Yuri flipped his checklist cards over to the approach-andlanding section, began to set up for landing. One more ridge line to cross and Anadyr should be within visual range ' With only a half-hour of fuel left he decided to wait until just a few kilometers from the base before lowering his gear and configuring for landing. He would make one pass over the runway to check it over-and hope to get someone's attention-then pitch out, enter the visual pattern and land. He had to save his fuel in case he had to orbit the field to wait for the runway to be plowed off enough to make it safe to land. Damn the luck, he was positive-still positive-that the American intruder was nearby, still a threat. He checked his chronometer… it had only been an hour and forty minutes since he last saw the B-52 near Ossora.
Flying in the Korakskoje Nagode mountain range at six hundred kilometers an hour maximum, the B-52 could not have gone farther than Uel-Kal or Egvekinot on the Anadyrskij Zaliv, only two hundred kilometers from Anadyr. But none of those coastal bases had picked up the B-52 on radar, so it must still be hiding 41 in the mountains around Anadyr, trying to pick its way around the defenses.
If the intruder had tried to dodge north and west of the Kamchatka peninsula instead of toward Alaska, it would have fallen right into the waiting arms of two squadrons of MiG-29s from the regional defense force headquarters at Magadan. But no one had reported spotting the bomber there either. No. It was nearby. It had to be.
After refueling he was determined to find the B-52.Its tail radar was going to give it away, and its hot engines would, literally, be its downfall. With twilight Yuri figured he wouldn't need his pulse-Doppler radar to find the American plane. Using the infrared spotting scope and passive electronic scanners he could prowl about at will, virtually undetectable, until the B-52 gave itself away or was spotted by Beringovskiy radar.
He thought once, very briefly, about his wife and family, safe and warm in his Kiev apartment while he chased over thousands of kilometers of Siberia looking for an intruder that might have already crashed. He also thought about consequences… His expertise, his zeal might get him through the inquiry that followed his unauthorized chase for the B-52 the old Squadron Commander might give him a year's worth of runway snow removal duty or a demotion. An Air Defense Emergency could forgive a lot of things, he told himself. Anyway, he didn't believe he'd actually face a firing squad or exile.
But only one thing could guarantee him a satisfactory return to his family-a promotion, a full pardon. As Anadyr Airfield popped into view, still thirty-six kilometers away, he knew that the only thing that would earn him that result was gun-camera film of the B-52 going down in flames after being shot apart by his GSh-23 twin-barrel guns or by one of his newer AA-8 heat seeking missiles.
Yes. The B-52 had to be destroyed.
The Old Dog seemed more like a hospital ship than a strategic bomber as it taxied down the narrow, snow-covered taxiway of Anadyr Airbase.
in command as it limped down the taxiway was Patric McLanahan. As the most experienced and now physically able crewman, he had taken the pilot's left seat. Icy wind blasted his face from the dozens of holes on the left side of the cockpit at from a completely blown-out glass panel just behind his ejection seat. He was trying to do too much at once — but most important was to keep the Old Dog roughly in the center of the taxiway.
Ormack, blood all over his left shoulder, barely strong enough to move a switch, had taken his co-pilot's seat again. He continued to read the pre-takeoff checklists and give McLan han a running last-minute lecture on how to accomplish takeoff.
Angelina remained at her gunner's position, checking and rechecking her equipment. She had two Scorpion missiles on the right external pylon, three Scorpions on the bomb-blauncher, two HARM anti-radar missiles on the interior launcher and twenty Stinger air-mine rockets in the target cannon-and no way in the world to guide any of them the target-acquisition radar-scope had been damaged in the attack at the airbase. The Old Dog might be still an adversary to be considered, its Scorpions and HARMs could be self guided to their targets-but their effectiveness was greatly reduced.
Wendy was back in her electronic warfare officer's seat beside Angelina.
Using computer-displayed instructions she had restarted the ring-laser gyro and satellite navigation syston in the freezing cold navigator's station below. There was little else downstairs-McLanahan's ten-inch radar scope had been destroyed by the Russian machine gun attack. The attack had also destroyed or damaged most of Wendy's electronic-warfare gear.
While she had been in the lower compartment she had looked over Dave Luger's notes and doodles, even picked up his headphone… wanting to offer it to him when he emerged from the aft bulkhead door, smiling and laughing and gabbing with his impossible Texas accent… she imagined she heard a knock on the belly hatch, and there he would be.
.. except, of course, he would not. Face it…
He was gone.
She had given Luger's coat to General Elliott, who was strapped into an emergency crash web chair on the upper deck between the cockpit and the defense crew's station, caught between a severe fever and the onset of deep shock.
Ormack continued with the checklists as they scrolled onto the computer monitor. "Flight instruments checked, pilot and co-pilot.
"Mine are gone," McLanahan asked. "Adjust your A.D.I. I can hardly see it but it's the only reliable one we have. "He watched as Ormack adjusted the artificial horizon. "That's it.
Standby altimeters are good. Standby turn-and-slip indicators are good.
"Electrical panel. "Ormack strained to read the tiny gauges.
"One and two are zero. All the rest are okay. "He advanced the computerized checklist. "Crosswing crab."
"Zeroed. Next."
Pitot heat."
It took McLanahan a moment.interrupted with a few small turns to stay on hard pavement, to find the switch. "On."
"Stability augmentation system."
"On."
"Stabilizer trim."
"That's this big wheel here, right?" McLanahan asked. "We don't have time to compute the right setting so I'm setting it to one-half unit nose up. Set. Next.
"Airbrake lever."
"OV, "Flaps."
"One hundred percent down, lever down."spiM.
"Fuel panel. I think I have it set up right," Ormack said wincing from a stab of pain that shot through the area arour his neck. "Check it for me. We've got minimum fuel in the main tanks because of the damage, so those pumps right there should be on, and those… there should be to OPEP Checked. Next.
"Starter switches."
"Okay, we're almost ready to go. Using the rudder pedal McLanahan nudged the Old Dog around a tight corner and turned onto the end of the Russian runway, then stepped on the tops of the pedals to engage the brakes.
"Angelina, Wendy, ready to go back there?"
"Ready," Angelina said over the interphone.
"Ready," Wendy asked. "Good luck."
"Thanks. "McLanahan gripped the control yoke. I'm gonna need it."
"All right," Ormack said, "we're going to start the number two engine.
Ready?"
Ready McLanahan moved the number-four engine-throttle to ninety percent. "Go!" Ormack moved the starter to START Slowly the RPMs on the number two engine began to increase McLanahan pointed to a yellow light on the forward panel "What's that?" Ormack said over the interphone. "I can see… " "A low oil-pressure light," McLanahan told him over the roar of the engines. "We've got to hope it'll give us enough thrust for takeoff before it seizes… " There was a tremendous bang on the left wing as the Old Dog bucked and rumbled so that no one could read the instruments.
"That's the bad gas," McLanahan said, "it should work okay, though Anxious moments later the RPMs on the number-two engine went to idle settings, and McLanaha pulled the power back on the number-four engine.