“Right,” Karns replied with a laugh. “Why don’t you snap a few photos for our State Department people. This should be a real icebreaker on the cocktail circuit.”
Karns gently banked his Tomcat into the Soviet aircraft as Bonicelli shot a dozen pictures of the menacing warplanes approaching the American battle group.
McKenna turned to the Ike’s skipper. “Greg, who is the pilot in Gunfighter One?”
“Lieutenant Commander Doug Karns, sir. One of our best pilots and very experienced. He is the XO of One-forty-two and a fighter weapons grad,” replied Linnemeyer.
“Very good,” Admiral McKenna responded. “A Top Gun alumnus from the ‘Ghostriders.’
“We may have to place him in an awkward position, Greg,” the admiral continued as he glanced down at the activity on the busy flight deck.
“Comrade Colonel, now is the time to execute our penetration of the American fleet,” Major Vladyka urged from the cramped seat behind the command pilot.
“Yes, I agree, Fulvio Fedorovich,” Colonel Torgovnik replied tentatively. “We are inside one hundred kilometers from the carrier battle group. We must commit if this operation is to be successful.”
Torgovnik tried to sound and appear very much the party man and professional soldier to the political officer seated next to his ear, but the command pilot was confused about the sudden change in Soviet military doctrine. Kremlin policy, under glasnost and perestroika, asserted that military posture would be “defensive” in character.
Force levels had been maintained at a “reasonable sufficiency.” Why, Torgovnik thought, after the shocking change in party leadership, were they probing the Americans? Was it simply pokazuka, confronting U.S. forces for show?
The Soviet bomber pilot looked at his solemn copilot, then keyed his microphone. “Prepare to alter course.”
As Karns concentrated on maintaining position on the Soviet bombers, Animals One and Two, the Ready Two CAP, joined on Hershberger’s F-14D.
“Gunfighter lead, Animal Flight is aboard and the Texaco is airborne, two-three-zero for one ten, angels two-six. We have a full bag. Looks like you have ’em cornered,” Capt. Vince Cangemi, United States Marine Corps, checked in with Karns.
Cangemi, an exchange pilot, was spending a tour in a Navy fighter squadron, ostensibly to show the “squids” how to fly. He was flying lead in a second flight of Tomcats. The Marine fighter pilot, who normally flew the potent F/A-18 Hornet, enjoyed flying the big Grumman Tomcat. The F-14 had been a new challenge for him.
“Rog, Animal. Glad the cavalry could make it,” Karns chuckled, recognizing the call sign of Cangemi. “Thought you ‘jar-heads’ were s’posed to be the first to fight.”
The marine started to respond, then changed his mind as he focused on the Soviet aircraft.
“Back off about three hundred yards and confirm guns off, switches safe,” Karns instructed the Animals.
“That’s affirm, off and safe,” Cangemi answered.
“Two,” Lt. Tom Chaffee, USN, responded.
At that precise moment, the Russian bombers abruptly turned into the American fighters, forcing Karns to spiral inward or risk collision. Reacting with remarkable dexterity, Karns simultaneously rolled his fighter away from the bombers and radioed CIC.
“Tango Fox, Tango Fox, Gunfighter One! These crazy sonsa-bitches are makin’ a run at the battle group,” Karns shouted into his mask microphone. “I need permission to fire! Repeat, I need permission to splash ’em.”
“Roger, Gunfighter. Stand by,” the distant voice responded through Karns’s padded earphones.
Karns waited uncomfortably for a response to his urgent request, visualizing the odd group of individuals in the decisionmaking process.
“Guess the operator put us on ignore,” Bonicelli said over the intercom, breathing more rapidly than normal.
“Gunfighter, Tango Fox,” the staccato voice blurted. “You have permission to fire a warning shot at fifty DME. I repeat, you have permission to fire a Sidewinder in front of the bombers.
“If the Russians break thirty miles, shoot ’em down. Do you copy?” Linnemeyer asked.
“Roger, Tango Fox. Copy warning shot and plug ’em if they break thirty, three-zero from mother,” Karns replied with a strange mixture of relief and adrenaline-pumping emotion.
“That’s affirm, Gunfighter,” the captain replied. “Let me know when you fire.”
“Wilco, Tango Fox,” Karns responded. “Okay, Hersh, you ease back on Animal’s wing. You guys be in position to take these clowns out if they stuff one up our ass.”
Karns waited tensely for Hershberger and Animal Flight to reposition themselves. The Tomcats slowly drifted behind the Russian formation.
“Animals in place,” Cangemi stated. “Okay, guys, looks like this is the main event. Let’s go master arm on and ease back a tad.”
Cangemi slowly dropped back into a good firing position — low and looking at the tailpipes of the Russian fighter planes. Feeling a tightness in his throat, Cangemi took a quick look at his instrument panel, then concentrated on the MiG flight leader.
“Gun One is movin’ up under uncle Ivan’s left wing. I want the friggin’ son of a bitch to see me. These idiots can’t be very bright,” Karns radioed CIC and his fellow pilots as he inched the throttles forward, moving under and forward of the left wing of the behemoth.
Karns noted the bright red star painted on the huge jet intake as he jockeyed his Tomcat into view of the Russian pilot.
The fighter pilot had never been so close to any Russian bomber, let alone a Backfire. It was colossal in size. The bomber weighed 270,000 pounds and stretched 130 feet. Its size alone was intimidating, without considering the tremendous firepower it possessed.
“Okay, comradski, look over here,” Karns said, speaking softly over the radio. “Come on, you son-of-a-bitch, I don’t want to fire any hot lead.”
“Yeah,” Cangemi agreed. “If we get wrapped around the axle this close in, it’ll be a knife fight in a telephone booth.”
Torgovnik glanced briefly at the American fighter plane, wincing at the proximity of the crazy American. The bomber commander judged the Navy fighter plane to be no more than twenty meters from his craft. Keeping his head straight forward, Torgovnik formulated his thoughts as he kept the Tomcat in his periphery.
“Comrade Major,” Torgovnik said quietly, his mind sounding a warning about the danger of this clearly provocative confrontation. “These Americans … we are pushing too hard. Remember what they did to the Libyans.”
“Nonsense,” replied Vladyka, in his familiar conciliatory manner.
“You overestimate the Americans. They will not risk a confrontation unless we openly provoke them,” continued the ingratiating political officer, firmly entrenched in his belief of American conformity to nonaggressive acts.
“I am not so sure, Major,” Torgovnik replied in a hesitant manner. “We have not attempted to fly a multiaircraft group over an American carrier before.”
Vladyka smiled his most condescending smile. “Do not worry, Colonel.”
“Aw-right, goddamn it!” Karns said with marked vehemence as his Distance Measuring Equipment (DME) indicated fifty nautical miles from the Eisenhower.
“I’m movin’ out to the side. Everything is cookin’ and looks good. Here we go,” Karns stated as he gently pressed the right rudder and squeezed the firing button.
The F-14 shuddered as the AIM-9M Sidewinder heat-seeking missile flashed from under the right wing, accelerating with startling speed. The missile tracked squarely in front of the lead bomber’s cockpit, crossing left to right at a twenty-degree angle, spewing red-orange flame and trailing a shroud of billowing white smoke.
“Fox Two!” Karns yelled as he reduced power and rapidly dropped astern, glancing back to see what action the Russian fighters would take, if any.