Below sixty thousand feet they were in Class A positive control airspace, so now they had to follow all normal air traffic control procedures. The computer had already entered the proper frequency in the number one UHF radio: “Ankara Center, this is Stud Seven, due regard, one hundred twenty miles northwest of Ankara, passing flight level five-four-zero, requesting activation of our flight plan. We will be MARSA with Chevron Four-One.”
“Stud Seven, Ankara Center, remain outside Turkish Air Defense Identification Zone until radar identified, squawk one-four-one-seven normal.” Boomer read back all the instructions.
At that moment, on their secondary encrypted radio, they heard: “Stud Seven, Chevron Four-One on Blue Two.”
Boomer had Frenchy monitor the air traffic control frequency, then switched to the secondary radio: “Four-One, this is Stud Seven.” They performed a challenge-and-response code exchange to verify each other’s identity, even though they were on an encrypted channel. “We launched out of Batman because we heard from Ankara ATC that they are not letting any aircraft cross their ADIZ, even ones with established flight plans. We don’t know what’s going on, but usually it’s because an unidentified aircraft or vessel drifted into their airspace or waters, or some Kurds fired some mortars across the border, and they shut everything down until they sort it out. We’re coming up on rendezvous point ‘Fishtail.’ Suggest we do a point-parallel there, then head out to MK.”
“Thank you for staying heads-up, Four-One,” Boomer said, the relief obvious in his voice. Using the powered descent profile grossly depleted their fuel reserves — they were almost bingo fuel right now, and by the time they reached the initial approach fix at Batman Air Base they’d be in an emergency fuel status, and they would have no fuel to go anywhere else. Their closest alternate landing site was Mi-hail Kogălniceanu Airport near Constanţa, Romania, or simply “MK” for short, the first U.S. military base established in a former Warsaw Pact country.
With the two aircraft linked via the secure transceiver, their multi-function displays showed them each other’s position, the track they had to follow to rendezvous, and the turnpoints they’d need to get into position. The Black Stallion reached the Air Refueling Initial Point fifteen minutes early, four hundred knots too fast, and thirty thousand feet too high, so Boomer started a series of high-bank turns to bleed off the excess airspeed. “I love it — boring holes in the sky, flying around in the fastest manned aircraft on the planet.”
“Odin to Stud Seven,” Boomer heard on his encrypted satellite transceiver.
“It’s God on GUARD,” he quipped. “Go ahead, Odin.”
“You’re cleared to proceed to MK,” Patrick McLanahan said from Armstrong Space Station. He was monitoring the spaceplane’s progress from the command module. “Crews are standing by to secure the Black Stallion.”
“Do I have to have someone back home looking over my shoulder from now on?” he asked.
“That’s affirmative, Boomer,” Patrick responded. “Get used to it.”
“Roger that.”
“Any idea why Ankara wasn’t letting anyone in, sir?”
“This is Genesis. Still negative,” David Luger chimed in. “We’re still checking.”
Eventually the Black Stallion was able to slow down and descend to get into proper position, five hundred feet below and a half mile behind the tanker. “Stud Seven is established, checklist complete, got you in sight, ready,” Boomer reported.
“Roger, Seven, this is Chevron Four-One,” the boom operator in the tanker’s tail pod responded. “I read you loud and clear, how me.”
“Loud and clear.”
“Roger that. I have a visual on you too.” On intercom, he said, “Boom’s lowering to contact position, crew,” and he motored the refueling book into position, its own steerable fly-by-wire wings stabilizing it in the big tanker’s slipstream. Back on the radio: “Seven is cleared to precontact position, Four-One is ready.”
“Seven’s moving up,” Boomer said. He opened the slipway doors atop the fuselage behind the cockpit, then smoothly maneuvered the spaceplane to the precontact position: aligned with the tanker’s centerline, the top of the windscreen on the center seam of the director light panel. The immense belly of the converted Boeing 777 filled the windscreen. “Seven’s in precontact position, stabilized and ready, JP-7 only this time,” he said.
“Copy precontact and ready, JP-7 only, cleared to contact position, Four-One ready,” the boom operator said. He extended the nozzle and set the “maneuver” light blinking, the signal for the receiver to move into position. Boomer barely had to move the controls because the plane was so light — almost as if just by thought, he carefully maneuvered the Black Stallion forward and up. When the maneuver light turned steady, Boomer held his position, again as if by thought only, and the boom operator slid the nozzle into the receptacle. “Contact, Four-One.”
“Seven has contact and shows fuel flow,” Boomer acknowledged. “You’re a very welcome sight, boys.”
“We’re a Cabernet crew, sir,” the tanker pilot said.
It took the KC-77 ten minutes to transfer thirty thousand pounds of jet fuel to the Black Stallion. “Let’s start heading west, Four-One,” Boomer said. “We’re starting to get too close to Krasnodar.” Krasnodar on the east coast of the Black Sea was the location of a major Russian air base, and although they were well outside theirs or anyone else’s airspace, it was best not to fly around such areas unannounced. Along with their big air defense radar and numerous long-range surface-to-air missile batteries, Krasnodar was one of the largest fighter bases in the entire world, with no less than three full air defense fighter wings based there, including one with the Mikoyan-Gurevich MiG-29 “Fulcrum,” considered one of the best interceptors in the world.
Even four years after the American retaliatory attacks in Russia, nerves were still frayed throughout the entire region, and operators were on a hair trigger to scramble fighters and activate air defense systems. Luckily, there were no signs of any air defense activity behind them. “Right turn is best.”
“Coming right to two-seven-zero,” the tanker’s pilot said. Boomer expertly banked behind the modified Boeing 777 aircraft as they started to turn south, maintaining contact in the turn.
They had just rolled out on the new heading when the tanker’s boom operator said, “Well well, folks, looks like we have a visitor. Seven, your three o’clock, real damned close.”
“What is it, Frenchy?” Boomer asked, concentrating on staying in the refueling envelope.
“Oh shit…it’s a Russian MiG-29,” Moulain said nervously, “three o’clock, less than a half mile, right on our wingtip.”
“See if he has a wingman,” Boomer said. “Russkies don’t fly around single-ship too often.”
Moulain scanned the sky, trying to stay calm, straining to look as far back as she could. “Got him,” she said moments later. “Seven o’clock, about a mile.” The one at three o’clock slid closer, riveting her attention. In her fifteen-year Navy career she had never seen a MiG-29 except the ones in service in Germany, and that was on a static display, not inflight. It could’ve been a fixed-wing clone of the F-14 Tomcat Navy carrier fighter, with broad wings, beefy fuselage, and a large nose for its big fire control radar. This one was in green, light blue, and gray camouflage stripes, with the big white, blue, and red flag of Russia on the vertical stabilizer — and she could clearly see one long-range and two short-range air-to-air missiles hanging off the MiG’s left wing. “He’s loaded for bear, that’s for sure,” she said nervously. “What are we going to do?”