by Dave Edlund
Flying at 500 feet over eastern Poland at a speed of Mach 1.2, Doyle had the two Bones—code named ‘Hammer Flight’ and ‘Anvil Flight’—in very close formation, tight enough that the returned radar signature would appear to be a single aircraft. The Russian air controllers would naturally assume the return to be indicative of a B-1 due to the supersonic speed.
“Golden Eye reports the Falcons have engaged two SAM sites in western Belarus,” Doyle reported to her crew as well as that of Anvil Flight. The F-16’s mission was to attract search and guidance radar and then destroy the radar with HARM (high-velocity anti-radiation missiles) munitions. It was risky for the pilots flying the Falcons, but offered huge benefits to trailing aircraft. Without the guidance radars, surface-to-air missiles and radar-aimed anti-aircraft guns were useless.
“Golden Eye is tracking four—no six—aircraft departing from the airfield at Baranavichi,” Doyle reported as she was listening to the secure communication. “Departing in pairs so the assumption is Russian fighters. We know they have Flankers stationed there. Let me know when you have them on the scope, Nate.”
Captain Nathan “Nate” McKinley was the Defensive System Officer, or DSO. In order to reduce their electromagnetic signature, the Bones were flying without their radar on, instead relying on a data link with Golden Eye.
“Have it, Major,” Nate said. “Six Flankers, airborne and picking up speed.”
The Flankers were a formidable foe, and with advanced look-down, shoot-down radar, posed a serious threat to the Bones as well as the F-16s, code named ‘Searchlight.’
“They’ve got their targeting radar on, Major. They’re looking for us. Climbing rapidly, probably plan to get above us, get a solid lock, and fire.”
“See if you can jam them,” Doyle said, but Nate was already working on it.
“Doubtful, still too far out, maybe in another minute. Four Flankers split off and are vectoring to the Falcons.”
Golden Eye, of course, was tracking everything, all aircraft between ground level and 50,000 feet within a radius of 350 miles. Colonel Horn was the senior officer onboard, responsible for coordinating through the CAOC in Stuttgart and establishing the order of battle, which meant the priority of threat and assigning the best resource to neutralize the threat. Colonel Horn was a career Air Force veteran, with several real combat missions such as this one under his belt, including Operation Checkmate, a classified intervention over Venezuela involving F-22 Raptors and B-2 stealth bombers.
“Sir, we have four Flankers vectoring toward Searchlight Flight,” an airman reported to Colonel Horn.
Colonel Horn understood that the Falcons were lightly armed for air-to-air combat with only two heat-seeking missiles each. He also understood they would not fare well in a dogfight with the Flankers.
“Get a couple Raptors over there to help out those pilots. They need to stay on task.”
“Roger that, sir,” the airman said.
“Guardian Flight, this is Golden Eye, copy?”
“Roger, Golden Eye. Guardian One.”
“Guardian One, we are tracking four Flankers approximately 180 miles out from Searchlight. You are directed to split off two aircraft to engage and neutralize threat. You have the vector now.”
Following a brief pause, the voice answered in the airman’s headset. “Affirmative, Golden Eye. Guardian Five and Guardian Six will engage Flankers.”
From the monitors aligned in rows on the AWACS, blips representing the two F-22 Raptor fighters separated from a cluster of six, leaving four to defend the Bones. Flying at supersonic speed, Guardian Five and Guardian Six closed on the Flankers, but not before the Flankers were within range of Searchlight.
s
“Searchlight, you have four Flankers within maximum engagement range. Be advised, two Raptors approximately 30 seconds out,” came the warning from Golden Eye.
In a dogfight, with aircraft flying at 700 miles per hour and missiles traveling at four times that speed, 30 seconds was an eternity.
In that instant, threat warning receivers began to sound in all four aircraft. Flying in a loose formation, they scattered like startled quail.
“Searchlight flight, this is Golden Eye. Punch afterburners and resume vector east, toward the airport. Missiles were fired from extreme range, best bet is to outrun them.” Golden Eye was trying to buy seconds for the F-16s, to allow the two Raptors to engage.
With Searchlight back on flight plan and traveling in excess of the speed of sound, the pursuing missiles ran out of fuel and self-detonated.
The four Flankers continued their pursuit, the Falcons easily revealed on their radar screens. Knowing the American planes could not stay in afterburner for long due to the enormous fuel consumption rate, the Russian pilots chose to stay at full military power and hunt their prey. Soon they would close distance again, and this time they would not miss.
“Searchlight, you are clear of inbound threats, but those Flankers have not broken off. Stay sharp, Guardians will engage in seven seconds.”
The Su-27 Flanker pilots had hoped to engage the Falcons in a dogfight. Some of the best trained pilots in the Russian Air Force, these men wanted combat experience. Plus, they knew they had the upper hand given the American fighters were on a specific electronic warfare mission and would be lightly armed for air-to-air battle.
What the Flanker pilots didn’t expect was a pair of stealthy Raptors approaching quickly, and invisibly.
s
“Guardian Five. Slaving targeting computer to data link.” The pilot coordinated his targeting with Guardian Six to maximize the utility of their limited weaponry—six Aim-120D “Slammer” missiles each. The weapons were stored internally which, combined with the sleek lines and radar-absorbing materials used in the aircraft skin, resulted in such a low radar cross-section as to render the Raptor invisible to radar at typical engagement distances.
“Roger. Guardian Six locking onto bogies three and four.”
“Fire on my mark,” Guardian Five said, already locking the guidance systems on two missiles to the blips designated bogy five and bogy six. “Mark.”
“Fox three,” came the reply from Guardian Six, indicating he had just fired two Slammers.
The four guided missiles, traveling at nearly Mach four, closed on the Su-27 aircraft at more than three times the speed of sound. Onboard the Flankers, life instantly changed as the hunter became the hunted. The aircraft split in opposite directions, diving, ejecting chaff bundles to confuse the radar guidance system of the missiles.
The lead Flanker pilot fired up the afterburners and jinked, trying to break the lock and evade the rapidly-closing threat. The blaring alarm was increasing in frequency as the missile closed the distance. He pulled back on the stick, at the same time pushing to the right. He felt the blood draining from his head in the tight five-G turn.
Still, the alarm screamed. He ejected more chaff bundles and pulled up the aircraft’s nose—in seconds gaining 2,000 feet in altitude, before pushing the stick forward and hard left. He squeezed his abdominal muscles to constrict the flow of blood into his lower body, trying to keep oxygen flowing to his brain. The turn was sharp, nine-Gs, and his vision dimmed, becoming black around the periphery. It was like he was looking through a black tunnel at the outside world.
The Flanker was now flying supersonic in its downward descent. He pushed the stick harder, angling steeply toward the ground still 10,000 feet below—but approaching fast. Then he pulled back on the stick. The aircraft shot upward, its momentum plus the enormous thrust from the twin engines pushing it toward the black heavens. He knew the turn would have to be tight to have any chance of evading the missile. Squeezing his abdomen hard and grunting, still holding the stick back. His vision dimmed, and yet he refused to ease on the stick; grunting, gulping in air, he held fast. Then his vision went black.
The Flanker resumed a straight trajectory without any control input from the pilot. Two seconds later the Slammer’s radar proximity
fuse sensed it was at the target. The 30-pound explosive warhead detonated five feet above the aircraft, causing fuel lines and fuel tanks to rupture and ignite in a huge fireball that lit the night sky.
The other three Flankers met similar fates at nearly the same moment.
s
“I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but I have Foreign Minister Denisov on the line, and he says it’s urgent.”
“Put him through, Marge.” Secretary of State Paul Bryan was expecting a call from the highest levels of the Russian government. He knew the approaching flight of aircraft would not pass without notice, or response.
“I have been instructed by President Pushkin to warn you that Russia will not tolerate American or NATO interference in events unfolding in Belarus. We have detected a large number of aircraft approaching Belarus from the west and the northwest. Their flight pattern suggests military aircraft.”
“You say they are flying over European airspace, not Russian. Consequently, there has been no violation of Russian sovereignty. I cannot accept your objections.”
“Then you acknowledge these are American warplanes?”
“I have not acknowledged anything other than the obvious,” replied Bryan. Although the stakes were high, he still enjoyed these bouts of mental jousting.
“Understand me well, Mr. Secretary. Russia has an obligation to protect its citizens, and we do have fighter aircraft stationed in Belarus. As you know, President Pushkin and President Yatchenko share a common interest.”
“Perhaps they have less in common now. President Yatchenko does not appreciate Russian troops stirring up violence in Minsk. We expect he will request NATO and international support against Russian aggression within 24 hours.”
There was a moment of silence, presumably for Foreign Secretary Denisov to digest this piece of information. “Russia has no troops in Belarus. However, we do reserve the right to defend ethnic Russians, including those in Minsk. If U.S. and NATO warplanes are intending to engage the pro-Russian militia in and around Minsk, they will be met with force. Heed my warning Mr. Secretary. Russia does not seek a confrontation, but we will not look the other way while American aggression once again interferes with the internal affairs of Eastern European countries.”
Paul Bryan was prepared for this insinuation. “You are referring to the alleged use of the smallpox virus as a biological weapon in Tbilisi?”
“Of course. The evidence has spoken clearly. And from a European agency, nonetheless. The global stage of public opinion is already rising against this monstrous act by the United States.”
“Very well, Mr. Denisov. Thank you for getting to the point. Now, I shall return the favor. First, you and I both know very well that the United States has not dispersed biological weapons anywhere. Not in Georgia, not anywhere. Soon, we will present our evidence of Russian complicity behind the outbreak in Tbilisi. Second, and listen to me carefully, any real or perceived threat in the airspace over Belarus will be dealt with decisively.”
The line was silent.
“Minister Denisov, do you understand what I am saying?” asked Paul Bryan, although he knew the answer.
“I understand your language better than you understand mine. You will soon regret this course of action.”
Chapter 24
Minsk
“LET’S GO. I HAVE AN IDEA how we might disable that machine and prevent it from dispersing the virus,” Peter said. Dmitri nodded and together, equipped with their improvised weapons, the pair slipped into the hallway.
They dashed toward the stairwell, intending to return as fast as possible to the storeroom where Ian and Gary were sequestered. They didn’t have far to go and Peter was focused on the doorway ahead when a booming voice called from behind. “Stop!” The command was punctuated by a gunshot.
Peter slid to a stop and turned slowly. Dmitri did the same. The AK-74 rifle was slung over Peter’s shoulder, tantalizingly close and yet impossible to retrieve and aim without being shot dead.
“Hello my comedic America friend. We meet again,” General Gorev said. “Drop your rifle.” Five guards rounded the corner of the hall and surrounded the General, all brandishing assault rifles aimed at Peter and Dmitri.
“We missed you,” Gorev said with a mock frown. “You will come with me.”
“And if I refuse?”
Gorev raised his rifle and shot Dmitri in the belly. He fell forward, clutching the wound, rolling on the floor in agony.
“No!” Peter yelled, rushing to his friend. Gently pulling away Dmitri’s hands, Peter examined the red splotch, blood already seeping through his shirt.
“He needs medical help.”
“He’ll get nothing. His kind is not welcome here.” Gorev spat the words out.
Dmitri spoke softly. “Don’t try to understand Peter. I knew it would come to this.” Dmitri grasped Peter’s hand, but there was little strength in his grip.
“Please. A first aid kit, or bandage to stop the bleeding,” Peter pleaded.
“Nyet,” said Gorev. Then he aimed his AK and fired again. The bullet punch through Dmitri’s chest.
Frothy, bright-red blood oozed from the chest wound, pooling on Dmitri’s once-white shirt and mingling with the dark red-brown blood from his belly wound. Peter knew the bullet had penetrated his friend’s lung, likely other vital organs and arteries as well. Dmitri was dying, and there wasn’t anything Peter could do to save him. He placed his hand on the bloody spot, knowing that death would soon come from fluid filling his lungs.
“Hold on Dmitri,” Peter begged.
Dmitri shook his head softly, his eyes nearly closed. He turned to face Peter and squeezed his hand. “You are fortunate, my young friend, to live in America.” His voice was weak.
“No!” Peter shook his head. “I’ll get help.”
“It is time.” Dmitri slowly blinked his eyes and then held them half open, looking beyond Peter, his breathing shallow and labored. “I go now; Helena waits for me.”
Peter recalled the photo on Dmitri’s desk. Helena was his wife.
“Dmitri! Hang on! Please! I can stop the bleeding,” he lied. Peter’s mind was racing, a chaotic mix of thoughts—even if he had a first aid kit, there was no treatment that could be rendered to save Dmitri. Even if he were in a hospital at this very moment, his chances of survival were slim. Peter was completely powerless to prevent the inevitable, just as he had been when Maggie passed. The image of Maggie in her final minutes of life flashed in his mind, replacing his sadness with a raging anger.
Dmitri’s eyelids closed. “It is good, I want to be with Helena again.” As the words escaped his lips, the breath exited his bullet-riddled body for the last time.
The rage was building in Peter, and with it a clarity of purpose. He was no stranger to death. First his wife, and later, at his own hands on a cold rocky outcrop in the Aleutian Island chain, and again in a desolate desert in Sudan.
Yet, he still found the wanton taking of life deeply disturbing. “Why?” Peter stammered.
Gorev shrugged. “Why not?”
Peter stood. “I will see you in Hell.”
Gorev chuckled and was joined by his guards. “Really? And you think you have that power? You are one unarmed man. My soldiers can shoot you anytime I please.”
“Then do it—shoot me.” Peter was no longer afraid. He was overwhelmed with a drive to do what was right, at any price. It was a familiar feeling, one that replaced fear and uncertainty with a demanding call to action.
“Perhaps… at a later time. It seems you have some information, some knowledge, about how to design and manufacture very quiet guns. I am told you call it a magnetic impulse gun, yes?”
Peter glared back in defiance.
“You have lost, Peter Savage.”
“Let me ask you a question, Gorev. What is the most dangerous and deadly animal on Earth?”
Gorev forced out a short laugh. “A lion or tiger? Is that how I am to answer?”
“What you answ
er is up to you.”
“You speak in riddles, my comedian friend, but you are entertaining.” Gorev waved his hands to both sides, silent reference to the five rifles pointed at Peter’s heart. He raised his eyebrows, his lips twisted in a nauseating smirk, begging a reply to the rhetorical question.
“A man—who has lost everything. He is the most dangerous animal. You see, with nothing left to cherish, nothing left to live for, a man becomes the most deadly predator. Without fear of death, he will do anything to achieve his ultimate objective and destroy his adversary.
“I have met men like you before, Gorev. I have fought against them. And I have learned that, among other despicable traits, you all share a drive to lord over others through fear and intimidation. You’re nothing but a bully.”
General Gorev tilted his head slightly, conveying both curiosity and amusement, inviting Peter to continue.
“You threaten to kill to get your way. All those people you’re holding against their will, that’s only possible because you’ve terrified them.”
“Yes, we agree, they are like sheep. So, what is your point?”
“It’s very simple. Without their fear, you are powerless.”
“Powerless? I don’t think so.” He extended his arm to the side again in a grandiose gesture.
“If your plan was to kill all of us, you’d have done so by now. No, that’s not what you want. You want—need—our cooperation. And as long as you are allowed to intimidate and coerce those people, reluctant cooperation is what you’ll get. But not from me. I’m not afraid of your threats.”
“I can kill you now, just as I did that filthy pig Kaspar.”
“Death is inevitable. It can be a means to an end—your end. A man who accepts his mortality and fears neither death nor destruction, that man has already defeated his enemies.”
