Flame Out c-4

by Keith Douglass

  “Confirmed! Confirmed!” someone else added. “Six missiles incoming … nine … twelve …”

  “I have them on our screens,” the copilot agreed. “It looks like two waves of fourteen missiles each. Enough to take all of our planes out of action.”

  “Relax, Mikhail Mikhailovich,” Margelov said quietly. “The Americans have good weapons, but they are not infallible.” He checked his altitude and activated the radio again. “Burlivyy Leader to all strike aircraft. Commence missile launches … now!”

  He listened to the babble of acknowledgments as the Tu-22M shuddered with the release of one of the two AS-4 air-to-surface missiles. The Badger strike on Keflavik had concentrated on crippling the air defense systems of the base, especially radar installations. This wave of missiles would be directed at more general targets, while each of the missile-equipped Tu-22Ms would hold back one AS-4 to use at closer range … if they could run the gauntlet of the American Phoenixes and whatever aircraft had survived the first attacks over Iceland.

  Even more important than delivering another wave of missiles, though, was the protection of the four Tu-22M bombers armed with BETAB antirunway loads. Those were conventional iron bombs slung on racks mounted under the air intakes on each wing. Those weapons would complete the destruction of Keflavik as a functional air base.

  Getting those four planes over the target was the crucial thing now, Margelov thought. He reached for the radio, switching channels. “Svirepyy Leader, this is Burlivy Leader. Commence Operation Kutuzov. Repeating, Commence Operation Kutuzov.”

  Margelov smiled grimly. It was time the complacent American attitude with regard to their naval air superiority was shattered once and for all. And Operation Kutuzov was designed to do exactly that.

  They would soon be entirely too busy to interfere with the bombers.

  0931 hours Zulu (0931 hours Zone)

  Fulcrum Lead, Escort Mission Svirepyy

  Northwest of the Faeroe Islands

  “Burlivyy Leader, Svirepyy Leader,” Captain Second Rank Sergei Sergeivich Terekhov responded to the call from the Backfire flight. “Orders acknowledged. Commencing breakaway maneuver … now!”

  He banked sharply to the left to get the MiG-29D clear of the bombers and turned toward the oncoming American interceptors. Thirteen other MiGs and eight Su-27D fighters followed the plane in a tight formation, skimming less than two hundred meters above the wave tops.

  Escort Mission Svirepyy — Ferocious — consisted of attack aircraft from the carrier Soyuz. They had shadowed the bombers for nearly an hour now, flying right down on the deck. The mission planners believed that they might escape detection by the Americans, who would naturally tend to focus on the bombers. If so, the MiG-29s and Su-27s might just take the enemy by surprise.

  He hoped so. The plan he had submitted for North Star had involved a considerable risk in this mission, dispatching three of the four available fighter squadrons to escort the Backfires and, with luck, to ambush the Americans. That left only one squadron of Su-27s to provide CAP over Soyuz. With both Royal Norwegian Air Force fighters and planes from the American carrier battle group in range of Soyuz, it must have taken iron nerves for Admiral Khenkin to order the air wing to leave his flagship exposed.

  But of course the Norwegians were having enough trouble contesting air superiority against land-based Soviet fighters, and as for the Americans … well, if everything had gone according to plan the Americans would only now be realizing that there were Soviet fighters over the Norwegian Sea. By the time they could hope to organize a strike mission the opportunity would be gone. That had been his reasoning in writing up the operation, but he had never expected Khenkin or Glushko to go along with it.

  “Cossack, Cossack, this is Svirepyy Leader,” Terekhov said, switching to the carrier control frequency. “Beginning Operation Kutuzov. Request situation update and instructions.”

  “Svirepyy Leader, wait one,” came the reply. The voice belonged to Captain First Rank Glushko. If anything pointed up the critical nature of this operation, it was the air wing commander’s close personal supervision. Normally Glushko didn’t dirty his hands with ordinary day-to-day operations. Terekhov remembered the angry words he had heard in Glushko’s office before the mission briefing. The air wing commander had a lot riding on today’s operation.

  “Svirepyy Leader, Cossack,” Glushko’s voice said at last. “Reports from the An-74 indicate additional launches under way from American aircraft carrier. Intentions not yet clear. Be prepared to withdraw on my orders if the enemy is launching a strike on Soyuz. Otherwise proceed with attack as planned.”

  “Message understood, Cossack,” Terekhov replied, trying not to betray the uncertainties Glushko’s message had unleashed. If Glushko really was looking for a scapegoat of his own … “Proceeding with attack according to mission profile.”

  The possibility of a threat to the carrier could ruin the entire plan. If Terekhov was too deeply involved in the air battle he might not disengage in time to support Soyuz. But if he held back from the fighting here he could be accused of disobedience or even cowardice. It was the kind of dilemma that had scuttled any number of careers before his.

  But he couldn’t let doubts about the future keep him from doing his duty now. He pulled back on his stick as he rammed the throttles forward. The MiG-29D streaked skyward, the G-force slamming Terekhov back into his seat. The need for secrecy was past. It was time to let the Americans see what they were up against.

  All he could do now was hit hard and hope for the best. The Soviets would have the advantage of striking from ambush and, at least for the moment, superior numbers. He could imagine the surprise the Americans would feel as the sleek fighters appeared on their radar.

  That would have to be enough.

  0932 hours Zulu (0932 hours Zone)

  Tomcat 200

  Northwest of the Faeroe Islands

  “Lancelot, Lancelot, this is Tango Two-fiver. Tracking additional targets. New aircraft on same bearing as Red Raid One, range from your position four-zero November Mikes, angels one point five and climbing. Course is one-five-zero degrees. Designating new targets as Red Raid Two.

  “Shit!” Stramaglia cursed. “You see anything, Paddles?”

  The RIO was slow replying. “I don’t … Good God! There they are! They just popped onto my screen!”

  “That’s a hell of a reception committee,” Batman Wayne commented on the radio. “They must’ve been down on the deck to stay off our radars. Hiding in close to the bombers too.”

  “I make it twenty … no, twenty-two aircraft, sir,” Russell reported from the backseat position. “They’re going supersonic.”

  “Too small to be more bombers,” another voice chimed in. Stramaglia thought it was Wayne’s RIO, Lieutenant Commander Blake. “Looks like we got us one awesome batch of fighters to play with, compadres.”

  “Cut the chatter,” Stramaglia snapped. He was having trouble concentrating with all the talk. “Paddles, what’s the status on the Phoenixes?”

  “Still on target, CAG,” Russell answered. “First wave is twenty-five miles from Red Raid One.”

  Frowning, Stramaglia knew a moment’s indecision, something he’d never felt in years of Top Gun dogfights. With all of the squadron’s Phoenixes already expended on the Backfires, the American planes would be short of ammunition to meet the new threat. Eight planes with two Sidewinders apiece couldn’t take out all the enemy aircraft, even assuming every missile found its intended target. And dueling with guns, up close and personal, was always chancy … especially against an enemy with plenty of missiles to throw away.

  The prudent course would be to call off the pursuit of the Backfires and retire to the vicinity of the battle group, where they could link up with the Hornet squadrons and Jefferson’s Combat Air Patrol planes before risking an engagement.

  But there was still a chance those Backfires could turn back and strike the carrier with the missiles they hadn’t fired al
ready. And Soviet Fulcrums, like the American F/A-18 Hornets, were designed as dual-role fighter/attack planes. They couldn’t mount any of the larger Soviet antiship missiles, but they could carry bombs and rockets. Letting them get in close to the battle group was an open invitation to disaster.

  Which should he choose? Stramaglia closed his eyes, trying to focus, trying to decide. He had never realized before now just how different life on the front lines was from the simulations at Top Gun. Technically, the experience a pilot racked up at Miramar was superb, and the aviators who came out of the course, the best of the best, really were equipped to squeeze every last ounce of performance out of their machines. But all the technical skill in the world couldn’t prepare a man to make decisions like the one that faced Stramaglia now.

  0933 hours Zulu (0933 hours Zone)

  Tomcat 201

  Northwest of the Faeroe Islands

  “CAG? CAG, do you copy?” Coyote fought down a queasy feeling in his stomach when Stramaglia didn’t respond to the radio call. “Stinger, this is Coyote. How do you want to take these little red buggers?”

  There was a long pause before Stramaglia replied. “Two-oh-one … engage. Engage at will. Hold ‘em ‘til the Hornets get here.” CAG’s voice sounded ragged, like he was nervous … or confused.

  Coyote bit his lip. He had been afraid CAG might not be up to this. Now it looked as if his fears had been well-grounded. There was no room for indecision in the fast-paced action of air-to-air combat.

  “Roger that, Stinger,” he responded, trying to maintain an outward air of calm. “All right, Vipers, time to earn our pay. Batman, Trapper, you guys go left. Big D, Loon, go right. Tyrone, you stick with me. We’ll go in right up the middle.” He hesitated. “CAG, may I suggest you back us up here unless you have another idea?”

  “No, I’m with you and Tyrone.” Stramaglia’s voice sounded a little stronger, a little surer. Maybe he was snapping out of it.

  Coyote knew the odds were against them but he’d seen Viper Squadron tackle tough odds before and come out on top. With a little bit of luck they could dish out more punishment than the Soviets were willing to take.

  “All right, John-boy, give me the straight dope,” he said over the ICS. “What’ve you got?”

  As the RIO started to talk, Coyote thumbed his selector switch to ready a Sidewinder.

  The outnumbered American fighters streaked toward the Soviets, ready for battle.

  CHAPTER 16

  Thursday, 12 June, 1997

  0932 hours Zulu (0932 hours Zone)

  Soviet Attack Submarine Komsomolets Thilsiskiy

  Northeast of the Faeroe Islands

  “Damage control!” Emelyanov gripped the intercom mike like a lifeline. Around him the bridge crew was slowly stirring again. The lights flickered a few times before the backup generators came on line. “Report!”

  “He is damaged in the engine room. Stern compartments flooded.” The damage-control officer was shouting the report over a confused hubbub of background noise. “We have lost the screw and the towed array. Flooding is contained, but we must get him to the surface.”

  The torpedo must have hit just as the sub began to turn away, Emelyanov thought. Had it hit forward, it might have taken the torpedo room. The secondary explosions would probably have finished the sub then and there.

  Not that they were in much better shape this way. Staying submerged was a certain death sentence … but surfacing now, with an American sub hunter still in the area, was just as bad.

  But if even a few of the men would get off before the Americans destroyed the boat, it would be worth it. Perhaps they would even accept a surrender. In any event Emelyanov was not going to throw lives away in a useless gesture of defiance when there was a chance some of the hands might survive.

  “Emergency surface,” he said harshly.

  “Surface! Surface!” Captain-Lieutenant Shvachko repeated slowly. The starpom looked dazed but otherwise unhurt. His beefy hand gripped a steel support that had come loose from the chart table, and he was looking at it with a startled expression, as if he didn’t recognize what it was. But his experience and professionalism were still unshaken despite his obvious confusion. “Blow all tanks! Surface!”

  “You don’t mean to surrender, Captain?” Dobrotin broke in, sounding groggy. He had hit his head on the chart table in the instant of the torpedo’s impact, and there was a smear of blood on his forehead. The blow hadn’t dimmed the fanatic light in his eyes. “We must fight!”

  Emelyanov shrugged. “I invite your suggestions, Comrade Zampolit,” he said reasonably. “Our opponent is an American aircraft, and we cannot reach him. Our propeller is ruined. We cannot escape. And remaining submerged will put an unbearable strain on the hull, which is already weakened. How do you propose that we fight? With Marxist rhetoric perhaps?”

  “We are officers of the Red Banner Fleet. Surrender is a betrayal of the Rodina!” Dobrotin took an unsteady step toward him. “You are relieved, Captain.”

  “Perhaps the blow to your head has hurt you more than we first thought,” Emelyanov said in the same reasonable tones. He gave a single sharp nod.

  Shvachko took a step forward, raising the hand that still gripped the metal support. It slammed down across the back of the zampolit’s head. Dobrotin sagged to the deck. Unconscious or dead, it didn’t really matter. At least he was silent now.

  “Idiot,” Emelyanov said. He spat. “Come on, you landsmen, look alive! Surface!” He looked toward the communications shack. “Can you broadcast a surrender, starshina?”

  The radioman was the one who had been on duty when the orders came in. Emelyanov remembered his excitement. He shoved the thought from his mind and concentrated on the man’s reply. “Radio is out, Comrade Captain! I cannot trace the fault!”

  That meant they would not be able to call off the Americans if they were waiting for the attack boat to surface. The Soviets would have to abandon ship and hope the enemy didn’t attack until the life rafts were clear.

  Emelyanov looked across at Shvachko. “Make preparations to abandon ship, Comrade Starpom.” They were the most difficult words he had ever spoken.

  The stricken submarine rose through the dark waters slowly, awkwardly. Now he had two enemies to fear … the unseen Americans, and time.

  0934 hours Zulu (0934 hours Zone)

  Viking 704

  Northeast of the Faeroe Islands

  “There she is!” It was the pilot who was pointing this time, and Magruder squinted into the morning sunlight. The submarine broke the surface slowly. Even Tombstone’s untrained eye could pick out the clues to her state — the decks almost awash, the stern lower in the water than the bow, the plume of smoke that poured from a hatch aft of the low, narrow conning tower as someone threw it open and staggered out on the exposed hull. The twisted remnants of a pod mounted on top of the sub’s tail were all that showed of the sub’s stern.

  More figures emerged, some carrying bundles. In a matter of seconds the first life rafts were inflating on the deck.

  “They’re abandoning!” Magruder said.

  “Yeah.” Harrison looked grim. “But we still have to finish the bastard off. No way to tell how bad the damage is …”

  “And we can’t afford to leave a Victor III in any state to come after the battle group,” Meade added. “I concur, Skipper.”

  The pilot glanced across at Magruder. “You’re the head honcho, Commander.”

  Magruder nodded reluctantly. “Do it,” he said. It was hard to give the order. The sub was helpless out there …

  But this was war.

  “Do it,” he repeated. “Take her out.”

  “Torps?” Meade asked.

  “Negative,” Harrison told him. “Save ‘em for the ones we can’t get at. Let’s make it a Harpoon this time.”

  Though designed primarily for ASW work, the S-3B also mounted Harpoon antiship missiles on pylons below each wing. The AGM-84A antiship missile had proved its met
tle in combat from the waters of the Libyan coast to the narrow confines of the Persian Gulf and beyond. Though it was now considered one of America’s most versatile weapons systems, Magruder had only recently learned from his fellow sub-hunters that the Harpoon had originally been conceived as a means of knocking out Soviet Echo-class cruise-missile submarines on the surface. It was ironic that the Harpoon was reverting to that old role again today, though the target was an attack sub this time.

  The pilot banked left and began to climb away from the surfaced submarine. Magruder watched the ocean surface recede below them, and thought again of the Russians who would lose their lives. In an air-to-air duel it was a test of skill, courage, and training. Each pilot had a chance to win the victory. This was more like shooting fish in a barrel … the Soviets couldn’t even shoot back.

  Next to him Harrison pulled up the cover that shielded the missile firing button. “Harpoon ready,” he said quietly, his voice almost drowned out by the sound of the Viking’s engine. The pilot started another turn, and in seconds the wallowing submarine was visible ahead once more, surrounded by the tiny dots of life rafts attempting to get clear of the vessel.

  “Firing,” Harrison said. “Missile away!”

  The Harpoon dropped from the right wing pylon, flames kindling from the missile’s tail. It streaked toward the target.

  As if in slow motion Magruder saw the missile strike just below the low hump of the conning tower, tearing into the hull with a gout of fire, smoke, and debris. The whole submarine shuddered at the impact. It began to settle into the water.

  The Viking skimmed low over the stricken hulk as Meade, Curtis, and Harrison let out whoops of triumph. “One for the King Fishers!” Harrison said with a grin.

  “Good shooting, Commander,” Magruder told him. “A nice morning’s hunting!”

  Harrison laughed. “The hunt’s only starting, Commander. We’ve got a patrol to finish.”