Flame Out c-4

by Keith Douglass

  Perhaps the declaration of the exclusion zone in the Norwegian Sea had been too much like an ultimatum. Sometimes it seemed as if the Americans believed they owned the oceans. Khenkin had been against the declaration, but his superiors had overruled his objections. Now it seemed he was being proven correct after all. Instead of backing away from the crisis in Norway, it seemed the Americans were going to challenge the Soviet proclamation directly. But even so, there were still options open. Still a few ways to make the plan work.

  “If the Americans are coming, it will risk everything,” Captain First Rank Dmitri Yakovlevich Bodansky, Khenkin’s Chief of Staff, said quietly. “Success depends upon winning Norway without provoking a wider conflict.”

  “It is a danger, I agree, Dmitri,” the admiral replied slowly. “But it can still be nullified if we are careful. The American President will know that there is little their people can do to assist the Norwegians before our army completes the reduction of the last remaining resistance. He ‘will be seeing this as a gesture of defiance, a symbol to the world that the great superpower does not accept the dictates of a foreign country. We would do the same, would we not? I suspect the carrier battle group is functioning under strict rules of engagement to avoid open confrontation.”

  “You do not believe they are planning to support their allies, Admiral?” Bodansky sounded incredulous.

  “They are in a very awkward position. Soon there will be nothing left in Norway to reinforce, and they cannot wage an effective war so far from home without a friendly nation as a base. Who will help them? The Swedes and the Danes will stay neutral if only because of the threat we pose. In fact they will most likely scramble for the best possible terms. Germany is no friend of America today. There is too much commercial competition there. The English are adhering to socialism better than many of our own republics. When that idiot Hussein invaded Kuwait the biggest mistake he made was in stopping at the Saudi border. Had he gone on the Americans would never have been able to dislodge him. It is a long, long way to America, Dmitri, and only a short way to the Rodina.”

  “So this is a gesture only?”

  “Yes. If the only options are backing down or trying to fight a long-range war without effective bases, the Americans will back down. They are too afraid of a nuclear exchange to risk the chance of widening this conflict further. All we need do now is make sure that there is no large-scale engagement between our forces. Let them make their cruise into the Norwegian Sea. We will watch them, remind them of their position, but we will not provoke them far enough to force a response.”

  Bodansky rubbed the scar on his chin. “If the weather down there is getting heavier, satellite tracking will continue to be difficult. We cannot afford to lose them, Admiral. Even if it is only to be sure we stay clear of their ships.”

  “I agree,” Khenkin said. “We must increase the aerial patrols in that direction.”

  “The one we sent yesterday did little enough,” Bodansky pointed out with a harsh note in his voice. “They turned and ran as soon as American fighters challenged them.”

  “Then we must see to it that the Americans do not challenge any more of our flights. I would say that a pair of escorting fighters would be most useful for these reconnaissance operations. By tomorrow we will be in position to use our own MiGs for this purpose, Dmitri. A chance to remind the generals that the Red Banner Fleet has a major part to play in this, eh?”

  “Da, Comrade Admiral.” Bodansky began scribbling notes on to a pad. He stopped and looked straight at Khenkin. “Of course, Admiral, more escorts will increase the risks as well.”

  “They are acceptable risks, Dmitri. As long as we keep careful control over events, we will not be stopped.” He paused. “Make arrangements for a reconnaissance flight tomorrow morning. Twice daily until there is a break in the weather.”

  He turned away to consider a map of the theater of operations. Yes, the Americans would be kept at arm’s length and Norway would fall soon enough. But that was only the beginning. The strategic position and the boost in power and prestige they would gain from this campaign would position the Soviet Union to regain all the lost ground of the past decade and more besides.

  American “experts” had been fond of saying that they were the only superpower now. Soon those experts would know just how wrong they had been.

  CHAPTER 8

  Wednesday, 11 June, 1997

  0848 hours Zulu (0748 hours Zone)

  Tomcat 201, Redwing Flight

  South of the Faeroe Islands

  “Redwing, this is Bravo Six-four. Vector right to oh-one-oh.” The voice of the controller flying in the Hawkeye patrol aircraft sounded tense in Coyote Grant’s headphones. “Go to buster for intercept with bogie at range two-one-nine November Mikes your position, Angels two.”

  Grant started banking right as he responded. “Bravo Six-four, Redwing Leader. Roger that. Coming to zero-one-zero, buster. Target at two-one-nine, Angels two.”

  “Wonder what they’re sending us after,” Lieutenant John “John-Boy” Nichols said over the ICS.

  “Beats me,” Coyote replied. “Ours not to reason why …”

  “Ours just to make ‘em fly!” the RIO finished.

  Coyote smiled under his oxygen mask. He felt comfortable with Nichols riding the backseat, and picked him as RIO more often than not. Officially there was no such thing as permanent assignments teaming aviators and RIOs, but getting a well-matched pair to work together frequently paid off when things got hot. The Vipers had learned that lesson back when Matt Magruder was still their skipper, in the Pacific, and when he took charge of the squadron Coyote had encouraged the practice. Just one look at the way Batman and Malibu flew together, for instance, was proof of how teamwork could pay off.

  He wished he could be more sure of his wingman today.

  “Let’s get it in gear, Koslosky,” he said over the radio channel to the other Tomcat off his port wing. The new pilot was one of the replacements who’d flown out with Tombstone, and he was still an unknown element in the squadron. In fact Coyote had bumped Lieutenant Randy Martin from patrol duty this morning just to fly with Koslosky and try to get a feel for how he’d fit in. So far, he wasn’t happy with the nugget. “I’ve seen jumbo jets fly tighter formation than that!

  “Sorry, Skipper,” Koslosky answered, sounding flustered. The Tomcat drifted closer, its speed increasing slightly. “Guess I wasn’t expecting anything but a routine patrol this morning.”

  “CAG’s Third Commandment, kid,” Coyote said quietly. “‘Thou shalt expect the unexpected.’ I don’t know what they’ve been teaching you back home, but out here a patrol isn’t just an excuse to fly the plane and sightsee. You’re up here to respond to the unexpected. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir,” came the subdued reply.

  “Redwing. Bravo Six-four. Be advised we have three, repeat three, bogies bearing oh-one-oh your position. Range is now one-seven-two, speed three-five-oh.”

  “Roger, Six-four,” Coyote said. He read back the information. “Any idea what they are?”

  “Redwing, wait one,” the Hawkeye replied.

  “Four to one it’s another Bear hunt,” Nichols said.

  “With those stats? Of course it is. Don’t try to take money from your CO, John-Boy. It isn’t healthy, know what I mean?”

  Nichols chuckled over the ICS. “Hey, a guy’s got to supplement his income any way he can, right, Skipper?”

  “Redwing, this is Dragon’s Lair. Do you copy?” That was CAG’s voice, patched in from Jefferson’s CIC through the orbiting Hawkeye.

  “Affirmative,” Coyote replied. “Read you five by five.”

  “Looks like you’ve got another Bear out of Olenegorsk, Redwing,” CAG said. “Main question is whether all three blips are Bears, or if they’ve got something else coming in too.”

  “I read you, Dragon’s Lair,” Coyote said. He understood the edge of concern in CAG’s voice, an echo of what he’d heard from the Hawkeye. It w
asn’t all that uncommon to send up two or three Bears in a single flight. But those other planes could also be escorts … or they could be Badgers or Blacjacks carrying antiship missiles depending on a Bear for targeting data.

  “Get up close and personal with these jokers, Redwing,” CAG told him. “If it’s just some sightseers escort them off the premises gently. But eyeball them and keep us appraised.”

  “Roger that,” Grant replied crisply.

  “Good. I’ve got backups on the way. Dragon’s Lair out.”

  Coyote gripped the control stick a little bit tighter. CAG wasn’t the sort to get spooked by shadows. If Stramaglia was worried, it was with good reason.

  And Willis Grant didn’t like to think about what it might take to worry the Air Wing commander.

  0655 hours Zulu (0755 hours Zone)

  CIC Air Ops module, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson

  Northeast of the Outer Hebrides

  Jefferson’s Combat Information Center, a gloomy, red-lit cavern buried in the heart of the island on 0–4 level starboard, was alive with activity as Magruder entered. If the Bridge was the nerve center and brains of a combat vessel, CIC was the heart, where the military operations of the Jefferson were monitored and controlled by specialists of the 01 Division of the Operations Department. In a battle Captain Brandt would fight the ship from CIC, but for day-to-day operations it was the domain of the Tactical Action Officer and of CAG, who coordinated combat air operations in progress.

  “Picking up some garbage on the screens now, sir,” a radarman was reporting as Magruder entered the control center. “I think they’re playing with some ECM just to see how well we can handle it.”

  “How bad is it, Adams?” Lieutenant Commander Samuel Clayton, the duty TAO, leaned over the radar display to get a better look.

  “Just intermittent so far, sir,” Radarman Second Class Adams replied.

  Clayton straightened up and looked across at Stramaglia. “I don’t like this much, CAG. How soon ‘til you get some planes out there to eyeball the bastards?”

  “It won’t be long now, Commander,” Stramaglia replied gruffly. He jabbed a finger at Lieutenant Bannon, who had been assigned to the CAG staff for a few days. “You … get on the batphone to Pri-Fly and find out from the Boss what the hell’s taking the backup planes so long.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Bannon responded nervously, hastening to carry out the order. Magruder wondered if putting him here, under CAG’s baleful eye, had been the right therapy for his problem. Bannon looked drawn, gaunt, like he hadn’t slept for days.

  Stramaglia turned his glare on Magruder. “About time you got down here, Commander. I’ve got a job for you.”

  “The backup mission, sir?” he responded eagerly. Since the first word of the trio of bogies had started spreading through the ship Magruder had been fighting the urge to call CAG and ask for a shot at them. Surely CAG wouldn’t stick to his decision about barring Magruder from fighter missions.

  CAG’s laugh was a short, barking sound. “Nonsense. Grant and Wayne can handle whatever’s out there. No, I’m doubling up on ASW flights for a few hours. It’d be just like the Russians to wait until everybody was focusing all their attention on their radar screens and then try to slip a sub or two into range. You’ll fly copilot on Viking 700. Get down to the King Fishers’ ready room and start suiting. Launch is in fifteen minutes.”

  Tombstone tried hard to conceal his disappointment. “Aye, aye, sir,” he said crisply.

  As Magruder turned to leave, CAG added another comment. “Time to let somebody else share in the glory, Commander. Get your ass in gear!”

  0903 hours Zulu (0803 hours Zone)

  Tomcat 201 Redwing Flight

  “Redwing, Redwing, this is Bravo Six-four,” Coyote heard in his headphones. “Backups have launched. Call sign is Ajax. I say again, Ajax.”

  “Bravo Six-four, Redwing,” Coyote responded. “Roger. Backup call sign is Ajax.”

  “I’m getting something now, Skipper,” Nichols reported from the back seat. “Yeah … that’s our party, all right. Three targets bearing zero-two-five, course one-nine-five, range one hundred three.”

  “You copy that, Kos?” he asked over the radio.

  There was a pause. It was Koslosky’s RIO, Lieutenant Ron “Wild Card” Kirshner, who finally replied. “Got ‘em, Skipper.”

  “Change course to intercept,” he ordered. “Talk to me, John-Boy. What else’ve you got back there?”

  “Speed is three-four-five,” Nichols came back. “They’re at angels two … no, I think they’re dropping. Heading down for the deck, Coyote.”

  “Just like the other night,” he commented. “Those blips tell you anything worth knowing?”

  “I read it as one big, two small,” John-Boy told him. “Like a B-52 with a couple of Eagles for escort.”

  “Or a Bear and two large MiGs,” Coyote mused. “They’re flying with an escort. How sure are you?”

  “I’m sure, sir,” Nichols said stiffly.

  “Don’t get huffy with me now, kid,” Grant said. “I just want to be damned sure I’m feeding CAG the straight dope. If those are fighters on escort, the chances that the Russkies are just out for the scenery just went down. Okay?”

  “Yeah. I get you, Coyote. And I’m sure on the sizes.”

  Coyote reached for the radio switch again. He hoped Nichols really did know his stuff.

  0907 hours Zulu (0807 hours Zone)

  Escort Lead, Flight Misha

  South of the Faeroe Islands

  Captain Second Rank Sergei Sergeivich Terekhov cursed as the radar-threat warning announced the American radar lock. He had been told in the premission briefing that the Americans were likely to try this tactic again, but it still didn’t make it any easier to accept. Terekhov preferred strike missions against the Norwegians to the uncertainties of escorting reconnaissance patrols near the American carrier battle group. At least with the Norwegians the situation was clear. Any target that presented itself was fair game.

  But out here it was different. The admiral had issued stern rules of engagement aimed at limiting the chances of escalation. It meant that patrols and their escorts had to accept the greater risks that went with giving up the advantages of shooting first. Even maneuvering to break the radar lock could be interpreted as hostile action. And that could be disastrous.

  Terekhov forced himself to ignore the icy grip on his bowels. This was just another routine encounter, nothing more. He had engaged in this same kind of game when Soyuz first sailed from the Black Sea en route to her new duty station with Red Banner Northern Fleet. Then it had been patrolling aircraft from the carrier Eisenhower. This was just more of the same.

  If all went as their orders had instructed the flight would not be engaging this morning … not unless the Americans decided to play at being cowboys and started something first. Flight Misha was supposed to test the American air defenses, and their resolve, but without provoking an incident. His orders from the commander of Soyuz’s air wing had been detailed and specific: push hard, don’t back down, but under no circumstances arm or fire weapons unless the Americans did so first.

  “Cossack, this is Misha Escort Leader,” he said, keying in his radio. Cossack was the call sign for the carrier. A controller there was monitoring every move Flight Misha made. “I have radar-threat warning. Request instructions. Over.”

  “Misha Leader, Cossack,” the radio voice replied. “Fly minimum altitude approach. Keep formation tight and remain on course as instructed. Update as required.”

  “Paloochyena,” he responded. “Message received.” Terekhov pushed his stick forward as he switched frequencies. “Misha Flight, drop to minimum altitude and follow me.”

  Low clouds enveloped the MiG as he descended. He could not help but be conscious of the intense scrutiny that would be focused on this mission. It was rumored the admiral himself had issued the orders to keep the Americans under observation.

  Sergei Sergeivich Te
rekhov was determined to carry out Admiral Khenkin’s orders to the letter … or die trying.

  0910 hours Zulu (0810 hours Zone)

  Tomcat 208 Redwing Flight

  Lieutenant Gary Koslosky could feel the excitement building inside him. This was what he’d joined the Navy for, what he’d become an aviator for … the thrill of feeling his Tomcat slicing through the clouds on its way to an encounter with the enemy. It wasn’t anything like duty with the RAG back in the States. Nothing was likely to happen on one of those flights. But out here, he could make a difference.

  He’d often wondered if he would be afraid the first time he had to fly blue-water ops with the chance of running into a live enemy. But there wasn’t any fear, only a sense of purpose, the hope that he’d really get a chance to prove himself.

  “Man, it could all happen today,” he said aloud over the ICS. “If the goddamned Russkies are really looking for trouble, we’ll give it to ‘em, right?”

  From the backseat Kirshner sounded bored. “Throttle back, rookie,” he said scornfully. The RIO was an old hand, but his blase manner wasn’t enough to dampen Koslosky’s mood. “It’s just another Bear hunt.”