target. Not compared to the carrier.”
“Agreed, Vitaly. But notice the positions. We might slow their reactions somewhat by attacking both Americans. If they believe the frigate is the target of the full attack …”
“Their carrier defenses might not react in time,” Maleshenko finished. “Excellent, Comrade Captain. Excellent!”
“Prepare the attack,” Naumkin ordered. “Eight missiles. Six against the carrier, two more against the frigate. Be ready to follow up with another wave … or to maneuver if need be.”
The Exec began passing the orders, leaving Naumkin to study the map. If Krasniy Ritsary actually damaged or destroyed the American aircraft carrier, Admiral Khenkin would know his choice had been a good one. And a captain with such an achievement could expect to go to the very top in the Union’s New Order. He savored the thought until Maleshenko returned.
“Ready to launch, Comrade Captain.”
He smiled. “Begin the attack.”
“Madra de Dios!” Lieutenant Jimmy Mendez gasped as the sea erupted less than a mile ahead of the SH-60 Seahawk. “What are those? Nukes?”
His TACCO, Tom Jennings, shook his head emphatically. “SS-N-19,” he said, calm and controlled even in the face of this startling proof that the Russians were launching a major new strike. “Soviet cruise missile. Kind of a cheap version of the Tomahawk.” His voice changed as he switched on the radio. “Jericho, Jericho, this is Trumpet. We have visual on Sierra Sierra November One-Niner cruise missiles, inbound your position. Estimate six … seven … eight SSN-19 missiles. We are prosecuting the search for the launch platform. Over.”
“Trumpet, Jericho,” the ASW officer aboard Gridley replied. “We’ve got them on our screens. Thanks for the warning.”
“Good luck and Godspeed,” Jennings said. “Trumpet clear. All right, gentlemen, let’s find us a submarine!”
Gridley’s SPS-49 5 C/D band air-search radar tracked the flight of Soviet missiles from the moment they broke the surface, and the Tactical Officer on duty in CIC promptly sounded the battle stations warning. Crewmen swarmed through corridors and across the deck in response to the blaring siren.
The Mark 13 launcher on the forward deck could handle thirty-six Standard SM-1 medium-range surface-to-air missiles, the frigate’s main line of defense against aerial attack. Ten SAMs streaked skyward in response to orders from CIC, knocking out five of the eight cruise missiles while they were still several miles out. But the SS-N-19s were coming in fast, too fast for a second SAM launch.
As they closed the range, the Phalanx CIWS system took over. A 20-mm Vulcan Gatling gun mounted near the stern of the frigate, CIWS — standing for Close-In Weapon System and pronounced Sea-Whiz in the technical jargon of the Navy — would fire fifty depleted-uranium shells every second, tracking and locking on to its targets automatically using Pulse-Doppler radar. But the angle of the incoming missiles wasn’t ideal for the Phalanx to intercept the three remaining targets. Two of them, both targeted on the Jefferson, passed overhead and into the firing arc, and the Phalanx hummed like an angry buzzsaw.
The last missile, though, struck Gridley just above the waterline only a few feet forward of the Mark 13 launcher, the explosion ripping through the hull and setting off secondary blasts in the SAMs remaining in their launch tubes.
Within seconds, U.S.S. Gridley was ablaze from midships to bow.
