A MIG-29 FULCRUM OVER THE KAZAKHSTAN STEPPES
Oh, joy! This was flying!
Lt. Fyodor Tupelov put his MiG-29 into a double snap roll and howled in absolute delight.
The young aviator had been a top graduate from the Frunze military academy, as well as the number-one graduate in his flite school class. His proficiency, his Party activism, and the fact that his father was a high-level Party apparatchik had enabled Tupelov to land a plum assignment—flying the highly sophisticated MiG-29 Fulcrum fighter with the 77th Interceptor Regiment at Tbilisi. It was a rare honor for such a young man, and he was one of only two lieutenant pilots in the entire regiment. Such expensive and sophisticated aircraft were usually entrusted to older, more experienced aviators.
And what an aircraft this Fulcrum was! The athletic, blond Tupelov often boasted that with a Fulcrum he’d gladly go to the newly reoccupied Afghanistan for a chance to tangle with one of those vaunted Pakistani F-16s. Yet because he was a young officer, Tupelov rarely got the opportunity to push his sophisticated MiG-29 to the edge of its performance “envelope.” The Fulcrum was an expensive plane, and despite his flite school credentials, Tupelov was young. Therefore, tight controls were consistently imposed on his flying. Always, from the moment he took off until he landed, his every movement was monitored by senior commanders and ground controllers. On any given training mission, Tupelov was told when to take off, when to join the formation, when to peel off from the formation, what training maneuver to execute, when to execute it, when to stop, and when to rejoin the formation. Everything was done within strict parameters. He never had a chance to truly let loose and bore holes in the sky—no opportunity to become one with the aircraft.
Until now.
Tupelov had just picked up a brand-spanking-new Fulcrum from the air-maintenance depot at Tselinograd and was en route to join his regiment at Tbilisi near the Black Sea. His new Fulcrum had been outfitted with its complement of AA-10 and Aphid missiles, along with external tanks to carry the aircraft through the 3,000-kilometer journey. Tupelov was alone with his aircraft, flying over the Kazakhstan steppes, which were covered with a patchwork quilt of giant cumulonimbus clouds. The young pilot was having the time of his life, snaking through the canyons created by the giant white thunderheads—rolling, climbing, and playing tag with the airborne pillows to his heart’s content. He’d always dreamed flying could be like this, and now his dreams were fulfilled.
But Tupelov wasn’t one to let his headiness carry him too far. In zipping over and around the clouds, the last thing he needed was a midair collision. He checked his map and saw that he was crossing into another air traffic control division—Sector 23-R. He set his radio for the proper frequency and keyed his mike. “Air control division, two-three-Romeo, this is MiG seven-seven-echo, do you read? Over.”
“Roger, seven-seven-echo,” came a detached voice over the radio, “we read you, over.”
Tupelov said, “I am flying on air defense flite plan number niner-seven-whiskey-foxtrot, from Tselinograd to Tbilisi, on vector two-three-two at eight thousand meters altitude. I am on visual flite rules. Is there any traffic in my area? Over.”
“Stand by,” came the robotic voice. A few seconds elapsed, then, “Negative, seven-seven-echo. You have no traffic in your sector except for an Aeroflot jetliner. It is seventy kilometers east of you at eleven thousand meters altitude en route to New Delhi on vector one-five-seven.”
Seventy kilometers east, and Tupelov was traveling west. The path ahead of him was clear as could be. “Roger, air control two-three-Romeo. Thank you. MiG seven-seven-echo, out.”
But the ground controller wasn’t finished yet. “We have noticed your course has been somewhat erratic, MiG seven-seven-echo. Are you having any difficulty with your aircraft?” The question was asked in a quasi-threatening tone, and this caused Tupelov to be wary. Ground controllers were always snoopy—and arrogant. They acted as if they owned the airspace. Tupelov wanted to give a response that was plausible, yet not offensive. Something that would not stir up any trouble, but allow him to keep having a good time. He keyed his mike and tried to sound authoritative. “There is no problem, air control. I am checking out the performance on a new aircraft.” Which was true. “Request clearance for discretionary climb and descent between seven thousand and twelve thousand meters on my present vector.”
“Very well, seven-seven-echo. Proceed at your discretion, but you are advised not to deviate from your flite plan.”
That meant no loops or backtracking, but as long as he kept heading for Tbilisi, he could play as much as he wanted to—until he came within range of his regimental radar control centre. Then he would have to play it by the book. “Thank you, air control two-three-Romeo. MiG seven-seven-echo will comply with your instructions. Out.” The young pilot smiled. Evidently he’d sounded authoritative enough. Now he could have some more fun.
Tupelov was cruising along the top of a puffy field of clouds at eight thousand meters altitude, but ahead of him the clouds billowed up into two Goliath thunderheads, extending to fifteen thousand meters in height and creating a giant canyon between them. Tupelov hooted, then shoved his throttles in and climbed up the middle of the canyon. At eleven thousand meters he leveled off and wove back and forth between the canyon walls—brushing up against one fluffy side, then the other. Ahhhhhh! Complete delight! He was deep into the canyon gorge now, and he brought his aircraft midway between the white towers to put the Fulcrum into a slow, lazy barrel roll. Tupelov was halfway through his aerobatic maneuver—poised in the heads-down inverted position—when two giant black batwings roared out of the cloud bank, sandwiched his Fulcrum between them, and then plunged into the far canyon wall—vanishing as quickly as they had appeared.
DAY 5, 1305 HOURS ZULU, 5:05 P.M. LOCAL
THE STEALTH BOMBERS
Had Ghost Leader not been held firm by his shoulder harness, he would have leapt out of his seat as he screamed, “Shit!”—and yelped at his companion, “Did you see that!?”
Whizzo’s bug eyes were transfixed on the nose-camera video screen. “Yeah!” he replied in a quaking voice. “And I think I saw some missiles under the wing!”
Ghost Leader uttered another high-pitched “Shit!” Then he gulped and asked, “Is the laser channel open?”
Whizzo nervously fiddled with his hand controller before saying, “Open, Skipper.”
The pilot keyed his mike. “Ghost Two, this is Lead. Did you see that?”
“See it?” came the excited reply. “I nearly took his fucking tail section off!”
Lead’s stomach started knotting up. “Oh, great, just what we need. Did you catch what it was?”
“I dunno,” said Ghost Two anxiously. “It was too fast. A Fulcrum? Maybe a Flanker? Can’t say. Whatever it was, it had a double tail—I can tell you that for sure. It didn’t clear my windshield by more than ten feet. You think they got us spotted?”
“I don’t know. Hold on.” Leader was sweating as he turned to the major and asked, “You picking up anything?”
The Whizzo scanned his instruments. “Nothing, Skipper. Threat board shows only normal search radars working. Nothing in the X-ray or India bands.”
“My Whizzo says we’re not picking up any SAM search, air-to-air search, or lock-on,” said Leader to Ghost Two. “Only normal navigational search.”
“My Whizzo says the same thing,” replied Two. “But how did they know where to look for us?”
“Damned if I know,” said Leader through his teeth. “Listen, we better split up and take evasive action. If Omaha transmits the go signal, you take the alternate southern approach to the target and I’ll come in from the north. Stay in the clouds as much as you can. They may be looking for us, but I bet we’re still blind on their radar.”
“Roger, Lead. We’ll see you back in Muskrat”—slang for Muscat. “If we get the go, put your load where it counts.”
“You got it, Ghost Two. Good luck. Lead out.” After cutting the
transmission, Leader said through the intercom, “All right, Whizzo, I don’t know how they found us, but it looks like we’ve been spotted. Even so, we’re sticking with the game plan. I think we’ll be okay as long as we stay in the clouds. If we get the go, Ghost Two will approach from the south and we’ll come in from the north. Keep an eye on that threat board.”
“Roger, Skipper.”
Leader pushed his control stick forward and turned the wheel. The batwing responded and began a lumbering, diving turn to the northeast.
DAY 5, 1306 HOURS ZULU, 5:06 P.M. LOCAL
THE FULCRUM
Fyodor Tupelov tried to hold the Fulcrum steady in level flight, but he was shaking so violently from fright that it was difficult. And when his shaking turned into sobs, it became almost impossible. God in heaven! What had he seen? Those big, black, sinister creatures had come out of nowhere and almost swallowed his Fulcrum. They did not look of this world. Tupelov clutched the control stick with two hands. He’d never known such panic. He forced himself to take long, even breaths. Good. That helped . . . deeper breaths now. Better. He kept the oxygen going in and out, and slowly the terror subsided. Tupelov was regaining control of himself and his aircraft. As the clouds whipped by his cockpit, he told himself to go back to flite school basics. Identify the problem, then correct it.
First, what were they? They were unlike anything Tupelov had ever seen. The concept of a UFO was foreign to him, so it didn’t even enter his mind. He knew that however bizarre, those flying black batwings were of this earth. And if they were in Russian airspace, that meant the ground air traffic controllers had to know about them; for in the Soviet Union, no one ever left the ground without filing a laborious flite plan. And if that was the case, the air controller in Sector 23-Romeo had been grossly negligent, incredibly stupid, or had deliberately lied to him. When this thought took hold in Tupelov’s mind, his fear was quickly supplanted by anger—a deep, searing, blinding fury—and he keyed his mike. “Air control division, Sector two-three-Romeo, this is MiG seven-seven-echo. Do you read? Over.”
There was a pause until a bored voice came on the air. “Roger, seven-seven-echo, we read you, over.”
Tupelov recognized the voice as the one that had given him his original clearance. “Air control, on our last transmission I thought you said there was no air traffic in my area!”
There were some moments of silence before the controller came back: “Affirmative, seven-seven-echo. I have you on my screen at one-one-zero-seven-eight meters altitude, bearing two-two-niner degrees. There is no traffic in your area except for the Aeroflot flite you were advised of earlier.”
Tupelov’s face turned scarlet. “You listen to me, you stupid ass! I just avoided a midair collision by no more than three meters with two unidentified aircraft! Why did you not advise me of them?”
The controller responded in a puzzled voice, “You say you almost had a midair collision?”
“Yes, you ass! How many times do I have to repeat myself? Your negligence could have gotten me killed!”
There was a pause before the controller said, “You are mistaken, seven-seven-echo. I see nothing on my screen in your area but your aircraft.”
“Mistaken! I could have touched those bogies if I had wanted to! Are you asleep down there? Or just stupid? Or both?”
There was another pause, longer this time, and a different voice came on the radio. “MiG seven-seven-echo, this is the commander of Sector two-three-Romeo air traffic division. You claim you had a near miss?”
The fact that the ground control commander was on the radio stole some of Tupelov’s thunder, but nevertheless, he pressed his case. “Yes, Commander, that is correct.”
“Describe the aircraft to me,” ordered the commander.
“There were two aircraft,” said Tupelov precisely. “Delta shaped. Black in color. No markings that I could see. Very large. Bigger than a Backfire bomber. Perhaps as big as a Blackjack.”
A moment of silence. “Big as a Blackjack bomber?”
“Yes, Commander,” replied Tupelov.
It was a biting voice that came over the radio now. “You listen to me, MiG seven-seven-echo. If we can see your tiny aircraft on our screen, do you not think we would be able to see two huge Blackjack-sized airplanes?”
Tupelov was careful. “Yes, Commander, I would think so. Are you saying you are not tracking them?”
“That is exactly what I am saying, seven-seven-echo,” replied the commander. “We are tracking no aircraft of any kind near your location, except for the Aeroflot jetliner that is far from you. How do you explain that?”
Puzzled, Tupelov said, “I cannot explain it, Commander. I only know what I saw. The two aircraft were very large, and I almost collided with one.”
A grunt came over the air. “Would you be suffering from hypoxia, seven-seven-echo?”
Tupelov was startled at this suggestion. “Absolutely not, Commander. My oxygen is working fine.”
Another grunt. “Your flite plan shows you are assigned to the 77th Interceptor Regiment at Tbilisi. Is that correct?”
“That is correct, Commander.”
The ground control commander’s voice was hard now. “You are hereby ordered to continue on your flite plan. I am preparing a report about your hallucinations that will be on your commanding officer’s desk when you arrive. In the future, I suggest you stay away from the vodka before piloting one of the Motherland’s aircraft.”
“But Comrade Commander,” protested Tupelov, “I saw—”
“Our radar can see better than your vodka-filled, bloodshot eyes, MiG seven-seven-echo. In fact, I can see you now on my screen, but I do not see these two Blackjack-sized aircraft you claim to have nearly collided with. Now quit hallucinating, get off this channel, and report to your commanding officer in Tbilisi at once! Preferably sober. Sector two-three-Romeo, out.”
Now another kind of fear gripped Tupelov. If such a report made it to his commanding officer’s desk, his military career would be finished before it even began. Now he wished he’d kept his mouth shut. . . . But no. He’d seen those two—whatever they were—with his own eyes. That meant they were still out there somewhere. Why in the world couldn’t the damn fool controllers see them? Tupelov was a bright young man, and he made a quick decision, for he knew it was his only chance. In order to avoid being hauled up on the carpet, branded a drunkard, and busted out of the service, he had to find those mystery aircraft and report their location. He scanned his instruments, and rapidly computed time and distance back to where the near collision had taken place. His external fuel tanks were almost empty now, but the fighter’s organic tanks were full. To do what he was about to do was a violation of a ground control order. A court-martial offense. But what did he have to lose? Could jail be any worse than a humiliating dismissal from the Air Defense Force? Tupelov figured one fate was just as distasteful as the other. He gulped, jettisoned his external tanks, and whipped the Fulcrum around in a 180-degree turn to begin his hunt for the flying black batwings.
DAY 5, 1308 HOURS ZULU
THE INTREPID
Iceberg felt the vibrations of the Progress engine cease, causing him to experience relief like nothing before in his life. Whatever the Americans had sent up from Vandenberg, it was too little, too late, to stop the Intrepid now. In about fifty-five minutes he would be touching down on the Baikonur runway, and he was home free. He engaged the reaction control thrusters and rotated the spacecraft into the correct attitude for atmospheric reentry. The explosive bolts holding the Progress engine in place would fire shortly.
DAY 5, 1308 HOURS ZULU
THE KESTREL
“Monaghan!” Maj. Gen. Chester McCormack’s voice reverberated in Mad Dog’s earphones. “What kind of crazy stunt are you trying to pull now?”
“We missed the Intrepid, Eagle One,” said Mad Dog in a flat voice, “and now we’re going after it. Give me the coordinates for the Baikonur Cosmodrome.”
“You weren’t author
ized for—”
Monaghan’s voice turned mean. “Save it, Eagle! I don’t have time for your bureaucratic bullshit. You want to put me in jail after we get back home, then that’s just Jake by me. But if we’re going to catch that son of a bitch Iceberg, I need those coordinates—now!”
“Now you listen to me, Commander—”
“Beg pardon, sir,” cut in Lamborghini, “but Mad Dog is right. We’ve already gone through de-orbit burn, and there’s no way to reverse it. If we’re going to have a chance at catching the Intrepid we need the coordinates at once.”
There was a pause. “All right, hang on.” Another few moments passed before McCormack returned. “Okay. . . . the coordinates for the Baikonur Cosmodrome are forty-seven degrees forty-one minutes north, sixty-six degrees eleven minutes east.”
Monaghan rapidly punched the numbers into the NavComputer and engaged the digital autopilot. The two astronauts immediately felt a change in the Kestrel’s attitude and a quick eight-second burn of the OMS engine. Monaghan had executed a “seat of the pants” retro burn, and now the autopilot was correcting the spacecraft’s course alignment for its descent to Baikonur.
“So what’s your game plan?” asked Eagle One.
“We’ll try and reacquire Intrepid by radar,” replied Monaghan, “then see if we can close it up enough to fire the Sidewinders before we start heating up on reentry. If not, then we’ll try to pick him up after we exit the blackout.”
Another few moments passed, until McCormack asked in a resigned voice, “Do you go along with this, Pete?”
Lamborghini sighed. “Call me a late convert, but yes, sir. I think we have no choice but to try to nail the Intrepid. Whatever the risks.”
Now it was McCormack’s turn to sigh. “Since you’ll be coming down in Russia, make sure you find some way to destroy the Kestrel when you land. I would say the odds of our extracting you out of there are just about zero.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” replied Monaghan. “Now if you don’t mind, we’ve got some hunting to do. Okay, Hot Rod, fire up your radar.”
On Glorious Wings Page 39
