Northern Fury- H-Hour

by Bart Gauvin

  The tactical director on the AWACS, a US Air Force lieutenant colonel named McCall, responded through his intercom. “Has he locked onto us?”

  “No sir, he’s not even emitting,” answered the airman.

  That’s strange, thought the light colonel, feeling uneasy. Then the memory hit him, Passive homing missiles. They’re tracking in on our own signal!

  “Shut down the radar!” McCall ordered into the headset of everyone in the converted Boeing 707’s long fuselage, where more than thirty crew members were working to control the fight over this frontier with the Soviet foe, “Shut it down, NOW!” He switched the intercom to the plane’s cockpit and called, “Missile! We have incoming, bearing zero-eight-zero. I’m shutting down the dome.”

  Over their heads, the thirty-foot diameter radar dome, which did its best to imitate a flying saucer trying to land on the back of the 707, ceased its six revolutions per minute as the crew cut power to the sensor. It wasn’t that simple, McCall knew. The radar would take several dangerous minutes to power down completely. Until it did so, the Soviet missiles would have a signal to guide on. McCall felt the aircraft’s deck pitch down even more sharply under his feet as the pilot dove to gain speed and distance on the incoming missiles. With nothing else to do, and a lot to worry about, he fixed his attention upon the overall air picture at his console to review the situation in the chaotic skies over Northern Norway and the seas off the northern coast.

  McCall had to concede that Viper Two-One’s ambush of the northern group of Flankers had been brilliant, despite the leakers who just launched at the colonel’s own aircraft. To the south, however, Viper One-One flight had confronted another eight Su-27s under far less favorable conditions. The lead F-16 pilot from the flight had eaten a missile head on. His wingman was now fleeing west on afterburner, dodging missiles as he went, all eight Sukhois in hot pursuit. Farther to the east, the AWACS’ radar had just begun to pick up the returns of dozens of contacts approaching from the Soviet side of the international border. Tasman was reporting multiple Mig-23 and Mig-29 fire control radars. More F-16 pilots were even now pushing their throttles forward climbing desperately from their dispersal fields at Banak, Tromsø, Evenes, and Bardufoss, but they would find a sky swarming with Soviet fighters by the time they reached altitude. Finally, seconds before powering down, McCall’s ballistic radar operator had detected what could only be a rocket rising from just beyond the Soviet border. Overall, not good. All hell is breaking loose.

  Offshore, the Norwegian coastal radar network and a P-3 Maritime Patrol plane were tracking multiple groups of Soviet ships moving west. A squadron of Russian Osa-class missile craft was sweeping towards the North Cape, having stayed just outside Norway’s twelve-mile territorial sea boundary throughout the morning. Farther north, two surface groups of Soviet patrol frigates were ploughing westward through the gray, choppy waters of the Barents Sea.

  Several other motley groups of Soviet ships were operating further east. The smallest were rusty World War II-era landing craft, now entering the wide mouth of the Varangerfjӧrd on a course for the small port of Vardø. The largest was a group of merchantmen led by an icebreaker trailing the dangerous Osbr-class hovercraft racing across the water far out to sea at the incredible speed of sixty knots. Each of these impressive craft could carry up to a company of troops and armored vehicles.

  McCall could feel the tension building in the cabin around him as the E-3 continued its dive away from the oncoming missiles. One controller nearby wiped sweat from her brow, despite the air conditioning meant to keep the AWACS’s banks of computers humming at peak efficiency. Others looked up and around, as if trying to spot the incoming threats through the jet’s fuselage. The tactical director decided to direct at least one crew member’s mind away from the threat. “Lieutenant Visser,” he called to the Dutch officer responsible for tracking naval movements, “what was the status of friendly naval forces before we shut down?”

  “Eh,” the man stuttered, caught off guard with his mind elsewhere. Then he gathered himself and reported, “Sir, the Royal Norwegian Navy has,” he paused to double check, “nine missile boats staged around the North Cape. They are all at sea, divided into three groups. Well, four if you count the single boat returning from maintenance at Tromsø as a separate group. One group is west of the Cape, one is sheltering in the Laksefjӧrd east of the Cape. The third just left Batsfjӧrd on the Varanger peninsula, they just called to report that they are executing an attack on that group of Osas to their north.”

  The Dutchman went on, appreciating the chance to push the fear from his mind as he did so, “The Norges have two submarines in the area. Ulbben sortied several hours ago; she’s sweeping up the coast past Tromsø right now.”

  “Major surface units?” McCall queried, hoping to continue busying the minds of his team with something that might prove useful if they survived.

  The junior officer shook his head. “Nothing close,” he said. “The Norge frigates Berdkapp left Banak an hour ago carrying a couple hundred evacuees from Lakselv but, by my judgement she won’t clear the mouth of the Porsangerfjӧrd before the Soviets get there.”

  McCall nodded, it was hard to really listen. He didn’t know if he was going to make it through the next few seconds, and after that, the war. The drama of the small naval craft about to collide off the jagged coast of Northern Norway was only peripheral to the most important issue: keeping information flowing for the NATO forces.

  Outside the E-3, the two R-27P missiles arced downward towards the piece of sky that the AWACS had occupied just before the aircraft’s massive radar shut down. With a rapidly weakening signal to guide on, the first missile flew through this empty patch of atmosphere and continued downward, eventually smashing into the snowy forest far below without detonating, never registering that it had had failed to hit its target. The second missile’s seeker had picked up the last few electrons being emitted by the E-3’s huge radar as it finally powered down completely. The R-27’s warhead detonated twenty meters from the AWACS, spewing hot metal into the big jet’s left wing, destroying the inboard engine on that side and igniting a fire that streaked back from the wing like the tail of a comet.

  McCall felt the aircraft shudder as the pilot worked desperately to keep his wounded bird airborne while at the same time putting out the fire that threatened to engulf the entire aircraft. McCall felt his ears pop as the 707 dove. Others of the crew were cringing, clearly wondering if their lives were about to end inside this aluminum tube. Soon the E-3 began to run out of altitude, and McCall felt himself pressed downward as the pilot pulled back on the stick, easing the Boeing into level flight. He heard one of the flight crew announce that the flames were extinguished just as the AWACS crossed over the rugged fjӧrds of the coast. Snowy rock and forest beneath gave way to black water as the wounded bird clung desperately to the air.

  Rattled by the explosion, McCall worked to transfer the AWACS surveillance and control responsibilities to the network of ground radar stations that dotted the northernmost parts of Norway. “Call the Norge pilots,” McCall told his controllers. “Tell them they’ll need to rely on the ground stations until we can get a replacement for us up from Orland.”

  The ripping sound from the left side of the aircraft brought them all back to reality. The aircraft was comeing apart around them.

  Then the Scuds began to impact.

  CHAPTER 49

  1302 CET, Sunday 13 February 1994

  1202 Zulu

  Over Finnmark, Northern Norway

  THE SCUD-DS FIRED by the battalion at Koskama Mount differed from earlier versions of the ubiquitous ballistic missiles, made infamous by Saddam Hussein’s use of them during the Persian Gulf War three years earlier. This new iteration possessed a terminal guidance system, allowing the warheads to adjust their aim as they streaked back to earth, rather than relying solely on the perfection of the weapon’s ballist
ic arc. The modification improved the Scud’s accuracy so that it was now able to reliably hit precise point targets. Targets like the NATO ground radar stations that dotted the terrain across Northern Norway.

  The first warhead streaked downward and crashed through the white plexiglass globe protecting the coastal surveillance radar at the northern tip of the Varanger peninsula. Its nine hundred and eighty-five kilograms of high explosives detonated inside the dome, blowing the protective white panels outward like a popping balloon and demolishing the fragile equipment within. Of the six Scuds fired, four scored direct hits on their targets with similar results. A fifth warhead struck close enough to the radar at the North Cape to shut it down for some time while the crew rushed to repair it.

  Only in one instance did a Scud-D miss its intended target. The air search radar responsible for the skies over southern Finnmark, codenamed “Backstop,” survived when the warhead failed to separate from the missile body, sending both warhead and pieces of the rocket tumbling downward to the boreal forests below. This radar immediately became vital to NATO’s air controllers for maintaining situational awareness over the battle front, and they began vectoring precious F-16s in to protect it.

  Mitroshenko grunted as the high-G turn pressed him into the seat of his fighter. He didn’t know if his missiles had struck the AWACS or not. He suspected not, since the emissions from the control aircraft had ceased shortly after he had loosed his weapons. Regardless, his attack had produced the desired effect: to deprive the NATO fighters over Northern Norway of aerial radar support at the same time that the Scuds demolished their ground radar network. This left the Norwegian pilots essentially blind in this modern age of electronic sensors and homing missiles, forcing them to activate their onboard radars and reveal their positions to the Russian assailants.

  The Soviet pilot needed no help, however, in locating the F-16 that was close on his tail, staying with him through his tight, diving turn. Mitroshenko had just dodged one Sidewinder. His wingman was scissoring with Mitroshenko and the Norwegian, trying to get a shot at the assailant. The Norwegian had closed tight up on Crane Lead’s tail, preventing the other Russian from taking a shot without endangering his flight leader. However, the NATO pilot’s proximity also prevented him from employing his missiles, forcing the Norwegian to rely instead upon his aircraft’s gun.

  Mitroshenko intended to gain a measure of revenge against this pesky Nordic pilot; all he needed was to create the right conditions. To do this, Mitroshenko continued to bleed off speed via his Sukhoi’s high-G turn, reducing his throttles to gain more maneuverability, the F-16 turning with him all the way. The Russian watched his airspeed indicator drop until—

  He threw his stick over and pulled back, bringing his Su-27 to level flight. The Falcon driver behind him matched this gambit, but in the next split second Mitroshenko executed a maneuver for which the Norwegian was not prepared and which he could not match. The Soviet pilot pulled back hard on his stick, bringing the nose of his fighter up to near vertical. At the same time, he shoved his throttles forward, increasing power to his engines. The effect was a maneuver called the “Cobra,” in which the Russian’s airplane continued forward in level flight despite its nose pointing straight upwards, rapidly bleeding speed as the engines roared to maintain the fighter’s altitude.

  Grunting through the Gs of the challenging maneuver, he was vaguely aware of the white streaks of twenty-millimeter tracer rounds flashing by his canopy. Looking down over his shoulder to see the gray shape of the F-16 flash by underneath, close enough for him see the roundels on the other aircraft’s wings and the visored face of the Norwegian looking up at him.

  Mitroshenko now shoved his stick forward, bringing his nose back down until it was pointed directly at the F-16’s tail, suddenly reversing the situation. The Russian did not intend to give his opponent the chance to turn the tables again. As the Norwegian aircraft gained separation from the Flanker, he locked the seeker heads of two of his short-ranged R-73 infrared homing missiles onto the Falcon’s hot engine exhaust and fired. The white-painted darts shot forward, covering the distance between the two aircraft in seconds.

  The Norge didn’t even have time to trigger his defensive flares. The two missiles exploded within milliseconds of each other, riddling the Falcon with shrapnel. Mitroshenko watched the aircraft begin to tumble towards the clouds below, seeing if the other man would eject. There. A flash of fire as the Norwegian activated his ejection seat, the Falcon’s canopy exploding outward as the pilot exited the cockpit atop a small rocket.

  “Well done Lead!” Mitroshenko heard his wingman call over the radio net. The flight leader looked over to see the other Sukhoi forming up on his wing. He nodded to his comrade, realizing suddenly that he was soaked with sweat.

  Over the radio, the controller on the A-50, the Soviet equivilant of the E-3, ordered “Crane Lead, this is Control 2. Turn southeast and withdraw towards the border. You have two enemy contacts approaching you from the east, low, and two more rising from your north. Let the second wave handle them. End.”

  “Da,” he acknowledged, then called to Crane Two, “left turn on me.”

  The two Russians settled onto a southeasterly course, heading away from the converging pairs of NATO fighters. Then Mitroshenko paused as a realization hit him: Those two contacts coming up from the east are the same ones who ambushed us over the fjӧrd!

  “Two, this is Lead,” he called, “we’re going after the two coming from the east. How many missiles do you have left?”

  “Two longs, four shorts,” reported Two, indicating that he still carried two R-27s and his full complement of the shorter-ranged heat seeking R-73s.

  Two shorts and four longs for me, tallied Mitroshenko. Plenty.

  “Very well, Two,” he called, “turning left and descending. Follow me.”

  “Da, Lead.”

  Olsen’s elation at his and Bjorn’s victories over the fjӧrd had faded while he listened over the radio to the destruction of Viper Two-Three. Then Two-Four’s frantic report that he was ejecting. Those Falcons had been flown by two of the six pilots who had come north with Olsen to Banak last night. They were all squadron mates, friends, and Jan already felt the loss acutely.

  As Olsen and Bjorn climbed westward, they activated their radars to compensate for the loss of the AWACS’ directions. Two blips appeared on the Norwegian scopes, approaching from the southwest. Jan’s grip tightened around his sidestick.

  “Two-Two,” he called to Bjorn, “I’ve got two bogeys inbound, eleven o’clock, angels twenty, negative IFF”, he referred to the “identification, friend or foe” systems installed on aircraft that sent out an encoded signal to identify them to friendly sensors, “let’s head back to the deck and try to come up underneath them.”

  Attacking from above would have been ideal in most circumstances, but Olsen judged he wouldn’t be able to gain an altitude advantage against the oncoming Soviets, and a low altitude approach would help neutralize the advantage of the Russians’ long-range radar homing missiles.

  As the two Falcons nosed downward, Olsen heard his missile warning system blare at him once again.

  “Missiles!” Jan called to Bjorn the Russian fire control radar locked onto his aircraft, missiles inbound. “Let’s get down into the trees!”

  Olsen willed his nimble fighter to dive faster as his guts tightened for the third time with the anticipation of the weapons rocketing his way. His altimeter spun downwards as he passed through a layer of broken clouds, emerging on the other side above the rugged arctic hills west of the town of Lakselv and its airbase at Banak. Olsen banked his aircraft northward in the dive, making for a steep-sided valley in the rocky, snow-covered hills. It seemed his RWR had been blaring at him for an eternity. Where are those missiles? He didn’t have time right now to look, either they would survive, or they wouldn’t.

  Come on! Almost there, Olsen urged his Fa
lcon forward, almost…

  White and gray streaked by both sides of Olsen’s canopy as his jet shot into the valley’s mouth. The RWR abruptly stopped warbling in Olsen’s ears as the two missiles flew blindly into the tundra below.

  Damn! Mitroshenko swore to himself. All four of their missiles had failed to connect with the wily Norwegian jets, now snaking up a narrow valley perpendicular to his course.

  “Follow me down, Two,” he called to his wingman, intending to dive on the two NATO jets and finish them off with his short-ranged R-73s.

  “Nyet, Crane,” he heard Control 2 call over his radio. “You have two contacts coming up behind you. I repeat, leave them for the second wave. There is no need to engage at a disadvantage.”

  The major swore again. He desperately wanted revenge, but couldn’t disobey another direct order without the risk of being grounded. He looked at his fuel gauge, which was showing the effects from his long climb towards the AWACS and subsequent maneuvering in afterburner. They were now low on both fuel and missiles, and locally outnumbered as well. Reluctantly, he vectored his aircraft to the southeast, climbing away as he did so with Crane Two on his wing.

  Olsen wasn’t sure what would await him and Bjorn as their jets emerged from the valley over the rugged Sværholt Peninsula. They switched off their radars while following the valley floor, but Jan held little faith that this tactic would conceal him from the Russians for long.

  Then the Norwegian pilot finally heard directions from the surviving ground radar in central Finnmark: “Viper Two-One, this is Backstop. We’ve got you northwest of Banak. Come to heading two-six-zero and angels thirty. Two bandits to your south are withdrawing, but Tasman is reporting multiple new groups headed your way. Link up with Two-Five and One-Three south of Alta. We’ll give you further directions from there.”