There was no window in the rear compartment — just one dim, neon tube set into the roof. Claustrophobia gripped the two Americans, and from the expression on the face of the Russian cameraman, they knew he was similarly affected. It wasn’t going to be fun, this assignment.
They slept a little. Two full hours passed before the pilot called them.
Forward of the crawlway, the radar operators turned from their screens to stare with unrestrained curiosity. Having Americans aboard their plane was an idea as alien to them as to the TV team.
‘In five minutes you’ll see something,’ Valentin shouted through the intercom. He’d connected their headsets to the internal circuit.
‘Where are we?’ the correspondent called back.
‘About five hundred kilometres east of Iceland.’
‘There’s a lot of water down there. Looks pretty empty to me.’
‘Empty to you, but not to me,’ the pilot boasted. ‘We can always find your ships when we want to.’
‘Oh, yeah?’
The two cameramen squeezed onto the single seat in the forward observation bubble and adjusted their lenses.
‘You have a little microphone?’ the pilot enquired.
‘I’ve got a neck mike, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Put it inside your earphone. I’m switching to the frequency the Americans use. If they speak, you will hear.’
Nick fixed the microphone to his headset.
Suddenly the plane banked to the left and dived towards the sea.
‘Sheeit!’
Nick grabbed for a hand-hold.
‘Three ships in front!’ called the pilot.
The journalists peered through the glass, seeing nothing but the grey sea flecked with foam.
Then both cameramen moved at once, eyepieces jammed to their faces. They’d seen the long lines of the wakes.
‘Got them!’
The pilot dived and turned, skilfully keeping the American warships ahead of the plane’s nose. Five hundred metres from the water, he levelled out, overshot and began a long slow bank round to make another pass.
Nick was no expert, but he knew a carrier when he saw one.
‘Is that the Eisenhower?’
‘No. The Eisenhower’s much bigger. That’s the Saipan. Amphibious. For invasion. With her are one Spruance and one Ticonderoga.’
Nick felt uncomfortable at the ease with which his nation’s navy had been detected and identified by the Soviets.
‘One more pass. Okay?’
‘Yep.’
This time the Bear had slowed considerably. It banked over the Ticonderoga cruiser with its boxy superstructure housing the long-range, high-performance Aegis radar, and its deck covered with round hatches concealing Tomahawk and Standard missiles.
On the flight-deck of the USS Saipan, Nick counted six large helicopters. They flew low enough to see the deck crew gazing up at the circling plane.
‘Those guys’d go ape if they knew a US TV team was up here,’ he thought to himself.
‘Enough?’ Valentin’s voice in the headphones.
‘Well, I wouldn’t mind…’
‘But this is nothing. Don’t you want to see your big ship?’
‘Sure. Okay, we got enough here.’
The pressure was knee-buckling as the pilot pulled the TU-95 up steeply. A tighter, more intense vibration came from the engines as the propeller pitch sharpened, blades biting harder into the air to give them power for the climb.
Nick looked round. The radar operators ignored their screens, watching everything the Americans did.
‘How d’you know where to look?’ Nick asked into the microphone that pressed against his lips.
‘National Technical Means.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You don’t know? You Americans invented the words.’
‘Okay, but I didn’t. I’m no expert.’
The pilot found that hard to believe. The Americans must surely have given special training to the man given the unique chance to fly in a Soviet warplane.
‘Satellites. We have a radar satellite. Shows everything, even us.’
‘So you don’t need to use your own radar?’
‘That’s right. If we did, your sailors would know we were here.’
‘They know now!’
The plane levelled from the climb. The pilot’s fix for the Eisenhower was twenty minutes out of date. He’d guessed where she should have steamed to, but was wrong. There was no sign, not even a wake. He wouldn’t get a new fix from the radarsat for another ten minutes. It would look bad not to be able to find the big ship before then.
The radar operators turned back to their scopes, hands reaching for the control knobs.
‘Soviet Naval Aviation TU-95!’
The voice in the earphones was Texan. Nick’s cameraman looked round at him and frowned.
‘This is US Navy Tomcat on your port wingtip. Please acknowledge! Over!’
Heads whipped round to the left.
‘Sheeit!’
Just beyond the end of the wing a dull-grey fighter floated upwards, US Navy markings emblazoned on the side. Inside its long perspex canopy, two sinister black visors and oxygen masks were turned towards them.
‘Soviet TU-95 — you’re approaching a US Navy aircraft carrier. Please maintain a distance of five miles from the ship. Acknowledge. Over.’
‘US fighter plane,’ Valentin’s voice answered, high-pitched with tension. ‘This is international airspace. Keep your distance! Over.’
‘Soviet aircraft —’ The Texan voice sounded tired. ‘The US carrier has a hot deck. For your safety, please make a left to maintain five miles from the ship. Acknowledge. Over.’
Nick braced himself for a sudden change of course, but there was none. The Tomcat rose and banked away, ostentatiously showing off the racks of missiles under its wings.
Suddenly the Bear lurched to the left. From the right came another Tomcat, streaking past their nose, scarcely feet away.
‘Christ! Somebody tell those guys there are US citizens in here!’ the cameraman yelled in alarm.
The radio had gone silent. There was no point in posturing any more. Each side knew what the other was about.
The nose went down. The rush of air past the fuselage grew louder as they gathered speed.
‘The Eisenhower is straight ahead. Soon you will have your pictures,’ Valentin barked through the intercom. He sounded angry. ‘They are very aggressive, your pilots. This is international airspace!’
Nick opted to say nothing.
Having failed to deflect the Tupolev from its course, the Tomcats settled one on each wingtip, indicating unmistakably that if the Russian showed the slightest sign of hostility towards the Eisenhower, they’d blow him out of the sky.
Ahead, the carrier came in view. The plane levelled off and dropped its speed. Nick guessed they were at about two thousand feet, but it was difficult to tell. The Tomcats dropped back to watch for the Tupolev’s bomb-doors opening, ready to rip open the Russian plane with their 20mm Vulcan cannon.
‘I will pass to the left of the ship, turn in front, and pass back on the other side,’ the pilot told them, calmer now.
‘She sure is big,’ Nick whistled.
‘Ninety-thousand tons. Eighty-five fighter planes on board. Nuclear weapons, too. Your navy has fifteen ships like that, our navy has none. They are a big threat to us.’