The Kremlin Strike

by Dale Brown

  Leonov frowned. He’d expected the American stealth aircraft to put up more of a fight, especially considering the slaughter they’d inflicted on the colonel’s fighter force in their first encounter. Instead, both engagements had been easy—more like target practice than real combat.

  Perhaps too easy?

  He leaned forward. “Sentry Lead, this is Warlord. Did either American aircraft attempt to evade your missiles? Or use flares to confuse them?”

  “Negative on that, Warlord,” Federov admitted.

  Leonov’s suspicions solidified into absolute certainty. “Those were more damned decoys, Colonel,” he snapped. “You and your pilots just shot down a pair of unmanned drones.”

  There was a long moment of static-filled silence.

  At last, Federov radioed. “Request further instructions, Warlord.”

  “Stand by, Sentry Lead,” Leonov growled. Before tonight’s clusterfuck, he would have rated the other man as one of his best regimental commanders. Now he was beginning to think the colonel would be much better suited to a considerably less challenging post . . . perhaps something like one of the remote weather stations far north of the Arctic Circle.

  Aware of Tikhomirov’s worried gaze, he studied the large map displayed on his screen. Tracks showed the last observed courses of all three downed American drones. His eyes narrowed. “Do you see the pattern, Semyon?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Leonov continued. “Our line of Su-35s came northeast at high speed with their radars active. Nothing could have slipped past them, correct?”

  Tikhomirov nodded.

  “So . . . Federov picked up that first enemy stealth aircraft heading southeast—crossing his path like a hare running from the hounds. Naturally, he turned after it . . .”

  “Into an ambush, probably conducted by those other two drones,” Tikhomirov realized.

  “Correct,” Leonov agreed. He tapped the two remaining tracks. “Both of which then veered off, one to the southwest and the other to the north . . . only to be caught and killed by our fighters.” He looked back at his deputy. “So what direction did the American stealth transport fly during all of this confusion?”

  Tikhomirov sighed. “Northeast, to stay as far away from Federov’s Super Flankers as possible.”

  “Exactly. And by now, it’s headed back toward the open sea.”

  Leonov sat back, contemplating his next moves. It was unlikely the Americans would try to break straight east. Doing so would mean crossing the Kamchatka Peninsula, flying right into the teeth of more S-400 SAM battalions and the MiG-31 interceptors based at Yelizovo. No, he decided, the safest and most logical escape route ran through the Kuril Islands, where Russia’s air surveillance and air defense were weakest. And if so, Federov’s fighters still had a chance to catch up with, detect, and destroy the enemy rescue aircraft before it reached safety. He reopened the circuit to the Su-35s. “Sentry Lead, this is Warlord. Listen closely. Here are your new orders . . .”

  Thirty-Eight

  Over the Sea of Okhotsk

  Thirty Minutes Later

  A lone Su-35S Super Flanker raced low across the moonlit sea, weaving back and forth in an S-shaped pattern to cover as much of the sky as possible with its passive infrared search-and-track system. The fighter’s IRST might have a very limited field of view compared to its nose-mounted phased-array radar, but at least it could be used without fear of detection by an enemy.

  Resolutely, Colonel Ivan Federov pressed on, gloomily aware that his continued command of the 23rd Fighter Aviation Regiment hung by a single, slender thread. Stripped to their essentials, his orders from Leonov were simple: find and kill that American stealth transport before it escaped . . . or face a court-martial for incompetence. To have any hope at all of doing that, he’d been forced to spread his remaining Su-35s across a wide front—dispersing them as single aircraft rather than deploying them in fighting pairs. Though that was a clear breach of both doctrine and sound tactics, it was also the only way his weakened force could cover every likely escape route.

  He’d chosen their most probable exit course for himself. These Americans had made him look like a fool at every turn. Only by personally shooting them down could he erase that stain.

  Federov’s head swiveled from side to side in the cockpit, checking every quadrant of the sky around his fighter for the slightest sign of movement. Besides the IRST, he could rely only on his own eyesight. And even a quick glimpse of stars occluded by the passage of another aircraft would be enough to set him on the right track.

  He got lucky.

  A tone sounded in his headset. The Su-35’s infrared sensors had picked out the heat emanating from an aircraft flying very, very low over the water. A new green diamond blinked into the middle of Federov’s HUD. Its range was still uncertain. Carefully, he tugged his stick to the right and then back to the left, initiating another quick, S-curved weave to triangulate on the contact. This maneuver gave his passive sensors enough information to determine that the American stealth aircraft was approximately forty kilometers ahead, still beyond the effective reach of his K-74M heat-seekers.

  For a moment, one of his fingers hovered over the radio button. Should he report this contact to Moscow and to the rest of his fighter force before engaging? No, he decided, it would be better to wait and signal a confirmed kill instead. If it were detected, a sighting report would only alert the Americans prematurely. Besides, the other Su-35s were too far away to intervene anyway. This was his fight. And his alone.

  Instead, Federov swung in behind the fleeing enemy aircraft. Propelled by its larger, more powerful engines, the Super Flanker closed the gap fast. His thumb moved to the control for the fighter’s radar. Very soon now, he would light the IRBIS-E up and pop a couple of radar-guided missiles right up the unsuspecting ass of that American son of a bitch.

  Wolf Six-Two

  That Same Time

  “Warning, warning, IR detection. Hostile aircraft at six o’clock. Range twenty miles and closing,” the Ranger’s computer said calmly.

  Reacting fast, Nadia cued one of her displays to their rear-facing thermal sensors. She checked the image it showed. “Hostile aircraft is an Su-35 Super Flanker,” she said tightly.

  “Well . . . bugger,” Vasey said reflectively. His eyes flicked across his own displays and the HUD. The Russian fighter had caught them squarely in the middle of the Sea of Okhotsk, far from any masking terrain features they could use to break contact. “We’ve nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.”

  “It is unfortunate,” Nadia agreed. Her fingers tapped rapidly across a virtual keyboard. “Preparing defensive systems. SPEAR is ready to engage. Flares are set for K-74M heat-seekers. Chaff is configured for R-77 radar-guided missiles. Spinning up inertial navigation systems for both MALDs. Their GPS receivers are initialized.” Besides flares and chaff and SPEAR, the only other defenses carried by the XCV-62 were two miniature air-launched decoys slotted into an internal bay. In the circumstances, they were unlikely to be useful . . . since the Su-35 was almost close enough now to see them visually. Nevertheless, she was not prepared to give up without readying every possible option.

  “Warning, warning, X-band radar powering up,” the computer said. And then, “IRBIS-E is locked on.”

  “Engaging enemy radar,” Nadia said. She tapped a display, commanding their SPEAR system to try to jam or spoof the Super Flanker’s airborne radar.

  “Warning, warning, radar missile launch detection at six o’clock,” the Ranger’s computer announced. “Two missiles inbound at Mach four.”

  “Time to impact, twenty-six seconds,” Nadia said. She peered intently at her displays. “Countermeasures ready.”

  Beside her, Vasey blinked away a droplet of sweat that stung his eye. This was going to be . . . difficult. The Russian fighter pilot behind them was certainly an eager bastard. He’d fired at almost the first possible moment, before SPEAR could break his lock-on. And now those two missiles headed their way no
longer needed any radar data supplied by the Su-35. They were on inertial guidance, ready to shift to their own active radar homing seekers at close range.

  “Countermeasures!” he rapped out. Nadia’s finger stabbed at her display. Instantly, Vasey yanked the Ranger into a hard right turn. G-forces slammed him back against his seat. The world started to gray out. His hand gripped the control stick, straining to keep them from rolling out of control and slamming into the sea.

  Chaff cartridges tumbled behind them and exploded.

  “Seeker heads are active,” the computer said.

  Seduced by a chaff bloom, one of the Russian missiles veered away and detonated well behind them. The second kept coming.

  “Time to impact eight seconds,” the computer said matter-of-factly.

  Nadia strained against the G-forces to punch in a command on her display. “Engaging missile with SPEAR.”

  Precisely calculated radio waves lashed the incoming Russian missile’s radar-seeker head, altering its perception of where it “saw” the Ranger. Not by much—just a small fraction of a degree horizontally and only a few yards vertically. But it was enough. The second R-77 slashed past the XCV-62’s cockpit and corkscrewed away into the sea, vanishing in a brief plume of white foam.

  “New unidentified airborne thermal contact at eleven o’clock,” the Ranger’s computer warned. “Altitude three thousand feet. Range indefinite, but closing. Contact speed is high, sixteen hundred knots.”

  Vasey rolled the aircraft into another evasive turn away from the Su-35 on their tail. “That’s probably a MiG-31 interceptor out of Yelizovo.” His face was an expressionless mask. “It seems our cup runneth over with bloody enemies today, Major.”

  Sentry Lead

  That Same Time

  Federov glanced down at his now-useless radar display and cursed in frustration. His Super Flanker’s system could not pierce the wall of electronic noise broadcast by the enemy aircraft ahead. And without the ability to lock on to a target, his remaining radar-guided missiles had suddenly become deadweight.

  He turned with the American stealth plane as it tried to evade, easily matching it maneuver for maneuver. His Su-35 was now less than fifteen kilometers behind and catching up fast.

  Federov toggled another switch on his control stick, arming his last two heat-seekers. All the electronic jamming in the world wouldn’t stop them from homing in on the enemy’s thermal signature.

  More seconds passed as the range dropped steadily. Fourteen kilometers. Thirteen. Twelve.

  Now! He squeezed the trigger. The two K-74M missiles flashed out from under the Super Flanker’s wings and curved ahead trailing smoke and fire—already guiding perfectly on their target.

  Instantly, the American stealth aircraft broke hard left, spiraling upward in a tight, climbing turn. Dozens of white-hot flares streamed out behind it, each a tiny sunburst against the night.

  Federov saw both of his missiles tear through the falling curtain of decoy flares, ignoring them completely in favor of their real prey. They streaked upward after the desperately turning enemy plane. Any second now, he thought, feeling the joyful anticipation of a kill rising fast. The Americans were out of cards to play.

  And then his smile vanished.

  Less than a hundred meters from the enemy aircraft, both K-74s went wild. They spun away in different directions and detonated harmlessly high over the surface of the sea.

  “Damn it!” Federov growled, unable to believe what he’d just seen. Did those American bastards have yet another new defensive system—some black-magic means of killing even IR missiles?

  Abruptly, his Super Flanker rocked wildly, hammered by the jet wash of another large, fast-moving aircraft as it streaked past overhead . . . appearing as nothing more than a darkened blur against the starlit sky before it vanished astern. His jaw tightened. One of the MiG-31s based on the Kamchatka Peninsula must have decided to join the party.

  But this would all be over before that other Russian pilot could circle back around, Federov decided coldly. Nobody was stealing this kill from him. He switched his fire-control computer to guns mode and saw a glowing pipper appear on his HUD. Maybe the Americans could disable his missiles . . . but nothing in the world could stop a 30mm armor-piercing incendiary round from striking home.

  He shoved the throttles for the Super Flanker’s engines to afterburner and felt the jolt as his fighter accelerated. Gripping the stick, he focused entirely on staying with the fleeing stealth aircraft as it maneuvered desperately to shake him off its tail. Nothing doing, he thought. You’re mine.

  As Federov’s speed climbed higher, the range decreased even more rapidly. He could see the gun computer estimates flickering down on his HUD. Four kilometers. Three kilometers. Two kilometers. One thousand meters.

  He throttled back. Now that he was this close, there was no sense in risking an overshoot. His thumb moved to the guns switch on his stick. The maximum effective range for the GSh-301 cannon mounted in the Su-35’s starboard wing root was around eight hundred meters. He planned to get in even closer—close enough to be sure he could score the hits needed to rip that American aircraft apart in midair and send its crew tumbling to hell.

  ZZZAAATTT.

  Federov’s eyes widened in stunned horror as his instrument panels and cockpit displays suddenly erupted in a shower of sparks . . . and then went black. With its digital fly-by-wire system dead, the Super Flanker started to roll out of control. Frantically, he grabbed for the ejection handle.

  Too late.

  Still moving at more than six hundred knots, the Su-35S plowed into the sea and exploded.

  Shadow Two-Nine Bravo

  That Same Time

  “Ouch,” Hunter Noble muttered, seeing the Russian fighter auger in and vanish in a huge ball of fire and foam. “Bet that hurt.” He opened the intercom to the spaceplane’s aft cabin. “Nice work, Jacobs!”

  “Thanks, Boomer,” Paul Jacobs replied. The former B-52 electronic warfare officer ran the S-29B’s defensive systems. The microwave emitters under his control had just proved their effectiveness in real-world combat—first by frying the electronics in the two Russian heat-seeking missiles just before they hit the XCV-62 and then by shorting out every computer and digital control system aboard that Super Flanker.

  He eased back on the big spaceplane’s throttles and curved away to avoid overflying the Ranger at supersonic speed a second time. One side of his mouth quirked upward. I bet Constable Vasey and Nadia are already plenty spooked as it is, he thought smugly. He keyed his mike. “Wolf Six-Two, this is Shadow Two-Nine Bravo. Sorry we cut things a little close there. But don’t worry, we’ll stick with you from here on out. Hold your course across the Kurils and we’ll run interference if the Russians make another missile or fighter attack on you.”

  There was a moment’s silence before Nadia Rozek replied. “Boomer?” Her voice sounded strained.

  “Yep.”

  “Where did you get an armed spaceplane?” she demanded.

  Boomer winked across the cockpit at Liz Gallagher. “Well, Major, that’s sort of a long story. Tell you what, I promise you’ll hear all about it once we’re back on the ground.”

  “Yes,” she said flatly. “I will. Wolf Six-Two out.”

  Liz Gallagher arched an eyebrow at him. “That was Major Nadia Rozek? The ex–Iron Wolf commando? The one I’ve heard so many stories about?” Boomer nodded. “She sounds kind of pissed off,” his copilot said carefully. “Like maybe this was one surprise too many?”

  “Well, she might be a little testy about that, I guess,” Boomer allowed. “But Nadia’ll get over it. After all, we just saved her life . . . and Brad McLanahan’s, too. Plus, we’re pretty good friends.”

  “Oh, Boomer,” Gallagher said, shooting him a pitying smile. “That probably means she’ll only beat you half to death.” She shrugged. “But don’t worry, I’ll stick close to you.”

  “You will?”

  “Sure,” she said judicio
usly. “Somebody needs to supply the bandages.”

  Thirty-Nine

  The Kremlin

  An Hour Later

  Colonel General Leonov sat alone on one side of the large conference table. His colleagues among Russia’s national security and foreign policy elite were crowded practically elbow to elbow around the other three sides. I have become a plague carrier, he thought with morbid humor. No one wanted to risk even the slightest association with someone who had become a focus of Gennadiy Gryzlov’s ire.

  “You were an idiot, Leonov,” the president said icily. “How could you let yourself be duped by so obvious a ploy?”

  Leonov kept his voice level. “Without knowing that one of the American astronauts survived reentry, we had no way to judge that their attack on our surface-to-air missile defenses was only a feint.”

  “Your ignorance of yet one more important fact is hardly a persuasive defense,” Gryzlov snapped. “For days, the world has trembled before Russia’s power. But now you’ve allowed the Americans to rescue their downed astronaut and run rings around you.” His eyes were coldly furious. “And your failure threatens to make the Motherland a laughingstock.”

  “This was a covert operation by the Americans,” Leonov pointed out carefully. “They aren’t likely to publicize its results.”

  Gryzlov snorted. “You think not? Then you’re an even bigger fool than I believed. Washington will be only too happy to spread the news to its allies, if only to stiffen the backs of those who had been wavering. We just lost six of our best single-seat fighters and fired off more than a hundred sophisticated missiles . . . and for what? To kill a handful of cheap decoys!”

  Angrily, he shoved back his chair, stood up, and began pacing around the table. He loomed over everyone else in the room like a bird of prey on the lookout for its next victim. “Of what value, Colonel General,” he sneered, “is your expensive military space station if our enemies can still violate Russia’s sovereignty with impunity?”