“What about Air Force tanker assets?” Coyote asked.
“The Air Force has rogered up, sir,” the TAO said. “They’ll have gas in the air and on station in four hours.”
Four hours, Coyote thought. Too long from now to make much of a difference, unless this fight goes a lot more rounds than I think it will. There’s too much offensive and defensive weaponry in this part of the world, and I just can’t see it taking that long. Still, it’s nice that they offered.
“Wait,” the TAO said, listening to a voice in his headset. “Correction, Admiral — the Air Force has one KC-135 en route to our location now. He’s escorted by Air Force fighters, but they’d like to know if we can take over his defense once he’s in the area.”
“No,” Coyote said. “Ask them if their fighters can remain on station for a few hours. We can send them back then, but I need every fighter on the front lines right now.”
“Aye-aye, sir,” the TAO said. Coyote turned back to the screen.
The front lines — and just where were those anymore? With the extended range capabilities of every ship, as well as global positioning and targeting programs, there was simply no part of the world that wasn’t potentially on the front lines.
Another wave of Backfires appeared in the air. It looked like this flight would pass to the north of them. And where were they headed? The mainland U.S.? Apparently so.
“If they stick to their normal way of doing business, sir,” a quiet voice said from beside him, “we can expect missiles launched from land-based ballistic missile sites when the Backfires are approximately one hour off the coast. They like to hit with overwhelming force, wave after wave of offensive weapons. There’s nothing surgical about the classic Russian attack.”
Coyote turned to look at Lab Rat, who was standing just to his right. “I know. That’s what they’re going to do, isn’t it?”
Lab Rat nodded. “I’d be willing to bet on it. Unless we can find a way of unraveling this mess, Admiral, we’re going to see a full-scale war between Russia and the U.S. And, unless our analysts are way off base, it will go nuclear very quickly.” Lab Rat looked at the admiral, his eyes bleak. “There’s no reason not to, is there? If they don’t destroy our theater ballistic missile facilities, then mutually assured destruction no longer make sense. They have to take them out and take them out now. Before they are fully operational, before we can destabilize relations.”
“First things first,” Coyote said once again. “Our short-term objective is to stay alive. After that, we can worry about the rest of the free world. Now, how operational are all our theater ballistic missile defenses?”
“It’s a close call,” Lab Rat said wearily. “Sometimes they seem to work perfectly. Other times, they don’t.”
“Make this one of the times they do,” Coyote said firmly. He turned back to the screen.
Tombstone and Jeremy Greene were third in line behind the catapult. As they waited their turn, surrounded by the furor on the flight deck, Tombstone contemplated the odds. So far, it didn’t look promising. This might be the last time he would be on this flight deck. Even if Jefferson managed to survive, the odds of Tombstone and Jeremy themselves returning from what was about to happen were small.
On one channel, a soft, flat voice rattled off the composition of the incoming forces. So far, the Russian strike consisted of three waves of Backfires, each carrying the Sunburn missile. The Sunburn anti-surface missile had a range of well over three hundred nautical miles, and current intelligence said there were versions designed for land attack that were capable of well over one-thousand-mile ranges. The Sunburn was loaded with nuclear warheads. And that, well — it changed everything, didn’t it?
There was no doubt that the Russians were prepared to use nuclear weapons preemptively, at least according to their doctrine. There had been rumors of nuclear and chemical weapons used in Chechnya, but no one had been able to confirm that. Even in Afghanistan — yes, if the Russians had nuclear warheads on those Backfires, they had already made the decision to use them.
“It’s not supposed to be like this,” Jeremy said suddenly. “These days — this is all supposed to be over.” There was a lost, forlorn tone to Jeremy’s voice. He was part of the generation that had grown up believing that the possibility of nuclear war was something that belonged in the past. Rational people didn’t behave like that, not knowing what nuclear weapons would do to the rest of the world. They just didn’t.
“Steady, now,” Tombstone said, his voice reassuring. “One step at a time. Let’s get this turkey off the deck then get in position to do some damage. They’re still out of range. This may be just a feint.”
“Maybe.” Jeremy was not convinced. For that matter, neither was Tombstone.
“How many false targets can we generate?” Tombstone asked.
“Around fifty — and at that level, we start to get some overlap. No more than thirty if you want to be really convincing.”
“Then here’s what we’ll do. We fly north, head off from the rest of the fighters. As soon as all the fighters are off the deck and headed for the Backfires, I want you to go active with the spoofing. I want the Russians to see forty or fifty fighters heading north, looking like they’re going to come in behind them and ambush him. That ought to draw off some of the fighters from the main thrust and even up the odds for Jefferson’s fighters.”
“If it works,” Jeremy said. “It’s a gamble.”
“It will work,” Tombstone said confidently.
It has to work, doesn’t it? Because that’s the only way I conceived of that we have any chance. We’re way outnumbered, and if those Backfires get within range of the U.S., then there’s no stopping them. No one has enough sense to back off and take a real look at what’s going on. Not their people, not ours. And if there’s a strike on the continental U.S., then there will be no stopping it. Not ever.
TWENTY
Thor’s Hornet smashed through the thin clouds like his namesake’s hammer. The clouds streamed over the canopy, blinding him for a moment like a shroud. Then, as he continued to ascend, they peeled off in sheets and then thin strands that disappeared as he rose above him.
“One zero two, on station.” Thor announced his arrival at the position indicated for the Hornet sponge, and waited. Every ten seconds, another Hornet was rippling off the deck below him, and the air would soon be thick with the small, nimble fighters. A quick tank, topping off his fuel, and then they would form up their wing and head out to meet the Russians.
That the odds were heavily stacked in the Russians’ favor didn’t bother him. Hell, they were used to being outnumbered, weren’t they? If it had been a fair fight, the Navy could have handled it on their own.
The waves of Russian fighters and bombers showed on his HUD as small red symbols. They were still some distance out from the carrier, far enough not to be a problem. Then even as he watched, they edged closer, covering the airspace at what seemed to be a snail’s pace but was just a reflection of the expanded range of the screen.
“One zero three, on station.” A flurry of tail numbers followed, each pilot confirming as he joined on the sponge. Thor listened with only half his attention as he maneuvered his Hornet up behind the Air Force tanker, intent on topping up his tanks. Soon the others would be taking their turns, slipping in smoothly for a top up before they re-formed.