“Strange layout, amigo?”
“Could be a launch complex, Tiger.”
“That’s what I’m thinkin’, but it’s damned small.”
“It only takes one launch tower for one big rocket,” McKenna said.
“I think we oughta put a Wasp into it.”
“Good idea, but we’re not going to do it.”
“I also think,” Munoz said, “that we’d better tell Embry to convert our Wasps to air-to-ground.”
“You’re full of good ideas.”
“Got lots of sleep today.”
Seven
Col. Pyotr Volontov chose the early morning, three-thirty in Leningrad, for his first flight over the oil fields. It was also three-thirty in Murmansk, where General Sheremetevo had temporarily deployed the 5th Interceptor Wing. Even based at the relatively primitive facilities at Murmansk, 200 kilometers north of the Arctic Circle, the western side of the target area was over 1,800 kilometers away, requiring refueling from an airborne tanker en route.
On the first flight, Volontov flew cover for the unarmed MiG-25 reconnaissance aircraft, staying at 10,000 meters, 3,000 meters above the MiG-25.
Volontov’s MiG-29, which NATO had codenamed Fulcrum, was a full Mach number slower than the MiG-25, which could accelerate to Mach 3.2. He considered the MiG-29 the superior attack aircraft, however. The older plane was 20,000 kilograms heavier, constructed of steel, and many models still carried vacuum tube-based electronics. In comparison, the MiG-29 was ultramodern, with Pulse-Doppler multimode radar capable of lookdown/shootdown and an infrared search and tracking sensor. His craft was armed with a 30-millimeter cannon and six AA-11 air-to-air missiles. In a head-to-head confrontation with a MiG-25, Volontov thought he would emerge the survivor as a result of his airplane’s greater agility.
Maj. Anatoly Rostoken, who commanded Volontov’s 2032nd Squadron, was flying the reconnaissance plane, somewhat gingerly since he had not flown the MiG-25 for a couple years.
Six hundred kilometers northwest of Murmansk, in the wavery light of a summer night, the Ilyushin tanker replenished the thirsty fighters, then climbed away to orbit and await their return. While Rostoken could now complete the homeward leg to Murmansk, the MiG-29 had only a 1,200-kilometer combat radius. If Volontov were required to use afterburners or expend fuel at a high rate in low level, high speed flight, he would need to meet the tanker once again.
After the hectic transfer of his wing to the northern base — requiring the use of six transports to transfer his ground support personnel and the wing’s equipment, Volontov was happy to be almost by himself. Doing something worthwhile for a change.
The members of his two squadrons, the 2032nd and the 2033rd, were also elated at the change in routine, though somewhat mystified by the lack of detail he had provided them in briefings. General Sheremetevo, however, had ordered him to provide them with minimal information. Operation Artie Waste was simply an exercise in combined operations over the icy waters and glacial ice, with innocuous oil wells utilized as the simulated targets.
“Condor One, this is Vulture One,” Rostoken radioed.
“Proceed, Vulture One.”
“I have Svalbard Island on radar. Bearing three-five-four, nine-two kilometers.”
“Very well, Vulture One. Go to five thousand meters and initiate mission.”
Volontov reached out to switch his radar to the active mode for three full sweeps. He found the outline of the island immediately and the blip of Vulture One a half second later. Returning the radar to inactive, he nudged the stick forward and went into a shallow dive, intending to lose 3,000 meters of altitude, staying close to the MiG-25.
The HUD readout indicated a rise in his speed to 550 kilometers per hour, and he backed the throttles off to keep it from rising higher. The HUD in the MiG-29 was not as sophisticated as those in American aircraft, but it provided him with basic readings.
Rostoken was thirty kilometers ahead of him, almost to the coast of Greenland, when the radar threat alarm sang its shrill syllables.
“Condor, flight of two, bearing one-five-five, four-zero kilometers.”
“Vulture, turn to zero-one-zero and climb to two-two-thousand meters,” Volontov ordered.
“Confirmed.”
The MiG-25 was one of the few aircraft in the world with a ceiling exceeding 24,000 meters. The American SR-71 Blackbird could do it, but it had been retired.
Feeling that the MiG-25 could protect itself with altitude, Volontov made a tight left turn and began to climb. He used the radar momentarily and found the two blips at 6,000 meters. The ground clutter from the sea was difficult to read, but he picked out a few of the wells and several ships before switching the set to passive mode.
Flying in formation like that, they would be the Tornados or Eurofighters that Sheremetevo had warned him about, rather than a commercial flight.
Volontov would have liked to buzz them, purely for the exhilaration of it, but he had been told to steer clear of patrols.
The threat receiver sounded again, and a moment later, the alarming warning appeared in red letters on the HUD — HOSTILE MISSILE LOCK-ON.
Volontov grinned to himself, tasting the rubbery tang of his face mask. The bastards thought to scare him off, locking on with an infrared-seeking missile.
Switching to the international frequency, he heard the end of a sentence in English. “… aircraft, identify yourself.”
He did not respond.
“Unidentified aircraft, I will fire a warning shot in one minute unless you identify yourself.”
To hell with General Sheremetevo, Volontov thought. He would test the resolve of these Germans.
With right stick and rudder, Volontov banked over into a dive. He activated the radar, then the armaments panel, selecting two AA-11 missiles.
He found the two aircraft quickly on the radar screen, their blips almost merged, and lined up his dive. Pushed the throttles forward.
Speed rose quickly. The airframe shuddered as he passed through the sound barrier.
Mach 1.1.
Distance to objective, twenty kilometers.
His missiles locked on to the lead aircraft. Radar-homing. The low buzz in his earphones and the HUD readout told him so.
The Germans scattered, the lead plane diving away to the left, the trailing aircraft to the right. The hostile LOCK-ON message flickered and died as the German plane lost his angle on the MiG-29.
Volontov shut down his own missiles and chuckled to himself.
The Americans would call them chickenshits.
Easing back on the stick, he pulled out of his dive at 3,000 meters above the sea, turning slightly to the right, toward a homeward course.
On the radar, the German aircraft were regrouping almost ten kilometers behind him.
“Wha-wha-wha-wha!”
The missile threat receiver sounded in his ear.
The HUD blinked at him: HOSTILE MISSILE LOCK-ON.
This one had been launched.
Slapping the stick left, Volontov rolled the plane inverted, looking up through the canopy.
Black dot circled in rosy, fiery white.
Surface-to-air, rising from a ship.
“Bastards!”
Tracking him on infrared.
He retarded his throttles, then pulled the nose on over and aimed for the missile, to get his hot exhaust out of its line of sight.
Closing fast.
Seconds away.
He opened up with his cannon, a futile gesture.
Rolled the left wing up, tugged the stick back to his crotch, shoved the throttles to military thrust.