Brown, Dale - Independent 01

by Silver Tower (v1. 1)

  “Group One leader, this is Control. Hostile contact bearing two-six zero, range seven-five kilometers. Acknowledge when locked-on.”

  The lead Flanker pilot thumbed his microphone switch. “I understand, Control. Intruders are locked on radar, seventy kilometers and descending slowly. Requesting final authority to attack.”

  “Request approved, Group One.” He then switched to English to invoke the universal fighter pilot’s credo: “Good luck. Good hunting.”

  The lead Flanker pilot felt a rush of adrenaline. Invoked in English, the fighter’s credo always seemed to hone his instincts.

  “Group One, sixty kilometers. Final arming check—now.”

  “Red Flight checks.”

  “Gold Flight checks.”

  “Group One, lock and ready in file.” The lead pilot pressed his target-designate switch until the radar-tracking cursor had switched to the lead American plane. A high-pitched four-beep sequence and a flashing green light on his arming panel told him his ADC-1054W attack radar was locked on. Perfect. No maneuvering, no jamming. ...

  Fifty kilometers. “Group One ... launch!”

  It was an exhilarating sight. In complete unison, twenty AA-11 advanced long-range radar-guided missiles filled the sky, speeding to their targets. The missile-attack aspect was ideal. The American F-15s were in a slightly steeper dive, trying to make it to the relative safety of the Persian Gulf’s choppy waters, where they figured they would be lost in radar clutter. But in fact they were exposing more of themselves to the missiles’ powerful on-board terminal homing radars.

  The lead Flanker pilot made one quick check of his formation, then checked his radar for possible survivors—and saw the impossible.

  The American F-15s were still on radar. All twenty AA-11 missiles had missed.

  And then he saw why: the F- 15s, which had been at fifteen hundred meters altitude when the Flankers launched their missiles, were now at five thousand meters. The American planes had somehow managed to climb nearly four thousand meters in ten seconds. Even an AA-11 missile, which could turn at well over seven “g”s, couldn’t keep up with a climb-rate like that at such close range.

  The leader of Brezhnev Fighter Group One yanked his Su-27 Flanker fighter into a hard climbing turn to pursue, but he knew without checking his radar that the move was pointless. He had to steel himself to key his microphone.

  “Control, this is Group One leader. All targets are still... still airborne and have maneuvered above us. Last read-out showed them at five thousand meters and climbing. Turning to intercept.”

  “Group One, this is Control,” came the scratchy message from the air combat controllers aboard the Brezhnev. “We have intruders at your five o’clock, altitude five thousand meters, range forty kilometers, air speed six-four-three kilometers per hour. Turn right heading zero-two-zero, initial vector for intercept.”

  “Group One copies all.”

  “Group One, state your bingo.”

  The Group One leader checked his fuel gauges, feeling his cheeks and ears redden. He could easily imagine the words being said about him right now on the bridge of the Brezhnev—he had been too cocky, too sure of himself, taking the long- to medium-range shot without bothering to move in closer. It had to be some sort of electronic jamming or deception that made the American F-15s appear to be lower than the Su-27s. No aircraft could climb four thousand meters in ten seconds.

  To make matters worse he was now in a tail-chase with the American fighters—and with no airborne defenders between them and the Brezhnev. .. .

  “Group One shows two-zero minutes to bingo.” Even the fuel situation had gotten worse. The Americans were still on emergency fuel, he was sure—especially after that crazy maneuver—but now the odds were no longer in the defenders’ favor.

  “Group One, Alert Group Two is preparing for launch. We will recover your group at bingo minus five. Acknowledge.”

  “Group One copies.” They had fifteen minutes now to chase down the Americans, or Group Two—the youngsters aboard the Brezhnev —would launch and go for the intercept. The sheer embarrassment of that was almost unthinkable.

  Not checking to see if Red Flight had managed to keep up with him as he sped eastward toward the evading American fighters, the leader of Brezhnev Group One put his Sukhoi-27 Flanker in a max afterburner climb and searched frantically on wide-scan radar for the intruders. He had even less time than he’d first thought: if the F-15s carried Harpoon antiship missiles they could attack from as far away as sixty kilometers, perhaps more at high altitude....

  There. “Control, Group One leader has the intruders. Twelve o’clock, thirty-six kilometers and high. Beginning intercept. Group One, check in.”

  “This is Red Flight. We are at your six o’clock, one mile. Couldn’t keep up with that turn, Viktor. Joining on your right wing.”

  “Copy. Gold Flight, take the high patrol. Red Flight will pursue and close.”

  The closure rate sucked his breath—the F-15s were cruising, straight and level, at only five hundred kilometers per hour. The Flankers were speeding toward them at nearly three times that velocity. The lead Flanker locked onto four of the ten intruders; his fire- control system would now attack four separate aircraft at once—

  Suddenly one of the intruder aircraft heeled sharply over to the left and descended, rapidly.

  “Red Five, one intruder peeling left and down at your eleven o’clock. Follow him. He’s yours.”

  “Red Five has him locked on. Pursuing.”

  The distance had decreased rapidly to less than twenty kilometers when the leader noticed the formation of American F-15s making a shallow left turn. “Intruders are evading left. Red Flight, echelon right for pursuit.”

  “Two.”

  “Three.”

  “Four.”

  The leader took a quick glance to his right as he continued his shallow left turn behind the American F-15s. The four Su-27s with him were in perfect alignment, turning canopy-to-belly instead of in extended wingtip-to-wingtip to help maintain a solid radar lock-on.

  The formation had drifted nearly ninety degrees away from the Brezhnev carrier battle group when the Group One leader heard:

  “Group One, Group Two is airborne. Joining on you for intercept.” “Copy, Control. We are pursuing intruders. Red Flight, lock and ready in file.”

  “Two.”

  “Three.”

  “F__ ”

  “Group One lead, this is Red Five. I have a visual on the intruder: it’s not a fighter. Repeat: it is not a fighter ”

  The Flanker tried to absorb this, then shouted out: “Red Five, destroy it. Red Flight, launch…”

  Again the leader’s windscreen filled with white streaks as the AA-11 missiles sped after their quarry. They launched at less than eighteen kilometers—no aircraft in the world could possibly evade a AA-11 missile at that range....

  But when the leader looked at his radar screen again, only three of the nine intruder aircraft were missing. Worse, the intruders were now far to the left—had moved nearly perpendicular to the flight path of the AA-11 missiles in literally the blink of an eye.

  “Control, three attackers destroyed. Red Flight, follow me in close to the survivors. Red Five, what did you see?”

  “They’re drones. A HIMLORD remote-piloted vehicle. The one I saw was damaged, spinning out of control....”

  “Drones.” So that was it. The Flanker leader didn’t know exactly what HIMLORD stood for, but he knew what they were—extremely powerful, highly maneuverable unmanned reconnaissance drones. Which was why they could outturn an AA-11 missile: the HIM- LORDS were designed for such extreme maneuvers.... He had seen films of HIMLORDS pulling giant “g”s in all flight regimes. The NATO countries and their allies used HIMLORDS for battlefield reconnaissance, but it was obvious that these were intended here as diversions....

  ... Or decoys... ?

  “Lead, Red Three has a visual on the hostile.”

  A quick scan .
.. and there it was. Even at four kilometers he could see it easily. It was huge, with a long pointed nose, a set of canards on its forward fuselage, very large main wings with winglets on the tips, and a set of dorsal and ventral stabilizers. Its large turbojet engine released a puff of black smoke every few seconds. Amazingly, the six drones flew in almost perfect formation, staying abreast of each other in spite of each sharp turn and change in airspeed.

  “Control, this is Group One lead. We are pursuing drones....”

  “Group One, this is Group Two lead. We are at your six o’clock at thirty kilometers. Do you want us on a low patrol? Over.”

  “Group Two, negative. Return to base immediately. We’ve been decoyed away. We have twenty fighters chasing a few damn drones. Group One, break off attack. Control, this is Group One. Returning to base immediately.”

  The radio was filled with static. He was at extreme radio range, and the HIMLORD drones obviously carried small broad-band jammers as well.

  The Group One leader ripped off his oxygen mask in frustration. They had spent nearly an hour, dozens of missiles and thousands of liters of precious fuel chasing nearly worthless drones. What was the real target...?

  A few minutes later, with the American HIMLORD drones far behind them and still heading for the western shores of the Persian Gulf, Group One’s leader finally regained contact with the aircraft carrier Brezhnev.

  “Control, this is Group One. We are one hundred kilometers out. Request approach clearance.”

  “Group One, approach clearance only granted. Repeat, approach clearance only is granted. Aircraft launching at this time.”

  A few moments later he heard the reason. “Green Four, this is Control. Hostile airborne contact bearing zero-four-five range, range one hundred kilometers at your twelve o’clock.”

  “Copy, Control,” the Green Four leader acknowledged. “Picking up J-band height-finders near reference F-one-oh-two Delta and Lima.”

  F-102—that was Bandar-Abbas and Bandar-e Lengeh, the two Iranian military bases at the Strait of Hormuz. Green Four was a flight of five Yakovlev-38 vertical takeoff and landing fighters from the Brezhnev, all at least twenty-five years old. No match for any weapons on shore with J-band height-finders armed with high-performance surface-to-air missiles. The Su-27s would have a tough time against them, let alone the aged Yak-38s.

  But hostile missile sites at Bandar-Abbas? The Iranian sites had been destroyed long ago, way back at the start of hostilities. The whole area had been contained. Who... ?

  ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION

  “They’re turning back toward the carrier, Skipper.”

  General Saint-Michael swiveled his seat around and quickly scanned the master SBR display. He nodded at Chief Jefferson.

  “Good job, Jake. Do you have enough fuel to recover those HIMLORDS?”

  “I don’t think so, but then again, I’ve never flown a drone before. I think we’ll be dropping through the horizon before I can recover them anyway. After that they’ll be on automatic pilot until they flame out.”

  “Try to get them as close to that Bahraini data-relay ship as you can. They should be able to recover them.”

  Jefferson carefully transmitted new flight commands to the six remaining HIMLORDS in flight. “Those things are amazing. I’d swear I could turn a ninety-degree comer with one if I wanted, even with this bastardized remote-control relay setup. I would’ve loved to see the faces on those Su-27 pilots when I had those HIMLORDS climbing at ten ‘g’s right after missile launch.”

  Saint-Michael looked around the command module, shaking his head. The short time in gravity had brought every piece of dirt, every liquid ball, every lost pencil and scrap of paper out of known hiding places and into everything. Yemana and Page had come out of the lifeboat and were running hand-held vacuum cleaners over everything, their POS masks resting beneath their chins, ready at a moment’s notice to be put back on.

  Three injuries, one serious. A crippled station, leaking fuel, extensive damage. Even though Silver Tower had just participated in a major diversion a thousand miles away, the station was not fully capable. Not by a long shot. In fact, it was barely holding onto strategic function.

  “That’s about as cocky as we can afford to get, Chief,” Saint-Michael said. “We managed to sucker half the Brezhnev's air-to-air assets away from Bandar-Abbas—now I hope the air force and navy can do the rest.”

  The assault had begun just as the Brezhnev's Su-27 Flanker Group Two had catapulted off the deck to help in the abortive pursuit of the High Maneuverability Long Range Reconnaissance Drone (Himlord) aircraft. Ten of the Nimitz's Sikorsky SH-60T SeaHawk transport helicopters had been loaded with ten U.S. Marines in full combat gear, and two CH-53E heavy-lift choppers had been loaded with two British Rapier-tracked surface-to-air batteries apiece. The choppers hedge-hopped over the rugged southern Iran coastline as far as possible from the Soviet cruisers in the Strait of Hormuz, and dropped onto the wrecked airstrip at Bandar-Abbas. With a force of elite navy SEALS blazing a path, the Marines took Bandar-Abbas in a fierce but short battle. By the time Group Two had reached the confused and disorganized Fighter Group One, the Marines had secured Bandar-Abbas airfield and, with a few Iranian regulars coming down from the rugged coastal mountains, had managed to secure the skies over the Strait of Hormuz.

  Right behind the Marines, under air cover of the Nimitz, ten C-130 Hercules transports had reinforced the Marine unit at Bandar-Abbas with three hundred U.S. Army Rapid Deployment Force troops from Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean. Another sixty Marines had retaken Bandar-e Lengeh, the major Iranian naval missile base overseeing the strait, and fifty RDF troops had soon reinforced that stronghold and established another antiair battery there.

  On balance, a pretty good day.

  MOSCOW, USSR

  Minister of Defense Czilikov refused—or was unable—to look directly at his assembled battle staff as First Deputy Minister of Defense Khromeyev rose to give the daily briefing on Operation Feather, this time before the entire Stavka. Czilikov could feel the eyes of the Soviet general secretary bearing down on him as, area by area, the situation in Iran and the Persian Gulf was described.

  “The region has been roughly divided in half, along the fifty-four- degree east longitude line,” Khromeyev reported in a flat voice. “The Americans control the Strait of Hormuz, the Gulf of Oman, and all Iranian territory east of Yazd in central Iran.” The general secretary’s eyes now darted toward Czilikov as he heard the news about the strait, the essential choke-point for the whole region. “Our forces control the Persian Gulf north of Bahrain, as well as every major Iranian city except for Bandar-Abbas along the strait. Our flag flies from the Mediterranean Sea to China—”

  “Never mind the grandiose symbolism, Marshal Khromeyev,” the general secretary said. “Such flowery speech doesn’t hide our badly worsening position.” He swiveled toward Czilikov.

  “I don’t want your dog-and-pony show, Marshal Czilikov. I want details. The Brezhnev is no longer east of Qatar—it is almost as far north as Kuwait. Yet we no longer control the Strait of Hormuz. Why?”

  “The Americans have mined the deep-water channel between Iran and Qatar in the gulf, General Secretary—”

  “Then destroy those mines. Retake the channel. We have the firepower, don’t we?”

  “We don’t have the resources, sir,” Admiral Chercherovin put in. “The Americans control the skies during daytime. A squadron of B-52 bombers from Diego Garcia can sow mines for ten thousand square kilometers in one pass. We can sweep perhaps half that area at night, but the bombers return with more mines—”

  “You are saying we do not control the airspace over the Persian Gulf?”

  “Not... entirely, sir. We can protect the Brezhnev and her escorts with our forward units at Al-Basrah and Abadan, but the fighters from the Brezhnev have only a seven-hundred-kilometer combat radius. That places them near Bandar-Abbas, where the Americans and Iranians have deployed surface-to-air mi
ssile sites, fighters and bombers to defend the strait. Shipbome fighters, which must expend almost half their fuel just to get to a fight, are no match for ground-based fighters ”

  The general secretary ran a hand across the top of his bald head in exasperation. “You are talking riddles, Admiral. The Brezhnev was in a position to defend our forces at Bandar-Abbas. How could we have lost our advantage?”

  “The Brezhnev's resources were stretched to the limit, sir,” Czilikov said, figuring he’d better say something fast. “The Brezhnev carried forty-five tactical fighter aircraft. Ten were used as escorts for the raids on Mehrabad and ten were airborne in support of the attacks on Abadan. Ten were launched to pursue what we thought were American F-15s attacking from Saudi Arabia. When the American drones evaded the first patrol, all the Brezhnev's fighters except five reserve alert aircraft were sent after the drones. This left nothing to assist the shock troops at Bandar-Abbas except our old Yak-38 VTOL fighter- bombers, and they were no match for the British Rapier and American Patriot surface-to-air missile sites the Marines brought with them. Five hundred American Marines and two hundred Iranian soldiers landed ashore in three hours. There really was nothing we could do—”

  “But what about our ground-based long-range bombers?” the general secretary pressed him. “Certainly we could have attacked those positions with something besides fighters from the Brezhnev? Those Yak-38s should have been escorting the bombers, not attacking.”

  “A bomber attack was considered and rejected. If a bomber attack had been attempted immediately when the American Marines attacked Bandar-Abbas, a smaller-scale bomber force might have succeeded. But the area was secured by the Marines in only three hours. It would take one full Tupolev-26 squadron, perhaps two, or a full Tupolev- 146 bomber squadron to uproot the American Marines now. Also, the Americans are moving at least one full squadron of F-15 fighters to Bandar-Abbas—they control the skies of the southern gulf.”