Nuke Zone
Arsenal
1
Fog streamed past the single-seat cockpit, cloaking the MiG-31 in a shroud of condensed moisture. Ukrainian Commander Yuri Kursk could barely make out the tendrils streaking past, writhing and weaving themselves together in an unholy white blanket that seemed to suck the warmth out of the cockpit. He shivered, as much from the stark realization that the mission was finally underway as from the chill insinuating itself through layers of flight suit and heavy undercoating to penetrate his bones.
He kept up his scan, glancing continually from the dimly lit green status indicators on the panel in front of him to the fog outside. Had it not been for the reassuring thrum of his two Perm/Soloviev D-30F6 turbofans, he could have believed that he was alone in the air, suspended motionless above the Black Sea.
He goosed the throttle slightly just to feel the change of vibration radiating through the fuselage. It was reassuring, a link with reality, a reminder that he was not some alien creature forever entombed in fog, but a warm-bodied, living human surrounded by the most advanced fighter ever built in Russia. It was all too easy to forget that, given the mechanical and robotic way he was treated by his superiors. These moments in flightlonger than moments this timewere his freedom, the payoff that made the hours of intricate political indoctrination, psychological testing, and continuous intrusive watchfulness of the Ukrainian Psychological Services all worthwhile. They might believe they owned his mind and body on land, but screaming through the darkness, he knew the truth.
The MiG-31 Foxhound was pure freedom in motion, an advanced strategic interceptor that had been intended to take the Soviet Union into the next century as its primary carrier-based aircraft. It stretched seventy-four feet from the tip of its Flashdance phased-array fire-control radar housed in the nose to the tips of its slightly canted vertical stabilizers. With a wingspan of forty-four feet, it possessed a vastly increased range over its predecessor fighter airframes. Carrying external fuel tanks and lightly loaded, it possessed an unrefueled range of almost 1800 nautical miles.
He’d need every inch of that too. While the Foxhound was capable of reaching Mach 2.35, its most economical cruising speed was Mach.85. If he were detected, forced to evade, or even to engage in real combat, his effective range would drop dramatically. As it was, he would be running on fumes by the time he returned to the Crimean Peninsula.
Just like the rest of Ukraine. He snorted, thinking how apt the analogy was, congratulating himself on his own wit. The remnant of the former Soviet Union had been out of fuel for years now, as loath as its current leaders were to admit that. But no amount of political denial could conceal the truth forever, just as his engines couldn’t run on wishes and hopes. He shifted slightly in the ejection seat, keeping the blood flowing, settling in for a long flight. No, as fiscally and politically bankrupt as his country might be, it wasn’t dead yet. It still could pull some surprises out of its ass from time to time.
Like this one.
The MiG-31 was proof of it. In addition to the advanced power plant, it possessed a host of subtle and deadly avionics carefully crafted by Ukrainian engineers working with pirated U.S. Stealth technology. Every inch of its thin fuselage was wired into the central counterdetections module. It was less a coating for the aircraft than an oddly shaped phased array of electromagnetic detectors and transponders. Capable of intercepting radar signals and generating out-of-phase canceling waves, the MiG-31 had the ability to virtually disappear from the scope of any radar operator within range. Additionally, the integrated suite of sensors and transponders could easily mimic the radar characteristics of a wide range of commercialand nonthreateningaircraft.
As it would shortly. The MiG-31 was currently flying in full stealth mode, and Yuri felt confident that none of the radar sites ringing the Black Sea had the slightest inkling that he was transiting through their area at Mach 1. Yuri intended to stay in this mode during his transit across the Black Sea as well as his overflight of Turkey.
After that, as soon as he was over the Aegean Sea, the invisible night marauder would assume the identity of a Turkish commercial air flight departing Istanbul for London. If all went according to plan, the Americans would merely think that their copy of the published Turkish commercial air flight schedule was in error. Yuri knew that that happened often enough for it not to be alarming to either USS La Salle, the Sixth Fleet command ship now loitering in the Greek Isles, or her Aegis cruiser escort, USS Shiloh.
He could have continued the entire flight in stealth mode, but to do so would defeat the entire purpose of the exercise. It was not only necessary that the United States be reminded who owned this portion of the world’s oceans, but that they also be convinced that the cause of their sudden disgrace was Turkey. By simulating the appropriate size, altitude, and IFF codes of a Turkish aircraft, Yuri would catch them completely off guard.
Yuri eased the throttle back down to the economical Mach.85, then fished around in the upper-leg flight-suit pocket until his fingers closed around a foil-wrapped chocolate bar. He pulled it out, shucked off the protective covering, and bit greedily into it.
It was one of the true luxuries of being part of this elite strike force, being issued precious Swiss chocolate bars for in-flight meals.
One hundred miles off the coast of Greece, USS La Salle steamed slowly north. Forty miles ahead, the island of Samothrace was visible only on the SPS-10 radar that echoed its images to the bridge on the SPA-25G repeater.
The fog that had plagued her around midnight was slowly dissipating, responding to the gentle easterly wind that had sprung up around 0200. The massive vessel sliced easily through the sea state two swells, throwing off curling bow waves of churning white bubbles and aqua water. Overhead, the first few stars were starting to peek out through the clearing sky.
“How about some coffee, sir?”
The operations specialist extended the white disposable cup to the young black lieutenant. “I made it myself.”
“What, no latte? I’d expect better on the Sixth Fleet flagship.” The lieutenant smiled as his fingers curled around the white stippled surface.
Operations Specialist Third Class Matthew Carey grinned ruefully. “Some espresso would be damned fine about now, wouldn’t it? These mid-watches…” He shrugged.
Lieutenant (junior grade) Jules “Skeeter” Harmon took a sip from the steaming cup. He grimaced. “Better than most, bearing but a slight resemblance to JP5 this time.”
“We aim to please, Lieutenant. The customer’s always right, even if he is a TAO nugget hiding out from the carrier.”
Skeeter set the cup down on his TAO console with a little more force than necessary. “Damn it, Carey, I’m not hiding out! I told you beforesome idiot in D.C. screwed my orders up. I’m supposed to be on Jefferson, not La Salle. Can I help it if they decided to leave me stashed here while they figure it out? Don’t you think I’d rather be on the bird farm than trapped on this gator?” He gestured around the Combat Direction Center, which was only half manned under peacetime steaming conditions. “Do you think any self-respecting aviator would want to be here?”
Carey grinned. “You’re here.”
“For another two weeks.” Skeeter kept one hand curled around the coffee cup just in case the ship lurched unexpectedly, a holdover habit from his midshipman cruise days aboard much smaller ships. “Besides, that gives Jefferson time to prepare, seeing as how I’m such a hotshot aviator. You know, I hate to embarrass the admiral by showing up before he’s ready for me.”