Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 01 (46 page)

 
          
“An
American
aircraft?” Markham grabbed
the note out of Beech’s hand.

 
          
“Lantern
four-five Fox,” Markham read. “Lantern. That sounds familiar.”

 
          
“It
should,” Beech said. “We monitored four Lanterns from Elmendorf dragging a
bunch of F-4s to Japan yesterday. Those were KC-lOs with an international
flight plan—coordinated days in advance. Lantern two-one through two-four.”

 
          
“Did
you get this guy’s flight plan?”

 
          
“There’s
no Lantern four-five Fox,” Beech said. “Never was. It didn’t come out of
Elmendorf.”

 
          
“Where,
then?”

 
          
“We’re
double-checking,” Beech said. “But this guy has no flight plan. We’re trying to
get confirmation from Elmendorf but so far we have nothing.”

 
          
“Did
you get
anything?”
Markham asked.
“Type aircraft? Anything?”

 
          
“Nothing.
I’ll get the tape for the staff meeting, but there was nothing. A Soviet
controller on Beringa Island in the Kommandorskiyes asked him all that when he
looked up his flight plan, but he didn’t tell him anything . . . Here’s how it
went, sir ... a PVO Strany jet out of Petropavlosk picks up a Lantern four-five
Fox on airborne radar and calls for him in the blind on GUARD. When he started
to call we got on the radar and looked for him, too. We had the PVO jet all the
way but we couldn’t find the other guy until the PVO jet called out his range
and bearing. We plotted him forty miles east of the airway—and then we got a
track on him. This four-five Fox plane looked like he was heading toward
Russia—”

 
          
“Toward
Russia?” Markham swiveled in the
navy-gray seat. “From
where?
Didn’t
we see him before?”

 
          
“He
just sort of appeared out of nowhere. We weren’t really scanning for aircraft
but we should have spotted him before the PVO-Strany surveillance plane did. I
don’t know how we—”

 
          
“Where
is he now?”

 
          
“We
lost contact with four-five Fox right after he crossed back onto the airway,”
Beech said. “Apparently he was crossing south of the Komman- dorskiyes, and
that’s just about the limit of our coverage.

 
          
“But
get this—when we picked him up on radar he wasn’t squawking anything. When he
contacted Beringa they assigned him a mode three squawk, but his mode C
altitude readout was out. Then Beringa kicks him out of their airspace and
gives him a vector out around Petropavlovsk airspace.”

 
          
“Jesus,”
Markhan said, wiping his forehead. “Someone’s screwing up but bad here.” He
thought for a moment. “No mode one? Mode two? Four?” Those were U.S.
military-only identification codes.

 
          
“Nothing—not
even after Beringa talked to him.”

 
          
“An
aircraft with a military call sign,” Markham said, “but with nothing but mode
3—and
that
assigned by a Soviet
controller.”

 
          
“He
was speaking Russian to him, too, sir,” a technician said from a nearby radio
console.

 
          
“Russian?”
Markham said. “What the hell was he saying?”

           
“Conversational. Please, thank you,
that sort of thing. Asked the PVO Strany recon jet pilot where he was from.”

           
“Did the Lantern pilot sound
Russian?”

 
          
“No,
sounded like maybe he used to speak it in the past, but he was definitely
American. Even said he was from Butte, Montana.”

 
          
“We
have no further contact with this guy?”

 
          
“Radio
contact only,” Beech said, “but he hasn’t talked to Beringa for some time so we
couldn’t get an updated DF steer on him.” He motioned over to a large glass
plotting board near the communications center, which he and Markham walked over
to.

 
          
“Here’s
our position,” Beech told the intelligence chief, pointing to a tiny ship
sticker, “a hundred and fifty miles west northeast of the Kom- mandorskiyes.
Here’s the airway—we’re sitting almost directly under it. We first plotted the
unknown aircraft here, northwest of us and forty miles east of the airway,
heading southeast. He intersected the airway here and flew along it for a few
minutes until Beringa chased him further away from Petropavlosk airspace, which
he’d run into in about twenty to thirty minutes. Our last DF steer put him
south of the Kommandorskiyes, a little bit west of the airway. But Beringa
control had confirmed him on a mag heading of one-four-zero, which would put
him well outside Petropavlosk airspace. Even if he went direct to Sapporo or
Tokyo he’d never get close enough to worry anyone.”

 
          
“Is
there
any
chance this could be a
Soviet aircraft?” Markham asked. “How do we know it’s American?”

 
          
Beech
looked puzzled. “Well. . . except for his call sign, we don’t, sir.” “But
you’ve said there’s no Lantern four-five Fox from anywhere.” “We haven’t
received confirmation from Elmendorf,” Beech said. “They won’t talk about their
aircraft on unsecure radios. All we know is that no flight plan has been filed
on a Lantern four-five Fox. It could’ve been dropped, or filed late . . . It’s
unusual but it can happen. And . . . well, he
sounded
American, sounded military.”

 
          
“Enlightened
speculation goes down okay here, Beech,” Markham said, trying to smile but not
managing it. “But how do we account for this?” Markham pointed to the projected
trackline of the unknown aircraft. “What’s he doing way the hell over
here?”

 
          
Beech
shrugged. “Maybe he got lost.
Really
lost. Maybe he’s sightseeing. Joyriding. Some jet jockey with a fake call sign
playing fucking Red Rover with the Russians?”

 
          
“Well,
we’ll leave that one to the CIA or the Air Force,” Markham said. He stood and
stretched. “Send a report to headquarters about this guy. Advise to obtain
positive identification before allowing him into Japanese airspace. Suggest a
navy or DIA investigation on him when he lands.” He ran his hands over his
expanding belly. “I’m going to see if they’ve dreamed up anything new to do
with hamburger in the mess. I’ll be upstairs.”

 
          
“Lieutenant
Beech,” one of the radio operators suddenly called out, “Channel seventeen,
sir.”

 
          
Beech
replaced his headset. After a moment he said urgently, “Jonesy, put it on
speakers. Sir, listen to this.”

 
          
The
operator flipped a few switches, and soon the room was filled with static. A
few moments later a Russian accent boomed, “Lantern four-five Fox,
acknowledge.”

 
          
“It’s
Beringa,” Beech said to Markham.

 
          
“Lantern
four-five Fox, this is Kommandorskiye Approach Control on GUARD frequency.
Urgent. You are violating Soviet airspace. Lantern four-five Fox, turn thirty
degrees left immediately and ident. Repeat. You are one-zero-zero kilometers
off course and in violation of Soviet airspace.

           
Turn left thirty degrees immediately
and ident.” The warning was then repeated in Russian and in clumsy Chinese.

 
          
“One
hundred kilometers,” Beech said. “What the hell is that guy up to?”

 
          
“Whatever,”
Markham said, “he’s in deep shit now.”

 
          
“Lantern
four-five Fox, this is Kommandorskiye Approach on GUARD. I have lost your
beacon. Repeat, I have lost your beacon. Check your IFF is in NORMAL and squawk
ident immediately. You are in violation of Soviet airspace. Identify yourself
immediately.”

 
          
“That’s
it,” Markham said. “Cancel that last report. Prepare a priority One message for
Pacific Fleet headquarters. Say that an unidentified aircraft, presumed
American military, has violated Soviet airspace. Give our position and the last
reported and estimated position of the aircraft. Soviet intentions are unknown
but we expect them to search, intercept and destroy. We do not have any reason
to believe that the unknown aircraft has an emergency, but tell them that he
may be having navigational difficulties. More details to follow. I’ll have the
Captain sign it immediately. And get a report ready for the Old Man,” Markham
told Beech. “He’s gonna want one fast. I’m going to get permission to send up a
radar balloon.”

 
          
“We
may be able to move closer to his last reported position,” Beech suggested.
“Get on the other side of the Kommandorskiyes. If this guy’s in trouble we
can—”

 
          
“We
haven’t even established if the son of a bitch is American,” Markham cut in.
“He could be part of some elaborate Russian scheme to pull us away from
monitoring Kavaznya. I’ll suggest it, Beech, but I won’t recommend it. Besides,
he’d be too far inside Soviet territory for us to do anything.”

 
          
As
his intelligence people hurried to execute his orders, Markham studied the
plotting board. In front of him a technician made a series of computations and
drew another line, plotting the unknown aircraft’s possible location.

 
          
“I
don’t know who you are,” Markham said under his breath, “but, buddy, you just
stirred up one hell of a hornet’s nest.”

 
          
“Call
up the next point,” Elliott said. His arms were extended almost straight out
from his body, straining to hold the control yoke forward, forcing the Old Dog
down toward the dark waters of the north Pacific. The heading bug swung twenty
degrees to the right. As the Old Dog started a right turn to the new
computerized heading, Elliott spun the large trim wheel by his right knee
forward to help him hold the bomber’s nose down—at the current rate of descent
and high airspeed, the
Megafortress
wanted nothing except to zoom skyward.

           
As he reached for the trim wheel
Elliott touched his right knee. The feeling—a tingling sensation, like it was
asleep—had still been there a few hours ago, but it was gone now. A ring of
pain encircled his thigh midway between his knee and hip like a clamp. A muscle
twitched involuntarily on his right buttock. He looked over and saw Ormack
carefully watching him.

 
          
“Bad?”

 
          
“Just
watch your damn instruments, John.”

 
          
Ormack
nodded, not reassured.

 
          
Nearly
forty years earlier, Elliott recalled, he had hurt that knee falling out of a
hayloft on his father’s farm. While sitting in the school library, sidelined
from the football team, he had read all the books printed on the subject of
knee injuries, vitamins to help mending ligaments, special exercises to
strengthen muscles. After the cast came off he nursed the weakened knee back to
health in only a few weeks, just in time for baseball season. The year his
school won the state championship. He remembered the pride he felt at the time.
Would he be as proud when this was over?

 
          
“Will
that heading keep us clear of Beringa’s radar?”

 
          
“It
should,” Luger said. “It’ll take us around on a one hundred and twenty-mile
arc.” He checked the altimeter on his front instrument panel. It was spinning
down faster than he’d ever seen, like a clock gone haywire. He was so light in
his seat that he had to snatch his charts and pencil in midair to keep them
from floating away in the negative Gs. “Passing twenty-five thousand for five
thousand,” he called out. He remembered Major White’s egress trainers back at
Ford, the way White made his huge mechanical beast dance on its ten-foot
hydraulic legs. Well, this was for real—and it was much more than White could
ever dream up ... “Passing twenty thousand.” Ford Air Force Base seemed very,
very far away.