Iron Wolf

by Dale Brown

  “Sound air . . . air-raid alert, y . . . yes, sir,” Lieutenant Kararina Kirov, the deputy action officer, stammered. She tentatively pressed a red button on her panel, which sounded Klaxons outside. The warning would be relayed throughout all of the Iskander missile launch sites and S-300 and S-400 air defense emplacements throughout central Kaliningrad oblast. “Alert s . . . sounded, sir,” Kirov said nervously.

  “I can hear that myself, Lieutenant,” Saratov said flatly. Good thing she was cute, he thought, because she was certainly skittish—that might be fun in the sack, but not in his command post. “Relax yourself. Our defenses are impenetrable. The Americans and Poles are flying right into my trap. Do we have an altitude on that formation?”

  “Within range of 76N6 in one minute, sir.” The 76N6 was an excellent radar for detecting low-flying, high-speed aircraft, but its range was limited. But once the altitude was determined, the handoff to the 30N6E target-tracking and missile-guidance radar was fast.

  “Any IKS signals?” Saratov ordered. IKS, or identifikatsionnyy kod samolet, was a transponder and radio code used by all aircraft for identification by radar sites and interceptor aircraft. A missing or incorrect IKS code usually meant a hostile aircraft . . . or a friendly who deserved to die because he was not following the proper identification procedures in a combat zone.

  “Negative IKS,” came the reply.

  “Number of inbounds?”

  “Two separate groups, sir. I cannot break out the numbers in each group. Close formation, perhaps a kilometer or two apart.”

  That was not a very close formation, Saratov thought—these must be the Polish Air Force, because he knew the Americans had better flying skills and better combat tactics. “Very well. Break them out as fast as you can. Where is my fighter protection?”

  “Voron flight is at seventy-five hundred meters, fifty kilometers from inbounds, closing at Mach one.”

  “Weapons tight—I don’t want to shoot down our own aircraft,” Saratov said. “Looks like the fighter boys will get the first shot. All units, acknowledge my order.”

  “All units acknowledge weapons tight, sir,” Kirov said a few moments later. She was sounding better, Saratov thought. “Voron reports he is tied on to our target-tracking data uplink and will remain radar-silent until after missile launch.”

  “Very good,” Saratov commented. All frontline Russian fighters could approach and attack a target by many means other than using its own radar, which was always a dead giveaway: they could use an infrared tracker, or they could use the tracking and targeting data uplinked from ground radars as if it was their own onboard radar. The enemy could see the ground radar but wouldn’t know that Russian fighters were in the air unless they used their own radars, which would expose themselves. “Time to attack?”

  “Ten seconds, sir.” He would have liked to listen to his beloved S-300s shoot down the Poles, Saratov thought, but this time the fighter boys could have their fun.

  “Sir, Voron reports X-band radar detected! Suspect F-16 fighters inbound!” That confirmed Saratov’s guess that it was Polish Air Force invaders—the Americans were flying AN/APG-81 radars in their refurbished F-111 bombers, which were very difficult to detect and track.

  “Handoff to 76N6 complete!” a fire control officer shouted excitedly. “Hostile altitude is one hundred and fifty meters! Two groups, two aircraft in each group, now passing through nine hundred kilometers per hour! Solid lock, ready to attack!”

  “Weapons tight, I said!” Saratov yelled. “Acknowledge!”

  “All weapons tight, sir.”

  “Voron flight is missiles away, sir,” the lieutenant reported. “Fighters engaging.” In a head-to-head engagement the missile flight time was very short, and the fighters would probably turn on their radars in just a few seconds for more precise missile steering until the missile’s own radar would activate for terminal guidance to the kill. Seconds passed . . . then more seconds . . . then fifteen seconds . . .

  “What the hell is going on?” Saratov shouted. “What happened?”

  “Sir, Voron flight reports their scopes are clear,” Kirov said. “No contacts. All aircraft shot down!”

  Saratov knew he should feel relieved and elated, but for some strange reason he didn’t—not in the least. “Dispatch search teams to the site of that encounter—I want debris located and identified immediately,” he told Kirov. “Then I want—”

  “Radar contact aircraft! Bearing zero-nine-zero, range two hundred, low altitude, two aircraft, very large!”

  They missed! Saratov thought to himself. The fighter pilots missed an easy engagement! Eyes bulging out of his head, he stared dumbfounded at the radar scope. Sure enough, there were two very large aircraft heading west at very low altitude. Were they heavy bombers? Few countries other than the United States, Russia, and perhaps China flew heavy bombers anymore. The planes were moving fast, as fast as a fighter. Did the Americans send a B-1 bomber in to attack? “Tell those fighters to clear out of the area until we attack, then return to base!” he shouted. “Double-check you have a solid IKS on our own aircraft! Release batteries! Release all batteries!” Kirov repeated the rapid-fire orders as fast as she could. “Sound the air-raid alert and—”

  “Sir, 30N6 radar from Third Battery is off the air!” Kirov reported. Third Battery, with four S-300 launchers and four reload trailers each with four missile canisters, was the southern fire control radar controlling the four southernmost S-300 launchers.

  “What do you mean, off the air?” Saratov shouted. “Is it being jammed? Has it malfunctioned? What in hell . . . ?”

  “Sir, Third Battery reports it has been hit by a missile!” Kirov said. “Third Battery is under attack!

  “Fourth Battery engaging inbound hostiles!” Kirov reported. “Solid lock on two inbound hostiles!”

  Bombers! High-subsonic bombers! This was a major escalation! He went back to his own console and hit a button marked OMУ, which was the direct secure line to his superior officers of the Western Military District.

  “Major Kemerov, senior controller, go ahead, Seventy-Second Brigade.”

  “We are under attack, Major,” Saratov said. “One air defense radar has been hit by a missile, and we have engaged two heavy bombers inbound from the east. I need permission to launch my air-to-ground missiles immediately!”

  “Stand by, sir,” Kemerov said, and the line went silent. Crap, Saratov thought, he’d better damned hurry!

  “Inbound bombers down!” he heard over his headset. “Definite kill! Both targets down!”

  Saratov wasn’t going to buy that one for a second. “All batteries, weapons tight!” he shouted. “Get those fighters back out there to do a radar search! What about our ground spotters? They should have seen an explosion! Are there any visual—”

  “Sir, unidentified aircraft inbound, bearing zero-nine-zero, two hundred kilometers, low altitude, speed eight hundred, heading two-nine-five, two groups!” came another excited report.

  No! Saratov screamed at himself. Three separate contacts, all on virtually the same heading and altitude and almost the same range and speed? “It has to be radar spoofing!” he shouted. “We are being spoofed! Tell Fourth Battery to stay weapons tight! Tell Voron flight to search, but do not fire unless you have positive visual or infrared contact!

  “Sir, Third Battery reports they can use their 3R41 radar to fill in for their damaged 30N6,” Kirov reported. “Their tracking and fire control range will be reduced, but they will be back online in about ten minutes.”

  “Ten minutes, like hell,” Saratov shouted. “If we are under attack, this will be over in two minutes!”

  “Seventy-Second, this is OMU Alpha.” Saratov recognized the voice of Major General Alexander Kornukov, commander of the Western Military District of the Russian armed forces, even over the pops, whistles, and wavering of the constantly encrypted-decrypted line. “What do you have, Konrad?”

  “I’ve got a hatful of shit, sir, that’s w
hat I’ve got!” Saratov exclaimed. “One of my fire control radars was hit by a missile, but I’ve fired on two sets of radar targets to the east that turned out not to be there! Now I’ve got a third set of hostiles, but they’re at almost the exact same position and track as the others. They’re making us expend ordnance on shadows while they pick off our air defense systems, and I’m afraid we’re going to lose all the S-300 fire control systems and eventually the Iskanders pretty damned soon. If you don’t want to lose them, I suggest you get the order to launch them, sir, and I mean now.”

  “Relax, Konrad,” Kornukov said. “As soon as I got your initial report from the command post I requested an immediate conference with the chief of staff, and I’ll speak with him shortly. For now, use your best judgment on your air threats. If you think you have legitimate targets, engage them. Order up reloads; I’ll send them out right away. But shoot any bastard that looks like a legitimate hostile. Don’t let a real hostile sneak past a spoof. That will land you in the shit with the Kremlin for sure. Copy, Colonel?”

  “Yes, sir, I copy all,” Saratov said.

  “Anything else for me, Konrad?”

  “Negative, sir,” Saratov responded.

  “Good, Konrad,” Kornukov said. Saratov recognized a little bit of the helpful, sensitive, and friendly upperclassman comrade he knew during their years at the Yarolslavl Military Academy in the voice of his superior officer. In a much stronger commanding voice, Kornukov added: “Be aggressive and defend those Iskanders to the last missile. Venture on. I’ll advise you immediately when you are authorized to engage your assigned ground targets with the Iskanders, but until then keep those slugs safe, secure, ready, and tight. Understood, old friend?”

  “Understood, sir,” Saratov responded, but the connection was broken before the words passed his lips. He punched the button on his comm panel from the command channel back to his brigade network with an exasperated stab. “Give me a status report, now,” he ordered. “Surveillance?”

  “Radar is tracking two hostle targets at bearing zero-nine-eight, range one-sixty, low altitude, speed eight hundred,” the surveillance officer reported. “Voron flight of two is searching for the targets with airborne radar. All other sectors report clear.”

  “Air defense missiles?”

  “Air defense is standing by and ready,” the air defense brigade officer reported. “Battery Three is currently off-line but will be online with limited fifty-kilometer engagement range in ten minutes. Time to full combat readiness is approximately two days.”

  “Unacceptable,” Saratov said. “Fly replacement 30N6 radar units in immediately. It has been authorized by the chief of staff. I want them up and ready in eight hours. Get them moving.”

  “Yes, sir. All other air defense batteries are fully operational, and we have reported negative enemy traffic.”

  “Get on it,” Saratov said. “Ground attack, report.”

  “All batteries report fully operational and ready,” the Iskander brigade commander reported. “Twelve Iskander-M and twelve Iskander-K extended-range launchers with two missiles each are ready for launch, plus another thirty-six missiles ready for immediate reload. Reloads can be ready to fire in less than an hour. All launchers have been deployed to presurveyed launch locations for maximum accuracy. Targets include Polish command and control sites, airfields, air defense sites, and headquarters locations. Our first strike will destroy Poland’s ability to communicate with its remote units, and those remote units, in turn, will be unable to communicate with their subordinate units. Once we control Poland’s airspace and destroy its air defenses, we can end its ability to conduct these ridiculous harassment attacks against our forces.”

  “Is it possible to disperse your forces in case your current locations have been targeted?” Saratov asked. “Can you move them to nearby locations and put decoys in their original locations?”

  “Absolutely, sir,” the ground-attack brigade officer responded. “We can accomplish this in a staggered schedule so we do not degrade more than two batteries at a time. Our decoys are inflatable, easily set up, and cost virtually nothing in manpower and equipment. Best of all, the decoys almost perfectly match the size, infrared, radio, and radar profiles of the real launchers—if they are detected, the enemy will undoubtedly be convinced they are genuine.”

  “Have them ready to deploy,” Saratov said. “I want the Iskanders ready to fire as soon as we get the order.”

  OVER EASTERN KALININGRAD OBLAST

  THAT SAME TIME

  “It’s obvious: the air defense radar site is processing bad dope, Vikki,” Captain Pavel Ignatyev, the pilot in the lead of the formation of two Sukhoi-30 air superiority fighters said on intercom. “It’s about time they let us do our jobs until they get their heads straight and get their gear fixed.”

  “They could be getting meaconed too,” the front seat weapons officer, Senior Lieutenant Viktoria Gref responded. “I’m not picking up anything now, but I thought I saw an indication of something out there at twelve o’clock, sixty kilometers.”

  “We’re not radiating now, are we?”

  “No, but I’m ready to take a look,” Gref said. “If it’s a real target I’ll see it at eleven o’clock, forty kilometers.”

  “Clear to radiate,” Ignatyev said. On the air-to-air channel he said, “Voron Flight, Lead is radiating.”

  “Two,” came the simple reply from the pilot of the second Su-30. As the old joke said, wingmen only had to say three things to their flight leader: “Two,” “You’re on fire, Lead,” and “I’ll take the ugly one.”

  “Contact!” Gref said. “Two targets, eleven o’clock low, range one hundred, speed seven hundred!”

  “Finally we got the real bastards!” Ignatyev said. On the command channel: “Take spacing, we have contact.”

  “Two,” his wingman said. The second Su-30 climbed a hundred meters and dropped back about half a kilometer, allowing the leader more room to maneuver while hunting down their prey.

  “Radar in standby,” Gref said. On her display, however, the fire control computer plotted the targets it had picked up based on their last speed and heading and displayed them as if the radar was still locked on. “Eleven o’clock moving to ten, ninety klicks.”

  Ignatyev thumped the channel selector on his control stick to the command channel and spoke. “Base, Voron Flight, we have an airborne contact, low-flying, heading westbound at seven hundred. Do you still want a visual?”

  “Affirmative, Voron,” came the reply.

  “Acknowledged,” Ignatyev replied. On intercom: “Shit, they want a visual. At night, low altitude, fast mover—the worst setup.”

  “The infrared seeker will give us an image at fifteen klicks,” Gref said.

  “Yeah, but that’s well within Sidewinder missile range and almost in gun range.”

  “That’s why you wear the big-boy four stars, Pavel,” Gref said. “If they fire at us, we nail them.”

  Ignatyev straightened his back in his ejection seat and tightened his shoulder straps. “Fuck yeah,” he said. “Arm up the 77s.”

  Gref flipped a switch and checked her multifunction display. “Four R-77s prearmed, button set for single salvo. Your triggers are hot.”

  “Odobryat,” Ignatyev said. “Acknowledged. Light ’em up.”

  “Radiating . . . now.” A second later: “Contact, ten o’clock low, sixty klicks, heading west . . . maneuvering, moving southwest, accelerating to nine-sixty . . . shit, he’s right on the deck!”

  “He’s got to be a bad guy!” Ignatyev said. He flicked his channel selector again: “Base, Voron Flight, unidentified aircraft is at extreme low altitude and is almost supersonic. Do I have permission to—”

  But his question was interrupted when Gref shouted, “Picking up multiple targets now, I’ve got four aircraft now. Two moving northwest, still at low altitude. The other two are heading south and accelerating . . . northerly targets turning northeast.”

  “Looks like t
hey’re bugging out to Lithuania and Poland, the cowards,” Ignatyev said.

  “Some may be decoys,” Gref reminded her pilot. “Could be MALDs.”

  Ignatyev switched back to his air-to-air radio. “Two, we have contacts at three and eleven o’clock, about fifty klicks. Turn northeast and pick up those two. I’ll go after the southerly ones.”

  “Two,” Vonorov replied.

  Ignatyev threw his Su-30 into a tight right turn, imagining exactly where the southbound intruders should be. He was rewarded with: “Targets twelve o’clock very low, fifty klicks, speed one thousand.”

  “That’s no decoy,” Ignatyev said. “How far away is the border?”

  “About two minutes at this speed.”

  “He’s not getting away,” Ignatyev said. “Lock them up.”

  Gref finished programming the fire control computer, and a moment later: “Targets locked.” But a half second after that: “Heavy jamming . . . shit, broke lock. Can’t reacquire. Target is maneuvering . . . target now heading west-northwest.”

  “Turning back toward his original target . . . probably the Iskanders,” Ignatyev said. “I’ll close on him and nail him with the 73s if you can’t break the jamming.”

  A tone sounded in their helmets. “Target-tracking radar, X-band,” Gref announced. “He’s got air-to-air.”

  “I think it’s one of those F-111s with the F-35 radar,” Ignatyev said. “But he’s just giving away his own position. If he thinks he’s going to fire a missile at us from two hundred feet above the ground, he’s an amateur.” The captain sneered. “Idiot. What’s his range?”

  “Range twenty,” Gref said. “I’ve got an infrared lock-on. Selecting the 73s . . . infrared missiles armed, your triggers are—”

  At that instant, a tremendous flash of yellow fire burst less than a hundred meters to their right, followed by a huge explosion and burst of turbulence that threatened to twist the Russian fighter inside out. “Presvataya Bogoroditsa! Holy Mother of God!” Ignatyev shouted. “Where the hell did that come from?”

  “My scope is clear!” Gref shouted, trying to blink away the stars from her eyes. “All I have is our target at twelve o’clock low, fifteen klicks! Check your readouts—I feel a vibration on the right.”