forty seconds. He saw the detonation when it went off, a tiny flash in the night far to the west. Her second missile hit, the third missed ? evaded by some spectacular aerial maneuvers by the target ? and then in rapid-fire succession, the fourth, fifth, and sixth AIM-54s all struck home.
Within the space of a minute and a half, Dixie and Cat had just launched six million dollars’ worth of technology, destroying five aircraft worth some twenty-five times the total cost of the AIM-54Cs.
There was no way of knowing at this range whether or not those aircraft’s pilots had managed to eject or not.
“Poor Man, this is Air Hammer One-three,” Dixie called. It was strange, but he didn’t feel the elation he’d expected. The engagement had been so distant, so… clinical. “We’re five for six and dry.”
“One-three, hold one.”
“COPY.”
It wasn’t until sometime later that something else occurred to him:
They’d just scored five kills, technically qualifying him as an ace. He didn’t feel like an ace; Cat had fired two of the missiles, and four had been launched by the aircraft’s computer. Over the tactical channel, he could hear bursts of radio chatter from other aviators as they launched on the unseen enemy.
“Fox three! Fox three!”
“That’s one! I saw it hit!”
“God, look at those flames. I’ve got a Mig here, going down inflames!”
“That’s Fox three for Hammer Two-two.”
They sounded so distant, so isolated. It seemed a cold and lonely way to fight a war, and he was glad Cat was with him.
“One-three, this is Poor Man. We copy you dry. Hold your position. The helos are going in.”
“Roger that. Hammer One-three, maintaining position.”
This was the part of Operation Ranger that he’d not been sure he could handle. With no missiles remaining, his only weapons were the F-14’s guns, weapons useful only for extremely close-ranged combat ? at “knife-fighting distance,” as aviators liked to say ? and then only when you could actually see the other guy. But the operational plan had called for two flights of Tomcats, Air Hammer One and Air Hammer Two, to move in over the Crimean coast and, once the weapons-free command had been given, to down enough enemy aircraft to keep the rest cautious. If they turned tail and fled for the Jefferson now, the enemy would follow… and blunder into the flight of helicopters off the U.S.S. Guadalcanal that even now ought to be streaking through the darkness toward Yalta at wave-clipping height.
By maintaining position, the two Tomcat squadrons presented a formidable wall of radar targets that ought to keep the enemy guessing… and at a distance. Not all of the F-14s had launched; half were holding their warloads in reserve. Dixie and Cat were relying now on Badger and Red to cover them with their load-out of Phoenix missiles.
Nonetheless, Dixie felt naked, orbiting through the night without a missile left to his name.
“Are you sure you want to go through with this, General? There’s still time to get out.”
Tombstone watched Boychenko’s mouth quirk upward at the corner as PO/2 Kardesh translated for him. Her Russian was precise, fluid, and glib.
“I… am sure,” Boychenko said, his accent thick. “is my gift to you, for save my life.” He hesitated, frowned, then said something quickly in Russian to Kardesh.
The woman nodded, then looked at Tombstone. “He wants to know if our battle group will have fuel enough to carry out this operation, with all of the flying that’s going on now.”
Tombstone glanced up at the dark sky, laced with the colorful streams of antiaircraft tracers. It was strange to think that his people were up there, Batman and Brewer and Nightmare and Dixie and all the rest.
“Tell him we’ll have enough to take the facility, Tomb stone said after a moment. “But it’s essential that we secure the Arsincevo complex, or this whole exercise is going to do nothing but leave our planes grounded and our ships helpless. Make sure he understands that. I also want him to understand that we’ll be attacking a pretty fair- sized Russian force. Russians against Russians. I want to know if he can trust his people.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
After Boychenko replied at length, she delivered the translation. “He says he understands the risks and thinks that Arsincevo can be taken. He also says that his troops, specifically, the 4th Spetsnaz Fleet Brigade and some attached support units are loyal to him, personally.”
“A Spetsnaz brigade; That’s what… a thousand men?”
“Twelve hundred, in this case, sir, plus a piece of a transport company and some other odds and ends he’s scraped up in the last couple of days.”
“He understands that we won’t be able to evacuate them as well.”
Another brief exchange in Russian.
“The general says, sir, that they are loyal to him specifically because he promised to find a way for them to go home. They don’t want to stay here in the Crimea. After Arsincevo, they will cross the Kerch Strait and hook up with Krasilnikov forces there. He… he does say they don’t know he will be leaving them.”
“Yeah.” Tombstone took a hard look at Boychenko, wondering what kind of man would simply abandon his men in the field. Granted, his own death sentence had already been signed, most likely, and his execution at the hands of Krasilnikov’s agents would not serve any real purpose beyond the traditional honor of the captain going down with his ship.
Still, what kind of cold-blooded bastard did it take, Tombstone wondered, to use troops as fanatically loyal as his were supposed to be and then calmly walk away from them while they were carrying out his last set of orders?
The thunder started far out over the sea as a faint, distant rumble, then swelled rapidly to a shrill, booming crescendo that rattled the windows of the White Palace. Tombstone looked up but saw only afterburners, brilliant, paired eyes of white-orange light gleaming in the night as they streaked low overhead.
Hornets. With Jefferson’s two Tomcat squadrons serving as FORCECAP to keep the enemy from striking either the American ships or the rescue helicopters, it fell to the F/A-18 Hornets of VFA-161 and VFA-173, along with the A-6 Intruders of VA-84 and VA-89, to deliver the massive air-to-ground strike necessary to let Boychenko’s troops break free of their death grip with Dmitriev’s naval infantry. The Hornets howled, two by two, above Yalta and the White Palace, vanishing into the darkness above the mountains to the north. Seconds later, he could hear the thunder of their bombs and air-to-surface missiles.
It was almost time.
Pamela and Joyce both were standing on the palace’s south patio, a few yards away, apparently deep in conversation. Tombstone wasn’t exactly looking forward to what he had to do now, but there would be no better time. Excusing himself from Boychenko, he walked toward them.
“Well, ladies,” he said. “Are you ready to say farewell to the sunny Russian Riviera?”
Both women turned to him, and both looked angry. “I beg your pardon, Matt?” Pamela said. “We’re going with you.”
As he’d expected, they were going to give him an argument.
“Negative,” Tombstone said. He nodded toward the sea. “We’ll have helos touching down in just a few moments, and I want all unnecessary personnel on board.”
“Is that what I am, CAG?” Tomboy demanded. “”Unnecessary personnel’?”
“Tomboy-“
“Damn it, sir, my assignment was here, with you.”
“Your assignment as press liaison can continue as you escort Ms. Drake here to the Jefferson. Take good care of her.”
“Now just one goddamn minute, Matt,” Pamela said.
“You’ve been talking about your career. Now we’re talking about mine.
There’s a story to be covered here. I’m a reporter. And you have no right to stop me from doing my job.”
He looked at Pamela. “This is an evacuation, damn it. The Arsincevo is a military operation and there will be
