“Lies! All lies!”
“Mr. President, I am prepared to admit to everything,” Thom shot back. “I will tell the world the honest truth. I'll present photographs, details of the aircraft, where they came from, and exactly what they did. I will plead guilty to ordering an illegal overflight and undeclared hostile military action against the Russian Federation. I will then play the recordings the agent obtained during the surveillance. The world will believe me, President Sen’kov. I guarantee it.”
It was an unbelievable, stunning tactic. The others in the Situation Room were shocked into silence, afraid to move or even breathe. Could this work ... ?
“Mr Thom,” the translator said in his usual toneless voice, after another lengthy pause, “we feel a public statement is unnecessarily belligerent and inflammatory to the Russian people, and we demand you refrain from such a propagandist spectacle. We accept your offer of reparation payment of one hundred million dollars. The Russian government expects it to be paid forthwith. Your admission of guilt is sufficient and a matter of record.
“President Sen'kov has ordered all defensive forces to cease their attacks but to closely monitor all foreign aircraft for any sign of hostilities, and they have been ordered to respond immediately with overwhelming force should any foreign aircraft initiate hostile actions,” the translator went on. “The Russian government considers this matter closed, with a final admonition: if the United States spreads any information about this incident or any related incidents whatsoever, Russia will use any and all measures to force the United States to deal with the consequences.”
And the connection was terminated.
The members of the National Security Council looked at each other in stunned silence. Finally, Secretary of Defense Goff said under his breath, “Did . . . did what I think just happened really happen? Did the president of Russia just let an armed American stealth warplane fly through his country?”
“Sure—for one hundred million dollars,” Vice President Busick retorted. “Pretty sweet deal for him.” He turned to the President, who was sitting quietly, even serenely, at the conference table. “The money wasn’t necessary, Mr. President. The Vampire was almost out of Russia anyway. The first Vampire crew was safe—”
“The money was nothing but a token of good faith—or call it a bribe,” the President said. “Sen’kov knew we had won anyway—he had to save face in front of his generals, and a hundred million bucks goes a long way toward doing just that. Plus, he realizes now we had the goods on him. The incident is over, and everyone wants it that way. Let’s all go home.” He stood and headed for the door. But before he departed, he turned back toward the videoteleconference screen and said, “General Samson?”
“Yes, sir?”
“I want a full report on this incident from you and from General McLanahan as soon as he returns from his trip through Russia. I assume he will actually come back this time?”
“I’ll see to it, sir.”
“The only matter we still need to discuss is what to do about my military officers who plan and execute military operations in foreign countries without permission,” the President said grimly. “That kind of insubordinate, illegal bullshit needs to be dealt with right away, once and for all. I hope I’m making myself clear to everyone.”
Over southern Russia
That same moment
The threat warning receiver was a wild, confusing mixture of signals, and Gennadi Yegorov was having a tough time sorting them out. “I can’t quite make out what all the fuss is about,” he said to Ion Stoica. They were both listening intently to Belgorod Radar Center, trying to coordinate the flight paths and defensive alignment of at least six Russian jet fighters and one SA-10 surface-to-air missile site. “I can’t tell if they haven’t found the intruder, or if they’ve found him but can’t lock onto him, or found him but aren’t authorized to attack.”
Stoica, piloting the Metyor-179 Tyenee stealth fighter- bomber, readjusted his grip on the control stick and worriedly shifted in his ejection seat. “I think we're too late,” he said. “Whatever it was got away.”
‘Tm not so sure,” Yegorov said. “I just heard another message about unidentified aircraft heading southwest.”
“Well, that’s right toward us,” Stoica said. “Let’s hope we get lucky. How’s the infrared sensor this morning?”
“Atleechna, ” Yegorov said. “Better than usual—must not be very much humidity in the air. Range is about sixteen kilometers.” He paused, listening to the busy, often confusing cacophony of radio transmissions, then said excitedly, “There! A traffic warning to another aircraft, unidentified intermittent radar target, ten kilometers south of Boriskova, heading westbound, altitude unknown.” Stoica banked hard left and headed for that spot. “Very indistinct radar fixes—he’s less than thirty miles from the air defense radar site at Belgorod, but they can’t lock him up.”
“It must be a stealth aircraft,” Stoica said. “Could it be an American stealth aircraft?”
“They can’t get a good fix on him—but the detection threshold is getting closer for us the farther we head northeast,” Yegorov warned his aircraft commander. “Thirty kilometers more and they’ll be able to see us.”
“Those weapon pylons are as bad as radar reflectors,” Stoica said,
“That answers our question—we wear pylons, and our stealthiness goes away,” Yegorov summarized. “I suggest we go home and bring Comrade Kazakov’s plane back to him before we dent a fender,”
“You say we have thirty kilometers before we need to turn south again—let’s take it,” Stoica said. “My dogfight antennae are going nuts. Whoever’s out there, he’s close.”
“Did I ever tell you what I think of your so-called dogfight antenn—” But Yegorov stopped before finishing—because a target had just appeared on the infrared search-and-track sen sor. “Wait a minute ... contact!” he crowed. “Eleven o’clock low, range unknown. Weak infrared return, but it does not correlate to any other radar targets.” He reached up and patted Stoica's shoulder. “I’ll never bad-mouth your antennae again.” “Congratulate me later—let’s first see if we can eyeball this guy,” Stoica said. He offset himself slightly south of the target.
“If we can see him on the IRSTS. he's well within R-60 range,” Yegorov said. “I’m ready.”
“I’d like to get a visual on him first,” Stoica said. “I don't want to waste any missiles on just a cargo plane.”
“We’re not on a mission, Ion—we're joyriding over Ukraine and Russia aboard a five-hundred-million-ruble stealth fighter,” Yegorov told him. “We came here to see how close we can ' touch air defense radars with loaded pylons aboard. We know now—not very close at all. Let’s go home before we break something major.”
“We finally get a fix on this guy, something it looks like the rest of the Russian Air Force could not do, and you want to let him go and go back home?” Stoica said, with not a little humor in his voice. “What happened to the bloodthirsty aerial assassin I met dropping bombs on Afghan villages a few years back?”
“He makes too much money and is too afraid of having his nuts cut off by his gangster boss,” Yegorov said.
“This guy shot down some fighters and helicopters,” Stoica reminded his backseater. “If you tell me you’re not the least bit curious about who he is, we'll go home.” There was no reply. “Ha! I thought so. Hang on!” Stoica began a gentle left turn as the target began passing off their left side, beginning a tail chase to better line up on the target’s hot engine exhausts.
“Sleeshkampabol'she, ” Yegorov said, as he studied the infrared image. “He’s a big one. Four engines? I think he has four engines!”
“Four engines—he’s got to be a stealth bomber!” Stoica said. “It doesn’t explain who shot down the Russian aircraft, but this is a pretty big catch. We’ll deal with his escort after we take this big bastard down. What do you say, partner?”
“I’m with you,” Yegorov said excitedly. He entere
d commands into the weapon computers and immediately received a target lock indication. “Two external R-60s ready and in range. Your trigger is hot.”
“Missiles away!" Stoica lifted the trigger guard off the control stick and squeezed the trigger. Two R-6Q air-to-air missiles, one from each wing pylon, screamed off into space after their quarry less than five kilometers away....
As soon as the two R-60 missile motors ignited, a supercooled electronic eye in the tail of the EB-1C Vampire bomber detected them and issued a missile launch warning, and at the same time automatically ejected decoys and activated the bomber’s electronic countermeasures system. “Missile launch! Break left! Now!" Patrick shouted.
The Vampire’s attack countermeasures systems were the most adv anced in the world. Instead of simple chaff and flare decoy bundles, the Vampire ejected small cylindrical gliders that carried wide-spectrum electromagnetic transmitters that simulated the heat and radar signatures of a real plane. It also carried a towed transmitter array from which all the radar jamming signals were sent—in case the enemy launched home-on-jam weapons, the array would be destroyed, not the Vampire.
But the Metyor-179 was too close, and the decoys didn’t have time to power up to full illumination. While the first R-60 missile missed by a few dozen yards, the second R-60 did not. It briefly veered right after one of the decoys, then turned back left toward the Vampire. As it passed over the tail, its proximity fuse detected a near miss and detonated the seven- pound fragmentation warhead. The high-energy burst of shrapnel blew the upper half of the EB-lC’s vertical stabilizer completely away just above the horizontal stabilizer.
The explosion twisted the bomber around like a corkscrew, nearly flipping it completely inverted. Without a rudder, Rebecca had no roll or yaw stability. They were at the mercy of fate. If the plane recovered, they were saved—if not, their only chance would be to eject.
Somehow, it corkscrewed back to level flight. They had lost two thousand feet of altitude—Patrick found themselves just a thousand feet above ground. “Get the nose up, Rebecca,” he warned. “One thousand AGL.”
“I got it,” Furness said. She had almost no roll control at all, and she found herself muscling in more and more left stick. “Elevens feel like they’re stuck in a right turn. I think it’ll trim out... no, I can only trim part of it out. I've got limited pitch control, too. Dammit, check my instruments.”
"‘Rudder servo, elevon servo A, autopilot roll channels A and B, pitch servo A. secondary hydraulics, tail radar, tail warning receiver, and towed countermeasures arrays out,” Patrick said. “Looks like we got hit in the tail. Engines, electrical, primary hydraulics, and computers are okay. Can you hold it?”
“I think so,” Rebecca cried. “Where in hell did he come from?”
“First priority—get him off our tail,” Patrick shouted. “LADAR on!” The laser radar immediately located the enemy aircraft less than three miles away. He touched the enemy aircraft symbol on his supercockpit display. “Attack target.”
“Warning, attack command received. stop attack ... doors coming open ...” The forward bomb bay doors opened, and a single AIM-120 Scorpion AMRAAM missile was ejected into the slipstream. After stabilizing for a few seconds, its first- stage rocket motor ignited. It shot ahead of the Vampire bomber, then executed a wide, looping “over-the-shoulder” flight path toward the Metyor-179 stealth fighter.
Normally the missile relied on the Vampire’s tail radar for initial guidance to its quarry. But with the aft-facing radar gone, the AIM-120 missile had only the last known position, heading, altitude, and speed of the target for guidance. As it approached the spot in space where the enemy aircraft should be, it activated its own onboard radar and started to search.
“We got him!” Stoica shouted. The sudden POP! of the R-60’s warhead exploding and the brief trail of fire and burning metal were unmistakable. “Stand by, I’m going to let him have a couple more. Here goes ...” Just then, he saw a brief flash of light in the distance, like a fireworks rocket flying sideways. “What the hell was that?”
“It!s a missile!" Yegorov shouted. “Break right! Get out of here!"
Stoica did not hesitate. He threw the Mt-179 stealth fighter into a hard-right ninety-degree bank turn, shoved in full afterburner power, and pulled the control stick back to his belly. At the same instant, Yegorov ejected decoy chaff and flare bundles. The emergency maneuver worked. Without a reliable target position, the Scorpion’s onboard radar locked onto the largest target it could find on its way down—the cloud of fine tinsel-like chaff—and blew up harmlessly several hundred yards from the stealth fighter.
“He launched a missile at us!” Stoica shouted in utter shock. ‘That bastard launched a missile at us!"
“That’s either the biggest fighter I've ever seen,” Yegorov said, “or American stealth bombers now carry air-to-air missiles.”
“That bastard is dead!" Stoica shouted. He rolled left and activated the attack radar. This time, the enemy aircraft appeared on the screen immediately. “Not so stealthy anymore, arc we? We did hurt you. Missiles aw—” But before he could squeeze the trigger to launch two more R-60s, another missile flew into the sky and arced back toward them. Stoica swore and executed a hard-left break as Yegorov ejected chaff and flares from the right-side ejectors. The second missile missed, but not by as much this time.
“Ion, let’s get the hell out of here!” Yegorov shouted. “This son of a bitch can shoot back at us!”
“I'm not letting him go!”
“Ion, stop it! You already nailed the guy. He’s bugging out. Let him go before he gets off a lucky shot and nails us."
“Pizda tih a radila! " Stoica swore in Russian. But he knew
Yegorov was right. This guy, whoever it was, definitely had some teeth. Besides, one glance at his fuel gauges told him the other story: going into afterburner twice, plus carrying two external wing pylons, really sucked away the gas. He had enough fuel for one more shot—but he elected not to take it. Reluctantly, angrily, he turned left and headed south toward Romania.
“He’s bugging out,” Patrick said, as he studied the God's-eye view on his supcrcockpit display. “He's heading south . . . into Ukraine.”
“Dammit, General, this is the last thing we need," Furness swore. “We’re on an unauthorized and probably illegal mission—and now we have battle damage, serious battle damage! I’m not even sure if we’ll be able to air-refuel this thing without a rudder and with only partial elevon control ”
“Wonder where he's going?” Patrick mused. "If he was a Russian fighter, shouldn't he be headed the other way?”
“Are you listening to me, McLanahan? We almost got shot down. You almost got us shot down.”
“We were told by General Samson that the Russians agreed to let us go,” Patrick told Furness. “All the other Russian aircraft returned to base—all except one. a fighter with very low radar cross-section. Now he’s heading south into Ukraine. What’s up with that?”
“You’re lucky to be alive, our tail is shot to hell, and all you can think of is where the guy that almost killed us is headed?” “LADAR coming on,” Patrick said. He tracked the unknown aircraft for just a few minutes longer until it disappeared from his screen, just fifteen miles away. Definitely a stealth fighter, Patrick thought—the laser radar had a range of over fifty miles. “He’s still heading south. No change in heading. Maybe we should follow him, try to reacquire.”
“Why the hell not?” Rebecca asked sarcastically, the anger thick in her voice. “Our ass is grass if we go home now anyway.” Rebecca continued on course back home, and Patrick did not argue any further.
SIX
Over the Baltic Sea Days later
From the outside, it resembled a normal Boeing DC-10 Model 30F. with no windows and with big cargo doors instead of passenger doors. Customs inspectors in Aberdeen, Scotland, two days earlier had found only a cavernous empty cargo hold, with a few dozen passenger seats on rolling pallets bolted to
the forward part of the compartment, along with portable lavatories. This particular DC-10 had some unusual cargo-handling equipment installed inside—some sort of out- sized equipment in the back of the cargo compartment, along with large doors underneath—but its American FAA Form 337 airframe modification sheets and logbook entries were in perfect order.
After stopping in Scotland for two days, during which time workers began loading the plane with cargo, the crew had filed a flight plan direct to Al-Manamah, Bahrain, with sixty thousand four hundred and fifty pounds of oil drilling parts and equipment. Again, the forms were all in order, and the cargo carefully inspected by both United Kingdom Inland Revenue officials, as well as shipment supervisors representing the Bahraini company receiving the parts, and the German insurance company that had written the shipment insurance policy for the four thousand mile flight. It was now obvious why they needed this particular plane and its unusual gear—some of the parts, including oil well pipe, manifolds, and valves, were massive, far too large to fit through the side cargo door. The parts had simply been hoisted aboard the plane through the cargo doors on the bottom. After a three- hour weather delay and another hour coordinating a new international flight plan across the ten countries they would overfly on their nine-hour flight, they finally got under way shortly before sunset.
But as soon as the flight was airborne, the twenty technicians and engineers aboard the aircraft got to work. The oildrilling equipment that resembled massive cast-iron pieces were easily and quickly disassembled—they were actually composed of lightweight steel sheeting over polystyrene foam. Pump manifolds became control consoles; oil-drilling valves became test equipment and toolboxes; and oil-drilling pipe became pieces of two unusually shaped missiles.
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