USS DWIGHT D. EISENHOWER, North Atlantic—January
The Nimitz-class carrier plunged through foaming troughs, sending showers of cold spray over the bow, as dawn began to light the gray sky.
The constant rolling motion of the mammoth ship sent torrents of icy seawater pouring through open flight deck elevator doors. A river of water flowed the length of the hangar deck, mixing with oil and hydraulic fluid, before returning to the open sea from the aft elevator platforms.
The aircraft handling crews were having difficulty keeping their footing as they attempted to secure aircraft sent below at the completion of flight operations.
Lt. Cmdr. Frank Stevens leaned closer to the radar plot in the CIC, the Combat Information Center. The Hawkeye early warning aircraft, nicknamed “Hummer,” had just informed him of unidentified “bogies” approaching the battle group.
Frowning, Stevens watched the radar blips approaching from the northeast on a direct course to the battle group. He strained harder to focus on the images displayed by the luminescent scope. The tension was stretching his nerves. Unidentified, in this region, meant Russian.
CIC, the brains of the “Ike” during any hostile action, was a myriad of radar scopes, cathode ray tubes, and see-through luminescent plotting boards. The room was lit by soft red light. A group of enlisted men stood behind a transparent plastic screen, writing backwards with yellow greasepencils, providing constant updates on the status of aircraft and escort ships. The glowing letters and numerals, seeming to appear by magic, changed continually as various commands checked in with fuel and ordnance reports.
Stevens stared at the glowing scope. The radar repeater cast a sallow, green reflection on his taut face as he pressed his microphone transmission button.
“Stingray, this is Tango Fox,” Stevens radioed the Grumman E-2C Hawkeye.
“Roger, Tango Fox. Stand by,” replied the officer in command of the Hawkeye’s airborne tactical data system team.
The “Miniwacs” Hawkeye, always the first fixed-wing aircraft airborne and the last one to land, had been circling the Eisenhower at 24,000 feet for two and a half hours. The big twin-turboprop, with its enormous rotodome, was absolutely critical to the carrier and accompanying battle group.
The Hawkeye’s radar provided the capability to detect approaching aircraft and cruise missiles, in addition to surface craft, at ranges up to 260 miles, thus making it difficult for aggressors to penetrate the defenses of the fleet.
Stevens paused, a trickle of perspiration running down the inside of his right arm. “Navigation, CIC. What is our position?” Stevens requested through the intercom system.
“Sir, our present position is seventy nautical miles due north of Faeroe Island, two hundred ten miles below the Arctic Circle,” replied the navigation watch officer, roused from his paperback by the unexpected request.
Stevens was debating his options when the Hawkeye commander responded.
“Tango Fox, Tango Fox, this is Stingray,” the voice exploded from the overhead speakers. “We have confirmation on the bogies. Appears to be two Russian Backfire bombers, bearing zero-two-zero, two hundred forty at angels four-three. They’re descending with a fighter escort of three, possibly four, aircraft. Acknowledge.”
“Roger, Stingray,” replied Stevens. “We’re launching Ready CAP One at this time, call sign ‘Gunfighter’ on button seven.”
“Okay, Tango Fox, better have ’em move it out. These guys are closing at the speed of heat!”
The standby combat air patrol (CAP) pilots, Lt. Cmdr. Doug “Frogman” Karns, Gunfighter One, and Lt. (jg) Steve Hershberger, along with their radar intercept officers (RIOs), reacted swiftly to the urgent blaring of the launch signal in their ready room.
The aircrew ready rooms, directly below the flight deck, were adjacent to the F-14D Tomcat fighter planes poised for launch on the two forward catapults.
Lt. Rick Bonicelli, the RIO for Karns, and Lt. Cmdr. Gordon “Gator” Kavanaugh scrambled into the rear cockpits of their respective jets and began the demanding task of spinning-up the navigation and armament panels.
As the RIOs worked on the complex weapons systems, Karns and Hershberger were strapping in and starting their twin General Electric turbofans. The new generation engines, collectively producing over fifty-eight thousand pounds of thrust, could power the Grumman multi-role fighters past Mach 2 plus—over 1,600 miles per hour.
Each Tomcat was equipped with six advanced air-to-air missiles, along with a 20-mm M61 Vulcan cannon for hosing-down targets at close range.
“Launch the CAP! Launch the CAP!” the hollow voice reverberated over the flight deck.
“Jesus, Bone, why didn’t we go to medical school like normal people?” Karns laughed over the intercom (ICS) to Bonicelli. “Canopy coming down.”
“Yeah, Froggy, this is another fine mess you’ve gotten us into,” responded Bonicelli with a nervous laugh. “I’ve got a bulletin for you, Frog. Our radar isn’t comin’ up.”
“Figures. Only works when we don’t need it,” replied Karns in his usual, relaxed manner. “If it goes tits up, Bone, we’ll pass the lead to Hersh and go visual.”
“Rog.”
The sophisticated AWG-9 weapons control system in the Tomcat, augmented by the supersensitive radar, could detect and count engine turbine fan blades in approaching aircraft at a range of over a hundred miles.
“You up, Two?” Karns called over the radio to Hershberger, flying Gunfighter Two.
“Oh yeah, Frog, we’re go.” Hershberger glanced at the forbidding sky and angry sea. “Beautiful day for flying.”
The fighter pilots and their RIOs, racing to get airborne, had no idea who or what the adversary might be. Their mission was to “scramble” off the carrier as quickly as possible, then confront the unknown gomers. The anxiety level was high and the aircrews tried to dispel their apprehension with light banter.
The Ike was straining and groaning in the turbulent ocean to maintain a twenty-seven-knot speed into the wind. The fighters had to take off and land into the wind, as they would from a shore-base runway, and the carrier steamed as fast as possible to assist the aircraft in getting airborne.
The enormous collisions between ship and thirty-foot ocean swells sent cold spray raining down on the F-14 canopies, obscuring the pilots’ vision in the semidawn and low cloud cover. The flying conditions were abominable.
The yellow-shirted catapult officer signaled for the deckedge operator to take tension on the F-14 piloted by Karns. At the same time a green light from PRI-FLY, the control tower of the carrier, indicated clearance to launch the two fighters.
“You ready, Bone?” Karns asked as he advanced the twin throttles to military power, then into afterburner. The aircraft was straining and vibrating under the tremendous thrust of the big GE turbofans.
“Actually, I was really looking forward to breakfast,” Bonicelli responded with a chuckle.
“I s’pose you want me to call room service,” laughed Karns as he snapped off a salute to the cat officer, signifying that his Tomcat was developing full power and ready for launch. The catapult blast deflectors, now raised behind the F-14s, were glowing cherry red from the tremendous heat of the powerful engines.
The statement abruptly ended as the cat officer leaned forward and touched the flight deck, sending a signal to the deckedge operator, who pressed the launch button.
The Tomcat, engulfed in swirling clouds of superheated steam, exploded down the catapult track in a thundering roar.
Helmets pressed back into head restraints. Breathing was impossible, even with masks supplying 100 percent oxygen. Eyeballs flattened, causing momentary tunnel vision and a graying-out effect. The excruciating G-forces rendered the crew semiconscious during the violent launch.
The catapult stroke hurled the 70,000-pound fighter plane from zero to 170 miles per hour in two and a half seconds. The sensation was impossible to imagine without experiencing it firsthand.
“Good shot,” Karns said, snapping the landing gear handle up. His breathing and pulse rates were returning to normal.
“Are we still alive?” Bonicelli asked, happy to have lived through another launch in abysmal weather conditions.
The Tomcat continued to accelerate in afterburner as Bonicelli looked back over his left shoulder. He glimpsed Dash Two accelerating down the catapult.
“I’ve got a visual on Hersh—off the cat, closing,” reported Bonicelli, as Karns cleaned up the Tomcat and swept back the variable-geometry wings.
“Okay, Gunfighters, let’s go button seven and talk with the saucer,” Karns said into his radio as his wingman smoothly slid into a loose parade formation.
“Two,” replied Hershberger in the abbreviated style the fighter jocks had developed during the Korean conflict.
“Stingray, Gunfighter One up, flight of two, six missiles each, state seventeen point two,” Karns said as he advanced the throttles to continue the climb now that his wingman was aboard.
“Roger, Gunfighter. Initial heading zero-two-two at one hundred ninety-five. Bogies descending out of angels three-eight and indicating four hundred sixty knots.”
“Okay, Stingray, we’re outa’ twenty-one and a half. Stand by one.
“You got anything on the radar?” Karns queried Bonicelli, hoping the gremlins had vanished from the intricate black boxes required to see the enemy at long range.
“Sorry, boss. The tube is down for the count,” Bonicelli replied, thinking about all the imbroglios the flight crews had gone through with avionic technicians.
“Hersh, you and Gator have a lock?” Karns urgently asked.
“That’s affirm, Frog. Want us to take the lead?” replied Hershberger, realizing the flight would rendezvous with the Soviet aircraft in eight minutes.
“Yeah, Hersh, take the lead and let’s go combat spread,” Karns directed, as he passed control of the intercept to the Tomcat with the functioning radar system.
“Stingray, we’ve switched the lead to Dash Two. Our radar is bogus,” Karns stated with a trace of irritation in his normally relaxed voice.
“Understand, Gunfighter.” The Hawkeye coordinator had a tense, controlled voice. “Targets at zero-two-four, one hundred ninety, descending out of angels three-four. We confirm two Backfires and a flight of four fighters.”
From the repeater television screen in CIC, Lieutenant Commander Stevens had watched the CAP Tomcats roar off the pitching deck, shrouded in clouds of catapult steam.
Stevens, lifting his phone handset, swiveled in his chair and punched the code to connect him with the commanding officer.
The CO, Capt. Greg Linnemeyer, was exhausted. He had fallen into a deep sleep after a strenuous night supervising air operations.
“Captain,” a groggy voice responded.
“Captain, this is Frank Stevens, the watch officer in CIC. We have a situation developing that I believe you need to be aware of.”
“Alright, Frank,” replied Linnemeyer in a raspy voice, “what’s the problem?”
“Well, sir, we launched the CAP. They are intercepting two Russian Backfire bombers and four escort fighters. We haven’t had any conf—”
“Goddamn,” Linnemeyer interrupted tersely, “go to general quarters, launch Ready Two CAP, and notify the battle group commander. I’ll be in CIC in five minutes.”
Linnemeyer juggled the phone, almost dropping it, as he transferred the receiver to his left ear, the ear not so damaged by years of jet engine noise. “How far out are the Russian aircraft?”
“Sir, the bogies are …” Stevens leaned over to see the latest plot, “one hundred eighty at zero-two-two, descending from three-three-zer—”
“Move it, Frank!” Linnemeyer brusquely concluded the conversation, slamming the phone receiver down and reaching for his work khakis.
“I’ve got a tally,” Karns radioed to Hershberger and Kavanaugh. Stingray was also monitoring the frequency.
The F-14s had broken out of the overcast, rain-filled clouds into a bright blue sky blazing with early morning sunlight. Karns could see the Russian aircraft seven miles ahead.
“Looks as if Ivan is angling slightly away from the carrier,” Karns said as the Tomcats rapidly closed the distance between the Soviet and American aircraft.
“I’ve got the lead,” Karns radioed Hershberger as he resumed command of the flight.
“Rodney,” replied Gunfighter Two, deliberately foregoing the traditional “Roger.”
“Two, you fall in behind the shooters and we’ll take the heavies,” Karns instructed his wingman.
“Good plan, Frog,” responded Hershberger, apprehension straining his voice. “I’m glad we’ve got ’em surrounded.”
Gunfighter Two gently moved to a position behind and to the left of the Soviet fighters. Hershberger never took his eyes off the MiGs as his thumb caressed the control stick firing button.
“Just like in the movies,” Kavanaugh said over the ICS to the pilot of Gunfighter Two.
“These Russkies are stubborn,” Karns reported to the Eisenhower’s Combat Information Center.
Stevens paused, frowning. “Gunfighter, Tango Fox, say again.” The CIC officer, noticing his palms were wet, waited for a reply from the CAP pilots.
“Ahh, we joined on the inside and they keep turning into us. It’s barely discernable, a degree or two at a time,” Karns replied as he quickly looked over at the Soviet aircraft. “This isn’t their normal style. With four shooters tagging along, this could turn into a real furball.”
The F–14 flown by Karns and Bonicelli inched closer to the huge, menacing bombers as Karns felt a warm, damp sensation spreading across his forehead under the padded helmet liner.
“Bone, I think these guys are serious,” the pilot said to his radar intercept officer.
“No shit!”
“Okay, Gunfighters, check switches safe,” Karns radioed his wingman. “Can’t afford a screwup and trigger an international flap.”
“Yeah,” Bonicelli replied over the intercom, “let alone get our asses smoked.”
“Two’s safe,” responded Hershberger as he slowly drifted back and forth behind the four MiG–29 fighters, NATO codenamed Fulcrum.
The Russians had begun deployment of the Mach 2 Mikoyan-Gurevich-29 advanced fighters in 1985 and by 1990 the Fulcrum, along with the newest MiG–31 Foxhound, were formidable opponents for the American pilots and their fighter-interceptors.
The new generation Russian fighters, and their highly trained pilots, were a serious concern at “Top Gun” and “Red Flag” fighter weapons schools.
TUPOLEV Tu-26 “BACKFIRE” BOMBER
Col. Istvan I. Torgovnik nervously watched the American fighter plane off his left wing as he deftly used his flight controls to swing the Backfire bomber slowly toward the American fleet.
“Ah, Comrade Colonel, you appear tentative. We must remember our orders from Air Marshal Khatchadovrian.” The small man with the large, scraggly mustache leaned closer to the pilot as he spoke.
“Do not worry. The inept Americans will not interfere,” boasted Maj. Fulvio Fedorovich Vladyka, the political officer assigned to this sensitive mission.
“An assumption, Fulvio Fedorovich,” replied the command pilot. “We have never tested the Americans in this manner. We cannot guess their response.”
Torgovnik watched the major out of the corner of his eye, testing his own convictions. The political officer did not respond.
“This action, Comrade Major, is not within our defined operating doctrine. In addition,” continued Torgovnik, thinking about the implications of his actions as reported by this insubordinate and thoroughly disgusting zampolit, “I have the responsibility for our six aircraft and these superior aircrews to think—”
“You will remember, Comrade Colonel, it is I who have responsibility for the success of this mission. You will obey the orders to probe the American defensive reactions.”
Torgovnik inwardly flinched, despising Vladyka for talking down to him in front of his crew. The offensive little political officer went on in his deriding manner.
“Besides, Comrade Colonel, this operation, if successfully conducted, could see you achieve general officer status. Perhaps your own car and a dacha near your operational sector.”
“Yes, Fulvio Fedorovich, I realize the significance of this task,” replied Torgovnik, thinking about the onerous situation that would develop if he was deemed responsible for botching the operation. Besides, Torgovnik smiled, when I am a general officer, I will crush this impudent bastard.
Captain Linnemeyer rushed into CIC, slightly disheveled, and requested a cup of coffee.
“What’s the current status?” the captain asked the distraught CIC officer.
“The CAP has rendezvoused with the Soviet aircraft. They are approaching the one hundred-ten-mile mark, sir,” responded Stevens.
“The Ready Two CAP is airborne, closing on … should be joining Cap One in two minutes,” he added nervously. “Also, sir, we have a tanker airborne and a spare Viking on the number one cat. Two more Fourteens are ready.”
Stevens paused to look at his status boards. “The escort ships are closing in, sir. No sub activity detected at this time.”
“Sounds good,” Linnemeyer replied, sipping the scalding coffee, while he observed that all hands were at their respective battle stations.
The CO, a qualified naval aviator, had come up the hard way. A former enlisted man, Linnemeyer left the Navy after his initial hitch and returned to college. After graduating summa cum laude from Northwestern University, the short, wiry, twenty-five-year-old placed his hard-earned business degree on the shelf and returned to the Navy.
Rear Adm. Donald S. G. McKenna, the task force commander embarked aboard the Ike, had been awakened by the general quarters alarm and was now in Flag Plot. A steady stream of information was being digested by the carrier’s skipper and McKenna.
“Ivan is setting a new precedent,” Admiral McKenna said to Captain Linnemeyer as a steward knocked quietly on the door, then entered the spacious staff cabin reserved for the battle group commander.
“Greg, they are obviously trying to provoke us, test our defenses and reactions. I’ll get off a Flash Message to the commander -in-chief of the Atlantic Fleet and the NATO commander. We don’t have a lot of time.”
The admiral paused, waiting for a response.
“You agree, Greg?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the skipper of the Ike, “but we’d better show some resolve if they break fifty miles.”
“I concur. How do you think CINCLANT will respond?” the admiral asked.
“Order us to fire a warning shot. Shoot a missile in front of the lead bomber at fifty nautical miles, and, if they don’t break off by thirty, to blow their asses out of the sky,” Linnemeyer responded in a dry, matter-of-fact statement, void of any emotion.
“I hope so. We simply can not, should not, knuckle under to those arrogant bastards. Alert CIC,” the admiral directed as he reached for the phone to send an instant Flash Message to his superiors.
The Russian Tu-26 Backfire bombers continued to turn into the carrier slowly, a degree at a time. The tension was beginning to have an impact in the cockpits of Gunfighter One and Two. If the Soviet bombers, or their escort fighters, made any overt move, the Fox-Fourteen jockeys had no recourse. They had to wait for confirmation to destroy the invading aircraft, and, as the pilots knew, the order to kill could arrive too late.
This was not a routine, unescorted, flyover by a lone Bear bomber. This was an entirely new approach. A potential disaster in need of revised rules.
Gunfighter One was experiencing difficulty maintaining position on the Russian bombers. The flight of eight aircraft, bouncing around in turbulent air, had descended through a dense cloud cover. The weather conditions made formation flying difficult.
“Let’s spread out a little,” Karns radioed.
“Two,” replied Hershberger, as he drifted back another twenty yards behind the MiGs.
“They’re closing on our landing platform,” Karns said to his RIO, “and I don’t like it.”
“I read you,” responded Bonicelli. “That water looks colder every time I think about this gaggle.”
The backseater looked closely at the Russian bomber. “Let’s move in a little closer and I’ll ‘moon’ the bastards.”
“Right,” Karns replied with a laugh. “Why don’t you snap a few photos for our State Department people. This should be a real icebreaker on the cocktail circuit.”
Karns gently banked his Tomcat into the Soviet aircraft as Bonicelli shot a dozen pictures of the menacing warplanes approaching the American battle group.
McKenna turned to the Ike’s skipper. “Greg, who is the pilot in Gunfighter One?”
“Lieutenant Commander Doug Karns, sir. One of our best pilots and very experienced. He is the XO of One-forty-two and a fighter weapons grad,” replied Linnemeyer.
“Very good,” Admiral McKenna responded. “A Top Gun alumnus from the ‘Ghostriders.’
“We may have to place him in an awkward position, Greg,” the admiral continued as he glanced down at the activity on the busy flight deck.
“Comrade Colonel, now is the time to execute our penetration of the American fleet,” Major Vladyka urged from the cramped seat behind the command pilot.
“Yes, I agree, Fulvio Fedorovich,” Colonel Torgovnik replied tentatively. “We are inside one hundred kilometers from the carrier battle group. We must commit if this operation is to be successful.”
Torgovnik tried to sound and appear very much the party man and professional soldier to the political officer seated next to his ear, but the command pilot was confused about the sudden change in Soviet military doctrine. Kremlin policy, under glasnost and perestroika, asserted that military posture would be “defensive” in character.
Force levels had been maintained at a “reasonable sufficiency.” Why, Torgovnik thought, after the shocking change in party leadership, were they probing the Americans? Was it simply pokazuka, confronting U.S. forces for show?
The Soviet bomber pilot looked at his solemn copilot, then keyed his microphone. “Prepare to alter course.”
As Karns concentrated on maintaining position on the Soviet bombers, Animals One and Two, the Ready Two CAP, joined on Hershberger’s F-14D.
“Gunfighter lead, Animal Flight is aboard and the Texaco is airborne, two-three-zero for one ten, angels two-six. We have a full bag. Looks like you have ’em cornered,” Capt. Vince Cangemi, United States Marine Corps, checked in with Karns.
Cangemi, an exchange pilot, was spending a tour in a Navy fighter squadron, ostensibly to show the “squids” how to fly. He was flying lead in a second flight of Tomcats. The Marine fighter pilot, who normally flew the potent F/A-18 Hornet, enjoyed flying the big Grumman Tomcat. The F-14 had been a new challenge for him.
“Rog, Animal. Glad the cavalry could make it,” Karns chuckled, recognizing the call sign of Cangemi. “Thought you ‘jar-heads’ were s’posed to be the first to fight.”
The marine started to respond, then changed his mind as he focused on the Soviet aircraft.
“Back off about three hundred yards and confirm guns off, switches safe,” Karns instructed the Animals.
“That’s affirm, off and safe,” Cangemi answered.
“Two,” Lt. Tom Chaffee, USN, responded.
At that precise moment, the Russian bombers abruptly turned into the American fighters, forcing Karns to spiral inward or risk collision. Reacting with remarkable dexterity, Karns simultaneously rolled his fighter away from the bombers and radioed CIC.
“Tango Fox, Tango Fox, Gunfighter One! These crazy sonsa-bitches are makin’ a run at the battle group,” Karns shouted into his mask microphone. “I need permission to fire! Repeat, I need permission to splash ’em.”
“Roger, Gunfighter. Stand by,” the distant voice responded through Karns’s padded earphones.
Karns waited uncomfortably for a response to his urgent request, visualizing the odd group of individuals in the decisionmaking process.
“Guess the operator put us on ignore,” Bonicelli said over the intercom, breathing more rapidly than normal.
“Gunfighter, Tango Fox,” the staccato voice blurted. “You have permission to fire a warning shot at fifty DME. I repeat, you have permission to fire a Sidewinder in front of the bombers.
“If the Russians break thirty miles, shoot ’em down. Do you copy?” 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 multiaircraft 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 (DME) 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 Gun-fighter 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. “Yessir.”
“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?”
“Yessir. 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 Ike 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.