by Peter Albano
“Otter Six-Eight,” squawked back. “You’re cleared. Use Runway Four. Wind zero-five-zero at ten, gusting to seventeen.” Gregor acknowledged, glanced at Andrei.
The captain nodded, kicked the brake pedal, increased throttle, and then felt the ponderous machine crawl forward. Moving the yoke hard right, he brought the crawling giant to the center line of the runway, eased the throttles and, with three thousand meters of concrete stretching toward the horizon, locked the brakes.
One last check. “Snowplows clear,” Gregor said, turning a thumb up.
The captain grunted, “Very well,” grasped both knobbed throttle handles, pushing them forward to fifty percent power. The eighty-ton aircraft shuddered, twenty thousand pounds of thrust straining against the brakes. Quickly, Andrei’s eyes, now wide, scanned the instruments.
“Instruments normal,” Gregor said, slumped in his seat.
But something was amiss. Andrei could feel it, sense it. Then his eyes found it. Two gauges, side by side, told the story. “Number two,” he spat. “RPMs are ten percent low. Our throttles are out of rig.”
“Sorry, Comrade Captain.” Quickly, Gregor adjusted the throttles, locking them in a new alignment.
Andrei turned to the co-pilot. “Wake up. You could have ground looped us. You’re beginning to act like one of them.” Angrily, he jerked a thumb over his shoulder. The co-pilot bit his lip, remained silent.
Andrei kicked the brake pedal. The aircraft lurched forward, moving down the runway. He increased power. Slowly the great aircraft gained speed. He pushed the throttles to full power. Acceleration pushed him deep into his seat and gradually the Tupolev lightened under him, seemed to yearn for the sky. Despite the dangers, Andrei loved this moment — the moment of breaking free, of shedding the whole damned world, of returning to the sky.
Then Gregor’s voice. “Passing VR. Rotate.”
Again something was wrong. The pilot glanced at the streaking runway, his instruments, and found it. He spat, “We’re passing V-one, 120 knots; not VR, 140.’’ There was a sputtering in the earphones. “You’d put us in a stall — you’d wind up in a hot fire instead of a hot bed with that Mongol of yours.”
“Sorry, Comrade Pilot.”
“Sorry, yes indeed, Gregor.” Andrei glanced at the speed indicator. “Now, we’ll rotate,” he said, pulling back on the column. And then softly, “Congratulations, Gregor. You could have killed us twice in five minutes.”
Slowly the great aircraft gained altitude. Andrei glanced at his crestfallen co-pilot. “Maybe you’re spending too much time with that Mongol girl, Gregor,” he said casually. “You’re losing your sharpness through your hard-on.”
Gregor sighed, turned his lips under. Then he retorted defensively, “Alexandra helps on those cold nights.” Then with new life, “She has a friend, Natasha Khayata — a secretary from Magdagachi.” He glanced at the instruments, out the side panel. Slowly and carefully he chose his words, “She could help shorten some of these dreary nights for you, if you wish, Comrade Captain.”
“Natasha Khayata from Magdagachi,” the captain snorted, welcoming the change to his favorite subject, knowing Gregor had broached it in the hope of escaping further reprimand. Andrei suppressed a smile, saying, “Must be a brainless Asiatic.”
“One doesn’t search for their brains between their legs.”
“Perhaps, Gregor. But we would have to be discreet. Men of our station should not mix with inferiors, you know.”
“I know. But mixing in bed is a private matter,” the co-pilot answered. “After all, you are the only one who knows about Alexandra. I know a place — a resort — too expensive for the peasants. We could meet them there.”
Andrei nodded, feeling a tightening in his throat, a warmth in his groin. It had been a long time, a much longer time than he would care to admit to Bokanovich. He must put the hot, disturbing thoughts from his mind. “I’ll discuss it with you after this mission,” he said curtly.
The captain hunched forward as they entered a cloud, scanning his instruments. But climbing steadily, they broke into sunshine in minutes. Carefully, Andrei pressured the control column and rudder pedals, heading the Tupolev over the Sea of Japan northward on a course plotted to take him over the Sakhalins, avoiding Japan and those pesky F-Sixteens. He reached to the overhead console and switched the intercom to All Stations. He nodded to Bokanovich. Typical of the Russian mania for secrecy, only the pilot, co-pilot, and navigator attended pre-flight briefings. The conscripts who made up the remainder of the crew were never entrusted with secrets until airborne. But every man aboard knew every detail of the mission. They had all flown it many times.
Glancing at a briefing board strapped to his knee, Andrei droned into his microphone, “We will make the usual north Pacific run. Our flight plan will take us over the Sakhalins, southern tip of Kamchatka, the Komandorskis, and then the usual swing south to latitude 44 and then west and return. A TU-Sixteen will meet us at latitude 46 degrees, 20 minutes north, longitude 159 degrees, 30 minutes east for refueling. Speed of advance is 400 knots, altitude 10,000 meters. As usual, the captain expects radar reports every fifteen minutes — contacts or not. Good weather is forecast. Set Condition Two and stay alert.” And then glancing at Gregor, and nodding at the controls, Andrei said, “Take it, Lieutenant.” The co-pilot grasped the controls.
Andrei leaned back, his mind dulled by thoughts of the long flight ahead. What would his radar operators find on their scopes? The usual, he told himself. A few airliners. An American AW AC, perhaps. A tanker or two. Maybe some crazy Japanese fishermen. If good weather held, American oil company helicopters would be buzzing close to the Aleutians like bees over honey. And the Petrova. Yes. He must remember the intelligence ship was north of the Hawaiian Islands heading south to monitor traffic in and out of that American bastion. The battleship New Jersey was there. How stupid. A battleship in the missile age. He switched the intercom and glanced at Gregor. “The Americans have a battleship in the Hawaiian Islands, Gregor.”
Gregor snorted. “Maybe they’ll shoot down our SS-Ns with their sixteen-inch guns, Captain.” Both men laughed.
As the Tupolev finally reached its patrol altitude, the pilot stared ahead at a blue sky broken with cumulus clouds, floating here and there like fleecy mountains. And the sea was blue-gray and endless. He yawned, settled back into his upholstered seat. Nadia Rusakov came back.
It was almost three hours later, after logging two airliners, a whaler, and a tanker, that radarman Ivan Yegorov shouted, “Comrade Captain, I have a huge surface target bearing one-two-zero true, range three hundred kilometers, on a heading of approximately one-six-zero, speed twenty-five knots.”
“Are you sure?”
“I have it too, Comrade Captain,” Mikhail Susloparov said.
“Must be a warship,” Andrei said. “Number of escorts?”
“None,” Ivan said.
“None!” Andrei glanced at Gregor and then drummed his fingers on the yoke. “That doesn’t make sense. Are you sure of your sighting.”
“Yes, Comrade Captain,” chorused in his earphones.
He switched the intercom. “No escorts,” he said to himself. And then to Gregor, “They don’t have a bottle of vodka back there, do they Bokanovich?”
The co-pilot chuckled, apparently relieved to be free of his commanding officer’s wrath. “I think they were sober when they came aboard,” the lieutenant observed. “Anyway, they wouldn’t both be having the same hallucinations, Comrade Captain.”
The pilot nodded. “A huge surface target moving at that speed must be a warship.” And then he mused, “No escorts. What are those Americans up to?” Silence. “You know, Gregor, maybe they don’t have us on their radar. Let’s try to sneak up on them — give them a surprise. We’ll concentrate on this target. Set Condition Three.”
“Good idea, Captain.” The co-pilot snapped the intercom switch, saying, “All stations. We will descend to visual range. Set Condition Three.”
In a
moment, Gregor turned to his commanding officer, saying, “All stations have acknowledged.”
“Very well,” Andrei said. And then wrapping his hands around the control column’s yoke, he said briskly, “I’ll take over.” Gregor nodded, releasing the controls. The pilot continued, “We’ll descend at two thousand meters a minute. Target altitude is three hundred meters.” He pushed the column forward and moved the throttles to idle. “Brakes.”
“Brakes on full,” Gregor said, pulling a lever.
The Tupolev slowed and began a curving descent, narrowing its radius on the mysterious target, the co-pilot shouting altitudes every thousand meters while radarmen repeated continuous ranges and bearings. Finally, after reaching one thousand meters and after seeing the needle of the gyro-repeater waver and finally settle on one-six-zero, Andrei centered the controls. “The target should be dead ahead, Gregor. Use your binoculars.”
The co-pilot nodded, unsnapped a strap holding a pair of binoculars to the side of his seat, and brought the glasses to his eyes. There was a long silence interrupted only by bearing and ranges from the radarmen. “You should be able to see her, Gregor,” Andrei said, impatiently.
The lieutenant cursed. “There’s mist down there, Captain — some fog, too.”
Suddenly, Mikhail shouted, “Ten aircraft. Bearing zero-nine-five true. Range one-seven-zero kilometers. Altitude — ah, altitude, so low I can’t give you a reading.”
“Ivan,” Andrei said. “Verify.”
“Verified, Comrade Captain. Many aircraft-very low — closing on surface target, sir, at very slow speeds.”
“Helicopters,” the pilot said.
“I would guess Landing Platform Helicopter of some type, sir,” Gregor said, staring through the glasses.
“We’re down to five hundred meters. Can you see anything,” Andrei said.
“No!” And then suddenly, “Trotsky’s ghost. A carrier. She’s as big as the Dnieper dam — bearing zero-one-zero, range thirty.”
“Radar, verify,” the pilot commanded.
“Verified,” Ivan answered.
The mist broke. A great, gray shape loomed. Andrei gasped. “You’re right, Gregor. She’s over three hundred meters long and maybe, a sixty meter beam.” And then quickly, “Radar, the aircraft.”
“Bearing zero-nine-zero, range one-five-zero kilometers, closing at 140 knots.”
“She’s changed course, Captain — come to zero-six-five,” Gregor said.
“She’s running before the wind. She wouldn’t do that if she were a LPH vessel, recovering helicopters. Only fixed wing.” Andrei said, puzzled. He tightened his grip on the yoke. “She’s not vertical takeoff and her deck is a perfect rectangle with no angled deck for jet launches. And no escorts. Doesn’t make sense, Gregor.” And then, slowly, “The Americans have come up with something new, or crazy.” Andrei cursed as the great vessel vanished into a fog bank. And then he barked, “Mikhail.” The pilot waited for an acknowledgment from the gunner-radarman, “Have the computer scramble in our new Fox-Blue-Able cipher and transmit, ‘Sighted large, unescorted carrier. Latitude 51 north, longitude 172 degrees, 30 minutes east. Course: various headings. Speed: 28 knots. Am closing.’ Repeat.” The radioman complied.
Andrei smiled, knowing the position report would be picked up by the naval station at Vladivostok and relayed to Moscow. Then powerful transmitters would bounce a signal from a Molniya satellite, relaying it to the new SSBN cruising north of Wake Island. Automatically, computers would feed target data to the nuclear submarine’s missiles. Then the push of a button could turn the carrier to radioactive dust in minutes.
“American fighter pilots enjoy charging us like the British cavalry charged our batteries at Balaclava,” Andrei said grimly. “Let’s show them how Russians can return the favor.” He eased the control column forward. “We’ll drop wave high, open the throttles and fly her keel from stern to stem and give her our afterburners.” There were cheers in the earphones. “Then we’ll circle her close and get our intelligence. Go to Condition Four. Man your battle stations — stay alert. She’s a new type.” He pushed the throttles forward.
“Damn the mist,” Gregor muttered.
Andrei squinted, hunched forward. “I have her,” he said, feeling the aircraft sink beneath him. “She’s stern on. Range Ivan?”
“Five thousand meters.”
“Speed, Gregor?” Andrei gripped the vibrating yoke tightly. Stared straight ahead.
“Three-hundred-forty knots, Comrade Captain.” And then with a tinge of alarm, “Altitude twenty meters.”
“Very well,” Andrei said, glancing out his side panel at the sea — a streaking, gray blur, flecked with white. “We’ll drop below the flight deck and hop over her. Give them the afterburners — wake them up. I think they’re asleep.” He pulled the column back, leveled the Tupolev off, skimming the sea, carrier an expanding gray mass only meters ahead. Gregor stirred restlessly, reached for the throttles, eyes wide.
“Now,” Andrei shouted. “Balls to the wall.” Gregor jammed the throttles to the fire wall. The Tupolev surged, driven by forty thousand pounds of thrust. Andrei sucked in his breath. They were almost on the ship and so low the vessel’s flight deck was actually above them. Gregor made a sound like a frightened animal.
With the carrier filling his vision like a gray mountain, Andrei first pulled the yoke back and then pushed it forward, clearing the ship’s stern by not more than five meters, leveling off with the Tupolev’s belly almost scraping the flight deck. “Afterburners!” The co-pilot threw a switch. Instantly, two red lights glowed on the instrument panel. The Tupolev leaped like a startled hare as the Mikulins’ thrust exploded from forty thousand pounds to sixty thousand pounds.
Skimming the flight deck at 550 knots, the great ship flashed past in a wink — a dark mass, glinting glass on the bridge, vent on the bow blowing a ribbon of steam, and crewmen scurrying across the deck like frightened mice. In a split second, the aircraft cleared the carrier’s bow.
“Afterburners off,” Andrei said, pulling the control column back, easing the throttles, and pushing the right rudder pedal. Gregor threw a switch. The red lights went out. Turning, the Tupolev slowed. “I think they know we’re here,” Andrei chuckled as he leveled the aircraft at three hundred meters and began circling the carrier. Laughter filled the intercom. “I’ll reduce speed and we’ll circle. I’ve never seen a ship like this. She must be a new LPH type.” He glanced at the co-pilot. “Lieutenant, I want a detailed description.” And into his microphone, “Mikhail, transmit as fast as described.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ll circle at close range — let’s see what those Yankees are up to now.”
Suddenly, the great ship burst into sunlight. “Mikhail,” Andrei said. “Transmit. Unknown carrier. Length, three hundred meters; beam, seventy. One tilted stack — deck cleared to receive aircraft — no aircraft in sight; probable LPH.” He moved the controls, keeping the Tupolev low, throttled back, circling the ship at a thousand meters.
“Ah, Captain,” Gregor said, peering through the binoculars, “her anti-aircraft.”
“Yes.”
“She must have two hundred small-caliber weapons and cannons, too.”
“Strange,” Andrei said. He fingered the yoke restlessly. And then, suddenly, “Where are the aircraft, Ivan?”
“Still bearing zero-nine-zero, range 50 kilometers, closing at 140 knots.”
“Can you see them, Gregor?”
The co-pilot raised his binoculars. “No, Comrade Captain. Too far and misty.”
“We’ll drop to twenty meters and fly her keel again and then scatter her helicopters like pigeons.”
“Sir,” Ivan said. “Her aircraft. Two have detached — they’re closing at three hundred knots.”
“That’s it. A secret vertical takeoff ship with new, fast helicopters,” Andrei said. He moved the control column, kicked the rudder pedal, losing altitude, lining up the bow of the carrier. “Her
e we come, Yankees!”
The only sound heard on the intercom was laughter.
FIVE
5 December 1983
“What’s this stuff?” Edmundson said, sitting on his bunk, poking at a steel tray with long sticks.
“Raw fish — the Japs love it; call it sashimi.” Trigger probed a gray, plastic-like substance. “This is seal or walrus meat; azarashi. And this stuff — ” he held up a piece of stringy, brown substance — “is fried seaweed; nori-no-tempura.” Edmundson grimaced. “Eat it, Todd. It’ll build your strength. Hold your nose, but eat it.”
“I can’t use chopsticks, Captain.”
“Hashi, to the Japs. Use your fingers, Todd. Emily Post isn’t watching,” Ross said with sudden levity he hoped would raise his young companion’s spirits.
The seaman grinned weakly, closed his eyes, and then devoured every bit of food on his tray.
“Good boy, Todd,” Trigger said, pleased to see Edmundson’s improved mood. Then he placed his empty tray next to the seaman’s on a small table, bolted to the deck.
Suddenly the ship’s motion changed. “Captain, we’ve changed course,” Edmundson said, coming erect.
“I felt it. She’s coming to starboard. We’re headed into the chop — into the westerlies.”
“Westerlies? I thought we’d be in the northeasterlies.”
“Not if we’re just south of the Aleutians, Todd. We’ll pick up the northeasterlies below latitude forty-eight.”
“That doesn’t make sense, Captain. If they’re headed for Pearl, they’d be on a southeasterly course.”
“Not necessarily,” Ross reflected, slowly. “It makes sense to come into the wind if you’re launching aircraft.” Trigger’s sentence was punctuated by the cough of an aircraft engine coming to life, then another, and another until, perhaps, a dozen blended into a solid roar.
Todd turned his head, cocked an ear. “Do you think we’re wrong about Pearl, Captain, that it’s really Dutch Harbor?”
“Possible. Maybe we guessed wrong. But they can be launching for a lot of reasons — reconnaissance, training … ”
