Flight Of The Old Dog pm-1 Read online

  But that too was unnecessary A moment later a green light spewed on his weapon-control panel… his selected AA-6 heat-seeking missiles were tracking the target.

  TMIA He released the safeties on the launch button on his control stick and A scratchy, faded message blared on both of his command radios.

  "For all Ossora and Korf units, code yellow. Repe, code yellow.

  Acknowledge immediately and comply.

  His fingers didn't move from the missile launch button, but neither did it squeeze. A general forces recall…

  "All Ossora units, code yellow. Acknowledge and comply.

  He tried to force himself to make a decision. He had the B-52 in his sights, but if he transmitted on his radio, so close to the B-52, they might hear or detect his transmission and evade or reattack. The Korf interceptor units had all responded immediately to the recall instructions. All of the Ossora units had probably responded as well-all but him. His career was probably already in jeopardy. A young pilot commanding a long-range fighter, capable of reaching Japan or Alaska, who didn't respond immediately to recall instructions could easily end up attacking vegetables in a warehouse in some isolated Siberian base. Or worse.

  "Vawl. "Papendreyov swore aloud, maintained track on the target, activated his command radio and said, "Element seven acknowledges.

  Triangulate position immediately. Stand by. Closing on intruder."

  "Element seven, comply immediately with instructions, came the voice once again. His number had been called in time-he was indeed the last one to rejoin at the navigation beacon over Ossora. His ticket to Ust-Melechenskiy three hundred miles north of the Arctic Circle was probably already being processed…

  Fat harebrained dogs, Yuri let loose, this time to himself. Enraged, he pressed the missile-launch button and began a climbing left turn toward Ossora… before realizing that the green I.R TRACK light had long extinguished. The two hundred thousand ruble missiles vanished into the darkness. Yuri proceeded to curse all his superiors, the flight commander, the ground controllers, the command post officers at everyone else he could think of on his way back to the rendezvous point. He wasn't worried about that icy base Siberia-he was worried about exactly how he'd wring the neck of the first person unlucky enough to get in his way General Elliott and Lieutenant Colonel Ormack, acting unison, forced the Old Dog lower and lower into the mountains.

  The terrain-following computer was already set COLA, the lowest setting possible in the automatic mode, but with the threat of a Soviet fighter on their tail, even a hundred feet above the ground was like ten thousand. There were constant warning beeps as the automatic-climb commands were overridden by the two pilots, and the bomber's radar altimeter, measuring the exact distance between the bomber's belly and the ground, occasionally entered the double-digit area.

  Dave Luger's one good eye, and both of Patrick McLanahan's, were on the ground-mapping display of McLanahan's ten-inch scope. The two navigators carefully called out even the smallest peaks and ridges that could pose a threat. Elliott and Ormack reacted in sync-one man forcing the bomber lower, the other scanning the instruments and nudging it higher in response to the warnings from the terrain-following computer and what he heard over the interphone.

  "He was so close," Wendy said, "his radio signal was so strong I swear I heard him over interphone. "She swallowed, studying her video displays. "His signal is decreasing… I think he's leaving "My scope's clear," Angelina reported, shivering for a moment, "I saw him for a second, but he's gone."

  Elliott relaxed his grip on the yoke and let the terrainfollowing computer control the Old Dog again. "Well, that was close. I saw the missiles hit out there… they were so damned close, and we didn't even know he was out there. We didn't even know Ossom AIRFIELD Yuri Papendreyov stood at attention before his squadron-leader's desk in the PVO Strany Interceptor Squadron reads room at Ossora Airfield.

  The squadron leader, a thin, age naval commander named Vasholtov, still on active duty from the Great Patriotic War, paced behind his desk.

  Not a word had been spoken yet, even though Papendreyov had been standin at attention for two minutes.

  He had to chew this young Papendreyov cub out a few minutes longer, the squadron leader thought to himself-although that didn't always mean a verbal tirade. The squadron-and his superiors-expected a good five to ten minutes of closed-door time, perhaps a slammed door, a curse or two then an administrative reprimand. It would go no farther that the squadron records-good pilots who didn't drink on the job were hard to find in the cold, barren Kamchatka-and the reprimand would disappear after a month or two. How he hated these chewing-out sessions. But it had to be done to maintai the discipline and integrity of his unit.

  "You have disappointed your entire squadron, Papendrey ov," the old squadron leader finally said, glancing at the youn- Fulcrum pilot.

  "Failure immediately to acknowledge a recal instruction is almost as serious as treason. Or desertion. "The youngster didn't blink.

  Didn't move a muscle-most youn- pilots would be melting at the mention of the word "treason."

  Vasholtov studied the youngster for a moment. Papendreyov could have been from Berlin or even further west-Copenhagen or Britain. He was of average height but broad shouldered with close-shaved blond curls and narrow blue eyes gazed straight ahead. His boots were polished to a high gloss, every zipper was closed and every patch on his flight suit was perfectly aligned. Five years from now this young pilot would probably be a flight commander… The new breed, Vasholtov thought, but just now this "new breed" needed a tongue-lashing. Vasholtov knew how fast unrest, boredom, lack of discipline and insubordination grew in a unit where the men, especially the young ones, thought the commander didn't care. Might as well get it over with…

  "I suppose you will now tell me that your radio was malfunctioning.

  "There was nothing wrong with my radio, sir."

  "Silence, Papendreyov. Silence or I will have your wings here and now. "The squadron leader circled the young pilot few times like a shark circling in for the kill. Papendreyov remained at rigid attention.

  "Ice-and-snow-removal detail for forty-eight hours for that outburst, Flight Captain. Perhaps a few nights in the Siberian winds will cool down your hotheadedness. Pray I don't put you on that detail permanently."

  Papendreyov blurted out, "I had the intruder, Squadron Leader. I saw the American B-52.I took a missile shot at it."

  "You what… T' Papendreyov still stood firmly at attention. "I found the B-52 at three hundred meters above the ground, Squadron Leader. I pursued him down to seventy meters-" "Sevenly meters?You took your interceptor to seventy meters?Without authorization?

  Without-" "I found him. I found him on radar but his jamming was too strong. So I locked onto him on the infrared search-and-track system.

  I closed to within three kilometers of him."

  Vasholtov stifled his annoyance at the interruption. "Go on."

  "I was then ordered back to base. I waited as long as I could. I fired just before obeying the order to return but I had lost track by then. They must have detected my radio trans-" You fired on the B-52?"

  In forty years he had never heard of any man under his command actually firing on anything or anyone except target drones. "Did you… hit it?"

  "My first radar shot… yes, I believe I hit him," Papendreyov said, wishing he hadn't sounded so unsure, so hesitant-now it sounded like he was lying.

  radar is not used."

  "Not use radar "You could have been killed," Vasholtov asked. "You could have crashed at any time. Flying at seventy meters at night in the mountains with the flight director radar down… you risked too much. This will have to be reported-" " Let me go after him," Papendreyov interrupted once again. "I can find him again. He is using a tail-mounted radar that can be detected for forty kilometers.

  He is only traveling five hundred, perhaps six hundred kilometers an hour… I can catch him. I can stay low enough for the infrared system to lock
onto him. He cannot detect a fighter closing on him if Vasholtov was almost too flabbergasted to reply. Papendreyov had been down in the Kamchatka mountain range at night-he had only recently been certified for night duty-at seventy meters, about a thousand meters lower than he should have been, without using his radar. He had broken more rules in one hour than the entire squadron had done in months.

  The Defense Force Commander would retire him for sure when they saw this report.

  "You are lucky, very lucky," Vasholtov said, "to be alive.

  Very, very lucky. The rules of engagement exist to protect stupid young hotheads like you. You broke at least four of them-not including the crime of ignoring a unit recall-order.

  You are very close to a flight tribunal, Flight Captain. Very close.

  " "Punish me, then," Papendreyov said defiantly "Send me to y Ust-Meryna or Gorky. Take my wings. Just let me take one more crack at the Americans-" "Enough. "Vasholtov's tobacco-singed throat throbbed from all his yelling. "You will report to the intelligence branch and give them a complete debriefing on your supposed contact with the American B-52.Then you will immediately report to your barracks. I'll have to decide what to do with you-give you to a flight tribunal or a criminal board."

  "Please, tovarisch, " Papendreyov said, his sharp blue eyes now round and soft. "I deserve punishment, Squadron Leader, severe punishment, but I also deserve to shoot down this intruder. I know where to find him and how to take him.

  Please… " "Get out," Vasholtov ordered, dropping into his rough wooden chair before he collapsed into it. "Get out before I have your insubordinate hide arrested."

  Papendreyov's round eyes hardened and narrowed. He snapped to unbending attention, saluted, spun on a heel and left the office.

  Papendreyov quickly returned to his barracks room as ordered-without stopping at the flight intelligence branch. He turned on the light to his desk and fished out a pen and paper.

  As he wrote he picked up the telephone and dialed.

  "Alert maintenance, crew sergeant speaking."

  "Starshiy Serzhant Bloiaki, this is Flight Captain Papendreyov. I am calling from the ready room. Is one-seven-one combat ready?"

  "One-seven-one, sir?Your plane?The one you just returned-" "Of course, my plane, sergeant. Is it ready?"

  "Sir… we… it has been towed to recovery area B sir, but it hasn't-" "Starshiy Serzhant Bloiaki, this is not like you," Papendreyov asked. "This is the worst time not to get the orders. My plane was to be immediately reconfigured with one four hundred decaliter centerline drop tank and four infrared missiles. It was to be ready on the hour."

  He paused, then said quietly, "I'll have to tell squadron leader Vasholtov that my sortie will be delayed- "That won't be necessary," Bloiaki said quickly. "One drop tank and four infrared missiles… they will be ready in fifteen minutes, sir."

  Papendreyov checked his watch."it will be ready in ten minutes or we will both have a chat with Squadron Commander Vasholtov. I must refile my flight plan once more," he said.finishing his hurried scribbling.

  "I'll be out there right away.

  He hung up the phone and went to his bureau, took one last long loving gaze at the photo of his wife and infant daughter then opened the top drawer. As he studied his wife's dark chestnut hair and his daughter's blonde curly locks he began stuffing his pockets with packets of freeze-dried survival food and dried beef. He quickly unzipped his flight suit and put on a second thermal shirt over his flameproof underwear, and replaced his lightweight flight boots with insulated flying boots. He touched the picture of his wife, then put on his flight jacket, gloves and fur hat and hurried toward the flightline.

  He had left the hastily written note and last will an testament unsigned; there was no longer time even for that. No matter. His career was over the minute he stepped foot on the flightline. His life-period-would have been over as he taxied onto the main runway except that on account of the emergency declared over the entire eastern air-defense region the air traffic controllers allowed him to take off without a full verified flight plan. In an emergency, better to have the fighter airborne first, question their procedures later.

  Papendreyov had known this, of course, and was airborne again within thirty minutes of landing from his first sortie.

  It had only been an hour and a half since he had broken off the attack with the American B-52.The B-52, obviously wounded, was flying slow-at the most, he figured, it had gone some seven hundred fifty kilometers from ssora since he had fired his last missiles. His MiG-29

  Fulcrum fighter could chase after it easily at three times the B-52's speed with fuel from the drop tank only, then spend two, three hours searching for the intruder.

  Papendreyov gave his call sign to Ossora Intercept Contro which questioned him briefly about his absent flight-taskil code but quickly gave him vectors to the bomber's last know position, nearly five hundred kilometers ahead. The young Fulcrum pilot kept the throttles at max afterburner and began ten-degree climb at seven hundred kilometers per hour. With' minutes he was at twenty thousand meters, screaming nord east at seventeen hundred kilometers per hour, almost twice the speed of sound.

  Quickly he was handed off to Korf Intercept Control, which had few updates on the bomber's position, but Papendreyc made his own estimate where the American B-52 would be The fuel in his centerline drop tank having exhausted itself lethan ten minutes after his takeoff, he made another calculation then jettisoned the tank, not having the luxury of considerit who or what might be underneath… he was high over the mountains, but they were still sparsely populated. He continued at maximum afterburner for five more minutes, then pulled his throttles to cruise power and set his autopilot.

  He had fifty thousand liters of fuel remaining to find the American, and he was wasting two thousand liters per hour-just w hourju hoping to catch up. But Papendreyov wasn't worried. He knew, thanks to his subtle course corrections, that the nose of his Fulcrum was pointed right at the Americans' heart.

  "We aren't going to make it," Ormack felt obliged to report.

  "We've got thirty minutes of fuel tops."

  General Bradley Elliott double-checked the autopilot and flight control annunciators while Ormack went over his fuel calculations. They had been flying for well over an hour at ten thousand feet, forced to that altitude by the damage to the pressurized crew compartment.

  "Fuel flow?"

  44 "Pretty steady," Ormack said, "but the fuel curve is getting orse.

  Looks like a major leak from wing and body tanks. I've jumped all the fuel out of the body tanks but I can't do anything about the mains.

  I've got the minimum in them to keep the engines going as it is.

  We've had low-pressure lights on for a long time-" "Can we make it to the ocean?" Elliott asked, scanning his engine instruments and checking them by moving the throttles.

  "Put it down on an ice floe or punch out near the coastline?"

  "Punch out?" Angelina Pereira asked. "You mean eject?"

  "We'd have to cross high mountain ridges to get to the coast," Luger said, warming his hands on an overhead air vent. "It would be real close."

  "Now's the time to decide," Elliott asked. "Patrick, give me a heading toward the ocean, away from any active Russian fighter bases. Crew, prepare for-" "Hold on," McLanahan broke in. "General, what does WXO near an airfield mean?"

  1 — WXO?Warm-weather operations only. They close the place during winter because it's too expensive and too difficult to maintain.

  Why?"

  "I found one," McLanahan said, putting a finger on his high-altitude navigation chart and checking the satellite navigation system's present-position counters. "Straight ahead, fifteen minutes."

  "Fifteen minutes?" Ormack asked. "You're crazy. That's in Russia.

  1. They got a long runway at the very least," McLanahan asked. "Maybe they'll have gas and oil for the number two engine. If it's abandoned or vacant we could-" "They're not abandoned," Elliott asked. "At least our Alask
an warm-weather bases aren't. We usually have care takers, mostly locals, that look after the place. Maybe some minimal security, National Guard or Reserve deployment Ormack stared at Elliott.

  "General, you're not seriously considering… You're both crazy Maybe you ought to go back on oxygen. "He looked hard at Elliott, expecting him to turn and shrug off McLanahan's notion. Some last-minute humor…

  "General "We're armed "We've got your automatic and two lousy thirty-eight revolvers in the survival kits," Ormack asked. "They're more a hazard to us than they'd be to anyone else. They could have been stowed on this plane for years."

  Elliott said, "I've done that, lots of times," McLanahan put in, excitement rising in his voice. Luger was staring at McLa han pretty much the way Ormack was looking at Elliottdisbelief. "Global Shield missions. Remember, Dave?Sir lated post-strike recovery at an emergency airfield. Keep number two nacelle running, pump gas into the right outboa right external, or right drop tank, then transfer gas to the rest the plane. I once hand-pumped ten thousand pounds of" The Russians aren't going to just let us take their gas," Luger said.

  "It's crazy."

  "We'd end up captured," Angelina asked. "I'd rathertake chances in the mountains than be captured by them-especially after this mission."

  "No, you don't want to go down in the mountains," Elliott asked. "Even if you come out of the ejection unhurt the chances are at best fifty-fifty even with the global survival kit we've got. And we can't ditch the Old Dog. She wouldn't withstand the impact."

  "I still think those odds are better than landing at a Russian airfield-" "Do you, John?" Elliott asked. "How long do you think we could survive out there in those mountains?"

  "If we made it to the coast we'd have a chance.

  Elliott ignored that, asked his navigators for the distance to the oastline.