Red Ice

by William Dietz

  Parker lay there for a while. Light leaked in through the gap in the curtains and the monotonous thump, thump, thump of bass could be heard from a neighboring apartment. Where was Falco? she wondered. And why did she care? It had been awhile since she’d heard his voice on the radio. Don’t do it , Parker admonished herself. Don’t go there. He’ll get killed. And you know what that’s like.

  Parker pushed the thoughts away, got up, and took a shower. Then she went out to her pickup. It wasn’t much to look at, but it started with a roar, and would be good in the snow if she lived that long.

  The base’s DFAC (dining facility) served breakfast all day. Parker ate alone, left for the Officer’s Club/Headquarters building, and went looking for Haberman’s adjutant. He removed the Voronov file from a safe, asked Parker to sign for it, and told her to return it prior to departure. “I hope you nail him,” the major said. “The bastard needs killing. ”

  After commandeering an empty desk Parker went to work. The first thing on the pile was an Intel summary written by an analyst named Burke. “Based on Voronov’s activities prior to war,” Burke wrote, “and interviews since—there’s reason to believe that he’s a full blown sociopath. Voronov has no interest in the way other people feel, and no feelings of remorse when he causes them pain.

  “However,” Burke continued, “it should be noted that according to a doctoral thesis published by Katie M. Ragan in 2009, and titled: ‘The Warfighters of Today: Personality and Cognitive Characteristics of Rated Fighter Pilots in the United States Air Force ,’ the negative aspects of Voronov’s personality are in some ways consistent with the attributes associated with our best fighter pilots. In her thesis Ragan points out that according to a study carried out in 2005, fighter pilots tend to have high scores relative to assertiveness, activity, and a need for achievement, but tend to score lower in agreeableness, self-consciousness, vulnerability, and warmth than other pilots do.

  “So it seems fair to say that while sharing what are regarded as positive personality characteristics with his peers—Voronov’s narcissism and lack of empathy serve to set him apart from his fellow aviators.”

  Parker frowned. Did that mean she was assertive and ambitious? Sure … So what? She continued reading. Based on after action reports, and military intelligence, Burke had been able to create a list of Voronov’s “tendencies.” He rarely flew during the hours of darkness. Did the Russian want to avoid the complexities associated with night flying? Or was Voronov hooked on watching his enemies die? No one knew.

  Voronov never flew with a wingman. And that made sense. Like any egomaniac Voronov believed that he could handle everything by himself. And, due to Voronov’s narcissism, there was a high probability that other pilots didn’t want to fly with him. Would Voronov sacrifice them to achieve a kill? Of course he would. And so long as Voronov continued to kill Americans, the Russian command structure appeared willing to indulge the sociopath’s quirks.

  The next entry held particular interest for Parker. “Based on press reports, and interviews with American women who had relationships with Voronov before the war, he’s extremely competitive where females are concerned. A trait that was very much on display during ski events when Voronov would challenge women to side contests that he always won.

  “And where sex is concerned,” Burke continued, “Voronov shows little interest in giving his partners pleasure, likes to control his lovers, and prefers positions that don’t require eye contact.”

  Parker placed the report on the desk. What, if anything, would Voronov’s misogyny mean where combat was concerned? Had he ever gone one-on-one with a female pilot? That seemed unlikely. More were being trained. But only four percent of U.S. fighter pilots were women before the war. And there were very few females in the Russian military.

  Odds were that Voronov’s need to compete with women would come into play the moment he heard her voice. Could she use that against him? I hope so , Parker thought. We’ll find out. Her phone rang. It was Baines. “Where are you?”

  Parker responded and he arrived thirty minutes later. It was more than an hour before they were slated to meet. “You couldn’t sleep?” Parker inquired.

  “Not very well,” Baines admitted. “I see you’ve been reading. Give me a synopsis.”

  Parker told him about the contents of the report but didn’t mention the misogyny. Why? Because she didn’t want to stress an advantage that might not exist. “So this guy is a full-on fruitcake,” Baines concluded, as he sipped coffee from a mug .

  “And a hot pilot,” Parker responded. “I’m going to call Lieutenant Davis. Let’s see if he’s willing to speak with us.”

  It turned out that Davis was flying a desk in the procurement office. And when he came off duty Parker and Baines were there to pick him up. Parker’s truck had a crew cab, and she made eye contact with Davis, as he slipped into the backseat. Davis was a good looking kid, with even features, and mocha colored skin. “I thought we’d get a drink,” Parker told him. “Does that work for you?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Davis answered. “I could use one. The procurement office is a zoo.”

  Baines laughed. “Is it worse than flying?”

  Parker knew the Wizzo meant well. But the comment served to remind Davis of the fact that he’d been grounded. His smile disappeared. “Yes, sir. It’s worse than flying.”

  Having put his foot in it Baines sought to change the subject. The men were talking baseball when Parker pulled into the King Crab’s parking lot. “Come on,” Parker said, as they got out. “I’m buying.”

  The bar was located near the front of the restaurant and decorated with marine kitsch. Oars, brass fittings, and photos of fishing boats hung on the walls. After being shown to a well-worn booth the pilots placed their orders. “So,” Parker said, as the waiter walked away. “You know why we’re here.”

  “You have orders to kill Voronov,” Davis said. “I hope you get him. For me, and for my Wizzo.”

  “Tell us what happened,” Parker said. “Start at the beginning.”

  Davis shrugged. “The weather was good. After we took off we climbed to 25,000 feet and turned north. Our orders were to look for Russian shipping and a Russian spy plane that had been seen in the area. And that’s what we were doing when my wingman developed a right engine control issue. He turned back, and we continued on. Voronov jumped us fifteen minutes later. ”

  Davis looked away at that point, and Parker was about to say something, when the drinks arrived. That gave Davis an opportunity to pull himself together. “So, where was I? Oh, yeah … Voronov called me on the emergency frequency. He spoke perfect English. He identified himself as a Mud Hen (F-15E Strike Eagle), call sign Badger. Voronov said he’d been sent to replace my wingman.” Davis paused at that point, and sipped his drink.

  “Mike called bullshit on that,” Davis said, “and told me to take evasive action. I did. We were all over the sky for a while. And it soon became apparent that Voronov was toying with me. I went to an unloaded extension but couldn’t shake him.”

  Parker knew Davis was referring to a maneuver in which the defending pilot goes into a steep drive and applies full thrust. The purpose of the evolution was to take the g-force off the aircraft and accelerate so as to increase his or her chances of escape.

  “It didn’t work,” Davis said morosely. “Voronov was riding my six, and critiquing my performance. Looking back I realize he was in my head.

  “He could have splashed me, but he didn’t,” Davis added. “We played cat and mouse for what seemed like an eternity, but was actually no more than two or three minutes. I think Voronov got bored. He fired a radar guided missile. And, while I was trying to evade that, he pickled (fired) a heat seeker. It slammed into the starboard engine and exploded.”

  That was a common strategy, and Parker knew it could happen to anybody. “And then?”

  “And then we bailed out,” Davis answered bitterly. “I spotted Mike’s chute. And I saw him hit the water. He wav
ed at me. Then Voronov made a gun run. Gouts of white water shot up into the air and Mike disappeared.” A tear trickled down Davis’s cheek.

  “I’m sorry,” Baines said. “I met Mike once … He was a standup guy. ”

  “Yeah,” Davis said, as he wiped the moisture away. “And I let him down.”

  Parker opened her mouth to speak, but stopped when Davis raised a hand. “Don’t try to make it okay, Major. The only thing you can do to make me feel better is to blow Voronov out of the sky.”

  “We’ll do our best,” Parker promised.

  “He knew I was alive,” Davis added. “And he let me live. So I could tell the story.”

  That fit everything Parker knew and she nodded. “So one of our ships managed to reach you?”

  “Yeah. A coast guard icebreaker named the Northern Dawn .”

  Baines frowned. “Is that the one that rammed the bridge? And cut it in two?”

  “Yes,” Davis replied. “It took the Russians two days to repair the span. I hear the brass put Captain Soto in for a medal of honor. And his engineer too. ”

  Two days , Parker mused. We sacrificed two men and a ship in exchange for two days. We are in some deep shit. “Thank you,” Parker said out loud. “Your glass is empty. Let’s order another round.” The conversation continued—but the meeting was over.

  Parker slept better that night. Perhaps that was the natural result of how tired she was. And maybe a few hours of actual darkness helped. Whatever the reason Parker was in good spirits when she awoke. After a light breakfast in a nearby coffee shop, she drove on base, and made her way to the group’s temporary operations center where Baines was waiting.

  Then it was time to keep their appointment with military intelligence officer Mary Gooding. She was thirty-something, and had the manner of a stern librarian. Her office was located in a converted storeroom where two computer screens glowed, overlapping maps were taped to the walls, and a stick of incense burned in a tray. The reason for that was unclear as Gooding came forward to greet them. “Good morning, Major … Captain … You’re on time … I like that. It’s my understanding that you’re here for a briefing on Russian pilot Adrian Voronov … Is that correct?”

  “Yes,” Parker said. “It is.”

  “Good,” the other woman replied. “You have no idea how often people schedule a meeting to discuss subject X and demand information about topic Y.”

  “That would be annoying,” Baines said.

  “Exactly,” Gooding agreed. “Now, let’s take a look at the map that I prepared. The red push pins represent locations where Voronov scored a kill. The blue push pins represent an area where he was sighted, or engaged in a verbal exchange of some sort. The man loves to talk, so there are plenty of those.”

  “Sightings?” Parker inquired. “How so? Is there something distinctive about Voronov’s plane?”

  “Voronov’s call sign is the Russian word for jester,” Gooding replied. “And the silhouette of a jester is visible below his canopy.”

  “Somebody got that close?” Parker inquired.

  “Yes, they did,” Gooding replied, without offering any additional details.

  Parker eyed the map. She was struck by the fact that most of Voronov’s kills and contacts had occurred north of the Diomede Islands. That made sense since the American planes were continually looking for opportunities to end run Russian defenses. So that’s where we’ll look for him, Palmer thought. And dance the dance.

  The rest of the briefing was focused on Voronov’s ride. And that , Gooding informed them, was a Sukhoi Su-35. Both Parker and Baines were familiar with the planes, and had a healthy respect for them. The briefer was ready with photos and videos of Su-35s performing at airshows. “The 25 can carry a lot of air-to-ground ordinance,” Gooding told them. “But that doesn’t concern you—so I won’t spend any time on it. What does matter is the array of long and short range air-to-air missiles Voronov will have to work with.

  “And,” Gooding added, “two after-action reports indicate that once you engage Voronov he will jettison his air-to-ground ordinance to lighten his plane. That’s hard on Russian tax payers, but I think it’s safe to say that Voronov doesn’t care.

  “Now, let’s talk about electronics. Su-35s are equipped with Irbis-E passive electronically scanned array radars, which are integrated into the plane’s fire control system. The Irbis system can detect a 32 square foot aerial target at a range of 250 miles, track 30 airborne targets at once, and simultaneously engage eight of them.”

  And there was more. Much more. And the next thirty minutes were spent listening to Gooding extoll the Su-35’s considerable virtues. “In summary,” she said, “the Su-35 is a match for the F-15. Yes, it’s slightly slower in terms of maximum speed, but it can accelerate faster. And that isn’t the worst of it. The Su-35 is definitely superior to an F-15 at lower speeds because the 35s have three-dimensional thrust vectoring. So keep that in mind if you should get a chance to mix it up with Voronov.”

  “Maybe we should shoot ourselves, and save Voronov the trouble,” Baines suggested darkly.

  “If you wish,” Gooding said humorlessly. “But remember … I said the Su-35 is a match for the F-15. I didn’t say it was better. Once you engage Voronov it will come down to piloting. And, like it or not, luck.”

  The rest of the day was spent in meetings with operations staff and other pilots laying out a plan and discussing the resources required to carry it out. Parker didn’t get everything she asked for, but enough to do the job, and that would have to do.

  Once all of the arrangements were in place Parker and Baines went their separate ways. For Parker that meant returning to her apartment to nuke a chicken and rice dinner, before paying her bills, and doing a load of laundry. Then it was time to email her mother. She couldn’t tell Mary about Voronov—and didn’t want to.

  So she told Mary everything was fine, there was a little less daylight with each passing day, and she hoped that fuel rationing wasn’t hitting too hard. Would it be the last email she sent home? Parker pushed the thought away.

  After a fitful night’s sleep Parker rose ready to kick some ass. And, when it came time to takeoff, her head was not only clear, but super clear, thanks to the adrenaline pumping through her veins. It took less than an hour of flight time to reach the area Voronov was known to frequent, climb to 40,000 feet, and fly lazy eights.

  Parker was wearing a JHMCS (Joint Helmet Mounted Cueing System), which performed like a heads-up-display in her visor. The data was displayed over her dominant eye. That meant Parker could move her head in any direction and still see data which included her wingman, air-to-air targets, air-to-ground targets, and so on. It made cueing easy. All she had to do was lock the radar onto a bandit in an air-to-air engagement by staring at him, and using some HOTAS (Hands On Throttle And Stick).

  The responsibility for navigation was shared. But ultimately Parker was supposed to get the plane where it was going, while Baines had to make sure that the coordinates for their steer points were properly loaded. And he had total responsibility for identifying all manner of targets via the Electronically Scanned Radar.

  Parker’s wingman was with her and following the same course. Meanwhile, down at 20,000 feet the bait plane, call sign Rubber Ducky, was pretending to fly a patrol. The hope was that Voronov would spot the Fighting Falcon and go after it. That’s when Parker would fall on him like a rock .

  But it didn’t happen. A couple of Russian MiG-29s happened by, forcing the Falcon to run like hell, but that was all. And that left Parker and Baines feeling frustrated as they returned to Anchorage.

  The following day was no better. “Maybe it’s the radar that Gooding told us about,” Baines said, as they continued to fly overlapping circles. “Maybe he can see us.”

  “I’m sure Voronov will see us,” Parker replied. “If he’s flying. And, when he does he’ll be faced with a choice. He can go after the bait plane, or climb, in which case we’ll dive on him.”
/>   “Or,” Baines said, “he could come after us at 40,000 feet.”

  “That works for me,” Parker replied. “Neither one of us can go much higher, so we’ll shoot it out.”

  Baines had heard it before. But talking it through made him feel better. He had plenty of high tech toys to rely on including electronic countermeasures, a friend or foe interrogator, and a radar warning system that would squawk him the moment Voronov turned his fancy Irbis-E system on. At that point a cockpit display would show Baines how close the enemy plane was. Then it would be time to activate the F-15’s radar and find the bastard. But not on that particular day. They returned to base.

  The sky was mostly clear as they took off on the third day. Parker was alert, but less concerned than she had been previously, because she had a theory. Voronov hadn’t shot anyone down since splashing Davis. Nor had he been seen, so where was the jerk?

  Maybe, just maybe, Voronov had been transferred to Europe or some other theatre. And that would make sense. The bastard was shit hot … And he’d be an asset wherever the Russians sent him.

  In that case Parker was in for another boring day. And, truth be told, that would be fine. Because no one in their right mind would want to play sky tag with Voronov if they could avoid it. But that was a private theory … One Parker wasn’t going to share with anybody, lest it make her seem hesitant, or take the edge off the rest of the team.

  So Parker pulled the stick back, climbed to 40,000 feet, and made the 700 mile commute to the operational area north of the Diomede Islands. As Parker and her wingman entered the area their Wizzos scanned for threats. “My screens are clean,” Baines said. “Maybe Voronov is sleeping late.”

  “Could be,” Parker allowed, hoping the bastard was somewhere else. “Keep your head on a swivel.”

  Time dragged, and dragged some more. After an hour and a half, and an AAR (air-to-air refueling) they resumed their previous course. Fifteen minutes passed before Baines spoke. His voice was tense. “I have an incoming target. It’s at 40,000 feet, and closing on the bait plane. I have no way to know if it’s Voronov.”