“Hawk-Blue-Four,” one called. “Tallyho, I got eyeballs on a Backfire. Engaging now. Out.”
The Russian plan of attack had anticipated that the American fighters would try to burn through the jamming aircraft to the north, then be caught off balance by the appearance of the Backfires to the east. But the jammers were gone, and the Backfires did not yet have the American carrier fleet on radar and could not launch their missiles on the basis of hours-old satellite photographs. Neither could they run away. The supersonic Russian bombers went to afterburner and activated their radars in a contest with time, distance, and American interceptors.
Again it was like watching a video game. The symbols designating the Backfires changed as the planes switched on their own protective jammers. The jamming reduced the effectiveness of the Phoenix missiles, but Russian losses were already serious. The Backfires were three hundred miles away. Their radars had an effective range of only half that, and already fighters swarmed over their formations. “Tallyho” calls cluttered the radio circuits as the Tomcats converged to engage the Russian bombers, and the symbols started dropping off the radar screens. The Backfires closed at seventeen miles per minute, their radars searching desperately for the American fleet.
“Going to get some leakers,” Toland said.
“Six or eight,” Jacobsen agreed.
“Figure three missiles each.”
By now the Tomcats had fired all of their missiles, and drew off for the Hornets to join the action with Sparrows and Sidewinders. It wasn’t easy for the fighters to keep up with their targets. The Backfires’ speed made for difficult pursuit curves, and the fighters were notoriously short on fuel. Their missiles continued to score, however, and no amount of jinking and jamming could defeat all of them. Finally one aircraft got a surface radar contact and radioed a position. The seven remaining Backfires fired their missiles and turned north at Mach 2. Three more fell to missiles before the fighters had to turn away.
Again the Vampire call came in, and again Toland cringed. Twenty incoming missiles were plotted. The formation activated jammers and SAM systems, with a pair of Aegis cruisers on the threat axis. In seconds they were launching missiles, and the other SM2-equipped SAM ships added their own missiles to the “basket,” allowing their birds to be guided by the Aegis computer systems. The twenty incoming missiles had ninety SM2s targeted on them. Only three got through the SAM cloud, and only one of them headed for a carrier. America’s three-point-defense guns tracked the AS-6 and destroyed it a thousand feet from the ship. The other two missiles both found the cruiser Wainwright and exploded her four miles from Independence.
“Damn.” Jacobsen’s face took a hard set. “I thought we had that one beat. Let’s start recovering aircraft. We got some dry fighters up there.”
Everyone’s attention turned to the Badgers. The northern Tomcat groups were just coming within range of the older bombers. The Badger crews had expected to follow their jammers in, reversing earlier tactics. Some were slow to realize that they had no electronic wall to hide behind, but none had a choice. They detected incoming fighters while still five minutes from their launch points. The Badgers held course and increased to full speed to lessen their time of vulnerability while their crews looked anxiously for missiles.
The Tomcat pilots were surprised that their incoming targets were not altering course, which made the possibility of drones seem even more likely. They closed to get visual identification of their targets for fear of being tricked again into shooting at drones.
“Tallyho! Badger at twelve o’clock and level.” The first Tomcat loosed a pair of missiles from forty miles out.
Unlike the Backfires, the Badgers had a location fix for their targets, which enabled them to launch their AS-4s from maximum range. One by one, the twenty-year-old bombers launched and turned as tight as their pilots dared to escape. Their escape mancuvers allowed half to survive, since the Navy fighters were unable to pursue. Aboard the radar aircraft, kills were being tallied even as the missiles flew toward Stykkisholmur. Soviet Naval Aviation had just taken fearful losses.
USS NASSAU
Edwards was still in the twilight of anesthesia when he heard the electronic gonging of the General Quarters alarm. He was only vaguely aware of where he was. He seemed to remember the helicopter ride, but his next impression was that of lying in a bunk with needles and tubes stuck in various parts of his body. He knew what the alarm meant, and knew intellectually that he should be afraid. But he couldn’t quite work his emotions up through the drug-induced haze. He succeeded in raising his head. Vigdis was sitting on a chair next to his bed, holding his right hand. He squeezed it, not knowing that she was asleep. A moment later he was, too.
Five levels up, Nassau’s captain was standing on the bridge wing. His normal battle station was in CIC, but the ship was not moving, and he figured that this was as good a place as any to watch. Over a hundred missiles were inbound from the northeast. As soon as raid warning had been received an hour earlier, all of his boat crews had set to lighting off the smoke pots set on the rocks in this so-called anchorage. That was his best defense, he knew, hardly believing it himself. The point-defense guns at the corners of the flight deck were in automatic mode. Called R2D2s for their shape, the Close-In-Weapons-System Gatling guns were elevated twenty degrees, pointing off to the threat axis. That was all he could do. It had been decided by the air-defense experts that even firing off their chaff rockets would do more harm than good. The captain shrugged. One way or another, he’d know in five minutes.
He watched the cruiser Vincennes to the east, steaming in slow circles. Suddenly four smoke-trails erupted from her missile launchers, and the missile-firing cycle began. Soon the north-eastern sky was a solid mass of gray smoke. Through his binoculars he began to pick out the sudden black puffs of successful intercepts. They seemed to be coming closer, and he noticed that the missiles were, too. And the Aegis cruiser could not get them all. Vincennes emptied her magazines in four minutes, then bent on full speed to race between a pair of rocky islands. The captain was amazed to see it. Someone was taking a billion-dollar cruiser into a rock garden at twenty-five knots! Even off Guadalcanal—
An explosion rocked the island of Hrappsey, four miles away. Then another on Seley. It was working!
Ten miles up, the Russian missiles switched on their radar seeker heads and found their target windows crammed with blips. Overloaded, they automatically scanned the largest for infrared signatures. Many of the blips gave off heat, and the missiles automatically selected the largest for their attention as they made their final Mach 3 dives. They had no way of knowing that they were attacking volcanic rocks. Thirty missiles got through the SAM defenses. Only five of them actually aimed themselves at ships.
Two of Nassau’s R2D2s swiveled together and fired at a missile traveling too fast to see. The captain looked in the direction of the barrels just in time to see a white flash a thousand feet overhead. The sound that followed nearly deafened him, and he realized how foolish it was to be exposed when fragments dinged off the pilothouse next to him. Two more missiles fell into the town to his west. Then the sky cleared. A fireball to the west told him that at least one ship had been hit. But not mine!
“Son of a bitch.” He lifted the phone to the Combat Information Center. “Combat, Bridge, two missiles fell into Stykkisholmur. Let’s get a helo over there, there’s gonna be some casualties.”
As Toland watched, the tapes of the air engagement were replayed at fast speed. A computer tallied the kills. Everything was automated now.
“Wow,” the intelligence officer said to himself.
“Not like before, was it, son?” Jacobsen observed.“Spaulding, I want word on the ’phibs!”
“Just coming in now, sir. Charleston took a hit and broke in half. We have minor damage to Guam and Ponce—and that’s it, Admiral!”
“Plus Wainwright.” Jacobsen took a deep breath. Two valuable ships and fifteen hundred men were gone, yet he had to
call it a success.
KEFLAVIK, ICELAND
“The attack should be over by now.”
Andreyev didn’t expect rapid information. The Americans had finally succeeded in damaging his last radar, and he had no way of tracking the air battle. His radio-intercept crews had copied numerous voice transmissions, but they’d been too faint and too fast for any conclusion other than that a battle had in fact been fought.
“The last time we caught a NATO carrier force, we smashed it,” the operations officer said hopefully.
“Our troops above Bogarnes are still under heavy fire,” another reported. The American battleships had been hitting them for over an hour. “They are taking serious losses.”
“Comrade General, I have a—you’d better listen to this, it’s on our command circuit.”
The message repeated four times, in Russian: “Commander Soviet Forces Iceland, this is Commander Strike Fleet Atlantic. If you don’t get this, somebody will get it to you. Tell your bombers better luck next time. We’ll be seeing you soon. Out.”
SACK, FEDERAL REPUBLIC OF GERMANY
Sergetov staggered up to the traffic-control point in time to see a battalion of tanks move down the road toward Alfeld. He stood slumped over, hands on his knees, as he watched the tanks roll off.
“Identify yourself!” It was a KGB lieutenant. The KGB had taken over traffic management. The authority to shoot violators came easy to the KGB.
“Major Sergetov. I must see the area commander at once.”
“Attached to what unit, Sergetov?”
Ivan stood up straight. Not Comrade Major, not Comrade, just Sergetov.
“I am personal aide to General Alekseyev, Deputy Commander West. Now get me the hell to your commander!”
“Papers.” The lieutenant held out his hand, a coldly arrogant look on his face.
Sergetov smiled thinly. His identification documents were in a waterproof plastic envelope. He handed the top card over to the KGB officer. It was something his father had managed to get for him before mobilization.
“And what might you be doing with a Class-1-Priority pass?” The lieutenant was wary now.
“And who the fuck are you to ask?” The son of a Politburo member brought his face to within a centimeter of the other man’s. “Get me to your commander now or we’ll see who gets shot here today!”
The chekist deflated abruptly and led him to a farm cottage. The commander of the traffic-control station was a major. Good.
“I need a radio on the Army command circuit,” Sergetov snapped.
“All I have is regimental and division,” the major answered.
“Nearest division headquarters?”
“Fortieth Tanks at—”
“It’s destroyed. Damn, I need a vehicle. Now! There is an American force at Alfeld.”
“We just sent off a battalion—”
“I know. Call them back.”
“I have no such authority.”
“You damned fool, they’re heading into a trap! Call them now!”
“I don’t have the auth—”
“Are you a German agent? Haven’t you seen what’s going on there?”
“It was an air attack, wasn’t it?”
“There are American tanks in Alfeld, you idiot. We must launch a counterattack, but one battalion isn’t enough. We—” The first explosions started, six kilometers away. “Major, I want one of two things. Either you give me transport right now or you give me your name and service number so that I can denounce you properly.”
The two KGB officers shared a look of incredulity. Nobody talked that way to them, but anyone who did . . . Sergetov got his vehicle and raced off. Half an hour later he was in the supply base at Holle. There he found a radio.
“Where are you, Major?” Alekseyev demanded.
“Holle. The Americans got through our lines. They have at least one battalion of tanks at Alfeld.”
“What?” The radio was silent for a moment. “Are you certain?”
“Comrade General, I had to swim the damned river to get here. I counted a column of twenty-five armored vehicles a few kilometers north of the town. They shot up the tank-repair station and massacred a column of trucks. I repeat, General, there is an American force at Alfeld in at least battalion strength.”
“Get transport to Stendal and report personally to Commander-in-Chief West.”
USS INDEPENDENCE
“Good evening, Major Chapayev. How’s the leg?” Toland asked, sitting down beside the hospital bunk. “Are you being treated properly?”
“I have no complaints. Your Russian is—fair.”
“I do not often get to practice with a Soviet citizen. Perhaps you can help me somewhat.” Major Alexandr Georgiveyich Chapayev, the computer printout read. Age 30. Second son of General Georgiy Konstantinovich Chapayev, commander of the Moscow Air Defense District. Married to the youngest daughter of a Central Committee member, Ilya Nikolayevich Govorov. And therefore probably a young man with access to lots of under-the-counter information...
“With your grammar?” Chapayev snorted.
“You were the commander of the MiGs? Be at ease, Major, they’re all finished now. You know that.”
“I was the senior flying officer, yes.”
“I’ve been told to compliment you. I am not a flyer myself, but they tell me your tactics over Keflavik were excellent. I believe you had five MiGs. We lost a total of seven aircraft yesterday, three to MiGs, two to missiles, and two to ground fire. Considering the odds, we were disagreeably surprised.”
“I had my duty.”
“Da. We all have our duty,” Toland agreed. “If you are concerned at how we will treat you, you should not be. You will be treated properly in all respects. I don’t know what you have been told to expect, but probably you have noticed once or twice that not everything the Party says is completely true. I see from your identification papers that you have a wife and two children. I have a family, too. We’ll both live to see them again, Major. Well, probably.”
“And when our bombers attack you?”
“That happened three hours ago. Didn’t anyone tell you?”
“Ha! The first time—”
“I was on Nimitz. We took two hits.” Toland described the attack briefly. “This time things worked out differently. We’re conducting rescue operations now. You’ll know for sure when we bring some survivors in. Your air force is no longer a threat to us. Submarines are another matter, but there is no sense asking a fighter pilot about that. In fact, this isn’t really an interrogation.”
“So why are you here?”
“I will be asking you some questions later. I just wanted to come down and say hello. Is there anything I can get you, anything you need?”
Chapayev did not know what to make of this. Aside from the possibility the Americans would shoot him outright, he didn’t know what to expect. He’d had the usual lectures about trying to escape, but clearly these did not apply to being aboard a ship in the middle of the ocean.
“I do not believe you,” he said finally.
“Comrade Major, there is no point in asking you about the MiG-29, because none are left on Iceland. All the others in the Soviet Air Force are in Central Europe, but we’re not going there. There is no point in asking you about ground-defense positions on Iceland; you’re a pilot and you don’t know anything about that. The same is true of the remaining threat against us: submarines. What do you know about submarines, eh? Think, Major, you are an educated man. Do you think you have information that we need? I doubt it. You will be exchanged in due course for our prisoners—a political question, for our political masters. Until then we will treat you properly.” Toland paused. Talk to me, Major . . .
“I’m hungry,” Chapayev said after a moment.
“Dinner should be in about thirty minutes.”
“You will just send me home, after—”
“We don’t have labor camps and we don’t kill prisoners. If we were going to m
istreat you, why did the surgeon sew up your leg and prescribe pain medications?”
“The pictures I had with me?”
“Almost forgot.” Toland handed the Russian’s wallet over. “Isn’t it against the rules to take this up with you?”
“I carry it for luck,” he said. Chapayev pulled out the black-and-white shot of his wife and twin daughters. I will see you again. It may be some months, but I will see you again.
Bob chuckled. “It worked, Comrade Major. Here are mine.”
“Your wife is too skinny, but you are a lucky man also.” Chapayev paused as his eyes teared up for a moment. He blinked them away. “I would like a drink,” he said hopefully.
“Me, too. Not allowed on our ships.” He looked at the photos. “Your daughters are beautiful, Major. You know, we have to be crazy to leave them.”
“We have our duty,” Chapayev said. Toland gestured angrily.
“It’s the damned politicians. They just tell us to go—and we go, like idiots! Hell, we don’t even know why the Goddamned war started!”
“You mean you do not know?”
Bingo. Codeine and sympathy . . . The tape recorder he had in his pocket was already turned on.
HUNZEN, FEDERAL REPUBLIC OF GERMANY
“If I continue the attack, we’ll be destroyed here!” Alekseyev protested. “I have two full divisions on my flank, and I have a report that American tanks are at Alfeld.”
“Impossible!” CINC-West replied angrily.
“The report came from Major Sergetov. He saw them arrive. I have ordered him to Stendal to make his report to you personally.”
“I have 26th Motor-Rifle approaching Alfeld now. If any Americans are present, they’ll handle matters.”
That’s a Category-C unit, Alekseyev thought. Reservists, short on equipment, out-of-date training.