“Corky, I’m still getting that goddamned Mainstay on my scope. Even with the jamming, it’s got us for sure.” Lieutenant Mike Esteban, his RIO, radar intercept officer, sounded pissed.
His frustration was understandable. The Soviet AWACS plane had been loitering arrogantly just outside the task force’s declared exclusion zone for hours, escorted by a pair of Su-27 Flanker fighters out of Vladivostok. Everyone aboard the two American carriers knew that the data the converted Il-76 transport was collecting was being passed straight back to the North Koreans, but there wasn’t anything they could do about it — outside of assigning a pair of Tomcats to keep a close watch on the single Prowler now busy trying to jam the Mainstay’s powerful radar. That was bad enough. But then to top it all off, the Soviets also had a Tu-16 Badger F aircraft aloft. The Badger F was an electronic intelligence aircraft capable of keeping tabs on every signal the task force emitted.
Bouchard clicked his intercom switch. “Yeah. Well, life’s rough, I guess. Keep an eye peeled. The next-door neighbors are gonna come knocking at our door anytime now.”
The four-engined Ilyushin-76TD made another gentle turn, cruising in a racetrack holding pattern at forty thousand feet. As the AWACS plane banked, the large radar dish mounted horizontally atop its fuselage reflected the sunlight, and one of the Su-27 fighter pilots escorting it turned his eyes away, half-blinded.
It was dark inside the Mainstay’s main Air Command and Control compartment.
“The American jamming is degrading our systems greatly, Comrade Colonel, but we have firm contact with an estimated ninety-plus aircraft. All heading for the coast. This is clearly what we’ve been waiting for.”
Colonel Lushev frowned at Kornilov’s impertinence, but he bit down the harsh reply that first leaped into his mind. The lieutenant was undeniably the best radar operator aboard, and his skills demanded a certain amount of tolerance for his unorthodox behavior. The colonel leaned closer to the repeater scope in front of him, trying to make something out himself of the glowing green splotches and sweeping strobes it showed. He couldn’t and shook his head. Kornilov’s abilities were remarkable.
Lushev swiveled his chair to face the plane’s radioman. “Transmit this information to Pyongyang immediately.” He hoped that the little yellow bastards could make good use of it. The Americans needed to be taught a lesson.
He swung back to face the repeater scope, fighting down an all-too-familiar craving for nicotine. The Mainstay’s electronics were too delicate to cope with an atmosphere laced with cigarette smoke. He would have to wait until they were back on the ground in Vladivostok.
Bouchard could feel the tension increasing. They were sixty miles out and closing rapidly on the South Korean coast. The strike target was only fifteen miles inland, so if the North Koreans were going to pull anything it would have to be soon. He glanced to either side. The eleven other Tomcats were perfectly positioned. Sunlight glinted off canopies ahead and below. The F-18s were still keeping pace.
“Red Dog, this is Roundup.” Bouchard tensed at the sudden transmission from the Navy strike controller. “Multiple bogies bearing three one zero, seventy miles, level forty. Out.” The E-2C’s radar had just detected enemy fighters slipping into the open from out of Korea’s rugged mountains.
Bouchard made an instant decision and keyed his mike. It was pretty clear that the North Koreans knew exactly where they were. There wasn’t any further point in trying to stay hidden. “Red Dog flights, this is Red Dog Lead. Light ’em off and let ’em have it.”
His F-14s would turn on their powerful radars and engage the enemy at maximum distance with their AIM-54C Phoenix missiles. The F-18s would stay silent, and Bouchard hoped they might be able to slip in closer without being noticed by the oncoming North Koreans.
Behind him, Esteban flicked the switches needed to activate the Tomcat’s AWG-9 radar and bent over his scope, studying the information it showed. “Corky, I read two groups of bogies. Twenty-two in the first, and twenty following ten miles behind.”
“Rog. Get me a lock on two of the lead group.” Bouchard arched his thumb toward the firing switch on his stick. Each Tomcat in the escort group carried two Phoenix missiles for just such an occasion.
“Coming up.”
The Badger’s twin turbojets had been droning for hours, lulling many among the huge plane’s flight crew into a kind of stupor made up as much of boredom as it was of fatigue. There was little enough to look at. Just scattered clouds in a brilliant blue sky. And two American F-14s keeping station on them as they orbited. The Badger’s crew had seen their share of the twin-tailed American fighters before. The Tomcats were always nearby whenever a mission took the converted bomber near a U.S. Navy carrier task force.
None of the signals intelligence crewmen seated at the consoles jamming the Badger’s fuselage was the least bit bored. This was the opportunity of a professional lifetime. They were kept busy intercepting and recording every burst of electronic noise the Americans sent out. Radar emissions. Radio transmissions. Everything. Watching two American aircraft carriers launch a real combat mission was proving most instructive.
Suddenly the senior technician’s fingers stopped drumming the face of his console and he sat bolt upright. “Comrade Major! I’m picking up midcourse guidance signals for American missiles. Phoenix missiles aimed at our fighters!”
The major was an intelligent man and he didn’t waste time going through the chain of command. Instead he leaped for the radio himself.
Borodin heard the distinctive tone of the American radar in his earphones as it swept over his MiG-29 and smiled. His plan was working. He’d deployed two squadrons of MiG-21s out in front of his twenty MiG-29s, hoping that the Americans would waste their long-range missiles on the older and less capable planes. It was hard on the MiG-21 pilots, but what the hell. None of them were Russians.
“Fulcrum Lead, this is Badger Four! Missiles inbound from American fighters!”
Borodin keyed his mike to acknowledge and switched frequencies. “Fishbed Lead, this is Fulcrum Lead. Red Sector!” He gave the code phrase that would alert the MiG-21s to their danger. At the same time, he hit the MiG-29’s throttle, accelerating to close with the lead group. The other Fulcrums followed him as his airspeed crept closer to six hundred knots.
They would mingle with the survivors of the first group as it came within standard radar missile range of the American escort force.
The North Korean colonel leading the MiG-21 squadrons squinted into the nearly cloudless blue sky, searching desperately for signs of the incoming Phoenixes. With a top speed of nearly 2,400 miles an hour, the American missiles could be expected to reach him in less than ninety seconds from launch.
There. He saw contrails streaking down out of the sky ahead, just as his radar warning receiver burst into a high-pitched beep-beep-beep. At least one of the American active homing missiles had locked onto his plane.
“All aircraft! Take evasive action, now!” The colonel yanked his MiG-21 into a hard, seven-g climb to the left, putting Soviet theory into practice. The theory said a rapid pitch-up maneuver could defeat the Phoenix. The twenty-one other planes under his command followed suit, pulling tightly to the left or right and climbing as they worked to evade the enemy missiles.
Most were successful. The AIM-54C Phoenix was designed primarily to kill lumbering bombers, not agile fighters. Its incredibly powerful motor gave it tremendous speed and range, but the motor burned out within seconds after launch. As a result, the missile often lacked the “oompf” needed to follow a highly maneuverable fighter at long range as it climbed.