Defcon One (1989) (3 page)

Linnemeyer asked.

Roger, Tango Fox. Copy warning shot and plug 'em if they break thirty, three-zero from mother, Karns replied with a strange mixture of relief and adrenaline-pumping emotion.

That's affirm, Gunfighter, the captain replied. Let me know when you fire.

Wilco, Tango Fox, Karns responded. Okay, Hersh, you ease back on Animal's wing. You guys be in position to take these clowns out if they stuff one up our ass.

Karns waited tensely for Hershberger and Animal Flight to reposition themselves. The Tomcats slowly drifted behind the Russian formation.

Animals in place, Cangemi stated. Okay, guys, looks like this is the main event. Let's go master arm on and ease back a tad.

Cangemi slowly dropped back into a good firing position-low and looking at the tailpipes of the Russian fighter planes.

Feeling a tightness in his throat, Cangemi took a quick look at his instrument panel, then concentrated on the Mig flight leader.

Gun One is movin' up under uncle Ivan's left wing. I want the friggin' son of a bitch to see me. These idiots can't be very bright, Karns radioed CIC and his fellow pilots as he inched the throttles forward, moving under and forward of the left wing of the behemoth.

Karns noted the bright red star painted on the huge jet intake as he jockeyed his Tomcat into view of the Russian pilot.

The fighter pilot had never been so close to any Russian bomber, let alone a Backfire. It was colossal in size. The bomber weighed 270,000 pounds and stretched 130 feet. Its size alone was intimidating, without considering the tremendous firepower it possessed.

Okay, comradski, look over here, Karns said, speaking softly over the radio. Come on, you son-of-a-bitch, I don't want to fire any hot lead.

Yeah, Cangemi agreed. If we get wrapped around the axle this close in, it'll be a knife fight in a telephone booth.

Torgovnik glanced briefly at the American fighter plane, wincing at the proximity of the crazy American. The bomber commander judged the Navy fighter plane to be no more than twenty meters from his craft. Keeping his head straight forward, Torgovnik formulated his thoughts as he kept the Tomcat in his periphery.

Comrade Major, Torgovnik said quietly, his mind sounding a warning about the danger of this clearly provocative confrontation.

These Americans ... we are pushing too hard.

Remember what they did to the Libyans.

Nonsense, replied Vladyka, in his familiar conciliatory manner.

You overestimate the Americans. They will not risk a confrontation unless we openly provoke them, continued the ingratiating political officer, firmly entrenched in his belief of American conformity to nonaggressive acts.

I am not so sure. Major, Torgovnik replied in a hesitant manner.

We have not attempted to fly a multi-aircraft group over an American carrier before.

Vladyka smiled his most condescending smile. Do not worry. Colonel.

Aw-right, goddamn it! Karns said with marked vehemence as his Distance Measuring Equipment (TIME) indicated fifty nautical miles from the Eisenhower.

I'm movin' out to the side. Everything is cookin' and looks good.

Here we go, Karns stated as he gently pressed the right rudder and squeezed the firing button.

The F-14 shuddered as the AIM-9M Sidewinder heat-seeking missile flashed from under the right wing, accelerating with startling speed.

The missile tracked squarely in front of the lead bomber's cockpit, crossing left to right at a twenty-degree angle, spewing red-orange flame and trailing a shroud of billowing white smoke.

Fox Two! Karns yelled as he reduced power and rapidly dropped astern, glancing back to see what action the Russian fighters would take, if any.

The Mig-29s immediately moved closer to the bombers.

The Mig flight leader was bouncing all over the sky in and out of burner a million synapses taking place as his charges settled down from the shock.

That was a tad close, old chap, Cangemi said with a trace of anxiety in his voice.

The lead Russian bomber began a shallow turn to the right as the Backfires flew through the plume of white smoke generated by the air-to-air missile.

Perhaps so, Karns replied, nerves keyed in anticipation of a retaliatory action. It appears as if Ivan got the message, the dense bastards.

Just another fun day at the office, Hershberger chimed in as he closed on his flight leader.

The six Soviet warplanes slowly turned in the direction of the Barents Sea, as the four Tomcats escorted the intruders away from the battle group. The Russians would return to their base at Olenegorsk, near Murmansk, on Kola Peninsula.

Captain Linnemeyer heard the radio transmissions from Gunfighter One and began to breathe quietly. He raised his microphone, paused a moment, then spoke to the pilots.

Nice work, the CO said to the pilots and RIOS, a smile spreading across his unshaven face. Stay with them until the two-hundred mark and RTB.

Rog, two hundred and return to base, Karns acknowledged as the F-14s slowly drifted into combat spread one mile astern of the withdrawing Russian aircraft.

Linnemeyer turned toward Admiral Mckenna, who had joined him in CIC only moments before, and gave a thumbs up signal.

Good job. Captain, Mckenna said. How about joining me for breakfast?

Linnemeyer smiled. Yes sir.

Well, Comrade Major Vladyka, Torgovnik said in a controlled and barely

audible voice, that should dispel the myth of American

nonconfrontational behav

It is not a myth. Comrade. We have well-researched intelligence from reliable sources, Vladyka blurted in a voice two octaves higher than normal.

The zampolit was trying to digest the unexpected missile encounter.

I assure you. Colonel Torgovnik, the Americans will be tested to the limit in the forthcoming days.

Torgovnik and his copilot exchanged concerned looks but didn't reply.

The CO and Admiral Mckenna were just sitting down in the Flag Bridge, about to enjoy breakfast and discuss the recent Soviet encounter, when an aide discreetly informed the two officers of the impending recovery of the Tomcats.

Great, Admiral Mckenna said to the lieutenant. Greg, what say we step outside and watch them land?

Yes sir. Helluva job this morning, replied Linnemeyer.

The Tomcats, joined in a flight of four, passed off the starboard side of the ship at 400 knots as they approached the break.

Both men, smiling to themselves, noticed the F-14s were in perfect formation. The morning sun, creeping through the ragged rain clouds, glinted off the canopies.

Nice, Mckenna remarked.

****** I can't believe Frog found the boat again, Cangemi chided the flight leader, Karns.

Everyone respected Karns and liked his sense of humor.

Although he was an excellent aviator, his friends still enjoyed kidding him about the time when he was still a lieutenant (junior grade) and he screwed up a terrain reconnaissance mission off the USS Coral Sea, missed the rendezvous point with the boat, ran out of fuel, and ditched five miles astern of the carrier.

Thus, Frogman became his nickname as a nugget pilot in the fleet.

His trip to Fighter Town USA, Top Gun School, had earned him the call sign Gunfighter.

You marines never change, Karns replied to Cangemi, years and years of tradition, unhampered by progress.

Gun One, four for the break, Karns radioed PRI-FLY, the carrier's control tower.

Cleared for the break, Guns, responded the assistant air boss. Good show.

Karns slapped the Tomcat's control stick hard left, pulling 4.5-Gs, as he eased back on the twin throttles and swept the wings forward for landing.

Each succeeding F-14 snapped into a fangs-out knife-edge break at four-second intervals a beautiful display of precision flying by some of the best-trained pilots in the world.

Well, Animal, think you can get that beauty aboard in one piece?

Karns laughed over the radio as he started his descent out of 800 feet and turned toward the carrier.

Oh yeah, if you don't foul the deck with your wreckage, responded Cangemi, laughter in his voice.

Tomcat, ball, three point seven, Karns radioed the landing signal officer as he rechecked gear down, flaps down, and tailhook down.

The mandatory radio call informed the LSO of the approaching aircraft type, whether the pilot spotted the bright yellow ball of light reflected in the Fresnel lens (the primary visual aid to assist the pilot in maintaining the proper glide path/descent rate) and the fuel state of the aircraft. Fuel was always a critical item during inclement weather and night landings. A missed trap, resulting in a go-around, could cost a pilot hundreds of pounds of the precious jet fuel and reduce his options dramatically.

The LSO would monitor each approach, offer advice if things went awry, and, if need be, wave off a pilot if his approach got completely out of shape.

Roger, ball, keep it comin', the LSO said to Karns, a fellow squadron pilot and close friend.

Hang on. Bone, Karns said to his RIO as the Tomcat whistled over the round-down of the carrier at 140 miles per hour.

I'll never get used to this... replied Bonicelli as the F-14 slammed onto the flight deck and stopped in less than 250 feet. Karns moved the throttles to military power at the moment of touchdown, in case the tailhook skipped the arresting wires. A missed wire would necessitate a go-around, a bolter in naval aviation terminology.

A trap aboard an aircraft carrier was so nerve-wracking and violent that many pilots compared the experience to having a fantastic sexual encounter and a car wreck simultaneously.

As the last fighter hit the deck and screeched to a halt, the Dee started a turn toward a northwesterly heading.

Well, Greg, how about breakfast, before it gets too cold? Admiral Mckenna asked Linnemeyer.

Sure, I'm famished, the CO responded, knowing he needed a shave and shower. Short night.

As Linnemeyer and Mckenna sat down to the fresh pineapple, ham, eggs, and toast, the CIC discreet phone rang.

Linnemeyer watched as the admiral answered the phone, listened a moment, frowned, and said, I'll be there in a minute.

The admiral looked at Linnemeyer. Damnit, Greg. The Viking has picked up two subs, both with Russian signatures.

One is twelve miles off our port bow, and the other one is seven miles astern.

Mckenna stood up, tossed his napkin on the table, then reached for his cover. Let's go back to general quarters and find out what the hell is going on out here.

The admiral's Irish temper was beginning to flare.

Chapter
Two.