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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?"