“They are in a very awkward position. Soon there will be nothing left in Norway to reinforce, and they cannot wage an effective war so far from home without a friendly nation as a base. Who will help them? The Swedes and the Danes will stay neutral if only because of the threat we pose. In fact they will most likely scramble for the best possible terms. Germany is no friend of America today. There is too much commercial competition there. The English are adhering to socialism better than many of our own republics. When that idiot Hussein invaded Kuwait the biggest mistake he made was in stopping at the Saudi border. Had he gone on the Americans would never have been able to dislodge him. It is a long, long way to America, Dmitri, and only a short way to the Rodina.”
“So this is a gesture only?”
“Yes. If the only options are backing down or trying to fight a long-range war without effective bases, the Americans will back down. They are too afraid of a nuclear exchange to risk the chance of widening this conflict further. All we need do now is make sure that there is no large-scale engagement between our forces. Let them make their cruise into the Norwegian Sea. We will watch them, remind them of their position, but we will not provoke them far enough to force a response.”
Bodansky rubbed the scar on his chin. “If the weather down there is getting heavier, satellite tracking will continue to be difficult. We cannot afford to lose them, Admiral. Even if it is only to be sure we stay clear of their ships.”
“I agree,” Khenkin said. “We must increase the aerial patrols in that direction.”
“The one we sent yesterday did little enough,” Bodansky pointed out with a harsh note in his voice. “They turned and ran as soon as American fighters challenged them.”
“Then we must see to it that the Americans do not challenge any more of our flights. I would say that a pair of escorting fighters would be most useful for these reconnaissance operations. By tomorrow we will be in position to use our own MiGs for this purpose, Dmitri. A chance to remind the generals that the Red Banner Fleet has a major part to play in this, eh?”
“Da, Comrade Admiral.” Bodansky began scribbling notes on to a pad. He stopped and looked straight at Khenkin. “Of course, Admiral, more escorts will increase the risks as well.”
“They are acceptable risks, Dmitri. As long as we keep careful control over events, we will not be stopped.” He paused. “Make arrangements for a reconnaissance flight tomorrow morning. Twice daily until there is a break in the weather.”
He turned away to consider a map of the theater of operations. Yes, the Americans would be kept at arm’s length and Norway would fall soon enough. But that was only the beginning. The strategic position and the boost in power and prestige they would gain from this campaign would position the Soviet Union to regain all the lost ground of the past decade and more besides.
American “experts” had been fond of saying that they were the only superpower now. Soon those experts would know just how wrong they had been.
CHAPTER 8
“Redwing, this is Bravo Six-four. Vector right to oh-one-oh.” The voice of the controller flying in the Hawkeye patrol aircraft sounded tense in Coyote Grant’s headphones. “Go to buster for intercept with bogie at range two-one-nine November Mikes your position, Angels two.”
Grant started banking right as he responded. “Bravo Six-four, Redwing Leader. Roger that. Coming to zero-one-zero, buster. Target at two-one-nine, Angels two.”
“Wonder what they’re sending us after,” Lieutenant John “John-Boy” Nichols said over the ICS.
“Beats me,” Coyote replied. “Ours not to reason why …”
“Ours just to make ‘em fly!” the RIO finished.
Coyote smiled under his oxygen mask. He felt comfortable with Nichols riding the backseat, and picked him as RIO more often than not. Officially there was no such thing as permanent assignments teaming aviators and RIOs, but getting a well-matched pair to work together frequently paid off when things got hot. The Vipers had learned that lesson back when Matt Magruder was still their skipper, in the Pacific, and when he took charge of the squadron Coyote had encouraged the practice. Just one look at the way Batman and Malibu flew together, for instance, was proof of how teamwork could pay off.
He wished he could be more sure of his wingman today.
“Let’s get it in gear, Koslosky,” he said over the radio channel to the other Tomcat off his port wing. The new pilot was one of the replacements who’d flown out with Tombstone, and he was still an unknown element in the squadron. In fact Coyote had bumped Lieutenant Randy Martin from patrol duty this morning just to fly with Koslosky and try to get a feel for how he’d fit in. So far, he wasn’t happy with the nugget. “I’ve seen jumbo jets fly tighter formation than that!
“Sorry, Skipper,” Koslosky answered, sounding flustered. The Tomcat drifted closer, its speed increasing slightly. “Guess I wasn’t expecting anything but a routine patrol this morning.”
“CAG’s Third Commandment, kid,” Coyote said quietly. “‘Thou shalt expect the unexpected.’ I don’t know what they’ve been teaching you back home, but out here a patrol isn’t just an excuse to fly the plane and sightsee. You’re up here to respond to the unexpected. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” came the subdued reply.
“Redwing. Bravo Six-four. Be advised we have three, repeat three, bogies bearing oh-one-oh your position. Range is now one-seven-two, speed three-five-oh.”
“Roger, Six-four,” Coyote said. He read back the information. “Any idea what they are?”
“Redwing, wait one,” the Hawkeye replied.
“Four to one it’s another Bear hunt,” Nichols said.
“With those stats? Of course it is. Don’t try to take money from your CO, John-Boy. It isn’t healthy, know what I mean?”
Nichols chuckled over the ICS. “Hey, a guy’s got to supplement his income any way he can, right, Skipper?”
“Redwing, this is Dragon’s Lair. Do you copy?” That was CAG’s voice, patched in from Jefferson’s CIC through the orbiting Hawkeye.
“Affirmative,” Coyote replied. “Read you five by five.”
“Looks like you’ve got another Bear out of Olenegorsk, Redwing,” CAG said. “Main question is whether all three blips are Bears, or if they’ve got something else coming in too.”
“I read you, Dragon’s Lair,” Coyote said. He understood the edge of concern in CAG’s voice, an echo of what he’d heard from the Hawkeye. It wasn’t all that uncommon to send up two or three Bears in a single flight. But those other planes could also be escorts … or they could be Badgers or Blacjacks carrying antiship missiles depending on a Bear for targeting data.
“Get up close and personal with these jokers, Redwing,” CAG told him. “If it’s just some sightseers escort them off the premises gently. But eyeball them and keep us appraised.”
“Roger that,” Grant replied crisply.
“Good. I’ve got backups on the way. Dragon’s Lair out.”
Coyote gripped the control stick a little bit tighter. CAG wasn’t the sort to get spooked by shadows. If Stramaglia was worried, it was with good reason.
And Willis Grant didn’t like to think about what it might take to worry the Air Wing commander.
Jefferson’s Combat Information Center, a gloomy, red-lit cavern buried in the heart of the island on 0–4 level starboard, was alive with activity as Magruder entered. If the Bridge was the nerve center and brains of a combat vessel, CIC was the heart, where the military operations of the Jefferson were monitored and controlled by specialists of the 01 Division of the Operations Department. In a battle Captain Brandt would fight the ship from CIC, but for day-to-day operations it was the domain of the Tactical Action Officer and of CAG, who coordinated combat air operations in progress.