Red Storm Rising Part 61

"Don't look bad, Major," the sergeant a.s.sured her. A fragment from the exploding rocket motor had drilled a hole the size of a beer can right through her left wing, missing a fuel tank by three inches. "I can fix that in a couple of hours."

"You all right?" the Lockheed engineer asked.

"It blew, fifty feet away, and it just blew the h.e.l.l up. You were wrong, by the way. When they blow, it's pretty spectacular. Pieces all over the d.a.m.ned place. I was lucky I only caught one of them." It had scared the h.e.l.l out of the pilot, but she'd then had an hour to recover. Now she was just mad.

"Sorry, Major. Wish I could say more than that."

"Just have to try again," Buns said, looking up at the sky through the hole. "When's the next window?"

"Eleven hours, sixteen minutes."

"That's it, then." She walked into the building, then upstairs to the pilots' lounge. There was carpeting on the walls of the building for noise absorption. It also prevented serious injury to the pilots' fists.

KIROVSK, R.S.F.S.R.

Unhampered, the Radar Ocean Reconnaissance Satellite continued its...o...b..t, and on its next pa.s.s over the North Atlantic found itself looking down on a collection of nearly a hundred s.h.i.+ps in even columns. This must be the convoy their intelligence reports had told them about, the Russian a.n.a.lysts decided-and, they noted with satisfaction, it was out in the open, right where they could get at it.

Ninety minutes later, two regiments of missile-armed Backfire bombers, preceded by Bear-D search aircraft, lifted off the four airfields around Kirovsk, topped off their fuel tanks, and headed for the radar gap over Iceland.

USS REUBEN JAMES.

"So this is the surprise you have in store for them?" Calloway asked. He tapped some symbols on the main tactical-display scope.

Morris nodded thoughtfully. "So far we've sent most of the convoys across under EMCON-that's emission control-with their radars blacked out to make them hard to find. This time we're doing something a little different. This is the display from the SPS-49 radar-"

"That black monster atop the pilothouse?"

"Right. These symbols are Tomcats from the carrier America. This is a KC-135 tanker, and this baby here is an E-2C Hawkeye radar bird. The Hawkeye's radar is shut down. When Ivan shows up, he'll have to close to see what's here."

"But he already knows," Calloway objected.

"No, he knows there's a convoy around here somewhere. That's not good enough to launch missiles. All he knows for sure is that there is one operating SPS-49 radar. He'll have to light off his own radar to see what's on the water. If Mr. Bear does that, we see him, and we'll have fighters on his a.s.s so fast he'll never know what hit him."

"And if the Backfires don't come today?"

"Then we'll see them some other time. The Bears talk to submarines, too, Mr. Calloway. They are still worth killing."

ICELAND.

It was the first time they'd been bored. Edwards and his party had been terrified often enough, but never bored. Now they had been in the same place for four complete days, and still they had no orders to move. They observed, and reported minor Russian activity, but without anything substantive to do, time was heavy on them.

"Lieutenant." Garcia pointed up. "I got airplanes heading south."

Edwards got out his binoculars. The sky was dotted with white, fleecy clouds. There were no contrails to be seen today, but-there! he saw a flash, a reflection off something. He strained his eyes to identify it.

"Nichols, what do you think?" He handed the gla.s.ses over.

"That's a Russian Backfire," Nichols said simply.

"You sure?"

"Quite sure, Leftenant. I've seen them before often enough."

"Get a count." Edwards unpacked his radio.

"I only see four. All heading south, sir."

"You're sure they're Backfires?" Edwards persisted.

"I am b.l.o.o.d.y sure, Leftenant Edwards!" Nichols answered testily. He watched the officer turn on the radio.

"Beagle calling Doghouse, over." The communications station was a little slow today. It took three calls before they acknowledged.

"Doghouse, this is Beagle, and I have some information for you. We see Backfire-type bombers southbound over our position."

"How do you know they're Backfires?" Doghouse wanted to know.

"Because Sergeant Nichols of the Royal Marines says he's b.l.o.o.d.y sure they're Backfires. Four of them"-Nichols held up five fingers now-"correction five aircraft southbound."

"Roger, thank you, Beagle. Anything else happening?"

"Negative. How long do you expect us to sit on this hill, over?"

"We'll let you know. Patience, Beagle. We haven't forgotten you. Out."

NORTH ATLANTIC.

Bears advanced in an oblique line, their crews scanning the air with their eyes and probing the radar and radio frequencies. Presently the leading Bear detected the emissions of a single American radar, and it took only a minute to identify it as an SPS-49 air-search model of the type used by Perry-cla.s.s missile frigates. The technicians on board measured the signal's intensity and, plotting its position, judged that they were far outside the radar's detection range.

The raid commander riding in the third Bear received the information and compared it with his intelligence data for the convoy. The position was exactly in the middle of the circle he had drawn on his map. He was suspicious of things that were so exact. The convoy was taking a direct route to Europe? Why? Most convoys to date had taken a more evasive course, detouring far south to the Azores in order to force his aircraft to reach farther than they wanted-and thereby forcing the Backfires trailing the scouts to carry only one missile instead of two. Something was strange here. On his order, the patrol line reoriented itself to a north-south disposition and began reducing alt.i.tude to keep below the horizon of the American radar.

USS REUBEN JAMES.

"How far can you see?" Calloway asked.

"Depends on the alt.i.tude and size of the target, and atmospheric conditions," Morris answered, staring down from his chair to the electronic displays. Two Navy Tomcats were ready for combat. "For the Bear, at thirty thousand feet or so, we can probably spot it about two hundred fifty miles away. But the lower he flies, the closer he can get. Radar can't see through the horizon."

"But flying low will cost him fuel."

Morris looked down at the reporter. "Those d.a.m.ned things carry enough fuel to stay up all week," he exaggerated.

"Message from LANTFLT, Captain." The communications officer handed the form over: REPORT POSSIBLE BACKFIRE RAID SOUTHBOUND OVER ICELAND 1017z. Morris handed the message to his tactical action officer, who immediately looked at the chart.

"Good news?" Calloway asked. He had better sense than to ask to see the dispatch.

"We may be seeing Backfire bombers in a little over two hours."

"Shooting for the convoy?"

"No, probably they'll want to shoot at us first. They have a good four days to blast the convoy, and getting the escorts out of the way makes that job a lot easier."

"Are you concerned?"

Morris smiled thinly. "Mr. Calloway, I'm always concerned."

The captain reflexively checked the various status boards. All his weapons and sensor systems were fully operational-so nice to have a brand-new s.h.i.+p! The threat board showed no known submarine activity in the immediate area, a datum to be taken with a considerable bit of skepticism. He could call General Quarters now, but much of his crew was at lunch. Better to have everyone fed and alert.

The d.a.m.ned waiting, Morris thought. He watched the displays in silence. The blips indicating friendly aircraft orbited slowly as their pilots waited too.

"More CAP coming up," an officer reported. Another pair of Tomcats, part of the combat air patrol, appeared on the scope. America had gotten the same raid warning. The carrier was two hundred miles away, westbound for Norfolk. The same was true of Independence, returning from the Azores. The carriers had been at sea since the war began, cruising back and forth to avoid the orbiting Soviet ocean-reconnaissance satellites. They had been able to provide antisubmarine protection for a number of convoys, though only at great hazard to the carriers themselves. Up to now, the American flattops had not been able to act as they were supposed to act. They were not yet offensive weapons. The fate of the Nimitz group had come as a bitter lesson. Morris lit another cigarette. Now he remembered why he'd quit in the first place. Too many of them burned his throat, destroyed his sense of taste, and made his eyes water. On the other hand, they did give him something to do while he waited.

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 alt.i.tude. 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. He'd just heard someone speaking Russian; in code, but definitely Russian.

Within minutes, every s.h.i.+p 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.

USS REUBEN JAMES.

"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 ma.s.sive 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.