Black Sea Affair

by Don Brown

  The Fulcrum tried a quick left-turn belly roll. The Eagle matched the turn and the acrobatic roll. "Good try, but not good enough!"

  Now the Fulcrum tried banking hard to the right. A. J. pushed his stick to the right, and the Eagle followed suit.

  "Eagle Three. Papa Bear. What's your status?"

  "Papa Bear. I've got him in my gunsights. He's pretty good, but I'm moving in for the kill." The horizon was at a forty-five-degree angle now, as the planes continued their hard bank to the right. The Eagle was inching closer. The Fulcrum was within a hair of A. J.'s gun sights.

  A. J. flipped a switch and armed the Eagle's twenty-millimeter cannon with exploding shells.

  "Papa Bear, I'm moving in for guns." A. J. gave his jet slightly more throttle. The angle closed some more. The Fulcrum was almost in the crosshairs… almost… getting closer…

  A. J. squeezed the trigger of the six-barrel Gatling-style cannon. "I got shots in the air!" Tracers flew at the twin tailpipes of the Russian jet with twenty-millimeter exploding shells. Fire erupted in the Fulcrum's tailpipe and black smoke spewed forth immediately.

  "Bull's-eye!" A. J. shouted, as the MiG started a downward streak. "Bull's-eye!" He repeated. "I got him!"

  "Great work, boss!" Lieutenant Travis Martin said.

  "Keep an eye on that plane, " A. J. said. This kill would be legitimate, if he had to keep shooting bullets into the falling wreckage all the way to the ground. No more ghost planes resurfacing on radar. Not this time, baby.

  "Eagle Three, Eagle Four. Bandit's dropping like a rock. I've got a parachute in the sky at two o'clock."

  A. J. looked out and saw a white chute with a man dangling at the end.

  "Mark position, " he said, then radioed the control plan. "Papa Bear, Eagle Three. We've got a downed Russian MiG and parachute at…" A. J. was shocked that the dogfight that had erupted over Tbilisi had spilledover the Turkish border. The Russian pilot, if he was still alive, would parachute into NATO territory. "Fifty miles east of the Turkish border."

  "Eagle Three, Papa Bear. Copy that. We've got choppers in the area. Eagle Three, be advised the area is now free of bandits. Proceed as ordered, return to Incirlik."

  "Papa Bear. Eagle Three. Roger that. We're coming home."

  U.S. Army Apache helicopter

  Fifty miles east of Arivan, Turkey

  CW04 Adam Jackson, United States Army, sat in the cockpit at the controls of his Apache attack helicopter. He was hovering at five hundred feet over the snaky, mountainous road between the Turkish towns of Kars and Arivan.

  Chief Warrant Officer Jackson had heard the radio traffic between the Navy EC-2 Hawkeye and the U.S. Air Force F-15 about the downed Russian jet. As soon as the transmission was complete, he spotted a white parachute, about two miles downrange, floating down toward the road just to his east.

  Jackson pivoted the chopper on a stationary rotating axis in the air, dipped the nose, and flew toward the descending parachute.

  "Papa Bear. Apache One. I have a visual on that parachute. Repeat, I have a visual on the parachute. He's coming down fifty miles east of Arivan. Looks like he may land on the main road."

  "Apache One. Papa Bear. Proceed to landing site. Rescue downed pilot."

  "Papa Bear. Roger that. Proceeding now."

  Jackson pressed the aircraft's internal intercom system to the Apache's cargo bay.

  "Ranger leader, be on alert. We've spotted the Russian pilot. He's coming down two miles downrange."

  A voice came back through Jackson's headset. "Roger that, Apache One. Just get us into position and we'll take care of the rest."

  "Roger that, Ranger leader. Stand by."

  Jackson hovered for a moment. When the pilot hit the ground, Jackson nudged forward on the throttle. In a moment, he was hovering directly over the downed pilot, who was looking up, shielding his face from the chopper's downdraft. His clothes, hair, and downed parachute were blowing wildly in the wind.

  "Ranger leader, we're at one hundred feet."

  "Okay, Apache, we're good to go!"

  Four one-hundred-foot ropes dropped from the chopper's cargo bay. A squad of U.S. Army Rangers, wearing camouflaged combat fatigues, shimmied down the ropes in groups of fours.

  Jackson looked down. Six Rangers were already on the ground. They surrounded the Russian and pointed their M-16s at him from every direction. The Russian's hands were in the air. Jackson looked for a spot on the road, about a hundred yards downrange. He steered the Apache to just above the spot, and then set the chopper down on the road.

  CHAPTER 15

  Office of the Russian minister of defense Red Square, Moscow

  Three hours later

  Giorgy Alexeevich Popkov, the Russian minister of defense, sat at his desk, alone, organizing papers for his meeting with President Evtimov. He knew what Evtimov would be looking for:

  Bomb assessments.

  Damage reports inflicted on Chechnya.

  An update on NATO flights over Georgia and NATO troop movements in Turkey.

  But mostly, the president's mind would be on one subject: plutonium.

  He imagined Evtimov's grueling cross-examination in front of the rest of the cabinet: "What is the status of the plutonium? Do we have any leads on the plutonium? Have we found where they are trying to build the nuclear device? You are my defense minister, Giorgy Alexeevich. I hold you responsible for the success or failure of this mission."

  How he dreaded it all.

  Hot rumors floated around the political circles of Moscow that the defense minister's head would soon roll, that the president still seethed about the loss of the plutonium, that Popkov's head had not yet rolled only because of the influence of his old hunting and vodka-drinking friend, Sergey Semyonovich Sobyanin, who just happened to be the president's chief of staff.

  But how much longer would Sergey Semyonovich stick his neck on the chopping block?

  Giorgy Alexeevich needed positive news to carry to the president. Something. Anything. Perhaps an intelligence leak of sorts. Something that would suggest that the Russian Army was closing in on the stolen bounty.

  The truth, however, was this. Russian ground and air forces were pounding Chechnya with unprecedented strength, but they were no closer to finding the plutonium than when this all started.

  Why?

  What could have gone wrong?

  There was a knock on the door.

  "Open."

  Olga, his secretary of five years, stood in the doorway.

  "Pardon me, Minister, " she said, "but General Ivanov is here to see you, sir."

  General Alexander Ivanov was the military chief of the Russian Air Force. "I do not remember an appointment with Ivanov."

  "You did not have an appointment, Minister. The general says it is an emergency."

  Fabulous. Another emergency. That's all Giorgy Alexeevich Popkov needed before meeting with an angry president. "Send him in, Olga."

  The general, tall and lean with high cheekbones and white hair, wearing his crisp green Air Force uniform with a multitude of medals, stepped into the spacious office.

  "Ah, General Ivanov. To what do I owe the pleasure of this surprise?"

  "I am afraid there is bad news."

  Popkov stood and ripped off his glasses. "Spit it out, General."

  "We have lost two of our Fulcrums. One of our pilots is presumed dead. The other has been captured by the Americans."

  "The Americans!" Popkov slammed his fist on his desk. "Explain this!"

  "Two of our jets delivered their rockets against ground targets in Chechnya. They wound up in Georgian airspace. American F-15s engaged them. One was shot down over Tbilisi. The other was shot down over the Turkish border."

  "Do our pilots not know the president's orders? Our instructions were specific. No planes over Georgia. And now you are telling me that our planes are not only over Georgia, but also over Turkey?"

  "Yes, our radar tapes are showing that, Comrade Minister." The general spoke
in a stoic voice.

  "You are aware, are you not, that Turkey is a member of NATO?"

  "Of course, Comrade Minister."

  "And you are aware, are you not, that the motto of NATO is that an attack against one is an attack against all? And that a Russian jet over Turkey is at least, in theory, the equivalent of a Russian jet over Britain or America?"

  "Of course, Comrade Minister, I am aware of this. But our jet was not attacking Turkey. And reviewing the radar tapes, I am convinced that the incursion of Turkish airspace was inadvertent."

  "Inadvertent?" Popkov wanted to fire his air boss on the spot. "And are our pilots so incompetent that one of them would inadvertently violate Turkish airspace, General?"

  "Minister, in reviewing the tapes, three things are clear. First, our jets were over Georgia, but they were on a direct course for Armenia. We do not understand why. We did not attack anyone or anything in Georgia. Our incursion of Georgian airspace appears to have been accidental.

  "Second, the American F-15s fired on our planes first. Not the other way around. The Americans were the aggressors here. Our planes fired back in an attempt to defend themselves.

  "Third, our MiG was engaged in a dogfight with an American F-15 when it crossed over into Turkish airspace. When you are engaged in a dogfight for your life, you pay no attention to the borders below you. I believe that our pilot did not intentionally fly across the Turkish border."

  "General, I remind you that our objective here is to recover plutonium, not to start World War Three with the Americans!"

  "And I would remind the minister that the Army, and not the Air Force, lost our plutonium to begin with."

  "You're out of line, General!" Popkov slammed his fist on the desk again. "You expect me to tell the president that both our Army and our Air Force are incompetent?"

  "My apologies, Minister."

  "I should fire both you and your Army counterpart on the spot right now!"

  "Please, Minister."

  Popkov ran his hand through his hair. "Sit down, General. I must think."

  The general complied.

  "Listen, General. This plutonium ordeal has caused great consternation in Moscow in the highest levels of the Russian government. There are those who would, shall we say, replace the upper leadership in the Defense Ministry." The general did not respond. "And if upper level leadership in the ministry is replaced, that would ordinarily not only include the minister of defense, but also the chief of the Russian Army, and the chief of the Russian Air Force, the position which you currently occupy. Do you understand me, General?"

  The air general sat erect with his cover in his lap, an unemotional rock. "Yes, Minister. I believe that I understand you."

  Popkov tapped a pen on his desk. "Well, if there is any ambiguity about what I mean, then what I mean is this. This incident did not happen as you say it did. Now you understand me?"

  Enlightened recognition crossed the general's face. His steely eyes lit up, at least to the extent that such cold black eyes were capable of lighting up. "I understand perfectly, Minister."

  "This means, of course, that whatever happened up there will need to be supported by the paperwork."

  "Of course, Minister."

  "Radar tapes, transmission recordings, whatever – will need to back the report I give the president. Will that be a problem?"

  "No problem whatsoever, Minister."

  "Good. I meet with the president in one hour. To the extent that you can provide supporting information for my report, that would be very helpful. You do understand the importance of all this, no?"

  "Consider it done, sir!"

  "Very well, General. You are dismissed."

  Office of the president of the Russian Republic Staraya Square, Moscow

  Three hours later

  President Vitaly Sergeivich Evtimov sat behind his large desk, discussing the Chechen and Georgian situations with Foreign Minister Kotenkov.

  "I believe the solution, Vitaly Sergeivich, is oil."

  "And just like that, you believe Georgia will return to her native Soviet roots?"

  "Ukraine seems to be leaning that way."

  "Ukraine is different, Alexander Alexeyvich, " Evtimov said. "Ukraine is stronger than Georgia. And whether Ukraine breaks its fascination with America will depend upon President Butrin. Ukraine's size and independence gives it the luxury of playing footsie with both east and west." He walked over to the wet bar to pour a glass of imported Georgian red wine. "Care for a drink?"

  "Please, Comrade President." The president handed his defense minister a glass of vodka. The defense minister took a sip and spoke again. "Your point about Ukraine is valid. Their economic independence lets them play both sides of the fence. Just the opposite is true of Georgia."

  "I do not follow you, " the president said.

  "The Georgians, like so many other nations, are cash-strapped. Unlike Ukraine, they are totally dependent on outside resources to survive. That's where we have an opportunity with Georgia."

  "Go on, " the president said.

  "Our petroleum resources in Siberia, Comrade President, could change the entire economy of that tiny country. Perhaps we offer to open a pipeline."

  The president pondered that. "But does that break this insatiable desire for all things Western that we have been fighting with in so many of our former republics?"

  "I think it gives us an opportunity, yes."

  "I hope you are right. But if we do not find this plutonium, it may not matter. Besides, I am bothered much by this NATO overflight request. Do you know what that means, Alexander Alexeyvich?" Vitaly Evtimov glared at his foreign minister as he swilled down vodka. "That means that we have United States warplanes buzzing the skies on our southern border!" The president drained his glass. "How would Mack Williams like it if we had armed MiG-29s buzzing along the Rio Grande River or making armed flights over Tijuana?"

  The president's intercom sounded.

  "Dah. What is it?"

  The voice of the president's chief of staff, Sergey Semyonovich Sobyanin, boomed through the box. "Comrade President. The defense minister is here for you, sir. He knows that he is early, but he says that the matter is urgent."

  The president exchanged glances with his foreign minister. "Very well. Send him in."

  The double doors to the presidential office swung open. In a charcoal grey suit, the defense minister walked in. Giorgy Alexeevich Pop-kov always had an ashen look about him, but this time, his face signaled disaster.

  "What is it, Giorgy Alexeevich?"

  "Comrade President, I am afraid there is disturbing news from the front."

  "Let me guess, Giorgy Alexeevich. The Chechens have already made a thermonuclear device with our plutonium."

  "It is not the Chechens. It is the Americans."

  "The Americans?"

  "They have shot down two of our planes."

  "How… what planes?"

  "Two MiG-29 Fulcrums, sir."

  The president looked at his foreign affairs minister, whose mouth was agape at this point. He looked back at Popkov. "Comrade Minister, the MiG-29 is the most maneuverable fighter in the world. At least that is what your office has told us. I demand an explanation!"

  The defense minister brushed his hand through his hair, shifting his beady eyes between the president and the foreign minister.

  "You are right, Comrade President, that the MiG-29 is the world's finest fighter plane. But even the greatest fighter plane in the history of mankind is vulnerable when ambushed."

  "Ambushed? Are you saying that our planes were bombed by the Americans while they were sitting on the ground?"

  "No, sir. Not bombed."

  "Then what?"

  "Our planes were operating over Chechnya, as you instructed, sir. They had dropped their bombs successfully on targets in Grozny. On their way back to Erebuni Air Base outside Yerevan in Armenia, they were flying near the Georgian border.

  "Two United States Air Force F-15s were
operating just inside the Georgian border, flying roughly parallel to our planes. The American planes were less than five miles from our planes.

  "For whatever reason, the American planes launched a missile attack on our planes at point-blank range. We do not know if the American pilots panicked or what. But because they attacked at point-blank range, even the Fulcrums had a difficult time escaping."

  "Our MiGs got off no shots in defense? I gave our pilots instructions to defend themselves, did I not?" the Russian president said.

  "Yes, you did, sir. The problem here is the rules of engagement."

  "What is wrong with the rules of engagement?"

  "Our pilots may fire at the Americans only if fired upon. This leaves them with little option in a point-blank attack. Our pilots had no reason to believe that the Americans would fire their missiles across the borders into Chechnya at close range. Had the rules of engagement been different, the Fulcrums would have prevailed."

  The Russian president let that sink in. "Are you telling me that the American planes fired their missiles from Georgian airspace into our airspace?"

  "Dah. Their Sidewinder missiles do not understand international boundaries, Comrade President."

  "But that makes no sense, " the foreign minister interjected. "If they attacked our planes in Chechnya, how do they have one of our pilots? Did they send their 82nd Airborne across the border to capture our flyer?"

  "A good question, Minister, " the defense minister said. "Their missile exploded near one of our planes. Our pilot heroically ejected before his MiG went down. But because he was so close to the border, and because of strong wind currents, he was blown across the border into Turkey. Naturally, I would expect the Americans to concoct some other version of the events to save face."

  "Naturally, " the foreign minister said.

  The Russian president detected skepticism in the foreign minister's voice. "It is amazing, " Evtimov said, "that our pilot could bail out of a plane struck by a Sidewinder missile, is it not, Giorgy Alexeevich?"

  The defense minister squirmed. But then again, Giorgy Alexeevich Popkov always squirmed.

  "Yes, it is amazing that our pilot survived. But that is a testament to the strength of the MiG-29, that it could withstand a direct missile attack, and yet, our pilot could survive!"