Northern Fury- H-Hour

by Bart Gauvin

  The biggest disadvantage for the NATO pilots was intermittent radar coverage. The threat of losing another AWACS meant that Magic would be deployed further west and would be operating at the edge of the airborne radar’s ability to see and coordinate them. In combination with powerful Soviet jamming it was very likely that Jan and his compatriots would need to use their own, much shorter ranged radars and expose themselves to detection.

  The Backstop radar site was still radiating, which mitigated the handicap somewhat, being able to detect intruders through the electronic haze, and feed that information to Magic via digital data-link. As long as Backstop remained intact, Olsen and his compatriots would enjoy the advantages of radar-direction without having to energize their own on-board sensors.

  Of course, Olsen thought briefly, no plan survives first contact with the enemy, and we’re approaching second contact now. He put that thought out of his mind. He was going to kill some Russians to avenge Bjorn and the others, and he felt confident that now, several hours into the war, he was finally facing his enemy on equal footing.

  A hundred miles to the northeast, the command Il-22 with the two desantnik colonels was circling over Banak. They flew high enough to disregard the ground defenses that had managed to knock down several fighter bombers, but still low enough that the embattled positions could be seen through the broken clouds below. The white of the snowy tundra and low, snow-covered forest around the airfield was already marred here and there by oily black smoke columns marking the carnage of war.

  Sokolov was on the radio, describing his observations to the command post at Luostari. Pathfinders would be arriving soon to mark the drop zones for the desant battalion, and Sokolov wanted them to have the fullest advantage when they landed. Romanov watched his friend, appreciating his calm command of the situation.

  The Il-22 was banking gently to make another lazy circle above Banak when Romanov heard his own radio headset crackle, “All fighters, this is Control Two,” that was the callsign for the A-50 orbiting just to the east over Northern Norway, “a large aircraft formation is approaching from the southwest, sector three. This is the attack we’ve been waiting for. Execute Plan Margaritka, repeat, execute Plan Margaritka! Non-combat aircraft, withdraw to Line Yellow. Crane Flight, remain where you are until my signal. Respond.”

  Romanov did not completely understand what the commands meant, but as the various squadrons responded in the affirmative, he perceived that they were executing some pre-arranged contingency plan. This was confirmed when he looked out the Ilyushin’s window to see their escorting MiG-29s, which had been on their wing since Vadsø, peel away to the southwest. At the same time Ilya felt his own aircraft continue to bank around to the east as the four turboprops buzzed to full power.

  In the other seat, Ilya could see a worried look on Sokolov’s face. The other man looked at him and said, “The helicopters carrying my pathfinder company are fifteen minutes from their landing zones. I cannot recall them.”

  Romanov understood his friend’s sudden anxiety. Up to this point Sokolov had been in control of the battle. Now the safety of his men rested on the shoulders of others, and there was nothing Sokolov could do to change the outcome. It would be an unwelcome defeat indeed if even one enemy fighter got in among those slow-moving helicopters.

  The NATO fighters spread out as they neared the Backstop radar site, diverged to sweep eastward in a long line with the American F-15s and Norwegian MLU F-16s hanging back.

  Each pilot heard Magic’s radio call reporting, “Be advised, we’re picking up heavy activity to your east and northeast. ELINT says the bandits are multiple MiG-23s and MiG-29s. The Fins are holding firm to your south. Looks like the Sovs are coming out to play, over.”

  Good, though Olsen as his breathing quickened, let the bastards come. Keying the radio on his flight’s frequency he called, “Willi, Sven, this is Lead. If it’s Flankers, come in low and fast and get out quick. Floggers and Fulcrums we’ll take head-on. Follow me.” Two clicks from each wingman acknowledged his reminder.

  Olsen took in the view ahead. The sky to the east was darkening to the deep blue of night, while behind and to the south was still the ice blue of arctic day. Far below, the blanket of broken clouds over Finnmark looked like clean balls of cotton, obscuring the view of the rocky forest below, slumbering under a thick blanket of white snow. For a moment, the whole scene seemed oddly peaceful, a singular moment of quiet in the chaos engulfing his world.

  Then the moment ended. Chaos returned. “Viper Two-One,” Olsen’s flight, “Backstop shows four bogeys to your one o’clock, angels ten. Looks like they’re making an attack run at Backstop. Come to heading zero-nine-five to intercept.”

  Jan edged his sidestick right as the controllers aboard Magic began to issue rapid-fire commands to other flights, maneuvering formations to attack the Soviet intruders.

  “Eagle One-One, two MiG-29s approaching from your ten o’clock, angels twenty. Come to…”

  “Cola Lead, bandits low to your front…”

  “Lion Three-Three, come left ten degrees to new heading zero-seven-five for intercept…”

  The leading twenty-three Norwegian F-16s diverged further, several flights turning northeast to meet a group of MiG-29 “Fulcrums” approaching from the direction of Banak. The rest continued east to intercept a growing number of older MiG-23 “Floggers” who looked to be running interference for a low-level formation of fighter-bombers making a run at Backstop.

  Olsen heard a controller aboard Magic call dispassionately to the AMRAAM-armed jets further back, “Reaper Lead, Tiger Lead, this is Magic. Switches hot. Reaper, you take the targets to the east, Tiger gets the MiGs to the northeast.”

  Jan willed the American and Norwegian pilots behind him to start launching their missiles. Frequent chirps from his helmet told him that he was being “painted” by an enemy radar. It was only a matter of time before the tone would change to the all-too-familiar warbling scream of the missile lock-on warning.

  Olsen’s radio crackled again, “Roger Magic. This is Reaper Lead,” the callsign for the senior American F-15 pilot, “Contact on a Flogger. Fox Three!” Jan listened as the three other Eagles also launched missiles in quick succession towards the nearly two dozen MiG-23s to the east. Seconds later, the pilots of the MLU Falcons, engaging the Fulcrums approaching from Banak, began to launch their own AMRAAMs. Looking straight upwards Olsen could see thin smoke trails of the four American missiles abruptly end as their rocket motors burned out. The missiles, now invisible to Jan’s eyes, dove towards their targets ahead, relying only upon kinetic energy to intercept the Soviet jets.

  Olsen heard Reaper Lead announce a second “Fox Three,” the second of his four AMRAAMs streaking towards another MiG. To Olsen, it seemed that the entire engagement was unfolding according to the hasty plan they’d been briefed before takeoff. Then things began to change.

  First, the tone in his helmet began blaring; an enemy targeting radar was painting his Falcon. Jan’s eyes snapped forward, searching for the missile that was surely headed his way. There! A flash against the darkening sky announced where a MiG pilot had launched an Alamo missile.

  “Evading right!” Olsen announced to his flight as he flipped his sidestick over and banked towards the Finnish border. He had already evaded these missiles twice on his first sortie of the day, giving him confidence that he could do it again. This is almost becoming old hat, he thought. Then the news took a turn for the worse.

  “All flights, this is Tasman,” called the technician aboard the Norwegian electronic warfare bird flying behind the trailing F-15, “I’m picking up emissions from multiple Zaslon radars to the east. My count is six…no, eight emission sources.”

  Dritt! Olsen swore to himself. He knew that the powerful Zaslon radars meant MiG-31 “Foxhound” interceptors. The MiG-31 was not a nimble dogfighter like the more maneuverable Su-27s and MiG-29s, but the
big twin-tail, twin-engine Foxhounds carried the long-range AA-9 “Amos” missile which could hit targets at ranges up to a hundred and twenty kilometers, meaning they could hit any NATO plane in the sweep right now.

  Olsen’s grip tightened as he continued to evade the incoming AA-10. The Sovs would surely press their range advantage while remaining well out of NATO radar view. The urgent calls from Olsen’s fellow Falcon drivers begin to fill the radio waves, reporting that they were being targeted. The MiG-31 like the US Navy F-14 Tomcat, could use their aircraft’s radar to target and launch multiple missiles at once. This they did, and more AA-9s arced into the air towards the NATO jets joining an increasing number of AA-10s fired by the nearer MiGs. The formations of NATO fighters began to fall apart as they evaded this two-pronged, multi-headed threat.

  Jan flipped his stick over to the left, continuing to turn so as to bleed off the incoming missile’s velocity until it no longer possessed the speed to make its intercept. At the same time, the turn allowed Olsen to dive towards his assigned targets at ten thousand feet, punching out packets of metallic chaff as he did so. A few more seconds and the AA-10 detonated into a cloud of foil far behind Olsen’s bird. He had dodged death yet again. He barely noticed the victory though, as he listened to the tide turn. He had a gut feeling that if the Sovs had thought far enough ahead to bring in the MiG-31s, then there might be more to the plot than the NATO forces had anticipated. They planned for this, for us, Jan gritted his teeth and tried to keep his head in the fight.

  Out of immediate danger, Olsen twisted his head around, looking for his two wingmen. Wili was gone, to where, Jan didn’t know, but he could still see Sven Hokenson’s F-16B tight on his right-wing tip. The other jet’s elongated two-person canopy made picking Sven’s bird out of the formation an easy task. Through his headphones, Jan could hear the entire NATO plan coming apart at the seams as pilots evaded wildly, all the while trying to bring their Sidewinders to within range of their Soviet adversaries. Then the other jaw of the Soviet ambush began to close.

  “All flights, all flights, this is Magic.” While he leveled out and switched his radar on to search for the fighter-bombers, Jan registered in the back of his mind that the controller’s voice no longer possessed the almost-bored tone that was present only moments before. “All flights, the four bogeys over Finland just turned north and increased speed.” There was a brief pause, and Olsen could feel the radar-man racing to get a grip on the situation, “Radars are coming on.” Now the controller’s tone changed from concerned to grave, “We identify those bogeys as Flankers! I repeat, four Su-27s bearing one-seven-zero. Contacts should be considered hostile and—fire control radars just came on! We have a fire control radar from Flanker’s One and Three! Missiles inbound!”

  Dritt! Olsen swore again. With Foxhounds to the east and now Flankers to south, the NATO fighters were being pressed into a vice where the Soviet advantage in numbers, not to mention range, could be decisive.

  Major Sasha Mitroshenko grinned savagely into his oxygen mask as he watched his R-27 missile streak away northward towards the NATO jets. Things were going exactly according to plan. Earlier in the day, the Soviet ambassador had submitted a list of demands, instructions really, to the Finnish government. One of those demands had been that the Finnish Air Force not interfere, not even be present, in the far north on the first day of the war. The Finns had little choice, and had reluctantly submitted. For Mitroshenko, this meant that he and his flight of Su-27s had been free to circle over Finnish Lapland for the last hour, their transponders squawking Finnish Air Force identification-friend-or-foe codes, called IFF, that made the Soviet Flankers look like a flight of patrolling Finnish jets on any radar receiver, a classic deception.

  Mitroshenko led his interceptors on afterburner north towards the gap between the leading line of NATO fighters and the trailing group of long-range shooters. Another four Su-27s were following him up from the south, and eight more were inbound from the southeast. With surprise and numbers on his side, the Soviet pilot was eager to avenge the losses and embarrassment he and his 265th Fighter Regiment had suffered in the opening moments of the war.

  The tables were turning further against the NATO pilots. The Soviet AWACS reported that the American F-15Cs were turning south to meet the new threat from Mitroshenko’s Flankers. The timing was perfect. Mitroshenko knew that the maneuver by the American interceptors would rob the AMRAAMs fired earlier of their mid-course guidance from the Eagle’s radar and data-link. He listened over his radio, still burning northwards, as the American missiles streaked down among the MiG-23s with abysmal accuracy. Half of the advanced missiles missed their targets when the weapons’ own short-range terminal guidance radars failed to detect that the Soviet aircraft that had maneuvered out of their engagement box. One of the Floggers exploded in midair while another turned for home with a shredded left wing and a leaking fuel tank, manfully informing the controllers that he intended to bring his jet home. The three other AMRAAMs missed.

  Simultaneously, the Soviet AWACS announced hits against the American and Norwegian fighters from the AA-9s fired by the distant MiG-31s, along with more hits from the AA-10s arcing away from the surviving MiG-23s. Mitroshenko could see on his radar scope that the flurry of Soviet missiles was forcing the NATO pilots to evade wildly. First one F-16, then another winked off of his screen. Mitroshenko’s hungry grin widened.

  More clipped chatter from the MiG-29 pilots bearing down from Banak cluttered the radio waves as those dozen jets passed through a cauldron of Norwegian AMRAAMs. Then the jaws of the trap closed firmly as the Fulcrums came to grips with the northern F-16s, and Mitroshenko watched the tide turn decisively against NATO.

  Then the Soviet fighter pilot’s radar warning receiver began to blare in his ears as two of the American F-15s launched AMRAAMs at his oncoming Flankers just before his own flight’s R-27 missiles lanced into the southern flank of the faltering NATO formation. Mitroshenko saw two of the missiles miss due to evasive maneuvers by the American and Norwegian pilots, but one of the Soviet weapons exploded mere meters from the cockpit of an F-16, blasting it into pieces, while Mitroshenko’s own missile blew the left vertical stabilizer off an F-15, sending the American jet spinning uncontrollably downward. He didn’t have time to savor his victory over the vaunted American jet, however, as he was already banking into a high-G turn to evade one of the dangerous AMRAAMs. This he managed to do, though one of his wingmen was not as lucky.

  After evading the American weapons, Mitroshenko and the two surviving wingmen banked back northwards and plunged into the southern end of the hundred-kilometer-wide “furball,” the churning, confused dogfight that was developing over Northern Norway.

  “All flights, this is Magic,” Olsen heard the staticky voice through his helmet phones, “bug out! I say again, bug out! Vector west or north-west to disengage. Withdraw to west of the twenty-one easting, over!”

  The command was delivered with a note of desperation, Jan thought as he and Sven continued to dive towards the flight of four fighter-bombers heading at low-level for the Backstop site. The controllers aboard the AWACS were ordering all the NATO jets to withdraw a full hundred-and-fifty-kilometers eastwards, to the skies over the vital Lyngen position, the eventual main line of resistance for the defense of Northern Norway. Lyngen was a mere hundred kilometers east of Bardufoss, the most important Norwegian air base in the north. Things were going from bad to worse, and fast, but there was barely time to be truly angry as F-16s, F-15s, MiGs, and Sukhois twisted and turned through the sky over his head.

  “Viper Two-One, Magic…bandits from your one o’clock, angels…” Jamming interference muddled some of the controller’s warning, but Olsen got enough from the transmission to pull his jet up and to the left, just in time to see two MiG-23s bearing down upon them.

  Quickly Jan radioed Sven, “Two-Three, sort side-side,” Ordering him to take the left-hand MiG while Jan dealt with the
right-hand one. Two bursts of static signaled Sven’s agreement.

  Now that the opposing aircraft were so heavily intermixed in the furball, neither side could use their long-armed radar-guided missiles at anything close to their maximum range. Thus, as the two MiGs and two Falcons closed with each other at a combined thousand miles per hour, both Olsen and Sven were able to lock their Sidewinders’ infrared seeker heads onto the oncoming Floggers and fire the missiles first, each announcing a hurried “Fox Two!”

  Both Soviet pilots turned hard to evade, popping white hot flares out the back of their aircraft to confuse the missiles, but to no avail. Both AIM-9s bore in, and two black puffs in Jan’s field of view marked where the missiles’ warheads shredded the incoming Soviet fighters, sending them tumbling from the sky.

  “Splash Two!” Jan announced, but he was already banking back down and to his left, searching for the bombers the MiGs had been escorting. Focusing, he saw them. Four Su-24 “Fencer” fighter-bombers flying westward in tight formation, their green and tan camouflage paint standing out darkly against the snow-covered forest two thousand feet below.

  “Follow me around,” Olsen ordered Sven. “We’ll get on their tail.” He barely registered the click response.

  The two F-16s completed a tight one hundred eighty degrees turn and leveled out four miles behind the Fencers. Increasing power to close the gap, Jan heard unintelligible snippets from his AWACS controller, but all he could make out was a broken “…angels six…” amid the strained calls from the other pilots in the furball. He and Sven continued their chase.

  After a few seconds, Jan settled the Sidewinder’s seeker box on his heads up display onto the left-most Fencer until he heard the growl of a good lock. Squeezing the trigger, he announced “Fox Two!”