Belatedly he realized the guard channel was demanding his attention. “…say again, unidentified aircraft, identify yourself immediately.”
Hardin swore. Quickly he hit the transmit button. “Control, this is MIG Flight Zero-Five, I repeat, MIG Flight Zero-Five. I am at altitude two-zero-zero on a heading of zero-one-two and I am off course. Please tell me where I am!”
There was a moment of silence. “Flight zero-five, you are in Turkmenistan airspace. Where are you supposed to be?”
“Ebat Kopat! I was flying an exercise in Uzbekistan on a heading of one-eight-seven when I got lost, so I came to zero-one-two.”
“Did you file a flight plan?”
“Yes, I have clearance but not here. I don’t think I’m supposed to be here!”
“You’re not. What’s your fuel status, zero-five? Do you need to declare an emergency?”
He was almost tempted to follow the tower’s prompt and declare an emergency. It might result in a free refueling; it was more likely, however, that his non-standard F-86 drop tanks would give some alert crew chief the idea that all was not as it appeared. “My fuel is fine, control. I can get back if you can give me a heading.”
“Stay on your current heading and climb to two-seven-zero. We show you about fifty kilometers from the border.”
Bingo! Now he knew where he was. He could have kissed the Russian controller. “Do you have a weather report you can give me?” As long as the tower seemed to be buying his ruse, he might as well get some information from them. The voice from the tower sounded young and he guessed he was dealing with an inexperienced controller.
“Clear along your flight path, zero-five. There’s some weather farther to the north. What is your destination?”
Crap! They’ll never buy the Alma-Ata story, it’s too far away! Hurriedly he checked his map, wondering if he could get away without answering. Too risky; he had to tell them something but he hadn’t memorized where the PVO bases were. He’d have to pick the largest city in Uzbekistan he could find and hope to hell they had an airbase there. “My destination is Samarkand.” Please let there be a unit there!
More silence, and he fretted at the delay. “You’re off course all right. Stay on your current heading and you’ll run right into it.”
Hardin breathed a huge sigh of relief. “Spasibo, control. I am climbing to two-seven-zero. Flight zero-five out.”
He grinned. They’d swallowed the whole story, even giving him heading, distance and weather. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad after all.
Uzbekistan, Russia
Two hundred miles into Uzbekistan his luck ran out.
“Flight zero-five, come in. I repeat, Flight zero-five, come in”
He keyed the transmitter. “This is Flight zero-five, go ahead control.”
“Are you the guy who was heading to Samarkand?”
Oh shit. Although he had expected this, there was a no-nonsense tone in the voice of the controller that caused his spirits to sink. Should he deny it? He kicked the idea around for a fraction of a second. Denial was not likely to get him off the hook, if hook there was, as he would have to think up another story that might sound even flimsier than his original. And if the Tashkent controllers were already looking for a lost flight, another outright fabrication wouldn’t fool them for long. “Affirmative, control.”
“There’s no unit stationed at Samarkand, zero-five. You are to come to heading zero-two-zero and declare an emergency. We’re putting up a chase flight to escort you to Tashkent. Do not deviate from course zero-two-zero.”
Hardin was perspiring. He toyed briefly with the idea of feigning radio trouble but dismissed it as lunacy. “Negative, control. I am with the 513th Fighter Regiment at Alma-Ata. I did not want to admit I was so far off course!”
There was a period of silence. “Identify yourself, pilot.”
Shit! What was my name supposed to be? Where the hell did I write that down? Oh God…what was it? “Control, this is…Vadim Gurevich.” He winced. He’d made up a first name and used the latter half of the Mikoyan-Gurevich design bureau. Oh well. Maybe the guy has a son.
More silence. Hardin held the MiG on course 012 and increased his speed to 550 while he scanned the featureless countryside. Where the hell was he? “Try again, comrade Gurevich. The 513th isn’t at Alma-Ata, it’s at Sakharovka.”
Why hadn’t he studied? Damn it, why hadn’t he prepared? Why hadn’t he gotten the Company to send him to Washington so he could look up the old World War Two orders of battle?
He examined his map, studying the tick marks he’d penciled in, then scanned the terrain below. He appeared to be following the eastern edge of a large desert that filled the western horizon. That might be the Kyzylkum desert. And the last city might have been Nawoiy. Maybe. It might have been Bukhoro, too, and I’m south of where I think I am. Damn! Off to his right, several miles distant, he could see a finger of water that he thought was the AydarKuliLake. If so, the Syr Darya fed right into it and he was about 75 miles from the Kazakhstan border. He bent his head to study the map again. But if that city was Nawoiy then that water could also be the Shardara Bogeni and I’m east of where I should be, and I don’t have time to run the numbers. Shit! Where’s the damn river? The weather was closing in ahead, and soon he would have to lose altitude to get below it. But if he was on course and anywhere like where he thought he was, in twenty minutes he judged that he would pass over the Syr Darya and be able to follow it north to Kyzylorda.
He ignored the repeated commands from the Tashkent tower. There was no sense trying to string them along anymore. He was more concerned with the chase planes. If they had no radar and the tower was vectoring them in he had a better chance of losing them, and distances out here were significant so it would take them a while to make the intercept. But if they were flying the more advanced version of the MiG-17, the one with the radar inside the shock cone, then his chances weren’t so good. The light for the rear tank hadn’t come on yet but the MiG felt significantly lighter and he didn’t think it would be too much longer before that tank ran dry, putting him in a critical fuel situation. He considered dropping low to get under the Tashkent radar but decided against it. He needed every bit of fuel, and losing too much altitude would burn it too fast. He would take his chances.
After thirty minutes he spotted the chase flight. There were three of them, heading for him at ten miles on an intercept course, at his altitude. They looked like MiG-17s. As they closed he heard the guard channel crackling. “Looks like one of ours, control.”
“He’s not talking. Take up flanking positions and escort him back.”
The MiG-17s drew nearer and he craned his neck to study them. He noticed with dismay that they appeared to have shock cones in the inlets. These had the new S-band Scan Fix radar; he didn’t know much about its capabilities but figured they were painting him. Each fighter had a pair of missiles slung under the wings, long, sleek looking devices with narrow noses and two sets of fins, a larger set back at the booster section and a smaller set at the base of the nose cone. He didn’t think they were rockets. More likely they were the new AA-1 Alkali he’d read some intelligence reports on. These had an advanced guidance system called a beam-rider, in which the missile followed the attacking aircraft’s radar beam into the target. Those aren’t supposed to be deployed yet! Better remember that for the debrief. He keyed the transmitter. “Control, this is zero-five. I must return to my base!”
The fighters banked, taking up flanking positions a few hundred yards off each wing, two off his left, the other off the right. At this range he could see the pilots examining him and gave them a friendly wave.
“It’s one of ours, control.”
“If he doesn’t change course you are to engage your weapons on him.”
He keyed the transmitter again. “No, control! Do not bring weapons to bear on me! I am trying to get back to my base!” He really didn’t think hysteria would work, but it might buy him some time.
&
nbsp; “Chase flight, do not deviate from instructions. You are to arm weapons now.”
“Affirmative, control. I am arming weapons.” The voice sounded uncertain but compliant.
Hardin swore. The thought occurred to him that he might talk the pilots, rather than the control tower, out of a combat action, but he didn’t think so. Russian pilots were not known for independent thought and for him to contradict the tower’s instructions over guard would have been a dead giveaway. He spent an abortive second or two considering his assets. The only weapons he had were the MiG-17’s guns, but he preferred guns to missiles. He didn’t buy the theory currently gaining acceptance by designers that missiles made guns obsolete. And he couldn’t dogfight with the drag the wing tanks were producing, either. Ruefully he punched them off, watching as the modified tanks dropped clear of the wings. The three fighters began to fall back, taking up a stacked formation, one going high, another going low, the third remaining co-altitude.
“Control, he’s released his tanks! He’s going aggressive!”
“Fire your weapons! You are to bring him down!”
“Consider what you are doing, tower!” he shouted, ensuring his voice exhibited a healthy amount of fear and apprehension. “You are going to fire on one of your own jets! You are making a grave mistake! Do not do this!” They wouldn’t buy it, but it might make the controller’s report look a bit more controversial.
Hardin pushed the throttle forward and yanked the stick back, climbing into position for a high yo-yo. He had given thought to using standard Soviet air-to-air tactics, but those typically took the form of numerous idiotic variations of lead-pursuit and resulted in lost jets. Russian pilots, in his opinion, were not the best when it came to intercept geometry. He had decided to fly the American tactics he was most comfortable with and hope nobody figured it out in whatever debrief ensued. A missile hissed underneath him, a smoky contrail following as the lethal cylinder curved away to his right. One of ‘em took a no-lock shot, probably the co-altitude bandit. What an amateur! Adrenalin surged through his veins as he pushed the stick over and dived, rolling hard to the right and losing altitude. The high yo-yo traded airspeed for altitude and if executed successfully, would result in Hardin dropping onto the six o’clock position of one of his attackers. The MiGs split and he saw one going high, trying to parallel his turn, another going low on the same heading. He could not see the third, which was his greatest concern. Standard hi-lo split. He rolled wings-level and saw the third jet climbing away from him. The Russian MiG-15 pilots in Korea never dove to get clear, they always climbed! That was because the 15 had such screwy dive characteristics. At least they haven’t updated their tactics manual since Korea! His jet had the right energy state for a nice tight turn and he dragged the nose around, coming high-aspect onto the tail of the third MiG. He squeezed the trigger and raked the MiG’s tail, whooping as the vertical stab disintegrated and the plane spun out of control. “Welcome to clobber college, you bastards!”
He craned his head around and saw a MiG lining up on his six, the other coming out of its turn above him. Not good!
“Control, one-three-seven has been hit. I repeat, one-three-seven has been hit.”
“Who hit him?”
“I see him! He’s going down. One-four, do you see him?”
“You have fired on me!” Hardin shouted, keying his transmitter and feigning panic. “Why have you done this? I have not fired my weapons! Break off your attack!” He grinned. It was the most atrocious lie, but it should serve to confuse things for the tower. Combat debriefs were hardly cut and dried affairs, especially when the action involved four identical-looking aircraft and there was at least one AA-1 Alkali missile unaccounted for. Let them start wondering who was shooting down whom!
“I have a shot, I have a shot. I am taking a shot.”
“Flight one-four, you are to ensure you are firing on the right aircraft! One-four, acknowledge!”
Hardin nearly whooped. He had the tower worried. It didn’t necessarily help him out of his current predicament but it made him feel better.
“I see a chute, one-three-seven got out. Zero-five is descending! Break off, I have position…”
The guard channel was crackling with activity as the chase pilots shouted to each other but he wasn’t paying attention. He threw the jet into a hard right-hand bank, feeling the G forces pile on, and a lethal looking missile sizzled past. That one had been close enough to give him a haircut. Pulling back on the throttle to bleed airspeed and give him a tighter turn he banked left and went into a descent, executing a low yo-yo designed to slide him inside his opponent’s turn radius. The MiGs split, one banking off to the right and climbing, the other continuing on its flight path as it tried a standard lead pursuit, trying to turn inside Hardin’s jet. Amateurs! You never lose your wingman! The low yo-yo gave his jet a tighter turn and the MiG slid past, above him on his right. He pushed the throttle forward, bringing the nose up and squeezing the trigger. Bullets caught the tip of the chase jet’s wing, enough to throw some metal into the air but not enough to do much damage. The MiG lit its afterburner and went into a hard climb, but Hardin had energy state on his opponent and dragged his nose around, squeezing off another burst. The MiG’s engine exploded as the turbine came violently apart and he broke left to escape the debris. There’s one for the Party! You should have pushed over into a dive, Ivan. I’m bleeding energy from the turn and you could have lost me.
But he had lost sight on the remaining MiG, and he went into a steep climb while he scanned the sky for his last attacker. Lose sight, lose fight! Too late he spotted the MiG ramping down from higher altitude, high-aspect on his tail. Crap! He’s bouncing me! The bounce was a well-known MiG tactic from Korea in which a formation of MiGs would purposely overshoot the target, allowing a second flight to ramp down onto the target’s six. The solution to a bounce was a fluid four formation or a loose deuce, in which each lead jet was covered by a wingman. This honcho’s got combat time. He yanked the throttle back and broke left into the MiG’s turn, but without a wingman to get the bandit’s attention he could not get clear in time. He felt a violent thump and knew the last fighter had gotten a burst off and a slug had hit. Slamming the throttle into afterburner he pulled the nose around to 012 and the clouds closed around him.
Kyzylorda, Kazakhstan
Katia wondered what today would bring.
She slept fitfully on the couch and woke before dawn, leaving the apartment to get Ilia’s truck before light came and the city roused. After the warmth of the apartment the cold air was a bitter shock, and she saw to her dismay that the storm had dropped at least six inches of snow. Nor did it show any signs of abating. The city around her was quiet and the condemned buildings that loomed overhead seemed oppressive, the rows of dark windows staring down at her in disapproval. She held her shawl tightly around her head as she trudged back towards the truck, listening to the wind sigh through the buildings and down the alleys.
Katia was lonely. The feeling was bleak and burdensome, lending a dull gray cast to her spirit. She was not used to this feeling. She had never felt lonely before, for although her work was usually performed alone her handler was always there. The knowledge of an ally, somewhere, was always with her and she had not realized before how much strength she drew from that feeling. But now her handler was gone and she was very much on her own. Even after her husband, Kingfish, had died she had not felt alone. But she had not cared much about Kingfish, their relationship had been a professional one only. He had pushed her for sex, but she had not given in. At least he’d had the decency not to rape her. She had not drawn her strength from him. Her strength came from her spirit and her convictions, but also from the knowledge of her handler’s presence. A safety net? Perhaps. Abruptly she wanted to be gone from Kyzylorda, from Tyuratam, from the whole mess.
But her handler had been right, there was some pride affecting her as well. She was unwilling to drop everything and flee, for to do so would have bee
n abject admittance that she was not up to this task. Operations did fail, and if this had still been Kingfish’s operation that would have been one thing. She could have accepted that more easily. But it wasn’t his operation, it was hers and had been since his death. The operation was hers to carry through or to end—her handler had said as much. This operation was the most important and complicated mission she had ever drawn. This was not simply smuggling documents out of an office building. This operation involved some of the most important and highly classified research material in the Soviet Union, and that she had been selected to accompany Kingfish to Kazakhstan spoke well to her abilities. Perhaps her handler had been right. Perhaps pride factored in, somewhere, to her drive to see the operation through. But she was unused to such introspection.
She found the truck where she had left it, covered in a soft blanket of snow. She swept the windshield clear and brushed snow from the side windows, entering the cab and closing the door quietly. The ZiS groaned and complained but eventually started and she eased it forward down the alley, leaving deep tracks in the snow. The wind had left drifts in the back ways, mounds of snow piled up against the sides of the buildings, so she decided to take to the main street. It was early enough that nobody should take too much notice of an old truck creeping through the streets and she did not want to get stuck in a snowdrift in some alley.
She drove slowly south, into the decaying industrial section of the city. Old manufacturing plants, long abandoned, loomed on either side of the narrow street and brick smokestacks towered overhead, serving as mute witnesses of the bustling city Kyzylorda had been. How typical of the Soviet Union…such wasted potential. The silence of the decrepit plants was eerie and she wondered what ghosts lurked behind the dark, broken windows staring down onto the street. Soon she left the city outskirts behind and reached a junction of two roads that meandered off into the dark reaches of the countryside. For a moment she stopped, considering while the engine sputtered and complained, then chose the eastern road. The incessant wind had blown the road clear of snow but occasional drifts appeared, forcing her to steer around them. The sky was lightening, and she could see the railroad embankment paralleling the road to her right.
A Cold Flight To Nowhereville Page 18
