"I thought you said you would be ready!" Karelin thundered into the mouthpiece of the red telephone he held clenched in one hand. "You should have been at sea by now!"
"We are ready, Comrade Admiral," Chelyag's voice replied. "We have been ready for the past eight hours. But the Americans-"
"Audacious Flame cannot wait on the Americans, and it cannot wait on you!
If your vessel is ready to put to sea, then go! Immediately!"
"Sir, there are reports of American Marines landing on the heights above cavern Three. Our forces are scattered or in retreat. A Naval Infantry colonel told me five minutes ago that there is fighting inside Polyamyy now!
The skies above the Kola Inlet are commanded by their planes! It is twenty-five kilometers to the open sea. We would never make it all the way!"
Karelin paused, then took a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm.
Chelyag could have no idea of what was at stake here. "Listen carefully to me, Comrade Captain. Your original orders called for you to reach a strategic bastion before surfacing and carrying out the final part of your orders. But at this point, the launch itself is of more importance than the continued threat of your vessel. You could launch immediately, as soon as you are clear of the cavern."
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Karelin waited patiently, the phone to his ear. In the distance, outside the walls of his bunker, he could hear the dull thunder of a far-off bombing raid, the crump of antiaircraft guns, the distant wail of a siren. Things were going wrong, very wrong. Hours ago, Leonov's 5th Blue Guard had crossed the Volga at Simbersk.
Krasilnikov's senior strategists felt they were making an all-out drive on Novgorod, four hundred kilometers east of Moscow. Leonov's forces had to be stopped now, before they managed to isolate Moscow and the far north from loyal troops and supplies east of the Urals.
"You want me to launch as soon as I am clear of the cavern."
"Exactly, Comrade Captain. One missile, targeted on Chelyabinsk. After that, you will make your way up the inlet and into the Barents Sea."
"If possible." Chelyag sounded bitter.
"Yes, Chelyag. If possible."
"American air superiority-"
"Fuck American air superiority! I am giving orders now to the 23rd and 47th Frontal Aviation Regiments at Revda and Kirovsk to scramble immediately, to put everything they have into the skies over the Kola Inlet. The American air groups are tired and over-extended. They have already suffered heavy casualties. In one hour, you will see nothing but MiGs above Polyamyy. You have that long to get Leninskiy Nesokrushimyy Pravda under way."
There was another hesitation. "Very well, Admiral. It will be done."
"I am counting on you, Chelyag. Marshal Krasilnikov is counting on you."
"I am very sure my men will appreciate that. Sir."
Had that been sarcasm putting a bite to Chelyag's voice? As he hung up the phone, Karelin could not be sure.
Tombstone walked into the ready room changing area without knocking.
After all, most of the squadron's flyers were either in the air or up in Ops or the CIC. But Lieutenant Commander Joyce Flynn was already there, and Tombstone caught a glimpse of long legs and small, bare breasts before he hastily looked away. Carefully avoiding either looking at her or too obviously looking away, he began pulling off his own uniform.
"I heard you're going up, CAG," Flynn said behind him. He turned to answer, and blinked. Wearing nothing but a pair of plain, white panties, she was watching him with a frank lack of embarrassment or self-consciousness. In one hand she held one of the bulky, rubberized survival suits. "Whatcha say, sailor? Can I hitch a ride?"
He gave her a wry smile. Nightmare had been disgusted at having his aircraft downgrudged, but he'd accepted Tombstone's suggestion that he make himself useful in Ops without argument. That had left Tomboy, his RIO, with some unexpected downtime. As hard as everyone in the squadron had been driving, he'd not expected her to squawk about that.
"You know, Commander," he told her carefully, "that might not be a real smart career move."
"Hey, you need an RIO, right?" She ran her free hand through her red brush-cut hair and dramatically tossed her head. She had pale skin highlighted by densely scattered freckles that went clear down to her chest and shoulders, green eyes, and an impish grin, all of which contributed to her decidedly less-than-military look at the moment. "I'm your man!"
Damn, he would need a RIO. The F-14 could be flown solo, barely, but it wasn't a pleasant experience ― about like playing piano with one hand while typing a letter with the other ― and it was suicide in a dogfight. He'd not been thinking ahead. Hell, maybe he needed someone in the back seat just to watch over him.
Tombstone sighed, then shook his head. "Get your shit on, Commander.
And move your tail. We don't have much time."
CHAPTER 28
Twenty minutes later, helmets in hand, Tombstone and Tomboy strode side by side across the flight deck toward Tomcat 200, parked on Jefferson's port side just aft of the island. The "CAG bird," normally reserved for Tombstone when he wanted to log some hours, was being readied by several men in green shirts with black stripes, the air wing men who performed aircraft maintenance.
Before boarding, Tombstone and Tomboy both circled the aircraft, checking for faults, open access panels, and tugging at the weapons to make sure they were secure. Four Sidewinders and four AMRAAMs were slung beneath its belly and wings. Stores of AIM-54Cs had been running low, and in any case, the fighting over the Kola had mostly been close-in combat, a real waste of the high-tech, million-dollar Phoenix missiles. As Flynn settled into the rear seat and pulled her helmet on, Tombstone finished his walk-around, then clambered up the ladder and swung into his seat.
"You're already checked out and on the flight plan, CAG!" the plane chief, a burly man in a brown jersey, called up to him. "They're squeezing you in on Cat One right behind a KA-6."
Tombstone saluted his acknowledgment, then began running through his preflight list. He wasn't entirely sure why he was doing this… except for the obvious fact that his people had taken some heavy losses so far, and maybe he could help fill in.
Morale was still bad, and it would be worse when they started realizing their losses. More of them might be tempted into stupid stunts like the one that had killed Striker and K-Bar.
Maybe if the Old Man put in an appearance, it would help pull things together.
Hell, he was guessing and he knew it. Coyote and Batman were doing fine out there without him. But he wanted to be there. With them. With his people.
"Now hear this" blared from a 5-MC speaker on the carrier's island. "Now hear this. Rig the barricade. That is, rig the barricade. Crash crew, fire and medical personnel, stand ready on the after deck."
Uh-oh. Tombstone twisted in his seat, studying the hazy sky aft of the Jefferson. That would be Shotgun One-three coming in. He'd been following the damaged plane's progress down in Ops, and he'd reluctantly agreed to Arrenberger's request that he try to trap on Jefferson's deck rather than eject over the sea. There was still no response from his RIO. If Blue Grass was still alive, the violence of an ejection ― or of plummeting unconscious into ice-cold water ― would almost certainly kill him. Slider wanted to bring his crippled F-14 in ― a risk, certainly, but the only way to save Blue Grass's life. Tombstone had been in the same position once, years before, trying to get down on the deck with a wounded RIO.