by Dale Brown
Tychina remained completely impassive, eyes caged, but he could clearly see the Turkish officer’s face blanch, then turn green, and his Adam’s apple bobble as if he were fighting the urge to vomit. One of the guards dropped his M-16 clattering to the ground—Tychina prayed its safety was still on—and promptly vomited on the tarmac despite a hand held up to his mouth; the other stayed at port arms, but he began carefully examining something on the ground and never did raise his eyes again. Tychina held his salute until the Turkish officer could regain his composure and return a shaky hand salute. Tychina pulled a sterile plastic bag from a flight suit pocket, withdrew a fresh gauze mask, and slipped it on.
“I am sorry I do not speak the Turkish language,” Tychina said in English. “I am very happy to be here. Your people very kind. Please, we go to your commanding officer, no?”
“Yes,” the officer said a bit shakily, looking immensely relieved that Tychina had put the face mask on and covered his horrible wounds. “I … I, uh, will take you to meet the commander … Thank you.”
“No, it is I who thank you,” Tychina said. The Turkish officer tried a weak smile, failed at it, then motioned to his vehicle and led the way.
They headed directly for a driveway between the tower and the fire department, but Tychina noticed the rows of Ukrainian planes parked not far to their right. “Please, may we drive by the planes of Ukrayina, sir?” The Turkish officer gave an order to his driver, who made a radio call and turned toward the parking ramp. An armored vehicle parked every thirty meters or so marked the boundaries of the security area—one M113 light tank had to be rolled out of the way so their sedan could pass.
The Ukrainian planes were in remarkably good condition. As expected, most were MiG-23 fighters. As if on cue, the Turkish officer gave Tychina a copy of his list of foreign planes parked there: one hundred and thirteen Ukrainian Mikoyan-Gurevich-23 fighters, thirty-one MiG-27 bombers, and twenty-seven Sukhoi-17 bombers. The Turkish officer’s inventory did not specify which models were present. There were a few two-seat trainer versions—three MiG-23 UB-models and two Su-17 UM-models—both with combat capability. Consistent with the threat of Russian air raids, all of the Sukhoi-17 single-seaters were H- or K-model reconnaissance planes—they would have survived because they were probably all in the air during the Russian bomb runs. They still had the special pylons fitted for long-range fuel tanks, electronic countermeasures pods, and the Ogarkov-213 sensor pod on the centerline station, but all of the external stores had been removed. “Excuse me please,” Tychina asked the Turkish officer, “but did these aircraft arrive with tanks? Pods? Photographic devices?”
“They were removed and have been confiscated, for now,” the officer replied, his voice a bit tense as he wondered—worried—if the Ukrainian would pull off that mask. “Orders. You understand.”
“Yes, thank you,” Tychina acknowledged. As long as he got them back in working order, Tychina thought, he didn’t care if the Turks took a few apart to study or analyze them. He would gladly trade them for missiles and bombs to arm his planes anyway.
The Sukhoi-17 reconnaissance planes were about twenty years old, and although Tychina knew maintenance on these old birds was usually meticulous, the lack of money for spare parts had taken their toll on them, and they looked their age. The Su-17 was an older model Sukhoi-7 single-engine fighter with the outer one-half of its wings cut off and a swinging variable-geometry section added. The round, open “carp nose” design was primitive and cumbersome, providing very little room for a decent attack radar, but the increased performance of the swing-wing addition was a quantum leap over fixed-geometry designs of the time, and eventually the Su-17 comprised over one-third of the tactical air inventory of the old Soviet Union and was widely exported.
Although the Sukhoi-17 strike planes were valuable, the thirty-one MiG-27s were the prize of Tychina’s little attack fleet. They were basically the same as the MiG-23 fighters, but with a greatly strengthened fuselage, lots of armor plating around the pilot, and a big 30-millimeter multibarrel strafing and tank-killing gun replacing the GSh-23 air-to-air gun on the fighter. Most of the MiG-27s here were M-models, about ten years old, with laser rangefinders for precision-guided bombs that could illuminate targets behind and far off to the side of the plane. The-27 could carry just about every weapon in the Ukrainian arsenal—TV-guided bombs, laser-guided bombs, antiradiation missiles, and antiship missiles, as well as air-to-air defensive missiles …
… that is, if Ukrayina had an arsenal anymore. Thank God General Panchenko had had the foresight to worry about a major Russian invasion and sent those weapons shipments here. Panchenko was the hero, not he, Pavlo Tychina. The first order of business would be to organize his aircrews and maintenance technicians to inspect these weapons…
… that is, if he had any maintenance troops here. Tychina had brought pilots, not maintenance troops or technicians. There were no transport planes available to take supplies or survivors out of L’vov—and Tychina assumed it was the same at the other bases—so hopefully General Panchenko arranged for civil transports, overland convoys, or very dangerous sea transportation for the badly needed maintenance guys. These planes weren’t going anywhere without proper support.
“I thank you for taking such good care of Ukrayina’s fighter jets,” Tychina told his host with genuine appreciation.
“You’re welcome,” the Turkish officer replied halfheartedly. He wasn’t sure if Tychina really meant the compliment, since most of the Ukrainian planes looked like shit. They were noisy, smelly, smoky, their radios were bad, and they dropped rivets, inspection plates, large pieces of rubber, and insulation constantly, creating a hazard for the Turkish planes at Kayseri.
They exited the flight line and drove through the base toward the Turkish headquarters. Kayseri Air Base was the most modern, most impressive military installation Tychina had ever seen. The above-ground hangars were huge, thick concrete structures, not weak tin or aluminum over a steel frame like most ex-Soviet facilities in Ukrayina, and Pavlo noticed many gated and guarded ramps leading to underground hangars. Aircraft taxiways were very wide, with enough room for a single Bear-class bomber or several fighter-size aircraft to taxi side by side—many of the taxiways had runway-type markings on them, indicating that they could be used for takeoff and landing if the main runway was in use or damaged.
Although the base was primarily a fighter training base, it was clearly ready for war. Antiaircraft gun and missile emplacements were everywhere, including several Patriot missile batteries and several short-range mobile antiaircraft batteries, including the West’s newest weapon system, a combination 30-millimeter Gatling gun with dual feed (antiarmor and antiaircraft explosive rounds) and eight-round Stinger missile battery all on one fast all-terrain truck, using both radar and electro-optical guidance systems. All air defense units were manned at full strength, despite the freezing temperatures. Tychina noted the detailed attention paid to camouflaging every air defense site with realistic-looking white nets and setting up inflatable decoys and radar reflectors around the base. The headquarters building itself was modern and fairly new, but the camouflage makers on base had actually taken great pains to make it more nondescript, to blend in with the snow. The flagpoles and other monuments around the building had been removed, and nearby buildings had similar defensive positions set up around them to make it harder for enemy invaders to immediately determine which building was the headquarters.
Tychina was surprised to see two of his senior pilots, both from L’vov, seated outside the commander’s office. They were slouched in their seats, totally bored, with their legs extended straight and their boots tipped up on their heels, tapping them together to show how tired and irritated they were. Pavlo turned to see a Turkish security officer seated across from them, glaring at the two pilots in utter disgust, as if he was ready to pull out his pistol and shoot them both—and Tychina knew why.
The two pilots snapped to attention when they saw him ap
proach. Tychina was overjoyed to see two familiar, friendly faces, but he felt some sort of strain in the room and held his exuberance carefully in check until he found out exactly what was going on. “Captain Mikitenko, Captain Skliarenko,” he greeted them in Ukrainian, returning their salutes but then folding his hands behind his back so as to not invite them to shake hands or clasp shoulders, as was customary. Tychina acknowledged the security officer seated across from the two pilots—obviously a guard assigned to the two pilots—who continued to stare disrespectfully at the two young Ukrainians after a polite bow to Tychina.
“Colonel, it is great to see you,” Mikitenko said in Ukrainian. “We’ve been stuck here for the past six hours.”
“They haven’t even let us go to the bathroom,” Skliarenko complained. “I’m about ready to pop. Can you get these guys to let us go to the head, Pavlo?”
On that last sentence, Tychina caught it—the smell of alcohol, strong, fortified Moldovan cherry wine. He leaned closer to Mikitenko and smelled apricot brandy on his breath. “You assholes, you’ve been drinking?” Tychina thundered.
“Hey, c’mon, Pavlo, old buddy,” Skliarenko drawled lazily, putting a hand on his shoulder. “We’ve just been through hell and back. Everyone carries a little nip in the plane—so do you. We just had a little celebration after we landed.”
Tychina whipped his right arm up, throwing off the drunk pilot’s hand on his shoulder. “Attention!” Tychina snapped. Mikitenko snapped to attention once again; Skliarenko was a little slower, his eyes not focusing too well, but he finally moved to attention, weaving unsteadily.
“You bastards could have destroyed any chance we had to regenerate the air force and begin air operations against the Russians,” Tychina raged. Mikitenko noticed a line of blood soaking through Tychina’s sterile mask—he was so agitated that he had burst a stitch or reopened a wound—and the sight made his throat turn dry, his hands shake with dread. “Don’t you two know anything? Turkey is a Muslim nation. Sunni Muslims. You insulted them to the core by bringing booze into their country and drinking it in front of them. You might as well have pissed on their foreheads. And that’s not to mention the fact that it’s against regulations to drink on the flight line or during combat conditions. And you were sitting slouched in those chairs with your feet up like lazy pigs.”
“Excuse me, sir,” Mikitenko interjected, “but we’ve been here for over six hours.”
“Idiots! Sitting slouched in a chair is a sign of disrespect, and pointing the soles of your boots at a Turk is the worst insult you can make,” Tychina roared. “Didn’t you two notice how pissed off that guard is? You were practically goading him into a fight. Now shut your stupid mouths. I want you to speak only when spoken to. You will remain at parade rest as long as you are here, and you will come to attention if you are addressed by anyone. Is that clear?” Both pilots said yes. “Jesus, no wonder this entire country seemed mad at us. I hope we haven’t lost the fight before we had a chance to fight it.”
Eventually Tychina was shown into the office of the base commander. Brigadier General Erdal Sivarek was a short, round man with dark features and hair that seemed to grow out of impossible places all over his body. The two men were introduced by an interpreter (speaking Russian, not Ukrainian), shook hands, and then Tychina was introduced to an older man in white arctic combat fatigues: “May I present Major General Bruce Eyers, from the United States, chief of operations for NATO Forces Southeast.”
Pavlo didn’t understand much of the interpreter’s thickly accented Russian, but he knew what the two stars on the American’s epaulettes meant. He quickly checked the American general out. About five foot ten, probably about 225 pounds, a mean-looking sort of man—or maybe just tough—with very short, cropped dark hair, dark eyes, and built like a small building. The American officer squeezed Tychina’s hand hard, then asked in a loud voice, “What happened to your face there, young man?” Pavlo was about to reply, but Eyers turned to the Turkish general and laughed, “Looks like the en-tire Ukrainian Air Force is filled with either drunks or walking wounded, eh, General?”
“I apologize for my pilots, sir,” Tychina said in English, thinking that the American was admonishing him for the conduct of his two pilots. “They are young and have survived much, sir. Their conduct will not be repeated. We will conduct ourselves with very much respect.”
“Hell, don’t sweat it, chief,” the American said easily. “If I just had my hometown blasted to hell by the Russkies, I’d want to toss down a few stiff ones, too. Jeez.” He laughed again, but turned much more serious when he found that neither officer was joining in the humor. “I’d advise you to keep a tight grip on your boys, and steer clear of the vodka. The Turks don’t go for drinking on this base. It’s a pisser, but hell, that’s the way it’s going to be.”
“Our social customs, General, are not ‘pissers’ to anyone except foreigners, usually slovenly Westerners,” General Sivarek said irritably. General Eyers said nothing, but nodded that he understood—and then he made an impatient sigh and crossed his arms on his chest, which Tychina knew was yet another rude gesture to a Turk. General Sivarek glared at Eyers, who didn’t notice, then said to Tychina, “Hos geldiniz, efendim. I welcome you to the Republic of Turkey and to Kayseri Air Base, Colonel. I am sorry for what has happened to your nation and your home. Under the circumstances, I think we may forgive your pilot’s indiscretion. I will make a Russian-speaking liaison officer available to you and your crews so that there will be no more such incidents.”
“Thank you, sir,” Tychina replied gratefully. “I accept your offer. But I think it’s best to keep my crews under cover and working until we can begin air operations. I’m sure General Panchenko and the general staff will want us to be combat-ready in the fastest time possible.”
“Hold on there, son,” the American general interjected, swaggering a bit now like a bad imitation of John Wayne. “No one here’s talking about any air operations. You don’t have permission to stage any sorties out of Turkey. You can’t even start engines on one of those Floggers without NATO and the President of Turkey giving their okay.” He nodded as respectfully as he could to General Sivarek.
Tychina didn’t understand all that the American was saying—he made no effort to make himself understood to anyone—but he could sense by the tone in his voice, that lazy swagger, that air operations weren’t approved yet. “Excuse me,” Pavlo said, “but I anticipate the Russians will begin a full-scale ground invasion of Ukrayina at any time. This we must not allow. I was told you had stockpiled Ukrainian weapons at this location.”
“We got nothin’ but a hodgepodge of half-assed bombs, rockets, and missiles left over from Afghanistan,” Eyers said dryly, looking at the Ukrainian out of the corner of his eyes as if he were a beggar asking for coins. “They’re outdated first-generation technology that don’t amount to spit and would probably create a hazard for NATO forces anyway. Hell, it’s dangerous enough just having those things sit in storage—I can’t imagine trying’ to upload those things on your aircraft in combat conditions … Hell, it’d be like playin’ with Tonka toys.”
“Excuse me, but we cannot sit here in Turkey while Russian troops march into our country,” insisted Tychina as if the man were an idiot.
“There ain’t much you boys can do about it, is there, Colonel?” Eyers said, cocking an eyebrow. “The only force that can stand up to Russian aggression is NATO and the United States, of course. So far, NATO hasn’t figgered out what to do.
“Now I’ll admit, you got some real interestin’ hardware out there, but it’s all obsolete, my friend. I wish you’d brought us a few of your Su-24s or Su-37s. NATO will determine whether or not you boys can join our coalition forces and try your hand against the Russkies—although frankly I don’t give you a chance in hell. You haven’t trained with NATO forces, you don’t speak the language, you use totally different tactics.”
Pavlo Tychina felt the anger rise to the surface of his skin l
ike a bubble in a boiling cauldron of blood. His breathing became more accelerated, his eyes burning. “I speak English good, sir, very good. And I not need permission from you or NATO to tell me when to fight. You understand?” Tychina turned to General Sivarek and bowed his head politely. “I thank you and your country for welcoming us and giving us the safety. You have given us the opportunity to fight. I ask for fuel and weapons for my aircraft. We will leave aircraft to pay for fuel, and my government will pay; the weapons, they belong to Ukrayina. I require nothing more. We leave soon as possible.”
The Turkish general favored Tychina with a hint of a smile, but then tipped his head back slightly, eyes closed—which Tychina knew to be a “no”—and said solemnly, “I am sorry, but that is not possible, Colonel. General Eyers is quite correct: my country offered protection for your government and your air force, nothing more. It is not a wise policy for your crews to fly with our pilots. NATO crews train several times a year together; Ukrainian crews have never trained with us. If there would be an air battle between NATO and Russia, your planes are too similar to Russian rear-echelon planes, even with Ukrainian markings—and some of your planes still have Russian markings on them. The confusion would be enormous. It would be dangerous and expose both our forces to serious risk.”
“Then we will fly alone, sir,” Tychina decided. “When your planes are not flying, we will fight.”
“That proves how much you know about Western tactics, son.” Eyers chuckled condescendingly. “We don’t pause, we don’t stop, we don’t let up once the ball game gets going. It’s just too dangerous. Some overanxious fly-boy would likely put a Sidewinder up your butt, and it’d be a waste of a good missile. Forget it, chief.”