Patrick McLanahan Collection #1 (105 page)

In short, it was going away—right now.

Although they had initiated their attacks on America's bases in Alaska hours ago, it had taken this long to fly back across the Bering Sea to get into position to strike this last but no less important target. After this, it was an easy cruise back to the air-refueling track to rendezvous with the tankers operating out of Yakutsk, and then an easy ride home.

The radar crosshairs were less than a hundred meters off the aimpoint—the COBRA DANE antenna itself—so the bombardier laid them back on, magnified the image to ensure they were on the right spot—the northernmost corner of the massive array—checked the aimpoint coordinates, and then pressed the
RADAR FIX
button. The precise radar fix, combined with GLONASS satellite-navigation signals, would help keep the Tu-160's inertial navigator properly aligned. Thirty seconds later the navigation computer dumped velocity, heading, and position information to the four remaining Kh-15 nuclear missiles in the forward bomb bay.

“Fix complete,” he reported. “Stand by for TAL maneuver. Left turn, thirty degrees of bank, ten seconds…now.” The pilot commanded the autopilot to accomplish the turn. The TAL, or transfer alignment maneuver, “exercised” the inertial-navigation system and allowed a known quantity of velocity readings to fine-tune it. “Hold heading for twelve seconds…. Good, now right turn, center up the heading bug. Remaining on this heading. Three minutes to launch point. TAL complete, all remaining missiles reporting ready for launch. Confidence is high.”

The Tu-160 was traveling at one thousand kilometers per hour at an altitude of one hundred meters above the Bering Sea. His course would
take him about a hundred kilometers north of Shemya, out of range of any Patriot surface-to-air missiles the Americans may have placed there. The American naval base at Adak Island had been closed for a few years now, but there was no use taking chances; besides, they had plenty of fuel to make it back to the refueling anchor and to the first alternate landing site if they couldn't make their refueling. They'd had training missions twice as long and many times more complex than this. But it was strange that the Americans didn't place defensive weapon systems around their own bases. Obviously, they thought themselves invincible to attack—even way out here along the Aleutian Islands, where Shemya was half as close to Russia than it was to Juneau, the Alaskan capital.

Russia had proved this day how very wrong the Americans were. America was
not
invincible. In fact, this attack was unbelievably easy. They had detected just two American fighters during their entire two-hour attack run into Alaska, and the fighters had zoomed right over them without locking on even for a second. True, the electromagnetic pulses created by the multiple nuclear detonations around Fairbanks had helped degrade their radar. But launching only two fighters for the
entire state of Alaska?
Didn't the United States have any love or respect for their forty-ninth state? Did they think so little of this big, beautiful, mineral-rich place that they chose not to defend it with every weapon system in their arsenal? Heading outbound toward Shemya was even easier, as if the Americans never even tried to look for them. Could they really be this completely disorganized?

The bombardier took a few radar sweeps of the ocean, scanning for American warships. Nothing straight ahead, just a few small vessels, probably fishing or patrol vessels—nothing with the size to suggest they had the surface-to-air missile capacity to threaten a Tupolev-160. “This is lead. You see that surface target at eleven o'clock, fifty kilometers?” the bombardier radioed.

“I see it,” the bombardier aboard the number-two Tu-160 responded. “Less than twenty-five meters long, I'd say. Shaped like a trawler. No threat.”

“We'll keep our distance anyway,” the lead bombardier responded. But he did not alter his flight-plan routing. They would be at least five kilometers north of the sea target at their closest point—well out of range of Stinger or other shoulder-fired antiaircraft weapons, which
were not very much of a threat to a Tupolev-160 anyway. “Two minutes to launch.”

“Acknowledged. Search-radar contact only—no targeting radars.”

“EWO?” the pilot radioed to the electronic-warfare officer. “Check those radar contacts.”

“Search radars only,” the electronic-warfare officer aboard the lead Tu-160 reported after double-checking his readouts. “Echo-band air-traffic control radar from Shemya, X-ray band phased array search radar also from Shemya—the COBRA DANE long-range radar—and F-band search radar from just offshore, probably a surface-search radar from that trawler. No height finders.”

“One minute to missile launch.”

The pilot's voice sounded much more apprehensive. “Where's that trawler?” he asked.

“Eleven o'clock, thirty-two kilometers.”

“And you say it's painting us with radar?”

“Search radar only, pilot,” the EWO responded.

“Can he see us?”

“Probably.”

“Then let's deviate around him,” the pilot said. “Bombardier, give me a vector.”

“Negative. Less than forty seconds to launch. Deviating might put us outside the footprint. Hold heading.”

“If that trawler lights us up with a height finder, I want him blown out of the water,” the pilot ordered.

“With a one-kiloton nuclear warhead? You want to nuke a little fishing boat with a ten-million-ruble nuclear missile?”

“Have number two target that trawler—he's got four missiles to spare. That's an order.”

“Roger.” On the interplane radio, the bombardier relayed the order from the flight commander. The number-two Blackjack's bombardier laid his radar crosshairs on the radar return, hit a button to engage the moving-target designation mode, waited thirty seconds for the crosshairs to drift off, then placed them back on the target. The attack computers automatically calculated the trawler's speed—less than ten knots—and computed a set of target coordinates for where the trawler would be at the end of the missile's very short flight time.

Not that it mattered much: A one-kiloton nuclear warhead would
create an eight-cubic-kilometer hole in the ocean that would suck millions of kilos of seawater into it within seconds, crushing anything inside that was not already vaporized in the blast. The missile could miss by several kilometers and still destroy the little trawler.

“Stand by for missile launch,” the lead bombardier reported. “Missile counting down…Doors coming open…Missile one away…Launcher rotating…Missile two away…Doors coming closed…All missiles away.”

At this range it would take just over one minute for the first missile to hit. “Double-check curtain seals,” the pilot ordered. The pilots made sure that the silver-and-lead-lined anti–flash blindness curtains covering the cockpit windows were closed and securely fastened in place. “Crew, sunglasses secure, dark helmet visors down, interior lights full bright.” They turned the inside lights full bright so they could see their instruments through all the eye protection and to constrict their irises as much as possible. “Autopilot is off, climbing to one thousand meters. Prepare for—”

Just then the bombardier radioed, “Lost contact with missile one…Missile two still on track…Thirty seconds to second missile impact…twenty…Stand by for shock wave from first missile detonation…ten…Shit, I lost contact with the second missile…. Shock wave impact,
now
.” There was nothing. “Stand by for shock wave from missile two….”

“What happened, bombardier?” the pilot asked.

“Unknown. I just lost contact…. Shock wave coming up,
now
.” Still nothing. “No detonation. I don't understand it, pilot. I had two good missiles until just before detonation, and then nothing.”

The pilot started pulling off the anti–flash blindness curtains from his cockpit windscreen. “I'm going to look for a mushroom cloud or signs of detonation. Copilot, shield your eyes.” The pilot gingerly opened his curtains a few centimeters. There was no sign of a nuclear explosion. “Nothing! What could have happened?”

“Want me to launch the last two missiles at Shemya?”

“We were supposed to save the last two for surface targets we'd encounter on our way back,” the pilot reminded him, “and then save any unexpended weapons for contingencies.” But Shemya was a very important target, he thought. “Have our wingman cancel his attack on that surface target and launch two missiles at Shemya—then we'll both have two missiles remaining. That's better than one plane having four left but being unable to launch.”

“Acknowledged. Break. Two, this is lead, put a couple on Shemya. Our two missiles malfunctioned.”

“Acknowledged. Changing to left-echelon formation.” Since his missiles would be flying south, the number-two Blackjack bomber crossed over to the lead bomber's left side and prepared to launch two Kh-15 missiles at Shemya.

“Zagavn'at!”
the pilot swore aloud. “How could we fuck up that bad?”

“We didn't do anything wrong, pilot,” the bombardier said. “Who knows? Maybe the missile's electronics got beat up too badly during the long low-level cruising. Maybe the fuze malfunctioned.”

“Any air defenses on Shemya?”

“None whatsoever,” the electronic-warfare officer responded, puzzled.

“And even if there were, even a Patriot missile would have a hard time shooting down a Kh-15,” the bombardier says. “The Kh-15 flies faster and lower than the Patriot can—”

“Uyobyvay!”
the copilot suddenly swore. “What in hell was that?”

The pilot saw it too—a streak of blue-yellow flashed by the windscreen, so fast that it seemed like a beam of light—except the streak left a thin, white, steamy contrail.
“Was that a surface-to-air missile?”

“I'm not picking up any uplink or height-finder radars,” the electronic-warfare officer said immediately. “Scope's clear except for a surface-search radar at eleven o'clock, ten kilometers.”

“That trawler is still painting us?”

“It's not a SAM radar, just a—”

At that instant the crew felt a tremendous
bang!
reverberate through the aircraft—very quick and sharp, almost like clear-air turbulence. “Station check, crew!” the pilot ordered as he snapped his oxygen mask in place. “Everyone on oxygen.”

“Offense in the green.”

“Defense in the green.”

“Copilot is in the—Wait, I've got a tank low-pressure warning in the fuselage number-two fuel tank,” the copilot reported as he continued scanning his instruments. “Pressure is down to ten kilopascals…. Fuel quantity is dropping, too. I'm initiating transfer to the main body and transferring wing main fuel to the outboards.”

“Any other malfunctions?”

“Negative, just the fuel pressure and—”

At that moment there was another sharp
bang!
The air inside the cabin turned instantly cloudy, as if a thick fog had appeared out of nowhere. The pilot felt air gush out of his nostrils and mouth so loudly that he barked like a dog. “What was that? Station check again! Report!”

“My God!”
the electronic-warfare officer screamed.
“Oh, my God…!”

“What is it? Report!”

“Igor…the bombardier…God, he's been hit…Jesus,
his entire body exploded!
” the EWO screamed over the intercom. “I felt that second thud, and I looked over, and…oh, God, it looks like his body was blown in half from head to toe. Something came up from the bottom of the aircraft and blew Igor into pieces!”

“Copilot…?”

“Explosive decompression, two alternators and generators offline, and I feel a tremor in the fuselage,” the copilot reported.

“I have the airplane,” the pilot said. “I'm turning north.” He keyed the mike button. “Two, this is lead, I think we've been hit by ground fire. We're taking evasive action north.”

“We're thirty seconds to missile launch, lead,” the second Blackjack bomber pilot responded. “We're not picking up any threats. We'll stay on the missile run and rendezvous when—”

And the radio went dead.

The pilot strained forward in his seat to look as far to his left as he could—and he saw the second Blackjack bomber start a tail-over-head forward spin, flames tearing through the bomb bay, its burning wings breaking off and cartwheeling across the sky.
“Oh, shit, two just got hit!”
he cried out. “He's on fire!” He shoved his control stick farther right. “We're getting out of here!”

 

H
e's turning, Top—don't let him get away,” Hal Briggs radioed.

“I can see that, sir,” Sergeant Major Chris Wohl said. He was standing atop the MV-32 Pave Dasher tilt-rotor aircraft as it bobbed in the choppy and gently rolling Bering Sea, sixty miles north of Shemya Island. Wohl, along with one more commando in Tin Man battle armor and eight more commandos in advanced ballistic infantry armor seated in the cargo compartment, had raced across the Bering Sea to a spot where they predicted they could intercept any Russian attack aircraft returning from Alaska that might launch a similar attack against Shemya.
The MV-32 crew then deployed its emergency-survival flotation bags, which resembled a gigantic raft surrounding the entire lower half of the tilt-jet aircraft, and set the aircraft down on the Bering Sea.

Wohl smoothly tracked the target through his Tin Man electronic visor display, which showed the Russian Blackjack bomber in a steep right turn. The display also showed the predicted impact point for one of his hypersonic electromagnetic projectiles, fired from his rail gun. Wohl's microhydraulically powered exoskeleton covering his Tin Man electronic body armor allowed him to easily track the bomber while holding the large, fifty-eight-pound weapon. He lined up the impact reticle onto the radar depiction of the bomber as precisely as a conventional soldier would sight the main gun on an Abrams battle tank.