Brown, Dale - Independent 02

by Hammerheads (v1. 1)

  The Sukhoi-27 was a recent addition to the U. S. Air Force’s High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center, or Dreamland research complex in the southern Nevada desert, turned over to General Elliott after a defecting Soviet fighter pilot flew it from Khabarovsk in the Far East military district of Russia to Japan in exchange for asylum. It had been used for classified difference, identification and adversary training for crew members assigned to secret reconnaissance or espionage missions close to Russian airspace where the advanced fighters might be encountered.

  Its newest pilot, and by far the most skilled American ever to touch its controls, was Air Force First Lieutenant Roland Q. Powell, a flight instructor at Williams Air Force Base in Arizona. The twenty-two- year-old pilot, an engineering major, seemed unconcerned with the danger of flying such a complex, inherently unstable aircraft and always seemed to push the edge of the envelope, even in an aircraft that did not have one English word or marking on it. Still officially assigned to the Air Training Command, Powell was frequently sent on temporary duty to Dreamland and asked to fly the Sukhoi-27 on special missions, and his reaction to any situation always seemed to be one of complete ease, of sangfroid, no matter how tight the numbers were running. Powell was a perfect future selection as a Dreamland test pilot—if they managed to get out of this one alive.

  “Tell him that we can’t tell him where we’re from or what we’re doing, and assure him we’re not armed,” McLanahan said. “Keep on orbiting the base. I need a few more pictures and I want to check out how and where they’ve deployed any air-defense equipment.”

  Powell, on the radio, said, “I am not authorized to tell you my home base, my destination or my weapons status, friend. I can assure you, however, that I am presently in contact with my regional headquarters, and I have proper authorization—they are not in the habit of letting the best fighter in the world stray too far from mother’s nest. I am no threat to you. We are up here for a little ride on a beautiful day ...” “This man sounds crazy,” Salazar said to no one in particular. Hermosa was just as perplexed. “What does he think he’s doing so far from Cuba, and stunting like that?”

  “He must be a high-ranking officer of the Russian Air Force in Cuba,” Hermosa said. “I’ve heard the Russian pilots are normally not allowed to even fly overwater on training missions. Only a very important officer could get authorization to fly all the way to Haiti—” “A high-ranking officer? He must be the commander of all the Russian air forces in Cuba,” Salazar said. “But this one sounds so young, he must be one of their new aces.”

  “But what is he doing over Haiti?”

  “Perhaps testing air-defense units, or on a reconnaissance mission for Cuba ...” Salazar said, but not convinced by the reach of his speculations.

  “Or the prelude to an attack?” Hermosa added. “This could be an advance scouting sortie—”

  “Ridiculous. One plane? A fighter? And all those stunts? It makes no sense ...” Salazar thought for a few moments, then: “But because of its unusualness it makes the best sense of all. We must prepare our units as if an attack is imminent.” He switched frequency on the walkie-talkie. “Alert units one and two, ensure weapons on safe. Remain within ten miles of the base and stay between one hundred and two thousand meters altitude. I want that Sukhoi shadowed but do not engage unless I give the command. Clear for takeofiF. Show him what the Cuchillos are made of.”

  The MiG-21 pilots replied enthusiastically, and moments later the two older Soviet fighters were airborne, with the Sukhci-27 fighter waiting patiently overhead.

  Not so patient was McLanahan, suddenly feeling trapped like a rat in the back seat of this same Soviet fighter. “They’re launching those two MiGs from the shelters on the east side of the field,” he shouted. “Better get out of here.”

  Instead Powell made a turn directly for the MiGs as they arced over the west end of the runway and began their climb over the base. “Too late,” he said. “They’ll be all over us if we run. We’ve got to stick with them,” and as he said it he angled in on the oncoming fighters.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Powell?” McLanahan said, ripping off his face mask. “You’re not going to dogfight with those MiGs—”

  “Don’t worry, Major,” Powell said in his soft, almost sleepy monotone. “This’ll be real interesting . .

  “We’re trying to conduct a reconnaissance mission on these guys down below, not get interesting with a couple of MiGs—”

  “He caught us dead to rights,” Powell said, watching as the MiG- 218 began their initial turn toward him after takeofiF. “If we tried to bluff our way out he’d be suspicious. He’d sure try to trace our flight path or tail number and he’d start running into dead ends. Too many unanswered questions. He and the rest of them down there would pack up and leave Haiti and we’d have to find them all over again. This way we make him think we really are Russians.”

  Powell shoved the throttles forward, gaining speed to engage the two MiG-2 Is and activated his radio: “I see your fighters airborne, Colonel Salazar. If you’re up for a little exercise, I’m ready for you.” The first pass was a simple identification run, head-to-head, with the second Fishbed fighter in extended-trail formation directly behind the leader, which allowed both the leader and the wingman to get a clear look at the Sukhoi fighter and to avoid telegraphing any moves.

  “Fishbed-Js,” Powell announced, and reeled off specifications like a manual. “They’ve got the old Tumansky turbojets instead of the newer R-33D turbofans, and they don’t have the dorsal spine fuel tanks. They’ve three external fuel tanks, two air-to-air missiles— standard K-13AA infrared—and two 57-millimeter ground-attack rocket-pods. These guys are ready. Hold on, Major.”

  Powell yanked back on the control stick, the G-forces slamming McLanahan back in his seat as if a boulder had fallen on his chest. His arms and legs, every part of his body, even his nose and his fingers, suddenly felt as if they weighed hundreds of pounds.

  “See them out there, sir?”

  “What?” '

  “Look for the MiGs, sir. Find them for me.”

  McLanahan tried to arch up to look up through the top of the cockpit, but it was almost impossible to move his head—he could hardly even lift his eyelids. “I can’t,” McLanahan grunted, forcing the words out in strained coughs. “I can hardly move . . .”

  “Look behind us,” Powell said. His voice was a bit huskier but it was still quiet, even, despite the G-forces. “Search between the tails. See if he climbed with us.”

  “Can’t you unload a little . . . ?”

  “Find them yet, sir?” When McLanahan didn’t answer, Powell grabbed handholds on the canopy sill and pushed and pulled himself around so he could look behind him—McLanahan couldn’t figure out how Powell, who couldn’t have weighed more than one-fifty soaking wet, could fight past the tremendous G-forces and move around so easily. “Like I thought. One tried to climb with us. He forgot about all that gas and drag he’s got.” Powell took the Sukhoi inverted, then aimed the nose straight down at the first MiG. By then, the MiG that had tried to climb after the Sukhoi had slowed down, appearing to be almost frozen in the sky.

  “He’s running out of airspeed,” McLanahan said, and as he did the MiG flopped over, lolling, skidded sideways, exposing his entire right side to the descending Sukhoi fighter. “You got him . . .”

  “Where’s the other MiG?” Powell said, emotion now in his voice. McLanahan searched the sky, spotting the second MiG a few seconds later. A tiny dot was rising off the horizon, slightly higher than the Sukhoi, then beginning to lower its nose to cut off the angle and intercept Powell. “I see him, three o’clock high . . .” And over the radio they heard something in Spanish—a loud shout of victory?

  “These guys are good,” Powell said, and rolled hard right, checked his altitude, shoved the nose down to build up some speed, then yanked it back up to try to put his guns on the second MiG. But for a brief moment the higher MiG-21 had the spe
ed and position advantage and Powell had no choice but to roll under the MiG and escape before the second MiG locked him in his gunsights.

  McLanahan, who found himself sucking in volumes of oxygen, snapped off his oxygen mask to avoid breathing any more pure oxygen until he got his hyperventilation under control. The dogfight with these Haitian MiGs was bringing back some scary images of another dogfight over eastern Russia—images he’d hoped had been buried forever. Damn Powell, he’s having a good ol’ time playing with these guys. He could easily see the blazing guns and the missile launch from that second MiG—he could easily see himself getting shot down in a huge fireball. He’d seen it before, see what those things do, the devastation ... For all his skill, Powell didn’t realize that this was a damned serious business. He needed to be bloodied . . .

  “These guys are aggressive, downright hot shit,” Powell said. McLanahan could hear rising excitement in Powell’s voice as well as a few heavy sighs as he fought to control his own racing pulse and breathing. “Classic loose-deuce engagement—one guy plays dead while the other peels away, then comes back and goes in for the kill—and they pulled it off. Did you keep the first fighter in sight, Major?”

  McLanahan felt his lower lip trembling slightly and hated himself and Powell for it. “I can hardly see straight. You want me to keep a damn speck in sight after all that rolling around?”

  “Sir, you’ve got to help me out here,” Powell said, his cool back. “When I go for one guy you have to keep the other one in sight. If I switch or extend you need to keep both in sight until I reengage. We don’t have an operable radar or search-and-track system in this beast, so our eyes are our only sensors . . . How’s our fuel?”

  McLanahan strained to look at the standby gauge in the aft cockpit instrument panel. “Reading ten thousand five hundred liters.”

  “We’ve got another few minutes before we need to head back. We’ll ... I got one of them,” he called out suddenly. “Nine o’clock low. Now keep on searching for number two, Major. Don’t fixate on any one object until you find the second fighter.” Powell threw the Sukhoi-27 fighter into a hard-left banking dive and began to line up on the MiG. The MiG below them suddenly turned sharply right.

  “He’s seen us,” Powell said. To McLanahan’s surprise, he did not turn right to chase the first MiG.

  “He’s getting away—”

  “Look up over your left shoulder, eight o’clock, our altitude or slightly higher,” Powell interrupted. He paused for a second, then asked, “See him?”

  McLanahan scanned the sky, then shouted, “I see him, eight-thirty to nine o’clock, our altitude.”

  “Half-split maneuver,” Powell said. “Another classic, right out of the textbooks. These guys could be teaching our pilots a thing or two. Sir, watch the guy peeling off to our right. Keep an eye on him. What’s he doing?”

  “High-tailing it out of here.”

  “Good.” Powell watched the second MiG off to their left—he stayed there, not maneuvering.

  “I see smoke from the first MiG,” McLanahan called out. “Looks like he’s slowing down, too.”

  “He wants us to chase him,” Powell said. “Wait . . . wait. . . now. ”

  Powell made a hard turn right, jinking toward the first MiG escaping to the north but keeping an eye on the second MiG off to their left. As soon as the second MiG began its right turn to pursue, Powell yanked the control stick up and left toward the pursuing MiG. As he did, McLanahan’s helmet slammed against the right cockpit railing, and he grunted loudly as the G-forces began their pressure once again.

  “Powell!” McLanahan heard himself yell. The MiG-21 was all around them—it seemed only a few feet away, close enough to touch . . .

  Powell’s Sukhoi-27 executed a fast, wide barrel roll over the second MiG, continued into a second full roll, and emerged several moments later directly behind and to the right of the second MiG, in firing position. “Splash one MiG,” Powell announced over the radio. Simultaneously he threw the Sukhoi fighter into full afterburner and accelerated out past the MiG just as it started a defeated right turn back to base. “Where’s the first MiG, sir?”

  “Turning left, one o’clock, below us.”

  “Got him. The first MiG should be coming back to help his buddy,” Powell predicted. “He extended a little too far . . . here he comes.” The first MiG that had tried to draw Powell into attacking was now in a left turn and picking up speed, but it was turning directly in front of the Sukhoi-27 now. Powell tracked it through its turn, keeping the Russian fighter’s nose on it for several seconds. “Missile, missile, bang, bang,” Powell radioed to Salazar. “Switching to guns.” The MiG tried to dive and twist away, but the damage had already been done.

  McLanahan fought to relax his tensed-up thighs and toes. A game to Powell. Sure, he was very, very good at it. But one day it would not be just for pictures but for real . . .

  Salazar and Hermosa were still amazed by the maneuver the Sukhoi- 27 had made to get around and behind the second MiG-21 when they suddenly realized that the first MiG was under attack as well. In a few seconds, both Cuchillos had been beaten by the seat-of-the-pants flying of the young pilot in control of the Su-27. “Lieutenant Miguel extended five seconds too far,” Hermosa said. “They had this stranger in a perfect rolling pincer—”

  “The Sukhoi is much more maneuverable than the MiG-21,” Salazar interrupted. “It’s not difficult for such a plane to outmaneuver a less capable adversary. The MiGs are carrying extra fuel tanks, which would normally have been jettisoned before the flight, so their drag ratio was much higher than normal. Still, Thomas had the Sukhoi dead after the loose-deuce engagement ...”

  “He did not call that he was locked on or firing ...”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Salazar said. “They executed properly and sucked the Russian in with precision—the contest was over before it began—”

  “Knock it off, gents,” Salazar heard the pilot of the Sukhoi-27 call over the radio in Russian. He waited until he was sure both planes weren’t going to try another run at him, then turned the Sukhoi-27 westward toward Jamaica and their planned recovery base. “I’d love to hang around, boys, but I’m getting low on fuel. Time to go home. Thanks for the action, Colonel.”

  The mocking tone in the Sukhoi pilot’s voice was too much for Salazar. On the Cuchillos’ command radio net he ordered, “Alert units one and two, I want that plane to land here. Force them back to the base. Use your guns to get his attention, but do not lock weapons on him.” The last said reluctantly.

  The Cuchillo pilots reacted quickly. When Powell and McLanahan last fixed the MiG’s position, the two Soviet-made fighters had completely turned away from the Sukhoi-27 and joined on each other in preparation to land; the next moment they had expertly boxed in the Sukhoi, surrounding Powell and Powell’s Russian jet.

  “Talk about sore losers,” Powell deadpanned. “I think we may have pissed these guys off a little.”

  “I’ve got a message out to headquarters,” McLanahan said, checking the receipt messages on the satellite-terminal keyboard on his lap. “We’ve got an F-lll bomber and a Special Operations Black Hawk helicopter at Hurlburt Field on the way to help if they force us down.”

  “I think we can evade these guys,” Powell said. “It’ll be risky. We don’t have any weapons, these guys are loaded for bear. And they’re good. But I figure this jet can outrun those older MiGs ...”

  “I don’t think we have any choice, Lieutenant,” McLanahan said after a short, strained pause. “We’re going to have to land.”

  McLanahan could see Powell’s head shake and his shoulders stiffen. “You can’t be serious. You actually want to land on this guy’s base?” .

  “As long as he thinks we’re Russians, this Salazar character will be afraid of retaliation if he does anything to us. This will be a great opportunity to check out this guy’s operation. I can get more pictures and—”

  “What am I supposed to do? Ask this guy i
f he’s a smuggler? Ask to see his cargo? We’re wearing American flight suits, American boots and carrying American charts. You don’t think he’ll be a little suspicious?”

  “Our flight suits have no rank or insignia, they’re civilian cut, not military. All flight suits look the same anyway. And everyone flying in the western hemisphere uses American charts—the Russians are probably one of biggest subscribers to U. S. National Oceanographic Service government charts—”

  “My Russian’s lousy. Yours is worse. We’ll never pull this off.”

  “Come on, where’s the old can-do? Besides, English is the flyer’s universal language. My Russian is good ... or bad . . . enough to pass myself off as someone else, like a Pole or a Czech. I can be a crew chief or a security guard and just follow orders and keep quiet. You humor the guy, show him around the cockpit.”

  “Well, what if it doesn’t work? What if they lock us up or shoot us and take our plane?”

  “Then it’s up to the F-lll raid and the Black Hawk. This was a risky mission from the start. But I’d say we’d have no chance if we’re forced to shoot it out ...”

  They both knew the odds were long, but the options were bad and lousy. “If we act like indignant pissed-off Russians we might be able to get away with it—”

  “This is crazy, sir, it’ll never work.”

  McLanahan could see Powell check his instrument panel. The MiGs were already nudging him to the right, and Powell could do nothing else but follow. “I guess we might be able to pull it off, but I’ll be mighty happy when that F-lll shows up.”

  “All right, Roland, go ahead and follow them.” McLanahan began typing on the keyboard, relaying their situation to headquarters.”

  “By the way, sir, I don’t use the name Roland. I go by J. C.”