by Dale Brown
Out in the night sky far off on their starboard side, the two Coyotes dropped back down to two hundred feet. They separated, with one veering left and the other right. Once they were several miles apart, the two MQ-55s slowed and started circling—orbiting low over wooded slopes that marked the eastern edge of the high ground west of the Amur River. The Howler kept going straight southeast, apparently headed for the coast, Sakhalin Island, and then the Sea of Okhotsk.
Nadia checked the status of each drone through her data links and nodded. They were carrying out the plan she had devised. Now to see if it would work. She opened a com window and entered a brief situation report, including their current position, heading, and speed. It ended with a short declarative statement: HOUNDS UNLEASHED. ACTION IMMINENT. As soon as she finished, their computer took over. It encrypted and compressed her message to a quick millisecond-long burst sent via satellite uplink.
Shadow Two-Nine Bravo, over the North Pacific
That Same Time
Fifteen thousand feet above the ocean, a very large, black, blended-wing aircraft banked gently—beginning yet another slow, lazy turn in the racetrack holding pattern it had already been flying for more than an hour.
“Round and round we go, and when we stop only Martindale knows,” Hunter “Boomer” Noble groused.
The S-29B’s copilot, a petite redhead named Liz Gallagher, laughed. She was a former U.S. Air Force lieutenant colonel who had more than a thousand hours in B-2 stealth bombers before joining Scion. “C’mon, Boomer, toughen up,” she teased. “This is a piece of cake. I used to fly forty-hour-plus round-trip missions all the time.”
“Yeah, and I bet when you were a kid, you had to walk ten miles to school . . . going uphill both ways. In the snow.”
“It was only six miles,” she said with a sly grin. “And I had my older brother’s hand-me-down bike.”
Boomer had to admit he was beginning to find Liz Gallagher mighty attractive. Sure, she was a little older than the women he usually dated, but maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. Much as he hated to admit it, he might be getting a little long in the tooth for twentysomethings. Plus, she had a lot more in common with him than the ditzy cocktail waitresses he’d been spending so much of his time and money on over the past couple of years.
“Boomer, this is Reyes,” a voice said over the intercom from the spaceplane’s aft cabin. Javier Reyes was another former air-force officer, like the rest of the crewmen Martindale had recruited to fly and fight this S-29B Shadow. He was their data-link officer, charged with monitoring their communications and the information flow from other sensor platforms—satellites, other aircraft, ships, and ground installations. “We just received a priority signal from Ghost One.”
Boomer snorted. Ghost One was the call sign Martindale had given himself for this mission. He figured that was a perfect fit, given the former president’s penchant for operating in the shadows. “Go ahead,” he said. “What’s the word from ol’ Spooky?”
“Sending it to you now,” Reyes told him.
One of Boomer’s MFDs pinged. He tapped at it, opening the message from Martindale. He whistled softly as he read it. Then he glanced across the cockpit at Gallagher. “Okay, Liz, we just got the go-code. Let’s get this baby configured for supersonic flight.”
“On it, Boomer,” she said crisply, all business now. She brought up their automated checklists and set them in motion . . . double-checking the computers at every step. Like many Sky Masters–designed vehicles, the S-29 Shadow was fully capable of autonomous operation, if necessary. In fact, its advanced computers could handle all routine flight tasks, up to and including air-to-air refueling, supersonic flight, and orbital insertion. The same went for its sensors, data links, and defensive microwave emitters. The human crewmen assigned to each of those stations were there primarily to monitor the automated systems, intervening manually only in case things went wrong.
Today, though, Boomer planned to make this a hands-on flight wherever possible. After all, complex computer programs sometimes crashed, especially when a number of different programs had to interact with one another in perfect sync. In his experience, anyone who relied too heavily on automated systems in a largely untested aircraft like this B-model S-29 was pushing the envelope way outside the edge of common sense.
“All checklists complete,” Gallagher reported. “All engines and systems are go for supersonic flight.”
“Roger that.” Boomer spoke over the intercom to the aft cabin. “All right, boys and girls, it’s showtime. Buckle up tight and stand by on all sensors and defenses.”
He banked the big spaceplane again, bringing its nose back around to the northwest. Then his right hand pushed the throttles forward. The roar of their five powerful engines changed.
Instantly, the S-29 responded—streaking across the sky at an ever-increasing speed.
Thirty-Seven
Over the Northern Amur River Valley, Russia
A Short Time Later
Six pairs of Su-35S Super Flanker fighters flew onward in line abreast at three thousand meters above the undulating river valley. Lights twinkled at widely spaced intervals, identifying small towns and villages that lined both sides of the two-kilometer-wide river.
Colonel Ivan Federov scowled beneath his oxygen mask. They were well northeast of Komsomolsk now and very close to where he’d expected to intercept the American rescue aircraft as it fled Russian airspace. But neither he nor any of his pilots had spotted anything yet. The sky ahead still seemed utterly empty. Had he misjudged the situation? Were the Americans instead heading deeper into Russia to throw off his pursuit rather than bolting straight for the coast? Should he detach some of his fighters to cover that possibility?
Suddenly a sharp tone sounded in his headset, signaling a possible detection by his radar. A green diamond blinked onto the lower right corner of his HUD and then vanished almost immediately. Instantly, Federov glanced down at his radar display. That brief moment of contact had revealed a target out around forty kilometers ahead of his Su-35—moving southeast across his field of view at more than eight hundred kilometers per hour. And it was flying less than two hundred meters above the ground.
That was definitely a stealth aircraft, he thought.
Federov’s scowl smoothed into a tight-lipped smile. He’d been fretting over nothing. The Americans were acting exactly as he’d predicted, running like frightened rabbits to escape out to sea. He keyed his radio. “Sentry Flights, this is Sentry Lead. Stealth target bearing two o’clock moving to three at low altitude. Range approximately forty kilometers. Intermittent radar contact only. I am turning to intercept!”
Reacting quickly, he rolled his fighter to the right and dove. Trading altitude for more speed would let him close on this elusive enemy that much faster. One finger pushed a switch on his stick. Two missile symbols appeared in the corner of his HUD. Two of his six R-77 radar-guided missiles were armed and set for a salvo launch. “Weapons hot.”
Eager voices greeted his declaration of intent. The other eleven Super Flankers were turning tightly with him—straining to be in at the kill.
Twenty-three nautical miles ahead of the Russian fighters, the EQ-55 Howler’s threat-warning sensors recorded the first faint brush of Federov’s IRBIS-E radar as it momentarily locked on. That triggered one of the commands Nadia had programmed in minutes before. Circuits closed within the business-jet-sized, flying-wing drone. Three things happened in quick succession. First, the Howler’s electronic jamming gear activated—blasting out radio waves at frequencies designed to disrupt the active enemy radars it detected. Next, its own AN/APG-81 radar powered up. In seconds, this system had locked on to all twelve Su-35S Super Flankers. And last of all, the Howler allocated the targeting data it collected into separate packets and relayed them to the two MQ-55 Coyotes loitering forty nautical miles to the northwest.
Seconds later, the computers aboard those Coyotes finished feeding the targeting information they received int
o the AIM-120D missiles carried in their weapons bays. Both drones climbed higher, gaining altitude to clear the surrounding hills. Their bay doors whined open. One by one, twenty advanced medium-range air-to-air missiles dropped out into the night sky and ignited. Flashes lit the darkness. Propelled by solid-fuel rocket motors, the missiles raced southeast at Mach 4. For the moment, their own radar-seeker heads were silent, standing by to energize only when the missiles reached close range.
Federov’s radar display blanked out and then lit back up with a hash of greenish static slathered across its whole forward arc. He swore vehemently. He was being jammed. And based on the apparent signal strength, his radar-guided missiles were now useless. He pressed another switch on his stick, arming two of the K-74M heat-seekers his Super Flanker carried instead. Now he just had to get close enough to that American stealth aircraft somewhere out ahead of him to pick up its heat signature.
A new warning tone warbled through his earphones. “Christ,” he muttered. “What now?” Checking his threat display showed that he was being painted by a powerful airborne radar aboard that fleeing enemy aircraft. It was radiating across an astonishing range of frequencies and altering them with incredible speed. Frantically, his computer sorted through a database of recorded signals characteristics, hunting for a match.
Grimly, Federov held his course. Jamming or no jamming, that damned American plane couldn’t hide forever.
And then, suddenly, there it was. Another green diamond appeared almost in the center of his HUD, highlighting a small glowing dot. The Super Flanker’s infrared search-and-track system had detected a thermal signature. It was small, not much bigger than that created by a missile, but he had no doubt that this was the prey he was seeking.
Without waiting longer, Federov squeezed the trigger on his stick. At its heart, air-to-air combat was governed as much by instinctive reactions and intuition as it was by conscious thought. Two K-74 missiles released in sequence from under his fighter’s wings and lit off. At two and a half times the speed of sound, they slashed ahead across the sky, trailing fire and smoke.
To the colonel’s astonishment, the American stealth aircraft made no attempt to evade his attack. It didn’t even launch flares in an effort to decoy his heat-seeking missiles. Instead, it flew on, straight and level—seemingly completely oblivious to its fast-approaching doom.
Triggered by its laser proximity fuse, the first K-74’s warhead detonated within meters of the fleeing enemy plane. Ripped by dozens of pieces of razor-edged shrapnel, it spun out of control, slammed wing first into the Amur River, and disintegrated in a blinding ball of fire.
In that same instant, Federov’s computer finally found the match it had been seeking. Its report flashed onto one of the Super Flanker’s cockpit displays: Enemy radar is an AN/APG-81 identical to that employed by F-35 Lightning fighters.
“You mean it was an APG-81,” the colonel corrected ironically. “Now it’s burning wreckage.” He shook his head in disbelief. Why would the Americans waste a top-of-the-line fighter radar in a transport aircraft, especially one that hadn’t even tried to fight back?
BEEP-BEEP-BEEP.
Federov went cold. My God, he realized in horror. A huge number of AIM-120D radar-seeker heads had just lit up . . . and they were close, practically right on top of his fighters . . . coming in from the rear at Mach 4. That aircraft he’d just shot down had been setting them up for an ambush! “All Sentry Flights! Break! Break right now!” he shouted. “We’re under missile attack!”
Immediately he yanked his stick hard right, rolling away from the wave of AIM-120Ds in a high-G turn. He thumbed another switch desperately, setting off the Su-35’s defensive systems. Automated chaff dispensers fired, hurling cartridges into the air behind his violently maneuvering fighter. They burst, strewing thousands of tiny Mylar strips across the sky. Simultaneously, his wing-tip ECM pods spewed energy into a wide band of radar frequencies, hoping to jam the seekers on missiles that might be homing in on his aircraft.
Explosions speckled the night sky all around him as American weapons slammed home with lethal force. Frantic voices flooded through his headset. Chaff blossoms and jamming turned the Su-35’s radar display into a blur of static and false images.
Straining against seven times the force of gravity, Federov rolled inverted and dove toward the ground. With luck, he’d lose any missiles still homing in on him in the ground clutter. Something flashed past his canopy and impacted on the wooded slope of a hill below in a dazzling burst of light.
Too close, he thought grimly.
At five hundred meters, Federov rolled out of his dive and swung southwest. His threat-warning systems fell blessedly silent. Any enemy weapons that hadn’t scored kills were gone—either decoyed away by chaff, blinded by jamming, or run out of energy as they tried to turn with their desperately evading targets. For a time, he flew grimly onward, trying to make sense out of the reports pouring through the data links connecting him with his surviving fighters.
What he saw was a catastrophe. Five of his twelve Su-35S Super Flankers were gone, blown to pieces by high-explosive blast-fragmentation warheads. In the chaos, only one pilot had ejected successfully. The other four were dead, including his own wingman. His seven surviving aircraft were scattered across a huge stretch of the Amur River valley, wherever their wild evasive maneuvers had taken them.
“Sentry Lead, this is Warlord One,” a deep voice said over the radio.
Federov stiffened. This was Leonov himself, calling from Moscow. “Go ahead, Warlord.”
“It seems we underestimated this enemy, Colonel,” Leonov said. “Instead of a single stealth aircraft, the Americans have penetrated our airspace with a significant armed force.”
No shit, Federov thought bitterly. Aloud, he fought to sound coolly professional. “Yes, sir. What are your orders?”
“You will rally your fighters and continue the pursuit,” Leonov radioed coldly. “But this time I suggest you rely solely on IRST until you make positive contact.”
Federov gritted his teeth. In retrospect, his decision to conduct his fighter sweep with active radars had been a blunder—giving the Americans all the warning and time they needed to set their trap. He would not make the same mistake again. “Affirmative, Warlord One,” he acknowledged. “Sentry Lead out.”
Quickly, he selected a rally point on his digital map display and sent it to the rest of his pilots via data link. It was almost due south of where those missiles must have been launched at them. “We’ll form up here,” he ordered. “And then we hunt down and destroy those Amerikanskiye bastards!”
Wolf Six-Two
That Same Time
Nadia Rozek saw the seven remaining IRBIS-E radars wink off her threat display. The surviving Su-35s were about ninety nautical miles to their south-southwest. “The Russians have switched to thermal sights only,” she told Vasey.
“Do you suppose they’re calling it quits and returning to base?”
She glanced at him with a raised eyebrow. “Would you?”
The Englishman shook his head. “‘Flee? And leave my friends unavenged? Nay, rather I come, bristling with fury and hot for blood,’” he quoted sonorously.
“Shakespeare?” Nadia asked.
“God no.” He grinned. “One Vasey, Peter Charles, from an unfinished play written during my school days.”
“I see why you became a pilot instead,” Nadia said dryly.
“It did seem a more promising career,” Vasey allowed. He banked the XCV-62 gently to the right, turning back to the southeast. The valley they’d been flying through opened up ahead, widening into a flat plain riddled with streams, swamps, and rivers that ran almost all the way to the Russian coast. “Up to now, that is.” He shrugged. “So what’s our next move, Major?”
In answer, she opened data links to the two MQ-55 Coyote drones, which were still circling over the hills well south and west of their current position. Swiftly, she programmed new navigation waypoints and
instructions into their computers. Green lights glowed again on her display as each unmanned aircraft signaled that it had received her orders and would obey. “If the Russians want revenge, we must give them what they desire,” she told Vasey.
On her display, the two icons representing the MQ-55s broke out of their orbits, climbed to five hundred feet, and flew off in separate directions—one headed north, the other southwest.
“Alas, poor Coyotes, we knew them well,” Vasey agreed.
National Defense Control Center, Moscow
A Short Time Later
“Sentry Lead, this is Five! I have a thermal contact! Stealth target bears ten o’clock moving to nine at low altitude. Range is twenty kilometers.”
“Acknowledged, Five, you are cleared to engage!”
“Weapons hot, Lead. Turning to make my attack now. Good tone! Missiles away!”
“Lead, this is Nine! Separate contact! Second stealth aircraft bears one o’clock and is flying north at low altitude! Range is thirty kilometers! I am in pursuit and arming heat-seekers.”
Leonov listened closely to the radio chatter from Federov’s Super Flankers as they spotted, attacked, and destroyed the two American aircraft. Like most air-to-air missile engagements, the fighting ended with astonishing speed.
“Warlord One, this is Sentry Lead,” Federov reported exultantly. “Good kills on both targets. No parachutes observed. There are no enemy survivors.”
