First Strike c-19

by Keith Douglass

  A few aircraft. He blinked, surprised that he was able to put it in those terms. Each one had two officers on board, officers that, if they weren’t quick enough, would never see their families again.

  “Weapons free, Chief,” he said, his voice hard and cold. It was the right decision, but one that he already knew he would have to live with for the rest of his life.

  MiG 102

  1502 local (GMT-4)

  Korsov checked his chronometer again. Ten seconds. Should he watch? Yes, he decided. He had to. He deserved it. He veered off course slightly, heading southeast, not giving up all of his forward progress but allowing him to watch the island. As the seconds ticked by, he felt his gut tighten.

  And then there it was. Small puffs of smoke from the hilltops, flying telephone poles emerging, heading straight up and then disappearing from sight. They would proceed to an altitude of 31,000 feet, then level out and begin the flight cruise toward the United States. Once within range of the coast, they would nose down, gain speed as they descended, and hit their preprogrammed targets.

  The missiles were not terribly accurate. But, then, they didn’t have to be. The chemical warheads would begin spewing their aerosols of sarin into the air during their descents. The fast-acting nerve agent would cause convulsions, choking, hemorrhaging, and speedy death.

  The biological agents would follow up by disbursing their particular brand of death. They were programmed to pull up out of their descent to conduct a spiraling descent to their targets, with aerosol disbursement initiated at one hundred feet. Some of the warheads contained anthrax spores, others a deadly African hemmoragic virus.

  And, finally, the jewel of the entire arsenal, the three nuclear-tipped tactical weapons. Their accuracy was far greater than that of the biological or chemical weapons. By modern standards, their warheads were small. One was aimed at the White House, the other at the United Nations, and a third at Naval Station Norfolk. Their effects would be devastating.

  Too bad he couldn’t stick around to watch it. But, then, duty called.

  He pulled back on to course and expanded the range of his radar screen. He could see most of the weapons now, in flight, continuing on exactly as planned. The Aegis cruiser was a problem, of course. He did not make the mistake of discounting her ability to knock down his missiles. She was, in fact, a frighteningly capable ship. But he was counting on the involvement of the air wing with the MiGs to muddy the picture, to clobber the area with contacts so that the Aegis would have to fire between them to reach the missiles. By the time the battle group could get the air wing out of the way, the Aegis missiles would be in a tail chase and it would be far more difficult to shoot them down.

  Hornet 101

  1502 local (GMT-4)

  Thor heard the call to clear the area. Unfortunately, he was a little bit preoccupied at that moment. Two MiGs had decided that his little Hornet was just the target that they wanted that afternoon, and he was busy keeping track of them, dancing around the sky to avoid a missile lock, all while trying to line up for his own shot.

  And where the hell was his wingman? Was he that black spot just at the edge of Thor’s peripheral vision? He wasn’t answering call ups — radio trouble? Or, was he already in the drink, inflating his life raft and watching the battle progressing overhead? Looking up from the sea, the life-and-death struggle taking place overhead would be barely visible, probably no more than sun glinting off metal.

  “Thor, I’m coming in on you,” a voice said over international military distress. “Lost frequency control.”

  Okay, it was radio problem. If Thor had had time, he would have felt relieved. But one of the MiGs was just then sliding into position behind him, its missiles hungry for the hot exhaust spewing out of his tailpipes. Thor tipped the nose down and flashed past the other aircraft as a streak of silver. He then pulled up hard, heard the Hornet howl its complaints as he exceeded recommended G forces, fought off the gray threatening his vision, and rolled back into position. His thumb toggled the weapons selector and he fired a Sparrow, performing exactly the shot that the MiG had intended just moments earlier.

  “One zero one, clear the area — now! You’re fouling our line of fire, mister.”

  “Listen, buddy, I would if I could,” Thor said between clenched teeth, fighting to stay conscious, “but I’m a little busy right now. Maybe you noticed.”

  “Roger, sir, but we have launch indications from Bermuda. It’s now or never.”

  “Do what you have to, buddy,” Thor snapped. “If I can stay out of a MiG’s line of fire, I sure as hell can avoid yours.

  “Roger, sir, I’ll do what I can to get you clear.”

  “Quit bothering me,” Thor said. The MiG under his wing burst into a fireball, and Thor broke his Hornet hard away to avoid the flames.

  “Randy, where are you?” he said over tactical. “What’s with your damned radio?”

  “—intermittent — too much data—” He heard Randy’s garbled voice come back.

  “Listen, if your receiver’s okay, take low station. Where’s that other MiG?”

  And then he saw it. While he’d been preoccupied with the other one it had circled around and was now arrowing down out of the sun, intent on the kill. Thor’s ECM warning system shrieked, and Thor pulled up his nose in order to face the incoming aircraft. In front of him, he saw a flash of silver, as Randy’s Hornet cut across at a right angle, guns blazing, trying for the knife fight kill.

  “Inside minimums! I need to open on him,” Thor shouted. “Randy, keep him occupied for a minute, then go buster when I tell you.”

  Had his wingman heard him? It looked like it — Randy broke off, pulled a tight, gut-wrenching turn, and was now diving back in on the MiG. Now that it was two on one, it was a far, far better situation to be in.

  Thor raced away from the fight, keeping an eye out for telltale flames or hydraulic links. If Randy’s guns had connected, then a missile shot might not be necessary at all. But from what he could see, the MiG was undamaged.

  Fine. We’ll do this the hard way.

  With Randy playing cat and mouse with the MiG, Thor opened up the range to one mile, turned, and started back in. He got a solid lock on the MiG, then shouted, “Break now, Randy!” his finger poised over the weapons release button. “Come on, man, you’re fouling my shot!”

  But the Hornet and the MiG, almost equally matched in performance characteristics, had drawn themselves in to a close, tight circle, chasing each other, each trying for the tail shot, neither one willing to break out of the circle for fear of being the target. Thor circled above them, watched in frustration, hoping for a clear shot. Maybe if he went in with guns, and tried to pull them apart — yes, that might work. He was just starting in, closing to within one quarter mile when fire flashed in the MiG’s wake. Thor immediately pulled out of his approach, popping chaff and flares as he did so, but he knew instinctively that was too late. Just before the MiG’s missile reached him, his hand closed over the ejection handle and he yanked down.

  How long was I out? Not long — shit, I’m still way up here. Did Randy get the MiG? As Thor regained consciousness, he had no loss of memory. It seemed as if a brief black flash had swept over him, to be replaced immediately by the realization that he was hanging suspended in the air beneath his parachute.

  He saw an explosion in the air off to his right. A pressure wave of air swept over him. The noise of the explosions was muted by the rush of air as he fell.

  Randy? Or the MiG? Then he saw the Hornet emerge from behind the fireball and turn toward him. Randy pulled up sharply as he approached Thor.

  Damned fool is going to foul my chute if he’s not careful.

  He was cold, so cold. And it would get colder yet when he hit the water below him. But, if everything worked according to plan, he’d be picked up soon enough. He debated for a moment pulling out his rescue radio, but immediately decided against it. Too much danger of dropping it. Randy had seen him, seen the chute, and th
e helos would be on him after he splashed down. It wasn’t like he could do a special forces midair recovery.

  He saw it just then, a flash of silver off to his left, and swung himself around to face it. It was a missile — one of the cruisers? No, it was headed away from Bermuda. Damn, they’d gotten a shot off! And from the looks of it, the Aegis had missed it.

  Thor was spinning around in a circle now, the result of the jet wash from Randy’s Hornet. Thor drew his legs up to his belly and reached down into a side pocket that ran along his calf. His cold fingers fumbled with its zipper, trying to find purchase, and eventually he managed to snag the metal tab. He jerked it open, then reached in and closed cold fingers around the even colder grip of his nine millimeter pistol.

  Careful, now. Don’t blow it. But hurry.

  He got two hands around the pistol butt, lifted it free of his pocket, and, operating on instinct, took aim on the missile that was broadside to him. He fired off three rounds, paused, then added another three.

  At first, there seemed to be no effect. But, then he saw vapor streaming out of a hole in its side, enveloping the aft section in a white cloud. The missile veered sharply away then began tumbling ass over elbows out of the air, departing controlled fight in a truly impressive manner.

  Thor watched with satisfaction for a moment. The motion of the parachute increased violently, an indication that he really needed to pay some serious attention to the risers if he expected to make it down to the surface of the ocean. He started to drop the gun, then tucked it down the front of his flight suit. He still had two rounds left, and no Marine ever wastes ammo.

  I’m claiming that one, and I don’t care who believes me.

  The ocean surged up to meet him.

  EIGHTEEN

  Naval Station Bermuda

  Bermuda Airport Control Tower

  1503 local (GMT-4)

  With his binoculars, Maskiro could see tiny streaks of black smoke in the air to the north, indiscernible to the naked eye and just barely visible under magnification. His missiles, launching, heading for the United States with their deadly payloads.

  For perhaps the thousandth time since Korsov had approached him, Maskiro wondered just how reliable the genetically targeted warheads would be. Korsov had wanted to refit all the long-range weapons with them.

  Maskiro had not been convinced. Yes, it was a wonderful idea if they worked as advertised. Yes, he too would be pleased to see the American continent resettled with Russian citizens. But, try as he might, he could not convince himself that the plan was as infallible as Korsov claimed. So the new warheads were mounted on only one-third of the missiles. The remainder contained tried-and-true chemical, biological, and nuclear warheads. One way or the other, America would suffer.

  And how was Korsov’s part of the plan proceeding? He tried to correlate what he saw with the chatter over the tactical circuit, but there was no way to be certain whose aircraft had been hit. He knew his resupply squadron would be low on fuel, and this battle had to be finished quickly and decisively.

  Reports on the radio were complicated by the fact that there were far more kills reported than there were aircraft in the sky. If the pilots were to be believed, every Russian aircraft that launched a missile scored a kill — and that he found hard to believe. He felt an increasingly uneasy conviction that if Korsov were left to his own devices, the entire reinforcement squadron would be lost. And that was not acceptable.

  “All flights, disengage. I repeat, disengage,” Maskiro said. “Break off as soon as consistent with safety of flights, and proceed due east. Then turn hard south, increase speed to maximum, and descend to three thousand feet.”

  “Three thousand feet? Sir, our fuel reserves—” a voice said.

  “I know about your fuel consumption rates,” Maskiro cut in, scowling. “If you descend to three thousand feet, I can fire over you at the Americans and they will break off long enough for you to land. You’ll be refueled immediately, and relaunch. Do it now. You can stay airborne long enough to win this fight.”

  “This is not your decision,” Korsov’s voice cut in. “We agreed that the air elements were under my sole command.”

  Rage rushed through Maskiro. Everything depended on having enough MiGs to maintain air superiority, and Korsov was risking everything. “Stay airborne if you will,” Maskiro said coldly. “But in one minute I am launching a massive antiair attack. You know that the missiles are supposed to distinguish between friend and foe. Are you willing to bet your life on it?”

  There was silence on the circuit for a moment, then a reluctant, “Roger, acknowledged. Breaking contact, turning east.”

  Tomcat 302

  1504 local (GMT-4)

  Shaughnessy studied the MiG’s maneuvers. First they broke into two segments, and now they were reforming into a single flight. A change of plans? But, why?

  “Bird Dog, what do you think they’re doing?” she asked.

  “Don’t know, don’t care. Kill ’em all and let God sort them out,” her lead replied immediately, firing another AMRAAM.

  “But don’t you think that we—?”

  “You don’t think. You do what I tell you. I’m not going to be responsible for you buying it on this mission, you got it? Now get back up to altitude.”

  They’re trying to get to the base to refuel, Shaughnessy suddenly realized. Refuel and rearm. But why do they feel like they can risk turning their backs on us right now? Why now?

  She wasn’t certain, but she was determined to find out.

  NINETEEN

  MiG 102

  1505 local (GMT-4)

  Infuriated, Korsov watched the rest of his flight head toward the island. So, they would obey Maskiro rather than him, would they? Well, that would be their undoing.

  Korsov had no illusions about being able to permanently hold out against the Americans. Indeed, he was willing to sacrifice a certain percentage of his forces — a large percentage — for the eventual victory. As long as they could hold off the Americans for a while, the Americans would soon have other worries besides Bermuda. With the missiles in flight now, it was simply a matter of time until they could consolidate their position on Bermuda unopposed.

  Korsov had prepared for the possibility of a temporary defeat. Maskiro had not.

  Somewhere, approximately 400 miles to the south, there was an AGI, a Russian fishing boat. For decades the AGIs had patrolled off the coast of the United States, yes, indeed fishing, while they performed other missions as well. Their superstructures bristled with antennas, far more than one would expect on a simple fishing boat. And, inside, half of the upper deck contained electronics and interception devices. Yes, the AGIs knew these waters well, and would respond immediately to his emergency distress beacon.

  Korsov did not consider himself a coward, although to many running away from the fight would appear to be exactly that. He thought of his invasion plans in terms of the larger picture. He was the one with the vision, the determination to restore Russia to her rightful place in the world. It was essential that he survive. And, to that end, this was the entirely necessary and logical course of action to conclude the Bermuda operation.

  He estimated that it might take as long as a week for the Americans to completely abandon their attack on Bermuda and turn their attention back to their own mainland. Korsov was prepared to wait them out, counting on Maskiro to keep any other aircraft from landing for just a few days. After that, the Americans would have already embargoed Bermuda.

  He switched the radio transponder over to the preassigned frequency, and contacted the AGI. The master answered immediately, his voice uneasy. He hadn’t been told of all the details — it had not been necessary. But by now he would have some clue as to what was happening, both over the military channels he had access to and local radio reports.

  Fine, it made no difference at all. The master would still do his duty and retrieve Korsov from the sea.

  And then it would begin again.

  T
omcat 301

  1524 local (GMT-4)

  “They’re running,” Bird Dog yelled, glee in his voice. “Couldn’t take the heat, could you?”

  “And just where are they running to?” Shaughnessy’s tart voice asked. “You think they’re planning on heading out to open ocean and ejecting? Because I have to tell you, Bird Dog, I find that pretty improbable. They’re heading for the island to refuel, and I for one would very much not like that to happen.”

  “Where the hell are you?” Bird Dog demanded, a cold feeling starting in his gut. Surely she wouldn’t try to take on half a squadron of MiGs on her own? “I don’t have you in the LINK.”

  “Neither do I,” the Hawkeye confirmed. “She’s not breaking mode four.”

  “Shaughnessy, you are RTB — I repeat, RTB. Your mode four is down, sweetheart, and I don’t want to take the chance that you—”

  “I’m not breaking because I secured my IFF,” Shaughnessy’s calm voice replied. “I’m due south of you, eight miles off the coast — pretending to be a Cessna.”

  Bird Dog’s jaw dropped. “You’re my wingman,” he shouted. “What the hell—?”

  “Oh, but you don’t need a wingman, do you? Or, at least that was the impression I got in the ready room.”

  “I don’t. But that doesn’t mean you can take off on your own and secure your IFF,” Bird Dog shot back. “Dammit, Shaughnessy, you turn that gear back on and get back up here. You know that what you’re doing is—”

  “Intercepting them before they can turn back to the island?” she finished for him, her voice sharp. “Maybe if you’d been less worried about the chase and more focused on the eventual objective, you might have noticed what they were doing. I tried to tell you, but you didn’t want listen. So I came out here to handle it myself.”

  By then, Bird Dog had turned south, kicked in the afterburner, and was heading buster for his errant wingman. One look at his HUD showed that every member of the flight was doing the same.