Sir Eric nodded. The plan would play. Despite the collapse of communism in Russia, there were still a lot of people who believed in state-run and centrally planned economies and many of them were prominent in the Indian National Party. On the other hand, those looking to invest money in a country saw nationalization as barely better than outright theft. In fact, some did see it as outright theft. Given the loss of confidence resulting from the Mosquito program though, a sixty-forty split would satisfy both. State control, getting the company onto a sound financial and technical footing and offering the prospect of reverting to wholly private ownership later. As Cabinet Secretary, one of Sir Eric's responsibilities was to maneuver legislation through Parliament. This one wouldn't cause that many problems.
“I do have some good news Sir Martyn. I've heard from the directors of one of the new companies setting up. Bharat Ordnance. They've concluded the license agreement with the Swiss Oerlikon Company, allowing them to build Oeriikon's line of 20 millimeter and 30 millimeter guns here.
“Apparently, Oerlikon are launching a new range of guns, incorporating the lessons of the war. Which, of course, they are in a position to know since they industriously sold their guns to both sides. Anyway, the Swiss are sending out a team of their engineers to help set up the machinery and get everything in order. Apparently, they're going to stay for at least three or four years, until their Indian opposite numbers have been fully trained. They were quite insistent on that by all accounts, something about maintaining the integrity of the Oerlikon reputation.”
“Hmmm. Switzerland is right next to Germany. I don't suppose their engineers desire to put distance between themselves and that radioactive wasteland has anything to do with their decision?”
“I believe it just might Sir Martyn, it just might.”
Flight Line, Ramenskoye Test and Evaluation Establishment, Moscow, Russia
“That looks familiar.” The drab brown bomber was small to eyes used to ten-engined intercontinental giants. Four propeller engines on the leading edge of the wings, a nose smooth and without a raised canopy, it was almost, but not quite, familiar. “Its a B-29!”
Guards-Colonel Aleksandr Pokryshkin shook his head. “No my friend. It is a Tupolev Four, This one belongs to Long Range Naval Aviation. See?” He pointed at the tall fin, half way up the rectangular red white and blue Russian tricolor had a black anchor superimposed over it. Looking at the tail, Colonel Dedmon could see that it was differently-shaped from the B-29. Taller. Pokryshkin laughed. “Boeing designed an improved design for the B-29. First they called it the B-29D then when SAC refused to buy a version of the B-29, they renamed it the B-50. SAC still didn't want it but for us it was perfect. We don't have engines powerful enough for a bomber like your Texan Lady but we had for this. So Gospodin Tupolev went to Boeing and got a license to build your B-50 and here it is. The Tu-4, we made some changes of course,”
It was a challenge. Spot them. Dedmon looked over the airframe carefully, “The tail's different of course, taller. And the engine mounts are different as well. That'll be your engines. What have you got in her?”
“Shevetsov Ash-73TKs. Rated at 2,400 horsepower.” Dedmon and his crew exchanged glances. Only a fraction more power than the B-29 had. Barely half that delivered by the R-4360 engines on Texan Lady.
“Guns. You've got different guns. 20 millimeter cannon?”
“23 millimeter “Nudelman-Rikter. Twelve. Much better than the Brownings and even better than Texan Lady's 20 millimeter guns. But that is not the most important thing. Look underneath him.”
Dedmon was flummoxed for a second, he was so used to calling aircraft “she” that the male pronoun threw him. Then what he saw under the Tu-4 knocked his breath from him. A long cylinder, gracefully curving to a point at the front swelling to maximum a quarter of the way along its length, then tapering to a nozzle at the back. Trapezoidal wings, the tips cut sharply back, tail the same. And under the wing roots, two fat, open-ended cylinders with pointed nose-cones. It was painted white and it looked evil. “Whoa, this is something new. May I ask what this little beauty is?”
“We call it Sopka. Formally it is the Kh-1 anti-ship missile. We fire it from about 20,000 feet and steer it by radio control. All the bomb-aimer has to do is keep it on the line of sight between himself and the target. The rocket fires first and gets it up to speed then the ramjets take over. We are giving the first twenty off the production line to your “Navy so they can assess it.”
Dedmon reached out and ran his hand over the sleek nose. “Nuclear warhead here?” That would be American supplied, he thought.
“That is not the warhead, that is the rocket fuel tank. The warhead is in the middle. It is a shaped charge, one that can penetrate two meters of armor. And when it does it blasts the burning rocket fuel deep into the target. Rocket fuel, Grazhdanin Robert. Contains its own oxidizer so nothing can put the fires out. Not water not foam, nothing.”
Dedmon winced, now he knew why the missile looked so evil. The memory of the burning Shiloh slipping beneath the waves came to his mind. The ugly picture was erased by the howl of a fighter flying overhead. He looked up, a straight-winged bird, looking like the Yak-15s and 17s but different. Weirdly different. For all the world, the jet fighter circling overhead looked like a racing car. Cockpit well back, a huge long nose in front of it.
“That is our Yak-23.” Pokryshkin explained. “Our airframe, American engine. Much faster than the Yak-17. See that man over there.” He pointed to a distinguished-looking figure standing beside a camera stage. “That is Aleksandr Sergeyevich Yakovlev himself. The test pilots have been complaining about the undercarriage on the Yak-23. The fighter lands almost 80 kilometers per hour faster than the Yak-17 and they say the wheels are too weak and the hydraulics not strong enough to lock them down. Aleksandr Sergeyevich will have none of it. He will not admit that he may have underestimated the stress of landing the new aircraft. And Yakovlev fighters have always been cursed with weak undercarriages.”
The Yak 23 was approaching for its landing. The Americans were exchanging worried glances, their Russian friend was right, the undercarriage didn't look right. The Yak touched the end of the runway, bounced once and then all hell broke loose. The undercarriage collapsed in a shower of sparks and the fighter was sliding on its belly, starting a slow rotation to the left as it did. Even through the sound of its jet, they could hear the shrieking of tortured metal as the hard runway surface ground the airframe away. Then there was a dull whoomf as the fuel tanks exploded, engulfing the aircraft in orange flame.
Dedmon and his crew broke into a run, heading for the crash, knowing there was little they could do to help but wanting to try anyway. Even as the burning jet continued down the runway, leaving a trail of fire behind it, the cockpit opened. Incredibly, despite the sea of flames and the still-spinning wreckage, a figure leapt out of the cockpit, ran along the wing and jumped off. Immediately ground-crew were around him, blasting him with fire extinguishers and throwing dirt over him.
By the time the Yak had come to a halt, it was a hundred yards down the runway and had stopped in a greasy black and orange pyre of smoke and flame. The pilot got up, slowly and shakily, shouting something.
“Is he all right?” Dedmon asked.
“Oh yes. But he is very angry. He is an old friend of mine, Captain Viktor Bubnov. A man with a very hot temper. I fear it has just boiled over. He is suggesting that Gospodin Designer Yakovlev initiate a maternally incestuous relationship. Now, he is alleging that the Gospodin Designer is of German ancestry. Oh.”