Warrior Class

by Dale Brown

  Already devastated by a slow economy, no foreign investment, and a general lack of confidence in its reformist government, Russia had finally refrained from any more military forays for several years. It was completely unable to influence events concerning former close friends Iraq, Serbia, and North Korea. Russia, whose landmass spanned almost half the globe's time zones and whose natural resources were unmatched by any country in the world, was quickly becoming a third-rate power.

  The rise of nationalist, neo-Communist leaders like Valentin Sen'kov had changed all that. Russia had reasserted its influence in deciding the fate of Bosnia, Serbia, and Kosovo, and it had used considerable military force to subdue the breakaway republic of Chechnya. Ukraine, because of its domineering location on the Black Sea, its large Russian population, and because it hadn't been properly brought into line during the 1995 conflict, clearly saw itself as next in line if it refused to toe the Russian line.

  Ukraine's answer: stop acting like a target, and start being a true European power and member of the world community. It started a conscription program---every high school student received ten weeks of military basic training as a condition of graduation, and every able-bodied person had to belong to a reserve unit until age forty-and increased defense spending tenfold. Ukraine had beefed up its Black Sea fleet, started training its ground forces using Gen-nan, Turkish, and American doctrine instead of Russian, and rebuilt its air forces-including reactivating the Tupolev-22M fleet. Since the 1995 conflict with

  Russia, twelve of the surviving twenty-one Backfire bombers had been returned to service.

  The most important change: increased integration with NATO military command structure and doctrine. Full integration would take many years, but the beginning

  of this important step in NATO's push toward Asia was taking place now. Two of the supersonic swing-wing bombers were at Nellis Air Force Base in southern Nevada, participating in U.S. Air Force-sponsored joint NATO air combat exercises. They were the most powerful, most anticipated, ex-Soviet warplanes ever to come to America.

  "How about we have a little fun, guys?" Captain Annie Dewey asked. The thirty-five-year-old brunette B-IB aircraft commander from the One-Eleventh Bomb Squadron, Nevada Air National Guard, was sitting in the right seat of the Tupolev-

  22M supersonic bomber. Per United States regulations, a U.S. military pilot had to be on board every multi -crew-member combat aircraft landing on an active military airbase. The nonstop flight from Ukraine to Las Vegas had taken only nine hours, including two aerial refuelings.

  "What do you have in mind?" Colonel-General Roman Smoliy, the crew commander, asked. With his square jaw, gray flattop, piercing blue eyes, square nose, and broad shoulders tapering to thin ankles, Roman Smoliy looked like he had been cast for a Hollywood movie. Smoliy was the chief of staff of the Ukrainian Air Force. Before the conflict with Russia, Ukraine had had a force of two hundred intercontinental bombers, equal to that of the United States, a mix of Tu-95 Bear turboprop bombers, Tu-22 Blinders, and Tu-160 Blackjack supersonic bombers, along with the Tu-22M Backfires. After the war, only fifty had remained. It was General Smoliy's job to decide if Ukraine should have any long-range bombers at all, and that meant learning how to employ them in battle. "Nothing boring, I take it?"

  "How well you know me already, General," Annie said. She spoke briefly on the radio, got the clearance she was looking for, then said, "Escorts, you're clear to depart. See ya on the ground." The two F- 16C Falcon air defense fighters, who had been escorting the big Russian bombers on their flight across

  the United States, wagged their wings and split off. "Okay, General, one-time good deal-all the airspace within thirty miles of Nellis, including over Las Vegas, is yours. Show us what these babies can do."

  General Smoliy broke into a wide grin, then reached across the center console, took Annie's hand, and kissed it. "Thank you, Captain." He secured his oxygen mask with an excited SNAP! and took a firm grip on the control stick. "Doozhe priyemno, Las Vegas," he said. "Pleased to meet you." He then jammed the throttles all the way to full military power and swept the wings back as far as they could go. He started a tight left turn back toward Las Vegas, his wingman in tight fingertip formation. It did not take long for the fori-nation to overfly the Strip. They had descended to just a thousand feet above ground level. They did two three-sixties over the downtown, using the Stratosphere tower as their orbit point.

  After the second orbit, just to make sure as many folks as possible were watching, Smoliy called out, "Dvee, drova, tup! " and he plugged in full afterburners. The two Tu-22Ms easily slid through the sound barrier, booming all of downtown Las Vegas. He then aimed directly for Nellis Air Force Base. Still traveling well past the speed of sound, both heavy bombers flew down the runway only two hundred feet above ground, creating a double rooster-tail from the supersonic shock wave that could be seen twenty miles away.

  At the north end of the runway, Smoliy pulled his throttles back to military power, yanked his bomber into a hard ninetydegree right-bank turn, and swept the wings forward, quickly slowing the big bomber down below the sound barrier. By the time they rolled out on the downwind side, they were at the perfect altitude and airspeed for the approach, and Smoliy and Dewey began configuring the bomber for their overhead approach. The second Tu-22M was precisely thirty seconds behind him.

  "That was awesome, General!" Annie shouted, after she double-checked that the landing gear was down and locked. "Totally awesome!"

  "Thank you, young lady," Smoliy said. "I do enjoy watching young excited women." He nodded to her, then said, "The

  aircraft is yours, Captain." Surprised but excited, she put her hands on the controls, and Smoliy patted her on the shoulder to tell her she had the aircraft. "Make us proud."

  She did. Annie Dewey made a perfect touchdown on Nellis's main runway and

  taxied to their parking spot, the applause of the huge crowd audible even over the roar of the idling engines. When both aircraft swept their wings partially back and shut down their engines simultaneously, the applause replaced and then easily surpassed the noise of the engines. After the crew stepped out of their aircraft, General Smoliy drove the cheers and applause to even greater heights when he stepped out to the end of the red carpet laid out for him on the tarmac and kissed the ground. The greetings, hugs, handshakes, and shoulder-slapping went on for a long time. General Smoliy greeted the Air Warfare Center commander, Major-General Lance "Laser" Peterson, and most of the others in the reception party like long-lost brothers.

  The Ukrainian bomber crew members also met other foreign aviators, including the commander of the Turkish Air Force, Major-General Erdal Sivarek, who had arrived with several of his aircraft and two jet transports carrying equipment and spare parts earlier in the day. The big Backfire bombers were parked directly across from the Turkish F-16s, and the size difference was astounding. The size difference carried over to the two commanders-the Ukrainian general was almost a foot and a half taller than the Turk. The meeting between the two commanders was cordial but icy; General Smoliy did not reserve the same jovial friendliness for the Turkish officer as he did his American hosts.

  "General Sivarek, merhaba," a voice behind Sivarek said after the encounter ended. "Gunaydin. Nasilsinizz? " It was Rebecca Furness, recently promoted to full colonel, the commander of the One-Eleventh Bombardment Squadron of the Nevada Air National Guard, based at Tonopah Test Range northwest of Las Vegas. "Do you remember me, General?"

  It took only a moment for the Turkish officer to recognize her, and his face, which had been dark with moodiness, brightened considerably. "Major ... no, Colonel Rebecca!" Sivarek exclaimed. "Siz nasilsiniz? I am glad you are well."

  "It's been a long time," Rebecca said. "It's nice to see you, but it's a time I'd sooner forget."

  Rebecca was the commander of the I I I th Bombardment Squadron of the Nevada Air National Guard, the only unit in the United States flying the EB - 1 C aerial battleship. Until their new
base was built in Battle Mountain, Nevada, her little unit of six EB-IC bombers was temporarily located at Tonopah Test Range, or TTR, in western Nevada inside the Nellis range complex.

  She had first met Sivarek just a few years earlier, during the Russian-Ukrainian conflict, when a power-mad Russian president had tried to reunite parts of the old Soviet Union by force. The Russians had used the pretext of Russian citizens being abused by governments in former republics to send the Russian Army in to reoccupy the republic. When Ukraine had put up a fiercer than expected resistance, Russia had retaliated with tactical nuclear weapons. The United States, fearful of allowing the conflict to escalate to an all-out nuclear war, had sent in only a few tactical air units to Turkey, including an Air Force Reserve unit from Plattsburgh, New York-Rebecca Furness's old unit, flying the RF- I I I G Vampire bomber, the first iteration of Rebecca's EB- I C Megafortress flying battleship.

  Although Rebecca's unit had acquitted itself well in several skirmishes against the Russians, the general feeling was that NATO and the United States had let their Turkish allies down. Several bases in Turkey and several warships had been destroyed by Russian attacks, yet the United States had refused to commit sizable forces against Russia. Only the heroism of Rebecca's tiny unit, and the desperate bravery of what was left of the Ukrainian Air Force, had prevented an all-out war-and saved Turkey.

  "It is indeed a small world. I am glad you kept up with your Turkish. Agzina siglik! Health to your mouth."

  "Tesekkur edetim, efendim, " Rebecca replied, giving him a slight bow. "Biraz konusuyorum. And that's about all I remember."

  Sivarek clapped his hands in approval. "So, what unit are you with?"

  "I'm with the Nevada Air National Guard," Rebecca

  replied. Sivarek noted with considerable interest that Rebecca did not go into any details. "We're participating in some of the exercises with your squadron and the Ukrainians."

  "Very good. I noticed your air force does not fly the RF- I I I s anymore.

  I would have welcomed the chance to try our hands at them." He nodded toward the Tupolev-22M Backfire bomber. "Those whales will be no trouble for us."

  :'They might have some surprises for you."

  'We have encountered them before, over the Black Sea on training flights and patrols," Sivarek said. "The Ukrainians seem unsure about pushing them to their full capability. It is understandable, I suppose. But I hope NATO is not counting on them for much."

  "Maybe we can help them improve their tactics."

  Sivarek nodded, his face darkening again, his lips thinning in frustration. "Your new friends in eastern Europe, I suppose," he said. "Turkey has been coming here to Red Flag and other exercises for over twenty years, but it seems as if we get little respect from the United States regarding affairs in our region. But when Ukraine wants to play NATO warriors, the world comes running."

  "I think that's not quite accurate," Rebecca said. But she knew he was at least partially correct. During the Russia-Ukraine conflict, Turkey had suffered tremendous loss of life and property, but afterward relations between Turkey and the West had mostly gone back to the way they were, as if the conflict had never happened at all. Instead of rushing in to help Turkey modernize its military, NATO's easternmost ally had been left to rebuild and rearm by itself, with no more than ordinary levels of support and cooperation from the United States or NATO.

  "You are a loyal American officer," Sivarek said with a smile. "I would have liked very much for you to have stayed in my country with your incredible RF- I I I fighter-bombers after the conflict."

  "I didn't know that."

  "The RF-111, the Vampire I believe you called it, would have been ideal for Turkey's defense," Sivarek explained. "A single aircraft with reconnaissance, counterair, close air support, heavy bombing, antiship, and electronic-warfare capabil-

  ities? We would have liked very much to have two squadrons. Unfortunately, you sold them all to Australia. That was a dark day for Turkey."

  "Some would have said it was a bright day for the Kurds and the Greeks."

  "We are not at war with Greece, nor will we ever be," Sivarek said. "All parties realize we must find a peaceful settlement to the Cyprus question. But the Kurds-they are a different song. They are butchers, terrorists, anarchists, and spawns of Satan."

  "The sight of F- I I I s bombing Kurdish villages would have sickened most Americans," Rebecca pointed out. "I understand the media paints a different picture than you'd like-they are portrayed as oppressed persons, persecuted by fundamentalist Muslim governments, denied a homeland by both Iraq and Turkey. The government will always be seen as the oppressor, and the Kurds as heroic refugees, like the Jews. Their hardships will be seen as the faithful struggling against tyranny."

  "Aci patlicani kiragi calmaz-the worthless don't suffer hardships," Sivarek said. "So Turkey, a NATO ally, is scorned by the West. Ukraine once aimed nuclear weapons at your country., Iran once tried to sink an American aircraft carrier and has engineered countless terrorist attacks against American interests, but you court their favor now so you can import their oil and counterbalance a resurging Russian hegemony. Turkey has cooperated with America for thirty years, standing on the front line of defense against Russia, yet we are virtually ignored. What is Turkey supposed to say about this American foreign policy?"

  "The old saying goes, if you don't like American foreign policy, wait a few days-it'll change," Rebecca said.

  "Ah yes-your new American president, the Jeffersonian hippie president," Sivarek said, with an amused, slightly mocking smile. "I think he will break up NATO. This will leave Turkey all alone to face the Russians. Very unfortunate. What will you do then? Will you come back then and help defend my country, Colonel Rebecca? Or will you come to the aid of your new Ukrainian friends instead?"

  "I don't think the President will ever actually leave or break

  up NATO," Rebecca said. "It would not be in our best interests. But I would very much like to speak with you about your country and your defense needs."

  "Oh?" Sivarek smiled that swarthy, cocky smile. "You never did mention what unit you are with, Colonel Rebecca." "No, I didn't," Furness said with a

  sly smile. She extended her hand, and he shook it warmly. "Gidelim, General."

  At that same time, when Annie Dewey emerged from the lead bomber's crew compartment, she was met by Colonel David Luger, and she ran happily into his arms. "Oh, God, David," she breathed, "it's so good to see you."

  Luger murmured a "Welcome back" to her, but she could tell immediately that his attention was elsewhere. When she looked at him after their embrace, she saw him staring with an almost blank expression at the Tupolev-22M Backfire bomber. "Hey, David," she said, studying his face with growing concern. "Everything okay9"

  "Sure ... sure. . ." But everything was not all right. She thought she began to feel his hands grow cold, and she swore that his face was looking paler.

  "You've seen one of these things before, haven't you?" she asked. "I thought you knew all there was to know about every warplane in the known galaxy."

  "Yes ... yes, I know all about 'Speka.' "Speka? What's that?"

  "Hey! My copilot! Annie!" they heard behind them. It was General Roman Smohy. "Hey you, I did not know you had eyes for any other man but me! Who is this usurper daring to compete with me for your affections?"

  David Luger turned-and looked into the face of Hell. "General, this is my good friend, Colonel . . ." But Annie's introduction was cut short when Luger suddenly turned and strode quickly away. "David!" she called after him. But he was quickly lost in the crowd that had come to see the big Ukrainian bombers up close.

  Annie turned back to Smohy. "I am so sorry, General. I don't know what ... "But when she looked at the big Ukrainian pilot, he was staring at the spot where Luger had been

  standing, with an odd expression on his face. "General Smoliy? What's wrong?"

  "Nothing, Hamiy," he replied absently, using his pet name for her, "Beaut
iful." "It is nothing. I thought I saw ... but it is impossible." He shook off the image, took Annie's hand, and kissed it. "He is special to you, no?"

  "He is special to me, yes."

  "Good for you," Smoliy said. "Very good. Take care of him." Annie tried but couldn't read anything else in the big general's eyes to give her a clue about what was going on.

  A few hours later, after the welcoming celebrations and brief meetings with the commander of the Air Warfare Center and the wing commander, the Ukrainian and Turkish commanders were escorted to their quarters, and General Peterson walked over to his secure battle staff room inside the base command post. Two officers were there waiting for them. "Well, well, so they do let you out of the sandbox once in a while, eh, Earthmover?" he said to one of the men waiting for him.

  "Only on special occasions, Laser," Lieutenant-General Terrill Samson, commander of the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center, responded with a smile. The big three-star black general extended a huge hand to Peterson. "You remember my deputy, Patrick McLanahan?"

  "Sure do," Peterson said, shaking hands with McLanahan. "That job at the Fifty-seventh Wing is still yours for the asking, Muck. Even though you're a bomber puke, you're still the best man for the job. Put your name in the bucket, and you're in the pipeline. I'll pick up that phone and set aside an Air War College slot for you right now. Just say the word."

  "Thanks, General," Patrick said, "but I'm very good right now." In his mid-forties, solidly built and unassuming, his blond hair slowly but surely turning gray, McLanahan looked more at home as a policeman or a high school wrestling coach, but in fact he had spent most of his professional life designing and testing exotic high-tech warplanes for the U.S. Air Force. He had never really aspired to be a wing commander. What he'd really wanted was what he'd just received-recognition of