And now, the world would see what that weapon could do. It was necessary, a vital gamble. Russia’s military leaders feared that the Commonwealth would become a third-rate, Third World nation unable to affect the course of world events beyond her own, strife-torn borders.
The word had come through from Moscow a week before. Use this gigantic symbol of naval might to end the crisis between India and Pakistan. The Commonwealth could not tolerate The use of nuclear weapons on the very stoop of her back door.
And the orders had stressed that, if possible, Kreml was to beat the United States to the punch, to deliver the telling blow without the help of the American carrier group.
Dmitriev had not been certain how he was going to manage that part of the orders, though they did give him leeway in situations that allowed no alternatives. Vaughn’s short-sighted insistence on keeping control of the operation had played into Dmitriev’s hands. The Russian admiral now knew the Americans’ plan, the targets for their strike, the time the strike would be launched. By launching three hours ahead of time, the Russians would, as the Americans themselves might say, steal the show.
Washington would be forced either to admit that they themselves had sabotaged any chance of the two squadrons working together … or adopt a face-saving stance which suggested that the Russian carrier had carried out the mission, supported by an American task force.
Yes, his superiors in Moscow would like that. The President could shore up his battered public image by presenting himself as a strong man fully capable of taking charge in an international crisis for the good of his people and the world.
And for Dmitriev, this command would be a magnificent first step toward bigger and better things. The Commonwealth was still changing so quickly. There were opportunities, fantastic opportunities, for a man with the courage to grab them.
Thunder rent the air, and Dmitriev pressed against the flag bridge window, looking forward. Two navalized Mig-29s shrieked against the catapult shuttles that bound them to Kreml’s forward deck, eager to leap into the clean blue sky. Their thunder spoke of the raw power of the Russian naval air arm, of its reach beyond the borders of the Motherland.
The admiral smiled. In one morning, Russian carrier aviation was at last going to catch up with the Americans, ending the superiority they’d enjoyed for forty years!
America and the Commonwealth were no longer face-to-face at the brink of war. The world had changed so much from the old days of confrontation and incident. But the old rivalry, Dmitriev knew, was still there. New world or not, new politics or not, he found he was looking forward to this particular confrontation.
Tombstone was flying close to the water, ten miles behind the main American Tomcat formation.
“The bad guys are all over the place, Tombstone,” Hitman reported. The Tomcat was vibrating heavily in the dense and bumpy air close to the water. Thick plumes of condensation sprayed off the wings, describing graceful spirals in Tombstone’s jet stream. “Eagle Leader is lining up a shot. He’s called it! That’s fox one!”
“How’s it look in our neck of the woods, Hitman?”
“All clear. There’s nothin’ … holy shit! Bogies! Four bogies at zero-five-niner and coming fast! Range fifteen miles!”
Tombstone shifted the control stick right to meet the threat. He’d expected something like this, an attempt to slip some planes past the main body at extreme low altitude. With the confusion higher up, it was possible they could slip through unseen, lost in the radar clutter of waves and thickly packed airplanes. From behind the American formation, they could strike at the fleet … or circle to take the defenders from the rear.
“Bogies are turning. Tombstone! Range now … twelve miles. Looks like they’re going to swing onto the Eagles’ tail.” Tombstone reviewed his options. With Sparrow he could take all four bogies now … but he’d have to maintain course, illuminating them with his Tomcat’s AWG-9 all the way. No. Better to save the Sparrows and take these guys up close. He pushed the throttles forward to Zone Five.
“Eagle, Eagle, this is Tombstone,” he called. “Watch your six. You have four bogies, repeat, four bogies on your six.”
On the radar, the American planes were turning, aware of the new threat behind them. Tombstone’s F-14 thundered across the water, fifty feet between the waves and the missiles slung from the aircraft’s belly. At Mach 2, the passage of the F-14 raised a wall of spray behind him, a sonic boom made visible in geysering water.
“We got ‘em, Stoney!” Hitman cried, excitement charging his voice.
“We’re sliding right on to their six!”
“We’ll go for Sidewinder,” he said. No sense in warning them that he was coming. The enemy pilots’ attention appeared to be focused on the Eagles in their sights.
“Range … nine miles.”
“Targeting.”
Computer graphic symbols danced on his HUD. Four small shapes marked the enemy aircraft. Using his controller, Tombstone dragged the targeting pipper across one and locked in. The square changed to a circle, with the word “LOCK” beside it. A warble sounded in his headphones as the first Sidewinder saw its target.
“Tone,” Tombstone said. “Fox two!”
He squeezed the trigger and the Sidewinder slid off the launch rail with a whoosh. The instant the heat-seeker was away he was moving the pipper to a new target.
Batman heard Tombstone’s warning over the tactical channel. The Vipers were east of the Eagles and not threatened by the bogies coming in from the south, but it was a reminder that the American defensive formation was as porous as a sieve. The American response was going to have to be flexible and in-depth, or the individual aircraft was going to be overwhelmed by sheer weight of numbers.
“Find us a target and let’s dump this last bird,” he told Malibu. The F-14 handled better “clean,” without the added weight and drag of the half-ton missile on its belly.
“Got one. Range two-zero miles, bearing three-five-one. AWG-9 locked in. Tracking.”
“Punch it.”
“Fox three!”
Their last radar-homer streaked into the northern sky. Batman brought the Tomcat hard left, turning into the approaching main body of enemy aircraft.
“Ninety-nine aircraft,” the voice of the Hawkeye controller sounded in his headset. “We are tracking three primary groups of bogies, designated Alpha, Bravo, Charlie.”
More long-ranged missiles lanced out from the American squadrons as the BARCAP planes shot off the last of their AIM-54-Cs and the newcomers began unloading their Sparrows.
The AIM-7 Sparrow was a design that, in various incarnations, went back to the early fifties. Naval aviators tended to distrust it, for the missile had more than once shown a nasty tendency to lock onto the water instead of the target. Just as bad, from the pilot’s point of view, Sparrow had SARH guidance, which meant that once it was fired, the aircraft could not Maneuver without breaking the radar beam that illuminated the target for the missile’s sensors.
The latest F-and M-versions had ranges of up to sixty miles. Aviators preferred to dump them early in a fight, while they still had the luxury of flying straight and level toward the enemy.
“Fox one,” someone called over the tactical frequency.
He was echoed a second later by someone else. “Fox one, fox one.
Missile away.” Then other voices joined in. It was the high-tech equivalent of volley fire, a throwback to the days when armies stood their soldiers shoulder to shoulder and fired en masse.