Papendreyov switched his radio to the Fleet Communications frequency, the backup frequency for all Soviet air defense forces. "This is Ossora one-seven-one on Fleet Comm Alpha. One-seven-one is making an emergency approach and landing at Anadyr Airfield. Over.
No answer on Fleet Common. He set his transponder to special emergency code, activated it. Any air-defense force!
he hoped, would see his beacon before they started shooting... with an Air Defense Emergency declared for if region he'd be lucky to get near the base without finding himself under attack from his own people.
Yuri flipped his checklist cards over to the approach-andlanding section, began to set up for landing. One more ridge line to cross and Anadyr should be within visual range ' With only a half-hour of fuel left he decided to wait until just a few kilometers from the base before lowering his gear and configuring for landing. He would make one pass over the runway to check it over-and hope to get someone's attention-then pitch out, enter the visual pattern and land. He had to save his fuel in case he had to orbit the field to wait for the runway to be plowed off enough to make it safe to land. Damn the luck, he was positive-still positive--that the American intruder was nearby, still a threat. He checked his chronometer... it had only been an hour and forty minutes since he last saw the B-52 near Ossora.
Flying in the Korakskoje Nagode mountain range at six hundred kilometers an hour maximum, the B-52 could not have gone farther than Uel-Kal or Egvekinot on the Anadyrskij Zaliv, only two hundred kilometers from Anadyr. But none of those coastal bases had picked up the B-52 on radar, so it must still be hiding 41 in the mountains around Anadyr, trying to pick its way around the defenses.
If the intruder had tried to dodge north and west of the Kamchatka peninsula instead of toward Alaska, it would have fallen right into the waiting arms of two squadrons of MiG-29s from the regional defense force headquarters at Magadan. But no one had reported spotting the bomber there either. No. It was nearby. It had to be.
After refueling he was determined to find the B-52.Its tail radar was going to give it away, and its hot engines would, literally, be its downfall. With twilight Yuri figured he wouldn't need his pulse-Doppler radar to find the American plane. Using the infrared spotting scope and passive electronic scanners he could prowl about at will, virtually undetectable, until the B-52 gave itself away or was spotted by Beringovskiy radar.
He thought once, very briefly, about his wife and family, safe and warm in his Kiev apartment while he chased over thousands of kilometers of Siberia looking for an intruder that might have already crashed. He also thought about consequences... His expertise, his zeal might get him through the inquiry that followed his unauthorized chase for the B-52 the old Squadron Commander might give him a year's worth of runway snow removal duty or a demotion. An Air Defense Emergency could forgive a lot of things, he told himself. Anyway, he didn't believe he'd actually face a firing squad or exile.
But only one thing could guarantee him a satisfactory return to his family-a promotion, a full pardon. As Anadyr Airfield popped into view, still thirty-six kilometers away, he knew that the only thing that would earn him that result was gun-camera film of the B-52 going down in flames after being shot apart by his GSh-23 twin-barrel guns or by one of his newer AA-8 heat seeking missiles.
Yes. The B-52 had to be destroyed.
The Old Dog seemed more like a hospital ship than a strategic bomber as it taxied down the narrow, snow-covered taxiway of Anadyr Airbase.
in command as it limped down the taxiway was Patric McLanahan. As the most experienced and now physically able crewman, he had taken the pilot's left seat. Icy wind blasted his face from the dozens of holes on the left side of the cockpit at from a completely blown-out glass panel just behind his ejection seat. He was trying to do too much at once -but most important was to keep the Old Dog roughly in the center of the taxiway.
Ormack, blood all over his left shoulder, barely strong enough to move a switch, had taken his co-pilot's seat again. He continued to read the pre-takeoff checklists and give McLan han a running last-minute lecture on how to accomplish takeoff.
Angelina remained at her gunner's position, checking and rechecking her equipment. She had two Scorpion missiles on the right external pylon, three Scorpions on the bomb-blauncher, two HARM anti-radar missiles on the interior launcher and twenty Stinger air-mine rockets in the target cannon-and no way in the world to guide any of them the target-acquisition radar-scope had been damaged in the attack at the airbase. The Old Dog might be still an adversary to be considered, its Scorpions and HARMs could be self guided to their targets-but their effectiveness was greatly reduced.
Wendy was back in her electronic warfare officer's seat beside Angelina.
Using computer-displayed instructions she had restarted the ring-laser gyro and satellite navigation syston in the freezing cold navigator's station below. There was little else downstairs-McLanahan's ten-inch radar scope had been destroyed by the Russian machine gun attack. The attack had also destroyed or damaged most of Wendy's electronic-warfare gear.
While she had been in the lower compartment she had looked over Dave Luger's notes and doodles, even picked up his headphone... wanting to offer it to him when he emerged from the aft bulkhead door, smiling and laughing and gabbing with his impossible Texas accent... she imagined she heard a knock on the belly hatch, and there he would be .
.. except, of course, he would not. Face it...
He was gone.
She had given Luger's coat to General Elliott, who was strapped into an emergency crash web chair on the upper deck between the cockpit and the defense crew's station, caught between a severe fever and the onset of deep shock.
Ormack continued with the checklists as they scrolled onto the computer monitor. "Flight instruments checked, pilot and co-pilot.
"Mine are gone," McLanahan asked. "Adjust your A.D.I. I can hardly see it but it's the only reliable one we have. "He watched as Ormack adjusted the artificial horizon. "That's it.
Standby altimeters are good. Standby turn-and-slip indicators are good.
"Electrical panel. "Ormack strained to read the tiny gauges.
"One and two are zero. All the rest are okay. "He advanced the computerized checklist. "Crosswing crab."
"Zeroed. Next."
Pitot heat."
It took McLanahan a moment.interrupted with a few small turns to stay on hard pavement, to find the switch. "On."
"Stability augmentation system."
"On."
"Stabilizer trim."
"That's this big wheel here, right?"McLanahan asked. "We don't have time to compute the right setting so I'm setting it to one-half unit nose up. Set. Next.
"Airbrake lever."
"OV, "Flaps."
"One hundred percent down, lever down."spiM.
"Fuel panel. I think I have it set up right," Ormack said wincing from a stab of pain that shot through the area arour his neck. "Check it for me. We've got minimum fuel in the main tanks because of the damage, so those pumps right there should be on, and those... there should be to OPEP Checked. Next.
"Starter switches."
"Okay, we're almost ready to go. Using the rudder pedal McLanahan nudged the Old Dog around a tight corner and turned onto the end of the Russian runway, then stepped on the tops of the pedals to engage the brakes.
"Angelina, Wendy, ready to go back there?"
"Ready," Angelina said over the interphone.
"Ready," Wendy asked. "Good luck."
"Thanks. "McLanahan gripped the control yoke. I'm gonna need it."
"All right," Ormack said, "we're going to start the number two engine.
Ready?"
Ready McLanahan moved the number-four engine-throttle to ninety percent. "Go!"Ormack moved the starter to START Slowly the RPMs on the number two engine began to increase McLanahan pointed to a yellow light on the forward panel "What's that?"Ormack said over the interphone. "I can see... " "A low oil-pressure light," Mc
Lanahan told him over the roar of the engines. "We've got to hope it'll give us enough thrust for takeoff before it seizes... " There was a tremendous bang on the left wing as the Old Dog bucked and rumbled so that no one could read the instruments.
"That's the bad gas," McLanahan said, "it should work okay, though Anxious moments later the RPMs on the number-two engine went to idle settings, and McLanaha pulled the power back on the number-four engine.
"Okay, starter on number two is in FLIGHT position generator on number two is on," Ormack asked. "Takeoff data. "McLanahan gave it over the interphone. "We roll until just before we run out of runway, then I pull back on the stick. If we fly, we fly. If we don't, we eject.
Next.
"Arming lever safety pins."
"All right, everyone," McLanahan told them, "get your seats ready for ejection. And don't hesitate. If you see the red bailout warning light, eject. Immediately."
"Couldn't have made a better takeoff briefing myself, McLanahan," Ormack said, trying to smile. "Takeoff checklist. Steering ratio selector lever. "McLanahan took a deep breath and tried not to think of Luger. Concentrate, he told himself. Get the job done.
Everybody was counting on him... including himself. He moved a lever on the center console. "TAKE-OFF LAND.
Set.
"Air conditioning master switch."
"RAM.
"Throttles.
"Here we go. "McLanahan took hold of the seven active throttles and moved them slowly forward to full military power. Because of the dead number-one engine the Old Dog slid to the left on the snow-covered runway. McLanahan stomped on the right stabilator pedal to correct, then, realizing the dual rudders had been destroyed, slowly pulled back the number-eight engine throttle until he was able to straighten out the Old Dog along the runway, then slowly pushed it back almost to full power.
"Good. "Ormack strained to be heard over the roar of the engine. "No stabilators... do whatever you need to do to keep her on the runway. "He put his hands on the yoke but could not help. "Keep an eye on the distance-remaining markers if you can... they'll be labeled in hundreds of meters. Lift off with about a thousand meters remaining-" "I can't see them," McLanahan shouted. "They're going by too damn fast-wait... sixteen, fifteen, fourteen.. ' " The wild rumbling and vibrations made it tough to refocus his eyes on the instruments.
When McLanahan swung the control yoke to the right to correct the violent left skid, it seemed the Old Dog was sliding sideways down the runway. He scanned the instruments. A caution light was lit but he couldn't make out which one.
"Hold it steady, Patrick-" "I can't, it's skidding too hard-" Easy.
.
. you can do it. Easy McLanahan realized with a surge of fear that the one-thousand-meter sign had just whizzed by. At the nine-hundred meter he pulled back on the control yoke, wrestled it back, back, back until it was touching his chest. Still the Old Dog's nose refused to leave the ground.
"C'mon, baby, lift off, dammit."
"Add some nose-up trim," Ormack yelled. "The big wheel by your knee.
Gent@v- Keep the back pressure in but get re to release it when the nose comes up."
"It's not lifting off... " The shaking, the turbule almost maae him lose his grip on the wheel... Now could see the end of the runway, a tall wall of drifting snow ice...
"Four... three... two... oh God, there's a snow drift out there, we're not-" With its nose still pointing downward the Old Dog left ground less than three feet above the peak of ice at the end of the runway. Buoyed then by "ground effect," the swirl of snow generated by the wings that bounced off the ground and back up at the plane, the Old Dog skittered only twenty feet on the snowy surface, the air pounding on the bomber's wings adding to the turbulence.
Like a blessing, the pounding began to decrease, and as airspeed slowly increased, the Old Dog's nose lifted skywa McLanahan at times swinging the control yoke all the way its limit to control the swaying as the huge bomber lifted in the Siberian sky.
Carefully now, McLanahan reached down to the gear-control lever and moved it up, also checking the main-gear indicate lights. "Gear up, Colonel, keep an eye on the-" He was interrupted by a blur of motion outside the cockpit window. Ormack spotted it first but was too shocked to speak. All he could do was point as the light gray MiG-29
Fulcrt, fighter flew just ahead and above the Old Dog, then banked erratically to the left and out of sight, its twin afterburners lighting up the sky.
It was impossible.
Yuri Papendreyov had been busy with landing checklist configuring his MiG-29 Fulcrum fighter for the penetration a, descent into Anadyr and following the navigation beacon and instrument-land-system beam. He had been taught not to rely on visual cues for landing until very close to the runway especially during long winter twilight conditions.
The young fighter pilot was less than two miles from touchdown when he finally had his Fulcrum configured and ready. It was then that he studied the runway. Since the first pass was going to be a visual inspection and flyover, he was moving almost twice as fast as usual.
The landing gear was up, but he had flaps and leading-edge slats deployed to make the relatively slow, low-altitude pass safer. He was flying his advanced fighter at a high angle-of-attack, which meant keeping the fighter's nose higher than normal during the pass.
In the dusky conditions Papendreyov didn't see the massive billows of smoke rising from the airfield and the sudden huge" black shape against the white snow-covered runway. When he did look out the cockpit windscreen, the huge ebony aircraft had left the runway, blending in with the rugged terrain and dark horizon.
Yuri made his pass, looking right toward the tower, the base operation building and aircraft-parking ramp. All empty. He was thinking he might be forced to pump his own gas, when he shifted his attention forward. His windscreen was filled with dark smoke. He jammed the throttles forward, igniting the twin Turmansky afterburners as a wave of turbulence shook his Fulcrum fighter.
And then, he saw it. He was close enough to touch it, close enough to see the pilot straining to lift his aircraft skyward.
The American B-52-lifting off from Anadyr!Yuri reacted instinctively, flicked the arming switch to his GSh-23 twin twenty-three-millimeter nose cannon, and fired.
The shots went wide as another giant wave of turbulence from the B-52 swatted at his Fulcrum fighter, and Yuri was forced to roll hard left to keep from plowing into the bomber's tail. As he passed to its left, he noticed with satisfaction that the huge gun on its tail did not follow him...
Marveling at his good fortune, he continued his left turn, retracting flaps and slats and selecting two AA-8 heat-seeking missiles... The initial shock of seeing the elusive American bomber here, of all the possible places to find him, dissolved back into the hard concentration of the hunt.
He had searched eleven thousand square kilometers, risked everything to hunt it down.
Now he had found it, The radar altimeter showed only a few hundred feet above ground, but he couldn't wait... McLanahan reached do and began to raise the flaps.
"Flaps coming up, Colonel. SST nose retracting. I don't believe it, but a Russian fighter just went past us... do you see him?"
Ormack looked out the right cockpit windows. "No."
"Keep watching for him. "McLanahan watched the fl indicator as the huge wing high-lift panels rose out of slipstream. With the flaps retracting, the Old Dog's lift be to erode and she began to sink.
McLanahan took the number eight throttle and jammed it to full military thrust, then fought the control yoke like it was a bucking horse as the differen thrust threatened to flip the bomber over and send it crashin the mountain below. Using what was left of the lateral controls, he struggled to keep the bomber level...
"Flaps up," he called out. Suddenly a blinking yellow light on the upper -eyebrow instrument panel caught his attention-the number two engine.
Its oil pressure had dropped below minimum. He pulled the number-two throttle to C
UTC shutting down the engine before the lack of oil pressure caused it to seize and explode. Now, because of the two missing engines on the left side, McLanahan again had no choice but to decrease power on the number-eight engine-without rudder he couldn't hold the nose straight with such a difference in thrust.
"Number two engine shut down," he said over the interphone. "Number eight pulled back to compensate. Angelina, try to get your system working-" "I've tried, the pylon, bomb bay and Stinger ainr missiles are working but I've no radar guidance. I can release the missiles but I can't guide them."
McLanahan leveled the Old Dog at about a thousand feet, pressed the PAGE ADVANCE button on the computer checklist calling up the automatic terrain-avoidance procedures. "We're going into auto-terrain-avoidance, everybody Wendy, go downstairs and try to reload terrain avoidance data into the computers."
Dale Brown - Flight Of The Old Dog Page 45