Almost instinctively he shoved the throttles forward, igniting the afterburners of the MiG’s twin Isotov RD-33 turbofans. Acceleration pressed him back into his seat as he wrenched the stick back and climbed, angling north out toward the line of mountains north of the fjord.
The threat tone went on. He could almost feel the enemy missile closing on the MiG.
With a sudden, violent movement of the stick Terekhov wrenched the aircraft onto a new heading and stabbed at the button that would release his chaff. The cloud of reflective debris would interfere with radar guidance and hopefully confuse the onrushing missile for the critical seconds he needed.
The Mountainside rushed past his cockpit as he turned, still climbing fast. Then there was a flash below as the missile, fooled by the chaff, plowed into a cliff wall and detonated.
Letting out a long sigh, Terekhov dropped back into the fjord and reduced his speed. The other two planes were ahead of him now, still flying a tight welded-wing formation.
He spotted the target beyond them by the smoke rising from a fire that burned close by. So the bombers had caused some damage after all. But the Norwegian airfield of Hermansverk was still functional, and so were the coastal defense guns mounted on the cliffs west of the airfield.
“Target in sight,” he reported.
“Commence attack run,” the controller said. “One-oh-five on the Bofors site. Remaining two aircraft will attack the airfield.”
“Message understood,” he responded. “Recommend a second strike mission to eliminate further air defenses.”
“Noted. Proceed with attack.”
He passed the orders on to the others, and watched as Lieutenant Douglass peeled off to commence his attack on the coastal gun. Then he was too busy to watch the other planes.
The MiG dropped low, sweeping across the arm of the fjord toward the airfield. Terekhov spotted an F-16 speeding down the runway and taking flight. He flipped his selector switch to arm an AA-8 infrared homing missile.
The tone in his ear told him he had a firm lock, and he launched the missile. It streaked away, catching the Norwegian plane before its pilot had a chance to react. That was another Royal Norwegian Air Force interceptor out of the way.
On his left the other MiG released its load of FAB-250 general-purpose bombs and pulled up. Hastily Terekhov nudged the selector switch and found his target, an untouched storage tank in the tank farm on the far end of the airfield. As his MiG stooped low over the RNAF compound he hit the release. The first bomb dropped away and Terekhov pulled up, cutting in his afterburners.
The bomb struck with a satisfying eruption of flame and black smoke. Terekhov banked to port and climbed, scanning the airfield for additional targets. He saw a hardened aircraft shelter which had escaped damage so far.
The second bomb found its mark, but by that time he was too far away and climbing too fast to get a good estimate of the damage. Photo-recon flights could assess that later. Right now his first duty was to rejoin the squadron.
He saw the wreckage of the Bofors gun below as he fell into formation with the other two planes and turned southwest again. That made a clean sweep for this sortie. It would look good on the squadron’s record, and on Soviet Naval Aviation’s balance sheets. There truly was a place for carrier-based aircraft in the Rodina’s arsenal. Heavy bombers could do a great deal of damage, but strike attacks at short range were more flexible and better able to obtain accurate hits. The Sognefjorden, less than a hundred kilometers north of the last major center of Norwegian resistance at Bergen, was one of several potential landing zones for Soviet amphibious forces, and clearing the air and artillery defenses was a crucial first step in launching an assault.
The campaign in Norway would never maintain the speed it required to achieve total victory unless the Soviets maintained the rapid pace of their advance down the coast. The West had been obligingly sluggish reacting to the war to date … but the Soviets couldn’t win unless they kept up the momentum.
Sergei Sergeivich Terekhov smiled again as he led his planes back toward the continuing battle. With their bombs unloaded, they would make short work of the outnumbered Norwegians. Then it would be back to the Soyuz, refuel, rearm, and on to the next mission.
It felt good to know that he and his comrades were playing an essential role in the rebirth of the Rodina as a superpower.
0915 hours Zulu (0715 hours Zone)
Officers’ quarters, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
The North Atlantic
Tombstone had resisted the temptation to prolong the reunion with Coyote or even to wait to see Batman and Malibu return aboard. It had been a long flight from Oceana, and he was tired. He’d attended to the formalities, the paperwork and a courtesy call to the duty officer in the CAG office to report himself aboard, and within an hour of touching down on the flight deck he had been stretched out in his rack, asleep. After a flight of more than two thousand miles and a late night landing he felt he deserved a chance to rest.
Someone evidently disagreed with that notion. “Come on, buddy, shake a leg! CAG’s on the warpath!”
Through a fog he thought the voice was familiar, but Tombstone wasn’t awake enough to place it. The hand shaking his shoulder helped him open his eyes, at least long enough to get rid of the intruder.
“If You want to keep that arm you’d better take it out of here,” he growled. “Otherwise I’ll tear it out by the roots and beat you with the bloody end.”
“That’s the Tombstone I remember,” the voice said mockingly. “Look, I had late duty, too, but you don’t see me threatening my friends!”
Tombstone rolled over to look at his tormentor for the first time. “Wayne? If this is one of your goddamned practical jokes, boyo, I’ll personally see to it they reinstate keel-hauling just for you.”
Batman Wayne grinned. “You would too,” he said cheerfully. “But I swear I’m not guilty this time, Stoney. There’s some kind of hush-hush staff meeting this morning, and CAG says you’re supposed to be there. And he wants to see you in his office first. I heard him chewing out Owens and ducked down here to save your sorry hide.”
Tombstone rubbed his eyes and swung his feet to the floor. “The CAG’s a tough one, huh?” he asked.
“Don’t you know?” Batman was looking at him curiously. “It’s Stramaglia. The Stinger himself!”
Magruder blinked, slow to react to the name. He hadn’t been given much time to prepare himself for his sudden assignment. He’d known about his predecessor, Jolly Greene, because a friend in Personnel at the Pentagon had told him when he’d lost out on the assignment while Jefferson was still fitting out. With one or two exceptions he knew very little about who was aboard the carrier.
But he knew the name Stinger Stramaglia. There were very few Top Gun graduates these days who didn’t.
“You’re kidding,” he said slowly. “What’s the Old Man doing out here?”
Captain Joseph Stramaglia had been a Top Gun legend, one of the finest students to pass through the training program. He’d stayed on as an instructor after graduating, and worked his way to the top of the team who flew the aggressor planes students honed their skills against in weeks of constant aerial duels. Instead of the usual four-or five-year tour as a Top Gun teacher, Stramaglia had been there for almost eight. It was said that Stramaglia had never been beaten in a dogfight in all that time.
Certainly Matthew Magruder had never come close to beating him in the five weeks he’d been at Miramar.
“It’s him, all right,” Batman said. “He’d left Miramar by the time I got my shot, but I saw pictures of him. And I heard stories I thought couldn’t possibly be true … not until I got to meet the man in person.”
“Yeah,” Magruder said. “Yeah, he’s a tough one, all right.”
“Tough! His running name should’ve been Pit Bull! Next to him old Jolly Greene was a saint!”
Tombstone didn’t answer. He crossed to the locker where he’d left his meager belongings the ni
ght before without bothering to unpack. While he dressed he thought about Stramaglia, about the man’s reputation as a harsh taskmaster and the way he had ridden Magruder at Top Gun, in the air and on the ground alike.
Having the man as his superior officer was going to make this tour on the Jefferson … what? Difficult? Rewarding? Tombstone didn’t know.
But it certainly wouldn’t be dull, that much was sure.
Batman went on talking, apparently unaware that Tombstone’s mind wasn’t on the younger pilot’s words. “Hey, Stoney,” he said as Magruder made a few hasty passes across his face with an electric razor. Tombstone looked at him, shoving thoughts of Captain Stramaglia aside.
“You should see the walls at Fightertown! They got so many plaques up there with your name on them that they ought to open up a new wing just to hold ‘em!”
Tombstone laughed. It was an old tradition that the air-to-air kills of Top Gun graduates were commemorated on wall plaques. But on his first tour out of Top Gun Magruder had scored a long string of kills against North Koreans, Chinese renegades, and the Indian Air Force. “Well, how about you? You’ve had your share, Batman.”
Wayne made a face. “That’s what I told them, man! But I wasn’t an alumnus when I nailed ‘em!”
They left together, heading down the seemingly endless corridors toward the offices set aside for the Air Wing’s staff. As Magruder rounded a corner and stepped high to avoid a “knee-knocker” he heard Coyote’s voice intone solemnly, “See, the conquering hero comes!”
Viper Squadron’s new commander was sitting at a desk inside one of the offices. Malibu Blake was with him, leaning back in a chair and managing to look like he was on a beach soaking up a few rays.
“Bet you never thought we’d be here, did you, Stoney?” Batman asked.
Magruder laughed. “Hell, no. No way. But I guess they couldn’t split up the Three Musketeers for good, huh?”
“Well, thanks a lot, dude,” Malibu said. “I guess I know when I’m not wanted!”
“I just figured you’d’ve ditched this loser by now, that’s all,” Tombstone said, jerking a thumb at Batman. “I thought you had more sense than that!”
“Hey, that’s my main compadre you’re talking about,” Malibu shot back with a grin. “And the squadron XO. So watch the insults, ‘kay, dude?”
“If you people are quite through,” an acid voice cut through their laughter. “Magruder! Get your ass into my office now. And you, Wayne, had better have your report on that Bear hunt finished and on my desk already!”
Tombstone turned and found himself looking straight into Captain Joseph Stramaglia’s jet-black eyes. Jefferson’s CAG was a small man, but with a presence that could dominate any crowd. He had one of his famous cigars in his mouth, unlit. Stramaglia used those cigars as pointers, and even as improvised model airplanes to demonstrate aerial tactics, but Magruder had never known him to actually smoke them.
“Aye, aye, sir,” he and Batman responded almost in unison. He followed Stramaglia to his office a few yards down the corridor from Coyote’s.
“Sit,” Stramaglia said, gesturing to a chair with the cigar. Magruder sat down uncomfortably, uneasy at the man’s manner.
“Well, well,” the CAG went on, settling into his own chair behind the desk. “The famous Commander Magruder returns.” He regarded Tombstone intently. “I need a deputy who can help me keep this Air Wing at peak efficiency for the next five months. We’ve had a bad start, planes lost, men killed in a stupid accident. And with this mess in Norway brewing there’s no telling what we’re going to be up against next.”
He paused, frowning. “That’s what I need. What I’ve got is a goddamned hero. I don’t like heroes, Mr. Magruder. I like good, solid, competent men who get the job done and don’t feel the need to keep their reputations all shiny and bright. You read me, Commander?”
“Sir … permission to speak freely?”
Stramaglia nodded, a curt, almost angry gesture.
“With all due respect, sir,” Magruder went on. “I didn’t ask for the hero treatment. And I feel it’s unfair of you to judge me before I’ve had a chance to show you how I can perform my duties.”
“Is that all you have to say?”
“Yessir,” Magruder replied, feeling like a student again.
“Good. Because you’re absolutely right.” Stramaglia allowed himself a faint smile. “I just wanted you to know exactly where things stand. There are a few old shipmates of yours aboard this boat, as you’ve already discovered, and there are a lot of young hotshots who never met you but plan to be just like you given half a chance. You’re gonna have to work overtime to get past that hero-worship crap if you’re gonna be an effective member of my staff, Understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” Magruder said again, relaxing a little. Stramaglia hadn’t changed much, it seemed. He was still blunt, even harsh … but fair enough, in the long run.
“All right, then. I see you having the potential to be a good Deputy CAG, Commander, just as I thought you had potential as an aviator. You didn’t disappoint me the last time … try not to let me down now.”
“I’ll do my best, sir,” Tombstone said slowly.
“You damned well better believe you’ll do your best! When I’m through with you, Commander, you’ll know everything there is to know about an air wing. Not just the flashy fighters … everything.” Stramaglia paused. “I’m an old-fashioned kind of officer, and I stick with the old COMNAVAIRLANT policy — air wing commanders fly two types of aircraft off the carrier deck, no more, no less. My deputies follow the same rules. Your file says you’re checked out on most everything we’re carrying, right?”
“Fixed wing, yes, sir,” Tombstone said. “Not helos, though.”
“Good. For now you’re cleared for the S-3 and the A-6. Those are the birds your predecessor was assigned to. You can fly them, or you can go up as an NFO, whatever. But unless I tell you otherwise you concentrate on those two birds and nothing else. Got me?”
Inwardly, Tombstone seethed. He’d flown most of the Navy’s planes at one time or another, but he had always been a Tomcat driver first and foremost. Stramaglia was cutting him off from the part of the job he really loved.
It was like Washington all over again … but with the life he wanted tantalizingly close, hanging just out of reach.
“I understand, sir,” he said carefully, trying to keep his voice neutral.
But Stramaglia wasn’t fooled. “Not pleased, are you, Magruder? Well, you’re not supposed to be. Look, Deputy CAG carries some damned heavy responsibilities. You’re my number two. I expect my deputy to know everything there is to know about running the Air Wing, because if I buy it you’re the one who has to take over. You need to learn what the rest of the Air Wing does. What you don’t need is any more experience in Tomcats, ‘cause you’ve got that down cold already. So you’ll concentrate on what you need to learn. Sub-hunting. Executing bombing runs. You’re going back to school, son, just like the old days at Miramar.”
“Yes, sir,” Magruder acknowledged. He could understand the older man’s point, though it still stung him to be barred from duty with the Tomcat squadrons.
Stramaglia’s watch beeped an alarm. He checked it with a frown. “Admiral Tarrant’s called a briefing this morning for senior battle group officers. That includes the top CAG staff. So let’s get going.” He paused, studying Magruder’s face. “And for God’s sake, stop looking like you’re on Death Row. I don’t bite, son … well, not much, at least.”
Magruder forced a smile and rose from the chair, following Stramaglia out of the office.
CHAPTER 6
Tuesday, 10 June, 1997
1055 hours Zulu (0855 hours Zone)
CVIC, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
The North Atlantic
The room was known as “Civic,” from the designation CVIC, the Navy acronym for “Carrier Intelligence Center.” It reminded Stramaglia more of a lecture hall than part of an ultra-modern
supercarrier. The grays and off-greens of the bulkheads were broken up by framed prints along the side walls showing famous scenes from U.S. naval history, while the wall behind him was dominated by an oil painting of the Jefferson herself. Behind the podium at the far end of the room was a projection screen, and folding metal chairs dominated the center of the room. About half of them were filled this morning with an impressive collection of senior officers from Carrier Battle Group 14, and the officers still milling around were beginning to drift toward their seats.
Stramaglia spotted Lieutenant Commander Arthur Lee, the Air Wing’s Intelligence Officer, coming in by the door nearest the podium. He waved to attract Lee’s attention, and with a nod the younger officer started toward Stramaglia and the other two officers representing the CAG staff sitting with him.
Stramaglia glanced from one to the other. Lieutenant Commander David Owens, with his fresh face and eager manner, looked too young for his rank. His record said he was qualified, but he didn’t have enough experience to suit Stramaglia. With time and seasoning Owens might be all right, but he didn’t inspire much confidence. That had been Stramaglia’s main reason for requesting an immediate replacement after Greene’s death.
The new Deputy CAG, Magruder, certainly had the seasoning Owens lacked. Back in Miramar Stramaglia had marked him out as an officer who might go far. Magruder was thoughtful, not given to the kind of hotdog stunts so many fighter pilots were prone to pull. But he’d also known when to let his instincts take over. His career since Top Gun had gone far beyond Stramaglia’s expectations.
All he had to do now was apply himself as well to his new post as he had to flying and Magruder would be a good candidate for his own air wing command some day … perhaps even a slot as Exec or Captain on a carrier. That was something Joseph Stramaglia knew he’d never see himself.
The thought still left a bitter taste in his mouth.
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