Wickham collected his thoughts and spoke to Dimitri in whispered tones. “As soon as you get your breath, we’ve got to move about a half kilometer upriver and conceal ourselves.”
Dimitri, listening intently to Wickham, heard the approaching trucks first. “Shh- I hear some—”
“Shut up,” the American snarled, yanking Dimitri flat on the ground next to him.
Both agents, lying on their stomachs, crawled up the embankment to peer down the road through the underbrush. They could see a multitude of lights, twinkling in the dark, reflecting off the falling snowflakes.
“Keep your face down and smear it with dirt,” the CIA agent ordered, spreading the moist, cold semi-mud over his forehead, cheeks, ears, and neck.
“We’ve got problems …” Wickham said, scooting back down the muddy embankment.
“What d—?” Dimitri’s eyes bulged.
“We’re close, almost home, but we’ve got problems,” the American whispered.
Dimitri nodded in the dark, swallowing continuously. He sensed the CIA agent’s agitation.
“Dimitri, that has to be the GRU. They’ve got some very elite troops, the kind they turn loose to locate Kremlin spies. You read me?”
“Y-yes. What are—?”
“I’m sure they’ve got dogs with them. You hear them howling?” Wickham was listening with his hand cupped to his left ear. “That’s the same way we came. They’re right on our trail. Shit!”
Dimitri remained silent, aware of the sounds of the Russian GRU troops growing closer.
Wickham leaned closer to Dimitri. “We’re going to cross the road, make a large circle, then cross back to this same position.”
Dimitri looked at Wickham as if he were seeing a ghost.
“The dogs will track across the road and become confused by the circle. We’ll retrace our steps, then cross the river, make the other side upstream, and head for the rendezvous point.”
Wickham listened a moment, then again spoke to Dimitri. “We’re going to freeze our asses, but it’ll throw the dogs off our trail for awhile.”
The American paused, observing no reaction from Dimitri.
“Better than a goddamn firing squad. Let’s move out!”
The two men scrambled up the bank, darted across the paved road, ran forty meters into the sparse trees, and completed a large circle. Both agents, stopping momentarily at the edge of the pavement, ran back to their original position, then slid into the ice-cold water as quietly as possible. The numbing cold literally took their breath from them. The respiratory shock was almost overwhelming to the exhausted agents.
“O-kay, Dimitri … just dog paddle. S-stay with me…”
Lt. Comdr. Doug “Frogman” Karns snapped a salute and braced his helmet. “Here we go.”
“Shhhiiittt …” Rick Bonicelli replied, barely able to talk during the catapult stroke.
Karns felt the powerful G-forces pressing him harder and harder into the seat back as the F-14 raced off the end of the giant carrier.
Karns popped the gear lever up, trimmed the nose down, and watched the airspeed indicator. Accelerating through 220 knots, Gunfighter One selected flaps and slats up, then waited for the wings to sweep back.
“Okay, baby,” Karns said to himself passing three hundred knots indicated airspeed, “here we go.”
The Tomcat smoothly rotated skyward, climbing vertically in afterburner as Karns looked back over his shoulder. Gun Two was just beginning to raise the nose of his fighter.
Back on the gauges as the accelerating F-14 penetrated dense clouds.
“You with me, Two?” Karns asked his usual flying mate, Steve Hershberger.
“Yeah, but I lost you in the clouds,” Hershberger radioed. “I’ll ease off a bit and catch you when we’re on top.”
“Okay, Hersh,” Karns replied as his Tomcat shot through the top of the cloud layer. “You’ll be out in a couple seconds. Switch to button seven.”
Karns turned on his scrambler, then tuned to the E–2C Hawkeye’s frequency. “Stingray, Gun One up, flight of two, standard ordnance, squawking. What have you got?”
“Turn right, heading two-three-zero, and climb to angels three-one,” the Hawkeye controller ordered. “Two Air Force F-15s tangled with a division of MiG-29s due east of the Iceland MADIZ (Military Air Defense Identification Zone). Four MiGs jumped ’em, just outside of the zone, and the Fifteens dropped one of the MiGs. The Eagles had to disengage because of low fuel, so we’re vectoring you for an intercept.”
“Roger,” Karns radioed, as he slowly lowered the nose, pulled the throttles out of afterburner, and turned to the southwest heading. He looked over his right shoulder in time to see Hershberger slide smoothly into a nice, loose parade position.
“Two’s aboard,” the lieutenant (junior grade) radioed. “Looks like we’re going to have some more fun with these assholes.”
“Afraid so,” Karns responded. “Let’s arm ’em up. Switches hot, and goin’ combat spread.”
“We’re hot and moving out,” Hershberger replied in a calm voice, flipping his Master Arm switch to ON. “My man ‘Gator’ says it’s time for a little yankin’ and bankin’ today.”
“Yeah,” Karns replied, “but cover your ass. These guys are a lot better than the Libyans.”
The “Miniwacs” controller spoke. “Guns, your bogies — looks like three of ’em — are one hundred and twenty at angels two-niner, crossing left to right.”
“Copy,” Karns replied, then switched to ICS. “You got ’em, Bone?”
“That’s affirm; we’ve got a sweet lock.”
The Eisenhower’s Combat Information Center broke in.
“Gunfighter flight, you have permission to engage. Repeat, you have permission to engage. White House authority.”
“Roger, Tango Fox, Gunfighters engaging.”
Karns shoved the throttles full forward again. “Goin’ burner, Hersh.”
“We’re with you,” Hershberger responded, advancing his throttles to the stops.
The Tomcats accelerated through Mach One, as the two opposing flights rapidly closed on each other.
“Forty miles,” Gordon “Gator” Kavanaugh, breathing hard, said to Hershberger over the ICS.
“Guns, Stingray. Bogies are jinking back at … turning into you.”
“We’ve got ’em,” Karns radioed. “Stand by, Hersh.”
“Roger.”
Both pilots watched the MiGs close rapidly. The Russians had already cost the Ike two Tomcats. Karns and Hershberger had a score to settle with the Fulcrum drivers.
Karns keyed his ICS. “Centering the T … come on. Centering the Dot.”
“Lock him up, Frog,” Bonicelli said in a strained voice. “Lock him up.”
“I’m trying …. No tone,” Karns said, then added. “I’ve got it. Got a tone.”
“Tally — ten miles,” Karns radioed to Gun Two. “Stand by … FIRE!”
Both pilots squeezed off AIM-7M Sparrow missiles and prepared to counter the Russians’ evasive maneuvers.
“Fox One,” Karns yelled as he watched the two missiles track straight for the Soviet fighters. He could see the MiGs snap into a high-G turn at seven miles. “Bogies breakin’ right!”
Karns had barely finished the sentence when the lead Fulcrum disintegrated in a mushroom of orange and black explosions.
The second Sparrow missed and flew out of sight.
“Let’s go high,” Karns ordered, seeing the MiGs turn hard to his left. “Switchin’ to guns.”
“Two!”
Karns rolled almost inverted, pulling the nose down to the horizon, then further below to track the second MiG.