Repeat, go for Phase One.”
“That’s us!” Batman said. His hand closed around the throttles and advanced them into zone-one afterburner. Banking sharply, he steered the Tomcat north.
Behind him, twenty-four more planes followed, the first wave of the attack that would determine if Bergen stood or fell.
“Yes, Admiral, I am certain. The AEW aircraft has counted a minimum of twenty-five enemy planes heading directly for Soyuz. There can be no doubt this time.”
Admiral Khenkin listened to Glushko’s anxious voice and studied the tracking data being relayed from the An-74 to his own plotting board. This time Glushko didn’t seem to be exaggerating. “Very well, Glushko. Get as many planes off the deck as possible to assist in the defense.”
“You know that the MiG squadron on deck has been arming for ground-support operations, Admiral,” Glushko pointed out. “They will not be useful for dogfighting.”
“Get them off the deck anyway,” Khenkin snapped. He had studied the disastrous mistakes of the Japanese carriers in the Great Patriotic War, caught all too often with planes on deck loaded with ordnance when American air strikes hit. He wouldn’t allow that to happen today.
“Yes, Admiral,” Glushko said. “But that still leaves us weakened against the enemy attack. I request permission to recall Escort Mission Osa.” That was Sergei Sergeivich Terekhov’s MiG squadron, currently sharing escort duties over the invasion fleet hugging the Norwegian coast, about three hundred kilometers to the east.
Khenkin bit his lip, thinking. Glushko had foolishly allowed an imaginary threat to the carrier to distract an entire squadron during the last fight with the Americans, and though neither Glushko nor Terekhov had raised the point, Khenkin knew the victory had been less than complete as a result. But this time was different. This time the American target was clear. And they could guard against additional American attacks easily enough. Soyuz was closer to the invasion fleet than the Americans, and her jets could make it back to the fleet any time a threat materialized.
It was odd, he thought idly, that the Americans had chosen to launch their strike on the carrier rather than trying to interfere with the transports. Had they been taken in by the maskirovka then? It certainly appeared that the Norwegians believed the token paratroop landings southeast of Bergen were the real threat. Perhaps the Americans agreed, and discounted the risk of a landing.
Or maybe they saw an attack on the Soviet carrier as somehow symbolic. They could do little enough damage in any event except by the greatest possible good fortune. Striking out at Red Banner Northern Fleet’s flagship might be perceived as a dramatic gesture demonstrating American courage or determination in the wake of the defeats they had already suffered.
“All right, Glusko,” he said at last. “Recall Escort Mission Osa, but wait until the Americans are thoroughly committed. Understood?”
“Yes, Admiral,” Glushko responded.
Khenkin looked at the plotting board again and smiled. As long as the Americans were ignoring the transports, they were only compounding their earlier mistakes.
CHAPTER 23
Sergei Sergeivich Terekhov scanned the waters below, his heart swelling with pride at the sight of the ships of the invasion force keeping tight formation as they rounded Cape Bremenger on the last leg of the journey south. Soon the landings would be accomplished, and the drive on Bergen would begin. Then this war would be over, and the new Soviet Union could take its place again as a superpower, able to dictate terms to a weak-willed world and restore her broken economy and political structure once and for all.
All it would take was one more success, and after the defeat of the Americans in Iceland and in the ambush over the Norwegian Sea this last success would be easy enough to obtain.
The Russians had kept an eye on the progress of the American carrier, of course, tracking the ships and planes from the An-74 AEW plane over the Soyuz battle group. The Americans had hung about at the fringe of the exclusion zone for three days, seemingly unable to depart and unwilling to advance. Terekhov had advocated launching a strike on the battle group early on, but orders from Moscow had required Soyuz to concentrate on preparing the battlefield south of the Sognefjord instead. When the Americans had started trying to jam Soviet radar and radio signals, there had been some concern, but the jamming effort had been clumsy at best. As long as the An-74 stayed on the job, there was little danger of an American surprise attack even if they were in any shape to launch one.
So one squadron of fighters at a time shared the duty of combat air patrol over the invasion fleet with a squadron of land-based MiGs out of Orland, while another of the carrier’s squadrons remained on standby to protect Soyuz, just in case. The other two were currently on the flight deck, where busy technicians were prepping them for action to support the landings in the morning. All four had been brought up to full strength the day before by replacements out of Murmansk and Archangel.
“Osa, Osa, this is Gnyezdo.” Glushko’s voice snapped him out of his reverie. “You are ordered to return here at once. Repeat, return at once.”
What was the air wing commander playing at this time? Terekhov keyed in his transmitter and gave a curt reply. “Gnyezdo, Osa. Request clarification.”
“American aircraft have been detected approaching Soyuz. ETA now three minutes. Your squadron is needed to reinforce the defense. The admiral has ordered it. Comply immediately.”
Terekhov cursed under his breath. He wasn’t sure if he hoped this was another of Glushko’s paranoid delusions or not. If it wasn’t, the Americans would regret falling in with Terekhov’s squadron a second time. “Acknowledged, Gnyezdo. On our way.”
Terekhov shifted uneasily in his seat and changed frequencies to report to the other escort commander. Just when everything had looked so right …
“They’re painting us six ways from Sunday, Skipper. They’ve got so much radar coverage out there we’re likely to end up looking like a microwave dinner.”
Coyote smiled under his mask at John-Boy’s hyperbole, but he knew how the RIO felt. Flying exposed like this, clearly in view for the entire approach to the target, went against every instinct he had. The fact that the Prowler accompanying the attack was deliberately keeping its jamming selective and largely ineffective was no comfort either. He hoped they would be able to switch over to a more useful mode when the time came for action.
“Don’t sweat it, John-Boy. But keep your eye on that scope. If they start shooting, I want to know about it.”
“Trust me, Skipper, you’ll know. They’ll know back on the Jeff. Maybe back in Washington if I scream loud enough and the wind’s right.”
“Odin Leader, this is Asgard.” That was Magruder calling. He sounded tense. Was he still reacting to the pressures on him because of his new position, or was he worried over the fate of the Vipers? Coyote suspected that he’d been unhappy at the thought of sending his old squadron into the killing ground understrength, but it was the only division of responsibility that made sense. The special operation Coyote had proposed wouldn’t take a full Tomcat squadron … but BARCAP over the Jefferson absolutely demanded one. That made the choice for this phase
