NORTH ATLANTIC
The Bears were on a precise north-south line now centered on the position of the frigate's radar signals. The raid commander ordered them to turn west and reduce altitude. Two aircraft failed to acknowledge the order, and he had to repeat it.
Two hundred miles west of them, aboard the circling E-2C Hawkeye surveillance aircraft, a technician's head went up. Held just heard someone speaking Russian; in code, but definitely Russian.
Within minutes, every ship in the escort force had the information, and they all came up with the same answer: the Backfires couldn't be here yet. These were Bears. Everyone wanted to kill the Bears. The carrier America started launching her fighters and additional radar aircraft. After all, the Russians could be looking for her.
"He's gotta be heading right for us," the tactical action officer said.
"That's the general idea," Morris agreed.
"How far?" Calloway asked.
"No way to know that. The Hawkeye copied a voice radio transmission. Probably it's, fairly close, but freak atmospheric conditions can let you hear that sort of thing from half a world away. Mr. Lenner, let's go to battle stations for air action."
Five minutes later the frigate was ready.
NORTH ATLANTIC
"Good morning, Mr. Bear." The Tomcat pilot stared at his TV display tube. The Russian aircraft was about forty miles away, the sun glinting off its massive propellers. Deciding to close without using his radar for the moment, the fighter pilot advanced his throttles to 80-percent power and activated his missile controls. The head-on closure rate was over a thousand miles per hour, seventeen miles per minute.
Then: "Energize!" the pilot ordered, and instantly the radar intercept officer in the rear seat powered up the fighter's AWG-9 radar.
"We've got him," the RIO reported a moment later.
"Shoot!" Two missiles dropped free and accelerated to over three thousand miles per hour.
The Soviet electronics-warfare technician was trying to isolate the signature characteristics of the frigate's search radar when a beep sounded on a separate warning receiver. He turned to see what the noise was and went pale.
"Air-attack warning!" he shouted over the intercom.
Reacting at once, the pilot rolled the Bear left and dove for the surface of the ocean, while aft the EW technician activated his protective jamming systems. However, the turn had masked the jammer pods from the incoming missiles.
"What's happening?" the raid commander demanded over the intercom.
"We have an interceptor radar on us," the technician replied, scared but cool. "Jamming pods are activated."
The raid commander turned to his communications man. "Get a warning out: enemy fighter activity this position."
But there wasn't time. The Phoenixes covered the distance in less than twenty seconds. The first went wild and missed, but the second locked on the diving bomber and blew its tail off. The Bear fell to the sea with as little grace as a dropped sheet of paper.
USS REUBEN JAMES
The radar showed the Tomcat, and they watched as it launched two missiles that immediately disappeared from sight, and then, silently, as the Tomcat continued east for thirty seconds. Then it turned around and headed back west.
"That, gentlemen, is a kill," Morris said. "Splash one Bear."
"How do you know?" Calloway asked.
"You think he would have turned back if he missed? And if it was anything but a Bear, he'd have broken radio silence. ESM, we copy any radio traffic from zero-eight-zero?"
The petty officer in the forward starboard corner of the compartment didn't look up. "No, Captain, not a peep."
"Damn," Morris said. "It works."
"And if the bugger didn't get a message out-" Calloway understood.
"We're the only ones who know. Maybe we can bushwhack the whole attack force." Morris stepped over to the display screen. The America's fighters were now all in the air, seventy miles south of the convoy. He looked at the bulkhead clock: the Backfires were about forty minutes away. He lifted a phone. "Bridge, Combat. Signal Battleaxe to close in."
Within seconds, Battleaxe turned hard a'port and headed west toward Reuben James. One new thing had already worked today, Morris thought. Why not another?
"Stand by to launch helo," he ordered.
O'Malley was sitting in his cockpit reading a magazine, or at least letting his eyes scan the pictures while his mind struggled to detach itself from what was going on around him. The announcement over the loudspeaker tore him away from Miss July. Immediately, Ensign Ralston began the engine start sequence while O'Malley scanned the trouble board for any mechanical problems, then looked out the door to be sure that the deck crewmen were clear.
"What are we supposed to be doing, Commander?" the systems operator inquired.
"We're supposed to be missile bait, Willy," O'Malley replied amiably, and lifted off.
NORTH ATLANTIC
The southernmost Bear was within sixty miles of the convoy, but didn't yet know it, nor did the Americans, since he was below the horizon from Reuben James's radar. The Bear's pilot did know that it was about time for the aircraft to climb and switch on their own search radars. But word hadn't come yet from the raid commander. Though there was no indication of trouble, the pilot was worried. His instinct told him something strange was happening. One of the Bears that had disappeared last week, reported tracking a single American frigate radar-nothing more. Just like now... The raid commander then had aborted the Backfire mission for fear of enemy fighter activity, only to be dressed down for supposed cowardice. As was so often the case in combat, the only data available were negative. They knew that four Bears had not returned. He knew that his raid commander had not yet given the expected order. He knew there had not been any positive sign of trouble. He also knew that he was not happy.
"Estimated distance to that American frigate?" he asked over his intercom.
"One hundred thirty kilometers," the navigator answered.
Maintain radio silence, the pilot told himself. Those are the orders...
"Screw the orders!" he said aloud. The pilot reached down and flipped on his radio. "Gull Two to Gull One, over." Nothing. He repeated the call twice more.
Lots of radio receivers heard that, and in less than a minute the Bear's position was plotted, forty miles southeast of the convoy. A Tomcat dove after the contact.
The raid commander didn't answer... he would have answered, the pilot told himself. He would have answered. The Backfires should now be less than two hundred kilometers away. "What are we leading them into?
"Activate the radar!" he ordered.
Every screen ship detected the distinctive emissions from the Big Bulge radar. The nearest SAM-equipped ship, the frigate Groves, immediately energized her missile radars and fired a surface-to-air missile at the oncoming Bear-but the Tomcat fighter that was also racing toward the Bear was too close. The frigate shut down her tracking radar, and the SMI missile lost radar lock and self-destructed automatically.