Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 09 (58 page)

 
          
Yegorov
offered to watch the aircraft, and Stoica gratefully took a catnap while his
weapons officer filled out his poststrike reports and recorded computer logs,
with the autopilot handling the aircraft. The autopilot was set for
constant-Mach hold, which adjusted aircraft altitude automatically as gross
weight decreased so they could maintain the most fuel-efficient airspeed—the
Mt-179 very gradually climbed as gross weight decreased, up to forty-five
thousand feet, the aircraft’s maximum operating altitude, or a lower altitude set
by the pilot.

 
          
But
Stoica didn’t set the proper maximum altitude. If he had bothered to
double-check his weather forecasts from his preflight briefing, he would have
read that the forecast contrail level over the
Black Sea
for their return Bight was just over
forty-one thousand feet. Yegorov had no autopilot controls in the aft cockpit
except for disconnect, and in any case he was too distracted to pay any
attention. Visibility directly behind the Metyor-179 was poor from the cockpit
anyway, so even if he had looked outside, he would not have noticed anyway .. .

 
          
...
that the Mt-179 was drawing a long, thick white contrail across the night sky
over the
Black Sea
. Illuminated by the moon, the condensation
trail was bright enough to be seen for fifty miles across the clear, cold
sky—bright enough to be spotted by a flight of two
Republic
of
Turkey
F-l 6s on a late-night air intercept
training mission in the Samsun Military Operating Area off the northern coast
of
Turkey
over the
Black
Sea
.

 
          
The
two Turkish fighters, both single-seat F-16C Block 50 models, were from the
Fifth Main Jet Base, 151 Jet
Filo,
based at Merzifon about two hundred
miles to the south. Because of weather, their training flight had been delayed
several hours. For flight currency, both pilots had to complete a high-level-
and low-altitude radar intercept, including flight time to and from the
Military Operating Area and reserve fuel; they had to carry almost four hours’
worth of fuel, which meant they had to lug around two huge external fuel tanks,
which really decreased the F-l6s’ maneuverability and fun. One plane would fly
out to the edge of the MOA at a particular altitude and then head inbound, and
the other aircraft would try to find it and complete an intercept. The radar
controllers at Merzifon monitored the intercepts and could provide some
assistance, but since the purpose of the exercise was for the pilot to find the
“enemy” himself, the pilots rarely asked for a vector from the ground radar
controllers.

 
          
It
was the last intercept of the night coming up, and after several hours of
delays and nearly three hours of yanking and banking, all participants were
ready to finish up and go home—their normal duty day was going to start just a
few hours after landing, so the faster they finished, the more sleep time
they'd get. Zodyak One. the flight leader, was the hunter, and his wingman,
Zodyak Two, was the quarry. Zodyak Two was at thirty-nine thousand feet,
preparing to simulate a highspeed penetration from high to low altitude, while
Zodyak One was at normal patrol altitude of twenty-nine thousand feet. Their
external lights were off; Zodyak One had his radar searching the sky below,
while Zodyak Two as the attacker had his radar off.

 
          
The
leader knew that the last intercept had to be a low- altitude one, so he was
concentrating his search below him for his w ingman. But it took just a few
minutes for him to realize that his young wingman had snookered him, and he
began to concentrate his search up high. It took him several radar sweeps to
make contact before he finally locked the second F-16 up.
“Orospu cocugu
,
” he swore to himself. ‘Trying to screw me up, ehT' He raised the nose of his
F-16 and pushed the throttles to full military power, preparing himself to
begin the chase. “Control, Zodyak One, radar contact, bogey bearing
zero-two-zero bull’s-eye. range eight miles, descending from angels three-nine
lam..

 
          
Then
he saw it—a bright, fast-moving contrail, streaking eastward. It looked close
enough to cause a midair collision with Zodyak Two—the guy was certainly well
inside the MOA.
Knock it off! Knock it off!"
the leader shouted.
“Unknown aircraft in the MOA! One is level at base plus twelve.”

 
          
“Acknowledged."
Zodyak Two responded. “Level at base plus ten.”

 
          
“Control
copies your knock-it-off call. Zodyak One," the ground radar control
responded. “We show no aircraft on radar. One. Say bogey airspeed and
altitude.”

 
          
“Acknowledged."
The leader tried to lock his radar on the newcomer, but he could not get a
radar lock-on. “Negative radar, I must have a bent radar,” he reported. “But I
have a visual on his contrail, I estimate his altitude as angles four-two,
heading eastbound."

           
“Zodyak One, stand by.” The leader
knew the controller would be on the phone to Air Force air defense headquarters.
Moments later: “Zodyak flight. Control, if you can maintain visual contact,
we'd like to get a look at him. Warning, we have no radar contact and cannot
provide intercept vectors or safe separation. Say state.”

 
          
“Zodyak
One has zero point seven hours fuel until bingo,” the flight leader said. “
Dogru
.
”

 
          
“Zodyak
Two has zero point six until bingo.
Dogru
too.” “Roger. Zodyak Two, your
leader is at your
one o’clock
,
seven miles, base plus twelve. Turn right heading zero-four- five to join,
maintain base plus ten. Negative radar contact on any other traffic. Zodyak
flight of two is cleared MARSA tactical with unknown aircraft. Zodyak One,
squawk normal. Zodyak Two, squawk normal and ident. . . radar contact, Zodyak
Two, report when tied on and joined up with your leader, then squawk standby
when within three miles.”

 
          
“Zodyak
flight copies all,” the leader said. “Let’s push it up, Zodyak flight.”

 
          
“Two
tied on radar. I’m in.”

 
          
Ion
Stoica was jarred awake by the blare of the radar warning receiver and Gennadi
Yegorov frantically shouting, “Bandit! Bandit!
Twelve o’clock
, range ten miles!”

 
          
“Bandit?
What in hell... ?” Stoica berated himself for falling asleep so deeply—he
should have taken the speed pills to keep him alert. He first checked his
engine, systems, and flight instruments—and noticed right away that their
altitude was way too high. “Gennadi, dammit, we’re above forty-three thousand!
We were briefed not to go above forty-one!”

 
          
“All
I have is autopilot annunciators back here, Ion,” Yegorov retorted. “As far as
I can tell, everything was fine. You set the autopilot, not me!”

 
          
Stoica
knew he was right—Yegorov’s instruments would show only status and
malfunctions, not settings. That was
his
job. They had obviously picked
up another nearby aircraft who had seen them by an infrared scanner or by their
contrails. He had to get away from him
fast.

           
“X-band pulse-Doppler fire-control
radar,
twelve o'clock
,
six miles—shit. I think we picked up a Turkish F-16,” Yegorov said. He searched
his rearview mirror. "Contrails! We're making contrails!'’

 
          
“Hang
on!” Stoica pulled the throttles to idle, rolled the Mt-179 almost inverted,
and started a steep left turning descent. He turned exactly ninety degrees to
his original heading. which should blind a pulse-Doppler radar system. If the
tailpipes could cool down and if they could spoof the radar, they could make a
descending dash across the
Black Sea
and get away. It was their only chance. They could not outrun an F-16: and this
close to
Turkey
, the other aircraft probably had more fuel.

 
          
This
was not good at all.

 
          
"He
maneuvered as soon as we locked him up on radar,” the flight leader said on the
command channel. “He must have a radar warning receiver. He’s trying to notch
left, fly away from the Turkish coast and blank himself out.” He had already
anticipated a left turn, and he simply turned with him. The F-16’s radar never
broke lock.

 
          
“Zodyak
Two has music,” the second F-16 reported. Jamming signals. Definitely a hostile
aircraft.

 
          
“Control,
Zodyak flight, our bandit has notched in response to our radar lock, and it now
appears he’s attempting to jam our radars,” the flight leader reported. “We’re
both
dogru
at this time.” The word meant “correct,” but in reality it
meant, “We have no weapons at all. How about getting some help up here?”

 
          
“Roger.
Zodyak flight, an air defense emergency has been declared.” the ground radar
controller reported. “Cekic One- Zero-One flight of two is airborne. ETA ten
minutes.”

 
          
“Roger,”
the flight leader responded. The air defense strip alert birds got off the
ground fast, but ten minutes was far too long. In ten minutes, this guy could
be in
Georgia
or
Russia
. But they had him for now—there was no way they’d let him go without
getting a look at him. “Zodyak flight will be bingo fuel in fifteen minutes, so
we'll stick with him until Cekic gets here.” He switched to the number-two
radio and set the UHF GUARD channel. “Let’s give him a call and see if he’s in
a cooperative mood tonight.”

           
“Bandit at our four o’clock, five
miles ... four miles,” Yegorov said. “I think he locked on. He’s pursuing. He’s
... shit, he’s got a trailer. Bandit Two,
three o’clock
, twelve miles and closing. I think he—”

 
          
“Attention,
attention, unknown rider, unknown rider.” they heard on the UHF GUARD channel,
the international emergency frequency, “flying north off the Samsun
three-five-zero degree radial, one hundred ten miles, this is the Republic of
Turkey Air Force, please respond with your call sign, type, and destination,
squawk normal and ident.”

 
          
“We’re
outside his airspace!” Yegorov said. “He can’t bother us, can he? He can’t
shoot us down out here! We’re in international airspace!”

 
          
“No,
but if he gets a look at us and reports us, our cover will be blown,” Stoica
replied grimly. Well, if he wants to get a look at us, by all means, let’s
oblige him, he thought. “Get the R-60s powered up and ready for launch,”

 
          
“Wait
a minute, Ion,” Yegorov said. “All we have are internal missiles. We shouldn’t
launch them unless it’s an absolute emergency.”

 
          
“You
want this Turkish prick to get a look at us?” Stoica asked angrily. “Give me
the R-60s right now!”

 
          
Yegorov
reluctantly powered up the weapon systems. They still had all four of their
wingroot-launched R-60 heat-seeking missiles ready to go. “Missiles ready ...
muzzle shutter open. Bandit one is
six o’clock
, nine miles, bandit two
four o’clock
, seventeen miles. Give me a target.”

 
          
“Here
we go.” Stoica pulled the Metyor-179 into a steep climb, went inverted, then
rolled out aiming right for the lead F-16. In seconds, they had closed the
distance between them.

 
          
“Locked
on!” Yegorov shouted. “Shoot!” He fired two R-60 missiles as soon as they were
within range.

 
 
          
It
all unfolded in the blink of an eye, so fast that the Turkish flight leader did
not notice—the rapid change in altitude, the rapid decrease in relative speed
and distance, followed suddenly by an even faster decrease in relative distance
and two bright flashes of light. "Missile attack!’* he shouted. “Evasive
action! We're under attack!” The flight leader immediately popped decoy chaff
and flares—-before realizing he didn’t
have
any chaff or flares—then
shoved in full afterburner power, went to ninety degrees left bank, pulled on
the control stick until he heard the stall-warning horn, then rolled out and
yanked the throttle to idle.