by Stephen Makk
“Good hunting. Get some Russian ass, baby.”
No Bone pulled the stick to the left and gave her some rudder. It was time to get back to the big Gerald’s flight deck. She set course for home and flew on at 200 feet.
Two minutes went by.
“Shit, shit,” said Rusty. “Radar warning receiver. It’s a type Leninets V-004, threat ID is SU-34, 10,000 feet, bastards flying CAP. I think he’s seen us. Shit.”
High above, an SU-34 fighter bomber was flying CAP, Combat Air Patrol, over the fleet. They’d climbed high enough for the V-004 to detect them.
She pushed the throttle forward to get more speed. They could be lucky: he could be at his range limit.
“Get the Sidewinders up, Rusty. It may come to that.”
“Already done, sis. Air-to-air condition active, winder selected.”
Ruby Frances eased the stick forward and dropped to 100 feet. For the time being, it was just run and hope.
“What’s he packing?” she asked.
Rusty pulled up his reference guide. “He’s got Vymple AA-12 Adder, medium-range active and their equivalent to the AMRAAM, also the AA-12 Archer, aka a Russian Sidewinder. He’s 10,000 feet above and three miles behind, so hard to know which trigger he’ll pull.”
She knew what he’d do. He’s a fighter pilot: only one way he’d go. He’d dive and use the Archer. A minute passed by.
“No Bone, the radar warning receiver is picking up a stronger signal. I think he’s closer. The bastard’s coming down.”
“Yep, that’s what I thought. He must have us on look down shootdown, so let’s go.”
Ruby pulled back the stick hard and pushed the throttle through the afterburner gate. The F/A 18 pulled up and climbed, and she pulled partly inverted to give Rusty a look.
He scanned the sky with the APG-79 ASEA radar. It indicated a potential threat framed in a red circle and crosshairs. It was falling fast, heading their way.
“Got him, type confirmed. We’re painted by his V-004 but no fire mode.”
“This engagement’s down to you, Rusty. It’s as black as a panther’s ass up here, so we might just catch a glimpse of him.”
Ruby knew that they’d a formidable opponent out there. The SU series of fighters was formidable. He’d have two crew sat side by side, was heavy but very powerful, and had that Sukhoi manoeuvrability you hated to go up against. They had a fight on their hands.
She knew energy was the key, that and situational awareness. Know where your enemy is, and you have a big advantage. But it was the night and that made it a bastard.
He knew this too, of course. She thought he expected her to pull into another climb. She didn’t have a lot of kinetic energy, so she’d climb and he’d get in behind on her six. Ruby wasn’t having that.
She pushed the stick down slightly and aimed. The two aircraft closed at 1,200 knots.
“Jesus, lady, this is fucking chicken,” Rusty groaned. “You don’t play chicken with a Russian at 1200 knots. Do you know what these guys play Roulette with? A fuckin’ Makarov.”
“Makarov’s an auto. They probably use a UDAR 94.”
“Ok, Miss Smartass.”
He watched the range close in: half a mile, quarter of a mile. The closing rate was staggering.
“Oh, fuck.” The two jets rushed by, just 150 yards apart. She pulled up hard and the Gs came on, pushing them down; she felt the G-suit gripping her. She strained herself and held her breath, fighting off the grey out as the blood drained from her brain. She was slowly winning; as they pulled out, the G eased.
“That’s woman stupid, No Bone.”
“Get him with the radar and stop puking.”
He set for scan and lock.
“Got him. He’s below and on our twelve.”
She was inverted, so rolled through 180 to climb again if needed.
“Vampire, vampire,” shouted Rusty. “Archer; shit, he’s hit release.”
Rusty selected the AN/ALE countermeasures dispenser. It would throw out flares to distract the Archer’s IR seeker head.
“I’m going to jink when it’s here. Tell me when.”
He watched the missile approach on screen at 600 yards; the flares flew out to both sides of the aircraft. 400 yards, 300, 200. “Go.”
Ruby pulled hard to the right and down. The world spun to the left and the G came on.
“Missile warning,” shouted Rutsy. “Another Archer. Wait, No Bone, wait ready to jink left. Go.”
She pulled hard left. The missile had been confused by the flares, but not totally so. It exploded. Ruby heard shrapnel pepper the aircraft, and as she pulled level it didn’t feel right. It was hard to keep the bird from rolling left. The rudder worked, but she realized rudder authority was going.
“Look at the fuel, No Bone. Bastard’s leaking bad. Shit.”
She looked and they’d be empty in less than two minutes. She throttled back and pulled up to 700 feet. That was it. She hated doing it, over the icecap like this, but there was no choice.
“Sorry, Rusty. Eject, eject, eject.”
Rusty pulled his seat lanyard; the cockpit came off and she followed. She drifted down in the biting cold wind. The seat came away and soon she came down in the snowfield and rolled. She pulled out her bivi suit and put it on. Her beacon locater’s LED flashed every five seconds.
“No Bone!” It was Rusty calling to her, thank God. They met through the blowing light snow.
“We gotta find us some shelter: a snowbank or something.”
They wandered on for 30 minutes and spotted a bank. At least they could get out of the wind; it’d depend on the beacons now.
They reached the bank and Ruby started to dig a snow hole. It would offer some protection.
“What the fuck?”
“What is it, Rusty?”
“There’s someone here. A woman. I think she’s dead.”
Ruby scraped away at the snow covering her. She was flight crew, Russian. She moved her head to look at them.
“She’s alive.”
She was very cold and near death, so Ruby got down next to her and hugged her. Rusty laid down to her other side and hugged her.
“Who are you? Do you speak English?” Ruby asked.
She tried to speak, and slowly Ruby heard her.
“Lieutenant Elena Orlova, Russian Air Force. SU-34 down. You help? Cold.”
Ruby grinned. “Elena, we have distress beacons. Help is on its way.”
They were there for nearly three hours, and Ruby was frighteningly cold. How this woman could last all the hours she must have been here, she couldn’t imagine. At last, she heard rotor blades, beating closer. Soon, two men in Arctic whites and carrying rifles stood over them.
“Joker flight? We’re CSAR.”
“Yes, thanks.”
“Who’s this?” he said, pointing at the Russian.
“A friend of ours. Help us.”
A third man appeared, and they were all carried to the waiting chopper and put aboard. It lifted off on its way back to the carrier and the loadmaster gave them hot energy drinks. He had to lift Elena’s head up and feed her, and for the first time in many hours she smiled.
“Dosvidanya. I am lucky. Thank you.”
USS Stonewall Jackson.
The boat plunged into the Barents’s deep. Now below 2,000 feet, she sought an escape from the airdropped APR-2 Yastreb torpedo. The deadly fish raced in from the right.
“Terminal, terminal,” called out Benson in a high-pitched voice.
“Blow all forward, steer hard port, release countermeasures to starboard,” barked Nathan.
The boat rolled hard left and came up by the bow.
“All speed ahead, Planesman.”
There was a loud explosion to the right, and the boat was pushed hard left. The control room crew were harnessed in, but back aft it was a different story. Men and women were thrown from bunks; in the galley, pans spilled soup and sailors fell off their benches, then food spilled onto them.
&nbs
p; The boat bucked to and fro and pitched as the sea boiled. Emergency red lighting came on after seconds of blackness. The boat settled as it climbed away from the explosion site.
“Ease back, all ahead one third.” Nathan watched the depth gauge; they reached 300 feet. “Planesman, up bubble ten, make for periscope depth.”
“Periscope depth, aye.”
“Chief, damage control report.”
“Hit was astern; some hull fracture. Portable x-ray sensor indicates two minor cracks. Engineers say depth limited to 1,000 feet, sir; if we must. Some lines detached and leaking, most by-passed. An hour will see them fixed.”
“Thanks, Chief. Nikki, get the mast up and get the ugly bird staring at that Helix.”
“Sir, one fried bird, coming up… Weaps, get Vulture’s Stare up and looking,” said Nikki.
“Sir.”
It didn’t take long.
“Helix to the southwest, range two miles, approximately 300 feet altitude. Heading north, sir.”
Nikki walked to the conn and activated weapon view. She looked through the aiming scope at the top of the mast. She placed the aiming reticule on the Kamov helicopter and selected track. “Power up Vulture’s Stare.”
“Aye, sir.”
The viewscreen was displayed to Weaps. The boat’s huge banks of Lithium Ion batteries were routed into the mast’s circuit.
“On and ready, slaving full battery power, Vulture’s Stare on track. We have him.”
“Call out his range.”
“Two point three miles. Two point three seven, sir.”
“Beam release,” called Nikki.
“Beam release. Beam tracking, tracking.”
The Helix lit up with an unnaturally baleful light. It wasn’t natural, but unworldly.
The Kamov helicopter bucked and turned towards them. Smoke was thrown away by the rotors. Its windshield was bright beyond the possible. One hundred and fifty kW of laser energy poured into the Kamov.
Camouflage paint below the cockpit of the helicopter fried off. The crew were now blind, their optic nerves cauterised and blackened. Plastic fittings melted, giving off a foul burning smell, not unlike a skunk, and the windshield buckled. The crew’s uniforms melted and burst into flames. Flesh cooked and the beam bore down through the now-vacant eye sockets, brain burned in the dead crew.
The fuel tanks lit jets of flame and an APR-3’s warhead cooked and detonated. The explosion ripped the aircraft apart. The Helix, now in three pieces, fell burning into the Barents Sea. Nikki lowered the mast.
“Planesman, trim for descent, down 15, make your depth 300.”
“Down 300, aye sir.”
USS Stonewall Jackson had her revenge and had used the classified weapon. The Vulture had stared death on the enemy.
20
“Sir, we’re emitting noise,” said Benson. “I think it’s our prop. Request speed change.”
Nikki frowned. “Planesman, drop revs by half.”
“Sir.”
Twenty seconds went by. “That’s it, sir, it’s our prop. It’s a deep sound, like a groan.”
“How loud, Benson?” said Nathan.
“The enemy will hear it clearly, sir. We’re not quiet anymore.”
Nathan looked at Nikki and scowled. “It’s the torpedo near miss: it’s damaged the prop. Shit.” He took the broadcast mike from its hook and selected Engineering. “Chief Engineer to the control room.”
The Chief walked in and Nathan let him know about the problem.
The Chief shook his head. “A permanent fix will require shipyard and drydock, maybe a new prop.”
“A temp fix?”
“Depends what it is. We may be able to lash it up somehow. I guess we’re not in a friendly place?”
“No, we have the Northern Fleet on our horizon.”
“Ok, no surfacing.” The Chief smiled. “Shit always happens at the wrong time; that’s why they call it shit. We’ll have to put a diver out to check it out, sir. He can carry a camera with him and some tools that he may need.”
Nathan leaned over the conn and looked at the Chief. “Get the tools together, whatever may be needed. I’ll get a diver for you.”
“Sir.” The Engineer disappeared aft.
“XO, get Innes.”
She walked aft to Innes’s bunk room. A sailor was sat on his bunk listening to his iPod. He took the headphones off.
“Innes?”
“That one, sir.” He indicated a bunk with its curtain closed.
“Innes, Innes,” she called loudly.
“Sir,” a voice replied.
“Innes, get your hand off it and get your cock back in your shorts. Report to the control room. It’s time for a swim.”
A few minutes later, Innes walked into the control room. “Sir?”
“We have a big problem with the prop. I want you to go out with a camera and tools. Do what you can. You’ll have an engineer watching on. We can’t surface, so what depth can you work at?”
Innes thought. The skipper would want her as deep as possible. He’d be wearing the Poseidon Se7en rebreather, so he could spend a long time at a reasonable depth. “Two hundred, sir.”
Nathan stared at Innes. He knew he had probably one of the Navy’s top divers. “Get us there, Planesman. Once there, all stop and put your hat over the throttle. We’ll have a man out there playing with the prop.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Innes walked aft and put on his suit with an extra thermal shirt; this was the Arctic. He got his rebreather ready, mostly for checks; he had it ready after every dive.
He carried the device with its two ten-litre tanks to the base of the sail, where two A Gangers waited with their engineering equipment. There was a bag of tools, sockets, hammer, a saw and other things. Two large cylinders with cutting gas stood there, strapped together.
“Fuck,” said Innes. “I’m going back for a buoyancy bag. I can’t carry that thing.” The lower hatch was opened, and the A Gangers pushed the gear up inside. Innes returned.
“You lucky bastard, Innes,” said an A Ganger.
“Yeah, enjoy your swim, you soft midships cunt.”
Innes climbed up inside and donned his set, secured some simple tools to ring on his suit, and pulled on his hood and mask.
He looked like an astronaut in a black spacesuit. His rebreather set would scrub the CO2 from the expired air and reuse it. The Poseidon Se7en would greatly increase the time he could spend out there and allow him to dive deeper with less absorbed nitrogen, reducing the chance of a ‘bend’.
Built in Gothenburg, Sweden, Poseidon had purchased many patents used in the top-class CIS Lunar rebreather. The CIS Lunar’s designer had contributed to its design.
The lower hatch was closed. He tapped on the insides of the tall cylinder with its now useless ladder. Water poured in and rose up the chamber; his light was a red ceiling lamp.
Innes switched on his helmet lights. Soon the chamber was flooded. He opened the upper hatch; it opened to the black dark sea above. A creature swam by, emitting a flashing luminous glow, no doubt trying to attract prey.
Buoyancy lifted his equipment up and out onto the sail’s deck. Innes kicked off over the sail’s wall and off towards the rear end. He scanned his instruments; gas and decompression ratings were well in the green, of course. His depth was 208 feet. The rebreather’s twin hose gas supply and exhaust had been modified to fit the G Mod full-face mask, allowing him to talk.
“Innes to Jackson, comms check.”
“Jackson receiving, in the green, Innes.”
Innes finned along the upper deck. He saw the large VPM doors; they spanned the deck. The hull started to slope downwards and soon he saw it: the multi-bladed prop. It looked like a fan of Arab swords, and there were maybe sixteen of them.
It didn’t take long to see the problem. He swam over to the blade disk and looked at it from the rear of the boat. He hung using buoyancy over the thousand meter abyss below. Two of the blades were badly t
wisted and a third was a little twisted, but not by much.
“Jackson, I see the problem. Twisted blades. I’m going to film then now.”
He lifted the video camera in its housing and started it. He ran the camera slowly over the damaged blades. Inside the boat, the Chief Engineer and his two IC watched the camera take.
“Innes, Chief here. Can you scan around the whole blade ring? Let’s see the lot of ’em.”
“Ok, sir.” He ran slowly around the whole disk.
“Ok, get back to the twisted blades, zoom in and slowly follow them down to the root.”
He did as the engineers asked.
“Ok, get to the leading edge of the disk and film the blades from that side.”
Innes did so.
“Get back to the trailing edge side and zoom in on the root.”
He swam to the rear and faced the prop and took the film they’d asked for.
Onboard, the two engineers discussed the problem.
“Ok, Innes, we have a solution. You’re going to have to cut off the two blades close to the root. You have cutting gas with you. Then, for balance, you’re going to have to cut off two good blades opposite. I’m told you carry tie-wraps.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then mark the good blades with a wrap on each.”
Innes pulled out wraps from his left leg drysuit pocket. He looked at the bad blades and attached the wraps to good blades opposite. Finally, he filmed the prop roots.
“That’s it, Innes, good. Now get your gas and cut off the good blades first.”
“Sir.” He swam back towards the sail along the hull, and the sail came into view, towering upwards. He swam up and dropped into the sail, then attached the lift bag to the gas set. Putting some gas into it, to bring it up and away from the sail, he adjusted the amount of gas so it carried the cylinders.
He set off back to the rear, pulling the bag after him. It took him several minutes to add and vent the gas to bring the cylinders into place.
Innes unfastened the torch, turned on the gas, and it bubbled away upwards. When he set the cutting gas off, it would bubble upwards into the lifting bag and add to the buoyancy. It would be a continuous effort to vent the bag to stop it pulling the torch away.