He'd swung far out to the east of the carrier battle force, skimming past the Marine amphibious fleet, then cutting south down the Kola Inlet itself.
The mouth of the gulf was four miles across here. East were the low, rounded hills of the island of Ostrov Kildin. Military-looking settlements were scattered along both coastlines, among bare-faced cliffs and gleaming patches of ice and snow. Ice still sheeted over much of the waterway, though the center of the narrow gulf had been kept open by icebreakers.
Smoke coiled away into the sky to the right. The western shore of the inlet at this point was held by American forces, the east by Russians. A large ship ― Tombstone thought it might be a destroyer ― lay half-submerged in the shallows near the west bank, beneath a greasy pall of smoke and surrounded by ice. Beyond, helicopters darted, insect-like, beneath the writhing tendrils of high-altitude contrails.
"Ninety-nine aircraft, ninety-nine aircraft" sounded over the tactical frequency. "This is Echo-Whiskey Two-one. We're picking up large numbers of bogies coming in from the south, probably from the airfields at Kirovsk and Revda. This could be a general attack."
"What, more bandits?" Tomboy asked. "You'd think they'd be running out of MiGs by now."
"Haven't you heard, Tomboy? They've got an inexhaustible supply.
Somewhere they've got factories cranking out MiGs as fast as we can shoot them down. Check weapons."
"Hot and ready. Shame the bird farm was out of AIM-54s."
"That's okay. We'll just have to sucker them in close."
"Wonderful plan, CAG. You have anything else in mind?"
Tombstone was scanning the surface of the water. Sunlight flashed from a silvery something skimming over the inlet. "Yes, actually. Let's ride in with that A-6 flight down there."
"That'll be Red Hammer One," his RIO told him. "Some of our boys off the Jeff."
"Good enough. We'll ride shotgun for them for a ways. Call the leader and let him know we're here."
"Rog."
More Russian aircraft, mustering to the south. Obviously, the hammer-blow air and cruise-missile strikes over the past twenty-four hours had not been as successful as originally thought. That was often the pattern in modern warfare; high-tech weapons were wonderfully destructive and accurate… but the enemy always seemed to have reserves, an adaptability, a cleverness, not accounted for in the original planning. Too, weapons thought to give ninety-per-cent-plus accuracy were later found to be sixty-percent accurate or less. Men grew tired or careless. Or discouraged.
Of course, the same morale problems would be affecting the other side as well. One of the real challenges of military strategy was knowing when the enemy had reached the end of his reserves, to the point where one more small push might topple his seemingly faultless defenses and bring them crashing down.
Which side, he wondered, would break first in this contest?
"CAG?" Willis Payne twisted in his seat, trying to see behind and above the low-flying A-6. "What the shit is he doing out here?"
"Slumming?" Sunshine replied, her face buried in her radar scope. "Or maybe they're really getting hard up back in Ops. They're sending in the REMFs."
"Hey, lady, from what I've heard, Magruder's no rear-echelon mother-"
"Aw, shit, he's a four-striper, ain't he? Sits at a desk, writes up fitness reports, fills out requisitions, wipes noses. Coming up on nine miles to Polyamyy. Weapons armed. Pickle's hot."
"Rog. Listen, I hear that guy was flying the Hornet that took down the Kreml last year. You know, the big Russian carrier? The guy's got more medals than you could push with zone-five burners, and a combat record as long as Jefferson's flight deck. He's not a prick and he's a damned hot aviator.
That makes the son of a bitch fuckin' A-okay in my book!"
"I COPY."
"Why're you so bitter about four-stripers anyway?"
"Oh, I don't know. The morale aboard the Jefferson's gotten pretty grim lately."
"The morale aboard the Jefferson sucks."
"Like I said. Maybe I just figured it was his fault."
"Shit, guys like him may be all that's holding Jefferson's people together right now. You should've seen him at the Blue Nose initiation last week."
"The what?"
"Uh, never mind. Old news. Whatcha got on the scope?"
"Lots of stuff coming up. Inlets to the right. You should be seeing some smokestacks up ahead. That'll be Polyamyy."
"Got it. God, there's a lot of smoke."
"That won't stop us. I'm switching to FLIR."
The Intruder shrieked south toward Russia's most vital submarine facilities.
The huge, massive barrier separating the Third cavern from the outside world had slid ponderously up and out of the way. Beyond, sunlight danced on the waters of the Polyamyy Inlet.
Holding his binoculars to his eyes, squinting against the dazzling light, Chelyag picked out some of the submarines that had been moored outside the sheltering rock walls of the cavern. That was Kolosov's boat, a humpbacked PLARB of the type known to the West as a Delta IV. The boat was listing thirty degrees against its pier and had settled somewhat by the bow. It looked like a cruise missile had arrowed in just ahead of the sail.
Damn! Over there was Lovchikov's boat, one of the fast-attack subs.
Known as the Alfa in the West, those high-technology boats were so expensive the Russians called them Zolotaya Ryba, the Golden Fish. God, what had they done to it? The sail crumpled, the periscopes bent like matchsticks. That Golden Fish would never swim the ocean depths again. And Leninskiy Nesokrushi Pravda would be in no better condition very soon, if Karelin did not honor his promise to send additional Frontal Aviation interceptors.
"Clear the weather bridge," he snapped. "Everyone below."
A spiral staircase, incongruously trimmed with wooden railings, led down from the weather bridge, through massive double hulls and all the way to Pravda's attack center, which rested between and astride the Typhoon's side-by-side inner hulls like a saddle on a swaybacked horse.
"Captain on deck!" a rating cried as Chelyag stepped off the ladder.
From consoles around the compartment, pale faces watched him, some expectant, some fearful. "Missile Officer!" he barked.
"Sir!"
"Missile status."
"Hatch number one is open, Captain. Prelaunch check is complete, and all codes have been verified and authenticated. The missile is targeted and ready to fire."
"Very well. Stand by. We will launch as soon as we are clear of the mooring bay." He at least wanted water enough beneath him that the shock of launching the sixty-ton missile would not slam his keel against the bottom.
On a television screen above the helm officer's station, the entrance to open water was looming larger.
"Bandits, Tombstone! Multiple bandits!"
"How many and where?"
"Ten… twelve… A hell of a lot, coming in at low altitude, from one-six-oh to one-eight-oh! Range, five miles!"
"Here's one," Tombstone said, choosing one target out of many displayed on his HUD. He flipped a selector. "Going with AMRAA.M." There was a pause, then the satisfying warble of a radar lock in his earphones. "Lock! And that's a fox one!"
Below him, the Intruders had spread out but were still bearing south, arrowing scant yards ahead of their own shadows on the water. Elsewhere, the sky was empty, save for wisps of contrails far overhead.
"This is Tomcat Two-zero-zero," Tombstone called. "Coming in north of Polyamyy. I've got a flight of Intruders that could use some help about now."