Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 09

by Warrior Class (v1. 1)

  “We intend this to be a down payment on the very large bill Kazakov owes to the people of the Balkans,” Patrick replied, “especially the people of Kukes, Struga, Ohrid, Resen, and those who died in the NATO E-3 AWACS radar plane and the Turkish F-16 shot down over the Black Sea by his marauding stealth fighter. This tanker and its cargo represent a half-billion-dollar investment for Pavel Kazakov. We are going to send it to the bottom of the Black Sea.”

  “Shto?” Boriskov shouted. “You cannot do that! It would be a monumental ecological disaster! That spill would pollute a large portion of the Black Sea for years!”

  “Let it be on Pavel Kazakov’s hands,” Patrick said. “Maybe by sinking this ship, the world will soon learn everything about Kazakov and his bloody greed.”

  “What are we going to do. Captain?” the Besstrashny’s executive officer asked. “We won't be able to reach it in time.”

  “We are going to have to disable it,” Boriskov said. “Combat, this is the captain. Target the rudder and propulsion area of the stern on the tanker. I want it stopped dead in the water Once we catch up to it, we'll board it and hold it until help comes from Russia.”

  “We are inside Turkish treaty waters, Captain,” the navigator warned. “We are prohibited from discharging weapons.”

  “This is an emergency situation,” the captain said. “Combat, carry out my last—”

  “Bridge, Combat, high-speed aircraft inbound, low altitude, bearing zero-two-zero, range eight-seven kilometers, speed........ speed thirteen hundred kilometers per hour!” the radar operators in the Combat Information Center called out. “Multiple contacts.”

  “Attention, attention, destroyer Besstrashny, this is the Black Sea Alliance bomber north of you,” the bridge crew heard moments later. “You have entered Alliance treaty waters and are hereby ordered to reverse course immediately or you will be fired upon.”

  “There’s that Alliance bullshit again.” Boriskov exclaimed. “Number One, battle stations.” The battle stations alarm rang once again. “Combat, release batteries on the forward 130 only and open fire. Disable the tanker before it gets too far into Turkish treaty waters.” The AK-130 cannon opened fire on the tanker, one two-round volley every four seconds. The stem of the tanker Ustinov exploded in a burst of flames.

  “Bridge. Combat, inbound antiship missiles, bearing zero- two-zero. eighty kilometers and closing, speed nine hundred kilometers per hour and accelerating, sea-skimmer! Additional radar contact aircraft, bearing thrce-four-zero, multiple contacts, low altitude and high speed, possible antiship missile attack profile as well.”

  “Helm, hard to port heading zero-two-zero,” Boriskov ordered, “Combat, Bridge, cease fire on the tanker. Stand by to defend against high-speed sea-skimmer All defensive batteries released.”

  “Sir! Look! The tanker!” Boriskov turned and saw a massive ball and column of fire, like a small nuclear explosion, erupt on the forward portion of the tanker The fire was so bright that it cast shadows on the deck of the Besstrashny over twenty kilometers away. Seconds later the shock wave from the blast rolled over them, rattling windows and sending a vibration through the deck.

  “The tanker is gone,” Boriskov said. “It'll be on the bottom in minutes, and they’ll be cleaning up that oil slick for the next ten years.”

  “Bridge, Combat, numerous small vessels approaching the tanker from the south,” the radar operator reported. “Possibly Turkish naval patrol boats or fire boats.”

  “Never mind the damned tanker—it’s gone,” Boriskov shouted. “Time to impact on that sea-skimmer?”

  “Sea-skimmer passing twelve hundred kilometers per hour,” the radar operator reported. “Time to impact, three point four minutes.”

  “Count down every fifteen seconds.”

  “Destroyer Besstrashny. this is the Black Sea Alliance Air Command. You will reverse course immediately or we will continue our attack,” the radio message said.

  “How dare you attack a flagship of the Russian Federation Navy!” Boriskov retorted. “I warn you, abort this attack or consider it an act of war!”

  “You have committed an act of war by opening fire in Turkish waters without authorization,” the bomber crew responded. “We have begun the countdown on five more antiship missiles, Captain, and we will launch them if you do not cease fire and reverse course immediately. It may be an act of war, but the Besstrashny will be the first casualty if you do not head out of Alliance waters immediately.”

  “Time to impact, three minutes.”

  The bridge crew looked over at their captain in horror. They were positioned correctly to defend against the first missile, but not against more fired from a different angle. If the other bombers launched, the Besstrashny's defenses could be quickly overwhelmed.

  “Black Sea Alliance, or whoever you are,” Boriskov radioed. “this is the Besstrashny. We will exit your waters without further incident. Abort your attack!” Seconds later, they saw a flash of light in the sky, and the CIC reported they had lost contact with the first sea-skimmer.

  "Yibis ana v rot!" Boriskov swore loudly. “Comm, Bridge, notify Destroyer Group in Novorossiysk—tell them we came under attack by some group calling itself the Black Sea Alliance. Give position, include details of the weapon they fired at us, notify them that we are being directed on where to go from here under threat of massive aerial attack, and ask for instructions.”

  Rather than make it better, the oxygen just seemed to be making Stoica’s headache worse. He tried to gulp down some water to keep his mouth and throat moistened, but his liver was sucking all the moisture out of his body to try to digest all that rotgut wine. and he was losing that battle.

  Yegorov wasn’t making it any better He was continuing a steady stream of chatter on the intercom, repeating every message over and over. “Six bombers! Did you hear that? This Black Sea Alliance has surrounded the Besstrashny with six bombers! This Black Sea Alliance has got balls. I’ll admit that.”

  “Can you please shut up and just find the one closest to the destroyer. Gennadi?” Stoica asked.

  “I’m not sure which one without activating the radar.”

  “Then just pick one. and let’s let him lead us to the others,” Stoica said impatiently. “This is not rocket science.”

  “The nearest one is at our eleven o’clock, range approximately fifty kilometers,” Yegorov said. “Just outside maximum missile range.”

  “I know w hat the maximum range of our missiles is, damn you. I know,” Stoica moaned. Along with the four emergency R-60 missiles in their wing launchers, the Mt-179 Tyenee carried an AKU-58 external weapon pylon on each wing with one radar-guided R-27P missile on the bottom of the pylon and one R-60 heat-seeking missile on each side of the pylon, plus two Kh-29TF TV-guided missiles in the bomb bay, with its receiver pod bolted onto the aft external centerline weapon station behind the bomb bay. The R-27P was one of Russia’s newest air- to-air missiles, developed by Metyor Aerospace, that was designed to home in on enemy radar signals—it did not need any guidance signals from its launch aircraft.

  “You’re lucky if that old hag didn’t mix some kerosene in with that wine. Ion,” Yegorov said, and chuckled.

  “Idi na-huy, Gennadi ”

  “Forty kilometers. Coming within R-27 range. Ready to commit weapons.”

  “Where are the other bombers?”

  “I’m detecting two more aircraft at our two and three o’clock positions, range unknown, so they must he farther than fifty kilometers away. Surface search radar only—no fire control or uplink signals. I think they’re the bombers that are covering the Besstrashny

  “Any sign of those fighters?”

  “None.”

  Stoica ripped off his oxygen mask in frustration. The one- hundred percent oxygen he was breathing to try' to recover from his hangover was drying out his mouth and throat even faster. He knew, but didn’t want to concede, that pure oxygen really did nothing: only time was effective in recovering from the effec
ts of too much alcohol. He had already drained both of his canteens of water on this flight, and they had been airborne less than an hour. His skin was starting to crawl, his hands were shaking, and if he moved his eyes too fast, all the gauges would start to pinwheel around the cockpit on him. He would never make it through an entire four-hour patrol. If he didn’t get down out of this plane and into bed in the next hour, he was going to pass out.

  “Warm up the R-27s and give me a hot button,” Stoica ordered.

  “Roger,” Yegorov said. A moment later: “R-27s ready. What’s your plan. Ion?”

  “Simple—take them all out,” Stoica said. He got a lock-on tone in his headset and pressed the launch button. The first R-27 leapt off the starboard rail and disappeared into the night sky on a yellow line of fire. The sudden burst of light sent slivers of pain shooting through Stoica’s head. Seconds later, they saw a large, bright explosion off in the distance—the missile had found its target. “Splash one bomber. Line up the next one, Gennadi.”

  “Radars are down. Ion,” Yegorov said. “All the other bombers shut down their search radars." Without an enemy radar indication, the bombers assumed that their attacker had a home-on-radar guided missile—all they had to do was turn off their radars to take that capability away. That meant that the Tyenee had to turn on its radar to lock on to the bombers.

  “Then fire up ours," Stoica ordered He turned slightly to the right. “We know he’s off our nose right now—radiate for five seconds and let’s go get him.”

  “It’s too dangerous. Ion,” Yegorov said. “There’s still at least five enemy aircraft out there, and we don’t know where the fighters are. Let them reveal themselves. Don’t worry— we’ve got lots of fuel.”

  Stoica bent his head down so his mouth was pointing directly down on the floor and so nothing in his stomach would hit his instruments, but it was only dry heaves. Those were definitely the worst. “I said, go to radiate on the radar and let’s nail those bombers,” Stoica ordered again. “We don’t have time to waste. They can begin their attack on the destroyer at any second."

  “But they’re not—”

  “I said, turn the damned radar on, and do it now!” Stoica shouted, tasting and nearly retching again on bile in his throat.

  “Radar on,” Yegorov finally reported. “Bandits at twelve and one o’clock, forty-five and sixty kilometers.”

  “Got him,” Stoica said. “Keep the radar on.” He locked up the first bomber and shot their second R-27 missile.

  “Enemy aircraft inbound!” Yegorov shouted. “Five o’clock, fifty kilometers and closing fast! Enemy fighters, probably F-16s!” Stoica started hard S turns around the axis of attack on his quarry, not willing to break radar lock and trying to confuse the inbound fighters. “Still closing, forty kilometers, intermediate lock growing to a solid lock. Ion, let's get out of here!”

  The two Metyor pilots could see beads of decoy flares ejecting into the night sky, their magnesium spheres bright enough to be seen for a hundred kilometers. They knew that the second bomber had detected the missile-steering uplink signal, which meant a missile was in the air, and it began ejecting chaff bundles to decoy the radar. Sure enough, Stoica could see his radar lock-on box remaining stationary, not following the string of decoy flares, then suddenly following, only to be decoyed off its target again.

  “It missed, Ion!” Yegorov shouted. He realized they had stayed on virtually the same heading for too long, allowing the pursuing fighters to deploy in a wide spread-out pattern—no matter which way they turned, one of the fighters could begin a high-speed tail-chase on them. “Bandits at thirty kilometers! Let's get out of here! Radar down!” The lock-on box disappeared, meaning Yegorov had shut off the attack radar. “Solid lock on us, Ion! They've got us!”

  “Then we fight our way out,” Stoica said. “Radar to transmit. Warm up the R-60s.” Just then, they heard a DEE- DLEDEEDLEDEEDLE! warning tone in their helmet headsets. “Missile launch radar! Chaff! Flares/” Yegorov ejected decoys while Stoica threw the Mt-179 into a hard right turn. “I said, radar to transmit!” he shouted.

  Yegorov had to fight through the rapidly building g forces to turn on the attack radar and pre-arm all of the remaining R-60 missiles. “Your button is hot. Ion, R-60s external and internal in sequence are ready.”

  The nearest enemy fighter was just starting a hard climbing right turn, apparently after firing a radar-guided missile. Stoica quickly reversed direction, shoved in full afterburner power, and climbed after him. He saw and then felt a hard SLAM! underneath and just behind him—one of the enemy missiles had just missed by less than fifty meters. Seconds later, he got a “Lock” indication on his heads-up display and fired one R-60 heat-seeker. He knew he shouldn’t turn away from an enemy fighter above him—he had plenty of energy to turn back and pursue—but he was one versus at least four, and he had to keep moving. Besides, the guy above him was either defensive now, or he was dead.

  Stoica immediately executed a hard-right diving turn to aim his radar back to where he thought the enemy fighters were. The fighter farthest to the west was turning after him. but another was still flying straight, crossing under and behind to cover his leader’s tail. Stoica tightened his turn even more to go after the wingman—but he received a stall warning buffet and felt his wings rumble in protest. “Airspeed!” Yegorov warned.

  “Screw airspeed—this bastard’s mine!” Stoica growled. He kept the turn in. The turn bled off lots of speed, but the dive helped, and he was able to keep it just above stall speed. When he rolled out, the enemy fighter was almost in front of him, starting a turn to the east to cover, and Stoica fired an R-60 at him.

  Another warning warble. “Missile launch!” Yegorov cried out. “Break left!”

  Stoica threw the stealth fighter into a tight left turn. But that was a mistake, They had been just above stall speed for the past several moments, and the level break he had just made pushed him into a full stall'—and with one wing down, the Mt- 179 entered a snapping left spin. Stoica heard a loud WHACK! and a yelp, then a moan, then silence. “You all right, Gennadi'?” No response, just another moan. What in hell happened? But Stoica had no time to check him out further—if he didn’t stop this spin quickly, they’d both be hurling.

  Because of its forward swept-wing technology, the aerodynamic characteristics of the Metyor-179 stealth fighter were unlike those of any other aircraft. A stall-spin in an aircraft designed to be super-maneuverable was usually fatal, and stall recovery was not like any other aircraft. Rather than trying to counteract the spin with rudder, lower the nose, and level the wings as in a normal airplane, Stoica had to pull power, use flaps, the speed brake, and ailerons to slow down as much as possible, turn off the automatic flight-controls, match the control stick and rudder controls to the aircraft attitude, then reset the automatic flight control system. He had to do that as fast and as many times as necessary until the plane recovered itself.

  Sometimes it happened on the first try and the stall-spin lasted one or two turns; other times it lasted longer and he could lose a frightening amount of altitude in a hurry.

  It took four complete turns and almost a thousand meters’ altitude before Stoica could regain control. The threat scope still showed three enemy fighters out there—he had tagged only one. The spin recovery routine had sapped almost all his airspeed, so he had no choice but to stay straight and level until airspeed built back up.

  The enemy fighters didn't waste time—they started in after him again, rolling in behind him in the blink of an eye. Stoica immediately turned left, staying level until his airspeed built up enough, then raised his nose and aimed for the first fighter, waiting until it presented itself He knew he couldn’t stay like this long, so he fired one missile, acquired a second fighter, fired another missile nose-to-nose, then veered right and dove before he stalled out again.

  Stoica knew he had used all of his pylon-mounted missiles, so it was time to jettison the empty pylons. Just in time—once they
were gone, they’d regain their stealth profile, and it sure would help his chances of survival if the enemy couldn’t see him. He leveled off. The three enemy fighters were still up there, but they had dodged away and were defensive. “Okay, Gennadi,” he said to his backseater as he leveled off. “Jettison the pylons and let’s take those zas'er'as on a trip to the bottom of the Black Sea.” No response. “Gennadi? What in hell are you doing back there?” He adjusted his mirror to inside the rear cockpit—and saw Yegorov’s head lolling down from side to side. One of the sharp turns must’ve caught him unawares and knocked him unconscious against the canopy.

  There were only a few things the pilot of the Mt-179 could not do from the front seat—unfortunately, jettisoning pylons was one of them. Stoica was stuck with them until Yegorov woke up. “Gennadi!” he shouted. “Gennadi! Wake up!” Yegorov did not appear to be fully unconscious, just stunned, but he was definitely not responding.

  Definitely time to get the hell away from here. Stoica turned westbound and started a rapid descent, trying to get to a lower altitude quickly while the F-16 fighters were regrouping. The Tyenee wasn't totally stealthy anymore with the pylons on, even though they were empty, but the farther he could fly away from the F- 16s, the harder he would be to detect—and if there were any seas below, he might be able to hide in the radar reflections from the—

  DEEDLE DEEDLE DEEDLE! Not so fast, Stoica thought—one of the F-l 6s had locked on to him already, about forty kilometers behind him. He increased his descent rate to six thousand meters per minute and reached one hundred meters above the Black Sea in less than a minute. Now it was a foot race The Romanian coastline was four hundred kilometers ahead. It was very flat until about one hundred and fifty kilometers in, but then the Transylvanian Alps rose quickly across the interior, and he could hide. It would be a long flight, almost twenty minutes at this speed, but maybe the Turkish F-l6s were already low on fuel and wouldn't be able to give chase.