Coyote flipped the selector switch to the Phoenix setting. “All right, Vipers, let’s get some value for the taxpayers’ dollars. Make every one count.”
“Don’t I always?” Batman interjected. Somebody else, probably Malibu, was chuckling.
“Minds on the job, boys,” Coyote admonished. “Batman, you’ll just have to pretend.”
“One hundred ten miles,” John-Boy announced. That was the maximum range of a Phoenix, but Coyote didn’t want any slipups.
There were just four of them left, Coyote and Batman, and Sheridan and Lieutenant Joe Travers, running name “Shorty.” The other Tomcat had gone down during the brief struggle with the Sukhois, about the same time as Powers. Seven Phoenixes — all the reduced squadron had left — wouldn’t account for all of the defenders by any means, but they would surely disrupt the Russians. And the Vipers still had a few Sidewinders and Sparrows ready for when they closed the range.
“Ninety-five miles, Coyote. I’ve got one in my sights.”
He held his fire a few seconds longer, then hit the stud. “Fox three! Fox three!” The Phoenix dropped from its hard-point and ignited, driving across the darkening twilit sky.
The others joined the cry in chorus. “Fox three!”
Bannon squinted into the dim sky, picking out the shape of the lead Intruder up ahead. Hacker Hackenberg was flying her, having traded his LSO job for the pilot’s seat tonight. The thought brought an unpleasant reminder of things best forgotten. The last time he’d spoken directly to Hacker, it had been over the radio, ending in shouts of “Wave off!”
Now Hackenberg’s voice was tightly controlled. “Firing now,” he said. One of the two Harpoons slung under his wings ignited and sped into the distance. A moment later a flash lit up the sky. “No good,” Hacker said. “They’re knocking everything down when we fire from out here. I’m getting closer … if I have to ram it right down their throats.”
“Don’t be an idiot, Lieutenant,” Quinn broke in. “You won’t have a chance dodging that crap. It’s like the night sky over Baghdad in there!”
“We didn’t lose that much over Baghdad!” Hacker said. His Intruder surged forward, jinking back and forth to dodge missile and cannon fire erupting from the decks of an Udaloy-class DDG.
Bannon let the range open. Hackenberg was right, they would never get a missile in past all those defenses unless they could close the range and let go at the last possible moment. But it took guts to drive in past all that SAM and Triple-A fire. He wasn’t sure he was up to that.
“Ready … ready … Not yet …” a voice chanted. Bannon thought it must be Hacker’s Bombardier/Navigator, but he wasn’t sure.
“She’s coming up!” Hackenberg shouted. “Coming up fast! This is it-“
Another flash, farther off this time, lit the sky like a flare. It was right on the line Hackenberg had taken. “I’m hit!” Hacker said, as if to confirm his thoughts. “I’m hit. Can’t hold her …” Then came the brightest explosion of all.
The impact made Glushko stagger. “We’ve been hit!” someone shouted. Smoke was billowing from a bank of radar screens, acrid, tangy. Glushko bent over, coughing.
“Fucking Yankee rammed us,” someone said, hacking on the smoke. “Crashed right on the flight deck.”
The Air Operations center was buried deep in the shelter of the island, but even here they weren’t safe from collateral damage from the fiery impact. The ventilator fans whirred, but they weren’t adequate for the job.
Eyes tearing, Glushko pushed open the watertight hatch and staggered into the corridor outside. He was still coughing, and his lungs felt like they were on fire. Fresh air … he had to get some fresh air.
A tiny voice of conscience protested that he should stay at his post, help fight the fire. If the admiral found out he had deserted Air Ops, his career would be over.
Gasping, wheezing, he started up the nearest ladder. Glushko was past caring about career or duty anymore.
Even this far out, Bannon could see the flames rising from Soyuz where Hackenberg had plowed his Intruder into her flight deck. It brought back his own crash in a flood of images and memories, but Bannon clenched his teeth and denied them all.
Hacker had shown the way … and his sacrifice was sure to distract some of the defenders for a few moments at least. Now was the time to follow up that explosion with a missile attack that would compound the damage to the Russian carrier.
“Get ready, Gordo,” he warned. “We’re going in.”
“We’re what?” The B/N looked incredulous. “Didn’t you see what just happened, man?”
“We’re going in,” he repeated. “Hold on!”
The Intruder plunged into the maelstrom.
Time seemed to move in slow motion as they weaved through the defensive fire, skimming almost at wavetop height. After his first protest Gordon was quiet, his face set in a grim frown of concentration as he prepared to hit the release button.
The Intruder seemed to stagger as something exploded just ahead, but Bannon fought her, kept the ungainly bomber on course. We can make it, he told himself. We can make it …
And for a disconcerting instant he thought he heard Jolly Green answering him. You can do it, kid. Take her in … make me proud …
“Firing!” Gordon shouted, triggering one of the Harpoons.
“Give ‘em both barrels, Gordo!” Bannon urged, trying to hold the Intruder steady.
The second Harpoon followed smoothly in the trail of the first, and Bannon banked left, climbing, climbing …
“Radar lock! They’ve got lock!” Gordon’s voice rose an octave. “Evasive-“
The SAM struck them amidships, and Intruder 507 vanished in a ball of raw heat and light.
With an effort Glushko threw open the hatch and emerged into the dim twilight of the deck, gulping down clean air. He leaned against the hatch frame, still coughing a little. Finally he straightened, chest heaving, and looked up.
The first Harpoon smashed into the side of the island directly above him. He never saw the second missile. Captain First Rank Fyodor Arturovich Glushko was already dead.
Even over the static, Terekhov could hear the confusion that surrounded the hits on the carrier. It was plain that Soyuz had come under genuine attack this time. And he had turned his back on him in the crisis.
Sergei Sergeivich Terekhov raged inwardly. The Americans had caught him neatly between two equal threats, and tonight they had been the ones to earn the victory. Even his gesture in returning to the invasion fleet had gone wrong. He knew that now with the same certainty that he knew it would be almost impossible to evade the incoming wave of American AIM-54 missiles. They were the most dangerous weapon in the enemy arsenal, hard to evade, harder to stop, and though he went through all the motions Terekhov knew it would be useless in the long run.
Seconds before impact he pulled the ejection lever. The canopy blew clear, and a second later he had the sensation of having his seat slam upward into his spine.