Red Phoenix (54 page)

“Red Dog Lead and Duster Lead, this is Roundup. Proceed.” The strike commander’s voice came through Bouchard’s earphones.

He keyed his radio mike twice to acknowledge and waggled the Tomcat’s wings to signal the rest of the strike escort. Then he banked right, heading for the Korean coastline one hundred and fifty miles ahead at four hundred and fifty knots. The F-18s slid lower and out in front, while his F-14s stayed high and behind. Two Prowlers followed, ready to jam enemy radars and radar-guided missiles if MiGs appeared to contest the air.

“Corky, I’m still getting that goddamned Mainstay on my scope. Even with the jamming, it’s got us for sure.” Lieutenant Mike Esteban, his RIO, radar intercept officer, sounded pissed.

His frustration was understandable. The Soviet AWACS plane had been
loitering arrogantly just outside the task force’s declared exclusion zone for hours, escorted by a pair of Su-27 Flanker fighters out of Vladivostok. Everyone aboard the two American carriers knew that the data the converted Il-76 transport was collecting was being passed straight back to the North Koreans, but there wasn’t anything they could do about it—outside of assigning a pair of Tomcats to keep a close watch on the single Prowler now busy trying to jam the Mainstay’s powerful radar. That was bad enough. But then to top it all off, the Soviets also had a Tu-16 Badger F aircraft aloft. The Badger F was an electronic intelligence aircraft capable of keeping tabs on every signal the task force emitted.

Bouchard clicked his intercom switch. “Yeah. Well, life’s rough, I guess. Keep an eye peeled. The next-door neighbors are gonna come knocking at our door anytime now.”

ABOARD THE
MAINSTAY,
OVER THE YELLOW SEA

The four-engined Ilyushin-76TD made another gentle turn, cruising in a racetrack holding pattern at forty thousand feet. As the AWACS plane banked, the large radar dish mounted horizontally atop its fuselage reflected the sunlight, and one of the Su-27 fighter pilots escorting it turned his eyes away, half-blinded.

It was dark inside the Mainstay’s main Air Command and Control compartment.

“The American jamming is degrading our systems greatly, Comrade Colonel, but we have firm contact with an estimated ninety-plus aircraft. All heading for the coast. This is clearly what we’ve been waiting for.”

Colonel Lushev frowned at Kornilov’s impertinence, but he bit down the harsh reply that first leaped into his mind. The lieutenant was undeniably the best radar operator aboard, and his skills demanded a certain amount of tolerance for his unorthodox behavior. The colonel leaned closer to the repeater scope in front of him, trying to make something out himself of the glowing green splotches and sweeping strobes it showed. He couldn’t and shook his head. Kornilov’s abilities were remarkable.

Lushev swiveled his chair to face the plane’s radioman. “Transmit this information to Pyongyang immediately.” He hoped that the little yellow bastards could make good use of it. The Americans needed to be taught a lesson.

He swung back to face the repeater scope, fighting down an all-too-familiar craving for nicotine. The Mainstay’s electronics were too delicate to cope with an atmosphere laced with cigarette smoke. He would have to wait until they were back on the ground in Vladivostok.

RED DOG LEAD

Bouchard could feel the tension increasing. They were sixty miles out and closing rapidly on the South Korean coast. The strike target was only fifteen miles inland, so if the North Koreans were going to pull anything it would have to be soon. He glanced to either side. The eleven other Tomcats were perfectly positioned. Sunlight glinted off canopies ahead and below. The F-18s were still keeping pace.

“Red Dog, this is Roundup.” Bouchard tensed at the sudden transmission from the Navy strike controller. “Multiple bogies bearing three one zero, seventy miles, level forty. Out.” The E-2C’s radar had just detected enemy fighters slipping into the open from out of Korea’s rugged mountains.

Bouchard made an instant decision and keyed his mike. It was pretty clear that the North Koreans knew exactly where they were. There wasn’t any further point in trying to stay hidden. “Red Dog flights, this is Red Dog Lead. Light ’em off and let ’em have it.”

His F-14s would turn on their powerful radars and engage the enemy at maximum distance with their AIM-54C Phoenix missiles. The F-18s would stay silent, and Bouchard hoped they might be able to slip in closer without being noticed by the oncoming North Koreans.

Behind him, Esteban flicked the switches needed to activate the Tomcat’s AWG-9 radar and bent over his scope, studying the information it showed. “Corky, I read two groups of bogies. Twenty-two in the first, and twenty following ten miles behind.”

“Rog. Get me a lock on two of the lead group.” Bouchard arched his thumb toward the firing switch on his stick. Each Tomcat in the escort group carried two Phoenix missiles for just such an occasion.

“Coming up.”

ABOARD THE BADGER, OVER THE YELLOW SEA

The Badger’s twin turbojets had been droning for hours, lulling many among the huge plane’s flight crew into a kind of stupor made up as much of boredom as it was of fatigue. There was little enough to look at. Just scattered clouds in a brilliant blue sky. And two American F-14s keeping station on them as they orbited. The Badger’s crew had seen their share of the twin-tailed American fighters before. The Tomcats were always nearby whenever a mission took the converted bomber near a U.S. Navy carrier task force.

None of the signals intelligence crewmen seated at the consoles jamming the Badger’s fuselage was the least bit bored. This was the opportunity of a professional lifetime. They were kept busy intercepting and recording every
burst of electronic noise the Americans sent out. Radar emissions. Radio transmissions. Everything. Watching two American aircraft carriers launch a real combat mission was proving most instructive.

Suddenly the senior technician’s fingers stopped drumming the face of his console and he sat bolt upright. “Comrade Major! I’m picking up midcourse guidance signals for American missiles. Phoenix missiles aimed at our fighters!”

The major was an intelligent man and he didn’t waste time going through the chain of command. Instead he leaped for the radio himself.

FULCRUM LEAD, OVER NORTH KOREA

Borodin heard the distinctive tone of the American radar in his earphones as it swept over his MiG-29 and smiled. His plan was working. He’d deployed two squadrons of MiG-21s out in front of his twenty MiG-29s, hoping that the Americans would waste their long-range missiles on the older and less capable planes. It was hard on the MiG-21 pilots, but what the hell. None of them were Russians.

“Fulcrum Lead, this is Badger Four! Missiles inbound from American fighters!”

Borodin keyed his mike to acknowledge and switched frequencies. “Fishbed Lead, this is Fulcrum Lead. Red Sector!” He gave the code phrase that would alert the MiG-21s to their danger. At the same time, he hit the MiG-29’s throttle, accelerating to close with the lead group. The other Fulcrums followed him as his airspeed crept closer to six hundred knots.

They would mingle with the survivors of the first group as it came within standard radar missile range of the American escort force.

FISHBED LEAD, OVER THE NORTH KOREAN COAST

The North Korean colonel leading the MiG-21 squadrons squinted into the nearly cloudless blue sky, searching desperately for signs of the incoming Phoenixes. With a top speed of nearly 2,400 miles an hour, the American missiles could be expected to reach him in less than ninety seconds from launch.

There. He saw contrails streaking down out of the sky ahead, just as his radar warning receiver burst into a high-pitched
beep-beep-beep.
At least one of the American active homing missiles had locked onto his plane.

“All aircraft! Take evasive action, now!” The colonel yanked his MiG-21 into a hard, seven-g climb to the left, putting Soviet theory into practice. The theory said a rapid pitch-up maneuver could defeat the Phoenix. The
twenty-one other planes under his command followed suit, pulling tightly to the left or right and climbing as they worked to evade the enemy missiles.

Most were successful. The AIM-54C Phoenix was designed primarily to kill lumbering bombers, not agile fighters. Its incredibly powerful motor gave it tremendous speed and range, but the motor burned out within seconds after launch. As a result, the missile often lacked the “oompf” needed to follow a highly maneuverable fighter at long range as it climbed.

Theory only went so far, however, and six pilots weren’t fast enough or lucky enough. They died as missiles slammed home.

RED DOG LEAD

“Red Dog Lead, this is Roundup. Splash six bogies.”

Bouchard shook his head angrily. He’d hoped for more kills from the Phoenixes. There were still thirty-six enemy fighters out there and now they were much closer. He’d have to bring the F-18s into play sooner than he’d wanted to.

Esteban called from the backseat. “Corky, the rear group is merging with the lead batch. Range now forty-five miles. One thousand knots closure.” The rival groups of fighters were racing toward each other at incredible speed, covering nearly seventeen nautical miles with every passing minute.

He keyed the mike again, this time calling the Hornet commander ahead of him. “Black Dog Lead, this is Red Dog Lead. Engage the enemy at maximum range.”

He heard twin clicks as the F-18s signaled that they’d heard and understood him. Behind him, Esteban muttered to himself as he selected new targets for the Tomcat’s four AIM-7M Sparrow missiles. This wasn’t going to be as easy as firing Phoenixes. The Sparrow was a semiactive radar homer. In other words, the missile guided on the radar beam sent out by the plane that launched it. And that meant a plane firing Sparrows had to keep its target “painted” with a radar beam until the missiles hit. All of which required flying straight and comparatively level right into the teeth of the enemy. Esteban had always defined that as a real hard way to earn your flight pay.

FULCRUM LEAD

Borodin pulled his Fulcrum alongside the MiG-21 belonging to the North Korean colonel just long enough to give him a thumbs-up signal. Then he dropped back and to the left as the formation spread out, seeking room for
the wild evasive maneuvers they would soon have to make. The last transmission from the Mainstay had shown that they were coming into the launch envelope of the Americans’ Sparrow missiles.

He glanced down quickly at his own radar screen. Nothing. Just a myriad assembly of randomly moving splotches and dots. The American jammer aircraft were really very good. Still, they should soon reach the point at which his Fulcrums’ radars would be strong enough to “burn through” the jamming and lock on to the enemy fighters up ahead. And when that happened, he would have a little present for them—the two AA-7 Apex radar-guided missiles slung under each MiG-29.

Beep-beep-beep.
Shit. The Americans had a lock-on. Borodin looked up from the inside of the cockpit and started scanning the sky in the arcs his radar warning receivers showed the attack would come from.

RED DOG LEAD

“Red Dog Lead, this is Black Dog Lead. We show MiG-29s intermingled with the MiG-21s.” The F-18 squadron CO’s calm voice crackled in Bouchard’s ears. MiG-29s! All right, Corky my boy, he thought, you’re gonna be hassling with the primo of the primo today.

Estenban called from the backseat, “Got ’em. We’ve got lock-ons! Range now thirty miles!”

Yeah. Bouchard thumbed the firing switch twice and felt the F-14 shudder slightly as two Sparrows dropped out from under the wings and ignited. His eyes followed the bright, white smoke and flame trails as they tore toward the still unseen oncoming MiGs. Other missile trails reached out from his Tomcats and from the Hornets. Happy New Year, Uncle Kim.

FULCRUM LEAD

Borodin saw it, slicing down out of the sky right toward him. A tiny speck growing larger and larger through his MiG-29’s canopy. He tensed his stomach muscles and held his course, watching the missile come for him. There were other trails in the sky, but he didn’t care about those. Under this kind of attack, it was every pilot for himself.

Now! Borodin yanked hard left on his stick and pulled sharply back, throwing his Fulcrum into a tight, climbing high-g turn. He grunted as the g’s hit but kept his head cocked to keep an eye on the American missile through the turn. At the same time he kept his thumb busy on the stick’s decoy dispenser button, popping out bundle after bundle of chaff—clouds of
thin strips of metalized Mylar film that would look like an airplane to the enemy radar.

Yes! Borodin saw the missile trail bend away, following one of his chaff clouds. He craned his neck around and saw the Sparrow explode well behind and below his plane. Then he snapped his head back around, searching rapidly for any more missiles targeted on his Fulcrum. There weren’t any.

Voices came over the radio. Desperate voices. “Ten, turn right. Right! You’ve got one after you!”

“I can’t shake it!”

“Turn harder, you fool!”

Borodin looked to his right and saw a MiG-29 diving away, afterburner blazing. A billowing white smoke trail suddenly crossed his vision and merged with the fleeing MiG. The Sparrow exploded in a ball of orange-red flame and the frantic voice in his radio stopped.

He came wings level and looked all around. The sky was crisscrossed with smoke trails and dodging aircraft. He looked down and saw another burning MiG tumbling out of control toward the water. Damnit.

Borodin counted noses quickly as his squadrons reformed, still heading for the American fighters. They’d lost three MiG-29s and another two MiG-21s. Eleven planes lost without knocking a single American bastard out of the sky.

He felt a cold rage gripping him and fought it down. Don’t go berserk, Sergei, he told himself, your turn is coming. As if in proof, a box suddenly appeared on his HUD, up and to the right. His radar had at last locked on to an American aircraft! The range was now eighteen miles—inside his AA-7 envelope. Borodin tapped the trigger twice and smiled as his own missiles flared off toward the enemy. Now they would hit back and hit hard. Other Fulcrums were launching as well.