by Dave Edlund
Jim considered his options and arrived at no other possibilities. “What do you need?” he finally asked.
“A piece of pipe, some wire, C4, and a detonator. And a DC power supply. Oh, and a Leatherman or Gerber multitool—screwdriver, wire cutter, knife, and pliers.”
“Is that all?” Magnum asked.
Peter brushed off the comment. “I know where to get the copper wire and a high-power rectifier. We can tap in to the AC electrical power supplying one of those exhaust blowers,” Peter pointed to the line of ventilation stacks along the roof. They were the exhaust ducts that carried contaminated air from the laboratory fume hoods out of the building.
“What about the pipe?” Gary asked.
“There’s some copper drain pipe in the storeroom and a hacksaw.”
“Tell me how much you need. I’ll get it while you go after the power supply and wire.”
Since Peter and Gary knew the location of the storeroom and the SGIT soldiers did not, Gary’s suggestion made a certain amount of sense.
“Jim, can you send one of your men with Gary? I need about six to ten inches of pipe. The copper drainpipe is perfect. Gary knows the way.”
“Iceberg, you’re with Gary. You shield him with your life, like he was President Taylor himself. Understood?”
“Affirmative, sir.”
“I’ll take Dad with me,” Peter said. “I know you need every man you have to free the hostages.”
“I don’t like your plan.” Before Peter could answer he was issuing a new order. “Ghost, you will escort Peter and Professor Savage.”
“No! I’ve seen what Gorev and his soldiers can do. They exterminated a Special Forces team and a half dozen civilians. You have to hit them hard and fast, or they’ll kill everyone! You need every man in your team.”
Professor Savage had been leaning forward while his son was speaking, and now he had risen to one knee. “He’s right, Jim. You have to stop Gorev.”
“Besides,” Peter added, “while you’re drawing their attention there won’t be any NPA guards to get in our way.”
Reluctantly, Jim agreed. Magnum presented Iceberg with a timer detonator and a one-pound block of C4. “When you’re ready,” Magnum instructed Peter, “Iceberg will help place the explosives and set the detonator. Give yourselves plenty of distance from the blast. A pound of C4, if you use all of it, will make a big bang. If it were me, I’d be inside the stairwell and down at least one floor.”
Gary tapped Peter on the shoulder, and they stepped back away from the others. “I hope you know what you’re doing, because I have no experience with EMP weapons.”
“Well, that makes two of us,” Peter admitted. “But I did read some instructions in a paper published by Los Alamos National Lab.”
Chapter 27
Minsk
EXTREMELY CONFIDENT, THE TWO Russian pilots, Sergei and Alexander, vectored their Su-27 Flanker fighters toward the one radar blip thought to be an American B-1 bomber. Russian air defense systems along the western edge of the Russian Federation had been tracking the inbound American warplanes from the time they entered Polish airspace. Those powerful land-based radar tracking and computing systems had established data connections to the Flankers and were presently directing the fighters to their prey.
Already anticipating the destruction of the strategic bomber, Alexander and Sergei, who had been inseparable since childhood and throughout their 10 years of service in the Russian Air Force, had developed what they believed to be a fail-proof plan of attack. They knew of the electronic jamming capability of the B-1 aircraft. Still, they would test the defensive systems of the American warplane with radar-guided and infrared-guided missiles. If that failed, they would use their 30mm guns to shoot down the defenseless bomber. They both knew it was destined to be a glorious day for the Russian Air Force and the two pilots.
“Hammer Flight, Golden Eye. Be advised, two Flankers closing. Twelve o’clock, 15,000 feet. Fifty miles and closing fast.”
“Roger,” Major Doyle replied. “Nate, two bogies approaching dead ahead and at 15.”
Nate adjusted his suite of defensive measures, looking for radiation from the attack aircraft. So far his scope was blank, no emissions originating from other aircraft.
“Nothing yet, Major.”
“Keep looking. They’re out there. They’ll have to turn on their radar to get a firing solution to upload to their missiles.”
“They could attack with heat seekers,” suggested co-pilot Captain Bill Harrison.
Doyle had already considered this possibility. “No, I don’t think so. They’d have to come around and approach from our six to get good tone, and they know we can outrun them.”
“Can’t kill what you can’t catch,” Captain Harrison said in agreement. The fighters would have a poor shot approaching from the front. Training doctrine was to attack from the rear so the heat-seeking anti-aircraft missile could lock onto the super-heated engine exhaust emanating from the back of the target. With the B-1 already flying at supersonic speed, by the time the Flankers passed and turned to approach, they would never get within engagement range of Hammer and Anvil Flights.
“Bingo!” Nate announced. His scope suddenly showed emissions originating from in front of the Bones, growing exponentially in intensity as the aircraft approached each other at two times the speed of sound.
“We’re being painted, sir.”
“Jam it.”
Nate had already identified the frequency of incoming radiation and matched it with a high-intensity source from the Bone, essentially blinding the Russian radar.
“They’re switching frequency, Major.”
“Stay on it; don’t let them get a lock.”
“Roger. Adjusting frequency, ejecting chaff.”
Golden Eye was monitoring everything. With the Flankers within range, Colonel Horn responded without mercy. “Order Guardian to splash those Russian fighters.”
The Raptors did not need to break formation since the Flankers were approaching directly. Guardian One and Guardian Two received the data link from Golden Eye. The flankers were now within 28 miles, well inside the kill zone for the radar-guided Slammer missiles carried by the Raptors.
“Guardian One, have tone on Bogy One.”
“Guardian Two, lock on Bogy Two.”
The Raptor pilots launched their weapons at the same time to minimize the reaction time available to the Russian pilots. Although the closing speed was close to Mach 5, the missiles would suffer from reduced maneuverability since they were attacking head-on.
Inside the Su-27 aircraft, the overly-confident pilots were stunned to hear their threat-warning receivers go off with a screeching tone.
“What? That’s impossible,” Alexander said in confusion.
The pilots separated, Sergei pulling up while Alexander pushed the stick forward, forcing his plane into a steep dive. In the partial weightlessness, his body rose against the restraining strap and blood pulsed into his head.
They had twenty seconds to live.
As Alexander’s fighter lost altitude, the missile retained its electronic lock and changed course, once again approaching the Russian aircraft. Alexander looked through his canopy and for a briefest of moments saw the white plume from the AIM-120 missile.
It was coming directly for him.
He pushed the stick to the left, and then to the right, but at only 2,000 feet he was essentially playing a two dimensional game. To point his aircraft upwards would cost him speed and shorten the distance to the missile.
Alexander ejected chaff bundles and continued to violently rock his aircraft from side to side. As the threat-warning tone increased in pitch, he knew he was going to die.
When the missile warhead exploded, it was directly over the cockpit. Alexander’s dreams of glory ended in a brilliant white flash that shredded his body as well as his aircraft.
Sergei fared no better. The incoming missile would not be fooled by the relatively motionless chaf
f bundles, and the powerful engines of the Sukhoi were no match for the nimble missile traveling at Mach 4.
The slammer detonated beneath the middle of the fighter, destroying the engines and causing both wings to break off. Sergei had no time to eject before the ensuing fireball and shower of metal debris ripped through the cockpit.
“Golden Eye to Hammer, do you copy?”
“Loud and clear, Golden Eye. What’s the update?” Replied Doyle.
“The Falcons have made two circles over the airport without drawing any radar or AA fire. Colonel Horn isn’t buying it. Thinks the militia is holding back until your flight is within engagement range.”
Doyle glanced at Bill Harrison, the message clear. “Understood, Golden Eye. What about the Raptors?”
“Guardian flight will stay on station providing a defensive cap. We’re showing a couple dozen Russian aircraft, fighters, circling on their side of the border. Looks like they parked a gas station up there as well to keep the birds in the air for at least several hours. The Colonel thinks they may throw more pilots into the fight. If so, Guardian will engage them.”
Major Doyle shook her head. “They don’t have enough ordinance left to take on two dozen Sukhois or MIGs. Fuel is probably questionable, too.”
The radio was silent for several seconds, suggesting to Doyle that another important conversation was taking place onboard Golden Eye. Then the airman came back. “Uh, roger that Major. Colonel Horn says you are to follow the plan. The Raptors can keep the enemy engaged long enough for you to finish the job and then get the hell out of Dodge. That’s a direct quote from the Colonel.”
Bill Harrison, who also had complete access to the communications with Golden Eye, smiled, imagining Colonel Horn instructing the airman to relay his blunt message.
“And the Wild Weasels?” Major Doyle asked.
“Negative. The Falcon’s mission is to continue northwest.” The crews of the two Bones had been briefed in detail on their job in this choreographed mission, but they did not know all the pieces in play. The Falcons were to clear a path from Minsk to the city of Vilnius in Lithuania. Just as the Bones would depart in this direction, the Marines would be flying in from a staging base in Vilnius.
“Five minutes to target, Major,” Harrison said.
“Roger that. Jonesy, how we doing?” Captain Kent Jones—“Jonesy” as he was known by his flight crew—was the Offensive Systems Officer. His primary responsibility on this mission was to lay down their ordinance on selected targets at the Minsk International Airport. The DSO, Nate McKinley, was searching for ground-based targeting and attack radar in the vicinity of the airport.
“All systems are go. I’ve got green from left to right,” answered Jonesy.
“Anvil, this is Hammer, copy?” Major Doyle broke radio silence knowing that she was revealing her flight was two aircraft, not the single bomber as it almost certainly appeared to the Russian radar operators hundreds of miles away.
“Copy Hammer,” came the reply from Anvil Flight in a pronounced Southern drawl.
“We’ll fly in low and fast on the first pass, just like we briefed. Once radar are located, I’ll circle back at 10,000, weapons hot. You’ll follow me, but keep some distance in case we need to maneuver.”
“Roger. Good huntin’ Major.”
s
Dominated by a futuristic terminal made of stainless steel panels and large, angled windows of tinted glass, the National Airport at Minsk was beautiful. The four-story terminal curved gracefully around the front street-level approach, the center of the terminal dominated by a tower capped with a bi-level octagonal structure, oddly reminiscent of a giant steel mushroom.
Screaming across the flat ground at close to fourteen miles per minute, the two B-1 aircraft passed over Minsk Airport at 200 feet elevation. The double sonic booms shattered the windows in the gleaming terminal. NPA soldiers who had the misfortune to be outside clasped hands to their ears, but too late for many to avoid damage to their eardrums.
Scattered around the single long runway were six mobile anti-aircraft missile launchers. These systems had been hiding in the dense forest surrounding the runway, but with the bombers approaching, the militia commander, who understood the importance of holding the airport, ordered them into the open where they would have unobstructed clearance.
Major Doyle started her turn immediately after passing over the airport. At the same time, she bled off about two-thirds of the Bone’s speed, climbing to 10,000 feet.
The DSO’s console lit up with red and yellow lights as warning buzzers sounded the alarm.
“Targeting radar all over down there, Major,” Nate announced. “Transferring target coordinates to OSO.”
“Clear to engage at will, Jonesy,” Major Doyle said.
Jonesy flipped a switch that opened the bay door and selected weapons by using a stylus on the multi-color touch screen menu. Next, he used the stylus to press a box commanding the weapons system computer to accept all targets provided by the DSO. A red “fire” button illuminated, and Jonesy depressed it. From beneath the fuselage, a rotary missile launcher dropped a HARM missile, its engine igniting as soon as the slender missile cleared the underside of the bomber, and it streaked toward the target. The launcher rotated and a second missile was fired. And so it went until eight missiles had been launched in less than ten seconds.
The first HARM missile was fired from a range of about five miles. It followed the radar beacon of the designated missile launcher and detonated on the target eight seconds after launch. Within seconds—less time than it took the militia commander to realize he was under attack—all of the tracking and attack radar systems were destroyed.
With the major threats eliminated, Hammer flight and Anvil flight proceeded to the second priority: Neutralize all heavy weapons and fortified positions.
“Jonesy, how’s the Sniper Pod working?”
The Sniper Advanced Targeting Pod was a recent add-on to the two Bones, having not yet been adopted across the fleet. Lockheed Martin, maker of the Sniper Pod, successfully lobbied the Air Force to trial the targeting and reconnaissance system to enhance the close air support function of the B-1 Lancer.
Captain Jones checked his panel, quickly running through the internal diagnostics. “HARM system offline. Sniper pod coming online now. FLIR functional. CCD-TV functional. Laser functional. Bringing up visual imaging now.”
“I want a wide angle scan for heat sources,” Doyle ordered.
“Going to split screen.” The infrared lens would pick up the heat given off by objects and people. Against a cooler background, engines and other machinery appeared white on the monitor. Jonesy panned the camera systematically, looking first near buildings—the passenger terminal and the airplane maintenance hangers—and then along the runway, taxi ways, and finally along the tree line.
“Picking up lots of heat signatures, Major. Confirming with visual. We’ve got tanks and armored personnel carriers. Also a mix of trucks. Can’t determine if they are weapon platforms or transport. If the militia didn’t get these heavy weapons from Russia, then they’ve got an amazing surplus military industry in this country.”
“Are they stationary?” Doyle asked.
“Negative. The tanks and APCs are headed for the tree line, probably seeking cover—”
“Tracking radar, Major!” Nate said, his voice conveying urgency.
“They have a lock. Now second band. Missile is launching!”
Doyle pushed the stick hard right at the same time Harrison moved the throttles to full power. The four engines jumped to life, accelerating the Bone forward.
“Anvil, this is Hammer. Missile launch, evasive maneuvers. Get out of here!”
There was no reply from Anvil, and Major Doyle assumed the crew were necessarily very busy.
“Nate, jam that emission! Jonesy, take out that radar!”
Nate was working his panel, ejecting chaff and trying to swamp out the reflected signal from his aircraft. He w
asn’t having much luck, as the missile guidance system was randomly switching homing frequency.
The threat warning receiver was wailing. “Twenty seconds to impact!” Nate announced.
“Jonesy, this would be a good time to kill that radar,” Doyle said.
“Working on it.” Jonesy was frantically bringing the HARM system back on line.
“Got a start-up fault, initiating start sequence again.”
“Fifteen seconds.”
Doyle put the Bone into a tight downward turn, using gravity to aid the engines and accelerate her aircraft. The airframe shuttered as it approached the speed of sound. Suddenly, the shaking subsided as the craft became supersonic.
“Still gaining, ejecting more chaff. I can’t hold a jam, the seeker is constantly changing frequency!”
“Weapons system online… locking source… HARM missile launched!”
“Major, level flight course bearing one-eight-one, maximum throttle,” Nate said. He knew that they simply had to put as much distance as possible between their airplane and the incoming missile. It was a race, and if the HARM missile didn’t destroy the radar guidance system on the launcher first, they were going to be hit.
Bill Harrison tried to push the throttles farther forward, but they were already against the stops, had been since the first warning of the missile launch. Major Doyle gripped the stick firmly, holding it steady, avoiding any small movement that would bleed energy and speed away from her aircraft.
“Ten seconds…”
Other than the roar of the engines, no other sound was present.
“Five seconds… ejecting chaff.”
Two seconds passed. “Talk to me Nate,” Doyle said.
Several seconds passed before he answered. “Lock terminated. Missile fell away and detonated.”
“That was too close,” Bill Harrison said.
Major Doyle was on the radio. “Anvil, this is Hammer. Missile destroyed. Status?”
Her brows pinched together. Only static came back in her earphones.
“Anvil, this is Hammer. Report.”
