to tell you to get cracking. White Storm calls for a full Alpha Strike against all known shore positions, SAM batteries, radar sites, defensive installations, and port facilities. We're going to want to pay particular attention to the approaches to the submarine facilities on the Kola Inlet.
See my Intelligence staff for whatever maps and satellite photos you need.'
'Yes, sir.'
'We don't have much time. It's Sunday night now. Washington wants to be putting the Marines ashore by Tuesday morning. That's not much time to pull together an operation this complex.'
'We've done it on short notice before, Admiral. We'll manage. How about UNREP? The other day we kind of went through a lot of stuff. Like AIM-54s.'
'Already taken care of, CAG,' Brandt said from the sofa. 'An ammunition ship, the Santa Barbara, will be joining us tomorrow. She should have most of the munitions we need.'
Tombstone turned back to Tarrant. 'I'm afraid to ask when you'll need my op plan.'
'Sorry, Stoney. Tomorrow morning, first thing.'
He groaned. It would take him that long just to go through the operational orders. 'Admiral, I haven't slept more than five hours in the past-'
'Save it. One thing, though. It might be an idea to lighten up on your CAP schedule. Let your people get some more rest, so that they'll be fresh.'
'Or if not fresh, at least able to find their way to their airplane.
Okay, Admiral. I'll get right on it.'
'Thanks, Stoney. I knew I could count on you. That's all.'
Tombstone started to leave. 'Stoney?' Tarrant said. 'One thing more.
Morale…'
'Yes, sir?'
'How is it? I mean, after…'
Tombstone nodded, understanding. 'Word about Pellet seems to have spread through the boat, Admiral. All my people know about it. They're… subdued, I guess. I can't say that it's affected their morale that badly. At least, not yet.'
But how would it hit them after they had some time to think about it?
That afternoon, Pellet's body had been found in his bunking compartment by his shipmates. He'd used a length Of nylon rope to hang himself from a lighting fixture.
At least, it was assumed to have been suicide. There were signs of a struggle, blankets rooted up on the bunks, a locker knocked over. Possibly, Pellet had been murdered… but surely a murderer would have at least straightened up the furniture afterward. More likely, Pellet had done the damage himself during his death struggles. His death clearly had not been an instantaneous snapping of the neck, but strangulation. Apparently, it had taken him a while to die, and he might have changed his mind and tried to save himself.
'His death will be investigated by the CID, naturally,' Tarrant said.
'Along with the Dickinson incident. That's bad enough, of course. But I'm worried about how the crew will take his death. Especially now.'
'They'll do what they have to, Admiral. They'll come through. Like they always do.'
He turned then and left the room.
CHAPTER 20
Early in the afternoon, the Russians launched another air strike against the gathering American armada at Bear Station. Composed mostly of long-range bombers carrying air-to-surface missiles, the strike force included Tu-22 Blinder-B and Tu-26 Backfire-B bombers, most of them drawn from the Northern Fleet's Aviatsiya Voenno- Morskoyo Flota, or Naval Aviation groups.
Deadliest were the Backfires, sleek, swing-wing, supersonic aircraft originally designed specifically for missions against naval targets. Since the strikes were decidedly short-ranged and fuel load wasn't a problem, each Tu-26 carried three AS-4 'Kitchens,' cruise missiles with one-ton conventional warheads and a range of 170 nautical miles. The bombers were escorted in by tight groups of MiG-25 Foxbats, Su-21 Flagons, and MiG-29 Fulcrums, some with naval markings, others in the livery of neo-Soviet Frontal Aviation.
The American defenses were tougher now, but there were also more targets to choose from. For hours, more ships had been arriving at Bear Station from the west: the amphibious warfare ships and their escorts of II MEF, a joint British-Norwegian squadron of destroyers and guided-missile frigates, and the supply ships and escorts of an American at-sea replenishment convoy.
Altogether, there were some thirty Allied ships in the area, not counting the far-flung submarine assets that prowled the depths from the north Russian coast to beneath the Arctic ice. Still more ships, the Nimitz Carrier Battle Group, were scheduled to arrive the next day.
In a savage, one-hour running battle, ninety-two cruise missiles were launched against the task force at Bear Station, but the American air defenses, sharpened by the attacks on Friday, met each assault with practiced efficiency. Guided by Shiloh's Combat Direction Center and vectored by the E-2C Hawkeye airborne control centers, the Kitchen antiship cruise missiles were downed almost as fast as they were picked up on radar.
One missile, though, skimming in at wave-top height, slipped through the American defenses and struck the Spruance-class destroyer John Worden, demolishing her bow clear back to the vertical-launch missile cells forward of her bridge. Watertight doors and superb damage control saved the ship, at least for the moment, but the Worden was left wallowing in the sea, helpless until the frigate Talbot took her in tow. Fifteen minutes later, a second destroyer with the Eisenhower battle group, the J. L. Davis, took an AS-4 amidships, broke in half, and sank with all 364 men aboard in less than eight minutes.
At about the same time, 250 miles to the southeast, an American SSN, the Scranton, was picked up on Russian seabed sonar detectors in the approaches to the White Sea, a few miles off Grimikha. Hounded by a flotilla of Krivak II frigates sortieing from Arkhangelsk and by flights of Ka-27 Helix-A ASW helicopters from air stations ashore, it was forced to the surface after a three-hour chase that pinned it against the coast in shallow water, then sunk by torpedoes fired from the Kynda-class cruiser Groznyy.
Meanwhile, the interceptor squadrons flying off three supercarriers waged a desperate stand in the skies above the Barents Sea.
Batman rolled out of a split-S, pulling the Tomcat's nose up hard and extending the wings, deliberately killing his speed and bringing the F-14 to the shuddering edge of a stall. The MiG-29 Fulcrum that had been weaving in on his tail slammed past him at four hundred knots, unable to compensate for Batman's sudden braking maneuver.
And then it was too late, because Batman had rammed his throttles clear to zone-five burner, folded his Tomcat's wings like those of a stooping eagle, and slid neatly into the six slot squarely behind the Fulcrum.
The unexpected change in roles caught the Russian pilot completely by surprise. From less than one hundred feet behind the other aircraft, Batman could see the white dot of the Russian pilot's helmet bobbing frantically inside the MiG's canopy as he twisted and turned in his seat, trying to see the Tomcat and guess its next move.
'Too close for missiles,' Batman told Malibu. At this range, even a Sidewinder might scoot past the target before its one-track mind could track on the MiG's exhaust and correct the missile's course, and if he dropped back for more room, the more maneuverable Fulcrum would give him the slip. 'Goin' to guns!'
A flip of the selector, and his HUD flashed to the guns configuration.
