Podpolkovnik Yevgenni Averin pulled back on his stick, lifting the MiG smoothly off the runway. Excitement burned in his heart and gut and brain.
Yesterday, when the American air strikes had begun, he'd been furious at the orders his interceptor regiment had received from Kandalaksha, orders requiring them to remain on the ground in carefully hidden revetments, safely camouflaged from the spying senses of Yankee satellites or high-flying reconnaissance aircraft. It had seemed cowardly, hiding like that as bombing strikes and cruise missiles had slammed into military targets from Pechenga to Kandalaksha itself.
He and his men had followed orders, however, obeying the system even if they privately questioned the intelligence of the brass-heavy rear-echelon bastards running this colossal fuckup. Now, though, he realized that there'd been some strategic sense behind those orders after all. Everywhere, all over the Kola Peninsula, aircraft preserved from the general destruction of the past eighteen hours were rising from their airfields. Runways heavily pitted by American cluster munitions and cratering bombs had been hastily repaired during the night, by engineers dragging steel-link mats across the smaller holes, and filling in the larger ones with rubble.
It was like guerrilla warfare, but carried out with the high-tech weapons of modern air combat. American strike planes and their escorts deep inside Russian territory were suddenly being assaulted from all sides, by aircraft appearing out of bases the Americans thought had already been knocked out of action.
He checked his radar. Barely visible through the haze of jamming from enemy EA-6B Prowlers, he could make out several main groups of aircraft to the east, most of them heading toward Polyamyy.
'Volkodav Eight-seven-one,' he called. The flight's call sign meant Wolfhound. 'Airborne.'
Seconds later, detailed vectoring data from Ura Guba air control began feeding through the radio in the 'Snoopy' communications cap beneath his helmet.
Striker was sticking with his wingman, holding position on 202's right as Batman lined up with the lead Russian plane coming up from Ura Guba. 'Let's take it with a Phoenix, K-Bar!' he told his RIO.
'We've got a lock,' K-Bar replied. 'Range five miles.'
Damned close for an AIM-54C, but American and Russian aircraft would be mixing it up real close in another few moments. He wanted to save his Sidewinders and AMRAAMs for close engagements.
'Fire!'
The heavy Phoenix slid clear of the Tomcat's belly. 'Fox three!'
The AIM-54 arced off toward the west, drawing a razor-crisp line of white across the sky.
Moments later, a tiny flash went off against the western horizon, leaving a tiny puff of white smoke. 'Hit!' K- Bar shouted, 'Splash one MiG!'
But then the remaining MiGs were arrowing in at better than Mach 1.
Contrails scrawled twisted trails across the sky as American and Russian planes joined in a savage dogfight.
'Pull up, C.T. Pull up!'
'I can't shake this guy!'
'Mustang, this is Coyote. Loose goose now. You hit him high, I'll tag him low!'
'One-two! I'm clear! I'm taking the shot!'
'C'mon, Mustang! Help me out here!'
'Break left, C.T.! Fox one!'
'It's comin'… it's comin'…'
'Hit! Splash another Fulcrum!'
Tombstone stood motionless in the unnatural stillness of Jefferson's Air Ops. Closing his eyes as he listened to the radio calls between the Tomcat crews, he could picture the dogfight, the tangling of contrails and machines, of speed and technology and three-dimensional dynamics that Navy aviators called a furball. According to the displays repeated from the Hawkeye orbiting Off Port Vladimir, two MiGs had already died, but at least eight more were now trying to brush past the fighters in an attempt to hit the two White Lightning groups ? six Intruders and two Prowlers.
It was murder, listening to his people fighting for their lives, unable to help.
'On your toes, Lobo!' Vader warned. 'I read two bandits coming dead on and climbing. They're after us!'
'Which way?'
'Bearing three-five-three.'
Between them and the Jefferson. 'One-three, this is One-four. Stay put, Slider. I'm going on ahead, see if I can pop these bozos one.'
'Roger that, Lobo. And… uh… thanks. For saving my ass back there.'
'Don't mention it, Slider. It's all just part of our courteous and dependable service. Hang on, Vader. I'm going to burner.'
Lieutenant Colonel Averin had broken away from the searing aerial dogfight when the MiG flying less than twenty meters off his right side had suddenly exploded in a dazzling flash and a fireball. Poor Yuri… struck down by one of the long-ranged American super-missiles before he'd even had time to acquire a target!
Averin was on the northern fringe of the battle, and as he studied the radar picture, he realized that he had an unprecedented opportunity. Two American aircraft had drawn off toward the north and appeared to be moving toward the sea. At the moment, several MiGs out of Port Vladimir had cut them off and were moving to intercept.
And Averin was in an ideal position to angle in on the Americans' rear, attacking them from the ideal set-up point off their tails while they were concentrating on the Russian forces in front of them.
He studied the images, which grew clearer moment by moment despite the jamming as he drew closer to them.
Yes… definitely two planes, one in the lead, the other trailing, possibly already damaged from the way it was moving. Averin selected one of his short-range R-60 missiles, the infrared homer Western pilots called 'Aphid.' If he could get close enough, he could send the R-60 right up the Yankee pilot's ass before he even knew he was being hunted.
'Hey, Striker!' K-Bar called. 'Got a straggler, pulling off toward the north. Range about ten miles.'
Striker stared at his display, trying to interpret the complex weave of moving blips. It looked like the MiGs were boxing Chris and Arrenberger in, with one lone straggler coming in on them from behind.
'Batman, Striker!' he called, going to zone-five burner. 'I got a target! I'm in pursuit!'
'Damn it, Striker! Where the hell are you going?'
But Striker wasn't listening. His full concentration was focused on that lone Russian MiG, now eight miles ahead. He selected an AMRAAM and went for a radar lock.
Lock! Averin grinned behind his oxygen mask as he squeezed the firing trigger on his stick, loosing the R-60 heat-seeker from its cradle beneath his wing. The target was still on afterburner and arrowing directly away from him, providing a target he couldn't miss.
