Red Storm Rising (1986) (93 page)

Ground-based Soviet radar detected the Hawkeyes even before their powerful systems went active. They could see two of the slow propeller-driven aircraft hovering beyond SAM range, each accompanied by two other aircraft whose extended figure-eight-course tracks denoted them as Tomcat interceptors guarding the Hawkeyes. The alarm was sounded. Fighter pilots boarded their aircraft while missile and gun crews raced to their stations.

The fighter-force commander was a major with three kills to his credit—but who had learned the virtue of caution the hard way. He’d been shot down once already. The Americans had sprung one trap on his regiment and he had no wish to participate in a second. If this was an attack and not a feint to draw out what fighters remained on Iceland—how would he know? He reached his decision. On the major’s command, the fighters lifted off, climbed to twenty thousand feet, and orbited over the peninsula, conserving their fuel and remaining over land, where they could be supported by friendly SAMs. They had exercised carefully the previous few days with these tactics, and were as confident as they could be that the missile crews could distinguish between friendly and unfriendly aircraft. When they got to altitude, their radar threat receivers told them of more American Hawkeyes to the east and west. The information was relayed home with a request for a strike by the Backfires. What they got back was a request to identify the American fleet’s location and composition. The airbase commander didn’t bother forwarding that. The Soviet fighter commander swore under his breath. The American radar aircraft were prime targets, and tantalizingly within reach. With a full regiment, he’d streak after them and risk losses from their fighter escorts, but he was sure that that was precisely what the Americans were hoping he’d do.

 

The Intruders went in first, skimming above the wavetops from the south at five hundred knots, Standard-ARM missiles hanging from their wings. More Tomcat fighters were behind them at high altitude. When the fighters passed the radar aircraft, they illuminated the circling MiGs with their radars and began to fire off Phoenix missiles.

The MiGs couldn’t ignore them. The Soviet fighters separated into two-plane elements and scattered, coached from their ground-based radar controllers.

The Intruders popped up at a range of thirty miles, just outside range of the SAMs, and loosed four Standard-ARM missiles each, which homed in on the Russian search radars. The Russian radar operators faced a cruel choice. They could leave their search radars on and almost certainly have them destroyed or turn them off and lessen the chance—and completely lose track of the overhead air battle. They chose a middle ground. The Soviet SAM commander ordered his men to flip their systems on and off at random intervals, hoping to confuse the incoming missiles while keeping tenuous coverage of the incoming strike. The missile flight time was just over a minute, and most of the radar crews took the time to switch their systems off and leave them off—each misunderstanding the order in the most advantageous manner.

The Phoenixes arrived first. The MiG pilots suddenly lost their ground-control guidance, but kept maneuvering. One aircraft had four missiles targeted, and evaded two missiles only to blunder into another one. The major in command swore at his inability to hit back as he tried to think of something that would work.

Next came the Standard-ARMs. The Russians had three air-search radars and three more for missile-acquisition. All had been turned on when the first alarm sounded, then all had gone black after the missiles had been detected in the air. The Standards were only partially confused. Their guidance systems had been designed to record the position of a radar in case it did go off the air, and they homed in on those positions now. The missiles killed two transmitters entirely and damaged two others.

The American mission commander was annoyed. The Russian fighters were not cooperating. They hadn’t come out even when the Intruders had popped up—he’d had more fighters waiting low for that eventuality. But the Soviet radars were down. He gave the next order. Three squadrons of F/A-18 Hornets streaked in low from the north.

The Russian air-defense commander ordered his radars back on, saw that no more missiles were in the air, and soon picked up the low-flying Hornets. The MiG commander saw the American attack aircraft next, and with them, his chance. The MiG-29 was a virtual twin to the new American aircraft.

The Hornets sought out the Russian SAM launchers and began to launch their guided weapons at them. Missiles crisscrossed the sky. Two Hornets fell to missiles, two more to guns, as the American fighter-bombers scoured the ground with bombs and gunfire. Then the MiGs arrived.

The American pilots were warned, but were too close to their bombing targets to react at once. Once free of their heavy ordnance, they were fighters again, and climbed into the sky—they feared MiGs more than missiles. The resulting air battle was a masterpiece of confusion. The two aircraft would have been hard to distinguish sitting side by side on the ground. At six hundred knots, in the middle of battle, the task was almost impossible, and the Americans, with their greater numbers, had to hold fire until they were sure of their targets. The Russians knew what they were attacking, but they too shrank from shooting with abandon at a target that looked too much like a comrade’s aircraft. The result was a swarming mix of fighters closing to a range too short for missiles, as pilots sought positive target identification, an anachronistic gun duel punctuated by surface-to-air missiles from the two surviving Russian launchers. Controllers on the American aircraft and the Russian ground station never had a chance to direct matters. It was entirely in the hands of the pilots. The fighters went to afterburner and swept into punishing high-g turns while heads swiveled and eyes squinted at familiar shapes while trying to decide if the paint scheme was friendly or not. That part of the task was fairly even. The American planes were haze-gray and harder to spot, allowing easier target identification at long range than at short. Two Hornets died first, followed by a MiG. Then another MiG fell to cannon fire, and a Hornet to a snap-shot missile. An errant SAM exploded a MiG and a Hornet together.

The Soviet major saw that and screamed for the SAMs to hold fire; then he fired his cannon at a Hornet blazing across his nose, missed, and turned to follow him. He watched the American close for a high-deflection shot on a MiG-29 and damage its engine. The major didn’t know how many of his aircraft were left. It was beyond that. He was engaged in a struggle for personal survival—which he expected to lose. Caution faded to nothing as he closed on afterburner and ignored his low-fuel-state light. His target turned north and led him over the water. The major fired his last missile and then watched it track right into the Hornet’s right engine as his own engines flamed out. The Hornet’s tail fragmented and the major screamed with delight as he and the American pilot ejected a few hundred meters apart.
Four kills,
the major thought.
At least I have done my duty.
He was in the water thirty seconds later.

 

Commander Davies crawled into his raft despite a broken wrist, cursing and blessing his luck at the same time. His first considered action was to activate his rescue radio. He looked around and saw another yellow raft a short distance away. It wasn’t easy paddling with one arm, but the other guy was paddling toward him. What came next was quite a surprise.

“You are prisoner!” The man was pointing a gun at him. Davies’s revolver was at the bottom of the sea.

“Who the hell are you?”

“I am Major Alexandr Georgiyevich Chapayev—Soviet Air Force.”

“Howdy. I’m Commander Gus Davies, U.S. Navy. Who got you?”

“No one get me! I run out of fuel!” He waved the gun. “And you are my prisoner.”

“Oh, horseshit!”

Major Chapayev shook his head. Like Davies, he was in a near-state of shock from the stress of combat and his close escape from death.

“Hold on to that gun, though, Major. I don’t know if there’re sharks around here or not.”

“Sharks?”

Davies had to think for a moment. The code name for that new Russian sub.
“Akula. Akula
in the water.”

Chapayev went pale.
“Akula?”

Davies unzipped his flight suit and tucked in his injured arm. “Yeah, Major. This is the third time I’ve had to go swimming. Last time I was on the raft for twelve hours, and I saw a couple of the Goddamned things. You got any repellant on your raft?”

“What?” Chapayev was really confused now.

“This stuff.” Davies dipped the plastic envelope in the water. “Let’s rope your raft to mine. Safer that way. This repellant stuff’s supposed to keep the
akula
away.”

Davies tried to secure the rafts one-handed and failed. Chapayev set the gun down to help. After being shot down once, then surviving an air battle, the major was suddenly obsessed with the idea of being alive. The idea of being eaten by a carnivorous fish horrified him. He looked over the side of the raft into the water.

“Christ, what a morning,” Davies groaned. His wrist was really hurting now.

Chapayev grunted agreement. He looked around for the first time and realized he couldn’t see land. Next he reached for his rescue radio and found that his leg was lacerated, the radio pocket on his flight suit ripped away in the ejection.

“Aren’t we two sorry sons of bitches,” he said in Russian.

“What’s that?”

“Where is land?” The sea had never looked so vast.

“About twenty-five miles that way, I think. That leg doesn’t look too good, Major.” Davies laughed coldly. “We must have the same kind of ejector seats. Oh, shit! This arm hurts.”

 

“Damn, what do you suppose that’s all about?” Edwards wondered aloud. They were too far away to hear anything, but they could not miss the smoke rising from Keflavik.

A more immediate concern was the squad of Russians now at the base of their hill. Nichols, Smith, and the four privates were spread out across a front of a hundred yards centered on Edwards, faces darkened, mainly squatting behind rocks and watching the Russians half a mile away.

“Doghouse, this is Beagle, and we got trouble here, over.” He had to call twice more to get an answer.

“What’s the problem, Beagle?”

“We got five or six Russians climbing our hill. They’re about six hundred feet below us, half a mile away. Also, what’s going on at Keflavik?”

“We have an air attack under way there, that’s all I know at the moment. Keep us posted, Beagle. I’ll see if I can send you some help.”

“Thank you. Out.”

“Michael?”

“Good morning. Glad one of us got a decent night’s sleep.” She sat down beside him, resting her hand on his leg, and the fear subsided for a moment.

 

“I’d swear I just saw some movement on the top there,” the platoon sergeant said.

“Let me see.” The lieutenant moved his powerful spotting glasses on the peak. “Nothing. Nothing at all. Maybe you saw a bird. Those little puffin things are all over the place.”

“Possibly,” the sergeant allowed. He was starting to feel guilty for sending Markhovskiy up there.
If this lieutenant had half a brain,
he thought,
he’d have sent a larger force, maybe led it himself, like an officer should.

“The air base is being heavily attacked.”

“Have you radioed in?”

“Tried to. They’re off the air at the moment.” There was concern in his voice. Sixty miles was too far for the small tactical radios. Their heavy VHF set reported into the air base. As much as he wanted to be with the patrol, the lieutenant knew his proper place was here. “Warn Markhovskiy.”

 

Edwards saw one of the Russians stop and fiddle with his walkie-talkie.
Tell him he’s climbing the wrong hill
—
tell him to come home to Mama.

“Keep your head down, babe.”

“What is it, Michael?”

“We got some people climbing this hill.”

“Who?” There was concern in her voice.

“Guess.”

“Skipper, they’re coming up for sure,” Smith warned over the radio.

“Yeah, I see that. Everybody got a good place?”

“
Lef
tenant, I strongly recommend that we let them get in very close before opening fire,” Nichols called.

“Makes sense, skipper,” Smith agreed on the same circuit.

“Okay. You got ideas, gentlemen, I want to hear them right away. Oh, yeah, I’ve called in for some help. Maybe we can get some air support.”

Mike pulled back on the charging handle of his rifle to make sure a round was chambered, set it on safe, then put the M-16 down. The Marines had all the hand grenades. Edwards had never been taught how to use them, and they frightened him.

Come on, fellows, just go the hell away and we’ll be glad to leave you alone.
They kept coming. Each paratrooper climbed slowly, rifle in one hand and the other hand grabbing or fending off rocks. They spent their time evenly looking up toward Edwards and down at their footing. Mike was truly frightened. These Russians were elite soldiers. So were his Marines—but he was not. He didn’t belong here. The other times he’d faced Russians, in Vigdis’s house, the terrifying incident with the helicopter, all those were behind him and for the moment forgotten. He wanted to run away—but what if he did? He’d earned the respect of his Marines, and could he throw that away and still live with himself? What of Vigdis—could he run away in front of her?
What are you most afraid of, Mike?

“Stay cool,” he muttered to himself.

“What?” Vigdis asked. She too was afraid, just from seeing his face.

“Nothing.” He tried to smile and half succeeded.
You can’t let her down, can you?

The Russians were now five hundred yards away and still well below them. Their approach became more cautious. There were six of them, and they moved two at a time, fanning out and no longer taking what looked to be the easy route to the top.