by Dale Brown
“Fuck all that,” Borodev said cross-cockpit after their discussions were concluded. “I’m staying in Canada.”
Leborov couldn’t believe his ears. “What did you say?”
“I said, if I can’t fly out, I’m staying,” the copilot said. “I speak pretty good English—I can even speak some Canadian, hey? I’ll be a bush pilot. I’ll fly tourists in the summer and supplies in the winter. Or maybe I’ll put on a Russian fur-trapper music show with a dancing bear in Sitka, Alaska, for the tourists coming off the cruise ships. I’ll hide out right under their noses.”
“You’re crazy,” Leborov said. “Do you think they’ll still have dancing bears and music shows after what we’ll do to them today?”
“More than ever,” Borodev said.
“You have a life back in Russia, my friend, remember? You’re an airman and an officer in the Russian air force.”
“You made a life for yourself back home—if they let you have one,” Borodev said, turning serious. “Wherever they send us after this is over, at least you’ll have your family with you. I won’t have shit.”
“You’ll be a hero,” Leborov said. “You’ll spend the rest of your military career explaining how in hell you survived penetrating Canadian and American air defenses and bombing the shit out of them.”
The copilot laughed. “I think I prefer the dancing bear, Joey,” he said. “But I’ll make sure you’re on your way home first, don’t worry.” Leborov didn’t respond—he didn’t want to continue this line of discussion at all.
“Coming up on the turnpoint,” the navigator said.
“There’s another good reason to stay in Canada, my friend,” Borodev said. “Great Bear Lake. One of the largest freshwater lakes in the world, and by far the best trout fishing on Earth. I read they catch trout out of that lake that take two men to carry. A busboy at one of their fishing lodges makes more money in one month than flying officers in the Russian air force make all year.”
“You’re fucked in the head, pal.”
The navigator gave a heading correction that would take them east of the lake. Although there was nothing in the area this time of year except caribou, grizzly bears, and oil rigs, overflying the lake would highlight them from any air patrols they might encounter.
“Forty minutes to launch point, crew,” the navigator said.
“Stop with the damned countdown, nav,” Leborov said irritably. He took a few whiffs of oxygen to try to calm his nerves. “Just let us know when you’re starting your checklists—everyone else is configured for weapon release. Let’s do a station check and then—”
Suddenly they all heard the slow warning tone over their headphones. “UHF search radar, two o’clock,” the electronic-warfare officer reported.
“Search radar? From where?”
“Airborne radar, probably an AWACS,” the EWO said.
“Want to step it down to one hundred meters?” Borodev asked.
“If it’s an AWACS, it won’t matter how low we go—it’ll find us,” Leborov said grimly. “Our only hope is to try to shoot it down before they—”
Just then they heard another warning tone. “Fighter radar sweep, two o’clock,” the EWO reported. “X-band, probably a Canadian CF-18 Hornet. It’s down—AWACs will take over the hunt.”
“—send in fighters,” Leborov said, finishing his sentence. “Let’s get up to launch altitude.” They had no choice. They had to climb to one thousand meters aboveground to launch a Kh-31 from the bomb bay.
“Airborne search radar changing from long-range scan to fast PRF height-finder scan. I think they spotted us. Jammers on. All countermeasures active.”
“I need a fire-control solution right now, EWO,” Leborov said.
“No azimuth or range data yet.”
“Damn it, EWO, you gave me the azimuth a moment ago!”
“That was a rough estimate off the warning receiver,” the electronic-warfare officer retorted. “The fire-control receiver hasn’t computed a launch bearing.”
“I don’t want excuses, I need to attack!” Leborov shouted. “That Hornet will be on us any moment now!”
“No azimuth yet…”
“Don’t wait for the fire-control computer!” Leborov screamed. “Fire a missile at the last known azimuth. Make them take the first move!”
There was a short pause, then, “Stand by for missile launch, crew! Consent switches.”
“Consent!” Leborov shouted, flipping three red guarded switches up. “Shoot, damn it!”
“Bomb doors coming open!” the EWO shouted. Seconds later there was a deep rumbling sound as the Tupolev-95’s massive bomb doors swung open. “Missile away!” Both pilots shielded their eyes as a tremendous streak of fire illuminated the cabin and an impossibly loud roaring sound drowned out even the thunder of the Tu-95’s turbo-props. The first Kh-31P missile fired ahead of the bomber on its solid rocket booster, then started its climb.
Seconds later: “AWACS radar down!” the EWO crowed. The missile launch had its desired effect—the AWACS crew shut down its radar to escape the missile. Moments later: “X-band radar, CF-18 Hornet, three o’clock!”
Leborov immediately performed a “notch,” turning the Tu-95 hard right, directly over Great Bear Lake. He was hoping to maneuver until he was flying perpendicular to the Hornet’s flight path, which would blank out the Russian bomber from the Hornet’s pulse-Doppler radar. It seemed a little ridiculous trying to hide a huge, lumbering rhinoceros like the Tu-95 from an advanced interceptor like the CF-18 Hornet, but for the sake of his crew, he had to try everything.
“Hornet’s at nine o’clock…wait…fast PRF, Hornet has reacquired…Hornet is locked on…chaff, chaff, pilot hard turn left.” Leborov threw the Tupolev-95 into a hard left turn, hoping now to cut down on their radar cross-section and make the enemy fighter’s radar track the decoy chaff and not the plane. “Hornet’s…wait…Hornet’s turning northeast…Hornet’s locked on…missile launch, missile launch, break…Wait…he’s not tracking us…I’m picking up the uplink for an AMRAAM launch, but it’s not aimed at us…another missile launch!”
Leborov twisted the microphone-select switch on his intercom panel to the formation frequency. “Heads up, guys, the bastard’s firing!”
“Second Hornet, eight o’clock. Hard turn left, heading one-two-zero…possibly a third Hornet in formation…”
Suddenly they heard on the command channel, “We’re hit, we’re hit, One-seven. Initiating bailout. We are—” And the radio went dead.
“We lost One-seven,” Borodev said.
“Bandits, seven o’clock high, six K!” their tail gunner shouted over the intercom.
“No RWR contact,” the electronic warfare officer said. “He must be using a night-attack system, or night-vision goggles.” They heard the chatter and felt the heavy vibration as the Tu-95’s big twin twenty-three-millimeter tail cannons opened fire. Moments later they heard the roar of powerful jet engines overhead as the Hornets sped past. Like a shark that brushes up against its prey to taste it before attacking, the crew knew that the Hornets’ first pass was an identification run—they’d close in for the kill on the next pass.
“AWACS radar back up,” the EWO reported. “Our first missile must’ve missed.”
“Nail that bastard, EWO!” Leborov shouted.
“No fire-control solution yet.”
“Bandit, five o’clock, seven K,” the gunner reported. “Coming in fast…six K, five K…”
“Fire-control solution resolved and entered!” the EWO shouted. “I got it! Stay wings-level! Bomb doors coming open!” Seconds later they launched their second Kh-31 missile. The two pilots watched as the missile seemed to shoot straight up in front of them, and they heard the sonic boom as it broke the sound barrier. “AWACS radar down…-31 is going active…-31 is homing, it’s locked on!” The pilots were surprised when, in another instant, they saw a tremendous flash of light off in the distance, and a large streak of fire slowly tumbled acr
oss the night sky, with burning pieces of debris breaking off and fluttering to Earth.
“You got it!” Borodev shouted. “You got the AWACS! Good shoo—”
At that moment they heard the tail guns firing again. “Bandit five o’clock four K!” the tail gunner screamed. They couldn’t maneuver while the Kh-31 was being launched, and so they were sitting ducks for the Canadian Hornet. Seconds later the Tupolev-95 rumbled and vibrated as several huge sledgehammer-like blows rippled across its fuselage and wings. One engine on the left wing surged and bucked, yawing the bomber violently from side to side as Leborov fought for control. “Second bandit is at seven o’clock high, six K…. He’s coming down…five…four….” The tail guns opened fire again—and then abruptly stopped. It seemed there was a moment of eerie silence.
And then more hammer blows pelted the bomber. A flash of light illuminated the cabin. “Fire, fire, fire, engine number four!” Borodev screamed. As Leborov pulled the appropriate prop lever to FEATHER, brought the throttle to idle, and pulled the condition lever to SHUT DOWN, Borodev pulled the emergency fire T-handle, shut off fuel to the number-four engine, and isolated its electrical, pneumatic, and hydraulic systems.
“The number-two -90 is still reporting okay,” the bombardier said. “I can see the fire on number four—it’s still on fire! I’m preparing to jettison the number-two missile.”
“No!” Leborov shouted. “We didn’t come all this way just to jettison the missiles!”
“Joey, if that missile cooks off, it’ll blow us into a billion pieces,” Borodev said.
“Then launch the bastard instead!”
“We’re still forty minutes from our launch point.”
“Forget the planned launch point!” Leborov shouted. “Replan the missiles for closer targets.”
“But…how can we…I mean, which ones?”
“Get on the damned radio and coordinate retargeting with the rest of the formation,” Leborov said. “We’ve been discovered—I think we can break radio silence now. Then radio to the other formations and have them retarget as well. You’re the formation leader—you tell them what targets to hit. Hurry! Navigator, help him.”
“Ack-acknowledged.” The bombardier switched radio channels and immediately began issuing orders to the other planes. Each bomber’s attack computers had been programmed with the same set of target coordinates, so it was a simple matter to look up the targets farther north within range and reprogram the computer. Finally the bombardier radioed the second flight of Tu-95 bombers that they were changing their targets and taking their target sets, so the second formation could reprogram their computers for targets farther south.
It was very quiet in the cockpit for several long moments, but suddenly the pilots saw a large red RYADAM light illuminate on their forward eyebrow panel. “I have a SAFE IN RANGE light, bombardier.”
“Acknowledged. Consent switches.”
“Bandit, eight o’clock high, seven K…”
“Consent! Launch the damn missiles!”
The RYADAM light began to blink. “Missiles counting down…Start a slow climb, pilot, wings-level….”
“Six K…five K…”
The RYADAM light went to steady as the tail started violently swaying from side to side. “Hold the nose steady, pilot!”
“I think we’re losing the number-three engine,” Borodev said. “Oil pressure is surging…losing control of prop pitch on the number-six propeller…. Should I shut it down?”
“No. I’ll hold it.” Leborov took a crushing grip on the control wheel, and he was practically lifting himself off the seat as his feet danced on the rudder pedals to keep the tail following the nose.
The RYADAM light began to blink once more—the first missile was counting down again. Suddenly the light flashed brightly. “Missile one away!” the bombardier shouted. There was nothing for what seemed like a very long time—and then there was an earsplitting roar that seemed a thousand times louder than the Kh-31’s rocket-motor ignition, and the first Kh-90 missile fired ahead, then started a steep climb and fast acceleration, disappearing quickly into the night sky. “Missile two counting down…”
Just then they heard the gunner yell something—and then an instant later the number-one engine blew apart in a dramatic shower of fire. An AIM-9L Sidewinder missile launched from one of the Canadian CF-18 Hornets had found its mark.
“Fire, fire, fire on engine number one!” Leborov shouted as he pulled prop, throttle, and condition levers. “Shut down number one!” He glanced at the RYADAM light—it was steady, the missile holding its launch countdown until the proper aircraft flight parameters were met. Leborov struggled to keep the plane steady, but it seemed to be swaying, yawing, and turning in every direction at once.
“Number one isn’t shutting down!” Borodev shouted.
“What?”
“Fuel control must’ve been cut—I can’t shut off fuel to the engine. It’s still burning. I can’t isolate hydraulics or bleed air either.”
The cabin started to fill with smoke, getting heavier and heavier by the second. “Crew, bail out, bail out, bail out!” Leborov ordered.
“I’ll take it, Joey,” Borodev said, grasping the control wheel.
“Negative. Blow the hatch and get the hell out.”
“I told you before, Joey—I’m staying here, in Canada,” Borodev said, a smile on his face. “You have someone to go home to, remember? You’re a family man now. I’m staying.”
“Yuri…”
“I have the airplane,” Borodev said. He jabbed a thumb aft. “Get going, Commander.”
Leborov could see that he wasn’t going to change his copilot’s mind, so he quickly unstrapped, pressed the ESCAPE button, then patted Borodev on the shoulder. “Thank you, Yuri,” he said.
“Maybe I’ll see you on the ground, Joey. Get going. I’ve got work to do.” Borodev started concentrating on keeping the plane steady so that the last remaining missile could continue its countdown.
Caution lights illuminated on the forward instrument panel as both the bombardier and gunner blew their escape hatches. The flight engineer, navigator, and electronic-warfare officer were already on the lower deck. The lower entry hatch was open and the escape slide rail extended. They attached their parachute slide rings to the rail, faced aft, put one hand on the emergency parachute D-ring, one hand on the rail, and dropped through the hatch. The escape slide rail kept the crew members from getting caught in the bomber’s slipstream and sucked back into the fuselage. At the end of the rail, a mechanism pulled the automatic parachute-activation knob, which used a barometric device to control parachute opening—since they were at very low altitude, the pilot chute came out immediately, followed by the main chute less than a second later.
Leborov was the last man under a parachute. At first he couldn’t believe how quiet it was. He could hear a faint humming sound, probably his Tupolev-95 flying away, but he thought it must be very far away, because he could barely hear the sound. He wondered how far….
And then the silence was shattered by an incredibly deafening roar, and a tongue of flame seemed to erupt right in front of his face. It was the last Kh-90 missile: Yuri Borodev had managed to keep the stricken bomber straight enough for the missile to finish its countdown.
Leborov pulled a parachute riser so he could turn around—and then he saw the missile streaking away into the night sky, followed by a stream of fire arcing off to the right. It was the Tupolev-95, its leftmost engine burning fiercely. As he drifted down in his parachute, he saw the fire completely consume, then burn apart, the left wing. Leborov scanned the underside of the fuselage in the glow of the fire, hoping he could catch a glimpse of his copilot sliding out of the hatch. But soon the bomber spiraled into the darkness and crashed into the tundra below, and Leborov never saw if Borodev exited.
He hit the hard, half-frozen ground a few moments later, in the typical aircrew member’s parachute-landing fall—feet, butt, and head. Dazed, Leborov just lay
on his back, not daring to move. The still-billowing parachute tugged at his harness, asking to be released, but he ignored it. If the parachute dragged him, he didn’t much care right now.
As he lay there trying to recover his senses, he saw them—streaks of fire across the clear night sky. His teammates had done it—one by one they were launching their missiles, too. He lost count after fifteen, but they kept on coming. He blinked every time a sonic boom rolled across him, but it was a happy sound.
The sound of success.
Cheyenne Mountain Operations Center
That same time
Tell Village to launch every plane they’ve got to their patrol orbits now,” Joanna Kearsage said. “Armed or unarmed, get them up in the air before they get their asses blown away. Order Ferry and Argus to get their alert planes up into their patrols as well, and tell Vigil and Feast to disperse all available aircraft.” Those were the other air-defense units in central Canada and the western United States—she needed to get as many planes into the sky as she could to deal with the bombers attacking Alaska.
“Warning, MWC detects multiple strategic events via DSP three in central Canada,” the Missile Warning Center’s senior controller reported. “MWC determines the events are hostile. This is not a drill. We confirm, repeat confirm, multiple missile launches. Track and impact estimations in progress.”
Joanna Kearsage nearly catapulted out of her seat as she saw the numerous lines beginning to appear over the map of Canada. Swearing softly to herself, she lifted a clear plastic cover on a button on her console and pressed it, waiting for it to turn from red to green. When it did—signifying that everyone on the NORAD Aerospace Reporting System network was online—she said, “Warning, warning, warning, this is Anchor with a Flash Top Secret PINNACLE FRONT BURNER report. Missile Warning Center has detected numerous events over central Canada and is resolving track and impact predictions. This is not a drill. All stations stand by.”
It was her second warning in just the past few minutes—the first being the attacks in Alaska by bombers carrying cruise missiles. This was no rogue or terrorist action—this was an all-out attack on the United States ofAmerica!
