Northern Fury- H-Hour

by Bart Gauvin

  They were one of the two artillery forward observer teams that had accompanied Erik on the flight from Bardufoss this morning, and this was the best vantage point covering the southern approaches to the town. A hundred meters to the south, a section of Johansen’s B Troop was deployed in concealed positions among the brush and low trees on either side of the E6. One disadvantage of the reconnaissance squadron’s organization was that Johansen only possessed two Troops with which to maneuver, and these were stretched very thin to defend Banak. Another was the size of the defense in general. It doesn’t feel like any number would be enough.

  The kaptein looked up from his map. Erik knew Hans, he was a good man, great at his job, and a talented alpine skier. There was no time for ski-talk. “Any changes?” Johansen asked, trying not to let the pain affect his voice.

  The artillery officer shook his head. “Well,” he answered, “they’ve got a smoke pot burning here now.” He indicated a series of small, irregularly-shaped lakes just to the east of the E6 two kilometers south of town. “That’s the best spot for an airdrop if that’s what the Sov’s are planning.”

  “I think that’s what they have in mind,” said Johansen, trying to excise the tone of dark foreboding from his voice.

  A gust of icy wind whipped in through the open window, and both men tensed against the cold. Then the artilleryman asked quietly, “Any word from Battalion?”

  Erik didn’t answer. He’d heard nothing from Laub for hours. Nothing. The last time he saw a friendly aircraft overhead was, well, when he had watched one of the F-16s taking off from the airfield eat a cluster bomb. We really are being left out here on a limb, he thought. Where are Olsen and the rest of his pilots? Where is the rest of the army? He decided no answer was the best answer at this point. Again, his mind went to the “Poster on the Wall.” All available forces must be committed to the defense, resistance will continue even if the situation is hopeless. Hopeless, Johansen thought grimly, is where we might be.

  Framed by the window’s rectangle, Erik could see a thick column of purple smoke rising over the bare branches of the stunted deciduous trees that covered the valley floor. The Soviets who landed an hour ago would only have one reason for setting up such a smoke pot: a signal. Undoubtedly to mark a drop zone for aircraft bringing parachutists. The thought made him shudder, the movement inflamed the pain his shoulder, which sent further un-asked for shudders through his body.

  Working not to flinch, he turned his attention to the map, asking the artillery kaptein, “You’ve plotted targets for the guns?”

  “Yes,” the other man brought a finger down on the map, indicating a spot about a kilometer south of their current position. “The best place to hit them will be here. If they drop on the lakes like we expect, this gravel road will be their best route off the drop zone, and the river here will funnel them onto the E6.” The man continued in a relentless kind of way, “I have three pre-planned targets plotted, here, here, and here,” his finger pointed out each target, but Johansen barely registered them. “And one more on each of the lakes. It would be better if we could have registered the guns but—”

  Erik shook his head. “No, we have to keep them hidden for as long as possible, until we can use them to best effect. I think those helicopters put some observers up there,” he jabbed at the map where sheer cliffs bounded the valley in which they found themselves, “and they’ll be able to see the guns as soon as they fire. You’ll have to adjust as best you can.”

  The artilleryman acknowledged his responsibility. “Registering” the guns was a process where observers would call in single rounds of artillery to ensure that the howitzers were laid correctly and that their fire would land accurately. Not doing this in advance—firing on a map plot only—was a risk, but under the circumstances, Erik judged, not a large one. Remembering how he had received his wound, Johansen thought it better to keep this trump card hidden for now.

  Suddenly both he and the artillery kaptein were standing stock still, cocking their heads to one side and listening to a sound growing loud enough to identify. The maddening buzz of the Soviet control plane, circling overhead, had long since faded into their subconscious. This sound was new. It wasn’t the low, screaming roar of attack jets, which were by now all too familiar. No, this sound was more like the droning propellers on the control plane, Johansen decided, only there were more. Many more. Johansen tensed and pain shot down his back again. The sound was growing with each passing second. “That’s it,” Johansen said quickly, the burning pain in his back pushed away for later, “They’re coming.”

  Romanov looked west towards the gathering dusk where three columns of Antonov An-12 transports were descending towards drop altitude in vees of three.

  In the long-shadowed panorama of snow, rock, and forest surrounding the town, Romanov could also see their drop zones, where three thick columns of colored smoke billowed. South of Lakselv, up the valley from the town, purple smoke contrasted sharply with the whites, blues, and browns of the small frozen lakes that dotted a sparsely treed plateau just east of the E6. This was where the main assault would drop. Snow-covered farm fields east of the town sprouted a similarly obvious red smoke column, while a yellow column rose from a large sandbar that sat aside the E6 north along the west bank of the Porsangerfjӧrd. These drop zones would receive supporting assault elements, isolating whatever Norwegian defenders were present at Banak.

  Sokolov was busy nearby, giving final updates and orders via radio to the commander of his assault battalion, who even now were standing up with his men inside the crowded transports, preparing to jump. Romanov listened on his own headset as the assault pattern unfurled. Had he been in Sokolov’s place, Romanov would have preferred to be one of the jumpers at this moment, but he knew his friend was right to be where he was. An officer’s place was where he could best direct the operation, and not necessarily forward with his troops. Soviet officers often forgot this principle, leading too far to the front and becoming casualties, leaving their formations leaderless as a result. Despite his friend’s characteristic bluster, he was a cool professional in situations like this, which was how he had risen to command one of the Red Army’s elite desant regiments in the first place, just like Ilya.

  Ilya’s headset crackled to life again, “All units, this is Control Two,” called the officer aboard the A-50 AWACS, orbiting now fifty miles to the east. “Enemy aircraft approaching high from the southwest and low from the northwest. Rapira Three, take the northern group. Vector three-three-zero to intercept. Grif and Sushka flights, vector two-five-five to engage.”

  Romanov hadn’t noticed the escorting fighters around the transports before this moment. Now he saw the setting sun glint off cockpits and wings as the smaller MiGs and Sukhois banked from their positions abeam and above the columns of An-12s and accelerated on their intercept courses towards the approaching NATO jets.

  Sokolov turned to Ilya and said over the drone of the engines, “I expected this. Those NATO dogs can’t let us land unopposed. The VVS has promised me the ‘strongest support’ for the landing.” His tone and body language betrayed his anxiety, openly showing what Sokolov really thought of his nation’s air service and their promises. “We shall see.”

  Flying just off the wingtip of Lieutenant Colonel Anders’ F-16A, Jan Olsen concentrated on maintaining his station in the four-ship formation as the nimble F-16s crested the snow-covered western wall of the Porsangerfjӧrd and nosed down to skim above the gray waters below. Overhead the sky reflected the orange of the setting sun. In the shadow of the high rock walls night had already fallen. Jan kept his jet just behind and to the left of Anders, trusting his erstwhile flight instructor to not fly them all into the sea. It was a relief not to have the lead for a change.

  Behind Anders’ flight of four followed a section of two F-16As, and another pair was just cresting the fjӧrd wall further north. They were trusting in the rugged, snow-covered granite
hills and cliffs to keep them hidden until they were in and among the Soviet transports. Magic had been giving them updates on the approaching heavies, but Russian jamming was interfering with their radios more and more as they drew near to Banak. Jan only caught snippets of the AWACS’s instructions through the electronic fog. Doesn’t matter anyhow, Jan thought, we are all, Norwegians and Soviets, making for the same patch of air. For what seemed like the hundredth time since he’d taken off from Tromsø, Jan reviewed in his mind the scratch plan that they would be executing in the coming minutes.

  If everything was on schedule, the first arm of the NATO thrust would be developing from the south any moment now. Four Dutch pilots would be streaking in at high altitude from the southwest in their F-16As. Supporting them was a pair of AMRAAM-wielding American F-15s and a single Norwegian MLU F-16. Finally, four of the hopelessly outmatched F-5As from 340 Squadron would try to make themselves look as much like F-16s as possible. This ad-hoc force’s mission was to press in on the southernmost transport column as it approached its drop zone. Two more Norwegian F-5As, rocketing east from Andøya on afterburner, would join the fray as backup. Short bursts of choppy radio conversations told Olsen that the southern thrust was unfolding on time. It appeared that the Dutch, American, and Norwegian pilots were being met by Su-27s and MiG-23s.

  As Olsen and his comrades sped south towards Banak at wave top level a twisting furball developed at high altitude to the southwest. Over the radio Olsen managed to cobble together the story: An initial salvo of AMRAAMs from the F-15s knocked down two MiG-23s and sent an Su-27 turning for home on only one engine, and the Americans held back as planned, cautious of the lurking MiG-31s which had proven so dangerous earlier in the day. Their Dutch comrades bore in to press the advantage.

  Soviet radars began to burn through the NATO jamming and missiles shot out towards the oncoming Dutchmen. Olsen could hear snippets of radio calls as Dutch pilots turned and released chaff in well-rehearsed defensive maneuvers to confuse the oncoming missiles. One missile sent several pieces of shrapnel through the tail of an F-16, disabling its rudder. The Dutch pilot broke off, leaving his three comrades with the Norwegian MLU F-16 and F-5As to press the assault.

  The transmissions became clearer as these badly outnumbered aircraft, decoys really, put the maneuverability of their nimble Falcons and Freedom Fighters to good use. “Splash one!” came a Dutch voice over the net followed by frantic calls for evasion. Jan imagined the two sides intermixed, twisting and turning, the pilots trying to get onto their opponents’ tail for a gun or missile shot. The Norwegian F-5As joined the fray as he heard “Splash Two” in a voice he thought was familiar.

  Olsen hoped that surprise would be enough to make up for what they lacked in strength. He knew the nineteen NATO aircraft pressing in towards the three streams of Soviet transports weren’t nearly as powerful as the force in his earlier flight, particularly since the F-5As were inferior as air superiority fighters. This is what we have though, so we’ll have to work with it, Olsen thought.

  Olsen’s element was now close enough that he could clearly hear all the radio calls of the Dutch and Norwegian pilots burning through the Soviet jamming. Their voices were curt and disciplined, spoken in tones that communicated the intense stress of the combat in which they were engaged.

  “Eagle Five, this is Three, you’ve got a Flanker on your tail!” called one. “Break right, now!”

  “Four, two MiGs to your two o’clock high, diving. Watch out!”

  “This is Three, Fox Two!” Then a few seconds later, “Splash! Splash a MiG!”

  The decoy group did their best to threaten the transports, evading to the northeast whenever they could, but the confusion of the furball and the Soviet numbers prevented them from drawing within range of the lumbering heavies still more than thirty miles away. Neither could the F-15s get in range to fire their remaining AMRAAMs at the paratrooper-laden planes. However, the goal of this thrust wasn’t to strike the transports but to draw the Soviet escorts away long enough for the eight F-16s, approaching from the north so low that sucking seawater into their engines was a real concern, to get in among the An-12s and do the real damage.

  Looking ahead over the foaming white tipped wavetops, Olsen could just now make out the glow from the fires around Banak at the head of the fjӧrd. High and to the left he could see the dark silhouettes of the lead transports, a line of black dots against the orange sky, flying west. Almost. Olsen tightened his jaw in anticipation, all thoughts of weariness behind him.

  The high-G maneuver forced Major Sasha Mitroshenko down in his seat. He grunted through the turn, bringing the nose of his Su-27 interceptor down towards the floor of the fjӧrd. Glancing at his controls confirmed that he still possessed four of his original six R-27 radar-homing missiles and one of his two short-range R-73 heat-seekers after his earlier engagement over southern Finnmark.

  Fuel was Mitroshenko’s cause for concern at this point. The Soviet major’s mouth twitched into a steely grin. He only he had fuel enough for one quick dogfight on afterburner. Let’s see if I can’t make ace in one day.

  Control Two in the Beriev A-50 was giving Mitroshenko and his wingman their directions, reporting numerous unidentified contacts entering the fjӧrd from the north, but could not get a good count due to radar shadow. One thing was certain: the contacts were not Soviet and must therefore be engaged before they could reach the transports. Behind Mitroshenko’s two Su-27s came four smaller MiG-29s, who’d been screening the northern flank of the transports.

  The Flanker bottomed out of its turn a thousand meters above the dark waters, heading south towards the airbase. His sharp eyes scanned below for any sign of the contacts. He didn’t want to use his radar yet, preferring to maintain the element of surprise for as long as possible.

  There! A pair of dark shapes flitted above the wavetops. Adjusting his eyes, he saw four more two kilometers ahead. Keying his radio he ordered curtly, “Two, this is Crane Lead. I see two enemy jets directly below. You engage. I will take the four farther ahead. Don’t activate your radar until the last moment, and don’t engage until I tell you!”

  “Da, Lead,” answered his wingman, and they dipped their noses to dive on the intruders from behind.

  Mitroshenko pushed his throttles forward to their stops, remaining high for the few moments it took to close the distance with the lead group of NATO jets. He could now identify them as F-16s in the fading light. Reversing roles with the nimble fighters who had ambushed his flight in the opening moments of the war, he intended to press every advantage to gain sweet revenge. He locked the seeker of his one remaining infrared-guided R-73 onto the rear-most enemy aircraft. When the indicator buzzed in his ear that the missile had gained a good lock, he squeezed the trigger on his joystick.

  As his missile left its rail, Mitroshenko ordered, “Engage NOW!”

  The flash of his missile’s rocket motor briefly dazzled him in the fading light and shadows. The weapon shot forward, but Mitroshenko didn’t watch it. Instead, he reached down and energized his radar, quickly acquiring the contacts ahead. He locked onto the Falcon furthest to the right and squeezed his trigger a second time, this time sending a radar-guided R-27 streaking forward.

  Olsen was skimming across the water at full military power. They were close. Anders had just given a clipped order to ascend towards the transports, only fifteen miles away. Suddenly, Olsen heard the flight leader of the trailing section call frantically, “Bobcat Lead, this is Five, you’ve got—”

  A yellow flash lit up the darkening valley. Olsen felt an explosion buffet his jet. Looking around quickly he saw the fourth jet in their flight, the one on the far left, disintegrating in a fiery explosion. He was about to key his radio to warn Anders when another flash lit his cockpit from the right. He twisted his head to see that the third member of their flight spiral into the sea. Then Jan’s mind registered that his radar warning receiver was bl
aring.

  Olsen tensed. The radio net was alive with frantic calls from the formations to their rear.

  “This is Bobcat Five, I’m hit! Ejecting!”

  “Six, they’re behind you! Break left, NOW, NOW, NOW!”

  Anders’ voice cut through the panic, calm and collected. “Bobcat Flight, this is lead. Abort! I say again, abort! Jan, break right and get out of here.”

  Olsen complied immediately with the abort order, banking sharply up and to the right, but immediately realized that Anders hadn’t followed. Craning his neck over to look back, he saw his one-time instructor continuing to ascend towards the transports.

  “Lead, what are you doing?” Olsen shouted desperately.

  “Get out of here, Jan,” Anders repeated. “That’s an order. I’m going for the transports.”

  Olsen, his heart pounding, continued his hard, climbing bank towards the lip of the western fjӧrd wall looking back desperately for their assailants. Back up the valley, the surviving F-16s of the squadron were scattering as the Flankers tore into their formation with missiles.

  Mitroshenko who had just locked another R-27 onto one of the two surviving Norwegian F-16s saw, his target suddenly bank to the west and climb. He needed to make a split-second decision; did he stay with the evading jet? Or target the one still making a beeline for the transports. The choice was an obvious one.

  Behind him his wingman announced two victories as he annihilated the second pair of enemy jets, but Mitroshenko intended to take the lead in this turkey shoot. Locking his radar onto the Norwegian jet ascending directly ahead, just ten miles from the stream of transports, he squeezed his trigger once more.

  Olsen caught the white streak of an igniting rocket motor in the corner of his eye, showing him the location of their assailant. There was nothing he could do. He didn’t even have time to shout a warning to Anders as he watched the Soviet missile shoot forward and explode. Anders’ jet shuddered, then began to come apart. Olsen saw it slam into the waves in a massive white spray. There was no chute.