Flame Out c-4

by Keith Douglass

  “Watchdog, Snowman. Can you boost your signal, over?” Kelso replied. Watchdog was an orbiting E-3A AWACS Cape Straumnes on the northern coast of Iceland. There shouldn’t have been that much static.

  “Snowman, this is Watchdog. We’re already on maximum. Heavy jamming on radar and radio. Repeat, heavy jamming on radar and radio. Do you copy, Snowman?”

  “Roger, Watchdog,” Kelso told him. “Do you have any radar contacts? Over.”

  “Cannot confirm … Wait one! Wait one!” There was a long pause before the message resumed. “Snowman, Watchdog. Flash priority, Warning Red. We have multiple contacts. Multiple contacts! Zombies are inbound, repeat zombies inbound bearing between zero-zero-zero and zero-one-zero. Range is two-five-zero November Mikes. Angels two. Speed is four-five-zero.” The E-3 crewman paused again. “Snowman, we now make at least twenty-four zombies inbound, maybe more. Radar interference makes count unreliable. Over.”

  Kelso read back the figures for confirmation even as his hand moved to hit the button that sounded the alert. Klaxons began to blare around him.

  This was the situation Keflavik had rehearsed for thousands of times in the past. But this time it was real.

  Through the windows overlooking the base Kelso could see men in motion on the field, pilots racing for their F-15 interceptors and ground crewmen hastening through their paces in an effort to get the planes aloft. Activity inside Air Ops had intensified as well, as controllers took their positions and started trying to find order in the middle of chaos.

  “Watchdog, do you have an India Delta on the zombies? Over.”

  “Snowman, our best estimate is Badgers, repeat best estimate is Tango Uniform One-sixers.” Kelso nodded at the words. The Tu-16 family of Soviet aircraft, “Badger” in the NATO lexicon, dated back to the same era as the ubiquitous Bears. The turbojet bomber had been adapted to a wide variety of functions, from missile carrier to ECM platform, recon aircraft to tanker.

  Recon planes and tankers didn’t travel in packs of twenty or more. Each one of those Badgers could carry a pair of air-to-surface missiles and a conventional bomb load as well, more than enough to ruin all four of Keflavik’s runways.

  Outside an F-15 screamed past the windows as it took off. The 57th Fighter Interceptor Squadron, the “Black Knights,” was the only line of defense for the base. There were six Eagles already airborne, and twelve more in reserve. If they couldn’t stop the Badgers …

  At least they hadn’t used Backfires. The Tu-22 was a supersonic bomber, far more capable than the antiquated Badger.

  “Major!” An enlisted communications man looked up from his console. “Message from CBG-14. They are tracking twenty Backfires over the Norwegian Sea. Target uncertain. Could be the battle group-“

  “Or us,” Kelso finished. His mouth was dry. The Russians weren’t fooling around. He raised his voice. “Radio CINCLANT that we’re under attack. And get every bird airborne … the Orions and those two transports too. I don’t want anything on the ground when those bastards start shooting!”

  0908 hours Zulu (0808 hours Zone)

  Badger 101, Strike Mission Gremashchiy

  Over the Greenland Sea

  “We have been detected, Comrade Lieutenant.”

  Lieutenant Stanislav Dzhiorovich Meretskov gave a curt acknowledgment to the report from the commander of the reconnaissance aircraft. The planes of Strike Mission Thunderous — Gremyashchiy — had flown in low to avoid detection for as long as possible, but it had been certain from the start that the American AWACS would spot them far out in the waters north of Iceland. Even the jamming from the Tu-16J accompanying the strike mission had only bought them a few extra minutes.

  But it was all part of the mission profile. Now that the enemy was tracking them, it was time to press home the attack.

  “Gremyashchiy Leader to all aircraft,” Meretskov announced. “Proceed with attack run.”

  He pulled back on the yoke and increased speed, and the bomber began to climb. A low altitude was best for dodging enemy radars, but the optimum altitude for a missile launch was eleven thousand meters. The Tu-16G angled sharply upward, clawing for altitude.

  “An American plane approaching from the southeast, Comrade Lieutenant,” his copilot reported. “F-15 interceptor at Mach two point five, altitude eight thousand meters, range thirty kilometers, closing.”

  “Ready countermeasures,” Meretskov ordered. He checked his instrument panel. They were still climbing, past nine thousand meters … 9500 …

  “Radar lock! They have radar lock!” someone shouted. “They are firing!”

  “Chaff!”

  “Chaff released, Comrade Lieutenant,” the copilot replied. The cloud of metallic strips would distort the American radar lock, and hopefully carry the enemy missile off course.

  Ten thousand meters …

  “Weapons officer,” Meretskov said. “Stand by.”

  “Second F-15 coming into range,” the copilot warned.

  “Fire missiles!”

  The aircraft shuddered as the first AS-6 missile dropped from the left wing pylon. Flame leapt from the rocket motor and the missile streaked ahead. A moment later the second missile followed. As Meretskov started a banking turn he saw both missiles rising according to their flight profile. They would reach eighteen thousand meters and a cruise speed of Mach three before locking on to radar emissions from the enemy base and diving toward their targets. More missiles raced south as the rest of the bombers released their loads.

  Their mission was accomplished. In minutes the defenses at Keflavik would be overwhelmed by the onslaught Of forty radar-homing missiles. The enemy would be blind … and at the mercy of the follow-up strike already on the way.

  He enjoyed his satisfied smile for less than thirty seconds before the first American missile slammed into the Tu-16G.

  0915 hours Zulu (0815 hours Zone)

  Echo Leader

  Over the Greenland Sea

  “Fox one! Fox one!” The voice on the radio was wild with excitement. “Whoo-ee! Talk about a target-rich environment!”

  Captain Frank Gates pulled the trigger to launch another Sparrow as he replied. “Never mind the commentary, Tarzan. Just nail the bastards while they’re in range.”

  He checked his fuel and shook his head slowly. Gates and his wingman, Lieutenant John Burroughs, had been on station with the AWACS over northern Iceland, and they had been near the end of their patrol when the enemy bombers had first appeared. They had been the two best-placed Eagles to mount an intercept, but their fuel state wouldn’t allow them to engage for long. Pursuit was out of the question … and by the time the rest of the Black Knights made it to the threatened sector this batch of enemies would be long gone.

  But the Russians had left a calling card Keflavik couldn’t ignore.

  He switched frequencies on the radio. “Snowman, Snowman, this is Echo Leader. We are engaging. Badgers have released missiles. Repeat, missiles released by Badgers. Estimate thirty-five-plus Kingfish inbound to you.”

  “Roger that, Echo Leader,” a controller back at Keflavik replied. He sounded remarkably calm for a man who was about to be on the receiving end of that much Soviet ordnance. Each AS-6 Kingfish missile carried a thousand kilograms of conventional explosives or a 350kiloton nuclear warhead.

  He didn’t think the Russians would be using nukes … not yet. But conventional warheads would be bad enough.

  He checked his fuel again and switched back to the tactical channel. “Tarzan, I’m on bingo fuel now. We’ve got to break it off and look for a gas station, man.”

  “Fox one! Fox one!” Burroughs said as he fired again. “That was my last Sparrow anyway, Crasher. Damn! We could’ve taught those Commies a real lesson if we’d had some more avgas.”

  “Never mind, son,” Gates said. “They’ll be back. I guarantee!”

  The Russians would be back … if there was anything left of the American air base after this attack.

  CHAPTER 14


  Thursday, 12 June, 1997

  0917 hours Zulu (0917 hours Zone)

  Viking 704

  Northeast of the Faeroe Islands

  “Sonobuoy away. Come right to three-five-zero.”

  Magruder banked the Viking in response to Lieutenant Commander Meade’s order, trying to get the feel of the aircraft’s controls. The S-3B’s handling was entirely unlike a Tomcat’s. Both were responsive and graceful in flight, but where the F-14 was a sleek racehorse the Viking was more of a predatory bird, swooping low over the water on outstretched wings. Today Tombstone was having less trouble with the technical end of flying the plane — he knew the layout of the controls now, and was less awkward in making the aircraft do what he wanted — but he was still finding it hard to adjust to the difference in style and pace. In a Tomcat slow loitering and circling were anathema. Aboard the Viking everything went at a slower pace.

  “Contact! Contact!” Curtis chanted. “Jezebel five is hot.”

  “I’ll take her, Commander,” Harrison announced from the pilot’s seat. He put his hands on the yoke. “I have control, sir,” he added formally, but with a sidelong grin at Magruder.

  His reply was just as formal. “I relinquish control, sir,” he said, feeling relieved. For a moment he’d been afraid the ASW men would require him to handle the Viking all the way through. Right now he preferred the job of observer.

  “Punching in new coordinates now,” Meade said. “Jezebel five is at bearing one-two-four, range twenty-five.”

  “One-two-four, range twenty-five,” Harrison echoed. He looked at Magruder. “Always best to know the target even if the computer is supposed to steer you,” he said.

  Tombstone nodded. “So is this an attack run?”

  Over the ICS, Meade laughed. “Hell, no. Jezebel five is one of the omni-directional sonobuoys we’ve been laying. An SSQ-41. They use passive sonar sensors to pick up underwater noise.” He chuckled again. “Nope, the fun is just getting started, Commander. We know about where the bad guys might be, but now we’ve gotta find the bastards.”

  “And of course while we’re closing in they’re still moving,” Harrison added. “That means the area we have to cover as we hunt gets larger as time passes. We’ve got a nice long time to go before we start shooting at anything.”

  Magruder settled back into his seat, trying not to betray his disappointment. It looked like it would be a long, boring morning.

  0918 hours Zulu (0818 hours Zone)

  Air Operations Center

  Keflavik, Iceland

  “Vampires! Vampires! Missiles inbound!”

  Major Peter Kelso could feel the tension thick within the command center. “What’s the status on the runways?”

  “Four Eagles to go, sir,” someone said. “Then the Orions.”

  “Damn,” he muttered to himself. “Not fast enough. Damn!” Each passing second brought a wave of missiles closer and closer to the air base. Outside, klaxons continued to blare warning, but everyone he could see on the field below was staying at his post, trying to get those last few airplanes off the ground.

  “Christ Almighty, will you look at that!” someone yelled. “Captain Blackwell just nailed two of the vampires with Sparrows!” That raised a cheer in the room, though everyone, from Kelso down to the greenest enlisted man, knew that taking out only two missiles from that swarm was about as effective as trying to bail out a sinking battleship with a spoon. “He’s closing in … what the hell?” The controller paused. “Blackwell got another one … I think he rammed it.”

  The room grew quiet for a moment before someone else broke the stillness. “They’re tipping over.”

  Far above Keflavik the missiles were reaching their maximum altitude and starting their descent toward their targets. “Kill the radars,” Kelso ordered. “Now!”

  It was a long shot, but it might confuse the missiles enough to keep a few of Keflavik’s radar installations intact. If they were radar-homers …

  The first missile hit at that moment, striking near the far end of runway two with a flash of light and an upwelling cloud of smoke and debris. The sound didn’t come for several more seconds. By then more missiles were hitting, and the popping, rumbling, tearing sounds of successive blasts merged into a single cacophony of sound.

  Kelso felt rather than saw the blast that struck to the south of the building. It was a close hit, and sound and pressure rolled through Air Ops like a giant hand sweeping aside all it encountered. The force of the explosion knocked him off his feet.

  An unknown amount of time later — seconds? minutes? Kelso realized he was lying facedown on the hard floor.

  There were shards of glass everywhere like a shimmering blanket. A radio was squawking a request from one of the Eagles, but no one answered. The rumble of missile hits went on.

  Kelso struggled to rise, but his body wouldn’t obey his will. Something warm and sticky soaked the front of his uniform.

  Slowly it dawned on him that it was blood, but by then it was too late for Major Peter Kelso.

  0920 hours Zulu (0920 hours Zone)

  Flight deck U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson

  Southwest of the Faeroe Islands

  The catapult officer dropped to one knee and a tremendous force pressed Stramaglia back into his seat as the F-14 roared off the deck. As the Tomcat clawed its way skyward he hit the radio switch. “Good shot! Good shot! Tomcat Two-zero-zero, Good shot!”

  “Squadron’s formed up at Point Bravo, sir,” his RIO said. Lieutenant Dennis Russell was Viper Squadron’s apprentice Landing Signals Officer, but he’d been pressed into service in his old calling as an RIO to fly with Stramaglia. His running name, true to his new job, was “Paddles.”

  “Lancelot Two-zero-zero, this is Camelot,” a voice said over the radio. He recognized Owens, the Junior Deputy CAG who had relieved him in CIC. “Be advised, Keflavik has been attacked by Soviet Badgers carrying Alpha Sierra Six radar-homing missiles. Red Raid One still heading course two-eight-zero.”

  “Copy, Camelot,” he replied curtly.

  Keflavik …

  The course of the Russian Backfires, designated Red Raid One on Jefferson’s plotting boards, suggested that they were also heading for Iceland. That would make sense if they were designed to be the second half of a one-two punch, with the Badgers delivering antiradar missiles designed to neutralize the defenses and the Backfires coming in to clean up what was left. Backfires could carry either missiles or bomb racks, and were capable of delivering enough ordnance, including specialized loads like the five-hundred-pound BETAB retarded antirunway bomb, the Russian equivalent to NATO’s Durandal, to wipe out the main American base in Iceland beyond all possibility of quick repair. That could have devastating effects. Iceland was the only possible staging point for reinforcements while England remained on the fence, and the P-3C sub-hunting patrols out of Keflavik were vital in sealing off those parts of the GIUK gap out of range of the carrier-based S-3s.

  It had taken balls for the Russian commander to order the Backfires to swing so far south before striking out for Iceland, Stramaglia told himself with a grim smile. They’d kept the American forces off balance by threatening multiple targets — Bergen, the battle group, and Keflavik all at once — but they had also exposed those Backfires to a quick stroke that could blunt their attack … if the Tomcats could get there in time.

  “Camelot, Lancelot Leader,” he transmitted. “I want both Hornet squadrons prepped for air-to-air ASAP. Get ‘em up and feed ‘em in as quick as you can, boys. We’re going to bite those Russkies right on the ass!”

  “Roger, Leader,” Owens replied. Stramaglia could hear the excitement in his young voice and felt his resolve waver. After everything he had said to Magruder he had still elected to join the interceptors in the air. Had it been the right decision? Or had he just let the years of frustration and bitterness get to him at last?

  No. They needed a firm hand up here, and Commander Grant still hadn’t shown Stramaglia that he
knew how to apply that firm hand.

  And he was Stinger Stramaglia, who had never been defeated at Top Gun, finally doing for real what he’d practiced for over the course of nearly a decade.

  “All right, Paddles,” he said to the RIO. “Talk to me, son. Where’s the party?”

  The Tomcat streaked northward through the cold gray sky.

  0925 hours Zulu (0925 hours Zone)

  Viking 704

  Northwest of the Faeroe Islands

  “So what happens now?” Magruder asked as a thud from the rear of the plane announced the deployment of another sonobuoy.

  From his position in the right rear seat, Meade answered in a distracted tone. “Now we hunt. We just dropped a DICASS, an SSQ-62. Instead of the Jezebel’s passive sonar the DICASS will send out active pings on command. We’ve got to lay several of the suckers so we can triangulate range and bearing data and locate our underwater friend.” He paused. “The Skipper has the next set of coordinates locked into the flight computer now, and Curtis is busy working on the acoustic data from the Jezebel.”

  “Anything I can do?” Tombstone asked.

  “Now that you mention it, yeah. Keep an eye on the non-acoustic sensors. We ran over them yesterday, remember?”

  “Yeah.” Magruder found the panel and nodded even though the TACCO couldn’t see him. “Yeah, I’ve got ‘em.”

  “Good. Keep a close watch on the MAD. It’ll pick up a sub by detecting the metal in its hull … if we get close enough, and if it isn’t one of those new titanium hulls the Russkies have been playing with. Anything registers on the MAD and you sing out, Commander. Okay?”

  “I think I can handle it,” Tombstone said.

  Curtis spoke up from the left rear Senso position. “I make the contact a Victor III. Number five, I think, but I’m not positive. The signal’s a little bit confused.”