He had one missile left. If the second American wave really was fitted out for a strike mission he could fight them with guns alone … and if they weren’t, if they were carrying full air-to-air loads, one missile more or less wouldn’t make any difference.
Terekhov picked out the lucky Tomcat by the slapdash flying style of its pilot and turned to line up on him. One last attack, and the trap would be complete.
“Viking Seven-oh-four, this is Camelot.” Magruder recognized the voice — Owens, the junior air wing officer. He sounded worried. “Seven-oh-four, what’s your status out there?”
At Harrison’s nod Magruder took the radio mike. “Seven-oh-four, still hunting,” he said. “We scratched one sub, but we may be on the trail of another one. What can we do for you, Camelot?”
Owens was slow to reply. “Commander, CAG’s been hit,” he said at last. “Coyote just reported it. No survivors.”
“Goddamn!” Though he’d been infuriated by Stramaglia’s attitude toward him, angry at the restrictions he’d placed on Magruder’s employment, Tombstone had admired CAG. He couldn’t believe the Old Man had bought it out there.
Then it hit him. With Stramaglia dead, Jefferson had a new CAG. Commander Matthew Magruder.
“What’s the situation, Camelot?” he asked, forcing aside his emotion and trying to sound brisk and businesslike.
“Not good,” Owens responded. “Coyote’s flight ran into heavy opposition. Most of the Vipers are gone. The Javelins will be in the thick of it in a couple more minutes, and we’re still launching the Fighting Hornets, but it’s pretty grim. And all hell’s breaking loose in Iceland. Keflavik’s been hit pretty hard, and the planes that got off before the base went won’t be able to make it to an American base. Iceland’s refusing permission to let any Of our boys land … I guess they’re afraid the Russians’ll hit civilian fields next.”
Magruder didn’t like the sound of the younger man’s voice. Owens was clearly out of his depth, floundering, and Jefferson couldn’t afford an indecisive CAG in Air Ops now.
“All right, Camelot, I’m getting the picture. I’ll head back ASAP. Meantime tell the Javelins to get into that fight if they have to get out and push … and get in touch with those stranded Air Force boys and get an update on their status.”
Owens sounded better when he replied. “Aye, aye … CAG.”
“Seven-oh-four, clear.” Magruder replaced the mike and turned to Harrison. “Break off the hunt, Commander, and take us back to the Jeff.”
Harrison looked unhappy. “But what if this contact’s another sub?”
“Look, Commander, we don’t even know for sure that it was a separate contact. I’ve got to get back to the carrier and try to salvage something from this mess.” His thoughts turned to Batman and Malibu, who might already be dead. And Coyote too, who’d reported CAG’s death but could still go down before the Hornet squadron arrived on the scene. Despite their clash, he could feel that same gnawing, gut-wrenching emotion he’d felt the time Coyote and his RIO had been lost off North Korea. “Anyway,” he went on, trying to ignore the inner turmoil for a few minutes longer. “Anyway, that helo from Gridley’s due to get here in a few more minutes. They’ll take up the search.”
Harrison still looked doubtful, but at last he nodded. “I guess you’re the boss now,” he admitted. “Okay, crew, keep your ears open anyway. And if you’d be so kind, CAG, I’d appreciate it if you’d update Gridley and the ASW boys on the Jefferson.”
The Viking banked to port and picked up speed as Magruder reached for the microphone again. He was happy to have something to do, something to keep him from having to spend the whole flight back to the carrier thinking about his friends.
His name meant Red Knight, and he was a submarine of the class Westerners referred to as the “Oscar.” Captain First Rank Georgi Naumkin had commanded him for less than four months, having been selected for the task by Admiral Khenkin himself after the submarine’s previous captain had been pronounced too closely connected with republican elements to be trusted with such an important command.
Up until now the war in Norway hadn’t required the use of a sub like the Krasnly Ritsary. He was neither one of the vital boomers, armed with ballistic missiles, nor one of the far more glamorous attack subs designed to harass enemy surface ships and submarines. Against Norway’s ships using him would have been like using a sledgehammer on a mosquito. But with the Americans coming, Krasniy Ritsary could finally come into his own.
He carried twenty-four conventionally armed antiship cruise missiles, a formidable armament of high-tech weapons like the ones the Americans had used with such devastating effect in the Persian Gulf a few years before. Lurking here, near the edge of the exclusion zone, he was perfectly placed to strike from the depths at any American ship that came within range.
Right now the SSGN was drifting just over the rugged sea floor, waiting. Naumkin wasn’t the only man aboard whose eyes were turned upward. If he had been a religious man, he would have been uttering a prayer that the Americans would pass on and overlook the sub.
They had followed the savage battle between the American ASW aircraft and the sub’s escort, Komsomolets Thilsiskiy. The passive sonars had tracked the attack sub, and the sounds of torps in the water had been audible right through the hull. Everyone aboard knew that the other boat had been destroyed. There was no mistaking the death throes of a crippled submarine.
Then there had been nothing for a long time, nothing but the occasional bursts of sonar activity from the enemy sonobuoys. Now even those had fallen silent.
“They must have proceeded to a new leg of their search pattern, Comrade Captain,” Captain Second Rank Vitaly Maleshenko said quietly. “We are surely safe from detection now.”
“That will not last once we launch, Vitaly,” Naumkin told the executive officer with a frown. “We must be sure we can break contact and escape. Trading Krasniy Ritsary for one shot at the Americans is a useless waste.”
“But doing nothing would be an even greater waste,” the zampolit, a rabbit-faced man named Vorontsov, countered.
“True enough,” Naumkin admitted reluctantly. He paused. “Very well. Raise the antenna. We will update our situation report and find ourselves a worthwhile target for our missiles. Vitaly, pass the word to missile control to prepare all missiles for firing.”
“Sir!”
He turned away as his crew got to work. The next few minutes could cover them all in glory … or leave them as dead as their comrades aboard the stricken attack sub.
“Hang in there, Batman!” Coyote called. “I’m on him!”
He dropped the F-14 behind a Russian MiG that was trying to keep up with Batman’s desperate evasive maneuvers and triggered a short burst of 20-mm cannon fire, but he didn’t see any immediate damage from his attack. Still, it was enough to rattle the Soviet flyer, who banked his plane right and down in an effort to turn the tables on Coyote.
Grant turned into the enemy attack and tried his guns again, but though his burst stitched across one wing the Russian dropped out of the line of fire, trailing smoke from the damaged wing but still in action. Coyote cursed.
Then the shriek of a radar warning filled his ears, and he cursed louder as he twisted the plane to the left, trying to break the radar lock.