by Dale Brown
“Rog. Kazoo, bogey dope.”
“Your bandit is at your two o’clock, twenty-two miles, low,” the air-intercept officer reported. “Your tail is clear. Negative radar on any other bogeys.”
The rest of the intercept was a piece of cake. Another lock-on, and this time he couldn’t miss. The bomber made a few more steep turns during the attack, but again nothing overly aggressive. Maybe a student crew?
Both sides went back to opposite sides of the range and tried the engagement again, this time with the second F/A-18 Hornet in the lead. The strange little bandit didn’t make another appearance, and the second Hornet claimed a kill just a few minutes later.
“Hey, Bobcat,” the lead Hornet pilot radioed after the exercise concluded, “how about a photo op?”
“Sure,” the bomber pilot replied. “You’re cleared in to close formation.” The Hawkeye air intercept officer gave the pilots a vector, and the two Hornets joined up on their quarry. It was an Air Force B-1 bomber, long and sleek, with its wings almost completely swept back along its fuselage.
“We’re going to tuck in tight and get some close shots, Bobcat.”
“Stand by,” the pilot said. “We’ve got our little friend rejoining us. He’s directly below us.”
“Say again?” But moments later they could see what he was talking about: A tiny aircraft, resembling a fat surfboard, suddenly appeared out of nowhere. It rose until it was directly underneath the bomber. The bomber’s bomb-bay doors opened, and a long basket thing appeared. The little aircraft scooted up inside the basket, which closed around it, and moments later it was gone—snatched up into the bomb bay. “That was very cool!” the lead Hornet pilot exclaimed. “Was that the thing that tagged my wingman?”
“Affirmative.”
“Shit, I was shot down by a robot,” the wingman said disgustedly. “That’s gonna cost me big time at the bar.”
“Stop by the Owl Club in Battle Mountain Friday nights at nine, and the first round’s on the Bobcats,” the pilot said. “Okay, Devils, you’re cleared in.”
“Devil flight moving in.”
As surprised as the Marine Corps pilots were about seeing a drone being recovered by a B-1 bomber, that was nothing compared to their next discovery. The Hornets moved in close enough to get a picture of the bomber’s pilots looking back at them . . .
Until they realized there were no pilots visible in the bomber’s cockpit! “Uhhh . . . Bobcat, can you guys maybe move forward a little?”
“Move forward?”
“Yeah . . . so we can see your faces out the windscreen?”
“Sorry, Devils, but you’re not going to see any faces through our windscreen,” the voice responded, “because there is no one inside the cockpit.”
“You’re shitting me!” the Hornet pilot exclaimed. He inched closer. It was no lie—there was no one sitting in either pilot’s seat. “Where’s the damned crew?”
“Back at Battle Mountain,” the voice replied. “You’ve been playing with two unmanned jets the whole time.”
“You’re flying a B-1 bomber—from the ground?”
“Yep. And I was just about to turn it over to my mission commander, go outside, and take a piss,” the voice said. “Have a nice day.”
What else they didn’t know was, had this been an actual engagement, neither of the Marine Corps F/A-18 Hornets would ever have gotten a shot off at the B-1 bomber, because, orbiting in an adjacent range over 150 miles away, an AL-52 Dragon airborne-laser aircraft had been “shooting” at both F/A-18 Hornets during their simulated missile attacks.
Captain William “Wonka” Weathers, the wing munitions chief, sat in the jump seat between the aircraft commander and mission commander in the cockpit of the AL-52, watching in utter fascination. The mission commander, Major Frankie “Zipper” Tarantino, had locked up each Hornet at least a dozen times with the Dragon’s adaptive-optics telescope that magnified the visual image in incredible detail. Tarantino was able to precisely place the crosshairs on any part of the Hornet, no matter how hard it maneuvered.
“What do you think, Wonka?” asked Colonel Nancy Cheshire, the Fifty-second Squadron’s commander and the aircraft commander on today’s mission.
“It’s unbelievable,” Weathers said. “Simply unbelievable. And how many times can you fire the laser?”
“About two hundred times,” Tarantino said proudly, “depending on the targets we attack. Shooting through the atmosphere or hitting hard targets like tanks requires more power, which requires more fuel, which decreases the number of shots we can take. Check this out.” He punched in commands, and the image on his supercockpit display changed. Now he was locked on to a pickup truck speeding across the desert. “I found this guy a few minutes ago, off-roading in the restricted Fallon bombing range. With a press of a button, I can update his position to the Navy military police who are out after him.” He indicated another software button on his supercockpit display. “And if I pressed that, he’d be a smoking hole in the desert, even at this range. We can even punch a hole in a tank, but we’d have to be pretty close—maybe thirty or forty miles.”
“Amazing. Do you still have the ground team locked up?”
“You bet.” He hit another button, and the image shifted to a section of desert terrain, where two individuals could barely be seen on opposite ends of the display. Tarantino zoomed in to the one on the left and magnified the image. It was a commando in a Tin Man battle suit, carrying an electromagnetic rail gun. Seconds later the commando jet-jumped several dozen yards across a gully. Tarantino hit his radio button: “Fist Two, wave hello.” The commando raised his right hand, and Tarantino was able to zoom in close enough to see his upraised middle finger. “Be nice, now—we’ve got brass on board.”
“My God! We can see the guy giving us the finger from . . . what’s the range?”
Tarantino checked his readouts. “One hundred forty-three point one-nine-three miles,” he replied.
“And the laser . . . ?”
“I don’t think the laser has enough power to hurt a guy in BERP battle armor at this range,” Nancy said, “but I think we’d make him very uncomfortable very quickly.”
At that moment they heard on the command frequency, “Bobcat Two-one, Control.”
Nancy keyed the mike button: “Bobcat Two-one, go.”
“Set condition Gold.”
“Roger that,” Cheshire replied. She switched radio frequencies. “All Bobcat and Fist units, set condition Gold. Acknowledge.”
Weathers could see the Tin Man commando stop, look to the east, and jet-jump back in the direction of a waiting MV-32 Pave Dasher tilt-jet aircraft. One by one all the other players acknowledged the call and began heading toward designated recovery zones. Weathers could hardly sit still as Nancy Cheshire banked the AL-52 Dragon airborne-laser hard toward Battle Mountain, and Frankie Tarantino cleared out of the range and got air-traffic-control clearance back to Battle Mountain.
As simply as that, the Air Battle Force made ready to go to war.
OVER THE EASTERN AZERBAIJANI REPUBLIC
That night
“Baku Control, SAM One-eight-zero, level at flight level three-niner-zero.”
“Roger, SAM One-eight-zero,” replied the ex-Soviet air-traffic-control center at Baku in the Azerbaijani Republic, which handled all flights going in and out of the former Soviet republics of Central Asia. It had been many, many years since he’d handled an American “SAM,” or Special Air Mission—American diplomats did not come to this part of the world very often, especially since the new American president, Thomas Thorn, had entered office. “Be advised, sir, International Notice to Airmen Zulu-Three has been published regarding the airspace you are flight-planned to enter. Are you in receipt of this NOTAM?”
“Affirmative,” responded the pilot of the American C-32A Special Air Mission aircraft. “We are an American diplomatic mission on official government business, and we have received permission from the Turkmen government to enter
their airspace. Over.”
“SAM One-eight-zero, I confirm you are in receipt of NOTAM Zulu-Three,” the controller said. “Be advised, the NOTAM is nonspecific, sir. Even though your diplomatic credentials are verified, you are still in great danger if you proceed into the prohibited area as outlined in the NOTAM because of the state of the conflict in central Turkmenistan. I strongly advise you to reverse course.”
“Thank you for the warning, Baku, but we will proceed on our flight-planned route,” the pilot said.
“We cannot be held responsible for continued flight into the prohibited airspace, sir,” the Baku controller warned. “I will continue to provide radar service, but I am not in contact with any of the Russian aircraft, and I cannot ensure safe separation from them. I have also observed considerable meaconing, interference, jamming, and intrusion on my radar displays and on all my air-traffic landline and wireless communications channels. I cannot be held responsible if communications are lost, for any reason. Again, I strongly advise you to turn back. Do you understand, sir?”
“I understand, Baku,” the pilot responded. “Are you in contact with the Russian controllers or agencies who filed NOTAM Zulu-Three?”
“Negative, SAM One-eight-zero,” the controller replied. “We are monitoring them on GUARD emergency frequency, but they have not responded to any of our calls.”
“Roger, SAM One-eight-zero.” The pilot turned to his first officer and asked, “So our closest emergency-divert base . . . ?”
“Baku, Azerbaijani Republic, almost directly under us,” the first officer replied, punching up the Global Positioning System navigation information. “I’ll give them a call right now.” The first officer used the secondary radio to give the approach controllers at Baku notice that they were in the area. “We’re checked in, but we do not have clearance to land. That will only be issued if we need it.”
It was indeed a strange situation: International NOTAM Zulu-Three, issued by the Russian Federation, was one of the most strongly worded messages in years, warning all aircraft away from Turkmenistan’s airspace and further saying that any aircraft flying within five hundred kilometers of the capital of Turkmenistan, Ashkhabad, would be fired upon without warning. But at the same time Turkmenistan was still allowing flights to cross into its airspace; the government of Turkmenistan was not restricting transit for any civil air carriers, even in and out of Mary, the scene of the heaviest fighting so far. Ashkhabad International Airport was still open, as were the civil airfields at Krasnovodsk, Nebit-Dag, and Chärjew.
The Turkmen government was doing all it could to make everything look like “business as usual,” even though it definitely appeared as if the wheels were slowly but surely coming off this train. Despite all the reassurances, the Special Air Mission flight, carrying the former president of the United States and a U.S. State Department official, stayed as far away as possible from Turkmen airspace. It had enough range to fly all the way north to Moscow before turning south if necessary, but it settled for getting clearance through Turkish, Azerbaijani, and Kazakh airspace before heading directly for the Turkmen coast on the Caspian Sea.
The flight made a routine handoff from Turkish controllers at Erzurum to English-speaking Russian-sector controllers at Baku, which passed the flight off routinely as it made its way across the Caucasus Mountains and out over the Caspian Sea. The lights of thousands of oil wells and fishing boats on the Caspian made it look like a metropolis down below, contrasting sharply with the almost lightless landscape beyond as they approached the seemingly endless desert steppes of Central Asia. In just a few minutes they would be handed off to air-traffic controllers from their destination, Ashkhabad; in less than half an hour, they would begin the descent for landing.
“SAM One-eight-zero, contact Ashkhabad Control.” The Baku controller read off a frequency—not the usual one in use by this sector, but reassigning and combining sectors and controllers was not unusual, especially at night, when fewer flights traveled in remote areas.
“Roger, SAM One-eight-zero, good night.” The first officer switched frequencies, then radioed, “Ashkhabad Control, SAM One-eight-zero, with you at flight level three-nine-zero, six-zero kilometers east of Baku.”
The reply was interrupted by frequent squeals and static—again not unusual for this area of the world and its antiquated radio systems. “Calling Ashkhabad Control, please repeat,” the controller responded in broken but understandable English. Although English was the universal aviation language, it was not always well understood in some of the more remote areas of the planet, especially in the former Soviet republics of Central Asia. The SAM pilot repeated his report slowly, carefully. “Thank you, SAM One-eight-zero, at three-niner-zero,” the controller responded through the static. “You are in receipt of NOTAM Zulu-Three, sir?”
“Yes we are,” the pilot responded. “We accept responsibility in case there’s a loss of communications for any reason.”
“Very well, sir.” They proceeded in silence for several minutes. Roughly halfway across the Caspian Sea, the C-32A crew heard a controller—it was hard to tell if it was the same one or not—say, “SAM One-eight-zero, turn right thirty degrees, fly direct Krasnovodsk, direct Ashkhabad. Expect descent in one-zero minutes.”
“Direct Krasnovodsk, direct Ashkhabad, SAM One-eight-zero.” The first officer called up the intersection on his flight-management system, and the big airliner banked right in response. Their original flight plan had them well north of the usual routing through this airspace. This vector and rerouting, the first officer saw, would place them squarely over Krasnovodsk, the Russian port city on the Caspian Sea, and on a direct route to the capital, bypassing all the usual checkpoints and approach corridors.
Something was happening. They didn’t know what, but things were starting to look a little haywire.
The new frequency was fairly quiet, just a few other planes on it, a Kazakhstan Airlines flight and a Gulf Air charter. The first officer could not hear any responses from the other flights, indicating that the controller was indeed talking and receiving on several different frequencies at one time.
Things seemed to be progressing smoothly. The captain called for the before-descent checklist and got up to step twelve when suddenly, through a rasp of static and loud, irritating pops, they heard, “SAM One-eight-zero, this is Ashkhabad Control on GUARD,” in both English and Russian. “GUARD” was the international emergency frequency, which all aircraft were required to monitor at all times. “If you hear me, contact Ashkhabad Control on one-three-seven point six or UHF frequency two-three-four point niner-two. Acknowledge with an ident if you hear me. Over.”
The first officer punched the ident button on his transponder—which would encircle their radar-data block with a bright, flashing identification box—then keyed his microphone: “Ashkhabad Control, SAM One-eight-zero, how do you read?”
“Loud and clear, sir, how about me?”
“Loud and clear as well. We just received a message on GUARD frequency to contact you on a different frequency. Did you give us a frequency change?”
“Negative. Remain this frequency, please.”
“SAM One-eight-zero, wilco.”
But the message on GUARD repeated, this time much more urgently and with a terrifying warning: “SAM One-eight-zero, warning, unidentified high-speed aircraft are approaching you at your seven o’clock, forty miles. Turn right sixty degrees immediately, vectors out over the Caspian to avoid the NOTAM Zulu-Three airspace. Please acknowledge on GUARD. Over.”
“Ashkhabad Control, do you copy that radio transmission on GUARD channel?”
“Affirmative, SAM One-eight-zero. We are investigating. Remain on your present heading, direct Krasnovodsk, direct Ashkhabad. Disregard the instructions being broadcast on GUARD. If two-way communications are lost or disrupted, you are cleared to Ashkhabad International. After Krasnovodsk, descend and maintain flight level two-five-zero, then FMS VNAV profile at or above nine thousand feet at Syrdarja, c
leared for the ILS runway two-seven approach. We will clear the airspace for you if communications are lost. Do you copy?” The first officer repeated the instructions.
The warnings on GUARD were getting more strident by the second. “Do you want me to shut that off?” the first officer asked the captain, placing his fingers on the guard switch.
The captain was about to say yes, but instead flipped his mike button to GUARD. “This is SAM One-eight-zero,” the captain said. “Who the hell is this?”
“Thank God!” came the reply in excellent English. But the snapping and hissing on the frequency were growing louder—and it all sounded ominous, as if the frequency was being jammed or disrupted. “This is Colonel Okiljon Mirsafoyev. I am the facility chief of Ashkhabad Control. You may contact me on the listed frequencies in the International Flight Information Publications or via datalink to your embassy, but I must issue this warning to you in the clear. I don’t know who’s doing it, or how, or why, but you were handed off to an unlisted and completely incorrect frequency by an unknown person. I was notified by Baku Control minutes ago. I repeat, the controller you are speaking to is not Ashkhabad Control.
“Be advised, there are Russian radar planes and air-defense fighters in your vicinity. You need to turn right immediately and get away from the Turkmen frontier. . . . SAM One-eight-zero, one unidentified pop-up aircraft heading fast in your direction. Shut off all your exterior lights. Get out of there now.”
The first officer’s face looked as white as a ghost’s. “What do we do?” he cried.
“We turn,” the captain said, flipping on the switch for the seat belt warning sign. “Shut off all the damn lights—cabin lights, too. Notify President Martindale and Deputy Secretary Hershel that we might be under attack.” As if that’s going to do any good, he thought grimly.
He banked hard right and started a descent. Seconds later the intercom beeped—he knew that his steep turn and sudden descent were going to unseat and maybe even hurt a lot of the VIPs, and they would be screaming to the flight attendants to find out what had happened—and, no doubt, to demand his head on a platter.
