range of the Russian’s NR-23 cannons, and all it would take was one slip to turn this from a routine encounter to the first shots of World War III.
“Remember the time off Korea,” Malibu warned. “They’ll probably hit their searchlight.”
The reminder came just in time. A blinding lance of light shot out from the searchlight mounting near the tail section, enveloping the Tomcat’s cockpit. Batman kept his eyes averted and blinked hard.
Often in night encounters the Russians would illuminate their own plane with the searchlight. It helped avoid misjudged distances and accidental collisions. But within seconds Batman knew that wasn’t their intention this time around.
The light held the Tomcat’s cockpit, challenging, probing.
“Picking up emissions from Big Bulge,” Malibu said. That was the NATO code name for the ship-targeting radar system mounted in the oversized teardrop-shaped housing on the belly of the Bear. It was useless for air-to- air work. The only reason to use Big Bulge was to find surface ships … and maybe steer stand-off missiles toward them.
Batman muttered a curse and rolled sideways, increasing speed slightly to clear the searchlight beam. He steadied the Tomcat back on course even closer to the Bear than before, close enough to see dark figures at the windows of the cockpit and the tail section. They could see him as well.
He held up two fingers, then five, eight, and finally a clenched fist, the signal that he wanted to talk on Channel 258.0. That was common enough in a Bear hunt. In times past crews had exchanged comments, questions, even jokes.
But the only response from the Russian was another light show. Were they deliberately trying to blind him, or were they just trying to take pictures? Photographs from encounters like these had helped both sides learn about the planes their opponents flew, but this didn’t feel like a photo session to Batman. They were doing their best to make things tough for him.
Batman pulled his stick over sharply to port and shoved his throttle to afterburner zone five. The Tomcat surged up and to the left, crossing in front of and above the Bear’s cockpit. He could imagine the Soviet pilot scrambling to avoid the danger.
Somewhere in the back of his mind he remembered Tombstone’s admonishment so long ago. He was risking it all.
He cut power and circled again, watching the Bear warily. “Got anything, Malibu?”
“Big Bulge is still on,” the RIO replied tautly, all trace of his California-surfer persona gone.
“Right.” Batman switched to radio. “Tyrone, give this sucker something to think about. Give him a lock- on.
“R-roger.” Powers sounded nervous. He had every right to be. If the Russian decided an attack was imminent there was no telling what he might do.
Batman drifted close alongside again and repeated the 258.0 signal. This time there was a response, a gabble of Russian and broken English over the radio.
“Stoy! Stoy! Nee streelyaee! Not shoot!”
“Okay, Tyrone, cut the lock,” Batman instructed on their tactical channel. Then, switching to 258.0, he replied to the Soviet, “Russian aircraft, this is Hound Leader. I am the aircraft just off your port wing. Do you copy, over?”
“Hound leader, is Hight Varon. Radar lock is flagrant provocation. I protest this act of aggression. Over.”
“Protest all you want,” Batman shot back. “You are requested to come to course three-zero-zero and turn off that search radar. In the interests of international good will, you know.”
“Nyet! Is not for Americans to order flight plans of Soviet aircraft! Or do you declare exclusion zone?”
Jefferson hadn’t taken that step yet. In wartime or a particularly tense crisis an exclusion zone defined an area in which any unauthorized plane would be fired on automatically. That was a much larger escalation of the current tension than anyone had been willing to order so far.
“Negative, Flight Varon. But in view of the current situation, don’t you think it would be a good idea to avoid … unfortunate incidents?”
“Bah! Is blatant interference!”
Batman switched channels again. “Give him another little tweak, Tyrone,” he said. “Just to remind him what he’s risking.”
“Roger, Leader.” The younger pilot still sounded tense, but in control. “Got him.”
“Flight Varon, this is Hound Leader,” Batman drawled, back on the common frequency. “Request you comply with our suggestion. My partner has an itchy trigger finger.”
There was a long, tense pause. Technically there was nothing Batman could do to stop the Bear unless he was willing to risk a full-blown incident. He was banking on the Russians being as nervous as the Americans.
It was a deadly game of chicken … and millions of lives could hang on the outcome.
The rumble of the Bear’s engines rose in pitch a little as the aircraft accelerated and started to climb away from the encounter. “Big Bulge is off,” Malibu announced.
He watched the Bear turn, not northwest as he’d suggested, but east instead. As it continued to swing slowly around onto a northeasterly heading, Batman rubbed the bridge of his nose. They were on the right heading for a return to Russia. Had the reconnaissance flight been on a routine mission, or had it been especially directed against the battle group?
The answer to that question might tell a lot about Soviet intentions in the unfolding crisis.
CHAPTER 4
Rear Admiral Douglas F. Tarrant looked up from his computer terminal at the discreet tap on his door. “Come,” he said, saving the letter to his wife before shutting off the machine. He glanced at the clock over his desk and raised a surprised eyebrow. There were few people aboard who would knock on that door at this time of night, even if they knew Tarrant was accustomed to working late and snatching short catnaps.
Jefferson’s CO, Captain Jeremy Brandt, looked apologetic as he entered. Short, stocky, with close-cut blond hair beginning to go gray, Brandt had a bulldog face and a temperament, so Tarrant had learned, to match. They’d never served together before, but Tarrant had heard nothing but good reports on the captain, and had confirmed them in a month’s direct contact. It was Brandt’s first cruise commanding a carrier, but he’d put in tours as CO aboard the Tripoli and the Kalamazoo, with a particularly good record as CAG aboard the Kennedy back in ‘93. The carefully planned career cycle of Navy carrier skippers ensured that the best men made it to the top, but even in that distinguished company Brandt stood out.
“Sorry to disturb you, Admiral,” he said. “But Commander Sykes down in CR just processed a Priority Urgent message from CINCLANT.” He held up a bundle of teletype printouts.
Tarrant frowned. The bulky ream of paper sent up from the ship’s Communications Department had to be detailed situation reports and orders for the battle group from Commander-in-Chief Atlantic Fleet, and the precedence code of “Priority Urgent” meant that it was important enough to require attention within three hours of transmission. That could mean only one thing.
“We’re going in,” he said aloud. “We must be going in.”
Brandt nodded slowly. “That’s my guess, sir. Looks like the folks up at NCA finally got off their collective butt and decided to make a move after all.”
He took the papers from the captain. “Anything else?”
“Mercury Flight’s on the deck, Admiral. Two Tomcats, two Intruders. Not a full replacement, but it’s better than nothing.”
“Good.” Tarrant smiled. “I’ll bet CAG’s happy at least.”
“Yes, sir,” Brandt said noncommittally. Everyone on board knew Stramaglia’s reputation for never being
