by Dave Edlund
General Hendrickson cleared his throat. “Very shortly two B-1 Lancers will enter Belarussian airspace, accompanied by three flights of Raptors. Russian medium-range radar will pick up the B-1s but they won’t detect the F-22 escorts, six in total, due to their low radar cross section. Simultaneously, a dozen Typhoon fighters from the Royal Air Force are approaching from the north, over Lithuania, and four F-16s will launch from Lask Air Base in Poland just ahead of the B-1s. The mission of the F-16s is to draw out the air defenses at the Minsk International Airport and destroy them with anti-radar missiles.”
“You said medium-range radar. Are you implying that long-range Russian radar will detect the aircraft sooner?”
“Yes, sir; I expect they are already tracking our aircraft,” replied Hendrickson. “An experimental over-the-horizon radar and tracking system can detect the Lancers, probably also the conventional fighters, anywhere over Eastern Europe. This system is code-named ‘Container’. But in order to achieve this range, the radio waves are bounced off the ionosphere, greatly reducing resolution.”
“Very well, continue please.”
“We have two tankers loitering over Poland to gas up aircraft as necessary to keep them on station for as long as needed. One Air Force E-3 surveillance and tracking aircraft has also been deployed over Poland. The tankers and the E-3 are protected by the Typhoon fighters. Data from the E-3 is being streamed through the Joint Air Operations Command and Control center at Spangdahlem Air Base in Germany.”
“Any word yet on those Russian Flankers in Belarus?”
“No, sir, not at this time.”
President Taylor nodded, but he felt is gut tightening. Men and women were flying into conflict, and the outcome was far from certain.
Chapter 23
Minsk
“OH, THAT SMELLS AWFUL!” Dmitri said, almost gagging as he helped fill the glass balls with a mixture of the chemicals.
“Butyric acid and cadaverine, or pentamethylene diamine. Mixed with some hexane for flammability,” Peter replied.
“It’s awful—smells like dog feces and rotten meat.”
“That’s the point. I selected these compounds based on a modern theory of non-lethal crowd control. Odors that cause a gag reflex. It’s instinctive in humans to avoid these smells which signal toxicity, and they elicit a strong response that’s hard to overcome.”
“How do you know these things?” Dmitri asked.
Peter shrugged. “In my business, it comes with the territory.”
Dmitri frowned, but decided not to probe further.
“Why the hexane? Why not just fill the glass balls with the butyric acid and cadaverine?”
“The hexane is my special modification. As the hexane burns it will heat the other chemicals and spread the putrid odor faster. Plus there’s the natural fear of fire.”
Peter was taping two-inch lengths of fuse to each glass ball after Dmitri sealed the glass stub with the torch. “Just light the fuse and throw. Pretty simple.”
Two hundred miles to the west, two Lancers were about to enter Belarusian airspace, only two minutes behind four F-16 Falcon jets. The B-1s had been gaining on the Falcons for the last 200 miles, ever since they went supersonic. The bombers were under the command of Major Lorraine Doyle, a career Air Force officer, graduate of the academy in Colorado Springs, and with 23 years in the service of her country.
The U.S. offensive would be under the direction of Golden Eye, the E-3 Sentry airborne warning and control system aircraft (AWACS). Circling above Poland, its radar coverage extended all the way into western Russia.
Major Doyle’s mission objectives were clear; destroy anti-air defenses at the International Airport and provide close air support to the Marines who would be deploying into what was assumed would be a very hot landing zone (LZ). Although the B-1 was initially imagined to be an intercontinental strategic bomber, its offensive role had evolved considerably, in part due to a change in U.S. doctrine concerning the deployment of nuclear weapons, and in part based on the aircraft’s successes in Iraq and Afghanistan in the fight against the Taliban.
Flying at 500 feet over eastern Poland at a speed of Mach 1.2, Doyle had the two Bones—code named Hammer Flight and Anvil Flight—in very close formation, tight enough that the returned radar signature would appear to be a single aircraft. The Russian air controllers would naturally assume the return to be indicative of a B-1 due to the supersonic speed.
“Golden Eye reports the Falcons have engaged two SAM sites in western Belarus,” Doyle reported to her crew as well as that of Anvil Flight. The F-16’s mission was to attract search and guidance radar and then destroy the radar with HARM (high-velocity anti-radiation missiles) munitions. It was risky for the pilots flying the Falcons, but offered huge benefits to trailing aircraft. Without the guidance radars, surface-to-air missiles and radar-aimed antiaircraft guns were useless.
“Golden Eye is tracking four—no six—aircraft departing from the airfield at Baranavichi,” Doyle reported as she was listening to the secure communication. “Departing in pairs so the assumption is Russian fighters. We know they have Flankers stationed there. Let me know when you have them on the scope, Nate.”
Captain Nathan ‘Nate’ McKinley was the Defensive System Officer, or DSO. In order to reduce their electromagnetic signature, the Bones were flying without their radar on, instead relying on a data link with Golden Eye.
“Have it, Major,” Nate said. “Six Flankers, airborne and picking up speed.”
The Flankers were a formidable foe, and with advanced look-down, shoot-down radar, posed a serious threat to the Bones as well as the F-16s, code named Searchlight.
“They’ve got their targeting radar on, Major. They’re looking for us. Climbing rapidly, probably plan to get above us, get a solid lock, and fire.”
“See if you can jam them,” Doyle said, but Nate was already working on it.
“Doubtful, still too far out, maybe in another minute. Four Flankers split off and are vectoring to the Falcons.”
Golden Eye, of course, was tracking everything, all aircraft between ground level and 50,000 feet within a radius of 350 miles. Colonel Horn was the senior officer onboard, responsible for coordinating through the CAOC in Stuttgart and establishing the order of battle, which meant the priority of threat and assigning the best resource to neutralize the threat. Colonel Horn was a career Air Force veteran, with several real combat missions such as this one under his belt, including Operation Checkmate, a classified intervention over Venezuela involving F-22 Raptors and B-2 stealth bombers.
“Sir, we have four Flankers vectoring toward Searchlight Flight,” an airman reported to Colonel Horn.
Colonel Horn understood that the Falcons were lightly armed for air-to-air combat with only two heat seeking missiles each. He also understood they would not fare well in a dogfight with the Flankers.
“Get a couple Raptors over there to help out those pilots. They need to stay on task.”
“Roger that, sir,” the airman said.
“Guardian Flight, this is Golden Eye, copy?”
“Roger, Golden Eye. Guardian One.”
“Guardian One, we are tracking four Flankers approximately 180 miles out from Searchlight. You are directed to split off two aircraft to engage and neutralize threat. You have the vector now.”
Following a brief pause, the voice answered in the airman’s headset. “Affirmative Golden Eye. Guardian Five and Guardian Six will engage Flankers.”
From the monitors aligned in rows on the AWACS, blips representing the two F-22 Raptor fighters separated from a cluster of six, leaving four to defend the Bones. Flying at supersonic speed, Guardian Five and Guardian Six closed on the Flankers, but not before the Flankers were within range of Searchlight.
“Searchlight, you have four Flankers within maximum engagement range. Be advised, two Raptors approximately 30 seconds out,” came the warning from Golden Eye.
In a dogfight, with aircraft flying at 700 miles per hour and m
issiles traveling at four times that speed, 30 seconds was an eternity.
In that instant, threat warning receivers began to sound in all four aircraft. Flying in a loose formation, they scattered like startled quail.
“Searchlight flight, this is Golden Eye. Punch afterburners and resume vector east, toward the airport. Missiles were fired from extreme range, best bet is to outrun them.” Golden Eye was trying to buy seconds for the F-16s, to allow the two Raptors to engage.
With Searchlight back on flight plan and traveling in excess of the speed of sound, the pursuing missiles ran out of fuel and self-detonated.
The four Flankers continued their pursuit, the Falcons easily revealed on their radar screens. Knowing the American planes could not stay in afterburner for long due to the enormous fuel consumption rate, the Russian pilots chose to stay at full military power and hunt their prey. Soon they would close distance again, and this time they would not miss.
“Searchlight, you are clear of inbound threats, but those Flankers have not broken off. Stay sharp, Guardians will engage in seven seconds.”
The Su-27 Flanker pilots had hoped to engage the Falcons in a dogfight. Some of the best trained pilots in the Russian Air Force, these men wanted combat experience. Plus they knew they had the upper hand given the American fighters were on a specific electronic warfare mission and would be lightly armed for air-to-air battle.
What the Flanker pilots didn’t expect was a pair of stealthy Raptors approaching quickly, and invisibly.
“Guardian Five. Slaving targeting computer to data link.” The pilot coordinated his targeting with Guardian Six to maximize the utility of their limited weaponry—six Aim-120D “Slammer” missiles each. The weapons were stored internally which, combined with the sleek lines and radar absorbing materials used in the aircraft skin, resulted in such a low radar cross-section as to render the Raptor invisible to radar at typical engagement distances.
“Roger. Guardian Six locking onto bogies three and four.”
“Fire on my mark,” Guardian Five said, already locking the guidance systems on two missiles to the blips designated bogy five and bogy six. “Mark.”
“Fox three,” came the reply from Guardian Six, indicating he had just fired two Slammers.
The four guided missiles, traveling at nearly Mach four, closed on the Su-27 aircraft at more than three times the speed of sound. Onboard the Flankers, life instantly changed as the hunter became the hunted. The aircraft split in opposite directions, diving, ejecting chaff bundles to confuse the radar guidance system of the missiles.
The lead Flanker pilot fired up the afterburners and jinked, trying to break the lock and evade the rapidly closing threat. The blaring alarm was increasing in frequency as the missile closed the distance. He pulled back on the stick, at the same time pushing to the right. He felt the blood draining from his head in the tight five-G turn.
Still, the alarm screamed. He ejected more chaff bundles and pulled up the aircraft’s nose—in seconds gaining 2,000 feet in altitude, before pushing the stick forward and hard left. He squeezed his abdominal muscles to constrict the flow of blood into his lower body, trying to keep oxygen flowing to his brain. The turn was sharp, nine-Gs, and his vision dimmed, becoming black around the periphery. It was like he was looking through a black tunnel at the outside world.
The Flanker was now flying supersonic in its downward descent. He pushed the stick harder, angling steeply toward the ground still 10,000 feet below—but approaching fast. Then he pulled back on the stick. The aircraft shot upward, its momentum plus the enormous thrust from the twin engines pushing it toward the black heavens. He knew the turn would have to be tight to have any chance of evading the missile. Squeezing his abdomen hard and grunting, still holding the stick back. His vision dimmed, and yet he refused to ease on the stick, grunting, gulping in air, he held fast. Then his vision went black.
The Flanker resumed a straight trajectory without any control input from the pilot. Two seconds later the Slammer’s radar proximity fuse sensed it was at the target. The 30-pound explosive warhead detonated five feet above the aircraft, causing fuel lines and fuel tanks to rupture and ignite in a huge fireball that lit the night sky.
The other three Flankers met similar fates at nearly the same moment.
“I’m sorry to bother you sir, but I have Foreign Minister Denisov on the line, and he says it’s urgent.”
“Put him through Marge.” Secretary of State Paul Bryan was expecting a call from the highest levels of the Russian government. He knew the approaching flight of aircraft would not pass without notice, or response.
“I have been instructed by President Pushkin to warn you that Russia will not tolerate American or NATO interference in events unfolding in Belarus. We have detected a large number of aircraft approaching Belarus from the west and the northwest. Their flight pattern suggests military aircraft.”
“You say they are flying over European airspace, not Russian. Consequently, there has been no violation of Russian sovereignty. I cannot accept your objections.”
“Then you acknowledge these are American warplanes?”
“I have not acknowledged anything other than the obvious,” replied Bryan. Although the stakes were high, he still enjoyed these bouts of mental jousting.
“Understand me well, Mister Secretary. Russia has an obligation to protect its citizens, and we do have fighter aircraft stationed in Belarus. As you know, President Pushkin and President Yatchenko share a common interest.”
“Perhaps they have less in common now. President Yatchenko does not appreciate Russian troops stirring up violence in Minsk. We expect he will request NATO and international support against Russian aggression within 24 hours.”
There was a moment of silence, presumably for Foreign Secretary Denisov to digest this piece of information. “Russia has no troops in Belarus. However, we do reserve the right to defend ethnic Russians, including those in Minsk. If U.S. and NATO warplanes are intending to engage the pro-Russian militia in and around Minsk, they will be met with force. Heed my warning Mister Secretary. Russia does not seek a confrontation, but we will not look the other way while American aggression once again interferes with the internal affairs of Eastern European countries.”
Paul Bryan was prepared for this insinuation. “You are referring to the alleged use of the smallpox virus as a biological weapon in Tbilisi?”
“Of course. The evidence has spoken clearly. And from a European agency nonetheless. The global stage of public opinion is already rising against this monstrous act by the United States.”
“Very well, Mister Denisov. Thank you for getting to the point. Now, I shall return the favor. First, you and I both know very well that the United States has not dispersed biological weapons anywhere. Not in Georgia, not anywhere. Soon, we will present our evidence of Russian complicity behind the outbreak in Tbilisi. Second, and listen to me carefully, any real or perceived threat in the airspace over Belarus will be dealt with decisively.”
The line was silent.
“Minister Denisov, do you understand what I am saying?” asked Paul Bryan, although he knew the answer.
“I understand your language better than you understand mine. You will soon regret this course of action.”
Chapter 24
Minsk
“LET’S GO. I HAVE AN IDEA how we might disable that machine and prevent it from dispersing the virus,” Peter said. Dmitri nodded and together, equipped with their improvised weapons, the pair slipped into the hallway.
They dashed toward the stairwell, intending to return as fast as possible to the storeroom where Ian and Gary were sequestered. They didn’t have far to go and Peter was focused on the doorway ahead when a booming voice called from behind. “Stop!” The command was punctuated by a gunshot.
Peter slid to a stop and turned slowly. Dmitri did the same. The AK-74 rifle was slung over Peter’s shoulder, tantalizingly close and yet impossible to retrieve and aim without being shot
dead.
“Hello my comedic America friend. We meet again,” General Gorev said. “Drop your rifle.” Five guards rounded the corner of the hall and surrounded the General, all brandishing assault rifles aimed at Peter and Dmitri.
“We missed you,” Gorev said with a mock frown. “You will come with me.”
“And if I refuse?”
Gorev raised his rifle and shot Dmitri in the belly. He fell forward, clutching the wound, rolling on the floor in agony.
“No!” Peter yelled, rushing to his friend. Gently pulling away Dmitri’s hands, Peter examined the red splotch, blood already seeping through his shirt.
“He needs medical help.”
“He’ll get nothing. His kind is not welcome here.” Gorev spat the words out.
Dmitri spoke softly. “Don’t try to understand Peter. I knew it would come to this.” Dmitri grasped Peter’s hand, but there was little strength in his grip.
“Please. A first aid kit, or bandage to stop the bleeding,” Peter pleaded.
“Nyet,” said Gorev. Then he aimed his AK and fired again. The bullet punch through Dmitri’s chest.
Frothy, bright-red blood oozed from the chest wound, pooling on Dmitri’s once-white shirt and mingling with the dark red-brown blood from his belly wound. Peter knew the bullet had penetrated his friend’s lung, likely other vital organs and arteries as well. Dmitri was dying, and there wasn’t anything Peter could do to save him. He placed his hand on the bloody spot, knowing that death would soon come from fluid filling his lungs.
“Hold on Dmitri,” Peter begged.
Dmitri shook his head softly, his eyes nearly closed. He turned to face Peter, and squeezed his hand. “You are fortunate my young friend, to live in America.” His voice was weak.
“No!” Peter shook his head. “I’ll get help.”
“It is time.” Dmitri slowly blinked his eyes and then held them half open, looking beyond Peter, his breathing shallow and labored. “I go now; Helena waits for me.”