tc.redstormrising-第157部分

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　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　position。　The　air…base　mander　didn't　bother　forwarding　that。　The　Soviet　fighter　mander　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　pletely　lose　track　of　the　overhead　air　battle。　They　chose　a　middle　ground。　The　Soviet　SAM　mander　ordered　his　men　to　flip　their　systems　on　and　off　at　random　intervals；　hoping　to　confuse　the　ining　missiles　while　keeping　tenuous　coverage　of　the　ining　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　mand　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　mander　was　annoyed。　The　Russian　fighters　were　not　cooperating。　They　hadn't　e　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　mander　ordered　his　radars　back　on；　saw　that　no　more　missiles　were　in　the　air；　and　soon　picked　up　the　low…flying　Hornets。　The　MiG　mander　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　rade'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…fuelstate　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。
mander　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　mander　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　bat　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　stuffs　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