To Slip the Surly Bonds

by Chris Kennedy

  I’ll just have to tell them the same thing they told me when I complained: ‘It will give you invaluable experience in speaking to the media and thus help with your professional development.’

  “Bet you’re glad to get shot of that lot, boss,” Squadron Leader George Wilkinson, the squadron’s senior navigator, remarked.

  “Where have you been hiding, George?” Foster asked, startled by the navigator’s appearance. “I’m pretty sure that our esteemed visitors from the media would want to interview the other half of the first Tornado crew to become aces.”

  “I’ve got paperwork to catch up on, boss, and then I need to inventory my personal kit and clean my SIG pistol. I’m afraid I don’t really have the time, sorry.”

  Foster laughed.

  “Nice try, George. I’m afraid you have to share the misery with the rest of us.”

  “Ah, well, worth a shot,” the navigator conceded.

  The door opened as an orderly from Sector Headquarters walked in with a message. Foster noted the red folder.

  “Sir, could you please sign for this?” the young corporal asked. Foster nodded, scribbling quickly on the requisite message form. Once that was done, he took the folder and checked to make sure no journalists could see what was inside. A quick scan caused him to purse his lips.

  “Clear the journos,” he stated. “It looks like we’re about to be busy.”

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later, Foster put the journalists out of his mind as his Tornado F.3 taxied out of the Hardened Aircraft Shelter (HAS). He needed to concentrate on the task ahead.

  “Leuchars Tower, Delta One Three Alpha requesting permission to depart, over.”

  “Delta One Three Alpha, Leuchars Tower, you are clear to depart; contact Buchan once airborne. Good luck, sir.”

  “Thank you, and Good Day, tower.”

  * * *

  Sentry AEW.1 ZH107, Over the North Sea.

  Squadron Leader Gambon was half-way through a cup of tea, and a bacon and egg roll, when his working day began.

  “Tactical director, surveillance controller, we have what looks like a possible raid developing over the eastern Baltic,” Sergeant Harris, one of the ZH107’s NCOs, stated. “Have designated as RAID BRAVO ONE THREE, currently composed of sixteen aircraft.”

  “I can see it on my screen.” Gabon replied. “What makes you think it is a threat to the UKADR? Could be heading for a target in the Central Region.”

  “The aircraft of RAID BRAVO ONE THREE have conducted what looks like air-to-air refuelling. A raid heading for the Central Region is not likely to need to do that,” the controller replied.

  “Your assessment would be a raid of Fencers or Fullbacks then?”

  “Affirmative,” Harris said. “We also have what looks like a raid of Backfires coming out of the Leningrad Military District.”

  “Well if it rains it pours.” Gabon commented.

  He consulted one of the other displays to check which RAF fighters were in the best position to intercept, then made sure the data-link system was transmitting the most up to date information to them. While the Sentry could control the air battle, for the moment it would be up to the controllers at the two Sector Operations Centres, RAF Buchan and RAF Neatishead, who would make the decisions regarding aircraft allocation.

  Of course, if they get knocked out, it’s on us, he thought, looking at the Backfires.

  * * *

  HQ, RAF Strike Command, RAF High Wycombe, Buckinghamshire.

  Air Chief Marshal Sir Michael Johnson’s day had also started early; he had risen from the narrow cot in the room provided for him in the station’s bunker, shaved, eaten a rather spartan breakfast, then taken his daily walk outside. The fact that he was accompanied by four armed members of the RAF Regiment and that even his ADC, Flight Lieutenant Victoria ‘Vicky’ Jackson carried a sidearm, had not spoiled his enjoyment of the fresh air. Well, not too much.

  As CINCUKAIR—the Commander in Chief UK Air Forces—Johnson controlled all NATO aircraft based in, or transiting through, the UK. His job had been onerous enough in peacetime. Now that certain people kept trying to bomb his command, the responsibilities had grown exponentially.

  “Let’s go to the Air Defence Operations Centre,” Johnson said, feeling much more refreshed. “Always good to show one’s face before things get too hectic.”

  Vicky and his security detachment laughed politely at his joke as they walked towards the bunker.

  “Morning, Colin, how goes it?” Johnson asked the senior officer on duty as he stepped through the final blast door.

  “Good morning, Sir.” Group Captain Colin Kenneth replied. “Their day shift has put in an appearance a little earlier. We’ve got several raids appearing already; Frontal Aviation stuff coming out of East Germany plus Long-Range Aviation Backfires out of Leningrad and the Kola Peninsula. Danes and Dutch might get some of the Frontal Aviation stuff, but we can’t bank on it given operations over the Central Front.”

  CINCUKAIR took a look at the large display on the far wall which showed all of the radar tracking information available to the ADOC superimposed on an electronic map before he replied. He was also able to take in the virtual tote board alongside it which showed the readiness state of every squadron under his command. The race-track traces of aircraft on combat air patrol, tanker trails, and AEW positions could also be clearly seen on the big display.

  “The Fencers and Fullbacks will probably be escorted.” Kenneth continued. “So, we’ll have the Tiffies go after them and send the Tonkas after the Backfires.” He said using the nicknames for the Typhoon FGR.2 and Tornado F.3.

  “Best use for them, Colin, although I do recall that Tonkas have still managed to give Flanker escorts quite a surprise, just as they did to Eagles at Red Flag last year,” Johnson said.

  If we ever wanted proof the upgrades were worth it, beating up those American Eagles provided it, Johnson thought. Still, not keen on having the Tornadoes fight Flankers too often.

  “Well, Colin, I’m due to call John Hazel, so I’ll let you get on with it. I’ll pop in this afternoon though, and see how things are going, but if you need me, give me a bell.”

  “Will do, Sir.”

  * * *

  Technology is a grand thing, Johnson thought. Air Vice Marshal William ‘Bill’ Hazel, Air Officer Commanding No. 11 (Fighter) Group, stood looking into the video camera at RAF Bentley Priory. The station where Air Chief Marshal Dowding had commanded the previous Battle of Britain, Bentley Priory had seen a great deal of updates since 1940. The Standby Air Defence Operations Centre (SADOC) that Hazel currently stood in was heavily computerized, giving him the ability to conduct a video conference with Air Chief Marshal Johnson as if the two had been in the same room.

  This is all a lot for a former fighter jock to take in, Johnson thought. Hazel had been a Phantom driver, while Johnson had flown the Lightning. There was more computing technology in the laptop running the conference than whole squadrons of either fighter could have boasted.

  At least Hazel has remained somewhat current, Johnson thought, remembering that he’d had to forbid Hazel from flying either Tornado F.3 and Hawk T.2 sorties after the man had done both the first day of the war.

  “Good morning, Sir, I hope you are well,” AVM Hazel stated.

  “Morning, Bill, I’m not bad thanks,” ACM Johnson replied. “I see it looks like our visitors are arriving a bit earlier today than intelligence suggested. Anything we should be worrying about?”

  “They went after a few of my mobile ground radars during the night; Neatishead lost one and Boulmer had an emitter damaged,” Hazel reported. “However, replacements are now operational, and I don’t have any gaps in ground radar coverage.”

  Johnson saw the man’s gaze shift as he looked at the map that was likely located just behind the SADOC’s video feed.

  “I’d expect the Soviets to try again during the day. I’ve ordered that as many of the emitters as possible be relocated t
o make locating them that bit harder.”

  “Could explain the extra Backfires,” Johnson replied. “You need me to shift any fighters or ask the Americans for some of their Eagles?”

  “No sir,” Hazel replied quickly, as if he’d anticipated the question. “The American deep strikes need escorts, and I don’t have any concerns about the fighter force and our ground defences. I could do with more of both, but I’m sure every commander has said the same during wartime.”

  Johnson chuckled.

  “Absolutely, Bill. We’re lucky to have as much as we do.”

  Both men shared a grim smile at that one, well aware of the politics that had nearly gutted Britain’s defence spending in the past. Thankfully, politicians in the 1980s and 1990s had stopped the rot.

  “If today is going to be a maximum effort from the other side, I fully expect them to go after our main HQs,” Johnson said. “So, there is every chance that you may need to take over; after all, you are my current designated deputy if anything happens to High Wycombe.”

  “You don’t have to worry on that account, sir,” Hazel replied. “We’re fully ready to take over here if need be. And as the navy toast goes: ‘Here’s to bloody wars and sickly seasons.’”

  CINCUKAIR chuckled at the reference.

  “You’ll not be getting a promotion today, I hope,” he replied. “Either through disease or AS-6.”

  “Don’t jinx yourself, sir,” Hazel replied, drawing an involuntary snort from Victoria.

  “That reminds me—no flying operationally,” Johnson said. “I know you took a Tornado up the other day. I expect to be talking to you in a few hours, not hearing from Gwendolyn that SAR are still trying to fish you out of the North Sea, Good luck to you and your people.”

  * * *

  Over the North Sea.

  Flight Lieutenant Katherine Catz, known by her squadron mates as ‘Katy Cat,’ or just ‘KC,’ loved flying the Typhoon FGR.2.

  Still the greatest aircraft ever built, she thought. Period. It was her second tour on the Typhoon, and her current tour with No. 74 (Tiger) Squadron was quite different than her previous stint with No. 92 Squadron at RAF Wildenrath in West Germany.

  I don’t think it’s being a lead, either, she thought. Her experience at Wildenrath had qualified her to lead a flight. She’d led three other Typhoons off the runway at RAF Wattisham in Suffolk, and now the two pairs were split at their station over the North Sea. It’d been about an hour flying a lazy figure-eight pattern before her data link had beeped at her.

  Looks like trade, Catz thought, her pulse picking up. She glanced over at her wingman, Flight Lieutenant Steve Carr, and saw he was waggling his wings to acknowledge he’d received the message as well. It was time to go engage the formation of Soviet aircraft designated ‘RAID BRAVO ONE THREE,’ a group of sixteen contacts that could be a mixture of various threats.

  Don’t know how they did it with Skyflash, never mind Red Top, on the Lightning, Catz mused. Her father and grandfather had both wore the Royal Air Force blue and flown interceptors. She was glad her Typhoon currently carried the six Meteors with their 300 km range; it was nice to be able to engage and still have 200 kilometres to play with before the Flankers could employ their AA-12 Adders. With four additional ASRAAM infra-red guided missiles and a 27mm Mauser cannon, theoretically the first two Typhoons could take down the entire raid before running out of missiles.

  Oh, to live in a world without ECM and self-protective jammers, she thought, giving a quick scan of her aircraft’s main Multi-Function Display. The Soviet raid was broken down into two formations. One of four aircraft, probably the escort, flew a couple of miles ahead of the main formation of twelve aircraft.

  Probably Fencers; hopefully not Fullbacks. The former aircraft, resembling the Americans’ F-111, had only rudimentary air-to-air capability. The latter, roughly analogous to the F-15E Strike Eagle, had the ability to carry four AA-12s for self-protection. Catz had not been on the flight that had first found that out, but it had resulted in three dead Tornadoes and a badly damaged Typhoon. In any case, first priority would be the escort, with the hope that their destruction would cause the bombers to turn around. Although Catz had yet to see this happen since the war had begun, allegedly just such an event had occurred on the war’s second day.

  If intelligence is to be believed, that flight commander was executed. Evidently, Soviet authorities took a dim view of aircrew that turned back, even if continuing on meant certain destruction. She turned her head to port, to see if the second pair of Typhoons were now in position.

  Here we go. Catz turned toward the threat and went to full military power, Carr following. They kept their CAPTOR radars silent for the moment, waiting until they were well within range of their Meteors. At 250 kilometres, Catz illuminated the radar. The Typhoon’s systems quickly sorted the targets, selecting those it assessed were the greatest threat. She armed the aircraft’s weapons and waited half a second.

  “Select Target One, Meteor One,” she told the Typhoon’s weapon system.

  “Target One, Meteor One selected.” the aircraft’s computerised voice confirmed.

  “Fox Three! Fox Three!” Catz announced, her first radio call of the sortie.

  The Meteor missile dropped away from the belly of the aircraft, its solid rocket igniting once it was clear. She saw the weapon flash away, then become a streak as its ramjet took over and pushed it past Mach 4.

  “Target Two selected,” the Typhoon’s computer intoned. Catz pushed the pickle button for a second time, transmitting yet another warning. With four missiles in the air from her formation, Catz and Carr shut down their radars, reversed course and lost height to try to avoid any return fire.

  * * *

  The lead pilot of the Soviet formation had expected to come under attack at some point—the radar warning receiver (RWR) of his Su-27M had been warning him about several airborne and ground radars scanning his aircraft. Amongst the plethora of warnings, he initially missed the addition of the Typhoons’ radars; he could not miss the strident warning of missile lock, however. The Soviet officer activated his aircraft’s defensive systems and began to manoeuvre hard, but it was too late. The Flanker was well within the Meteor’s ‘no escape zone,’ and it blasted the Soviet fighter in half. The pilot managed to eject from his crippled aircraft and started his descent towards the unforgiving North Sea below.

  * * *

  Catz could see that the four Meteors fired by her flight and the second pair of Typhoons had all found their targets. ‘RAID BRAVO ONE THREE’ had lost its escorts and was now vulnerable. To her surprise the bombers did not attempt to evade, instead they broke into two formations and came at the British aircraft, missiles separating from under their wings.

  “Warning! Warning! Radar lock!”

  “Oh my God, it’s a fighter sweep!” Catz radioed, even as she fired her own Meteors then began to evade.

  * * *

  Sentry AEW.1 ZH107.

  “Dammit!” Squadron Leader Gambon exclaimed as Catz’s warning blared across the speakers. He quickly checked the display; if the Soviet formation made it past the four Typhoons, there was only a pair of Tornado F.3s between them and ZH107. As he watched two of the Typhoons and another three Flankers wink out, Gambon was well aware the Soviets would happily sacrifice sixteen aircraft in exchange for a Sentry. That didn’t even account for the two additional raids starting to move out of the Baltic behind Bravo One Three.

  “Captain, tactical director, I am designating ‘RAID BRAVO ONE THREE’ as a direct threat to this aircraft. I’m authorising you to take evasive action as necessary to safeguard us.”

  “Roger that,” the aircraft captain replied.

  “Fighter controller, tactical director, tell those two Tonkas from CAP position Charlie Three Four to go after anything that gets past the Tiffies. We’re not going to wait for reinforcements to save us.”

  “Roger that,” the fighter controller acknowledged.

  While
the aircraft captain and fighter controller were carrying out their tasks, Gambon sent an urgent message to the ground. If his Sentry was threatened, it was likely the second aircraft also was.

  * * *

  Delta Flight.

  Wing Commander Foster had been waiting to be ordered to intercept a formation of Tu-22M4 Backfire bombers when he received a message about the threat to the Sentry.

  “It’s turned into a real fur-ball, boss.” Squadron Leader Wilkinson reported from the rear cockpit. He could see that the two remaining Typhoons were fighting for their lives against Bravo One Threes’ remnants. “Two bandits are heading our way.”

  “Right, George, got it. Time for us to earn our pay.”

  The pair of Tornado F.3s turned up threat and went to full military power. Like the Typhoons before them, they kept their Foxhunter radar silent, there being no point to alerting the enemy to their presence before they could engage. The Tornadoes had a much harder task, as their AMRAAMs had around the same range as the missiles carried by the Flankers. The Soviet aircraft would have a small window of opportunity to return fire once the RAF aircraft had engaged.

  “Coming up on ideal firing range boss, in…three…two…one…lighting them up now.”

  “Fox Three! Fox Three!” Foster announced as soon as he had lock.

  In normal circumstances, he would have launched a single missile at a target, after all, the AIM-120C had a kill probability (pK) of something like .95—at least in theory anyway—against target drones. However, these were not normal circumstances, and the enemy were certainly not target drones, so he fired a pair of missiles at each Flanker, knowing his wingman would do the same.

  “Hold on to your hat, George!” Foster told Wilkinson as he turned the F.3 sharply away from the Soviet aircraft and put it into a dive, pushing the throttle through the gate and engaging reheat. The aircraft creaked and groaned alarmingly as he pushed it to its limit.