Patrick McLanahan Collection #1

by Dale Brown

  “Holy shit!” one of the younger pilots shouted as they all collected their flight gear. “What do we do?”

  “Get your ass airborne, that’s what!” answered one of the other pilots, the flight commander. “Get rolling as fast as you can!” He dashed for the door, hoping like hell the others were right behind him.

  The alert ramp at Eielson Air Force Base was in a state of slight dis-array. With the two alert aircraft airborne in support of the newly established air patrols over northern Alaska, the wing was still in the process of preparing more aircraft for alert. The Third Wing at Eielson kept two F-16s interceptors in preload status, ready to be armed and fueled, but with no crews assigned, in support of the air-sovereignty mission for Alaska. Normally it took anywhere from one to three hours to get the preload birds ready to fly, but in this heightened state of alert, with the alert aircraft suddenly committed to fly airborne patrols, the two preload aircraft were almost ready, and two more F-16s were less than an hour away from ready-five status as well.

  The four aircraft being preflighted were in alert shelters, with both forward and rear doors open and with many different teams of maintenance technicians inside checking systems and running checklists. The crew chiefs were furiously racing around their aircraft, yelling at the maintenance teams to finish up and get out of the hangars, removing streamers and plugs, and closing inspection and access panels. Their pre-cocking checklists were not yet complete, so they had to be sure that all steps in several other checklists were done, as well as the “scramble” checklist itself. The pilots did the same, following right behind their crew chiefs, running several checklists simultaneously in a mad dash to get their jets ready to fly. But in less than ten minutes, pilots were climbing inside the two ready-five interceptors, and soon engines were started, the taxiways cleared, and the two Falcons started taxiing to the active runway.

  But they would not make it airborne.

  Two minutes after the last warhead detonated over Clear Air Station, the Tu-160 Blackjack bombers screamed overhead, continuing their missile run. With the NORAD and FAA radars down, they would be virtually invisible as they pressed their attack. Five minutes after passing over Clear, the Tupolev-160 bombers were in position to begin their second missile run.

  Each bomber launched four missiles against three separate target areas around the city of Fairbanks, Alaska: Fort Wainwright, Eielson Air Force Base, and Fort Greely. Like Shemya and Clear, all these three locations had components of the new ballistic-missile defense system under construction; in addition, Eielson was the location of the Alaskan battle-management headquarters, which was a mirror to the main command headquarters located in North Dakota. All eight missiles were bunker-buster weapons, designed to explode deep underground—but the blast effects were more than powerful enough to heavily damage all three military bases.

  As soon as the two Russian bombers launched the remaining weapons in their aft bomb bays, they headed southwest across Alaska, staying clear of the radar sites around Anchorage, Bethel, and Dillingham. In twenty minutes they were feet-wet over the Bering Sea. Two F-15C Eagle fighters launched from Elmendorf Air Force Base near Anchorage to pursue, but they never got within range to spot them at low altitude.

  And the Russian bombers still were not finished with their attacks.

  Aboard the Russian Tupolev-95MS Bear Bomber

  A short time later

  Feet dry, crew,” the navigator radioed. “Ninety minutes to launch point.”

  Leborov was in the middle of his attack briefing when the navigator gave his report. The cabin got instantly quiet. They still had a long way to go before this part of their mission was over, but actually making it into North America was simply an incredible feat in itself. Even the most optimistic planner gave them a one-in-ten chance of getting this far—and, as far as Leborov could tell, every Tupolev-95MS in his formation that had completed an air refueling had made it. The old rattle-traps had done their jobs nicely so far.

  The Tupolev-22M bombers had done their job admirably, too. They had created a curtain of electronic jamming that screened the attack force from detection until their long-range Kh-31 antiradar missiles were in range to destroy the North American Aerospace Defense Command’s North Warning System radar sites. As far as he could tell, they had lost just six -22Ms, and no -95Ms.

  “R…roger, nav,” Leborov responded after a few moments. “Station check, crew.” Each one of his crew members responded with his crew position and then performed the routine check, which included switches, oxygen, safety equipment, lights, radios, and required logbook entries. They had done a station check just a few minutes earlier, but doing that simple yet important task, Leborov hoped, would get their minds back on the mission and away from the danger they were continuing to fly into.

  When everyone had finished, Leborov went on, “Okay, crew, let me get through this damned briefing, and then you can have some quiet time to yourselves before we do our thing.

  “After weapon release we’ll head directly west toward the Rocky Mountains, then northward along the military crest to evade any surviving radars. We still have all of our antiradar missiles on board, so we’ll attack and destroy any military radars we encounter, such as AWACS, fighter-intercept, or fire-control radars, and secondarily any ground-surveillance radars. If possible, we’ll retain any unused weapons for force reconstitution.

  “Our primary forward landing base is Norman Wells, which is located on the Mackenzie River west of Great Bear Lake—in fact, we’ll be flying close to it on our inbound leg. We have SPETZNAZ commandos and mechanics on the ground waiting for our signal to help us refuel—”

  “Has that been confirmed, sir?” the flight engineer cut in. “Are they really there?”

  “They were in place when we departed, but we haven’t heard a thing since,” Leborov responded. “We won’t know for sure until we’re getting ready to land. If we get no word from them, we’ll decide what to do as a crew—either land and attempt a refueling ourselves, land and abandon the plane, bail out and crash the plane, or risk flying across Alaska attempting to make it back into eastern Siberia.” Again the crew got very quiet. “Anyway, as soon as possible, we’ll take on as much fuel at Norman Wells as we can and, as the Americans say, ‘Get out of Dodge’—whatever the hell that means. We then will try to make it past any American fighter patrols and across to any friendly base. Anadyr is the primary recovery base. If we top off our tanks at Norman Wells, we will have enough fuel to make it all the way to Novosibirsk or Petropavlovsk with no problems.

  “Weapon-disposal procedures: If we have any of the Kh-90 weapons still on board, and we can’t launch them against secondary targets, we’ll take them with us,” Leborov went on. “If there is any danger whatsoever of their falling into enemy hands, we’ll jettison them safe over isolated enemy territory, open ocean, or ice pack. If we’re on the ground, we’ll jettison them prearmed on the ramp—they won’t detonate, and they’ll be useless after their chemical batteries run out. Lastly, if the weapons cannot be jettisoned at all, our only option is to bail out of the aircraft and let the weapons crash with the plane. If we do make it on the ground, under no circumstances shut down power to the weapon-arming panel. I will stay in the pilot’s seat, and I will have full authority on whether to retain or jettison the weapons. Bottom line: We don’t let viable nuclear weapons fall into enemy hands. Of course, none of this applies to the Kh-31s, since they are nonnuclear.

  “Survival and evasion: If we are forced to bail out, crash-land, or ditch, it is each individual crew member’s responsibility to survive and to make your way to a designated recovery or exfiltration point. Our poststrike exfiltration zones are near Norman Wells, Pine Point, Inuvik, Prince Rupert, Whitehorse, and Fort Nelson. If you don’t know how to get to them by now, you had better learn fast, because we’re destroying all maps after we launch our missiles. You are all well trained in cold-weather survival, and I should think our chances of surviving off the land and making
it to one of the planned exfiltration points is very good. Try to link up with one of the others if possible, but don’t travel together unless you need assistance. The exfiltration points will be visited from time to time by friendly forces, hired escorts, or SPETZNAZ combat-rescue teams, as conditions warrant, so sit tight once you make it to an exfil point, and look out for your contact. Most of all, remember your training and keep acool head.

  “Resistance and escape: If you’re captured, remember that your first and foremost responsibility to your crew and your country is to survive; second, to resist to the best of your ability giving up vital state secrets; and third, to escape, so you can return to friendly forces and fight again. You must protect your fellow crew members and support your country, but if you feel you will be killed if you do not talk, then talk—but say as little as possible. The Canadians and Americans are generally not considered brutal captors, but the outposts and field-intelligence officers will be the most unpredictable, and of course we’ll have just launched nuclear weapons against them, so they’re likely to be very, very angry.

  “If necessary, give them the most minimal information possible—name, rank, serial number, and date of birth—then beg for mercy. Try anything and everything to avoid being abused, tortured, or interrogated: Remind them of their legal responsibilities, speak about the Geneva Conventions, ask to talk to the Red Cross, plead with them to be fair and humane, tell them you are a family man, pretend you’re injured, blah blah blah, and they will likely not hurt you. This is no time to be a hero and get yourselves maimed. Remember, we are not talking about the Chechens or the Afghans—the Americans and Canadians respond to pleas for help. Again, rely on your training and keep a cool head, and you’ll come out of it okay. Hell, you might even star on one of their television reality shows, sign a Hollywood movie deal, marry Pamela Anderson, and get famous defense lawyer Johnny Cochran to represent you in court within a day or two.” That got a laugh that Leborov could hear even in the noisy cabin.

  “If you escape, your chance of finding support from the civilian population is unknown,” the aircraft commander went on. “You may encounter some Russian-speaking individuals, but don’t assume they are pro-Russian. Generally, people who live in the Arctic, as in Russia, support strangers they find in the wilderness—it is an unwritten code for those who live in inhospitable regions. Still, it is best to stay away from strangers and make contact only if your situation becomes desperate. We assume you’ll be treated as an evading combatant as defined in the Geneva Conventions; as such, remember that if you kill a civilian while evading or in custody, even if you are being pursued by armed individuals or are being mistreated or tortured, you may be subject to the death penalty, even though Canada does not have it. Is that understood?”

  Leborov asked for questions. They discussed this and that, mostly the weather and ground conditions in northern Canada and a little about their poststrike refueling base. Norman Wells was in the heart of Canada’s vast western oil fields, so there was a lot of jet traffic and a lot of aviation fuel stored there. It was doubtful they’d be able to steal enough gas for all twenty-one Tupolev-95 bombers to refuel—in that case they’d pick the best planes, fill them up with crew members, and take whomever they could. The SPETZNAZ commandos would be exfiltrated by submarine from Mackenzie Bay, so some of the crew members could go with them if they chose.

  “Fuck all that,” Borodev said cross-cockpit after their discussions were concluded. “I’m staying in Canada.”

  Leborov couldn’t believe his ears. “What did you say?”

  “I said, if I can’t fly out, I’m staying,” the copilot said. “I speak pretty good English—I can even speak some Canadian, hey? I’ll be a bush pilot. I’ll fly tourists in the summer and supplies in the winter. Or maybe I’ll put on a Russian fur-trapper music show with a dancing bear in Sitka, Alaska, for the tourists coming off the cruise ships. I’ll hide out right under their noses.”

  “You’re crazy,” Leborov said. “Do you think they’ll still have dancing bears and music shows after what we’ll do to them today?”

  “More than ever,” Borodev said.

  “You have a life back in Russia, my friend, remember? You’re an airman and an officer in the Russian air force.”

  “You made a life for yourself back home—if they let you have one,” Borodev said, turning serious. “Wherever they send us after this is over, at least you’ll have your family with you. I won’t have shit.”

  “You’ll be a hero,” Leborov said. “You’ll spend the rest of your military career explaining how in hell you survived penetrating Canadian and American air defenses and bombing the shit out of them.”

  The copilot laughed. “I think I prefer the dancing bear, Joey,” he said. “But I’ll make sure you’re on your way home first, don’t worry.” Leborov didn’t respond—he didn’t want to continue this line of discussion at all.

  “Coming up on the turnpoint,” the navigator said.

  “There’s another good reason to stay in Canada, my friend,” Borodev said. “Great Bear Lake. One of the largest freshwater lakes in the world, and by far the best trout fishing on Earth. I read they catch trout out of that lake that take two men to carry. A busboy at one of their fishing lodges makes more money in one month than flying officers in the Russian air force make all year.”

  “You’re fucked in the head, pal.”

  The navigator gave a heading correction that would take them east of the lake. Although there was nothing in the area this time of year except caribou, grizzly bears, and oil rigs, overflying the lake would highlight them from any air patrols they might encounter.

  “Forty minutes to launch point, crew,” the navigator said.

  “Stop with the damned countdown, nav,” Leborov said irritably. He took a few whiffs of oxygen to try to calm his nerves. “Just let us know when you’re starting your checklists—everyone else is configured for weapon release. Let’s do a station check and then—”

  Suddenly they all heard the slow warning tone over their headphones. “UHF search radar, two o’clock,” the electronic-warfare officer reported.

  “Search radar? From where?”

  “Airborne radar, probably an AWACS,” the EWO said.

  “Want to step it down to one hundred meters?” Borodev asked.

  “If it’s an AWACS, it won’t matter how low we go—it’ll find us,” Leborov said grimly. “Our only hope is to try to shoot it down before they—”

  Just then they heard another warning tone. “Fighter radar sweep, two o’clock,” the EWO reported. “X-band, probably a Canadian CF-18 Hornet. It’s down—AWACs will take over the hunt.”

  “—send in fighters,” Leborov said, finishing his sentence. “Let’s get up to launch altitude.” They had no choice. They had to climb to one thousand meters aboveground to launch a Kh-31 from the bomb bay.

  “Airborne search radar changing from long-range scan to fast PRF height-finder scan. I think they spotted us. Jammers on. All countermeasures active.”

  “I need a fire-control solution right now, EWO,” Leborov said.

  “No azimuth or range data yet.”

  “Damn it, EWO, you gave me the azimuth a moment ago!”

  “That was a rough estimate off the warning receiver,” the electronic-warfare officer retorted. “The fire-control receiver hasn’t computed a launch bearing.”

  “I don’t want excuses, I need to attack!” Leborov shouted. “That Hornet will be on us any moment now!”

  “No azimuth yet…”

  “Don’t wait for the fire-control computer!” Leborov screamed. “Fire a missile at the last known azimuth. Make them take the first move!”

  There was a short pause, then, “Stand by for missile launch, crew! Consent switches.”

  “Consent!” Leborov shouted, flipping three red guarded switches up. “Shoot, damn it!”

  “Bomb doors coming open!” the EWO shouted. Seconds later there was a deep rumbling sound as the Tupo
lev-95’s massive bomb doors swung open. “Missile away!” Both pilots shielded their eyes as a tremendous streak of fire illuminated the cabin and an impossibly loud roaring sound drowned out even the thunder of the Tu-95’s turbo-props. The first Kh-31P missile fired ahead of the bomber on its solid rocket booster, then started its climb.

  Seconds later: “AWACS radar down!” the EWO crowed. The missile launch had its desired effect—the AWACS crew shut down its radar to escape the missile. Moments later: “X-band radar, CF-18 Hornet, three o’clock!”

  Leborov immediately performed a “notch,” turning the Tu-95 hard right, directly over Great Bear Lake. He was hoping to maneuver until he was flying perpendicular to the Hornet’s flight path, which would blank out the Russian bomber from the Hornet’s pulse-Doppler radar. It seemed a little ridiculous trying to hide a huge, lumbering rhinoceros like the Tu-95 from an advanced interceptor like the CF-18 Hornet, but for the sake of his crew, he had to try everything.

  “Hornet’s at nine o’clock…wait…fast PRF, Hornet has reacquired…Hornet is locked on…chaff, chaff, pilot hard turn left.” Leborov threw the Tupolev-95 into a hard left turn, hoping now to cut down on their radar cross-section and make the enemy fighter’s radar track the decoy chaff and not the plane. “Hornet’s…wait…Hornet’s turning northeast…Hornet’s locked on…missile launch, missile launch, break…Wait…he’s not tracking us…I’m picking up the uplink for an AMRAAM launch, but it’s not aimed at us…another missile launch!”

  Leborov twisted the microphone-select switch on his intercom panel to the formation frequency. “Heads up, guys, the bastard’s firing!”

  “Second Hornet, eight o’clock. Hard turn left, heading one-two-zero…possibly a third Hornet in formation…”