Cyborg 01 - Cyborg

by Martin Caidin

  “That’s hardly new,” Steve said quickly. “We were using tail-warning radar back in World War Two.”

  “That’s not the real point,” McKay argued. “Whatever the Russians have, it not only provides adequate warning for their fighter to accelerate out of harm’s way, it’s also screwing up the ability of the air-launched missiles to track and home onto their targets.”

  Major Chuen nodded his agreement.

  “The Pentagon is in a panic,” McKay said. “Not just because of what this airplane can do but because of what it represents. If they’ve really made that much of an advance in power, or fuel, the electronics systems, or whatever, it means the Air Force can’t be assured of air superiority in limited-action situations in the future. It also means they might adapt this whole new package to a low-level supersonic bomber that could change, overnight, the concept of the Russians coming in against the United States with manned aircraft. As you know, some people feel our fighter defenses leave a lot to be desired.

  “We’ve been working with Israeli intelligence and we’ve come up with a plan. A combined operations. It revolves around two people.”

  Steve knew the answer.

  “You, Steve—and Miss Zigon.”

  Steve glanced at Tamara. Her face stayed impassive. He turned back to McKay. “All right,” he said, “let’s hear it.”

  “After your briefings and last-minute training by the Israelis,” McKay said, “there will be a provocation of Israel by the powers-that-be in Afsir.

  “Since they were nice enough to establish this new ‘independent state’ of Afsir,” McKay continued, “diplomatic inhibitions are minimal. We have never recognized any Afsir government, so as far as we’re concerned it doesn’t exist. It’s the Egyptians, who insist it is a sovereign land, and the Russians and their bloc have gone along with the sham of diplomatic recognition. In effect, as far as diplomatic relationships are concerned, Afsir has become a convenient no man’s land—but that now cuts two ways.

  “As I said, the powers-that-be in Afsir will provoke the Israeli government. We’ve been trying to decide what would be best. The Israelis agree we should arrange for the Russians to shoot down—hopefully with surface-to-air missiles—several Israeli planes.”

  Steve couldn’t help staring at McKay. “Arrange to have some Israeli planes shot down?” McKay nodded. “What about the pilots?” Steve said.

  “There won’t be any,” McKay said. “We’re shipping the Israelis a number of Ryan Firebee jet drones. Before they leave the States they’ll be modified externally. They’ll look like F-4 fighters. They won’t be, but the Russians and the Egyptians won’t know that. The drones, representing manned aircraft, will be released from a mother ship at high altitude, and will be directed toward Afsir. Russian radar will pick them up while they’re still far out. The moment they get well within range of their SAM missiles, and still hold their course, the Russians will let go with everything they have. They’re touchy about overflights, especially where Afsir is concerned.”

  Steve nodded. “Neat. The SAM’s can’t miss under those conditions.”

  “Right,” McKay said; “no electronic countermeasures of any sort. A guaranteed loss of two unarmed Israeli reconnaissance planes while they’re still well short of the Afsir border. Provocation. Unforgivable. Attacking unarmed, helpless aircraft. The Israelis will protest. There’ll be no question but that some response is in order.” He nodded to the Israeli officer.

  Major Mietek Chuen didn’t waste his words. “We considered, naturally, a combined operation strike. Going in with large helicopters so that we might pick up one of these airplanes and just haul it back to Israel. But a number of things decided us against such action. The distance is too great for helicopters to carry that heavy a load. Also, the defenses in Afsir truly are formidable. We doubt that we could mount that much heavy covering fire for our helicopter people to get away with it. They would like to try, of course. Ever since they picked up an entire Russian radar system and all its missiles and brought them back to Israel, they are all for going in with their machines and stealing everything that they can unbolt or dismantle.”

  “I remember the operation,” Steve said. “It was a beautiful job.”

  “Thank you. You will have the opportunity to meet some of these people and tell them yourself. They are also quite anxious to meet you. They would like to know if the moon can truly be more desolate than some of our own land.” He smiled. “You will see that for yourself, as well.”

  Again Steve held back from questions. Better to hear these people out, to look for the problems while they spoke, and then come back with what he might need to ask. Major Chuen turned to Jackson McKay. “I must apologize,” he said quickly. “I did not mean to interfere with your briefing.”

  “No apologies necessary, Major. It is your show, after all.” McKay turned to Steve. “A good point to make clear, Colonel. We’re going along for the ride, so to speak. We’ll support the Israeli forces, covertly, of course, but we will support them. Also, we’ve made a deal to replace whatever F-4 aircraft have been lost or will be lost against this MiG-27.” He nodded to the Israeli officer. “Major?”

  Chuen gave Steve his full attention. “You already know that you and Tamara,” he glanced at the girl, “Captain Zigon, will function as a team. Her knowledge of the country, especially with the help of Walid, is vital. She also knows every language and dialect spoken there. Including Russian.” He paused, then suddenly and unexpectedly threw a barrage of questions at Steve in Russian. To his pleasure Steve’s answers were immediate and comfortably within the language. He had spent nearly two years sharpening his control of the language by working with Russian cosmonauts and scientists on a cooperative effort for space-station activities. “You would pass inspection of everyone, except perhaps a suspicious Russian,” Chuen said. “I am very pleased.

  “You and Tamara, starting tomorrow,” Chuen continued, “must know each other as well as—” he hesitated, “as well as sister and brother. You must be able to speak with one another fluently in the Russian language. You must know each other well enough so as not to be surprised by personality or other reasons, when such surprise could be to your disadvantage. During this time we will carry out an intensive training program in Russian equipment. There is an airfield in the Negev Desert that will be your base of operations. An isolated and extremely well-guarded airfield, by the way. There you will be able to fly a MiG-21 in the pattern—we don’t see any need for more than that—to acquaint yourself with cockpit and other procedures of a Russian fighter machine.”

  Steve had a hollow feeling in his stomach.

  “We have obtained some photography, although the quality is rather poor, of the MiG-27. We believe the cockpit layout will be essentially the same as the MiG-21, because it is the Russian practice to standardize as much as possible between their different aircraft models. Easier that way for their own pilots to make the transition from one to the other. This will help greatly in your case, and since as a test pilot you have flown many different types of aircraft, you should have no difficulty in understanding the controls and the switches of a MiG-27.”

  Steve’s unease was building.

  “Walid Howrani will assist you, and Tamara, in learning details of the area,” Chuen said, as if discussing a Sunday outing. “He will have relief models of the area involved. This is strictly as an emergency backup, of course. Then, you will be equipped, I understand in your own apparently remarkable way, with special weapons. This is important. Outside of a hand weapon, a sidearm, you will not be able to carry anything visible. Your people will be with you at the Negev airbase to attend to that matter.”

  Steve glanced at McKay. “Art Fanier, Doctor Wells, some others,” McKay said casually.

  “This will help meet any unforeseen situations,” Chuen continued, as Steve was now all but convinced of exactly what they had in mind. “Women electronics specialists are not at all uncommon in Egypt,” said Chuen. “Tamara, a
s I mentioned—”

  “Major Chuen.”

  The Israeli pilot waited.

  “I think you’d better knock it off and tell me what you have in mind.”

  Chuen showed honest surprise. “Why, I thought you already knew. We’re going to send you and Tamara into the Russian base in Afsir to steal one of the MiG-27 fighters.”

  They flew to Israel, then moved by helicopter along a circuitous route to the secret airfield he knew only as Scorpion, deep in the Negev, surrounded by hills that bristled with Israeli gun positions and seasoned combat troops. He worked day and night until he was exhausted from the hours, the heat, the dry air, the relentless barrage of questions they threw at him and the answers they demanded. A man showed up one day in a Russian uniform. Shaul Arkham shouted in Russian at Steve, demanded immediate answers about insignia, rank, equipment, the heavily guarded base, where the living and working areas were; he was unnerving. He would appear without warning, disappear as quickly, show up in a different uniform, come at Steve with questions wholly unrelated to the subject he had previously introduced. When he heard Tamara and Steve talking with one another, in his presence, in any language except Russian, he cursed them both. It was effective.

  Rudy Wells, Art Fanier, and two other bionics technicians from the Colorado laboratories set up a miniature bionics and modification center for Steve. Fanier worried and fussed over Steve like a mother whose child is about to start on his first trip away from home, and with his concern he fitted Steve with a variety of weapons concealed within his bionics limbs that just might save his hide, and thereby, his partner’s. Major Chuen—and Tamara as well—insisted that Steve be tested for his ability in hand-to-hand combat. It wasn’t as simple as he’d thought; Israeli commandos skilled in Arab fighting caught him by surprise the first few days. When he reached the point where he was no longer a stranger to their particular styles, he became too dangerous to continue the training. Rudy Wells and the airbase medical staff had their hands full with a steady flow of dazed and disbelieving commandos suffering an assortment of injuries from torn muscles to broken bones.

  All this went well, as did the flying in the MiG-21, a beautiful machine that Steve flew through dangerously wild maneuvers at low altitude near the airfield. He found himself hammering the fighter to the very edge of its performance, and Tamara’s place in the rear seat of the intercepter seemed only to goad him to more severe punishment. It was far worse for her as he wracked the MiG about in punishing high-g maneuvers that weighed her down and drained the blood from her head. She gasped for air, bore stoically his seeming rage in the airplane. Her only comment was that she hoped he would wait to kill himself until after their mission was ended.

  Tamara.

  He could cope with everything but this woman.

  From the moment they arrived at the Scorpion base they had lived together. The situation unnerved him. The first time they were alone, when she stripped in the bedroom in front of him and he stared at her supple body, unable to resist looking at her breasts and her flat stomach, her swelling mound, she returned his stare, eyes level, her expression unclouded. “I will shower first,” she said, and walked from the room. He sat in a daze on the edge of his bed until she returned, where she looked at him with curiosity. She dried her dark hair with vigorous movement.

  He knew she was not flaunting, not teasing, but it drove him crazy, at once aroused and frustrated him.

  She sat on her bed. “Steve.”

  “What is it?”

  “Look at me.”

  He did, turned away again.

  She was still on the edge of the bed, eyeing him frankly. “We are soldiers together,” she said quietly. “You and I, Steve, very soon will be risking our lives. We will depend upon one another to survive. There can be no surprises between us, nothing hidden. Do you want me to hide from you? Here,” she gestured with her arm to take in the cottage, “in this small place? That would be foolish. Better to be completely free with one another.”

  “Any thing you say.”

  “Good,” she said, her voice light and comfortable. She went back to drying her hair. Slowly she stopped, again gave him her full attention. This time there was something different in her voice. “You have an erection, don’t you, Steve?”

  He didn’t believe it.

  “If you are ashamed,” she said, the voice softer, “I will not look at you.” She placed her hand on his arm. “I am sorry,” she said suddenly. “Perhaps it is . . . your limbs. Forgive me if I have offended you. I will go into the other room.”

  “No,” he said quickly. “You saw all that when they were working on me.” She nodded, not speaking now. “That didn’t bother you. I could tell that.”

  “It did not bother me,” she said. “I have collected the pieces of children’s bodies, Steve. Including my own baby brother.”

  He nodded, not knowing what to say.

  “And please remember I have lived with our soldiers in the field. There were times when privacy was impossible. But respect is privacy. I have been like this, nude, before the soldiers. There are times to close off one’s mind.”

  “I suppose so,” he said, still dazed.

  “Besides, an erection is hardly something to be ashamed of.” She smiled. “I am pleased. Now, hurry, or we will be late for dinner.”

  He undressed and went numbly to the shower.

  It was like that the entire week when they were alone, but they never again mentioned the subject.

  The last three days were the only time he accepted the relationship on her terms. There wasn’t much choice. They were in final training.

  Then they sweated out the ghost mission of two jet drones modified to resemble Phantom reconnaissance fighters. A Hercules transport hauled the Firebees to 30,000 feet, where they were dropped free. The drones accelerated to supersonic speed and raced directly for Afsir, climbing steadily to 50,000 feet. The Russians reacted precisely as the Israelis had planned. Radar locked onto the drones. A salvo of missiles burst upward from the defending sites and the “Phantoms” were torn apart in the high, thin air of the stratosphere. Within the hour the Israeli government voiced its denunciation of the unprovoked attack against the reconnaissance aircraft. That was the signal they were waiting for.

  The strike was on.

  CHAPTER 22

  They went in with precise, split-second timing. The Israelis staged their fighters and fighter-bombers from a dozen different fields in Israel and scattered through the eastern half of the Sinai Peninsula. No large formations to give Russian radar the target on which they could concentrate their defensive fire. A group of fighters flew in darkness against the ever-ready defenses along the Suez Canal, the pilots using terrain-following radar that guided the planes unerringly close to the ground, lifting them through auto-slaved controls to clear hills and other obstacles. The pilots swept in against the formidable missile defenses, launched missiles that soared high through the air at supersonic speed. Each missile was packed with an electronic device that registered on probing Russian radar and sent back the false echo of a full-sized aircraft. No warheads were carried, no targets were struck along the defense line west of Cairo. But the Russians, ears ringing to the Egyptian screams of a full-scale Israeli assault by air, unleashed their missiles in a devastating barrage. The night sky over the Suez exploded into an eye-stabbing display of powerful warheads detonating from sea level to 40,000 feet.

  Other fighters raced over the Mediterranean Sea, swinging in wide, curving feints from the north toward coastal targets. No plane fired a shot against the Egyptian targets, but the desired effect was established. Egyptian and Russian defense systems were saturated. Fighters were assigned intercept missions, and within a quarter of an hour after the first register of targets on the Russian radar scopes the entire enemy system was in action—and pinned down to its assigned area of responsibility.

  Far to the south, to the west of the Red Sea port of Hurghada, several Israeli formations began to join in th
e air. Split-second timing was essential to the strike, and two dozen fighter-bombers made their initial pass just beyond the mountains flanking the Red Sea. Again the decoy missiles were the first objects to be picked up on radar. Few defensive missiles were installed in the area, and these entirely within the sprawling Russian airbase complex near Qena. Sending back their radar returns of aircraft, the decoys did their job exactly as planned. Defensive missiles fired in batteries, the powerful rocket boosters blazing fiery trails in the night sky, followed by the brilliant winking flashes of warheads exploding high above the earth. A second wave of decoy missiles howled skyward, and the second defense line of Russian missiles on the ground were fired.

  It would take the best of the Russian ground forces at least ten to fifteen minutes to reload, set the guidance systems, track, and fire. They were not given that time. The fighter-bombers raced up along the mountain slopes, then arced over in flight and hurtled close to the ground toward the Qena complex. Every pilot had his selected target to hit. The pilots followed the same procedures that had proven so successful in the Six Day War. The pilots throttled back to reduce their speed, then lowered their landing gear and flaps, and went back to full power. Moving at barely two hundred miles an hour, the airplanes rock-steady, the pilots sat atop superb gunnery platforms. First the rockets, waves of explosive warheads ripping into the missile sites, power plants, antiaircraft guns, fuel dumps, warehouses, barracks, truck depots, and other facilities. As the fighter-bombers swept in closer behind their devastating rocket assault they released their loads of bombs and napalm, their accuracy pinpointed in the glare of fires already started. The initial wave cleaned up the airplanes by bringing up gear and flaps, swept around in wide, low turns and came back for devastating strafing runs with cannon fire. Behind them came a second wave with full ordnance loads. It was a repetition of the classic strikes that had destroyed the Arab air forces on the ground. This time the Israelis added several new touches.