"Sixty minutes."
"Should be enough. Just hope whatever the hell hit you doesn't take a curtain call."
"Copy, Admiral. Armstrong out." Saint-Michael turned and stared wordlessly at the master SBR monitor for a long moment.
Walker couldn't take the silence. "Skipper, what's up?"
"Clancy's going to start an offensive…"
"An offensive? With what? Where? The Russians are overrunning Iran from all points."
Saint-Michael looked at Walker. "We're going to play some sky-poker," he said. "Just hope our bluff works."
From the moment Jason Saint-Michael appeared at the hatch to the sausage-shaped crew-rescue lifeboat, Ann knew. She could read it in his face. She'd been expecting it…
"Ann, I… I'm sorry…"
She leaned back against a compartment. "He's gone?" She knew, but it needed to be said so that she could begin to feel it, to really know it…
Saint-Michael moved to her, took hold of her. "Admiral Clancy told me a few minutes ago. He said to tell you what a fine officer your father was, that the men—"
She nodded at him, tears running down her cheeks, pushing him away and clutching at him all at the same time.
He pulled her to him, held her as she let out her grief. They stood together that way for who knows how long, sharing the intimacy of each other in a way neither could have managed minutes before.
Finally, Saint-Michael gently drew away from her, began to move toward the hatch. He turned around once, paused. "He did a job, Ann… maneuvered the California right in front of the missiles. If they'd gotten by, thousands would have been killed aboard the Nimitz. The whole group would have been forced to retreat… I know it's no help now, but I want you to know…"
She nodded. "Thanks, I know. He even used to say it was how he wanted to go. But it doesn't make it any easier…"
"Nothing ever does," he said, and exited the hatch, leaving her alone with her grief.
CHAPTER 24
It appeared simple. Ridiculously simple.
The Soviet Su-27 Flanker pilot from the Brezhnev couldn't help smiling. After all the talk about how autonomous American fighter pilots were, how innovative, how creatively unpredictable — here they were, ten American F-15 Eagle fighters, driving directly into the hands of their enemies.
The Soviet aircraft carrier Brezhnev had spotted the Eagle attack formation three hundred kilometers away and had scrambled ten advanced Sukhoi-27 fighters to intercept, with ten more of the air-to-air missile-equipped fighters to follow. There were only three places from which an American counterattack on the Brezhnev could have come: Kigzi Airbase in Turkey, Riyadah in Saudi Arabia, and the Gulf of Oman, where the Nimitz was located. All of those areas had been bottled up tight by the Brezhnev's planes and ships. An attack group would have to circumnavigate the Iraqi and Soviet forces in the west, the Brezhnev and her escorts in the Persian Gulf and the destroyers and battleships in the Strait of Hormuz if they had any hope of attacking the Soviet army and navy positions in Tehran and Tabriz. It was a move of desperation.
The closing rate between the two opposing fighter groups was well over two thousand kilometers an hour, which also favored the Soviet defenders. The F-15s from Riyadah had already been flying for nearly an hour and were probably overloaded with weapons and fuel. The Su-27s, virtually identical to the single-seat version of the American F-15, had just launched from the Brezhnev minutes ago and were loaded with AA-11 all-aspect air-to-air missiles, not fuel. The F-15s would have no time to dogfight. They would try, as their current flight profile suggested, to blow past the Su-27s, get as close as possible to the Brezhnev and launch their missiles. Desperation. Sheer desperation…
"Group One leader, this is Control. Hostile contact bearing two-six-zero, range seven-five kilometers. Acknowledge when locked-on. "
The lead Flanker pilot thumbed his microphone switch. "I understand, Control. Intruders are locked on radar, seventy kilometers and descending slowly. Requesting final authority to attack."
"Request approved, Group One." He then switched to English to invoke the universal fighter pilot's credo: "Good luck. Good hunting."
The lead Flanker pilot felt a rush of adrenaline. Invoked in English, the fighter's credo always seemed to hone his instincts. "Group One, sixty kilometers. Final arming check-now."
"Red Flight checks."
"Gold Flight checks."
"Group One, lock and ready in file." The lead pilot pressed his target-designate switch until the radar-tracking cursor had switched to the lead American plane. A high-pitched four-beep sequence and a flashing green light on his arming panel told him his ADC-1054W attack radar was locked on. Perfect. No maneuvering, no jamming…
Fifty kilometers. "Group One… launch!" It was an exhilarating sight. In complete unison, twenty AA-11 advanced long-range radar-guided missiles filled the sky, speeding to their targets. The missile-attack aspect was ideal. The American F-15s were in a slightly steeper dive, tying to make it to the relative safety of the Persian Gulfs choppy waters, where they figured they would be lost in radar clutter. But in fact they were exposing more of themselves to the missiles' powerful on-board terminal homing radars.
The lead Flanker pilot made one quick check of his formation, then checked his radar for possible survivors — and saw the impossible.
The American F- 15s were still on radar. All twenty AA-11 missiles had missed.
And then he saw why: the F-15s, which had been at fifteen hundred meters altitude when the Flankers launched their missiles, were now at five thousand meters. The American planes had somehow managed to climb nearly four thousand meters in ten seconds. Even an AA-11 missile, which could turn at well over seven "g" s, couldn't keep up with a climb-rate like that at such close range.
The leader of Brezhnev Fighter Group One yanked his Su-27 Flanker fighter into a hard climbing turn to pursue, but he knew without checking his radar that the move was pointless. He had to steel himself to key his microphone. "Control, this is Group One leader. All targets are still… still airborne and have maneuvered above us. Last readout showed them at five thousand meters and climbing. Turning to intercept. "
"Group One, this is Control," came the scratchy message from the air combat controllers aboard the Brezhnev. "We have intruders at your five o'clock, altitude five thousand meters, range forty kilometers, air speed six-four-three kilometers per hour. Turn right heading zero-two-zero, initial vector for intercept."
"Group One copies all."
"Group One, state your bingo."
The Group One leader checked his fuel gauges, feeling his cheeks and ears redden. He could easily imagine the words being said about him right now on the bridge of the Brezhnev — he had been too cocky, too sure of himself, taking the long-to medium-range shot without bothering to move in closer. It had to be some sort of electronic jamming or deception that made the American F-15s appear to be lower than the Su-27s. No aircraft could climb four thousand meters in ten seconds.
To make matters worse he was now in a tail-chase with the American fighters — and with no airborne defenders between them and the Brezhnev…
"Group One shows two-zero minutes to bingo." Even the fuel situation had gotten worse. The Americans were still on emergency fuel, he was sure — especially after that crazy maneuver — but now the odds were no longer in the defenders' favor.
"Group One, Alert Group Two is preparing for launch. We will recover your group at bingo minus five. Acknowledge."