electronic equipment, which would be triggered automatically by sensors in their tail fins. When they entered the theoretical arc of the Hawkeyes' radar range, transponders in their noses clicked on.
USS NIMITZ
"Radar contacts! Designate Raid-1, bearing three-four-niner, range four-six-zero miles. Numerous contacts, count one-four-zero contacts, course one-seven-five, speed six hundred knots."
The master tactical scope plotted the contacts electronically, and a pair of plexiglass plates showed another visual display.
"So, here they come," Baker said quietly. "Right on time. Comments?"
"I--" Toland didn't get a chance.
The computer display went white.
"Clipper Base, this is Hawk-Three. We're getting some jamming," reported the senior airborne control officer. "We plot six, possibly seven jammers, bearing three-four-zero to zero-three-zero. Pretty powerful stuff. Estimate we have stand-off jammers, but no escort jammers. Contacts are lost for the present. Estimate burn-through in ten minutes. Request weapons free, and release to vector intercepts."
Baker looked over to his air operations officer. "Let's get things started."
Air/Ops nodded and picked up a microphone. "Hawk-Three, this is Clipper Base. Weapons free. I say again, weapons are free. Release authority is granted. Splash me some bombers. Out."
Svenson frowned at the display. "Admiral, we're coming about to clear decks. Recommend the formation stays together now." He got a nod. "Clipper Fleet, this is Clipper Base, come left to two-seven-zero. Launch all remaining aircraft. Execute."
On the single command, the formation made a hundred-eighty-degree left turn. Those ships that did not as yet have missiles on their launchers rectified this. Fire-control radars were trained north, but kept in standby mode. Thirty different captains waited for the word to activate.
NORTH ATLANTIC
She was pissed off. Sure, she thought, I'm good enough to fly. I'm good enough to be an instructor pilot for the Eagle. Engineering test pilot, assistant project officer for the ASAT program--I'm good enough to get an invite to Houston, even--but will they let me fly combat? No, there's a war going on and I'm nothing but a Goddamned ferry pilot!
"Shit." Her name was Amy Nakamura. She was a major, United States Air Force, with three thousand hours of jet time, two-thirds of it in F-15s. Short and stocky like many fighter pilots, only her father had ever called her beautiful. He also called her Bunny. When her fellow pilots found that one out, they shortened it to Buns. She and three men were ferrying four brand-new Eagle fighters to Germany where others--men!--would get to use them properly. They each carried fast-pack conformal fuel tanks to make the trip in one long hop, and for self-defense a single Sidewinder missile, plus their usual load of 20mm cannon shells. The Russians let women fly combat in World War II! she thought. A couple even made ace!
"Hey, Buns, check your three o'clock!" called her wingman.
Nakamura had phenomenal eyesight, but she could scarcely believe it. "Tell me what you see, Butch."
"Badgers ... ?"
"Fuckin' Tu-16 Badgers--taldyho! Where's the Navy supposed to be?"
"Close. Try and raise 'em, Buns!"
"Navy task force, Navy task force, this is Air Force ferry flight Golf-Four-Niner. We are eastbound with four Foxtrot-One-Fives. We have a visual on a Russian bomber formation position--shit, do you read, over?"
"Who the hell is that?" a Hawkeye crewman asked aloud.
The communications technician answered, "Golf-Four-Niner, we need authentication. November Four Whiskey." This could be a Russian playing radio games.
Major Nakamura swore to herself as she ran her finger down the list of communication codes. There! "Alpha Six Hotel."
"Golf-Four-Niner, this is Navy Hawk-One, say your position. Warning, we are calling in the clans on those Badgers. You'd better get clear, acknowledge."
"Like hell, Navy, I got visual on three-plus Badgers northbound, position forty-nine north, thirty-three east."
"Northbound?" the intercept officer said. "Golf, this is Hawk-One. Confirm your visual. Say again your visual."
"Hawk-One, this is Golf, I now have a dozen Badger, say again Tango-Uniform-One-Six bombers visual, south of my position, heading toward me and closing fast. We are engaging. Out."
"Nothing on radar, boss," the radar operator said. "That's way the hell north of here."
"Then what the hell is he talking about?"
Major Amelia "Buns" Nakamura reached down without looking to toggle up her missile and head-up display to tactical. Then she flipped the switch for her air-intercept radar. Her IFF system interrogated the target as a possible friendly and came up blank. That was enough.
"Frank, take your element east. Butch, follow me. Everybody watch your fuel states. Charge!"
The Badger pilots were a little too relaxed, now that the most dangerous part of their mission was behind them. They didn't spot the four American fighters until they were less than a mile