To Slip the Surly Bonds

by Chris Kennedy

  Whoops, forgot the drop tanks, he thought, levelling off. The two 2,250-lt Hinderburger drop tanks were not rated for supersonic flight, and he punched them both off the wings just in time. Trading altitude for speed, Foster finally pulled up around a hundred meters above the North Sea. As at this altitude there were very few other aircraft out there that could keep up with a Tornado F.3, and the radar warning receiver was silent; the initial danger seemed to have passed.

  Time to take stock of the situation, he thought, reducing to full military power.

  * * *

  Sentry AEW.1 ZH107.

  “Looks like we’re got some Tiffie and Tonka mates to thank for saving our bacon,” Gambon commented as he observed the end of the engagement.

  The Soviet fighter sweep had been decisively defeated—four Su-27Ms were now fleeing east. On the negative side, three Typhoons had been lost, though it appeared that their aircrew had survived. At least, they would if SAR hurried up.

  “Well, they achieved something with that trick,” Sergeant Harris observed. “We’re going to have to dispatch the reserves.”

  * * *

  Over the North Sea, east of the Bass Rock.

  Two sorties in one day is getting old, quickly, Flight Lieutenant Simon Darkshade, RAAF, thought, stifling a yawn as he maintained formation off the port wing of a No. 43 (Fighter) Squadron Tornado F.3.

  “…angels…incoming…”

  Damn jammers, Darkshade thought. Soviet jamming was currently making radio conversation with his wingman, the Tornado F.3s the pair of Hawks were flying with, or the ground impossible. Therefore, Darkshade was keeping one eye on the rear cockpit of the interceptor.

  Glad we’re not doing this at low level, he thought. A moment later, there was a flashing light coming from the navigator’s torch. The Morse code gave an instruction to go to combat spread and where to expect the enemy to approach from.

  Glad to put my arse on the line for Queen and Country, Darkshade thought sarcastically. Just what I thought would happen when I agreed to be an instructor pilot over here. Darkshade was an Australian exchange officer serving with No.79 (Reserve) Squadron. He had nominally come to the United Kingdom to help the No.1 Tactical Weapons Unit train pilots on weapons systems before they were assigned to a specific aircraft type. No.1 TWU’s Hawk T.2s were similar to the RAAF’s Hawk 127s, so learning the aircraft had not been a problem.

  Kind of hard for the Tornado to point me in the right direction if we can’t talk, Darkshade thought. There were two Tornadoes guiding four Hawks, and not for the first time Darkshade wished a JTIDS terminal had been retrofitted into his aircraft.

  Too expensive my arse, he thought. He checked over his four ASRAAM, wishing he had two more rather than the fuel tanks underneath his wing. However, even with the T.2’s fuel refuelling probe, the Hawk was too short-ranged to carry six missiles and the cannon for any useful length of time.

  Darkshade looked up from his weapons display just in time to see the Tornados engage unseen targets with AMRAAMs.

  Well, I guess we’re in it now, he thought, following the Tornadoes as they descended rapidly and turned to attack the enemy formation from the rear. Darkshade stuck to ‘his’ Tornado F.3 like glue until distant puff balls of exploding Soviet aircraft oriented him towards their opponents. At this distance they were little more than specks, but from their actions he guessed they were Su-24 Fencers, rather than the more modern Su-34 Fullback. Lacking the Tornadoes’ radars, he closed to visual range, ensured he had good tone as the Fencer remained unaware of his presence, then squeezed the trigger.

  “Fox Two!” he announced to anyone that could hear his radio call.

  The missile raced off the port wing-tip pylon, rapidly accelerating to Mach 3 as it tracked the Fencer. The Soviet aircraft jettisoned its weapons load, then began to radically manoeuvre as it spewed out decoy flares.

  I’ll take a jettison, Darkshade thought. A couple of second later, the ASRAAM blew off the Su-24’s tail, making it a total loss rather than just a mission kill. The crew ejected as their fighter began to disintegrate.

  Time to find more trade, Darkshade thought as he looked around his aircraft to regain situational awareness. He spotted a Tornado chasing after a pair of Su-24s that were running towards the coast in the chaos of the Soviet-RAF merge.

  Brave lads, Darkshade thought briefly. He punched off his two tanks and pushed the Hawk’s throttle forward to maximum. We’ll see if I can make them dead ones.

  * * *

  “Annoying buggers aren’t they, boss?” Squadron Leader Wilkinson said from the rear cockpit of the pursuing Tornado F.3.

  “You can say that again, George,” Wing Commander Foster replied, frustrated.

  The two Fencers were jinking just enough to prevent him from getting a lock-on.

  Only one missile left, and I’d like to make sure it hits so I don’t have to go to guns, Foster thought.

  “Looks like we’ve got a Hawk trying to join us,” Wilkinson observed.

  “Optimistic sod.” Foster commented. “Well good luck to him.”

  The four aircraft raced down the Firth of Forth, causing alarm aboard the ships below. In a few minutes, both Fencers would be able to drop their weapons on the dockyard and naval base at Rosyth if they chose to. Finally, Foster got a tone and fired.

  “Fox Two! Fox Two!”

  “Go! Go! Go!” Wilkinson urged the missile.

  The Fencer pilot had seen the flash from the pursuing Tornado’s wing and turned sharply to try and defeat the missile, releasing flares as he did so. Since he was keeping his eye on the incoming ASRAAM, the pilot did not see the island of Inchcolm looming up in front of his aircraft. His navigator’s screamed warning caused him to reverse his turn—right into the ASRAAM.

  * * *

  Well, looks like that’s one, Darkshade thought, hurtling past the dark ball of smoke that had been two men and their attack aircraft. Seeing the second Su-24 bank tightly and pass over the coast, Darkshade slammed his stick over to cut the corner.

  Never would have caught him if he hadn’t have turned. Focusing on his target, Darkshade was not paying particular attention to the ground below him.

  “Fox Two!” he said on getting a good tone and firing.

  As with most of its siblings, the missile ran true, destroying its target. The burning wreckage, minus the crew who had ejected, slammed into the ground.

  “Oh, shit!” Darkshade exclaimed as he finally noticed where his kill had come down.

  * * *

  “They’re not going to thank him for that!” Foster commented as he circled the crash site.”

  “You can say that again, boss!” Wilkinson agreed.

  Below them, a column of smoke was rising from the crash site on the edge of the Mossmorran Petrochemical complex. Mossmorran was home to two plants, the Fife Natural Gas Liquid Plant—operated by Shell—and the Fife Ethylene Plant operated by ExxonMobil. The products both plants worked with and produced were somewhat flammable, so it was unfortunate the crashing Fencer had already set fire to one storage tank.

  Foster and Wilkinson could already see blue flashing lights belonging to fire equipment hurrying along the nearby A92 dual carriageway towards the growing blaze.

  “We’re nearly at bingo fuel, so I think it is time we made ourselves scarce,” Foster decided, turning away from Mossmorran.

  * * *

  Durham Tees Valley Airport, County Durham.

  Squadron Leader Gambon jerked awake as the Sentry touched down.

  Good God, I cannot keep this up, he thought. I can’t fall asleep while we’re flying back to the airfield.

  “Shame about Waddington,” one of the controllers was saying to another.

  “How many missiles did they say hit?” the second controller asked.

  Enough, Gambon thought. The answer you’re looking for is enough. Sentry ZH107 had diverted to Durham Tees Valley Airport due to the damage at RAF Waddington. Gambon was glad the RAF had seen fit to base
its auxiliary flying squadrons at civilian airports near their recruiting areas, as otherwise there’d have been no support at their destination.

  Even though No. 607 is based on the RAF Middleton St. George side, there’s a lot of difference between supporting a Tornado squadron and Sentries, Gambon thought. ZH107 taxied to where ground crew were waiting to service the big jet. There was also a crew bus with the new crew waiting; once the swap over was accomplished, it would take Gambon’s crew to their local accommodation.

  “All right then, let’s get off her quick,” Gambon said. Leading by example, he scrambled through the exit door, taking a deep breath once he reached the bottom of the air-stair. The kerosene filled atmosphere was the closest he could get to fresh air after being cooped up in a metal tube for nearly ten hours. After counting his crew off, he spotted his counterpart from B Flight, No. 8 Squadron, and went across to say hello.

  “Hi, Bruce, how are you?”

  “Hi, Gambo,” Squadron Leader Bruce Cameron replied. “I’m not bad, feeling a wee bit knackered though. You?”

  “Same really mate, feeling lucky to be alive too. The Russians tried to kill us today.”

  “What?” Cameron asked, concerned. Gambon relayed the details of the frontal aviation fighter sweep.

  “Didn’t feel personal until today; know what I mean?” Gambon concluded.

  “Aye, they’re just blips on a screen until they are trying to kill you,” Cameron agreed with a nod. “They tried to kill some of our tankers today as well. I hear we got lucky, although a few air bases were hit again.”

  Gambon saw the man look up the ladder.

  “Anyway, time I was aboard. I’ll catch you later. You get off and get some kip.”

  “I’ll do that, Bruce,” Gambon said. “See you in a few hours.”

  * * *

  RAF Leuchars, Fife, Scotland.

  Wing Commander Foster did not realise that he had fallen asleep as his Tornado was being winched backwards into the hardened aircraft shelter until the flight sergeant who served as crew chief tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Wakey, wakey, boss,” the Senior NCO said softly.

  “Oh, sorry, Flight,” Foster replied with a start as he woke up.

  “Don’t worry about it, boss, Mr. Wilkinson was kipping too,” the Senior NCO replied cheerfully. “You need my boys to paint any more kills on your plane?”

  “Err…yes, I think so, Flight,” Foster said, yawning. “I think we got at least four today, but I’ll need to get back to you. How was it here?”

  “We got hit twice; the Rock Apes got quite a few of them thankfully,” the NCO replied, referring to the base defence force. “They hit our peacetime HQ, though…and the buggers killed our cockerels and chickens.”

  As No. 43 Squadron was known as ‘the Fighting Cocks’ and had a cockerel on its crest; the squadron had long kept cockerels and chickens as mascots. The fresh eggs the chickens produced was a very welcome side benefit.

  Foster felt a single tear run down his left cheek.

  We’ve lost pilots and ground crew, and it’s some damn birds that I’m feeling emotional about, he thought. Even with that thought, he didn’t lose his anger.

  “Bastards,” he muttered as he climbed down from the cockpit.

  * * *

  Over the North Sea.

  Captain Dimitri Komissarov was somewhat surprised to be alive; as he had expected during the transit to his target in the UK, NATO forces on the continent had thrown everything they could at him. So far, he had managed to escape by accelerating up to Mach 2.8, the fastest he could go without damaging the airframe of his Mi-25RBsh, or risking having the four 500lb bombs he was carrying detonating.

  This is insanity, Komissarov thought. Reconnaissance missions are dangerous enough without also asking me to drop bombs on a radar station. From his warning system’s constant bleeping, Komissarov knew his aircraft was being scanned by at least one airborne and several ground-based radars.

  So much for surprise. He had not exactly expected to sneak up on the RAF, but it was clear the British were well and truly agitated. Glancing at his systems, he drew some comfort that the all of the electronic emissions were likely being recorded by the MiG-25RBF that had accompanied him for much of the flight.

  * * *

  Flight Lieutenant Catz shifted in her Martin-Baker ejection seat as she put her aircraft into yet another wide orbit. Catz was on her third sortie of the day, although this one was somewhat different to the last. Rather than the FGR.2 model, she was flying one of only six Typhoon FGR.4s the RAF had in service. This version had the electronically scanned version of the CAPTOR radar, known as CEASAR, the ability to carry conformal fuel tanks, 2-D thrust vectoring and—crucially for this mission—an extra fifteen percent more power in its EJ200 turbofans.

  Someone is about to get a surprise today, she thought. At least this one probably isn’t a fighter sweep.

  The task of intercepting MiG-25s was, appropriately enough, referred to as ‘Fox Hunting’. The Typhoons assigned to the task were only armed with a pair of Meteor missiles, carried no other external stores, and had been so thoroughly stripped that even the wings’ hard-points were blanked off.

  Glad the Soviets obliged us by waiting a few hours to send this mission. Pairs of Fox Hunters would be launched only once it was certain that a Foxbat was on its way. Even then, success was not certain, as only a relatively small number of the Soviet recce birds had been shot down.

  Catz’s datalink blipped as the Typhoon FGR.4 crept past Mach 1.7.

  Thank God for supercruise, she thought, seeing the vector from the Sentry. Catz and her wingman pushed their throttles to the stops, accelerating to the Typhoons’ maximum speed. Catz energised the radar as she pulled back on the stick. Just as the Typhoon was about to stall, she got a continuous tone in her ears.

  “Fox Three! Fox Three!” she announced firing both Meteors. A split-second later her wingman echoed the radio call as both of them nosed their fighters over and retarded their throttles.

  Now for the exhilarating task of finding a tanker before we run out of fuel, Catz said, noting just how much avgas the ascent and launch had cost her. Setting up the rendezvous in the navigational computer, Catz turned to watch the intercept unfold.

  The lead Foxbat turned away and began to accelerate, trying to escape. Four decoys separated from the big fighter, and for a moment Catz was certain that the Meteors were going to lock onto them. However, on this occasion the jettisoning and acceleration was just a bit too late. One of her missiles, just about to run out of fuel, got close enough to activate its proximity fuse.

  You poor bastard, Catz thought, genuinely sympathetic. She could envision the blast-fragmentation warhead tearing chunks out of the airframe of the Soviet aircraft. At the speed the Foxbat was traveling, the effect was almost immediate. The contact ‘bloomed’ briefly as the MiG-25 began to tumble and was torn to pieces in less than a second.

  Too bad we missed the second one, she thought, seeing her wingman’s missiles arc past the rushing Foxbat.

  As she made contact with the VC.10 K3, Catz felt somewhat pleased with herself. She was fairly sure she had killed the target.

  * * *

  Although the destruction of his aircraft had happened in the blink of an eye, the MiG-25RBF’s pilot had still had enough time to scream. Captain Komissarov could still hear the man’s final moments, broadcast over the Soviet command frequency, ringing in his ears.

  Well it looks like the people in Moscow who wanted electronic intelligence are not going to get what they so desperately needed, Komissarov thought. He armed his weapons and started his aircraft’s cameras. There would only be a fraction of a second to drop the first pair of bombs at the right time.

  They never should have modified these aircraft to allow supersonic strikes, he thought angrily. Even with precision guid—

  His thoughts were interrupted by the incessant warning of a Broadsword SAM flight locking on. Quickly pickling his
bombs as he entered the delivery envelope, Komissarov immediately activated his jammers and turned out to sea.

  Unbeknownst to Komissarov, his flight computer had an error in its navigational routines. As a result, both bombs were already off target as soon as they dropped off his MiG, with their point of impact growing even further afield as they ran into shearing winds while crossing over the border into Norfolk. They passed over the radar station at RAF Neatishead, their intended target, then landed in the nearby Burnt Fen broad. Their twin explosions killed quite a lot of wildlife but had no impact on the nearby RAF station other than causing a great deal of consternation.

  It would not make the Commissar happy, but I have a feeling that someone ‘Up There’ is looking out for me, Komissarov thought, seeing the sixth Broadsword SAM fall away behind his hurtling fighter. It seemed as if after the destruction of the other Foxbat the RAF had ‘shot its bolt’ in terms of fighters that could threaten him. Just to be sure, he took his MiG-25 well out over the North Sea so that he could approach his second target, RAF Boulmer, from the north.

  Let’s hope that was the last Broadsword battery up here, he thought. Intelligence swore the British only had limited numbers of the system, but Komissarov had strong doubts. As he crossed back over land, he once more turned on the cameras and armed his bombs. With no strident warning, he waited patiently to close to optimal release range, pressed his button…and felt nothing. Quickly stabbing the button again, Komissarov began cursing as there was a second instance of absolutely nothing.

  “Dammit to hell!” he muttered, pushing a few buttons to reset the computer and begin other troubleshooting procedures. He was halfway through troubleshooting when the fighter lurched from first one, then the second, bomb dropping away.