“Picking up some garbage on the screens now, sir,” a radarman was reporting as Magruder entered the control center. “I think they’re playing with some ECM just to see how well we can handle it.”
“How bad is it, Adams?” Lieutenant Commander Samuel Clayton, the duty TAO, leaned over the radar display to get a better look.
“Just intermittent so far, sir,” Radarman Second Class Adams replied.
Clayton straightened up and looked across at Stramaglia. “I don’t like this much, CAG. How soon ‘til you get some planes out there to eyeball the bastards?”
“It won’t be long now, Commander,” Stramaglia replied gruffly. He jabbed a finger at Lieutenant Bannon, who had been assigned to the CAG staff for a few days. “You … get on the batphone to Pri-Fly and find out from the Boss what the hell’s taking the backup planes so long.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Bannon responded nervously, hastening to carry out the order. Magruder wondered if putting him here, under CAG’s baleful eye, had been the right therapy for his problem. Bannon looked drawn, gaunt, like he hadn’t slept for days.
Stramaglia turned his glare on Magruder. “About time you got down here, Commander. I’ve got a job for you.”
“The backup mission, sir?” he responded eagerly. Since the first word of the trio of bogies had started spreading through the ship Magruder had been fighting the urge to call CAG and ask for a shot at them. Surely CAG wouldn’t stick to his decision about barring Magruder from fighter missions.
CAG’s laugh was a short, barking sound. “Nonsense. Grant and Wayne can handle whatever’s out there. No, I’m doubling up on ASW flights for a few hours. It’d be just like the Russians to wait until everybody was focusing all their attention on their radar screens and then try to slip a sub or two into range. You’ll fly copilot on Viking 700. Get down to the King Fishers’ ready room and start suiting. Launch is in fifteen minutes.”
Tombstone tried hard to conceal his disappointment. “Aye, aye, sir,” he said crisply.
As Magruder turned to leave, CAG added another comment. “Time to let somebody else share in the glory, Commander. Get your ass in gear!”
“Redwing, Redwing, this is Bravo Six-four,” Coyote heard in his headphones. “Backups have launched. Call sign is Ajax. I say again, Ajax.”
“Bravo Six-four, Redwing,” Coyote responded. “Roger. Backup call sign is Ajax.”
“I’m getting something now, Skipper,” Nichols reported from the back seat. “Yeah … that’s our party, all right. Three targets bearing zero-two-five, course one-nine-five, range one hundred three.”
“You copy that, Kos?” he asked over the radio.
There was a pause. It was Koslosky’s RIO, Lieutenant Ron “Wild Card” Kirshner, who finally replied. “Got ‘em, Skipper.”
“Change course to intercept,” he ordered. “Talk to me, John-Boy. What else’ve you got back there?”
“Speed is three-four-five,” Nichols came back. “They’re at angels two … no, I think they’re dropping. Heading down for the deck, Coyote.”
“Just like the other night,” he commented. “Those blips tell you anything worth knowing?”
“I read it as one big, two small,” John-Boy told him. “Like a B-52 with a couple of Eagles for escort.”
“Or a Bear and two large MiGs,” Coyote mused. “They’re flying with an escort. How sure are you?”
“I’m sure, sir,” Nichols said stiffly.
“Don’t get huffy with me now, kid,” Grant said. “I just want to be damned sure I’m feeding CAG the straight dope. If those are fighters on escort, the chances that the Russkies are just out for the scenery just went down. Okay?”
“Yeah. I get you, Coyote. And I’m sure on the sizes.”
Coyote reached for the radio switch again. He hoped Nichols really did know his stuff.
Captain Second Rank Sergei Sergeivich Terekhov cursed as the radar-threat warning announced the American radar lock. He had been told in the premission briefing that the Americans were likely to try this tactic again, but it still didn’t make it any easier to accept. Terekhov preferred strike missions against the Norwegians to the uncertainties of escorting reconnaissance patrols near the American carrier battle group. At least with the Norwegians the situation was clear. Any target that presented itself was fair game.
But out here it was different. The admiral had issued stern rules of engagement aimed at limiting the chances of escalation. It meant that patrols and their escorts had to accept the greater risks that went with giving up the advantages of shooting first. Even maneuvering to break the radar lock could be interpreted as hostile action. And that could be disastrous.
Terekhov forced himself to ignore the icy grip on his bowels. This was just another routine encounter, nothing more. He had engaged in this same kind of game when Soyuz first sailed from the Black Sea en route to her new duty station with Red Banner Northern Fleet. Then it had been patrolling aircraft from the carrier Eisenhower. This was just more of the same.
If all went as their orders had instructed the flight would not be engaging this morning … not unless the Americans decided to play at being cowboys and started something first. Flight Misha was supposed to test the American air defenses, and their resolve, but without provoking an incident. His orders from the commander of Soyuz’s air wing had been detailed and specific: push hard, don’t back down, but under no circumstances arm or fire weapons unless the Americans did so first.
“Cossack, this is Misha Escort Leader,” he said, keying in his radio. Cossack was the call sign for the carrier. A controller there was monitoring every move Flight Misha made. “I have radar-threat warning. Request instructions. Over.”
“Misha Leader, Cossack,” the radio voice replied. “Fly minimum altitude approach. Keep formation tight and remain on course as instructed. Update as required.”
“Paloochyena,” he responded. “Message received.” Terekhov pushed his stick forward as he switched frequencies. “Misha Flight, drop to minimum altitude and follow me.”
Low clouds enveloped the MiG as he descended. He could not help but be conscious of the intense scrutiny that would be focused on this mission. It was rumored the admiral himself had issued the orders to keep the Americans under observation.
Sergei Sergeivich Terekhov was determined to carry out Admiral Khenkin’s orders to the letter … or die trying.
Lieutenant Gary Koslosky could feel the excitement building inside him. This was what he’d joined the Navy for, what he’d become an aviator for … the thrill of feeling his Tomcat slicing through the clouds on its way to an encounter with the enemy. It wasn’t anything like duty with the RAG back in the States. Nothing was likely to happen on one of those flights. But out here, he could make a difference.
He’d often wondered if he would be afraid the first time he had to fly blue-water ops with the chance of running into a live enemy. But there wasn’t any fear, only a sense of purpose, the hope that he’d really get a chance to prove himself.