Overkill (6 page)

‘We’ll do what?’

‘Figure it out. Once one gets a weapons lock on us, heading straight for the other ’hound might bring it within the missiles’ radar acquisition range.’

‘Yeah, and it might not.’

‘You got any better ideas?’

Paul James was silent for a couple of seconds. ‘Guess not.’

The SR–71A is called the Blackbird because it appears black – although in fact it’s a very, very dark blue – but the colour and type of the fuselage finish was not
selected at random; it is an anechoic coating that absorbs radar energy. This, allied to the fact that radar waves are reflected best off a flat surface, and the Blackbird has hardly a flat panel
anywhere, means that the aircraft has a very poor radar signature, especially from the front. By heading directly towards the second Foxhound, Frank Roberts hoped to prevent the Russian pilot
obtaining missile lock, which would effectively disarm him.

‘Both Bandits climbing rapidly. We’re still being illuminated by fire-control radars from both. I have full counter-measures engaged.’ The closest Foxhound fired almost
immediately. ‘Bandit Two – missile release. Two birds.’

AA–9 Amos radar-guided missiles are of the fire-and-forget type; the weapon is targeted by the interceptor and released when target lock has been achieved. Once fired, the missile has its
own internal radar, but can also be guided by the massive Zaslon phased array radar carried in the nose of the Foxhound.

The Blackbird turned rapidly to starboard and picked up speed in the descent as Frank Roberts aimed the aircraft directly at Bandit One.

‘Bandit One on the nose at eight, two thousand below and turning. Keep going like this and he’ll be close enough to take us out with a twelve-gauge shotgun.’

‘Yeah,’ Roberts said, ‘but only if he’s got one. Where are the birds?’

‘Now red four zero at ten, turning to follow. Bandit One dead ahead at three, one thousand below. He’s lost radar lock. Two is at red three zero range twenty, same level.’

As James spoke, the first missile detonated, followed almost immediately by the second one, the flashes clearly visible, although the noise of the explosion was inaudible. But at a range of less
than a mile, the Blackbird kicked and bucked from the blast wave.

Roberts eased back on the control column and the Blackbird began to climb. From the tiny starboard-side armoured window, Paul James saw the Foxhound designated Bandit One flash past – a
barely visible streak of grey against the blue sky, less than half a mile away.

‘Good thinking, boss,’ James said, admiration mingled with relief in his voice. ‘Bandit Two must have used the command detonation on the birds to avoid taking out his wingman.
Now I suggest you get us the hell out of here before Bandit One decides to join the party.’

‘Roger that.’

The Blackbird was holding a little under Mach 3, and was passing seventy thousand feet in the climb. ‘Bandit Two now outside engage range. Bandit One directly astern, range five miles,
eight thousand below and in a max rate climb, following us. He now has radar lock. Prediction is he’ll try for a tail shot any time now.’

Voyska IA-PVO Unit, Arkhangel’sk,
Confederation of Independent States

‘Command detonation of both missiles confirmed, sir,’ Privalov said. ‘Interceptor Eight reports no damage, and the American aircraft is still flying. It
may have been damaged by our weapons,’ he added hopefully.

Kabalin snorted. ‘Don’t count on it,’ he said. ‘Has Eight achieved weapons lock?’

Privalov shook his head. ‘Not yet, Colonel, but at any second – yes! Missile lock acquired, but on one weapon only.’

‘Excellent,’ Kabalin said. ‘And at such close range he cannot fail to destroy the target. Instruct him to fire.’

Aspen Three Four

‘Missile away – single launch from Bandit One. Possible radar acquisition failure on the second bird. Range six miles, directly astern.’

Frank Roberts had few options. The Blackbird was already travelling at close to its maximum speed. He had a little height above the missile, and he had a little distance, so his only hope was to
try to out-run it. He levelled the Blackbird at seventy-nine thousand feet and watched as the needle on the Mach meter slowly began to move.

All air-to-air missiles carry a relatively small fuel load, because of the need for guidance systems, radar equipment and, of course, the warhead, and if a target has sufficient speed it can, in
theory, out-run the vast majority of missiles fired at it. As most missiles travel in the Mach 2 to Mach 4 range, very few aircraft actually can out-run them, but the Blackbird could. In fact, that
had been one of the philosophies behind the design of the aircraft.

‘Missile at six, two thousand below. Bandit One at eight, falling back. Missile has radar lock. I say again, missile has radar lock.’

‘I heard you the first time.’

‘Range five. Missile speed near Mach four. I estimate impact in about eighty seconds.’

Moscow

The Budapesht Hotel on ulitsa Petrovskie was in fact something over a mile away, on the north side of the Moskva river and almost in the centre of old Moscow, but Richter
wanted to walk. Moscow was enjoying the brittle sunshine of early summer, but it still wasn’t warm enough to be out without a coat and hat, and he was glad of his leather gloves and fur
cap.

He picked up the first tail almost as soon as he walked out of the Embassy grounds. He was on the opposite side of the road about two hundred yards back, heavily – too heavily –
muffled against the weather, and as Richter started walking he abruptly lost interest in the newspaper in his hand and began following.

Richter made the second a couple of minutes after he had left the Moskvoreckij Most – the central bridge over the Moskva – and began walking past the eastern wall of the Kremlin. He
was about fifty yards in front, walking briskly, and stopping to look around him at irregular intervals like any tourist would, but maintaining his lead comfortably enough. The two of them closed
in on Richter as he reached the huge GUM department store opposite the Kremlin and wandered inside, but he wasn’t interested in losing them. ‘Mr Willis’ wouldn’t even have
known they were there.

Aspen Three Four

The Blackbird’s nose tilted downwards as Frank Roberts eased the stick forwards, and the aircraft’s speed began to increase more rapidly. Paul James was
devoting his entire attention to the radar display.

‘Missile still has radar lock. Range now four. Second missile launch confirmed. Range nine, three thousand below.’

The Blackbird reached Mach 3.3 and levelled at seventy thousand feet.

‘First missile dead astern, range three decimal five and one thousand below. Bandit One now range fifteen, close to maximum engage range. Full power.’

‘This is full power – we’re at our limiting velocity.’

‘I hope it’s enough. Missiles at three and eight, closing more slowly. Bandit One outside engage range at eighteen miles.’

The Blackbird engines howled as the big jet fled westwards. On the ground, thirteen miles below, the supersonic booms from its passage sounded like distant thunder, and people began looking up,
puzzled, into the cloudless sky.

‘Birds at two and six, both still closing slowly.’

‘How long since the first missile launched?’

Paul James was silent for a few moments. ‘I don’t know exactly, but it must be around five minutes. Why?’

‘Just wondering how much more fuel it could have.’

‘Enough to catch us, I think.’

Frank Roberts grunted. ‘Yeah, I thought you’d say that.’

As if linked by an invisible wire, the big black jet and the white-tipped grey missile powered through the sky. Every sweep of the tail radar showed the missile getting closer.

‘Missile speed?’

Paul James didn’t need to calculate the answer – he knew it already. ‘Mach three decimal eight, and it’s still gaining on us. Range now one decimal five.’

The Blackbird’s needle nose dipped downwards as Frank Roberts pushed forward on the control column again and the aircraft’s speed increased to Mach 3.4. Then 3.5. ‘We’re
through our limiting velocity,’ Roberts muttered. ‘I sure hope Lockheed didn’t build this baby on a Friday afternoon.’

Moscow

When Richter left GUM ten minutes later, both his shadows were still in attendance, and as he began walking north up ulitsa Petrovka, they dropped back behind him.

The third took a bit more effort to see, but Richter finally identified him as he turned right off ulitsa Petrovka into ulitsa Petrovskie. He was ahead, on the opposite side of the road, wearing
loud check trousers three inches too short for him, and carrying a map and a camera – everyman’s Yankee tourist.

Richter had been expecting a tail, of course, in view of the circumstances, but a three-tail was, he thought, something of an overkill. He walked into the lobby of the Budapesht and checked the
mail rack – there would be no letters for him, but everyone staying in a hotel checks the mail rack – then turned back to the main entrance and glanced outside into the street. The two
tourists were conferring, while the man with the newspaper was once again absorbed in
Pravda
, leaning against a wall directly across the road. Richter hoped they all had their woolly
underwear on, because it looked like being a chilly afternoon.

Richter walked up the three flights to his floor, stopped at the
dezhurnaya’s
table to collect his room key and watched as she logged the time of his arrival, then walked down the
corridor to his room. He didn’t bother trying to decide if anyone had been in there while he had been at the Embassy, and he had taken no precautions against searchers.

The room was hot and stuffy. With some difficulty Richter pushed open the single window, then tossed his hat, coat and gloves onto the bed. He picked up the accident report and the English
translation, took them over to the easy chair by the window, sat down, loosened his tie and started to read. The translator hadn’t done too bad a job, only making three minor errors of little
importance.

Richter read the report through twice, and was little wiser then. The only conclusion that could be drawn from the stark official phraseology was that the late Mr Newman had been either
criminally irresponsible or suicidally inclined, if the facts as stated were correct. He had, it seemed, been travelling at a speed in excess of fifty miles an hour in a narrow back street when he
encountered the tailboard, and totally unyielding load, of a parked lorry. Richter smiled humourlessly. Despite the official line, he knew exactly what had happened. He knew the answer, but what he
didn’t know was the question. He stood up, straightened his tie, tucked the report into his briefcase, locked it and then headed downstairs towards the dining room.

Voyska IA-PVO Unit, Arkhangel’sk,
Confederation of Independent States

‘Sir, both interceptors dropping back, but the missile is still closing the American aircraft,’ Privalov reported. He looked suddenly at the digital display
that showed the time each missile had been running.

Kabalin noticed his glance. ‘Yes?’ he asked. ‘What is it?’

‘The AA–9, Colonel,’ Privalov said. ‘If that run-time figure is accurate, it only has fuel for another two or three minutes’ flight.’

Kabalin nodded decisively. ‘You’re right, Lieutenant. How far behind is the missile?’

Privalov spoke into his microphone, then turned back to his superior officer.

‘Interceptor Eight estimates under one mile, sir.’ Kabalin thought for a few seconds. ‘That’s not close enough,’ he said. ‘Order Interceptor Eight to monitor
the missile. If it doesn’t catch the American aircraft, instruct the pilot to command-detonate the warhead the instant the AA–9 runs out of fuel.’

That order was the first mistake Colonel Kabalin had made since the Blackbird had been detected, because he had forgotten to allow for just one thing – the Foxhound pilot’s reaction
time.

Aspen Three Four

Paul James suddenly let out an exclamation. ‘Yes! It’s out of fuel. Half a mile astern and five hundred below, and falling away.’

In the MiG–31, the pilot was closely watching his radar display and missile telemetry. In the second and a quarter it took him to register the fact that the missile engine had stopped, the
Blackbird had travelled just over one mile. In that same second and a quarter, the AA–9 had slowed considerably and had already begun to descend under the force of gravity. It took the
Foxhound pilot a further second to lift the guard on the master detonate switch, and another half-second to depress it, by which time the Blackbird was nearly three miles from the AA–9 and
over one thousand feet above it.

Frank Roberts was jolted in his seat as the Amos detonated in spectacular fashion, and the Blackbird kicked upwards, then he heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Thank God. I thought that fucking
missile was going to bury us. Where’s the other one?’

‘Forget it. Range is four miles, and even if you chopped our speed to three it still wouldn’t catch us before it ran out of gas.’

Voyska IA-PVO Unit, Arkhangel’sk,
Confederation of Independent States

There was silence in the operations room as the Russian officers watched the radar return of the Blackbird receding rapidly towards the west.

When the telephone rang on Colonel Kabalin’s desk, he got slowly to his feet and straightened his uniform jacket before he walked over to pick up the receiver.

Thursday
Aspen Three Four

Normally Frank Roberts was able to keep a reasonable mental picture of the aircraft’s geographical position, but the evasive action and numerous turns, climbs and
descents had destroyed it. ‘Paul, I’ve lost the bubble,’ he said. ‘Where in hell are we?’

Paul James turned his attention away from the radar display and made a swift check of the navigation computer. ‘Coastline at Klaipeda in a little under three minutes.’

‘Klaipeda? Where the hell’s that?’