Defcon One (1989) (32 page)

Switch to button seven.

Karns turned on his scrambler, then tuned to the E2C Hawkeye's frequency. Stingray, Gun One up, flight of two, standard ordnance, squawking. What have you got?

Turn right, heading two-three-zero, and climb to angels three-one, the Hawkeye controller ordered. Two Air Force F-15s tangled with a division of Mig-29s due east of the Iceland MADIZ (Military Air Defense Identification Zone). Four Migs jumped 'em, just outside of the zone, and the Fifteens dropped one of the Migs. The Eagles had to disengage because of low fuel, so we're vectoring you for an intercept.

Roger, Karns radioed, as he slowly lowered the nose, pulled the throttles out of afterburner, and turned to the southwest heading. He looked over his right shoulder in time to see Hershberger slide smoothly into a nice, loose parade position.

Two's aboard, the lieutenant (junior grade) radioed.

Looks like we're going to have some more fun with these assholes.

Afraid so, Karns responded. Let's arm 'em up. Switches hot, and going' combat spread.

We're hot and moving out, Hershberger replied in a calm voice, flipping his Master Arm switch to ON. My man Gator' says it's time for a little yankin' and bankin' today.

Yeah, Karns replied, but cover your ass. These guys are a lot better than the Libyans.

The Miniwacs controller spoke. Guns, your bogies-looks like three of 'em are one hundred and twenty at angels two-niner, crossing left to right.

Copy, Karns replied, then switched to ICS. You got 'em. Bone?

That's affirm; we've got a sweet lock.

The Eisenhower's Combat Information Center broke in.

Gunfighter flight, you have permission to engage. Repeat, you have permission to engage. White House authority.

Roger, Tango Fox, Gunfighters engaging.

Karns shoved the throttles full forward again. Going' burner, Hersh.

We're with you, Hershberger responded, advancing his throttles to the stops.

The Tomcats accelerated through Mach One, as the two opposing nights rapidly closed on each other.

Forty miles, Gordon Gator Kavanaugh, breathing hard, said to Hershberger over the ICS.

Guns, Stingray. Bogies are jinking back at ... turning into you.

We've got 'em, Karns radioed. Stand by, Hersh.

Roger.

Both pilots watched the Migs close rapidly. The Russians had already cost the Dee two Tomcats. Karns and Hershberger had a score to settle with the Fulcrum drivers.

Karns keyed his ICS. Centering the T ...come on. Centering the Dot.

Lock him up, Frog, Bonicelli said in a strained voice.

Lock him up.

I'm trying ... No tone, Karns said, then added. I've got it.

Got a tone.

Tally ten miles, Karns radioed to Gun Two. Stand by ... FIRE!

Both pilots squeezed off AIM-7M Sparrow missiles and prepared to counter the Russians' evasive maneuvers.

Fox One, Karns yelled as he watched the two missiles track straight for the Soviet fighters. He could see the Migs snap into a high-G turn at seven miles. Bogies breakin' right!

Karns had barely finished the sentence when the lead Fulcrum disintegrated in a mushroom of orange and black explosions.

The second Sparrow missed and flew out of sight.

Let's go high, Karns ordered, seeing the Migs turn hard to his left.

Switchin' to guns.

Two!

Karns rolled almost inverted, pulling the nose down to the horizon, then further below to track the second Mig.

Check six, comradski, the Top Gun graduate said under his breath. He was almost in the perfect firing solution... almost.

Aw ... shit! Karns swore, watching the wily Russian simultaneously dirty-up and pull into his Tomcat.

Idle and boards! Karns warned. He's trying to get me to overshoot.

This son-of-a-bitch is good.

Gun One yanked his throttles to idle, extended his speed brakes, dropped the flaps, allowed the F-14 to decelerate, then slapped the gear lever down. The big Tomcat dug into a 7-G, gut-twisting turn as Karns cross-controlled to pull inside the Mig-29.

We're droppin' anchor, Ivan, Karns groaned under the punishment he was imposing on the straining F--14. He could hear Bonicelli grunting in the back seat.

Karns pulled even harder, feeling the stall buffet, as he closed inside the Russian. He had a perfect gun shot.

Say goodnight, comrade, Karns said as he squeezed the firing button on the 20-mm Me1 Vulcan cannon. The aircraft vibrated as three short bursts erupted from the forward fuselage of the F-14.

Karns and Bonicelli watched, fascinated, as the Fulcrum trailed oily smoke, then fire, as the entire tail was engulfed in flames. The Mig then slow-rolled to the left as the nose fell through the horizon.

Good hit! Karns radioed. Good kill!

The Mig pilot ejected as the aircraft continued to an inverted, nose low position.

Ivan stepped outside, Karns said over the radio. Splash two!

Watch it, Frog! Hershberger yelled over the radio. The other asshole is bouncing you low at your eight o'clock. Tally! Karns shouted as he snapped his head as far to the left as possible. His left hand shoved the throttles into full afterburner, retracted the speed brakes, then slapped the gear lever up. A split second later the flaps were retracted as Karns turned into his adversary with a 7-G effort.

Goddamnit, Karns groaned as the Russian pilot, going at Warp speed, pulled hard into the vertical. Going for separation.

I've got him ... rolling in, Hershberger radioed in an excited voice.

Meat on the table ... bear meat.

Karns hauled the screaming Tomcat around in a painful high-G turn as Hershberger fired his Vulcan cannon. Karns could see debris being blasted off the Fulcrum, but the Mig continued to fly.

Don't get too close! Karns warned Gun Two. You're almost up his ass!

Hershberger didn't answer as he continued to hose down the Mig driver with his smoking Vulcan. The Russian pilot kicked in a boot full of right rudder, then cross-controlled the Fulcrum, which resulted in the fighter departing controlled flight.

The Mig-29 tumbled right in front of Hershberger as he snatched the stick into his gut, sending the Tomcat out of the tracking and firing envelope.

Ho ... shit! Hershberger said in amazement. These bastards are crazy!

I'm in, Karns replied, snap-rolling the F-14 to catch the Mig in his sights. He's got it recovered. One of his burners is out.

Doug Karns then talked to Bonicelli over the ICS. Okay, just a few more seconds and we can break for lunch.

Karns stared through the HUD (Head Up Display) and placed the gun sight on the nose of the Fulcrum, then squeezed the trigger two short times.

He couldn't believe the impact the cannon had on the Mig. The canopy disintegrated in a shower of sparkling fragments as the pilot slumped forward.

Good kill! Splash Three! Karns radioed exuberantly as he rolled his Tomcat 180 degrees, passing over the Mig canopy to canopy. The Russian's torso was shredded and his lifeless face was smashed into the instrument panel.

Gunfighter One watched the Mig nose over, then disappear through the clouds in a classic graveyard spiral. Karns rolled the F-14 right side up and noticed Hershberger closing for a rendezvous.

Bring it aboard, Hersh, Karns said, then addressed the carrier. Gun One and Two comin' home.

Copy, Captain Greg Linnemeyer responded. We've got it on tape, Guns.

Really super.

Thanks, Captain, Karns replied, loosening his oxygen mask and rubbing his sweat-soaked jaw.

We're breaking out the medicinal spirits on your arrival, Linnemeyer radioed, so stroke the burners.

SCARECROW ONE Brad Buchanan watched the radar altimeter warning light blink on and off. Keep an eye on me, John.

Gotcha covered, the copilot responded, concentrating on the airspeed, compass, INS inertial navigation, and radar altimeter.

The three Sikorsky S-70 Night Hawks, painted in Russian camouflage, raced across the Gulf of Finland, due south of Helsinki. Rain showers had plagued the flight for the past thirty miles.

Buchanan, call sign Scarecrow One, had his hands full maintaining exactly fifty feet over the turbulent ocean while traveling at 170 miles per hour.

The black, overcast sky made contact flying extremely difficult, if not impossible. The intermittent showers caused a feeling of vertigo in the command pilot.

Without the aid of a definable horizon or light source, Buchanan had to rely solely on his instruments.

Coast coming up in seven minutes, John Higgins, the copilot, announced to Buchanan.

Thanks, the pilot replied, not moving his eyes from the instrument panel. Let me know when I can go visual.

Will do. Higgins looked through the spray-soaked windshield.

Should have the shore lights in four or five minutes, according to the box.

The Night Hawk combat rescue helicopter carried two other crew members behind the cockpit. Blackie Oaks, the crew chief, and Steve Lincoln, paramedic, listened to the pilots over the intercom. Both Oaks and Lincoln doubled as door gunners, using two Me0 machine guns pintle-mounted in the open side doors.

I sure hope Two and Three aren't having any problems, Buchanan said to Higgins as they neared the first set of coastline lights.

Yeah, should be okay, the copilot responded, thinking about the night vision goggles the other two copilots were wearing. Higgins had decided against using the special vision aids.

The three Night Hawk crews had briefed to keep radio silence, except in the case of an emergency, during their run to the rendezvous point near Novgorod.

Buchanan and Higgins were startled when the radio crackled to life.

Interrogative, Crow.

Buchanan recognized the voice of the number two gunship pilot, Pete Barnes. Go, Pistol.

We lost you in the shore lights. Buck. Say position.

Barnes sounded cool, relaxed.

Two clicks right of the big, lighted boat, heading zero-two-zero, feet dry, Buchanan answered the number two pilot, adding, Copy, Three?

Scarecrow Three ... ah ... we've got ya.

I've got the pad in sight, Buchanan informed his crew, then banked slightly to the right.

Everyone knew this would be a quick turn, engines running, then back into the air for the dash to Novgorod. The Night Hawks would traverse the entire route at an altitude of two hundred feet or lower. The only hitch would be towers or power lines not on their charts.

MOSCOW The general secretary removed his shoes and stared at the crackling fire. The warm glow reminded the Soviet leader of the hunting lodge he had enjoyed for so many years. The lodge, located in the central Ural Mountains near Krasnovishersk, was a favorite retreat for the Russian political hierarchy.

Light snow continued to fall as the temperature plunged with the onset of nightfall. Zhilinkhov, relaxed, spilled an ounce of his drink on the thick bear rug as he observed his coconspirators refresh their vodkas.The evening was young and the six men had much to discuss.

It is good to be home, comrades, Zhilinkhov smiled, inwardly pleased with his progress.

It is good to be with you, Viktor Pavlovich, the elder statesman replied, proposing a toast. We salute your efforts, Comrade General Secretary. To the Motherland.

The six men joined in a toast, spilling more vodka as the glasses loudly banged together. A discreet chime interrupted the group as Zhilinkhov unwrapped a cigar and sat back in his chair.

Yevstigneyev, responsible for party discipline, went to the massive doors leading to the general secretary's private quarters.

Zhilinkhov tipped his glass to his lips and swallowed deeply, closely watching the heavy doors. He was surprised to see Colonel General Vranesevic, the GRU commander, standing at the entry.

Come in. Comrade General, Zhilinkhov yelled across the room, motioning with his arm outstretched. You have good news for us, eh?

Vranesevic, clearly pensive, entered the large, warm room and stood at attention. Comrade General Secretary, I regret to inform you Zhilinkhov stopped the GRU boss. Relax, General. Have a seat, Zhilinkhov said, pointing to the large couch directly across from him.

You will have a Stolichnaya with us. General?

Vranesevic looked nervous, obviously shaken, as he replied.

Sir, I am afraid I have unpleasant news to report about the two

American

What unpleasant news? Zhilinkhov bellowed, blood vessels bulging from his neck and temples. Speak out, General!

You cannot find the spies?

Sir, we have the spies contained. Vranesevic squirmed uneasily, then continued in a more confident manner. It is only a matter of time before we kill them.

The unpleasant news. General, Zhilinkhov said more quietly, then raised his voice again. What is the problem?