Iron Wolf

by Dale Brown

  “Rookie mistake,” Herres said. “He might be a good stick—at least, that’s the dope I get from the others—but he doesn’t know dick about planning.”

  “ ‘Kiss’ it: ‘Keep It Simple, Stupid,’ ” Sievert said. “Who doesn’t know about that? Well, we’ll show his punk ass how the pros do it.”

  The plan he and Herres had devised was indeed simple: emulating a civil business jet, they would cruise single-ship at high altitude through Poland at 360 knots, cross into Ukrainian airspace near Lviv, and follow the commercial airways to Kiev, under radar contact and with an international flight plan filed to Kharkiv Airport on Ukraine’s eastern border. Once on an instrument approach to Kharkiv, they would simply keep on descending to two hundred feet with the XF-111’s digital terrain-following system, push the airspeed up, and begin the attack run. They planned to fly south and east of Lipetsk then attack from the southeast. It was less than two hundred miles from Kharkiv to Lipetsk, so the run would take just twenty-two minutes at 540 knots. The egress would be much shorter, since they would dodge south around Belgorod and come back into Ukraine near the town of Markivka. Once safely out of Russia and away from the Russian-occupied provinces of Luhansk and Donestsk, they could climb back up to cruise altitude, pick up a flight plan, and head home.

  The catch: the airspace within five hundred miles around Moscow had always been one of the most heavily defended in the world, and with the conflict in Ukraine it was doubly so along the border. Russian air traffic control procedures required all flights in Ukraine to check in with Belgorod Approach Control when within fifty miles of the border or risk being engaged by fighters or surface-to-air missile batteries, and Russian controllers would assign a transponder code and carefully monitor the flight—any violation of their directives or deviation from the flight plan would trigger an air defense alert. The terrain would not help the inevitable pursuit—except for moraine ridges, it was flat, rolling, and featureless all the way to the Ural Mountains.

  The answer: extreme low altitude, fast attack speed—supersonic if necessary—and the incredible ALQ-293 SPEAR, or Self-Protection Electronically Agile Reaction system. More than just a jammer and threat-warning system, SPEAR was a “netrusion” device: it could insert malicious code into certain digital radars to create false targets, feed erroneous flight and tracking data into targeting computers, and even cause computers to shut themselves down or reboot. Both crewmembers had seen the videos and attended the briefings on SPEAR and agreed it was worth ten times more than all the jamming pods and antiradiation missiles back at base.

  Their stores load-out was simple as well: an auxiliary fuel tank in the bomb bay, giving them an additional five hundred gallons of fuel; two AGM-154D JSOWs, or Joint Standoff Weapons, one on each inboard pylon; and two clusters of two ADM-160 MALD-Js, or Miniature Air-Launched Decoys, also one on each wing. The JSOWs were a stealthy glide weapon with GPS and inertial navigation with imaging infrared terminal guidance, carrying a breaching warhead designed to penetrate buildings. They were older weapons, produced in the 1990s, and Herres would have preferred to carry the longer-range and more powerful AGM-158 JASSM, or Joint Air-to-Surface Standoff Missile, but Poland currently had a very limited number of JASSMs for their own F-16 attack planes, so even for this simulated mission they chose not to use them, assuming they would not be available to the Iron Wolf Squadron. The MALDs were small cruise missiles with jammers and decoy features that could make the tiny missiles appear to be as large as a B-52 Stratofortress bomber to an enemy radar.

  They knew that Sky Masters had a bunch of other very cool air-launched weapons as well back home that the SuperVark could employ, but they couldn’t play with those either.

  Sievert and Herres followed the computerized air traffic controller’s instructions as they cruised across Poland, entered Ukrainian airspace, and proceeded to Kiev. The flight was quiet and uneventful . . . until about a hundred miles east of Kiev when they heard, “Dynamics One-One-Seven Alpha, contact Belgorod Approach on frequency three-two-zero-point-seven-two.”

  “What?” Herres remarked. “We’re still a hundred fifty miles from Kharkiv. What gives?”

  “Probably a bunch of nonsense from McLanahan,” Sievert said. “Doesn’t matter. We’ll play his game—then shove it back in his face.” On the radio: “Kiev Approach, Dynamics One-Seven Alpha, verify you want us to switch to Belgorod Approach now?”

  “Affirmative, One-Seven Alpha,” the computerized controller’s voice replied. “You are clear to leave my frequency. Have a nice night.”

  “One-Seven Alpha, roger.” Sievert shook his head in exasperation as he switched to the new frequency. “Belgorod Approach, this is Dynamics One-One-Seven Alpha, level at flight level two-niner zero, direct Kharkiv. We will be requesting the ILS approach to runway one-two, full stop.”

  “Dynamics One-One-Seven Alpha, this is Belgorod Approach, understand you are at flight level two-niner zero direct Kharkiv,” the new computerized controller’s voice responded. “Please say type aircraft.”

  “It’s on our flight plan,” Herres said. “I assumed the Russians would have a copy of it. Maybe they don’t.”

  “Part of McLanahan’s ploy to distract us,” Sievert said. On the radio: “Dynamics One-Seven Alpha is a Gulfstream Four slant Lima.” The Gulfstream Four was very similar to the XF-111A in cruise performance and would look very similar to air traffic controllers on radar . . . until the combat started, and then the SuperVark was in a world all its own. The slant-Lina suffix meant that the aircraft had the latest GPS-guided Reduced Vertical Separation equipment, which meant it could send air traffic controllers enough data to keep it separated from other traffic, independent of ground-based radar.

  “Understand,” the computer said. “Say souls and remaining fuel on board.”

  More distractions. Sievert checked around the cockpit to see if McLanahan had put in any malfunctions that he needed to catch . . . but everything looked fine. He didn’t trust the little prick one bit, but so far McLanahan wasn’t pulling any funnies. “Two souls on board,” Sievert responded, “and three hours’ fuel on board.”

  “Understand,” the computer responded. “Fly heading one-five-zero for sixty seconds, then proceed direct Kharkiv.”

  “Heading one-five-zero for sixty seconds, then direct Kharkiv, Dynamics One-Seven Alpha, wilco,” Sievert acknowledged. That was a typical air traffic command, although unusual for flights in complete radar contact and with full transponder codes and flight plans in the system. On intercom he said, “That bastard is just fucking screwing with us. He just wants to—”

  “Caution, unidentified L-band search radar detected,” the SPEAR threat-warning system announced.

  “Identify!” Herres ordered.

  “Negative identification,” SPEAR replied. “Possible agile active frequency signal. Stand by.”

  “What the fuck is going on, Smooth?” Sievert thundered. “What is that?”

  “L-band active frequency signal is probably a Russian AWACS,” Herres said. “The Russkies have an AESA AWACS up over eastern Ukraine.” The Russian AWACS, or Airborne Warning and Control System, was an AESA, or active electronically scanned array radar, that sent pulses of radar energy through a mass of emitters that changed L-band frequencies several times a second—SPEAR sensors could detect the emitter, but because the frequency changed several times a second it was impossible to get a range, bearing, or even a positive identification of the emitter. “They don’t have us locked up, but we can’t lock them up either.”

  “This is bullshit,” Sievert exclaimed hotly. “The Russians can’t detect us this far inside Ukraine. The simulation is bogus. This is—”

  “Warning, warning, X-band target search radar, MiG-29, two o’clock high, forty-three miles, six hundred knots,” the computer announced. “Possible flight of two.”

  “Countermeasures active,” Herres ordered.

  “Countermeasures are active,” the computer responded. “MiG-29 flight
of two now thirty-eight miles and closing . . . warning, MiG-29s not detected.”

  “Not detected?” Sievert exclaimed. “Launch a MALD!”

  “MALD away,” the computer responded.

  “Engage DTF, two hundred hard ride!”

  “Warning, DTF overridden.”

  “Overridden? Why?”

  “It gives the MALD time to get away,” Herres said. “Should only be a few seconds.”

  Sure enough, seconds later: “DTF engaged, two hundred feet hard ride,” the computer announced. The SuperVark started a steep twelve-thousand-feet-per-minute descent. The DTF, or Digital Terrain Following system, used a digital global terrain and obstacle database coupled with the flight control system to fly as low to the earth as possible, without having to use terrain-following radar that was imprecise and could give away their position. Sievert pulled the wings back to their full seventy-two-degree wing sweep to pick up speed in the rapid descent.

  “What happened with that MiG?” Sievert thundered. “Why did SPEAR lose the contact? What the hell . . . ?”

  “IRSTS attack,” Herres said. “If the Russian radar plane has a lock on us, they can shoot with just a target bearing from their infrared tracker.”

  “Shit,” Sievert swore. “Can SPEAR shut down that AWACS?”

  “No indication yet,” Herres said. “All countermeasures are—”

  “Warning, warning, missile launch detection,” the computer suddenly announced in the same maddeningly relaxed, matter-of-fact tone.

  “Shit!” Sievert swore. He threw the XF-111 into a hard right turn at ninety degrees of bank, and SPEAR automatically responded by ejecting chaff and flares from the left side, opposite of the break.

  “Search radar, L-band phased array, Russian Beriev-100, ten o’clock, seventy-five miles,” the threat computer reported.

  “Engage Beriev-100,” Herres commanded. But he saw that SPEAR had already sent spoofing signals to the Russian radar plane, not jamming the radar signal but electronically moving the return in a different direction while making the Russian fighter believe he was still locked on to his target. “SPEAR is active. SPEAR is . . .” And at that instant they saw a bright flash of light off to the left of the nose. “Good miss,” he said.

  “Warning, warning, X-band search radar, MiG-29, nine o’clock high, forty-seven miles, not locked on,” the threat-warning computer announced.

  “Passing ten thousand feet,” Herres said. He checked a digital chart on his left multifunction display. On the left side of that display in stunning detail was a digitally produced drawing of the terrain ahead, with “signposts” pointing out towns, airports, and high obstructions. “Terrain is about seven hundred feet.” The right multifunction display on Herres’s side had a status readout of their weapons and a depiction of the threats around them and how SPEAR was reacting to them. The Russian fighter was well above them and continuing to cruise westbound, quickly passing behind them. “SPEAR is not engaging the MiG. It’s moving off to our seven o’clock.”

  Sievert pulled the throttles back as the SuperVark began to decrease its rapid descent. “I think we’ll be okay on fuel even with the early descent,” he said. “Better double-check, though, and find out what kind of reserves we’ll—”

  “Warning, warning, India-band search radar, S-300 missile system, twelve o’clock, eighty miles, not locked on,” the threat-warning computer said. “Warning, warning, Lima-band search radar, Beriev-100, nine o’clock, forty-two miles . . . warning, warning, Lima-band radar in narrow-beam mode, locked on . . . warning, warning, India-band search radar in narrow-beam mode . . . !”

  “Pushing it up to six hundred knots,” Sievert said. “Go target direct.”

  “We’re target direct,” Herres said. “Slightly higher terrain left, big city off to the right. Give me weapons.”

  “Weapons permission Sievert,” he said.

  “Weapons permission Sievert, acknowledged,” the computer responded.

  “You got weapons.”

  “Weapons permission Herres.”

  “Weapons permission Herres acknowledged. Warning, weapons are ready.”

  “We’re going in hot,” Sievert said. “Let’s get the—”

  “Warning, warning, infrared threat, three o’clock,” the computer said. “Warning, warning, India-Julia band target tracking radar, nine o’clock, thirty miles . . . warning, India-Julia band missile guidance radar . . . warning, warning, second infrared target, three o’clock . . . warning, third infrared target detected, nine o’clock . . . !”

  “MALDs! MALDs!” Herres shouted. “They got us between two SAMs!”

  “MALDs deployed.”

  “Coming left,” Sievert said. He threw the SuperVark into a tight left turn. The terrain was higher in this direction, but not by very much. SPEAR punched out decoy chaff and flares out of the right-side ejectors.

  “Warning, warning!” the threat computer said in the same monotone, even, unhurried female voice, as if nothing at all were happening anywhere in the world. “Warning, warning . . . !” The warnings were almost continuous now. As he thrust his aircraft into another tight right turn, Sievert wished he could meet the woman who recorded that voice . . .

  . . . so he could punch her right in the damned mouth.

  Four hours later, the last disheveled XF-111 crews dragged themselves back to the ready room, joining others who’d been sitting slumped wearily in their chairs for a lot longer. This time there was no banter, no laid-back swapping of worn-out jokes and good-natured teasing. There was just silence, a heavy, embarrassed silence.

  Brad waited for the last of Iron Wolf pilots and weapons officers to get settled before taking his place at the front. He stood there for a few moments longer, eyeing them closely. Very few of them seemed able to meet his cool, ironic gaze. Most seemed content to study the floor or the ceiling or their folded hands. They were certainly a far cry from the cocky, arrogant bunch who’d sauntered out to take a whack at a computer-simulated Lipetsk Air Base.

  “Well, that was . . . interesting,” Brad said, carefully choosing the most neutral word he could think of. Total freaking disaster was probably the most accurate description, but, hey, why pile on any harder than he already planned to? “Before I run through the full after-action brief, I’ll just summarize the results. Unless anyone has any objections?”

  No one spoke up.

  “Okay, here it is,” Brad said. “It’s short. But it sure as hell isn’t very sweet. Total number of XF-111 SuperVarks departing Powidz: nine. Number of XF-111s shot down over Russian territory: six. And a seventh plane crash-landed in Belarus as a total write-off. Number of XF-111s returning safely to Poland: two. Just two. And both of them landed with significant battle damage.” He let those horrifying statistics hang sourly in the air for a bit before going on. “Getting more than a billion dollars’ worth of advanced aircraft shot to shit is bad enough. What makes it even worse is the total number of bombs on target at Lipetsk. Which was precisely none. As in zero. Nada. Nil.”

  As he expected, that drew return fire from Bill Sievert. The former F-15E Strike Eagle pilot had been one of those shot down on the way to the target.

  “Sure we got clobbered!” Sievert snarled. “Crap, anybody would have gotten the snot beat out of them. Between the SAM belt on the way in, a bunch of fucking MiGs fighters already in the air looking for us—over Ukraine, for Christ’s sake!—and an even bigger shitload of SAMs ringing that freaking airfield, we never stood a chance. The damned target was completely impossible. Just like I said right from the get-go!”

  “Wrong,” Brad replied, no longer bothering to hide the disgust he felt. These men and women were supposed to be highly capable and aggressive aviators, not a bunch of whiny, argumentative, undisciplined brats. “Was Lipetsk a tough nut to crack? Absolutely. Would we have lost some XF-111s going after Lipetsk no matter what we did? Possibly. Was the mission target impossible? Absolutely not. What made it impossible was the half-assed, fly-by-the-sea
t-of-your-goddamned-pants way you all went after it!”

  “Maybe you’d better explain that somewhat more thoroughly, Brad,” Mark Darrow said, sitting up straighter. There might have been just the barest hint of a smile hovering on the Englishman’s face. “For those of us like me who are a bit slow, I mean.”

  “Glad to,” Brad agreed. He brought up some of the data captured by the simulation program during their mission. The first image showed a schematic of the ordnance loads each XF-111 crew had selected. “Anybody see the problem?”

  Slowly, hesitantly, several of the Iron Wolf pilots and weapons officers nodded. “We screwed up our load-outs,” murmured one of them, Karen Tanabe. Before joining Scion, she’d been a B-52 pilot for the U.S. Air Force.

  “That’s right,” Brad went on. “I let a couple of you load JASSMs, and the ones that did got them off, but we can’t count on Poland letting us have any. The rest loaded up on JSOWs and MALDs. A couple loaded AIM-120s and took out some MiGs, and they made it out of Russia, but no one took a shot at the Beriev-100. No one brought antiradar missiles . . . no one. You had Belgorod’s radar in your face almost all the way after passing Kiev but no one could take it out. You eventually had to fly close enough to Belgorod so it could get a tight lock on you, and that together with the Beriev-100 and the S-300 was enough to get good missile guidance on you. And why did you all make that mistake? Because everybody focused on grabbing the big prize—dropping bombs on Lipetsk—and nobody wanted second place.”

  Still scowling, he brought up his next exhibit, this one an animated illustration of the flight paths selected by each crew. It showed a set of nine blue-colored lines arrowing out from Powidz and then curving through different arcs to enter Russian territory at multiple points and widely separated times.

  Brad let them look at the damning sequence in silence while it played through once. Then he set the animation on autoplay, looping through over and over while he spoke. “The most charitable thing I can say about your total failure to coordinate your flight plans is that the spaghetti mess you see on the screen might have confused the Russian air defense controllers. Maybe. If they were already drunk. Of course, as it turned out, all you did was give their early-warning radars the maximum bite at the detection apple, along with exposing your aircraft to fire from multiple SAM battalions.”