“And who did you tell?” The Russian’s voice grew louder as he turned to face the operations center.
Starskii ducked down behind his consul, hoping to avoid notice. Yes, he had been one of the ones told, since his sector of airspace would be involved. A sensible precaution, and he’d thought no more of it.
Within moments, Korsov loomed over him. “And you — what do you know about the flight plans for this evening?”
Reflexive self-preservation immediately took over. “Nothing, sir. The only thing scheduled is an Aeroflot flight or two, but they are all well north of us.” Starskii stared into the Russian’s eyes, frightened to his very soul. Korsov had dark, penetrating eyes that seemed to peer into his brain. Korsov knew he was lying — Starskii was certain of it.
To his surprise and relief, the general grunted and turned away. He turned back to the Starskii’s supervisor. “Who, then?”
To Starskii’s relief, the supervisor immediately took his cue. “No one, sir. They would have been told at the appropriate time.”
A long silence followed.
Had Starskii not been so involved in trying to watch the argument without being detected, he might have noticed a small air contact wink into being at the very eastern edge of his area. He might have seen it grow two or three pixels stronger for just a moment then fade away. He might have wondered what caused it.
But he never, ever, would have interrupted the argument taking place to report it.
MiG 101
1814 local (GMT+4)
The gentle warble of the MiG’s ECM detection gear was markedly different from that of a Tomcat. Tombstone heard Greene swear softly as he fumbled with unfamiliar dials. The frequency of the detection was displayed on the edge of Tombstone’s HUD.
“Standard ground search radar,” Greene said finally. Tombstone had already figured that out from the parameters.
“They got us yet?”
“I don’t think so. It looks like it’s just in general search mode. The thing is, Tombstone, they didn’t brief us on any ground station search radar. And if they didn’t tell us about that, what else didn’t they tell us about?”
“Like what?”
“Like ground-to-air missiles, maybe.”
Tombstone held his temper. There was no point in bitching about it, and it wasn’t unreasonable to be detected by radar. It was probably just a small airfield, maybe just a tower, that handled cross-continent flights. “We’ll deal with what’s there, Jeremy. Is it in targeting mode?”
“No.”
“Is it one of the radars normally associated with a mobile antiair platform?”
“I don’t know that that matters,” Greene said, his voice growing cold. “It may not be directly slave to one, but it could be used by any of them. Even a Stinger could get some initial indications off of one. And the Stinger has a two-mile range and we’re going to be well within that on our final approach.”
Tombstone felt his irritation growing, more at Greene than at the prospect of antiair defenses. The latter he’d expected — the former he didn’t. All aviators were capable of compartmentalizing their minds, putting aside any other concerns and focusing on the task at hand. There was no threat near — and Greene knew that Tombstone knew that. So, why all this flack in the cockpit?
“Jeremy — just shut the hell up,” Tombstone said with a cold note of authority in his voice. “We’ve got a mission to fly. Whatever other problems there are, we’ll settle them when we get back on the ground. Got it?”
“Got it. Sir.”
“Time on top?”
“Ten minutes. Sir. All the landmarks may look a little different.” Greene’s voice was coldly professional now.
“Roger,” Tombstone acknowledged. Turning to the east to slip out of the radar envelope would add a degree of difficulty to their run, but not an insurmountable one. By losing altitude now and using the hills to block the radar signals, Tombstone hoped to be able to approach undetected for a longer period of time.
At least by the Chechens. But the Russians, ah — that is a different story, isn’t it? The land bases will see us coming, and getting through is going to depend on whether or not our Armenian friends can convince them that we’re a routine flight. And, on whether they’re loyal to a bad guy.
Well, there was no help for it now. He wasn’t going to cancel the mission just because there was an air search radar they didn’t know about.
Chechen Base
1815 local (GMT + 4)
“You are relieved,” Korsov said coldly. Starskii peeked up over his consul, trying not to be caught snooping. Since they had moved away from his consul, their voices had been quieter for a time. From what he could gather, Korsov did not completely believe his supervisor’s explanation.
“I did nothing wrong, sir,” the superior said, an almost desperate note in his voice. They were committed now to the story that he told, and it was clear that he intended to justify himself when the wiser course might have been to simply roll on his back and whine.
A sudden sharp spike of noise echoed through the compartment. Starskii’s jaw dropped. Korsov had slapped the supervisor across the face, moving with such lightning speed as to be scarcely detectable.
“You are relieved,” Korsov said. Starskii saw Korsov examining the room, carefully evaluating each man there. Finally, Korsov pointed at Starskii. “You. Come here.”
Starskii moaned, his stomach whirling and churning. He walked on unsteady feet over to the two. His superior refused to look at him. “Yes, sir?”
“As of this moment, you are to assume his duties.” Korsov peered closely at him. “What is your name?”
“Joseph Starskii, General.” Cold swept over him, radiating up from his gut, and threatening to make him lose the heavy, indigestible rations he’d consumed just hours before. “Sir, I think there are others more qualified.”
Korsov stepped closer, and Starskii felt the heat radiating off him. It was as though Korsov were superhuman, possessing a metabolism different from that of a normal person.
“Yes,” he said, studying Starskii carefully. “But loyalties still means a great deal to me, do you understand? And if you are to be loyal, I would prefer it to be to me.”
He knew! He knew I lied, and yet he let me live. Relief rushed over him.
“Come,” Korsov said, drawing him out of earshot of the others. Two military police hustled his former supervisor out of the room. “We must talk.”
Starskii could feel everyone else trying very carefully not to see him. Eyes were averted, heads turned away. Whatever mistake he had committed, they wished to be careful to avoid it.
“You understand my concern over the compromise of this mission, yes?” Korsov asked softly. His eyes bore into the uneasy air traffic controller.
“Yes, sir.”
“Regardless of who you have or have not told, the fact is that the knowledge should have never been in this room. And now, since the remote movements are compromised, there must be a change of plans. I will be departing immediately. As supervisor, you’ll tell no one of this. You will make sure that your actions are appropriate. When we appear on your radar scope, you’ll order our contact not reported. Is that clear?”
“Very, sir.”
“Ninety minutes later, you’ll evacuate the center personnel and proceed immediately to the airfield. There, you’ll board a transport and you will follow us to Bermuda. Is that clear?”
“Yes, commander.”
“You have no questions, do you?” Korsov’s voice made clear what the appropriate response was.
“No, comrade. In ninety minutes, then.”
Starskii’s answer appeared to satisfy Korsov. He rocked back slightly on his heels, his hands jammed deep in his pockets, and fixed the controller with a dark stare. “Succeed and you will be well rewarded. Disobey me and the consequences will be immediate and severe.” Without further word he turned and stalked out of the room.
Starskii let out a long, shak
y breath. Behind him, the normal sounds and voices of the mid watch resumed.
I will tell no one. But, in ninety minutes — well, I’ll decide then what to do. Because with comrade general out of the room, and airborne himself, things are entirely different.
MiG 101
1820 local (GMT+4)
“Three minutes,” Greene said. “Recommend you come left on course zero nine four for twenty seconds to retain original flight profile.”
“Acknowledged.” Yeah, that might be the better idea. Pop in between these hills, pick up his original route rather than deal with approaching from another angle. The more that was familiar, the better off they were.
Tombstone cut the nimble aircraft hard to the left, counted out loud, and turned just as Greene updated his advice. “Come right now to course zero one five, descend to two thousand feet.”
“Time on top?”
“Ninety-two seconds,” Greene answered. “Recommend descent to eight hundred feet in thirty seconds.”
“Roger.” Just like the original profile said. Man, if I can’t lay these bombs down his chimney, I’d better hang up my spurs.
Tombstone rolled inverted to take a closer look at the terrain as he descended and located the landmarks they’d picked out from the satellite photos. They were flying a perfect approach, exactly on schedule. And, any second now, all hell was going to break loose.
Chechen Airstrip
1820 local (GMT+4)
Korsov climbed into the cockpit of his aircraft, feeling the cold seep through his flight suit and into his undergarments. Though winter was still a month off, already he could feel it coming on. All too soon, the wind would blow steadily, cold and harsh down from the north, and the snow would complicate even the simplest of maneuvers. The Russians had known for generations what the Germans learned the hard way — do not attack during the winter.
Ah, but winter in one place was not the same as winter every place, was it? He could almost feel the Bermuda sun on his hands, feel sunburned skin tight across his chest, marvel at sweat rolling down his back in the middle of November. Yes, Bermuda in winter was entirely different from Chechnya in winter.
His aircraft was already preflighted, and his assigned regular copilot waiting for him. Years ago, he been able to comfortably relinquish tasks such as preflight, checking fuel status, and such. Those who worked for him knew well the consequences of making a mistake.
He clambered up the boarding latter, feeling the cold reach deep into him through his fingertips. The plastic ejection seat was hard and unyielding. Before he even buckled his ejection harness, he reached down to flick the heater on. Hot air gouted out under his feet, and he felt the Bermuda sun on his skin again.
The flight line technician fastened his ejection harness, double-checked that the safety retaining pins were removed, showing them to Korsov for his inspection. Behind him, his copilot did the same. Then, as the technicians climbed down and, even before they were on the ground, bad guys slid the canopy forward and locked it into place.
In front of him, another ground traffic controller stood in front of the aircraft, lighted wands held steady in front of him. When all the other technicians cleared the area, Korsov was signaled to proceed, and then handed off along the line to a second technician, who guided them toward the runway. As he reached the apron, the second ground tech snapped off a sharp salute with his lighted wand and pointed toward the runway. Korsov turned and continued his taxi.
He paused for a moment at the end of the runway, stepped hard on the brakes, and ran the engines up to full military power. They sounded sweet, operating perfectly. There was no tower to control takeoffs or landing — they had all been killed during the first rebel attack on the airfield. Not that there was much need for them now — the only aircraft coming in or out were his, and he knew when each was scheduled.
It has not been a fatal mistake to warn base operations of his departure that afternoon, he admitted. He would have done so himself, but certainly not that far in advance. No, half an hour before his intended departure would be fine to prevent any confusion in the antiair batteries.
“Ready?” he asked his copilot.
“Yes, comrade,” the man replied.
“Well, then…” He let off the brakes, and the MiG surged forward evenly. She bolted down the runway, gathering speed every second, and leaped in the air as though she were going home.
Their next stop would be in Bulgaria, both as a brief maintenance stop and to rendezvous with a squadron of MiGs that would be joining them there. Korsov wasn’t entirely sure what Maskiro had told the squadron commander, a subordinate of his in the Black Sea Fleet, but Maskiro appeared confident that the MiGs would be there. He relayed that information to his copilot, who had not known until the time where they were headed, although he certainly had been able to guess the final destination.
“Comrade! Air contact, bearing one one zero, range six miles!”
An air contact? Nothing scheduled to be in this area. Perhaps a private aircraft?
“Speed, four hundred and twenty knots, altitude eighty seven hundred meters,” the copilot continued, thus eliminating that possibility. “Comrade, it must be a military transport — there are no civilian flights scheduled.”
It was just as he had feared — someone knew that he was leaving the airfield, someone knew.
His copilot’s voice trembled. “Radar in search mode only, sir. No targeting. Should we radio a warning back to our operations center?”
They’d know in a few minutes. Know, and pay for their mistakes.
There had been no air transport scheduled to evacuate them in ninety minutes. In fact, there had been no provisions made for them at all. As he watched the unidentified aircraft descend, turning toward the air base, and then descend again, he knew exactly what it was. There was only one particular mission that fit that flight profile. Soon enough, the operations center would know as well.
“No,” he said. “They have detected the contact on their own radar by now.”
“But, sir, if they haven’t, we must warn them.” The copilot said disbelievingly.
A babble of voices, some shouting, some crying, came over the tactical frequency now. Korsov smiled grimly. There was no need to warn them now — they knew exactly what was coming.
Chechen Base
1821 local (GMT+4)
Starskii stared at the screen. There was no doubt in his mind what the blip represented, not with that flight profile. Even now it was decreasing speed, descending again, and any second it would—
“Everyone out!” he shouted, his gaze still glued to the radar screen. Korsov’s aircraft was just rolling off the runway, and they surely must see the incoming contact. And would have seen it before the controller, since his greater altitude was giving him a longer range. “There’s only one target — I know what that is, on that flight profile. Everybody out! Get as far away as you can!”
The fifteen remaining watchstanders needed no further urging. They abandoned their consoles, some of them running away with headsets still on, and headed for the single door leading into the reinforced structure. From there, they raced down the short passageway separating the operations center from the unclassified portions of the building. A few shouted warnings to the others as they ran, but did not slow to assist them.
Once outside, they headed in various directions. Starskii himself ran straight ahead, heading for the gate, shouting at the guards to unlock it. They had no way of knowing he was the senior person in charge of the operations section and were slow to obey him. A few men ahead of him started climbing the fence, frantic to be clear of ground zero.
Even an Olympic medallist would not have been able to run fast enough to make any difference. The controller and his own compatriots might be battle-hardened soldiers, but they were hardly world-class runners. They ran nonetheless, praying, some of them for the first time in years, hoping against hope somehow to make it far enough away to survive.
MiG 101
1822 local (GMT+4)
Tombstone rolled back over into level flight and continued his descent. By now the targets were clearly visible just in front of them. It was a ramshackle cinder block building, the exterior in severe disrepair, and surrounded by a rusty chain link fence.
“Man, look at that,” Greene said, leading forward and watching over Tombstone’s shoulder. “They’re running like ants.”
“You would be, too.” Tombstone was intent on making minor corrections to his lineup.
“For all the good it will do them,” Greene said.
“Time to release?” Tombstone said.
“Ten, nine, eight…”
Tombstone stared forward, now close enough to see their faces. Without exception, stark terror distorted their features into something almost less than human. He felt a flash of pity for them, and then remembered the pictures of the dead civilians in Bermuda.
“Seven, six, five, four…”
Despite the best intentions of military men and women everywhere, it came down to this, didn’t it? There was no way, despite the long-standing American dream, of limiting casualties to just the military. No way at all. And, no, the men running away from him below might not actually have been on the ground in Bermuda, but they were just as responsible for what had been done there as if they had been.
“Three, two…”
“Hunter, abort! Target is gone — repeat, your target is gone!” Russo’s voice broke through the cockpit like a wave of cold water, shocking each man.
Without even acknowledging, Tombstone broke hard to the right.
“What are you doing?” Greene howled. “Tombstone, we’re only two seconds—”
“You heard the man,” Tombstone snapped. “There was only one real target on this mission, and he’s gone.”
“How do you know that? How do they know? What is this, waiting until the last minute? Hell, it would have been safer to release than to abort, you know that!”
“We have our orders. And we’re going to follow them.”
But—” Greene broke off as a movement on his screen caught his attention. “That must be him, Stony! That air contact — it’s another MiG. We can catch him. We can put an end to this right now.”
First Strike c-19 Page 16
