On Glorious Wings

by Stephen Coonts

  DAY 5, 1310 HOURS ZULU, 6:10 A.M. LOCAL

  CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN

  Whittenberg, Fairchild, Dowd, and Lydia Strand stood in open-mouthed shock as they monitored the transmission between McCormack and the Kestrel. It was inconceivable that Lamborghini and that loco Navy pilot were going straight into Soviet airspace to chase down the Intrepid. It was insane. But there wasn’t a blessed thing any of them could do about it.

  If Whittenberg had had thirty seconds’ warning that Monaghan was going to try something so stupid, he could have warned the lunatic off and told him about the stealth bombers. But it was too late now. And Whittenberg wasn’t going to put out word about the stealth bombers over the radio without good reason. Maybe the Russians could descramble their transmissions, too. It seemed there was nothing they couldn’t do these days—and now the Kestrel was flying into their midst. The CinC felt a load of depression sink into him. He figured Lamborghini was as good as dead.

  “Mad Dog,” muttered Strand softly.

  Whittenberg turned. “What was that, Major?”

  Strand shrugged. “I understand Commander Monaghan’s call sign is Mad Dog . . . I guess that says it all.”

  Whittenberg nodded. “I guess it does.” He was silent for a few moments before saying, “I shouldn’t have let Pete go.”

  DAY 5, 1311 HOURS ZULU, 5:11 P.M. LOCAL THE FULCRUM

  Fyodor Tupelov was back in the vicinity of his encounter with the flying black batwings. The ground radar station had detected his course reversal, and the controller was now issuing shrill orders and vile threats over the radio. But Tupelov had made his decision, and he turned off his radio receiver to keep the ground chatter from distracting him.

  Now then, what to do? He could chase off in the same direction he’d last seen the mystery aircraft, but that didn’t feel like the right move. He remembered a holiday trip he and his father had once taken into Siberia to hunt for caribou. They’d found some tracks of a small caribou herd in the snow, and the impetuous young Tupelov had started off after them. But their Yakut guide had quickly admonished the boy. “You do not want to be where they have been,” he explained. “You want to be where they are going.” The old trapper had taken Tupelov and his father off on a course that was at a right angle to the path of the animal tracks, and sure enough, they’d caught the caribou as they circled around on a feeding circuit.

  Tupelov figured that was as good a strategy as any, and banked his aircraft sharply to the right. He’d travel due south for a hundred kilometers, then make a search pattern to the southeast until his fuel ran low and he had to put down somewhere. He was scared. But there was no turning back now.

  He cut in the Fulcrum’s afterburners.

  DAY 5, 1317 HOURS ZULU, 3:17 P.M. LOCAL

  KALININGRAD FLITE CONTROL CENTRE

  “The explosive bolts on the engine clamps have fired,” squawked the speaker box, “and I maneuvered the orbiter around so I could see if the docking collar pulled free. It did. So there should be no problem on reentry.”

  In a relieved voice, Mission Commander Malyshev said, “Excellent, Intrepid. Stay in contact until you reach the transmission blackout.”

  “Roger, Flite Centre,” replied Iceberg.

  The Mission Commander looked at Popov, who nodded. Malyshev keyed his mike, and asked, “Intrepid, can you tell us anything about our Soyuz crew? They went off the air shortly after your retrofire.”

  “I have no idea, Flite Centre,” said the flat voice. “Maybe that American spacecraft out of Vandenberg had something to do with it.”

  “Yes . . . perhaps so, Intrepid,” said Malyshev bitterly.

  Popov covered his eyes with his hands. “Vasili . . . Sergei,” he whispered mournfully. Somehow he knew they were dead. More blood on his hands.

  DAY 5, 1320 HOURS ZULU

  THE KESTREL

  The OMS engine died as the fuel ran out.

  “Dammit!” Mad Dog was pissed. Without more fuel, the Kestrel couldn’t close the gap to the Intrepid. “Can you take him now, Hot Rod?”

  Lamborghini scanned his TID screen. “He’s right on the edge of Sidewinder range at one hundred twenty-five miles. I’d hate to waste another shot. How close can we get to him on the backside of the blackout?”

  “Probably pretty close,” replied Monaghan. “I can put the Kestrel into a little bit steeper descent gradient than the shuttle. The NavComputer says we can make it to Baikonur as is. So we may have a chance.”

  “Then I vote we hold off and pick him up on the backside. I think we’re just wasting a missile if we try it now.”

  “Okay, you got it,” said Mad Dog.

  There was a period of silence, but Lamborghini could hear his own heart thumping. He still couldn’t believe they were going down into the Soviet Union. The typical emotions of air combat—which combined the gut-wrenching fear of dying with the exhilaration of being alive—washed over him. “Say, Leroy?” he said, in a jabbing use of Monaghan’s Christian name.

  “Yes, Peter?” replied Monaghan in an equally mocking voice.

  “You really are mad as a hatter, aren’t you?”

  Monaghan chuckled nervously. “You betcha. A regular U.S. Government certified Section Eight.” Then in a more somber tone he added, “Guess I should’ve asked you if you were game for this action before I hit the retro switch.”

  Lamborghini emitted a high-strung laugh. “Guess it’s a bit late now, but no sense in having second thoughts. I pull on the blue suit every morning, and I know what that means.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Monaghan. “But still, if you’d like to get out now, it’s all right with me.”

  Lamborghini emitted another high-pitched laugh. “Thanks, but I think I’ll tag along, if you don’t mind.”

  DAY 5, 1320 HOURS ZULU

  THE INTREPID

  Iceberg was over Antarctica now, making preparations for atmospheric reentry. Like the machine he was, he ran through the procedures from memory.

  First, he dumped the unused fuel from the orbital maneuvering engines, which Rodriquez had crippled. Since the engines had not been used much, there was a considerable amount to jettison, and it was necessary to get rid of the excess liquid so the orbiter would be properly balanced for reentry. Luckily, Rodriquez had not damaged the purge, vent, and drain circuitry.

  He then flipped a series of switches into their proper position: Antiskid to ON. Nose Wheel Steering to OFF. Air Data to NAV. ADI Error to MED. ADI Rate to MED. Hydrazine Main Pump to NORM.

  Finally, he corrected the orbiter’s attitude until its nose was pitched up 32 degrees. This ensured that the silica tiles on the underbelly were properly positioned to absorb the horrendous atmospheric friction during the black hole of reentry.

  DAY 5, 1323 HOURS ZULU, 5:23 P.M. LOCAL

  THE FULCRUM

  Desperation was starting to cloud Lt. Fyodor Tupelov’s thoughts, which were already punctuated by images of a dismal prison cell. He’d traveled a hundred kilometers south after a quick spurt from his afterburners, and was now flying a slow, sawtooth search pattern on a southeasterly course. There was no sign of the mystery planes as his Fulcrum flew in and out of the clouds. He wished he’d held his temper with the radar controller, but it was too late to worry about that now. Besides, the near miss had frightened him to his core, and there was no way he could have capped his anger.

  He kept searching. Whenever the Fulcrum flew into a gap between the clouds, his eyes would dart back and forth, looking for some sign of the black batwings. But there was none. He activated his on-board radar and swept the airspace in front of him, but his screen showed no return. The image of the jail cell was becoming all too intrusive on his thoughts. . . . Then suddenly—there it was! At ten o’clock low! Over two thousand meters beneath him!

  Tupelov’s Fulcrum flew into the clouds again for a few moments, and when the fighter broke into the clear, the mystery aircraft was gone. He threw the fighter into a diving left turn and headed for the spot where he thought h
e’d seen the black batwing. Was his mind really playing tricks on him? Maybe he was suffering from hypoxia? No. He rejected both scenarios. His eyesight was excellent, and his oxygen system was working perfectly. He’d seen the . . . whatever it was.

  Again he illuminated his on-board radar, and again there were no returns. Dammit. Where had the infernal thing gone? The young pilot’s lip was starting to quiver when the black batwing popped out of a small thunderhead above him at two o’clock high, traveling on the same vector. Tupelov howled in relief and brought his fighter up to about three hundred meters behind and a hundred meters above the mystery machine.

  Inside his oxygen mask, Tupleov’s jaw dropped as he studied the bizarre vision before him. What on earth was it? The aircraft was unlike anything he’d ever seen. It had no vertical tail stabilizer, and no engine pods, as far as he could see. He squinted to look for markings, but he was too far back to discern the subdued black-on-black USAF lettering on the wings. And where was the second batwing? No matter. He had this one in his sights, and that was enough. He turned his radio back on. “Air control division, Sector two-three-Romeo, this is MiG seven-seven-echo. Do you read? Over.”

  The response was not long in coming. “Seven-seven-echo! This is the commander of Sector two-three-Romeo. You are to consider yourself under arrest! I order you to put down at the nearest airfield immediately! Is that clear?”

  “I must disregard that order, Comrade Commander,” replied Tupelov. “I have located one of the mystery aircraft that I almost collided with. I am on its tail at this very moment.”

  “I have had enough of your hallucinations, seven-seven-echo! I have you on my screen and there are no other aircraft in your vicinity! Do you understand me?”

  Tupelov was incredulous. How could it not be on radar? It was right there, in front of him. And this was no hallucination. “I do not understand, Comrade Commander. I have the ‘bogie’ in sight not three hundred meters ahead of me. As I said before, it is approximately the size of a Blackjack bomber.”

  “Enough of this lunacy!” screamed the radar commander. “You listen to me, seven-seven-echo—”

  “No!” shot back Tupelov. “You listen, Commander! I think you are the one who is drinking the vodka. I have in my sights, at this moment, a large unidentified aircraft. I demand you connect me with your superior so I may report this sighting. You are obviously incompetent and unfit to execute your duties.”

  “You are a dead man, seven-seven-echo! I will personally see to it that you are court-martialed and shot! There is no unidentified aircraft!”

  Tupelov heard desperation in the commander’s voice, so he played his trump card. “Very well, Comrade Commander. You give me no choice. If you do not patch me through to your superior, I am going to shoot this nonexistent aircraft down. Do you understand me? Shoot it down—that is my mission as an interceptor pilot, after all. Then when an investigation team finds the debris of this nonexistent aircraft, you will have to explain why you could not locate such a large airborne object on your radar. Then we will see which one of us hangs. . . . Now patch me through to your superior. At once!”

  There was a long pause before a chastened voice responded: “Wait one . . . I am patching you through to the Aerospace Defense Warning Centre.”

  DAY 5, 1330 HOURS ZULU

  THE INTREPID

  Iceberg watched the external temperature gauge start to inch up. His altitude was 400,000 feet above the earth, traveling at 16,500 mph, and the external tiles were beginning to warm up. He jettisoned the remaining fuel in the forward reaction control tanks to further improve the spacecraft’s balance, then inflated his anti-g pressure suit and switched the pitch, yaw, and roll controls to AUTO. In five minutes he would be in the grip of the blackout, and until he took back manual control, the guidance of the spacecraft rested in the hands of the NavComputer and digital autopilot.

  DAY 5, 1330 HOURS ZULU

  THE KESTREL

  Monaghan hit the switch, and the pylons which had held the Phoenix missiles in place on top of the wings were released. Lamborghini watched them drift up and away from the spacecraft, and felt the pressure inside his spacesuit increase.

  “The outside is heating up,” said Monaghan. “On the way down I’m gonna make the S-turns a little tighter than programmed so we can reel in Iceberg on the flip side of the blackout. We’re not gonna have that much time to find him before we have to put down somewhere, so let’s keep the radar warmed up.”

  “I’m with you, Mad Dog.”