The formation leader turned forward just in time to see two Sukhoi-27 fighter-bombers zip past his nose less than two hundred yards away. He yanked his stick left and up to pursue, but his Tomcat continued to roll sluggishly to the right and down. The HUD was blank. Most of the lights and gauges on his instrument panel were dark or at zero. He made sure the throttle was at military power — yes, he could still feel what he thought was thrust from his twin Pratt and Whitney turbofan engines. He began to get some stick response so he tried to reacquire visually the two Soviet fighters while he waited for his place to recover… he hoped…
He kept one hand on the stick and the other on the throttle, believing his crippled fighter was giving chase right up to the moment it slammed into a hillside just outside the town of Humedan on Iran's southern coast. He never had a chance even to consider reaching for the ejection handles.
"Bridge, this is Combat. ASM contact, zero-eight-zero degrees relative, sixty nautical miles, less than one hundred feet above water."
Matthew Page reacted instantly to the report of the oncoming cruise missiles. "Helm, left twenty degrees, heading two-six-zero. Conn, advise Nimitz of contacts. Combat, are any Tomcats giving chase?"
"No friendly fighters showing. Six Soviet fighters heading northwest back toward the Brezhnev."
He hadn't expected that the missiles would be escorted by fighters. It looked like everything might depend on his firepower. "Combat, launch commit all Standard missiles."
"Launch commit, aye—"
The controller barely had time to finish his acknowledge when the roar of missile-motor ignition filled the air.
Fully automatic, the California's fore-and-aft Mark 26 dual-rail missile launchers had stood like tin soldiers at attention, pointing straight up. At launch command, two SM2-ER Standard surface-to-air missiles slid from the magazine racks below deck up into each of the launcher's rails, and the launchers swiveled right and down until the missiles seemed to be pointing directly horizontal. There was a slight pause, then a burst of flame followed by a cloud of smoke that covered the bow and stem of the California. The launchers swiveled to vertical once again, ready for another reloading.
"Four Standards away."
"My course is two-six-zero, sir," the helmsman reported.
"Very well. Ready the starboard Phalanx guns and both 127-millimeter guns. Combat, where are those cruise missiles?"
"Showing heavy uplink jamming from something, possibly Soviet airborne jammers… Wait, now showing two cruise missiles in flight, sir. Bearing zero-seven-zero, twenty miles, course one-six-zero true."
"Helm, hard to port, left forty degrees, launch commit all Standards and the forward one-twenty-seven. Comm, signal Nimitz to begin evasive action to starboard. Move."
The USS California heeled sharply to starboard as it began a hard left turn, the deck tilting far enough so that only a few feet of freeboard remained. The deck made one small pitch to port when the ship completed its emergency turn as its computerized stabilizers fought to haul the eleven-thousand-ton vessel upright. A split second after the deck leveled itself, the fire, smoke, and noise returned. Four Standard missiles immediately leapt from their rails and arched toward the gray horizon, quickly speeding away from view.
"Four Standards away, sir. Forward one-twenty-seven ready. All Phalanx stations report ready."
"Commit the aft one-twenty-seven."
"Aye, sir… Nimitz reports launching aircraft but can't maneuver to starboard. They report their Phalanx systems operational."
Page's oaths were drowned out by the booming of the California's two five-inch, dual-purpose cannons. Alternating with computer-controlled precision, the two cannons fired one radar-guided three-hundred-pound flak shell every two seconds, the California seeming to jump sideways at each ear-shattering report.
"Status! Where are those damn—"
Page's next words caught in his throat as he stared, transfixed, out the starboard side of the bridge at an apparition that was coming ever closer. Like a flaming spear driving right for the heart of the California, it appeared to be flying slowly, almost lazily, its short cruciform wings and long cigar-shaped body blackened and burning. It trailed a long line of thick black smoke, and it seemed to wobble up and down unsteadily. Yet it kept coming…
"Hard starboard, flank speed," Page ordered. The helmsman spun the wheel but his reply was drowned out by the long, whining staccato of the starboard Phalanx Close-In Weapon System, a radar-guided twenty-millimeter Vulcan multibarreled machine gun used as a last-resort defense against antiship missiles. Page watched smoke issue from the Phalanx muzzle and then an answering puff of fire from the already flaming airborne spear, followed by a deafening roar…
Just before Captain Matthew Page died, he thought of his wife Amanda, her eyes the same sky-blue as the cloudless canopy over his head. He smiled as the darkness descended on him.
Ann bypassed the safety procedures and cross checks as she hurried to the command module. Crewmembers turned toward her as she approached Saint-Michael. "Still no word," the general told her. "The frigate Oliver Hazard Perry is alongside the California now.
"What did they say? What happened?"
"Our ships were attacked by six Soviet medium bombers," Jim Walker said. "The bombers had Su-27 fighters from the Brezhnev escorting them and carried Kelt antiship missiles. Apparently the Su-27s managed to down six of our Tomcats, which were pursuing. The California and the other escorts sent four of the bombers into the gulf, but the others got their missiles off. Two of the missiles hit the California broadside—"
"At least it wasn't nuclear," Saint-Michael said quickly, not looking at Ann. "The California radioed a distress call and the Oliver Hazard Perry got to her within minutes. We'll know better what the California's situation is when they put out the fires."
"How long… until we can restart surveillance on the area?" Ann asked, trying not to show what she was feeling.
Saint-Michael wanted to hold her at least, but for the time being they both had their roles to play… "Twenty minutes," he said in answer to her question. He wished he could say more, reassure her… but that would be phony as well as embarrassing. Looking at her, though, seeing what she must be going through in her worry about her father, he could only admire her and feel for her. A considerable lady, hell… a terrific woman…
CHAPTER 22
It was a big surprise for the junior airmen and their supervisors to see General Lieutenant Alesander Govorov, the commander of Space Defense, out early that morning inspecting the area. Accompanied by the newly promoted Colonel Nikolai Gulaev, Govorov entered the vehicle assembly building of Glowing Star, Tyuratam's antisatellite launch site, and came up behind Starshiy Praporshchik Igor Cacreyatov, who happened to be sitting with his feet on his desk, sipping coffee laced with a bit of East German schnapps. The big senior warrant officer stared idly out the window watching the work out on launch pad two. "Work seems to proceed slower than usual, Airman Anokhin," Cacreyatov said over his shoulder. "I'll postpone the inspection of launch pad two until tomorrow, but it had better be done then or I will crack some heads."
Gulaev glanced at Govorov, half expected to see the Space Defense commander pull out his 7.62-millimeter Tokarav TT-33 automatic pistol and blow poor Cacreyatov away, but to Gulaev's surprise Govorov's face showed a wide smile as he picked up the tiny two hundred fifty milliliter schnapps bottle, ran his nose over the mouth and nodded his approval at the scent.