“Watchdog, do you have an India Delta on the zombies? Over.”
“Snowman, our best estimate is Badgers, repeat best estimate is Tango Uniform One-sixers.” Kelso nodded at the words. The Tu-16 family of Soviet aircraft, “Badger” in the NATO lexicon, dated back to the same era as the ubiquitous Bears. The turbojet bomber had been adapted to a wide variety of functions, from missile carrier to ECM platform, recon aircraft to tanker.
Recon planes and tankers didn’t travel in packs of twenty or more. Each one of those Badgers could carry a pair of air-to-surface missiles and a conventional bomb load as well, more than enough to ruin all four of Keflavik’s runways.
Outside an F-15 screamed past the windows as it took off. The 57th Fighter Interceptor Squadron, the “Black Knights,” was the only line of defense for the base. There were six Eagles already airborne, and twelve more in reserve. If they couldn’t stop the Badgers …
At least they hadn’t used Backfires. The Tu-22 was a supersonic bomber, far more capable than the antiquated Badger.
“Major!” An enlisted communications man looked up from his console. “Message from CBG-14. They are tracking twenty Backfires over the Norwegian Sea. Target uncertain. Could be the battle group-“
“Or us,” Kelso finished. His mouth was dry. The Russians weren’t fooling around. He raised his voice. “Radio CINCLANT that we’re under attack. And get every bird airborne … the Orions and those two transports too. I don’t want anything on the ground when those bastards start shooting!”
“We have been detected, Comrade Lieutenant.”
Lieutenant Stanislav Dzhiorovich Meretskov gave a curt acknowledgment to the report from the commander of the reconnaissance aircraft. The planes of Strike Mission Thunderous — Gremyashchiy — had flown in low to avoid detection for as long as possible, but it had been certain from the start that the American AWACS would spot them far out in the waters north of Iceland. Even the jamming from the Tu-16J accompanying the strike mission had only bought them a few extra minutes.
But it was all part of the mission profile. Now that the enemy was tracking them, it was time to press home the attack.
“Gremyashchiy Leader to all aircraft,” Meretskov announced. “Proceed with attack run.”
He pulled back on the yoke and increased speed, and the bomber began to climb. A low altitude was best for dodging enemy radars, but the optimum altitude for a missile launch was eleven thousand meters. The Tu-16G angled sharply upward, clawing for altitude.
“An American plane approaching from the southeast, Comrade Lieutenant,” his copilot reported. “F-15 interceptor at Mach two point five, altitude eight thousand meters, range thirty kilometers, closing.”
“Ready countermeasures,” Meretskov ordered. He checked his instrument panel. They were still climbing, past nine thousand meters … 9500 …
“Radar lock! They have radar lock!” someone shouted. “They are firing!”
“Chaff!”
“Chaff released, Comrade Lieutenant,” the copilot replied. The cloud of metallic strips would distort the American radar lock, and hopefully carry the enemy missile off course.
Ten thousand meters …
“Weapons officer,” Meretskov said. “Stand by.”
“Second F-15 coming into range,” the copilot warned.
“Fire missiles!”
The aircraft shuddered as the first AS-6 missile dropped from the left wing pylon. Flame leapt from the rocket motor and the missile streaked ahead. A moment later the second missile followed. As Meretskov started a banking turn he saw both missiles rising according to their flight profile. They would reach eighteen thousand meters and a cruise speed of Mach three before locking on to radar emissions from the enemy base and diving toward their targets. More missiles raced south as the rest of the bombers released their loads.
Their mission was accomplished. In minutes the defenses at Keflavik would be overwhelmed by the onslaught Of forty radar-homing missiles. The enemy would be blind … and at the mercy of the follow-up strike already on the way.
He enjoyed his satisfied smile for less than thirty seconds before the first American missile slammed into the Tu-16G.
“Fox one! Fox one!” The voice on the radio was wild with excitement. “Whoo-ee! Talk about a target-rich environment!”
Captain Frank Gates pulled the trigger to launch another Sparrow as he replied. “Never mind the commentary, Tarzan. Just nail the bastards while they’re in range.”
He checked his fuel and shook his head slowly. Gates and his wingman, Lieutenant John Burroughs, had been on station with the AWACS over northern Iceland, and they had been near the end of their patrol when the enemy bombers had first appeared. They had been the two best-placed Eagles to mount an intercept, but their fuel state wouldn’t allow them to engage for long. Pursuit was out of the question … and by the time the rest of the Black Knights made it to the threatened sector this batch of enemies would be long gone.
But the Russians had left a calling card Keflavik couldn’t ignore.
He switched frequencies on the radio. “Snowman, Snowman, this is Echo Leader. We are engaging. Badgers have released missiles. Repeat, missiles released by Badgers. Estimate thirty-five-plus Kingfish inbound to you.”
“Roger that, Echo Leader,” a controller back at Keflavik replied. He sounded remarkably calm for a man who was about to be on the receiving end of that much Soviet ordnance. Each AS-6 Kingfish missile carried a thousand kilograms of conventional explosives or a 350kiloton nuclear warhead.
He didn’t think the Russians would be using nukes … not yet. But conventional warheads would be bad enough.
He checked his fuel again and switched back to the tactical channel. “Tarzan, I’m on bingo fuel now. We’ve got to break it off and look for a gas station, man.”
“Fox one! Fox one!” Burroughs said as he fired again. “That was my last Sparrow anyway, Crasher. Damn! We could’ve taught those Commies a real lesson if we’d had some more avgas.”
“Never mind, son,” Gates said. “They’ll be back. I guarantee!”
The Russians would be back … if there was anything left of the American air base after this attack.
CHAPTER 14
“Sonobuoy away. Come right to three-five-zero.”
Magruder banked the Viking in response to Lieutenant Commander Meade’s order, trying to get the feel of the aircraft’s controls. The S-3B’s handling was entirely unlike a Tomcat’s. Both were responsive and graceful in flight, but where the F-14 was a sleek racehorse the Viking was more of a predatory bird, swooping low over the water on outstretched wings. Today Tombstone was having less trouble with the technical end of flying the plane — he knew the layout of the controls now, and was less awkward in making the aircraft do what he wanted — but he was still finding it hard to adjust to the difference in style and pace. In a Tomcat slow loitering and circling were anathema. Aboard the Viking everything went at a slower pace.
“Contact! Contact!” Curtis chanted. “Jezebel five is hot.”