Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 09

by Warrior Class (v1. 1)

  Instead of returning to Romania, Stoica and Yegorov flew across Bulgaria and the Black Sea, on their way to a Mctyor- owned industrial facility and airstrip near Borapani, Republic of Georgia, the site of another Metyor pipeline. The return flight was smooth and uneventful. The Mt-179 was enjoying a brisk tailwind over the Black Sea that was pushing their ground speed to well over nine hundred kilometers an hour, even with the throttles pulled back to best-range economy power. At forty-one thousand feet, the sky was clear and the visibility unrestricted, with the stars shining so brightly that they appeared close enough to touch. There was a half moon on the rise, but it would be no factor—they would be on the ground long before anyone on the ground could see the aircraft with rrtoonlight, Because of fuel considerations, they had already planned a steep, rapid descent at idle pow'er through Georgian airspace instead of flying through Turkish coastal radar at low altitude, relying on the Tyenee’s stealth characteristics to keep it invisible.

  Yegorov offered to watch the aircraft, and Stoica gratefully took a catnap while his weapons officer filled out his poststrike reports and recorded computer logs, with the autopilot handling the aircraft. The autopilot was set for constant-Mach hold, which adjusted aircraft altitude automatically as gross weight decreased so they could maintain the most fuel-efficient airspeed—the Mt-179 very gradually climbed as gross weight decreased, up to forty-five thousand feet, the aircraft’s maximum operating altitude, or a lower altitude set by the pilot.

  But Stoica didn’t set the proper maximum altitude. If he had bothered to double-check his weather forecasts from his preflight briefing, he would have read that the forecast contrail level over the Black Sea for their return Bight was just over forty-one thousand feet. Yegorov had no autopilot controls in the aft cockpit except for disconnect, and in any case he was too distracted to pay any attention. Visibility directly behind the Metyor-179 was poor from the cockpit anyway, so even if he had looked outside, he would not have noticed anyway .. .

  ... that the Mt-179 was drawing a long, thick white contrail across the night sky over the Black Sea. Illuminated by the moon, the condensation trail was bright enough to be seen for fifty miles across the clear, cold sky—bright enough to be spotted by a flight of two Republic of Turkey F-l 6s on a late-night air intercept training mission in the Samsun Military Operating Area off the northern coast of Turkey over the Black Sea.

  The two Turkish fighters, both single-seat F-16C Block 50 models, were from the Fifth Main Jet Base, 151 Jet Filo, based at Merzifon about two hundred miles to the south. Because of weather, their training flight had been delayed several hours. For flight currency, both pilots had to complete a high-level- and low-altitude radar intercept, including flight time to and from the Military Operating Area and reserve fuel; they had to carry almost four hours’ worth of fuel, which meant they had to lug around two huge external fuel tanks, which really decreased the F-l6s’ maneuverability and fun. One plane would fly out to the edge of the MOA at a particular altitude and then head inbound, and the other aircraft would try to find it and complete an intercept. The radar controllers at Merzifon monitored the intercepts and could provide some assistance, but since the purpose of the exercise was for the pilot to find the “enemy” himself, the pilots rarely asked for a vector from the ground radar controllers.

  It was the last intercept of the night coming up, and after several hours of delays and nearly three hours of yanking and banking, all participants were ready to finish up and go home—their normal duty day was going to start just a few hours after landing, so the faster they finished, the more sleep time they'd get. Zodyak One. the flight leader, was the hunter, and his wingman, Zodyak Two, was the quarry. Zodyak Two was at thirty-nine thousand feet, preparing to simulate a highspeed penetration from high to low altitude, while Zodyak One was at normal patrol altitude of twenty-nine thousand feet. Their external lights were off; Zodyak One had his radar searching the sky below, while Zodyak Two as the attacker had his radar off.

  The leader knew that the last intercept had to be a low- altitude one, so he was concentrating his search below him for his w ingman. But it took just a few minutes for him to realize that his young wingman had snookered him, and he began to concentrate his search up high. It took him several radar sweeps to make contact before he finally locked the second F-16 up. “Orospu cocugu, ” he swore to himself. ‘Trying to screw me up, ehT' He raised the nose of his F-16 and pushed the throttles to full military power, preparing himself to begin the chase. “Control, Zodyak One, radar contact, bogey bearing zero-two-zero bull’s-eye. range eight miles, descending from angels three-nine lam..

  Then he saw it—a bright, fast-moving contrail, streaking eastward. It looked close enough to cause a midair collision with Zodyak Two—the guy was certainly well inside the MOA. Knock it off! Knock it off!" the leader shouted. “Unknown aircraft in the MOA! One is level at base plus twelve.”

  “Acknowledged." Zodyak Two responded. “Level at base plus ten.”

  “Control copies your knock-it-off call. Zodyak One," the ground radar control responded. “We show no aircraft on radar. One. Say bogey airspeed and altitude.”

  “Acknowledged." The leader tried to lock his radar on the newcomer, but he could not get a radar lock-on. “Negative radar, I must have a bent radar,” he reported. “But I have a visual on his contrail, I estimate his altitude as angles four-two, heading eastbound."

  “Zodyak One, stand by.” The leader knew the controller would be on the phone to Air Force air defense headquarters. Moments later: “Zodyak flight. Control, if you can maintain visual contact, we'd like to get a look at him. Warning, we have no radar contact and cannot provide intercept vectors or safe separation. Say state.”

  “Zodyak One has zero point seven hours fuel until bingo,” the flight leader said. “Dogru. ”

  “Zodyak Two has zero point six until bingo. Dogru too.” “Roger. Zodyak Two, your leader is at your one o’clock, seven miles, base plus twelve. Turn right heading zero-four- five to join, maintain base plus ten. Negative radar contact on any other traffic. Zodyak flight of two is cleared MARSA tactical with unknown aircraft. Zodyak One, squawk normal. Zodyak Two, squawk normal and ident. . . radar contact, Zodyak Two, report when tied on and joined up with your leader, then squawk standby when within three miles.”

  “Zodyak flight copies all,” the leader said. “Let’s push it up, Zodyak flight.”

  “Two tied on radar. I’m in.”

  Ion Stoica was jarred awake by the blare of the radar warning receiver and Gennadi Yegorov frantically shouting, “Bandit! Bandit! Twelve o’clock, range ten miles!”

  “Bandit? What in hell... ?” Stoica berated himself for falling asleep so deeply—he should have taken the speed pills to keep him alert. He first checked his engine, systems, and flight instruments—and noticed right away that their altitude was way too high. “Gennadi, dammit, we’re above forty-three thousand! We were briefed not to go above forty-one!”

  “All I have is autopilot annunciators back here, Ion,” Yegorov retorted. “As far as I can tell, everything was fine. You set the autopilot, not me!”

  Stoica knew he was right—Yegorov’s instruments would show only status and malfunctions, not settings. That was his job. They had obviously picked up another nearby aircraft who had seen them by an infrared scanner or by their contrails. He had to get away from him fast.

  “X-band pulse-Doppler fire-control radar, twelve o'clock, six miles—shit. I think we picked up a Turkish F-16,” Yegorov said. He searched his rearview mirror. "Contrails! We're making contrails!'’

  “Hang on!” Stoica pulled the throttles to idle, rolled the Mt-179 almost inverted, and started a steep left turning descent. He turned exactly ninety degrees to his original heading. which should blind a pulse-Doppler radar system. If the tailpipes could cool down and if they could spoof the radar, they could make a descending dash across the Black Sea and get away. It was their only chance. They could not outrun an F-16: and th
is close to Turkey, the other aircraft probably had more fuel.

  This was not good at all.

  "He maneuvered as soon as we locked him up on radar,” the flight leader said on the command channel. “He must have a radar warning receiver. He’s trying to notch left, fly away from the Turkish coast and blank himself out.” He had already anticipated a left turn, and he simply turned with him. The F-16’s radar never broke lock.

  “Zodyak Two has music,” the second F-16 reported. Jamming signals. Definitely a hostile aircraft.

  “Control, Zodyak flight, our bandit has notched in response to our radar lock, and it now appears he’s attempting to jam our radars,” the flight leader reported. “We’re both dogru at this time.” The word meant “correct,” but in reality it meant, “We have no weapons at all. How about getting some help up here?”

  “Roger. Zodyak flight, an air defense emergency has been declared.” the ground radar controller reported. “Cekic One- Zero-One flight of two is airborne. ETA ten minutes.”

  “Roger,” the flight leader responded. The air defense strip alert birds got off the ground fast, but ten minutes was far too long. In ten minutes, this guy could be in Georgia or Russia. But they had him for now—there was no way they’d let him go without getting a look at him. “Zodyak flight will be bingo fuel in fifteen minutes, so we'll stick with him until Cekic gets here.” He switched to the number-two radio and set the UHF GUARD channel. “Let’s give him a call and see if he’s in a cooperative mood tonight.”

  “Bandit at our four o’clock, five miles ... four miles,” Yegorov said. “I think he locked on. He’s pursuing. He’s ... shit, he’s got a trailer. Bandit Two, three o’clock, twelve miles and closing. I think he—”

  “Attention, attention, unknown rider, unknown rider.” they heard on the UHF GUARD channel, the international emergency frequency, “flying north off the Samsun three-five-zero degree radial, one hundred ten miles, this is the Republic of Turkey Air Force, please respond with your call sign, type, and destination, squawk normal and ident.”

  “We’re outside his airspace!” Yegorov said. “He can’t bother us, can he? He can’t shoot us down out here! We’re in international airspace!”

  “No, but if he gets a look at us and reports us, our cover will be blown,” Stoica replied grimly. Well, if he wants to get a look at us, by all means, let’s oblige him, he thought. “Get the R-60s powered up and ready for launch,”

  “Wait a minute, Ion,” Yegorov said. “All we have are internal missiles. We shouldn’t launch them unless it’s an absolute emergency.”

  “You want this Turkish prick to get a look at us?” Stoica asked angrily. “Give me the R-60s right now!”

  Yegorov reluctantly powered up the weapon systems. They still had all four of their wingroot-launched R-60 heat-seeking missiles ready to go. “Missiles ready ... muzzle shutter open. Bandit one is six o’clock, nine miles, bandit two four o’clock, seventeen miles. Give me a target.”

  “Here we go.” Stoica pulled the Metyor-179 into a steep climb, went inverted, then rolled out aiming right for the lead F-16. In seconds, they had closed the distance between them.

  “Locked on!” Yegorov shouted. “Shoot!” He fired two R-60 missiles as soon as they were within range.

  It all unfolded in the blink of an eye, so fast that the Turkish flight leader did not notice—the rapid change in altitude, the rapid decrease in relative speed and distance, followed suddenly by an even faster decrease in relative distance and two bright flashes of light. "Missile attack!’* he shouted. “Evasive action! We're under attack!” The flight leader immediately popped decoy chaff and flares—-before realizing he didn’t have any chaff or flares—then shoved in full afterburner power, went to ninety degrees left bank, pulled on the control stick until he heard the stall-warning horn, then rolled out and yanked the throttle to idle.

  It was a last-ditch defensive effort, hoping against hope that the missile would lock onto the afterburner plume and then lose track completely when he shut off the burner, and the Turkish F-16 flight leader knew it. He knew he was toast long before the R-60 missiles plowed into his tailpipe and exploded, blowing his Fighter into a huge cloud of flying metal and flaming jet fuel.

  “Control, Control, aman allahim, homhok, Zodyak One has been hit! Zodyak One has been hit by two missiles!” the young pilot aboard Zodyak Two screamed on the command channel. "I do not have a radar lock! I am completely defensive! Do you have radar contact on the bandit?”

  “Negative, Zodyak Two, negative!” the ground radar controller responded. “Negative radar contact' Recommend vector heading one-niner-zero, descend to base plus zero, maximum speed. Get out of there now! Cekic flight is inbound, ETA eight minutes, base plus twenty.”

  The wingman thought momentarily about avenging his leader: searching the skies with radar and eyeballs and with sheer luck, then Finding the pic that had shot his friend and teacher down. But what he did was turn around back toward land and plug in full afterburner power. As much as he wanted to Fight, he knew he had nothing but anger with which to do it, and that would do him no good at all.

  “He’s turning! He's bugging out!” Yegorov crowed. “Full afterburner power—running scared at Mach One. So long, great Turkish warrior.” But his celebration was short-lived, because he had fault indicator lights on both missile launch tubes, and they would not clear. The missiles’ rocket motors had obviously damaged the titanium launch tube shutters, leaving them partly open or jammed inside the tubes.

  Stoica immediately turned eastbound once again, descending at idle power to keep his heat signature as low as possible and to try to hide in the radar clutter of the Black Sea until they were out of maximum radar detection range. “Don’t laugh too hard, Gennadi,” Stoica said. “That was very nearly us crashing to the Black Sea. Now we have to pray we have enough fuel to make it to base—we could end up at the bottom of the Black Sea if we’re not careful.”

  They were very lucky—one engine flamed out shortly after landing, and they barely had enough fuel to taxi off the runway and to the parking ramp before the second engine flamed out. The ground support crews had to frantically get a towbar and tug and pull the Metyor-179 into its hangar before anyone spotted the plane. The fuel tanks were literally bone-dry.

  The attack was a complete success—but neither Stoic nor Yegorov felt like celebrating anything except their own survival.

  SEVEN

  KFOR Headquarters, Camp Bondsteel, Pristina, Kosovo

  Later that morning

  “The situation is unraveling before our eyes, gentlemen,” General Sir Edmund Willoughby, commander of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization’s Kosovo Force (NATO KFOR), exclaimed. “I have the unfortunate task of advising everyone here this morning that the former Yugoslavian Republic of Macedonia has just declared war on the Republic of Albania, and vice versa.”

  The conference theater, once a motion picture screening theater, erupted into a hubbub of shock and anguish. Willoughby was presiding over an early-morning strategy session of all of the KFOR commanders at Camp Bondsteel, the headquarters for all NATO and United Nations peacekeeping forces in Kosovo, set up at a motion picture production studio near Pristina Airport in Kosovo. Also in attendance at Camp Bonsteel was the United Nations Special Envoy of the United Nations Preventative Diplomacy Mission, or UNPREDEP, Arhbassador Sune Joelson of Sweden. UNPREDEP was the military-civilian command that had taken over for the United Nations Protection Force in Macedonia in 1995 to try to restore law and order between Albania and Macedonia when border clashes had threatened to escalate to all-out war.

  “Have we any information on what touched off this incident?” Oberst (Colonel) Rudolph Messier, the German KFOR commander, asked.

  “Nothing,” Willoughby responded. “Eyewitnesses claim that Macedonian artillery units opened fire and destroyed several Albanian observation posts. Macedonia denies this, but claimed that those observation posts were really target spotting units, and th
ey say they intercepted several coded messages broadcast from those posts that they believed were target grid reports.”

  “That does not sound like sufficient provocation to open fire,” Colonel Misha Simorov, the Russian KFOR commander who had taken over Colonel Kazakov’s post, said.

  “Exactly—and that goes double for Albania,” Air Force Lieutenant-Colonel Timothy Greer, the American KFOR commander, inteijected. “Over one hundred and sixty confirmed deaths in Struga so far. Albania hit several historical locations, too,”

  “I am sure this w as a knee-jerk response to the Macedonian attack against Kukes,” Simorov said. “Two to three times as many died there.”

  “I’m not disputing the seriousness of either attack, sir,” Greer said to Simorov. “But why bombard a town with sustained artillery and rocket attacks for almost four hours over some hothead artillery officer lobbing a few across the border?”

  “You seem so eager to minimize the danger in this, Colonel,” Simorov said. “Macedonia committed an act of war—a preemptive strike against an observation post along a critical communications and transportation route. It certainly could have been interpreted as a prelude to an invasion.”

  “Invasion? ” Greer retorted. “Macedonia invading Albania? With what? The Albanian army outnumbers Macedonia’s by two to one; Macedonia has virtually no armor or artillery. That’s a ridiculous notion.”

  “Absurd or not, Colonel, an artillery assault—”

  “Suspected artillery assault,” General Messier said. “There is no hard evidence yet that Macedonia had any artillery of any kind near Struga.”