“Sir, the Americans launched a heavy air strike against our positions in the mountains above Yalta. Under cover of that strike, they landed a number of helicopters at the White Palace and evacuated a large number of people. Their wounded, the UN people, their naval UN attaches. We cannot confirm that Boychenko was among them, but-“
“But we must assume that he is.” Dmitriev closed his eyes, suddenly very tired. Boychenko would not have missed his opportunity to flee to asylum with the American battle group.
“Yes, sir. Casualties were light among our ground forces, moderate to heavy in the air. We lost twenty-five aircraft of various types, mostly interceptors.”
He looked up. “Twenty-five? So many?” That was nearly twenty percent of all of the combat aircraft they possessed, gone in a single engagement!
“Yes, sir. And several more damaged. Colonel Vorodin reports twelve American aircraft shot down, but we have no confirmation on that as yet. Fifteen of our pilots are dead or still missing.” Kulagin paused. “The Americans, it seems, possess a considerable advantage in their Phoenix missiles.”
“Da. Those monsters.” Once again, the Americans had shown the value of their undeniable technological lead in weapons systems. An air-to-air missile that could guide itself across nearly two hundred kilometers at five times the speed of sound…
He shook his head. The best in the Russian arsenal still could not match the AIM-54C.
“And the rebel forces?” he asked. “Surely they did not evacuate all of them by helicopter?”
“No, sir. In fact, our observers reported that a number of Americans remained behind when the helicopters left.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, sir. American Marines. Our scouts were not able to get close enough to formulate a detailed report, of course. We don’t know how many remained ashore.”
“American military forces are helping the rebels.” Dmitriev’s fingers drummed rapidly on his desktop. “What do they hope to achieve? They will be trapped in Yalta-“
“Sir…” Kulagin stopped, obviously afraid.
“Go on, go on. Nothing you say can be worse than the news that we’ve lost so many aircraft.”
“Sir, shortly after the helicopters left, the rebel forces evacuated the palace as well. They appear to be retreating up the coast road.”
The news struck Dmitriev like a physical blow. “What?”
“Yes, sir. We estimate fifteen hundred rebels, mostly from the 4th Fleet Spetsnaz, are now on the road.”
Dmitriev got up and walked around his desk. A map on the wall next to his office door showed the entire Crimean Peninsula and the northern third of the Black Sea in considerable detail. Pins with colored tags had been stuck into the map at various points, marking ground forces, while the American fleet’s movements had been drawn in with broad strokes of a blue felt-tip pen.
“That is an interesting detail, Anton Ivanovich,” he said. “You are sure of this?”
“Yes, Comrade Admiral. At last report.” He leaned forward, his forefinger brushing the town of Alusta, twenty-five kilometers up the coast from Yalta. “They were here. That was perhaps an hour ago. Vorodin reports attempting to launch an air strike on the convoy, but American carrier aircraft continue to provide cover for them. His aircraft have not been able to get close enough to attack.”
“The coast road.” Dmitriev’s thoughts were spinning. “The coast road.”
Where are fifteen hundred rebel soldiers going? His eyes followed the coast road to the northeast, to Feodosiya, where it swung gradually eastward across the Kerch Peninsula.
“Kerch,” he said abruptly. His finger came down hard on the seaport city at the easternmost tip of the peninsula, overlooking the narrow Kerch Strait that connected the Black Sea with the Sea of Azov to the north. The strait was only five kilometers wide at that point, separating the Crimea from the Taman Peninsula… and Russia proper. “Kerch,” he said again, turning to Kulagin. “They are going home, as Boychenko promised them.”
“Then we have won, Comrade Admiral!”
“Hardly!” Turning from the map, he hurried back to his desk. There was much to be done.
“But if the rebels are fleeing-“
“An hour ago I had a report from our aerial reconnaissance unit,” Dmitriev said. “The American battle group is now moving northeast at full speed.”
Kulagin remained in front of the map, studying it carefully. After a few moments he said, “The Americans are going to Kerch as well?”
“Yes. It is obvious, no? They intend to provide naval transport for Boychenko’s troops across the strait. It could be that Boychenko plans to cut a deal with Krasilnikov.” Probably by painting me as a bungler, he told himself, but he was unwilling to voice the thought to his subordinate.
“But we have naval facilities at Kerch. And a battalion of naval infantry.”
“Exactly,” Dmitriev said as he picked up the telephone on his desk. He punched a button. “Vasily! Get me Yevtushenko at Kerch! I don’t care what time it is! Get him!” As he waited for the connection to be made, he looked at Kulagin. “And Anton! While I discuss this with Yevtushenko, call an assembly of all ship captains. In the main briefing room down the hall, three hundred hours.”
Kulagin’s eyebrows crept up his forehead. “All captains? A sortie, Comrade Admiral?”
“A sortie. With speed, we can catch the American battle group against the Taman Peninsula, while Yevtushenko deals with Boychenko’s soldiers ashore. If we cannot use the American carrier group, we can destroy it… a demonstration that should impress our Ukrainian friends. More likely, we will actually be able to force their surrender, and that would be a prize indeed to present to Krasilnikov!”
“But, sir! An American battle group!”
“Don’t you see, Anton? They have been flying air operations steadily since Thursday morning. Since before that, even, if you count their ASW and fighter patrols. They were in combat Thursday against our Bosporus strike force. And this evening they mounted a major operation that must have involved all of their air assets. And with their lines of supply cut, they simply do not have the reserves of aviation fuel necessary to continue operations much longer. Even an American aircraft carrier battle group cannot fight for long without fuel for its aircraft!”
“We don’t know how much they still have, though-“
Dmitriev laughed. “They do not have enough, and that is all we need to know! That, and the fact that we know where their carrier force is going… straight into the pocket south of Kerch and the Taman Peninsula! We will trap them, force them to use the last of their aviation gasoline… and then we will have them! Go now! Quickly!”
“Da, Comrade Admiral!”
It was, as the Americans might say, a long shot, but they might just be able to pull this off.
Tomboy guided her F-14, nose number 207, into position astride the slot for catapult two, following the arm and hand motions of a Green Shirt on the deck in front of her. The cat shuttle was run back, and she heard the thumps and clanks as the deck crew attached it to her nose-wheel. It was still dark, with sunrise another ten minutes away, but the entire sky was alight with a deep blue radiance that clearly illuminated the activities on the deck.
She felt again the familiar thrill of anticipatory excitement, waiting for the cat shot.
“Ready to roll back here, Tomboy,” her RIO, Lieutenant Bruce “Hacker”
Kosinski said from the backseat.
“Okay, Hack. You keep your eyes peeled back there. We’re going to be knee-deep in Russian interceptors as soon as we hit the coast.”
“Roger that.”
She thought again of Tombstone ashore. His order still rankled, and since returning aboard late last night, she’d had to watch herself to keep from sounding short or sharp with Hacker or her other fellow NFOS. She glanced down at the map clipped to a board attached to the right thigh of her flight suit. A carrier’s chief strength, outside of the obvious punch and counterpunch represented by her aircraft, was her speed. Jefferson had covered 150 miles during the night and was now less than forty miles south of Kerch, well into the broad, open bite that stretched along the southeastern coast of the Crimea and down the western coast of Caucasian Russia.