by Dale Brown
National Defense Control Center, Moscow
A Short Time Later
Colonel General Leonov sat down at his workstation and snapped, “Brief me, Semyon!”
His deputy, Lieutenant General Semyon Tikhomirov, obeyed, offering a quick rundown of the most recent developments. “Our air defense missile regiments at Knyaze, Komsomolsk, Vladivostok, and Nakhodka are on full alert. So are all army and Pacific Fleet units in Kamchatka and on the Kurils.”
“What about our fighter and bomber regiments?” Leonov asked.
“The alert Su-35S fighters from both the 23rd Fighter Aviation Regiment at Dzemgi near Komsomolsk and the 22nd Regiment at Tsentralnaya Uglovaya near Vladivostok have already scrambled. They are currently orbiting over both air bases, awaiting further orders. Both regiments are fueling and arming their remaining aircraft with all possible speed. The Su-24s and Su-34s of the 277th Bomber Aviation Regiment and the Su-25s of the 18th Guards Attack Aviation Regiment have also been alerted, but it will take considerably more time to ready their planes for operations.”
“And the Americans? Where are they now?”
Tikhomirov brought up a map. A solid red line indicated the flight path followed by the carrier-based aircraft while they were being tracked on radar. It faded out over Hokkaido, replaced by a dotted red line extending out across the Sea of Japan . . . aimed straight at Khabarovsk and onward toward the Vostochny Cosmodrome much farther inland. A small blip just off the Russian coast pulsed slowly, moving steadily northwest with every separate pulse. “This is the air staff’s projection of that enemy formation’s most likely current position, based on its last known course and speed.”
Leonov nodded. This estimate could be wrong, particularly if the enemy strike force had radically altered its heading after dropping off radar. But that was doubtful. If the Americans were serious about hitting Vostochny, they first had to knock out the S-400 SAMs sited just east of Khabarovsk. Given the distances involved and the need to fly in heavily loaded with air-to-ground ordnance, those U.S. Navy F/A-18s couldn’t dick around. They wouldn’t have the fuel to carry out elaborate maneuvers designed to spread Russia’s defenses. No, he thought coldly, it was straight up the middle or nothing for those American pilots—trusting in their Super Hornets’ defensive systems and jamming support from electronic warfare planes to break through and destroy his S-400 launchers and radars.
That wasn’t a particularly good bet.
Then Leonov frowned. But it wasn’t impossible either, especially if the Americans used some of the high-tech drones and radar-spoofing technology pioneered by the mercenary Iron Wolf Squadron in recent conflicts with Russia. If so, it would be wise to move a backup force into position. He looked at Tikhomirov. “Tell Colonel Federov at Dzemgi that I want every available fighter from his regiment in the air as soon as possible. Send them west of Khabarovsk, ready to intercept any enemy strike aircraft that slip through.”
23rd Fighter Aviation Regiment Flight Line, Dzemgi Air base, Komsomolsk-on-Amur, Russia
Minutes Later
Impatiently, Colonel Ivan Federov tugged on his flight helmet and hurried toward his waiting Su-35S fighter. From all across the airfield, the earsplitting howl of Saturn AL-41F1S turbofan engines spooling up shattered the night. A handful of his regiment’s aircraft were already taxiing out of their revetments and hardened shelters. He scowled. Between planes that were down for routine maintenance and the inevitable delays involved in rousting sleeping pilots and ground crews out of their quarters, the 23rd would be fortunate to get half its strength into the air before this American raid had come and gone.
It was not the sort of result that would endear him to his superiors, especially Colonel General Leonov. The commander of Russia’s aerospace forces was not a man who accepted excuses, even when they were reasonable.
Swearing under his breath, Federov started up the ladder to the Su-35’s cockpit. With a bit of luck, he might get a chance to tangle with the enemy’s F/A-18s. Coming back to Dzemgi with a couple of kills should absolve a host of other perceived sins.
“Colonel!” a voice yelled up at him, pitched to carry over the shrill din of jet engines coming to life.
He turned around on the ladder, furious at the interruption. “What?”
It was Uvarov, his executive officer. He looked out of breath. “Lieutenant Khryukin just phoned in from that little town up north. He says—”
Federov’s temper exploded. “Fuck that little shit!” he snarled. “For God’s sake, Uvarov, we’re in a combat situation here! I don’t have time to deal with that moron right now. You handle whatever mess Khryukin has made.” Then, dismissing the interruption from his mind, he swung himself into the Su-35’s cockpit and started strapping in.
Wolf Six-Two, over the Sea of Okhotsk
A Short Time Later
“Multiple faint S-band, X-band, and VHF radar emissions detected from ten o’clock to eight o’clock. Some are ground-based. Others are airborne. Ranges indeterminate. Detection probabilities are all nil,” the XCV-62’s computer announced calmly.
Nadia Rozek studied her threat-warning display closely and then turned to Peter Vasey with a triumphant smile. “Something seems to have rattled the Russians, Constable. They appear to be activating every available radar set between Vladivostok and Komsomolsk.”
“Do tell,” the Englishman said dryly. He kept his eyes fixed firmly on his HUD and his hands poised carefully on the stick and throttles. Even with the help of the Ranger’s digital terrain-following system, a night flight at low altitude over the sea was a dangerous business. A split-second loss of focus at the wrong moment could send them plowing nose first into the ocean.
His steering cues slid left and he gently banked the XCV-62 to the west. Off the port and starboard sides of their aircraft, the two MQ-55 Coyote drones followed suit. The EQ-55 Howler trailing them made the same wide, curving turn a few seconds later. Somewhere out ahead, still invisible even in the faint light cast by the still-rising quarter moon, loomed the mass of Sakhalin Island—stretching five hundred nautical miles from north to south, but only seventy-five miles from east to west. Beyond Sakhalin lay the Russian mainland. “Position check?” he asked.
Nadia tapped on a screen, opening a navigation display. “We are approximately fifty minutes out from the LZ.”
Vasey nodded tightly. “Right. Next stop Oldjikan Circus. All change to the Nevada line.” Then, aware that she was staring at him, he grinned wryly. “Never mind me, Major. Just a throwback to a misspent youth riding the Tube in London while skiving off school.”
Before she could comment, her left-hand multifunction display pinged, signaling the arrival of an encrypted satellite transmission. Her fingers rattled across the virtual keyboard. “SBIRS satellites report multiple launches from the vicinity of Khabarovsk,” she read off. “Launches evaluated as S-400 surface-to-air missiles.”
“Well, that opens the ball,” Vasey said quietly.
Thirty-Five
1529th Guards Air Defense Missile Regiment, Knyaze-Volkonskoye, Russia
That Same Time
“Contact lost,” a radar operator reported in frustration over the command circuit. “Heavy jamming and possible terrain masking.”
“First salvos going ballistic,” another officer said. “Our missiles’ active homing seeker heads were never able to lock on independently.”
Colonel Vladimir Titov fought down the urge to swear out loud. It would do no good and it might further unnerve his subordinates. He’d known the odds were against scoring hits with such long-range shots, especially since the enemy attack force was coming at them across a wide band of rugged coastal hills and ridges. Staying low allowed the American strike aircraft to use this terrain to hide their approach. “Estimated range to the enemy formation at last solid contact?”
“Two hundred kilometers,” the radar operator said.
“Have you detected any new, smaller contacts?” Titov demanded.
“No, sir.”
He frowned. The twenty-plus F/A-18s headed his way were already near enough to fire any standoff air-to-ground missiles they were carrying. So why hadn’t they done so? Were they so confident they could evade his SAMs that they had decided to keep coming . . . hoping to overwhelm his defenses with a massed missile salvo at close range?
“Contact regained!” he heard the radar operator say suddenly. “Formation of high-speed aircraft bearing one-three-five. Direction of flight now three-one-five degrees.”
Those American strike fighters are barreling right down our throats, Titov thought grimly. What had happened to their fuel constraints? Were they treating this as a one-way mission, like the Japanese kamikaze pilots of the Second World War?
“Range one hundred and seventy kilometers. Speed eleven hundred kilometers per hour. Altitude one hundred and fifty meters!”
“Handoff to 92N2E missile-guidance radars complete!” one of Titov’s fire-control officers reported eagerly. “Twenty-six hostiles confirmed. Signatures correlated to F/A-18s. Solid lock on multiple targets. Ready to attack!”
“Release all batteries,” Titov ordered. “Commence firing.” Unable to resist seeing what was going on with his own eyes, he hurried over to the door of the mobile command center and peered out into the night.
Missile after missile thundered aloft from launchers deployed in the surrounding fields—slashing upward through the darkness on pillars of fire as they accelerated toward Mach 6. Within seconds, they arced high over and vanished downrange.
“New jamming!” the radar operator said suddenly. “Our radars are hopping frequencies to compensate. But we’ve lost the lock to some targets.”
Titov yanked his head back inside, angry with himself for playing tourist in the middle of a battle. “Do you have an evaluation of the source of this jamming?”
“My computer evaluates it as originating from two, or possibly three, American EA-18G Growler electronic warfare aircraft.”
The colonel nodded. That was in line with what they’d observed so far. The Reagan must have committed half her strike fighters to this attack, so it was no real surprise to see so many airborne jammers assigned in support.
“We’ve scored hits!” a fire-control officer crowed suddenly. “I count three kills from the salvo.”
Titov refrained from pointing out that it left almost 90 percent of the attackers alive and closing fast. From the worried looks he could see on some of the faces around him in the command center, others were perfectly capable of drawing the same conclusions. Unless they got lucky and took out the American electronic warfare planes in the next couple of salvos, this engagement was going to get ugly fast.
“Damn,” his radar operator muttered. “Contact lost again, sir. The enemy formation has dropped into a river valley. Our radars cannot see them.”
Titov stared at the plot. If the Americans hugged that valley floor as far as they could, they would be less than one hundred and twenty kilometers away when his sensors regained contact . . . practically spitting distance for modern ground-attack weapons. His shoulders tightened involuntarily, almost as though he could already feel the searing heat of explosions and the hail of shrapnel. With an effort to stay calm, he turned to his communications officer. “What is the status of those Su-35 Super Flankers from Dzemgi?”
“Colonel Federov has twelve fighters en route to the air control point selected by Moscow,” the younger man said. “They should arrive west of our position in the next ten minutes.”
“Make sure they are tied into our target-tracking data uplink,” Titov ordered. Crazy as it seemed, maybe this American strike force planned to blow right past his SAM regiment—driving onward to launch extended-range AGM-158B joint air-to-surface standoff missiles directly at Vostochny’s launchpads, rocket assembly buildings, and cryogenic fuels storage tanks. If so, Federov’s fighters would come into play. And the ability to use tracking and targeting data supplied by ground radars, rather than their own easily detected onboard radars, could give them a crucial edge . . . the ability to ambush those oncoming F/A-18s with air-to-air missiles fired from out of a clear night sky.
National Defense Control Center, Moscow
A Short Time Later
Leonov sat enthralled at his station, listening to the increasingly tense chatter between Titov’s command post and his unit’s outlying radar vehicles and missile launchers. Tracking and engagement data relayed from the S-400 SAM regiment were displayed in graphical form on screens around the room. They showed the American formation—now whittled down to just twelve aircraft—as it pressed steadily onward. The eleven F/A-18E Super Hornets and a single surviving Growler jammer plane were only eighty kilometers from Knyaze-Volkonskoye . . . well out over the broad, flat Amur River valley. There was no higher ground they could hide behind to break radar contact.
He shook his head in amazement. Those U.S. Navy pilots were brave men and women. But they were also being incredibly stupid. This was no longer a battle they could win.
“Next salvo, fire!” he heard Titov order.
Two dozen missile icons streaked across the display. Moving at Mach 6, they closed the distance to the American planes in less than forty seconds. Aircraft winked off the screen as warheads found their targets and detonated. Leonov considered that an oddly antiseptic rendering for what was a supremely violent act. Out there, thousands of kilometers away in the real world, pilots were dying horribly—ripped apart by a lethal hail of fragments or burning to death in crippled aircraft spiraling down out of the sky.
“We hit the enemy EW aircraft!” one of Titov’s fire-control officers announced gleefully.
With the destruction of their jammer aircraft, the radar images of the surviving seven American strike fighters sharpened considerably. Now they had no protection whatsoever against the next S-400 salvo.
It was all over in less than a minute.
Leonov pursed his lips as he listened to the whoops and cheers as Titov’s relieved officers and missile battery crews celebrated their one-sided victory. Something is wrong here, he thought critically. This attack had been defeated too easily. Much too easily. They were all missing something.
He connected directly to Titov. “Were any of your sensor posts or missile launchers fired on by any of those American aircraft, Vladimir?”
The other man sounded equally puzzled. “No, sir. Not by so much as a single standoff attack missile or bomb.”
An ugly realization dawned in Leonov’s mind. “Those were decoy drones, Colonel. There were no real U.S. Navy aircraft among them. This was a trick.”
“But to what purpose?” Titov asked.
“How many of your surface-to-air missiles did you expend against this diversion?” Leonov asked in return.
There was a moment of stunned silence. “More than half,” Titov admitted.
Leonov saw his deputy, Lieutenant General Tikhomirov, signaling frantically at him. He lowered the phone. “What is it, Semyon?”
Tikhomirov pointed toward one of their screens, which suddenly showed a new set of threat icons over Hokkaido. “The early warning radar on Iturup has just detected another large formation of enemy aircraft headed toward Knyaze-Volkonskoye.”
Leonov’s mouth tightened to a thin line. “Hell.” He spoke into the phone again. “Get your men back in control and have your regiment stand to again, Titov. The Americans were drawing your fire earlier. Now they’re sending in their real attack force.”
Reagan Air Group, over Hokkaido
That Same Time
For the second time that night, Commander Dane “Viking” Thorsen listened to the continuous warble that showed the Russian radar on Iturup had spotted his strike force as it climbed higher, above the shelter of Hokkaido’s mountains. Now you see us, he thought cheerfully, but pretty soon you won’t.
He spoke into his radio. “This is D-Back One-Five. Nice wriggling, guys. We’ve definitely got their attention. Execute plan Echo as fragged.”
Again, Thorsen took his F/A-18E Super Hornet back down, losing altitude fast to drop back into the radar shadow. The other strike fighters and electronic warfare aircraft under his command followed him.
But this time, as soon as the warning tone from that distant surveillance radar faded away, he banked southeast—turning toward a narrow pass that ran through the range of jagged volcanic peaks bisecting Hokkaido. His aircraft were headed back toward the Reagan. Only from now on, they would stay low all the way to avoid detection.
Thorsen grinned happily. Eventually, around thirty minutes from now, those Russian assholes were going to start figuring out that they’d been suckered . . . for the second time in the same night. While he wasn’t sure exactly why he and the other Reagan pilots were putting on this show—that was information restricted to the CAG, the carrier air wing commander and his ultimate boss, the rear admiral in overall command of the carrier strike group—any chance to twist the bear’s tail was always welcome.
Wolf Six-Two, over Russia
A Short Time Later
“We are ninety seconds out from the LZ,” Nadia Rozek said. She knew that her voice sounded tight and strained, and she regretted this lapse in cool, calm professionalism. But there was no help for it. They were approaching the make-or-break moment in this attempt to rescue Brad McLanahan. If the wide stretch of clear ground they’d picked out from satellite photos and maps as a landing zone turned out to be unusable—either because it was too rough or too boggy—there was no second option.
Peter Vasey peered through his HUD. The XCV-62’s forward-looking night-vision camera systems turned the darkness around them into a green-tinged version of daylight. Right now their planned landing area was a patch of brighter green against the darker green of the surrounding woods and low-lying marshes. “I have the LZ in sight,” he confirmed.
