“Good plan, Frog,” responded Hershberger, apprehension straining his voice. “I’m glad we’ve got ’em surrounded.”
Gunfighter Two gently moved to a position behind and to the left of the Soviet fighters. Hershberger never took his eyes off the MiGs as his thumb caressed the control stick firing button.
“Just like in the movies,” Kavanaugh said over the ICS to the pilot of Gunfighter Two.
“These Russkies are stubborn,” Karns reported to the Eisenhower’s Combat Information Center.
Stevens paused, frowning. “Gunfighter, Tango Fox, say again.” The CIC officer, noticing his palms were wet, waited for a reply from the CAP pilots.
“Ahh, we joined on the inside and they keep turning into us. It’s barely discernable, a degree or two at a time,” Karns replied as he quickly looked over at the Soviet aircraft. “This isn’t their normal style. With four shooters tagging along, this could turn into a real furball.”
The F–14 flown by Karns and Bonicelli inched closer to the huge, menacing bombers as Karns felt a warm, damp sensation spreading across his forehead under the padded helmet liner.
“Bone, I think these guys are serious,” the pilot said to his radar intercept officer.
“No shit!”
“Okay, Gunfighters, check switches safe,” Karns radioed his wingman. “Can’t afford a screwup and trigger an international flap.”
“Yeah,” Bonicelli replied over the intercom, “let alone get our asses smoked.”
“Two’s safe,” responded Hershberger as he slowly drifted back and forth behind the four MiG–29 fighters, NATO codenamed Fulcrum.
The Russians had begun deployment of the Mach 2 Mikoyan-Gurevich-29 advanced fighters in 1985 and by 1990 the Fulcrum, along with the newest MiG–31 Foxhound, were formidable opponents for the American pilots and their fighter-interceptors.
The new generation Russian fighters, and their highly trained pilots, were a serious concern at “Top Gun” and “Red Flag” fighter weapons schools.
Col. Istvan I. Torgovnik nervously watched the American fighter plane off his left wing as he deftly used his flight controls to swing the Backfire bomber slowly toward the American fleet.
“Ah, Comrade Colonel, you appear tentative. We must remember our orders from Air Marshal Khatchadovrian.” The small man with the large, scraggly mustache leaned closer to the pilot as he spoke.
“Do not worry. The inept Americans will not interfere,” boasted Maj. Fulvio Fedorovich Vladyka, the political officer assigned to this sensitive mission.
“An assumption, Fulvio Fedorovich,” replied the command pilot. “We have never tested the Americans in this manner. We cannot guess their response.”
Torgovnik watched the major out of the corner of his eye, testing his own convictions. The political officer did not respond.
“This action, Comrade Major, is not within our defined operating doctrine. In addition,” continued Torgovnik, thinking about the implications of his actions as reported by this insubordinate and thoroughly disgusting zampolit, “I have the responsibility for our six aircraft and these superior aircrews to think—”
“You will remember, Comrade Colonel, it is I who have responsibility for the success of this mission. You will obey the orders to probe the American defensive reactions.”
Torgovnik inwardly flinched, despising Vladyka for talking down to him in front of his crew. The offensive little political officer went on in his deriding manner.
“Besides, Comrade Colonel, this operation, if successfully conducted, could see you achieve general officer status. Perhaps your own car and a dacha near your operational sector.”
“Yes, Fulvio Fedorovich, I realize the significance of this task,” replied Torgovnik, thinking about the onerous situation that would develop if he was deemed responsible for botching the operation. Besides, Torgovnik smiled, when I am a general officer, I will crush this impudent bastard.
Captain Linnemeyer rushed into CIC, slightly disheveled, and requested a cup of coffee.
“What’s the current status?” the captain asked the distraught CIC officer.
“The CAP has rendezvoused with the Soviet aircraft. They are approaching the one hundred-ten-mile mark, sir,” responded Stevens.
“The Ready Two CAP is airborne, closing on … should be joining Cap One in two minutes,” he added nervously. “Also, sir, we have a tanker airborne and a spare Viking on the number one cat. Two more Fourteens are ready.”
Stevens paused to look at his status boards. “The escort ships are closing in, sir. No sub activity detected at this time.”
“Sounds good,” Linnemeyer replied, sipping the scalding coffee, while he observed that all hands were at their respective battle stations.
The CO, a qualified naval aviator, had come up the hard way. A former enlisted man, Linnemeyer left the Navy after his initial hitch and returned to college. After graduating summa cum laude from Northwestern University, the short, wiry, twenty-five-year-old placed his hard-earned business degree on the shelf and returned to the Navy.
Rear Adm. Donald S. G. McKenna, the task force commander embarked aboard the Ike, had been awakened by the general quarters alarm and was now in Flag Plot. A steady stream of information was being digested by the carrier’s skipper and McKenna.
“Ivan is setting a new precedent,” Admiral McKenna said to Captain Linnemeyer as a steward knocked quietly on the door, then entered the spacious staff cabin reserved for the battle group commander.
“Greg, they are obviously trying to provoke us, test our defenses and reactions. I’ll get off a Flash Message to the commander — in-chief of the Atlantic Fleet and the NATO commander. We don’t have a lot of time.”
The admiral paused, waiting for a response.
“You agree, Greg?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the skipper of the Ike, “but we’d better show some resolve if they break fifty miles.”
“I concur. How do you think CINCLANT will respond?” the admiral asked.
“Order us to fire a warning shot. Shoot a missile in front of the lead bomber at fifty nautical miles, and, if they don’t break off by thirty, to blow their asses out of the sky,” Linnemeyer responded in a dry, matter-of-fact statement, void of any emotion.
“I hope so. We simply can not, should not, knuckle under to those arrogant bastards. Alert CIC,” the admiral directed as he reached for the phone to send an instant Flash Message to his superiors.
The Russian Tu-26 Backfire bombers continued to turn into the carrier slowly, a degree at a time. The tension was beginning to have an impact in the cockpits of Gunfighter One and Two. If the Soviet bombers, or their escort fighters, made any overt move, the Fox-Fourteen jockeys had no recourse. They had to wait for confirmation to destroy the invading aircraft, and, as the pilots knew, the order to kill could arrive too late.
This was not a routine, unescorted, flyover by a lone Bear bomber. This was an entirely new approach. A potential disaster in need of revised rules.
Gunfighter One was experiencing difficulty maintaining position on the Russian bombers. The flight of eight aircraft, bouncing around in turbulent air, had descended through a dense cloud cover. The weather conditions made formation flying difficult.
“Let’s spread out a little,” Karns radioed.
“Two,” replied Hershberger, as he drifted back another twenty yards behind the MiGs.
“They’re closing on our landing platform,” Karns said to his RIO, “and I don’t like it.”
“I read you,” responded Bonicelli. “That water looks colder every time I think about this gaggle.”
The backseater looked closely at the Russian bomber. “Let’s move in a little closer and I’ll ‘moon’ the bastards.”