“You’re welcome — whoever you are,” the Megafortress’s aircraft commander, Annie Dewey, replied. She found it impossible to hold back a tear and keep her voice from cracking. “Have a nice flight.”
“You too, Aces One-Niner,” David said. Annie heard his voice soften for the first time, and it was a voice filled with promise, and good wishes, and peace. “Have a nice life, you guys.”
Dev reached over and touched Annie’s gloved hand resting on the throttles.
She looked over at him and smiled, and he smiled back. “We will,” Annie replied. “Thanks. Be careful out there.”
David Luger switched over from the emergency frequency with a touch of sadness, but no regrets. He knew it would probably be the last time he’d ever talk to Annie. But she had made a life with Duane Deverill, and it was hers to hold on to and build if she wanted it. His destiny lay elsewhere.
On the new secure interplane frequency, he radioed, “Stalkers, Stalkers, this is Stalker One, your bandit is now two-two-one degrees bull’s-eye, range three-one miles, level at angels three-one, turning right, possibly racetracking around for another pass.”
“Stalker Two-Two flight of three, roger,” the Turkish F-16 flight leader responded. “Converging on bandit at angels three-four.”
“Stalker Three-One flight of two, acknowledged,” the Ukrainian MiG-29 flight leader responded. “We will converge on target at angels two-niner.”
“Stalkers, datalink on blue seven.”
“Two-Two flight, push blue seven.”
“Two.”
“Three.”
“Three-One flight, push blue seven.”
“Two.” Each fighter pilot set the same laser frequency channel into their receivers, corresponding with the frequency that Luger, in the DC- 10, was using to track the unidentified aircraft with the laser radar. Since none of their air-to-air radars could pinpoint a stealth aircraft, the laser radar on the DC- 10, tuned to the only frequency that could track the aircraft — a fact known by the Metyor-179’s first chief designer, David Luger — was the only way to do it.
“Two-Two flight, tally-ho!” the Turkish flight lead called out.
“Three — One flight has contact,” the Ukrainians called a few moments later. “Three-One has the lead.”
“What happened?” Yegorov shouted. “We lost contact with the weapon! What is going on?”
“The weapon exploded before it hit the tanker,” Fursenko said. The infrared scanner was still locked on to the tanker Ustinov. Except for some minor damage, the tanker was still very much intact.
The attack had looked perfect until one or two seconds before impact — what could have happened? Yegorov wondered. Now the threat warning receiver was blaring constantly, with multiple lock-on signals — and there was no longer a bomb in the air, meaning the enemy radars were definitely locked on them. Yegorov furiously scanned his instruments. Everything looked perfectly normal — no speed brakes or flaps deployed, no engine malfunctions that might be highlighting their position, no warning or caution lights, no—
Wait, there was one caution light, but not on the “Warning and Caution” panel, but on the “Weapons” panel on the lower right side — the bomb doors were still open. “Fursenko, damn you!” Yegorov shouted, staring wide-eyed at the engineer in his rearview mirror. “The bomb doors are still open’ Close them immediately!”
Fursenko looked down at his instrument panel, then up at Yegorov almost immediately. “I can’t,” he said in a calm, even voice. “The hydraulic system B circuit breaker has popped, and it will not reset. I have no control over the doors.”
If Yegorov thought the scrawny pencil-necked scientist had it in him, he would’ve thought the old man was lying to him! “Disengage the hydraulic system B and motor the doors closed with the electric motor.”
“I tried that,” Fursenko said, still in that calm, even voice — the voice of someone who was resigned to his fate. “The door mechanism must be jammed — I cannot motor the doors closed. Maybe the Kh-73 dropping on partially opened doors caused it to malfunction and detonate early.”
The bastard, he was doing this on purpose! He didn’t believe for a second it was a malfunction! “Damn you, Fursenko, do you realize what you’re doing?” Yegorov shouted in utter fury. Whatever Fursenko had done to the bomb doors, Yegorov couldn’t undo them from the front seat. “You are signing our death warrants!”
“Why, Yegorov?” Fursenko asked. “Don’t you think your buddy Pavel Kazakov will understand when you tell him your bomb doors were jammed open?”
“Fuck you!” Yegorov shouted. He immediately started a turn back toward the tanker, then hit a switch on his weapons panel to override the backseater’s laser aiming control. “I advise you not to touch another switch or circuit breaker back there, Fursenko,” he warned. “If we strike our intended target, Kazakov may let you live, even if he does discover it was sabotage.”
“You fool, look at that threat scope,” Fursenko shouted. Yegorov had indeed been looking — it appeared as if the entire Turkish Air Force were after them. “Forget this bomb run — the Turks will be all over you in one minute, long before you can line up for another bomb run. Get us out of here while you still can!”
“No!” Yegorov shouted wildly. “This is my mission I Comrade Kazakov ordered me to take command and complete this mission, and that’s what I’ll do I No one is going to stop me!”
The threat warning receiver now showed two sets of enemy fighters — one set Turkish, the other Russian-made fighters, probably Ukrainians — bearing down on them. “We’re not going to make it!” Fursenko shouted. “Turn away! Turn back before they shoot us down!”
“No!” Yegorov shouted again. He armed his internal R-60 missiles. “No one is going to get me! No one!” He flicked on the Metyor-179’s infrared scanner, lined up on the closest set of fighters coming in from the north, waited until he got a lock-on indication, opened fire with one missile per fighter, then turned back toward the tanker Ustinov. The aiming pipper had drifted off the tanker slightly, and he—
The MASTER CAUTION light snapped on. Yegorov checked the warning panel and saw two LAUNCHER HOT lights on. Both internal launchers that he had just used were on fire. “I’m going to cut off power to the stores panel!” Fursenko shouted.
“No!” Yegorov shouted. “Keep power on until after bomb release.”
“We can’t!” Fursenko shot back. “There’s a serious short or fire in the wing launcher, and there’s no way to stop it unless we cut off all power to the weapons panel. If you allow that fire to continue, it could completely burn through the wing. I’m going to turn off weapons power before that wing fails and we are both killed!”
“I said, leave it on, you traitorous bastard!” Fursenko was reaching for the master weapons power switch when he heard a tremendous BANG! and felt a sharp stinging sensation in his left shoulder. To his amazement, he realized that Yegorov had pulled out his survival pistol, reached back between the seats, and shot him! The bullet tore through his shoulder, bounced off the metal ejection-seat back, and lodged deep in his left lung. Fursenko tasted blood, and soon blood was pouring from his mouth and nostrils.