Trophy (36 page)

Item 30—PJE (para-jumping exercise) VMC 2NM around VG22 PSN … 0800—SS FL95

That meant the para jumps in that area would be carried out from 9,500 feet in good visibility, from 0800 to sunset. Definitely an area to avoid. Ingesting parachutists was not a good idea.

Item 40—Testing of rockets and sea distress signals INM around PSN … 1500 FT

Item 42—Glider aerobatics at Venlo PSN 5122N0163E SR-SS 3937 FT

Nothing to worry about there. They weren’t going anywhere near Venlo. The gliders could aerobat from sunrise to sunset to their hearts’ content.

Item 60—Overflight by all MIL aircraft prohibited due to air-sea rescue in progress 5NM radius around PSN … 5000 FT

The list of warnings and avoidances seemed endless, but all had to be noted and acted upon. Ignorance of the notices was not a defence, should any incident occur. Flacht would have a copy with him, as would McCann.

“Right, gentlemen,” Selby called. “Are we all ready? Let’s go and hear what final words the boss has to say.”

Trussed up in their over-water gear plus all the accoutrements necessary for survival in their highspeed, high-flying machines, they waddled towards the small briefing room where Jason was waiting.

“I won’t go over points of the briefing already covered,” he began when they had taken their seats. “Today, as you’ll have been told, you are carrying a full war load …”

“Loaded for Bear,” McCann remarked, referring to the NATO name for the big four-engined Soviet long-range aircraft that persistently tested the NATO air defences.

“Yes, McCann,” Jason said patiently. “But don’t go shooting down any, will you, please? There’s a good chap. The Russians wouldn’t like it; I most certainly would not, neither would the Air Vice-Marshal
and through him going ever upwards, all sorts of highly placed people. Our combined ire would shrivel you into a little puddle of grease. Have you got that?”

“Strength five, Boss.”

“Glad to hear it. To continue … you have live firings in areas Hotel-96, Hotel-38, and Sierra-59. Target drones will be operating in these designated areas. Altitudes, times and headings are not given. Hostiles would not forewarn you. Your intercepts are therefore to take place as and when you are able to detect the target drones. On correct detection, your radars will give you a visual image of the target on your tactical displays. Do
not
fire before correct identification. If you do, it will count against your proficiency ratings.

“As you already know, the first refuelling exercise will take place after your first intercept in AARA 2, at 30,000 feet. The tanker will contact you on completion of the intercept. Second refuelling, however, will occur in a specially designated area for this mission. This will be AARA Delta 8, in grid square Victor 3 at 35,000 feet. This will place you off the North Cape. Remembering my warning to McCann about prowling Bears, keep a sharp eye out for their more agile comrades. I think we all know what I’m referring to.

“They sometimes like to play. Let’s not give them any frights. In these days of glasnost we should be even more on guard. We want neither to be
caught out, nor do we wish to initiate anything that might give us our own nightmares.”

“In other words, don’t shoot unless we’re shot at.” McCann again, wondering why the Wingco was bothering to say all this.

“I would go much further, McCann,” Jason told him. “Do not
put
yourselves in a position where you will be shot at. This,” he went on, “will be a totally autonomous sortie. There will be no communication whatsoever with base, and no voice communication with the tankers. Secure data link will be used. This is to be as realistic as we can possibly make it, without actually going to war. Voice comms between your two aircraft are to be kept to an absolute minimu. In fact, only an emergency should necessitate such contact.

“Callsign for the mission is Goshawk. Hohendorf and Flacht are Two-One; Selby and McCann, Three-One. Two-One leads. Finally, it remains for me to say this to you:
qui desiderat pacem, praeparet bellum.
Vegetius in the 4th century.
He who wants peace must prepare himself for war …
Milton, however, had other ideas:
for what can war but endless war still breed?
But I give you Jason, 1989:
watch your step, and don’t bring me any nightmares.
Any questions? No? Very well. Off you go, gentlemen.”

As they later approached the aircraft, McCann said to Selby: “That was quite a speech from the boss. Did he look worried to you?”

“No more than usual, Elmer Lee, for a man who’s got you in his squadron.”

McCann chose to ignore the genial insult. “I dunno,” he said thoughtfully. “This Kansas kid’s corns are itchy.”

“Leave your corns alone, and get up into your cage.”

Kukarev decided he had gone far enough south. He didn’t want to waste fuel. He made a gentle sideways movement with the stick and the Krivak flipped onto a wing. Kukarev pulled slightly towards him and the aircraft whipped round in a tight turn, to head north. Kukarev kept low, to avoid giving his country’s SAM batteries time to acquire him. All his active search systems were off and only the passive warning units were operating. They gave off no signals for anyone to lock on to, but would register any search radar or infrared source seeking him out.

He had planned this route over the months and had flown sections of it at intervals. It was relatively clear of electronic or other prying eyes, and he hoped he would make it to the Barents Sea before the flight plan deviation worried a controller enough to send someone looking.

The Krivak streaked northwards.

The general put down the phone. “He’s off the radar.”

“He’s made his move,” Stolybin said tensely. “We’ve got him!”

“But we don’t know where he is. According to the radar people, he’s gone very low. Perhaps he’s not heading north at all. The Krivak has a very low signature. It can hide very successfully by masking itself with the terrain.”

“There is no need to hunt for him, Comrade General. An ambush has been set. We know where he’ll be.”

Stolybin spoke confidently. But his face now had a thin film of sweat upon it.

A squadron of the Su-27s that had been at Kukarev’s detachment base in the south, had found themselves suddenly rotated back north. Just before Kukarev made his turn, two of them had taken off and roared skywards. Shortly after, a pair of MiG-29s from a squadron sharing the base had also taken off, keeping low. An IL-76 tanker was waiting for all four aircraft, near Bear Island.

Unaware of all this activity, Kukarev flew on, maintaining his bearing. He kept a constant lookout, restless eyes monitoring his alarm systems, scanning the sky about him for unwelcome company, watching for a telltale puff of white that might mean a SAM launch. But nothing alarming happened. His luck was holding.

He glanced anxiously at his fuel state. Still
plenty, but he’d be glad when he could head for the upper reaches of the sky where he would burn fuel more efficiently.

Suppose he was flying to nowhere? What if no NATO tanker was waiting? What if no NATO escort? It would be a cold and lonely death in the Arctic waters.

He pushed such thoughts out of his mind and kept the Krivak going north. Soon he must ease off to the West. His estimated time of arrival over the coast was now only five minutes.

Within the cockpits of Goshawk Three-One, subdued sounds of high-tech machinery at work was a lullaby that sent no one to sleep. In the back seat, McCann monitored the steady pace of his own breathing while in the front, the HUD told Selby he was cruising at 30,000 feet on a heading of 350. Speed was a relatively gentle 400 knots. The wings were at 45 degrees sweep. A speck over to the right and a little ahead, leading them, was Goshawk Two-One.

The aircraft, on a seemingly unending sea of white cloud-tufts, sped towards their first intercept in the designated grid area.

Selby routinely checked his systems. Nothing onscreen betrayed the presence of the target drones. Perhaps they would not put in an appearance in this area. He hoped they would not get past him. As yet, however, McCann had given no indication of possible trade.

Then on his headphones, Selby heard a new sound: music. This was accompanied by singing from McCann. “Elmer Lee?”

The singing stopped, but the music continued. “Yo, buddy.”

“What the hell’s that?”

“Me being happy.”

“I’m glad you’re happy, Elmer Lee. I really am. But do you have to be happy on the phones?”

“I’ve got a cassette in one of the slots, using a spare channel, cockpit circuit only. No one else can hear. Dave Brubeck. ‘Take Five.’ Don’t you like it?”

“Give it a rest, Elmer Lee, and keep your eyes open.”

The music stopped. “What say I sing instead?”

“God, no.”

“There you go.”

Selby shook his head. How many people, he wondered, could say they had flown a fast jet at 30,000 feet, listening to Dave Brubeck?

The sea of white tufts stretched before him.

In Goshawk Two-One, Flacht said to Hohendorf: “Two minutes to Hotel-96.”

“Anything yet?”

“Screen’s clean.” Flacht had the tactical display on one of the MFDs.

“After sixty seconds in-area, I’m going low. Call it.”

“All right.” After a short pause, Flacht continued:
“Ten seconds. Nine … eight … seven … six … five … four … three … two … one.
Go.”

Hohendorf, grunting against the mounting Gs, flung the Tornado onto its back and pulled the stick towards him. The aircraft dived steeply into the cloud bank.

McCann said: “Two-One’s just gone low.”

“Then it’s the high road for us,” Selby said, lit the burners and went vertical.

At 40,000 feet, he came out of burner and went into a gentle climb to 50,000, where he levelled off. He throttled further back. The wings spread out to their 25-degree maximum, and Selby took the aircraft into a wide, loitering circle.

“If there’s anything up here,” he said, “we’ll find it.”

“You bet your ass we will,” McCann said.

Hohendorf had levelled out at 500 feet.

A bare minute later, Flacht announced sharply: “I’ve got trade. Two targets. One at fifty feet, bearing 270 and coming at us … 350 knots at 90 miles, the other at 30,000, bearing 050 at 70 miles. 500 knots. Three-One should have him, so I’m giving priority to the sea skimmer.” Flacht watched as the targets’ images were displayed.

DRONE J/13A, the readout said. DRONE C/M2-R.

Well, they wouldn’t be shooting at the wrong
targets, Flacht thought. No stray aircraft seemed to be wandering in the area to attract the missile.

The computers advised him that Drone J/13A should take priority.

“Target bearing now 201,” he told Hohendorf.

Hohendorf turned for the intercept.

“Speed now 400 knots,” Flacht said. “They’re going to make us work. Select Skyray One. Let’s get him before they start getting. Ah. That’s it. We’ve got lock-on. He’s turned, range increasing … but we’ve still got lock-on. Range now 95 miles and increasing …”

Hohendorf got the tone in his helmet. “I’m taking launch,” he said. “Launching.” The first of the four Skyrays hurled itself explosively out of the semi-recessed bays of the aircraft’s underbelly.

The drone had begun to alter course.

Then Flacht said: “We’re getting countermeasures, but Skyray is ignoring it. We’re still locking on.”

On his helmet symbology, Hohendorf saw the targeting box firmly squared, though the target was itself still invisible.

Flacht watched the missile’s trace on-screen. “We’re holding … and
hit.
We’ve got a hit!” he said with satisfaction. A bright flaring had briefly surrounded target A on the tactical display. Then another bright flare lived momentarily on the screen. “And I think Three-One has just scored too.”

Hohendorf took the ASV into a steep climb. “That wasn’t too difficult.”

“If we ever have to do it for real,” Flacht began as the two aircraft confirmed each other’s kill by secure data link, “I hope all engagements turn out so well.”

“One thing we can be sure of, Wolfie. They won’t.”

“I was afraid you’d say that.”

“If you wanted an easy life …”

“You shouldn’t have joined,” they finished together.

McCann watched as Goshawk Two-One came into view above the cloud layer. He had turned the music back on as soon as Hohendorf had finished his attacking dive. This time “It’s a Raggy Waltz” was playing.

“Elmer Lee.”

“I’m here. Haven’t gone away.”

“I thought cowboys liked country music.”

“I keep telling you guys I’m no cowboy. I’m a city dude. And I hate country music.” Just then, a set of coordinates pulsed on his nav display. He cut the music. “Tanker’s in place. Left, two-two-zero.” He watched as the symbol of Hohendorfs ASV began its heading change. “Goshawk Two-One’s already getting into the groove.”

Selby checked the contents of his wing tanks. The 500-gallon streamlined containers—capacity
rounded off from the 495 gallons of the standard F.3 ADVs—were nearly empty, but the airframe tanks were still awash. If anything should occur to cause them to miss the rendezvous with the tanker, they would still make it home without getting to bingo.

They made the rendezvous, their tanker being a Victor K2 with bright lines on either side of each of the outer wing refueling pods. The markings were there to help with lining up for the feed. As experienced feeders, neither Selby nor Hohendorf needed them, but they were godsends to rookies.

After their top-up, both aircraft swung away from the tanker and headed towards North Cape for the next engagement.

McCann went back to Brubeck.

It was McCann who saw it first. He immediately stopped the tape and stared at a trace on his tac display. “What the hell’s this?” He transferred the display to Goshawk Two-One.

Selby said: “What have you found?”

“Something that shouldn’t be there. We’re not in Hotel-38, or Sierra-56 … and Hotel-96 is way back south. No target drones are scheduled for this area and this, whatever it is, is moving at one hell of a lick. I’ve got 600 knots on him, at 20,000. This guy’s no drone. I’m checking him out.”