Iron Wolf (46 page)

“Have them ready to deploy,” Saratov said. “I want the Iskanders ready to fire as soon as we get the order.”

O
VER
E
ASTERN
K
ALININGRAD
O
BLAST

T
HAT SAME TIME

“It's obvious: the air defense radar site is processing bad dope, Vikki,” Captain Pavel Ignatyev, the pilot in the lead of the formation of two Sukhoi-30 air superiority fighters said on intercom. “It's about time they let us do our jobs until they get their heads straight and get their gear fixed.”

“They could be getting meaconed too,” the front seat weapons officer, Senior Lieutenant Viktoria Gref responded. “I'm not picking up anything now, but I thought I saw an indication of something out there at twelve o'clock, sixty kilometers.”

“We're not radiating now, are we?”

“No, but I'm ready to take a look,” Gref said. “If it's a real target I'll see it at eleven o'clock, forty kilometers.”

“Clear to radiate,” Ignatyev said. On the air-to-air channel he said, “Voron Flight, Lead is radiating.”

“Two,”
came the simple reply from the pilot of the second Su-30. As the old joke said, wingmen only had to say three things to their flight leader: “Two,” “You're on fire, Lead,” and “I'll take the ugly one.”

“Contact!”
Gref said. “Two targets, eleven o'clock low, range one hundred, speed seven hundred!”

“Finally we got the real bastards!” Ignatyev said. On the command channel: “Take spacing, we have contact.”

“Two,”
his wingman said. The second Su-30 climbed a hundred meters and dropped back about half a kilometer, allowing the leader more room to maneuver while hunting down their prey.

“Radar in standby,” Gref said. On her display, however, the fire control computer plotted the targets it had picked up based on their last speed and heading and displayed them as if the radar was still locked on. “Eleven o'clock moving to ten, ninety klicks.”

Ignatyev thumped the channel selector on his control stick to the command channel and spoke. “Base, Voron Flight, we have an air
borne contact, low-flying, heading westbound at seven hundred. Do you still want a visual?”

“Affirmative, Voron,”
came the reply.

“Acknowledged,” Ignatyev replied. On intercom: “Shit, they want a visual. At night, low altitude, fast mover—the worst setup.”

“The infrared seeker will give us an image at fifteen klicks,” Gref said.

“Yeah, but that's well within Sidewinder missile range and almost in gun range.”

“That's why you wear the big-boy four stars, Pavel,” Gref said. “If they fire at us, we nail them.”

Ignatyev straightened his back in his ejection seat and tightened his shoulder straps. “Fuck yeah,” he said. “Arm up the 77s.”

Gref flipped a switch and checked her multifunction display. “Four R-77s prearmed, button set for single salvo. Your triggers are hot.”

“Odobryat,”
Ignatyev said. “Acknowledged. Light 'em up.”

“Radiating . . . now.” A second later: “
Contact,
ten o'clock low, sixty klicks, heading west . . . maneuvering, moving southwest, accelerating to nine-sixty . . . shit, he's right on the deck!”

“He's got to be a bad guy!” Ignatyev said. He flicked his channel selector again: “Base, Voron Flight, unidentified aircraft is at extreme low altitude and is almost supersonic. Do I have permission to—”

But his question was interrupted when Gref shouted, “Picking up multiple targets now, I've got four aircraft now. Two moving northwest, still at low altitude. The other two are heading south and accelerating . . . northerly targets turning northeast.”

“Looks like they're bugging out to Lithuania and Poland, the cowards,” Ignatyev said.

“Some may be decoys,” Gref reminded her pilot. “Could be MALDs.”

Ignatyev switched back to his air-to-air radio. “Two, we have contacts at three and eleven o'clock, about fifty klicks. Turn northeast and pick up those two. I'll go after the southerly ones.”

“Two,”
Vonorov replied.

Ignatyev threw his Su-30 into a tight right turn, imagining exactly where the southbound intruders should be. He was rewarded with: “Targets twelve o'clock very low, fifty klicks, speed one thousand.”

“That's no decoy,” Ignatyev said. “How far away is the border?”

“About two minutes at this speed.”

“He's not getting away,” Ignatyev said. “Lock them up.”

Gref finished programming the fire control computer, and a moment later: “Targets locked.” But a half second after that: “Heavy jamming . . . shit, broke lock. Can't reacquire. Target is maneuvering . . . target now heading west-northwest.”

“Turning back toward his original target . . . probably the Iskanders,” Ignatyev said. “I'll close on him and nail him with the 73s if you can't break the jamming.”

A tone sounded in their helmets. “Target-tracking radar, X-band,” Gref announced. “He's got air-to-air.”

“I think it's one of those F-111s with the F-35 radar,” Ignatyev said. “But he's just giving away his own position. If he thinks he's going to fire a missile at us from two hundred feet above the ground, he's an amateur.” The captain sneered. “Idiot. What's his range?”

“Range twenty,” Gref said. “I've got an infrared lock-on. Selecting the 73s . . . infrared missiles armed, your triggers are—”

At that instant, a tremendous flash of yellow fire burst less than a hundred meters to their right, followed by a huge explosion and burst of turbulence that threatened to twist the Russian fighter inside out. “
Presvataya Bogoroditsa!
Holy Mother of God!” Ignatyev shouted. “Where the hell did that come from?”

“My scope is clear!” Gref shouted, trying to blink away the stars from her eyes. “All I have is our target at twelve o'clock low, fifteen klicks! Check your readouts—I feel a vibration on the right.”

“Do I still have a hot trigger?” Ignatyev asked.

“Stand by!” She had to strain to read the multifunction display. “Yes! R-73s are still armed, single shot. Your trigger is hot! Still locked on infrared, fifteen kilometers.”

Ignatyev's thumb slid over to the missile launch button on his control stick. “
Do svidaniya,
Mother—”

The second flash of light was just as bright as the first, but instead of a hundred meters off to the right it erupted just centimeters in front of the Su-30's left wing. Both crewmembers saw the light . . . but saw, heard, or felt nothing else. Their fighter was blown to pieces in a millisecond.

“I'd like to bring a dozen of those Coyotes with me on every mission,” Brad McLanahan said, bringing the throttles back and pushing the wing sweep handle forward to fifty-four degrees, the high-speed cruise setting. Seated beside him in the cockpit of their XF-111A SuperVark was Nadia Rozek, unrecognizable in her helmet and flight gear except for her voice, which was steady and sure even though they were flying at nine miles a minute just one hundred feet above the Russian countryside at night, with radars all around them and Russian fighters and missiles ready to blow them out of the sky. Brad glanced over at Nadia's multifunction display and punched up a different screen.

“I am so sorry I am not more familiar with these controls,” Nadia said. “There was just no time to learn.”

“That's okay, Nadia,” Brad said. “Your original job wasn't to fly this mission. But I can use all the help you can give me. Besides, I'm pretty good at flying solo—I've got lots of simulator time pushing weapon buttons from the left seat.” He read the new information on the screen. “Six minutes to the first launch point. We're prearmed and ready.” Their SuperVark was loaded with two AGM-154 Joint Standoff Weapons on external hardpoints on the wings, two AGM-88 High-Speed Anti-Radiation Missiles also on wing hardpoints, and four CBU-105 Sensor Fuzed Weapon munitions in the bomb bay.

A warning tone sounded. “Here we go,” Brad said. “S-300 site. Swap screens for me please.” Nadia hit a soft key, which transferred the weapon page from the right MFD to the left so Brad
could see it. “Hit the top right button on your right screen to bring up the ECM status page . . . that's it, and it shows SPEAR is active. But I have a HARM selected on the left screen, so SPEAR won't try to take down that radar. Consent switches up . . . that's it, you got it. Mine's up, and I hit the release button. That starts the launch countdown . . . we're climbing a bit to give the missile more room . . . five, four, three, two, one, watch for the flare . . . there she goes.” A streak of fire and a loud
RROAR!
erupted from the left wing, and an AGM-88 antiradiation missile shot off into the darkness. “Descending back to one hundred feet.”

“It is like a video game, is it not, Brad?” Nadia breathed.

“Except for the results,” Brad said. Moments later they saw a bright flash of light on the horizon, and a cloud of fire rolled into the sky. “Splash one CLAM SHELL. SPEAR is active again.” On the weapons page, he selected a Joint Standoff Weapon. “Now let's see if we can take out the launchers. Coming up on the first location. On your right screen, hit the button for the radar . . . that's it. Switch it over to the left.” Nadia did so. “The computer has selected the last known location of an S-300 site, but the things are mobile, so we won't know if they're really there unless we spot it on radar. Hit the top left . . .”

But Nadia had already selected the proper button. The snapshot image showed a finely detailed, almost photograph-quality image of the target area . . . and, almost right in the center of the screen, was a large eight-wheeled vehicle with two large vertical missile tubes on the back. Another unit could be seen just a few hundred feet away. “There they are!” Nadia exclaimed.

“But notice that the computer didn't select either of them,” Brad said. “That means the radar is not picking up some characteristic it expects . . . which means it might be a decoy. Let's search around a bit. Use your trackball on your right console and scroll around a little.” Even though it was not a live radar image, Nadia was able to move the image from side to side to search the area . . .

. . . and sure enough, they saw another pair of S-300 launchers about a mile farther to the north. “Are those real?”

“Hit the radar button again and let's find out.” Nadia hit the button to take another radar snapshot, and this time the computer had put a yellow box around each launcher. “The computer thinks they're good. Select that button there on your right screen to select a JSW . . . good, consent switches are up, just waiting for the in-range indicator . . . there it is, bye-bye.” Brad pressed the button on his panel, and an AGM-154 Joint Standoff Weapon dropped free from the right wing. Brad banked slightly left to stay away from the glide weapon.

“Did it hit it?” Nadia asked a few moments later. “I did not see an explosion.”

“The JSW carries bomblets, and they detonate close to the ground, so we probably won't see a—”

Suddenly off to the left the ground erupted with bright flashes of light, and tracers arced all around them. “
Shit!
We flew right into triple-A!” Brad shouted. He threw the SuperVark into a hard right turn, but they heard and felt several hard impacts on the left wing and fuselage. They had been in the gun's cross hairs for just a blink of an eye, but they had not come through unscathed. “Damn, that was close! Are you okay, Nadia?”

“Yes.” She hadn't screamed or panicked, but there was definitely fear in her voice now.

Brad's fingers flashed over the multifunction display's soft keys, calling up status and warning pages. “Left engine looks okay . . . no, wait, hydraulic system is losing pressure, and we may have lost wing sweep and partially lost left flight controls. Can you call up the weapons page and check for warning messages?”

“Yes.” She called up the correct page with a shaky gloved finger.

Brad scanned the page while testing the flight controls and autopilot. “Looks like we lost an SFW,” he said. “We'd better jettison it.” He selected the damaged weapon and had Nadia hit the “JETT” soft key. They heard and felt the bomb-bay doors open and felt a slight shudder as the bomb left the bay . . . but the noise from the open bomb bay did not vanish as expected. “Crap, the bomb-bay
doors won't close,” Brad said after scanning his status and warning page. “Not enough hydraulic power.”

“What does that mean, Brad?”

“We'll be even bigger on radar and it'll be noisy,” Brad said. “It probably means we won't get the landing gear fully down or be able to use flaps or slats, but that's a problem we'll deal with when we get home.” Unspoken was the thought: You mean
if
we get home.

Minutes later they were over the first Iskander missile launcher location. As before, they took radar snapshots of each launcher, verified that it was real and not a fake. Nadia selected a weapon. Using cues provided by the attack computer, Brad executed a “toss” maneuver, pulling the nose up and banking hard left at weapon release so the bomb was flung through the air in a high, arcing path.

This time, Nadia could see the results, and they were spectacular. The CBU-105 Sensor Fuzed Weapon released ten submunitions over the target area. Each submunition had infrared and radar seekers and four explosive disks. When the sensors detected a vehicle within range, it set off the disks, sending a shower of molten copper slugs down on the targets it found. The slugs could penetrate armor up to two inches thick—the Iskander missile launchers and their missiles were no match for them. Two Iskander launchers, their missiles, support vehicles, and their nearby reloads were hit and destroyed in a blinding red carpet of fiery chaos.

“Good show, old boy,” came a voice on the secure air-to-air channel.

“Where are you, Claw Two?” Brad responded.