Her tail number flashed on his HUD, indicating she had turned her IFF back on. “Catch me if you can,” Shaughnessy said.
Air Traffic Control Tower
1526 local (GMT-4)
War was a hard business. There were always casualties. The trick was to pile up more on the other side than on your own.
Somewhere along the way, Korsov’s original dream of a Russian resettlement of America had gradually transformed itself into a victory of a more personal nature for Maskiro. Certainly, the glory of Russia remained the most important consideration. Of course it did.
Didn’t it?
Yes, of course. Maskiro ran a finger around his collar, wondering if the launch of the special weapons had somehow tainted his own air. He felt odd, disoriented. So much had gone wrong.
Of the twenty MiGs comprising the second flight, only eleven remained. And, of that eleven, ten were flat out running for the island, all at 3,000 feet. Their fuel consumption at that altitude was brutal due to the drag of the denser, thicker air. Only the tail-end aircraft was still above 3,000 feet, and he was descending rapidly. But he’d started too late, and the geometry wasn’t going to cut him any breaks.
If I don’t act now, the American aircraft will be within weapons release range. If they’re carrying ground attack missiles, everything is lost. If the missile discriminator IFF is ever going to work, it has to work now.
Knowing he had the Aegis to deal with and that he might be signing the last MiG’s death warrant, Maskiro ordered all the remaining antiair batteries to open fire on the Americans.
TWENTY
Tomcat 301
1531 local (GMT-4)
The area around the coast fuzzed out. For a moment, Bird Dog thought they were experiencing equipment problems, but behind him his RIO was swearing quietly. As he watched, what had looked like interference resolved into individual contacts spaced so closely that at extended range they appeared to be a single band of green on the radar screen.
“We got a launch, ZUS-9!” his RIO shouted. The warble of the ESM cut him off, confirming his conclusion.
The missiles fired from the trucks were far less accurate at long range. Their primary use was against ground attack aircraft, and they were deadly at short ranges due to their exceptionally short reaction time. But they weren’t as fast as the missiles carried on the MiGs, and thus were easier to evade.
But they don’t need to kill us, do they? Just keep us away. They’re accurate enough for that.
Or are they? I’m faster, better reflexes, all that, right? And they are limited on turns. I remember that from the briefing. So, if I get close and don’t give them any time to react, they won’t be that difficult to avoid, will they?
“Listen up,” Bird Dog ordered. He described his plan over tactical, talking over the expressions of disbelief he heard coming from the other aircraft as he explained the dynamics of what he proposed. He concluded with, “Not everybody can hack it, I know that. So, I’m leaving it up to the RIOs. You know who you’re with — if you trust your pilot enough to try it, join me.”
“Piece of cake, Bird Dog,” Shaughnessy said, her voice lazy and almost amused. “The defenses are so slow and clumsy it’s like trying to beat you up the ladder to the flight deck. Just stay loose, watch what they’re doing, and you can turn inside every time.” As Bird Dog watched, Shaughnessy’s tail number entered the green blur around the island, dancing through a storm of enemy missiles.
“If she can do it, so can I,” one voice said.
“Me, too.” Without exception, they were all in.
Bird Dog could see Shaughnessy below him, maybe 10,000 feet below him, a silver spec trailing con trails as it streaked across the whitecapped ocean. She was alone, violating the first commandment of fighter combat — never leave your wingman. Nevertheless, she had, and Bird Dog was seriously pissed.
But not pissed enough to abandon her.
Time seemed to slow down, even as his mind raced. The missiles rising up from the ridge running down the center of the island were creeping up to the sky, moving so slowly that he could see every detail of their shape. It seems like he had forever to evade them, but he knew that overconfidence killed at least as many pilots as enemy fire.
With the Tomcat moving at almost Mach 1 and a missile closing at slightly less than that, reaction time was measured in seconds. And there was no telling how many warheads they had on each missile. No, it was like a picket fence that stood between him and Shaughnessy, even assuming that the seeker head on the missiles had a lock on her.
Behind him, the rest of the flight was thinking exactly the same thing. But picket fence or no, they would have to wind their way through it. Because, just in front of Shaughnessy, and already curving back around to catch her, was a pack of MiGs. One had curved off from the course the others were on as though curious, taking a look back along their six to see the lone Tomcat trapped below a layer of missiles. Bird Dog could imagine the pilots evaluating her predicament like a pack of wolves stalking a young elk separated from the pack. However good a pilot she might be, Shaughnessy couldn’t stand up to an entire flight of MiGs.
The other possibility was that she could run the missile picket fence herself and rejoin the rest in the Tomcat flight. But in the long run, that would leave them in no better position than they were in right now. There would still be a flight of MiGs to be destroyed and there’d still be the missile trucks next time they tried.
No, better to finish this once and for all. If Shaughnessy could find her way through a cloud of launching missiles, Bird Dog could, too.
“Home Plate, Bird Dog. We’re going in.” A flurry of clicks on tactical from the other aircraft acknowledged his order.
“Alpha flight, this is alpha leader. You heard what the lady said — they’re slow and dumb. Keep your airspeed down to have time to react, but not so slow that they have time to catch you. Just be slightly faster, and a hell of a lot smarter. It should take you about ten seconds to transit the danger zone, and I want every last one of you pumping countermeasures as we go through it. All right, follow me.”
Bird Dog nosed the Tomcat down and decreased his airspeed slightly. Four hundred knots — yes, that should do it. “Keep your eyes glued to your radar screen,” Bird Dog ordered. “Call out the closest threat so I can get a visual on it.”
“They’ve got some sort of coating on, Bird Dog,” his RIO answered. “Not the greatest radar contacts in the world. Some of them are fading in and out.”
“Jamming of some sort?”
“I don’t think so,” the RIO answered, but his voice was doubtful. “Maybe. It’s more likely that they’ve got some sort of stealth coation on them. I’m getting a scatter effect, sort of — keeps them from having a solid return.”
“First one coming up in about five seconds,” Bird Dog said. “Like I said, stick to the radar — I’ll handle visuals, unless you tell me the radar is totally useless.”
“Roger. Recommend you descend four hundred feet, come right hard. That should put us underneath it. Even if it locks, is going to have a tough time making a hundred eighty degree turn.”
“Concur.” Although his HUD display provided him enough information to make the same call himself, Bird Dog didn’t even bother with it. His eyes were his combat information system; they told him the angle of approach and the relative speeds more accurately than any set of sterile numbers ever could.
Bird Dog snapped the Tomcat down and hard to the right. “Take it easy,” his RIO said. “Or, at least warn me.”
“Next target,” Bird Dog said.
“Come left, ease back a bit, then back hard right and continue descending,” the RIO said promptly.
So far, the plan seemed to be working out really well. He could hear over tactical that some of the pilots were cutting it a bit too close, mainly by the anguish howling from their RIOs. Still, there were no explosions.
It was almost like playing a video game. After he evaded the first few, it
took on a feeling of unreality. Were those really live missiles or just pixels on a screen? One part of his mind knew better than that, and he tried to pay attention to that, tried not to relax.
“Bird Dog, they’re on her!” his RIO shouted. Shaughnessy and a flight of MiGs were below him and slightly aft, and Bird Dog had lost a visual on them. He jerked his gaze back to his HUD. His RIO was right.
“We’re taking too long,” Bird Dog snapped. “We’ve got to get down there.”
“If you go any faster, you’re going to screw it up,” his RIO said, his voice now seriously concerned. “I’m doing the best that I can.”
“I’m not,” Bird Dog said grimly. He jammed the throttle forward. “Coming right for two hundred feet, another right turn, then down five hundred feet. Double check me.”
So this is how it would work best. He would do what his gut told him was right, counting on the RIO to catch it if he made a mistake.
The feeling of being in a video game disappeared abruptly. Everything was moving much faster, so fast that there wasn’t even time to think. It was all reflexes and nerves. He doubted that most of the squadron could keep up, but he was counting on their own good sense and their RIOs to know what their limitations were. But it was his wingman down there and he was going to get there in time, or die trying.
“She’s got three MiGs on her, Bird Dog. One’s got a lock. She’s trying to shake him — there, it took the chaff. But the other two are trying to box her in.”
Dammit, Shaughnessy, hold on. I’ll be there in a second — just hold on.
Bird Dog stared straight ahead, not even daring to blink. At this speed, the few microseconds it took to shut his eyes and open them might get them killed.
“No!” the RIO shouted. “Hard right — now!”
Bird Dog hesitated for a split second, and almost made a fatal mistake. He was near the bottom of the missile field now, and the MiGs were rising to greet him. If he continued the maneuver he’d planned, he’d fall right into a perfect firing position on them. The RIO’s plan was risky, but it might just work.
Time stopped again. The Tomcat seemed to respond so slowly that he wondered if he’d lost control surfaces. But the instrument panel was solid green lights, and he could feel the thrum of the aircraft biting into the air at a different angle.
As he came around, his wings swept back at maximum angle, he saw the missile. It was inching toward them, gleaming white, wobbling ever so slightly in the air as it rammed through his jet wash. It seemed to be staring at him, watching, determined to take him out. He knew where it would hit, too, felt it as a crawling sensation on his skin as though he were melded with the fuselage. Just after the cockpit, on the left side. It would destroy the wing first, plunging the Tomcat into a terminal barrel role, then continue on into the fuselage itself, detonating just after penetration. The fireball and the destruction would be instantaneous.
“No!” Bird Dog howled. He jammed the Tomcat down into a vertical dive, not sure if there were more missiles in front of him, but not caring. If he didn’t get out of this one’s way within the next few seconds, it was all over.
“Pull up!” the RIO shouted. “You’re past it! Pull up, Bird Dog.”
“Bird Dog, I can’t shake this one,” Shaughnessy said, her voice shaky for the first time since he’d known her. “I tried everything, but it’s like it’s reading my mind. Every turn I try—”
“Break hard to the right,” Bird Dog ordered, now diving straight for her. “Now, Shaughnessy — now! Break!”
Shaughnessy obeyed instantly. Her Tomcat rolled over, dived toward the ocean in a hard right turn and the MiG followed. As the MiG turned, it exposed its tailpipe to Bird Dog. He snapped off a white Sidewinder, which shot out and immediately acquired the blazing hot exhaust from the MiG. It accelerated, slamming into it before the MiG even realized he was no longer alone.
“Get back up here,” Bird Dog ordered. He brought the Tomcat around the hard turn, and saw the rest of the MiGs heading back toward him.
But the rest of his flight was now descending through the thicket of missiles, and the lead aircraft fired an AMRAAM into the pack, forcing them into evasive maneuvers and dispersing them. From their superior altitude, the Tomcats wreaked havoc.
“We’re in the line of fire” Bird Dog shouted to Shaughnessy. “Buster, to the north!”
“Roger,” Shaughnessy said, her voice still shaky, and Bird Dog saw that she was turning even before she responded.
They headed north to clear the AMRAAMs and resulting fireballs, then arced around to rejoin the rest of the flight. A few of the remaining MiGs had the same idea and also headed north, but the Tomcat flight quickly dealt with those. Finally, when they’d established complete control of the air, Bird Dog said, “Come on, people. Let’s get those trucks.”
Southeastern tip of Bermuda
Truck Station Four
1439 local (GMT-4)
Sergeant Oleg Kaminiski shouted frantically at the conscripts swarming over the missile launchers. The ripple launching had gone well, so very well that there should’ve been no way for the Americans to survive it.
But survive it they had, and he didn’t need a control tower to tell him that. His own rudimentary targeting radar showed the clouds of interference generated by the chaff, then the harder discrete contacts emerging from it. There would be a second round of missiles, and then a third if necessary. They could not keep this up forever.
He was sweating heavily, the salt water trickling down his spine and soaking into the waistband of his pants. He could feel more sweat rolling down his face and his scalp itched where it collected.
Damn this hot weather. It wasn’t right, expecting a man to live in this.
“Hurry, or you’ll kill us all!” Oleg crawled up onto the bed of the truck. He shoved aside the conscript who was holding one end of the firing cable in his hand, staring at it as though it were a snake. “Have you forgotten everything? Connect it then get clear. Move, I’ll do it myself.”
How far away where they? Were they even now firing antiradiation missiles, seeking out the warm scent of his radar?
“There!” He jammed the housing home, and a green light on the panel went on, indicating a solid fire control circuit. “Stand by to—”
But the conscript he’d shoved out of the way had forgotten more than how to connect the cable to the housing. He’d also forgotten every basic safety precaution. Before Oleg could finish his sentence, before he could even get clear of the tail of the missile, the conscript punched the firing button.
Oleg had just a second to stare in horror as a high-pitched sizzle started behind him. He turned just as the rocket engine ignited, toxic fumes spewing out from its tail seconds before fire burst out.
Every inch of his skin was incinerated immediately. It clung to the remainder of his body, masking the slow cooking taking place underneath charred flesh. His hair flashed into fire and then ash, as did his eyes.
By the time Oleg’s body fell from the truck bed to the dark, rich ground, he was already dead.
MiG 101
1523 local (GMT-4)
“Who’s that?” Tombstone said, indicating a lone radar contract to the south. “He’s pretty far away from the fight — is he waiting on us?”
“I don’t think so.” Greene’s voice was puzzled. “He’s heading due south — but he’s off axis of our course.”
“Hawkeye, got any idea?”
“It’s a MiG out of area. There’s nothing to the south of us in the air.”
Tombstone recalled the large-scale briefing plot he’d seen in TFCC. A possibility occurred to him as he remembered the AGI to the south.
“I think I know where he’s headed,” Tombstone said. He put the MiG into a hard turn to the south. “And I think I’ll stop him from getting there.”
TWENTY-ONE
MiG 102
1550 local (GMT-4)
With seventy-five miles of airspace between his aircraft and the is
land, Korsov was beginning to relax. The rest of the flight had hardly noticed when he departed, and, although there had been one question from the flight leader, no one has followed up. They had their hands full dealing with the waves of American aircraft coming at them. The shore-based missiles were giving them some cover, but he gathered from the radio traffic that most of the ZUS-9 trucks had been eliminated somehow. Something about a MiG firing on them — no, that was impossible. While it wasn’t inconceivable that there could have been a defector, there could have been no motivation to destroy their own antiair missile sites, none whatsoever. Not with the Americans breathing down their necks.
He was holding the AGI on his radar now. It was only a matter of minutes before he was in area for a quick pick up. He had used afterburner the entire way — no use worrying about fuel consumption now, not when he expected to abandon this airframe shortly.
The sudden deedle deedle of his ESM warning system snapped him out of his pleasant anticipation of the future. Who was…? He glanced at the scanner, and noted it was another MiG. But why would another MiG set off his warning system? It wouldn’t. Not unless he’d been swept by fire control radar specifically in launch mode.
Another contact snapped into being on his screen and he stared at it in disbelief. The sheer shock stunned him for a second, and then he began working rapidly.
An incoming missile — and from another MiG! Had they somehow detected his treachery and broke off one covertly to follow him? A MiG, of all things — he could understand a Tomcat chasing him down, although most of their attention was still fixed on the air battle off the coast.
Why another MiG?
Well, no matter. He had been a senior instructor at their advanced fighter tactics school not so long ago, and anything the pilot facing him knew Korsov had taught him. He should’ve known it would come to this. Everything had gone far too smoothly. There would have to be one final test, one final confrontation.
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