CHAPTER 5
“Letushiy Leader, Letushiy Leader, this is Khrahneetyehly. Aircraft activity detected over target. Proceed with caution.”
Captain Second Rank Sergei Sergeivich Terekhov checked his radar but saw no trace of the enemy aircraft reported by the An-74 Airborne Early Warning plane circling far to the north of the Norwegian coastline. The lack of radar traces didn’t surprise him. The eight MiG-29D ground-attack aircraft in his squadron were less than fifty meters above the quiet gray waters of the fjord. The undulating coastline and rugged mountains masked the MiG’s Pulse-Doppler radar system, just as they shielded his planes from detection by the Norwegians.
“Understood, Khrahneetyehly,” Terekhov replied on the radio channel to the AEW plane. “Request instructions, over.”
That was an essential part of every Soviet pilot’s training, to work in close conjunction with controllers in the rear. Aboard Khrahneetyehly — Guardian — the controllers would be coordinating their information with the other Soviet naval and air units in the area. Their orders would take every aspect of the situation into account.
Terekhov had heard that most Western pilots, especially the Americans, would be expected to make their own decisions at a time like this. He wondered how their commanders expected to maintain control over a battle with so much initiative left in the hands of junior officers who saw only their own tiny portion of the conflict.
“Letushiy Leader, engage enemy aircraft at bearing zero-three-five your position with four of your aircraft. Remainder to continue mission as profiled.”
“Orders understood.” Terekhov switched frequencies and gave the necessary orders. He allowed himself a smile of satisfaction as four of the MiGs climbed sharply away from the rest of the squadron. They would be on the Norwegian air-defense radar screens almost immediately, and distract the patrols the An-74 had detected.
That would leave the way open for Strike Mission Volatile to carry out its attack on the Norwegian defenses.
The high cliffs were narrowing on either side of them now as they raced eastward. Soon they would see the target.
Three targets suddenly appeared on his radar, and mere seconds later he spotted the fast-moving F-16 interceptors flashing overhead. They were gone almost before he could react, and over his radio Terekhov could hear the first warning shouts as the four decoys sighted the Norwegians and engaged. He was tempted to take advantage of the situation and loop back to take them from behind as they fought the rest of the squadron, but he resisted the impulse. For the moment that fight was none of his concern. The mission came first.
Somewhere below a probing radar beam swept over the MiG, and Terekhov felt a rush of adrenaline as the radar-warning receiver on his control panel sounded an urgent alarm. It was always like this for Terekhov when a potential enemy first appeared. Years of training, first with Frontal Aviation and then as part of the expanded Aviatsiya Voenna-Morskovo Flota, had focused on the moment of combat, but so far he had never fired a shot in anger. Nonetheless, each time the probing fingers of an unknown radar brushed his aircraft, he thought about the prospects of combat. Death or glory in the service of Soviet Naval Aviation and the Rodina, the Motherland. That was the goal of every fighter pilot.
Today there was no doubt. The moment for action had arrived at last.
Terekhov drew a deep breath and forced himself to stay calm. He was one of the elite, one of the small number of Soviet pilots who had actually passed the difficult carrier landing course at Saki in the Crimea and gone on to become a naval aviator. It would not do for him to allow his excitement to get the better of his judgment today. Giving in to any sort of emotion was an invitation to disaster.
“SAM! SAM!” Captain-Lieutenant Stepan Dmitriyev shouted the warning before Terekhov’s radar picked it up. It was locked on to Dmitriyev’s aircraft.
“Climb, Stepan! Climb!” Terekhov yelled. The other MiG broke formation and clawed its way toward open sky, but the missile was faster. As if in slow motion, Terekhov saw a puff of chaff ballooning behind Dmitriyev’s MiG, but it was too late. An instant later the aircraft was gone, consumed in a flash of flame and debris.
“We have taken SAM fire,” he reported, switching to the command channel. “One-oh-six destroyed.”
“Continue mission,” the controller responded coldly.
As he banked left to line up for the final attack run Terekhov fought to maintain his calm. Bombers were supposed to have softened up the area earlier, but evidently the Norwegians had been smart enough to keep some of their radar and missile assets concealed from that first wave. This wasn’t going to be as easy as it had sounded in the briefing room aboard the aircraft carrier Soyuz.
The harsh alarm of another threat warning made him scan his instruments. Another SAM was locking on. But this time Terekhov was the target.
Almost instinctively he shoved the throttles forward, igniting the afterburners of the MiG’s twin Isotov RD-33 turbofans. Acceleration pressed him back into his seat as he wrenched the stick back and climbed, angling north out toward the line of mountains north of the fjord.
The threat tone went on. He could almost feel the enemy missile closing on the MiG.
With a sudden, violent movement of the stick Terekhov wrenched the aircraft onto a new heading and stabbed at the button that would release his chaff. The cloud of reflective debris would interfere with radar guidance and hopefully confuse the onrushing missile for the critical seconds he needed.
The Mountainside rushed past his cockpit as he turned, still climbing fast. Then there was a flash below as the missile, fooled by the chaff, plowed into a cliff wall and detonated.
Letting out a long sigh, Terekhov dropped back into the fjord and reduced his speed. The other two planes were ahead of him now, still flying a tight welded-wing formation.
He spotted the target beyond them by the smoke rising from a fire that burned close by. So the bombers had caused some damage after all. But the Norwegian airfield of Hermansverk was still functional, and so were the coastal defense guns mounted on the cliffs west of the airfield.
“Target in sight,” he reported.
“Commence attack run,” the controller said. “One-oh-five on the Bofors site. Remaining two aircraft will attack the airfield.”
“Message understood,” he responded. “Recommend a second strike mission to eliminate further air defenses.”
“Noted. Proceed with attack.”
He passed the orders on to the others, and watched as Lieutenant Douglass peeled off to commence his attack on the coastal gun. Then he was too busy to watch the other planes.
The MiG dropped low, sweeping across the arm of the fjord toward the airfield. Terekhov spotted an F-16 speeding down the runway and taking flight. He flipped his selector switch to arm an AA-8 infrared homing missile.
The tone in his ear told him he had a firm lock, and he launched the missile. It streaked away, catching the Norwegian plane before its pilot had a chance to react. That was another Royal Norwegian Air Force interceptor out of the way.
On his left the other MiG released its load of FAB-250 general-purpose bombs and pulled up. Hastily Terekhov nudged the selector switch and found his target, an untouched storage tank in the tank farm on the far end of the airfield. As his MiG stooped low over the RNAF compound he hit the release. The first bomb dropped away and Terekhov pulled up, cutting in his afterburners.