Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 01 (44 page)

           
McLanahan had just caught Luger’s
last announcement as he plugged into the defense instructor’s interphone cord
once again. He handed Wendy and Angelina two cans of water each and a green
packet of freeze-dried food. “Leave one can out for now, and stick the rest in
the pockets in the liner of your jackets.” He watched as both women unbuckled
their parachute harnesses. They were now wearing life preservers, small green
pouches on a harness on their waists, and had to buckle those to unzip their
jackets and stuff the water and food into the jacket pockets.

           
Angelina’s water and food rations
stuck out in bulky bulges from her denim jacket. With McLanahan’s help she
refastened her parachute harness and slipped on the silver firefighting gloves
she was using as flight gloves. Wendy had already given Angelina her thermal
underwear tops and was drinking hot soup made in the hot cup downstairs.
Angelina, however, still shivered in the chill of the Old Dog’s upper cabin.

 
          
“Comfy?”
McLanahan said to Angelina. “I hope you ladies don’t have to go potty now.”

 
          
Angelina
turned on him. “Are we supposed to eat this stuff in a life raft bobbing in the
North Pacific Ocean
? What’s the point?”

 
          
McLanahan
looked at Wendy—that scenario had never occurred to her.

 
          
He
cleared his throat and said quickly, “Nah. Down low level the aircraft shakes
around a bit. Things tend to roll around. You don’t want to have to unstrap to
look for your water.” It was a lame excuse, but Angelina, noticing Wendy’s
thin-lipped expression, nodded and turned again to her equipment.

 
          
Wendy
was staring blankly at her threat receiver display. “I wonder if we’re kidding
ourselves . . . about what we’re doing ...”

 
          
“The
thought has crossed my mind,” McLanahan said. “It’s impossible to be certain
about that. I think that. . . well, you have to listen to your gut... I keep
seeing Hal Briggs trying to open that fence for us back at Dreamland, I wonder
if he’s okay ...”

 
          
General
Elliott came over the interphone. “Patrick, get strapped in. Time, Dave?”

 
          
“Two
minutes to horizon passage,” Luger reported.

 
          
McLanahan
gave Wendy what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze on the arm, then turned and
climbed downstairs back to his seat.

 
          
“Horizon
passage,” Luger announced, marking a fixpoint on the high- altitude airways
chart he was using. “Two hundred and seventy miles to Kavaznya.”

 
          
“Scope’s
clear,” Wendy reported quietly, still thinking about what McLanahan had said.
Her voice recovered its strength, though, as she brought her attention back to
business. “We’re still at extreme detection range. With our fibersteel body and
anti-radar enhancements they might not get a radar return from us until we’re
about one hundred miles out. If then.”

 
          
“Will
you be able to tell if they can see us?” Elliott asked.

 
          
“I’ll
be able to see their transmission signal when it comes up,” she replied. “I’ve
got an idea from
Seattle
Center
’s radar and from the Shemya tanker and the
fighters Colonel Sands chased us with what signal strength it takes to get a
solid skin-paint on us, so I can tell you when we’re getting close to that. I
can also see if they search or try to lock onto us with any height-finding or
missile-guidance radars.”

           
“And nothing so far?”

 
          
“Nothing.
Not even search radar. But being so close to the horizon does strange things to
electronic transmissions. They could’ve spotted us even before we crossed the
plane of their horizon without my knowing, or they might not see us until we’re
well above the horizon. It’s hard to predict— radar bounces off the ionosphere
in weird ways. Like I said, they may already have detected us.”

 
          
Elliott
checked the IFF controls to make sure they were all off. “Crew, double-check
around your stations to be sure you’re not transmitting on anything. Radars,
radios, jammers, anything. Switch your wafer switches to INTERPHONE to keep
from accidentally talking over the radios.”

 
          
McLanahan
double checked his interphone switches, also checked to make sure the circuit
breakers controlling the bomb bay walkway lights were off—if they had to open
the bomb doors the walkway lights could easily give the bomber away at
night.                                                        
'

 
          
“Offensive
checks,” McLanahan reported.

 
          
“How
far are we from—”

 
          
“Search
radar at
two o’clock
,”
Wendy suddenly called out. The announcement shook up McLanahan and Luger in the
lower offensive crew compartment.

 
          
“Here
we go,” Luger said. He was bundled up with his jacket-zipped up to his chin,
collars pulled up. He had long ago cleared off his retractable work desk. Only
the high-altitude chart remained.

 
          
“It
feels so weird,” McLanahan said. “They can see us now. It feels a lot
different.”

 
          
“Yeah,”
Luger said. “Kind of a joy ride—until now.”

 
          
“
Two o’clock
?” Elliott said. “What’s at
two o’clock
? Korf Airfield?
Anadyr
? It can’t be Ossora or Kavaznya—unless
we’re off course—they should be at
twelve o’clock
.”

 
          
Wendy
studied her frequency video. “It’s a different frequency than a ground-based
radar, and it’s stronger than the radar should be so far away.”

 
          
“Could
it be the laser’s tracking radar?”

 
          
“No,
this one has a very low frequency—an old system. I think this is an airborne
search radar.”

 
          
“Airborne?”
Ormack said in surprise. “Maritime reconnaissance or some sort of patrol—”

 
          
“Or
a chance encounter,” Elliott said. “Let’s wait to see what—”

 
          
“He’s
got us,” Wendy announced, studying the frequency shift and listening to the
radar’s real audio. “Change from a slow scan to lock-on. No height-finder or
uplink—just a faster scan.’’

 
          
“Like
station-keeping?’’ McLanahan asked. “Like a mapping radar switched to narrow
sector?’’

 
          
“That
would explain it,’’ Wendy said. “He’s transmitting on UHF.”

           
“Can you get a frequency?” Elliott
asked her.

           
“Only a wide frequency range. High
UHF. I can’t tell if he’s getting a response.”

 
          
“Let
me try to get him on attack radar,” McLanahan said. “At least confirm if he’s
airborne.”

 
          
“Go
ahead,” Elliott said. “No more than a few Seconds, though.” McLanahan adjusted
the antenna controls to point his large attack radar at two o’clock, set the
range for a hundred miles, then greased the TRANSMIT button. After three full
sweeps he turned the radar back to STANDBY. “Looks like he’s airborne, all
right.
Two o’clock
,
sixty miles. With my antenna tilt two degrees below level I’d estimate his
altitude at thirty-three thousand feet—”

 
          
And
then came the challenge: “Unknown aircraft, two hundred and forty kilometers
northeast of Ostrov Kommandorskiy, respond.” Followed by another message, which
sounded like the same request, this time in Russian.

 
          
“That’s
us,” Luger confirmed. “About a hundred and thirty miles northeast of Beringa.”

 
          
“Sounded
like he was on GUARD channel,” Ormack said, monitoring the emergency UHF
channel. “Do we answer him?”

 
          
“You’re
sure he’s tracking us, Wendy?” Elliott asked.

 
          
“He
can see us, all right, but I don’t think he’s tracking us. Just following us
with his radar. There’s no guidance-type tracking signal.”

           
“How far are we from the
Alaska-Japan airway?”

           
Luger checked his chart against the
computer’s present-position readout. “Just a few minutes ahead—”

 
          
“Unknown
aircraft, please respond.
Pazhaloosta.
”

 
          
“Please?”
General Elliott smiled. “Sounds like a kid. A
polite
kid.”

           
Ormack looked at his pilot with
surprise. “I didn’t know you understood Russian.”

           
“I learned just enough to get my
head blown off,” Elliott said. He thought for a moment. “If we tried to duck
down to low-level now—”

           
“He might lose us if we pushed it
over hard enough,” Ormack said. “We might make it.”

           
“I don’t think he could follow us
with his radar,” Wendy added. “It doesn’t seem to be a sophisticated system,
but he’d report losing us. He’s also in contact with someone out there. It
might be Ossora ...”

           
“Or it might be a wingman,” Lanahan
put in. “Maybe an escort.”

 
          
“Can
you jam his transmissions, Wendy?” Elliott asked.

 
          
“Yes,
but that would be a dead giveaway.”

 
          
“All
right. Let’s get on the airway and see what this guy does.” He turned the
wheel, and the bomber banked steeply to the left. “If he intercepts us, we’ll
have to—try to down him. No other choice. Copy, Angelina?”

 
          
“I’m
ready, General,” she said, checking her weapon-status indications.

 
          
“We’ll
be just outside radar range of Beringa on this heading,” Luger reported as the
Old Dog completed its steep turn.

 
          
“Permission
to use the tail radar to pick him up, General,” Angelina called.

 
          
“Not
yet.” Elliott took a deep breath, pulled the microphone closer to his lips,
then switched his radio switch to GUARD.

 
          
“Calling
unknown aircraft, this is Lantern four-five Fox on GUARD. Say your call sign.
Over.”

 
          
“Lantern
four-five Fox, this is Besarina two-two-one on GUARD. I read you loud and
clear.” The Soviet pilot then said something in Russian.

 
          
“Besarina
two-two-one, I read you, but I don’t understand Russian.” Elliott paused, then
said, “Fa
in gavaryoo na vashim yizikye
kharasho.
Say again.”

 
          
“Prastiti
. I am sorry, four-five Fox.
You . . . you are
United States
aircraft?”

 
          
“
Da.
”

 
          
“
Amirikanskaya,
” the Soviet pilot said
excitedly. Then, more officially, reported, “Four-five Fox, you are at our
twelve o’clock
position, seven-six kilometers.” A slight
pause. “I ... I never talk to
United States
before.”

 
          
Ormack
let out a long breath of air. “Looks like you may have made a friend, General.”