The MiG-29s immediately moved closer to the bombers. The MiG flight leader was bouncing all over the sky — in and out of burner — a million synapses taking place as his charges settled down from the shock.
“That was a tad close, old chap,” Cangemi said with a trace of anxiety in his voice.
The lead Russian bomber began a shallow turn to the right as the Backfires flew through the plume of white smoke generated by the air-to-air missile.
“Perhaps so,” Karns replied, nerves keyed in anticipation of a retaliatory action. “It appears as if Ivan got the message, the dense bastards.”
“Just another fun day at the office,” Hershberger chimed in as he closed on his flight leader.
The six Soviet warplanes slowly turned in the direction of the Barents Sea, as the four Tomcats escorted the intruders away from the battle group. The Russians would return to their base at Olenegorsk, near Murmansk, on Kola Peninsula.
Captain Linnemeyer heard the radio transmissions from Gun-fighter One and began to breathe quietly. He raised his microphone, paused a moment, then spoke to the pilots.
“Nice work,” the CO said to the pilots and RIOs, a smile spreading across his unshaven face. “Stay with them until the two-hundred mark and RTB.”
“Rog, two hundred and return to base,” Karns acknowledged as the F-14s slowly drifted into combat spread one mile astern of the withdrawing Russian aircraft.
Linnemeyer turned toward Admiral McKenna, who had joined him in CIC only moments before, and gave a thumbs up signal.
“Good job, Captain,” McKenna said. “How about joining me for breakfast?”
Linnemeyer smiled. “Yessir.”
“Well, Comrade Major Vladyka,” Torgovnik said in a controlled and barely audible voice, “that should dispel the myth of American nonconfrontational behav—”
“It is not a myth, Comrade. We have well-researched intelligence from reliable sources,” Vladyka blurted in a voice two octaves higher than normal.
The zampolit was trying to digest the unexpected missile encounter.
“I assure you, Colonel Torgovnik, the Americans will be tested to the limit in the forthcoming days.”
Torgovnik and his copilot exchanged concerned looks but didn’t reply.
The CO and Admiral McKenna were just sitting down in the Flag Bridge, about to enjoy breakfast and discuss the recent Soviet encounter, when an aide discreetly informed the two officers of the impending recovery of the Tomcats.
“Great,” Admiral McKenna said to the lieutenant. “Greg, what say we step outside and watch them land?”
“Yessir. Helluva job this morning,” replied Linnemeyer.
The Tomcats, joined in a flight of four, passed off the starboard side of the ship at 400 knots as they approached the break.
Both men, smiling to themselves, noticed the F-14s were in perfect formation. The morning sun, creeping through the ragged rain clouds, glinted off the canopies.
“Nice,” McKenna remarked.
“I can’t believe Frog found the boat again,” Cangemi chided the flight leader, Karns.
Everyone respected Karns and liked his sense of humor. Although he was an excellent aviator, his friends still enjoyed kidding him about the time when he was still a lieutenant (junior grade) and he screwed up a terrain reconnaissance mission off the USS Coral Sea, missed the rendezvous point with the “boat,” ran out of fuel, and ditched five miles astern of the carrier.
Thus, “Frogman” became his nickname as a nugget pilot in the fleet. His trip to Fighter Town USA, Top Gun School, had earned him the call sign “Gunfighter.”
“You marines never change,” Karns replied to Cangemi, “years and years of tradition, unhampered by progress.
“Gun One, four for the break,” Karns radioed PRI-FLY, the carrier’s control tower.
“Cleared for the break, Guns,” responded the assistant air boss. “Good show.”
Karns slapped the Tomcat’s control stick hard left, pulling 4.5-Gs, as he eased back on the twin throttles and swept the wings forward for landing.
Each succeeding F-14 snapped into a “fangs-out” knife-edge break at four-second intervals — a beautiful display of precision flying by some of the best-trained pilots in the world.
“Well, Animal, think you can get that beauty aboard in one piece?” Karns laughed over the radio as he started his descent out of 800 feet and turned toward the carrier.
“Oh yeah, if you don’t foul the deck with your wreckage,” responded Cangemi, laughter in his voice.
“Tomcat, ball, three point seven,” Karns radioed the landing signal officer as he rechecked gear down, flaps down, and tailhook down.
The mandatory radio call informed the LSO of the approaching aircraft type, whether the pilot spotted the bright yellow “ball” of light reflected in the Fresnel lens (the primary visual aid to assist the pilot in maintaining the proper glide path/descent rate) and the fuel state of the aircraft. Fuel was always a critical item during inclement weather and night landings. A missed “trap,” resulting in a go-around, could cost a pilot hundreds of pounds of the precious jet fuel and reduce his options dramatically.
The LSO would monitor each approach, offer advice if things went awry, and, if need be, wave off a pilot if his approach got completely out of shape.
“Roger, ball, keep it comin’,” the LSO said to Karns, a fellow squadron pilot and close friend.
“Hang on, Bone,” Karns said to his RIO as the Tomcat whistled over the round-down of the carrier at 140 miles per hour.
“I’ll never get used to this …” replied Bonicelli as the F-14 slammed onto the flight deck and stopped in less than 250 feet. Karns moved the throttles to military power at the moment of touchdown, in case the tailhook skipped the arresting wires. A missed wire would necessitate a go-around, a “bolter” in naval aviation terminology.
A trap aboard an aircraft carrier was so nerve-wracking and violent that many pilots compared the experience to having a fantastic sexual encounter and a car wreck simultaneously.
As the last fighter hit the deck and screeched to a halt, the Ike started a turn toward a northwesterly heading.
“Well, Greg, how about breakfast, before it gets too cold?” Admiral McKenna asked Linnemeyer.
“Sure, I’m famished,” the CO responded, knowing he needed a shave and shower. “Short night.”
As Linnemeyer and McKenna sat down to the fresh pineapple, ham, eggs, and toast, the CIC discreet phone rang.
Linnemeyer watched as the admiral answered the phone, listened a moment, frowned, and said, “I’ll be there in a minute.”
The admiral looked at Linnemeyer. “Damnit, Greg. The Viking has picked up two subs, both with Russian signatures. One is twelve miles off our port bow, and the other one is seven miles astern.”
McKenna stood up, tossed his napkin on the table, then reached for his cover. “Let’s go back to general quarters and find out what the hell is going on out here.”
The admiral’s Irish temper was beginning to flare.
Chapter Two
Large snowflakes, mixed with freezing rain, floated gently down and enshrouded the street lamps in ice-fog as darkness settled over the city.
The new party general secretary had called a plenary session of the Central Committee to establish his authority and set priorities. At least the colloquy, on the outside, would appear to accomplish those objectives.
Soviet society, from the ruling hierarchy to the impoverished peasants in remote regions, had suffered years of economic, political and social deprivation.
The general secretary, along with the eleven members of the Politicheskoye Buro, desperately wanted to regain the favor of the Central Committee and the eighteen million members of the Communist party. The new ruler and his Politburo needed the support of their depressed society. The hierarchy needed the support of the masses and the general secretary was ready to placate the Russian people in any way possible. He needed time for his scheme to come to fruition.