Flight of the Old Dog, page 29
“Eighteen thousand of that, of course, was the left outboard drop tank,” Ormack went on. “I put some fuel in the left inboard drop and left outboard wing tanks during refueling, but there’s a serious leak in both those tanks and it’s almost gone—about fifteen thousand pounds. I transferred the rest into the mains to keep from losing it all. There might also be a small leak in the right outboard tank, which happened when we hit the hangar. Our automatic fuel management system is now out the porthole until the right drop tank and outboards are dry. That’s why we have so much rudder trim in—the right wing is twenty-one tons heavier than the left.”
“Sixty thousand pounds short,” Elliott muttered. “Two hours’ fuel. Well, what’s the good news?”
“I’ve been looking at the aeronautical charts on board,” McLanahan began. “There are some civil aviation airways from Alaska to Japan that cross very close to the Kamchatka peninsula.”
“Sure,” Elliott said, as Ormack pulled out his copy of the high-altitude navigation chart from his publications bin. “The Russians can’t completely close off their airspace, even their air defense identification zone. But we’d need a flight plan to enter that airway. If we just appear out of nowhere we’ll get intercepted for sure.”
“But they won’t see us,” Wendy Tork said.
Ormack asked, “How can they miss us? That airway is only …” he measured the distance with a pencil about a hundred and twenty miles from their radar.”
“Well, Seattle Center couldn’t see us at that same distance. Remember, they only had a secondary beacon target on us, on our transponder. And I’d guess that Seattle’s radar is better than a Siberian one. Our fibersteel skin has already proved itself—Los Angeles Center couldn’t see us after we launched out of Dreamland, and we were right in the middle of their airspace.”
“But we’ve somehow got to jump into their coastline,” Ormack said. “How do we do that?”
“Dave and I have been doing some wagging on the computer down here,” McLanahan said, “and here’s what we’ve come up with … there’s an island off the east coast of the Kamchatka peninsula, midway between Kavaznya to the north and the sub pens at Petropavlovsk to the south. It’s pretty big and has an airfield—if I’m not mistaken they’ve got sub communications gear there.”
“Beringa,” Dave said, pointing to his high-altitude map. “They’ve got a circle around it that looks like surveillance radar only. No high-altitude coverage.” He went back to his work on the computer terminal.
“Beringa Island,” McLanahan took it up, “is right in a gap in high-altitude radar coverage between Ossora Airfield near Kavaznya and Petropavlovsk. It’s also only a few miles off the high-altitude airway between Anchorage and Japan. We can head toward that gap, cut just to the south of surveillance radar coverage at Beringa, and still be at high altitude all the way. Once we get inside high-altitude radar coverage, we’ll only be about seventeen minutes from the coast. We duck under high-altitude radar and then get into the mountains along the spine of the Kamchatka peninsula. If we stay away from Beringa radar, the lowest we’ll have to go is about five thousand feet until we get into Kavaznya low-altitude surveillance radar coverage.”
“Did you work out the fuel for a plan like that?” Elliott asked.
“Yes,” Luger told him, “and it’s close. We’d never make it back to Eielson, that’s for sure. We’d barely make it back across the Bering Strait, but we’d do it.” I hope, he added to himself.
Ormack looked at Elliott, who shrugged. “Looks like one of those ice-bound alternates will have to do,” he said.
“We do have another problem,” Luger said, checking the computer display again. “The computer doesn’t have elevation data for any of the Kamchatka peninsula except for about a hundred miles around Kavaznya. That means that most of the ride up the mountain ranges would be either at safe-clearance altitudes or manual terrain-avoidance. That’s a pretty wild ride even for our experienced crew. We’re good, but good enough for two hours of manual terrain-following? We have no detailed charts, no terrain elevations. We’d be relying on radar the whole way until the computer could start driving the boat.”
“Well,” Elliott said, “now I know why we brought two navigators along. Do you think you could have come up with all that so fast, John?”
Ormack shook his head. “Not with all the computers in Japan, General.”
“Well, we’ve got the gas, and now we’ve got a plan. Patrick, Dave, how long will it take you to reenter your new flight plan in the computer?”
In reply, the steering bug on the pilot’s Attitude-Directional Indicator swung around until it was pointing about twenty degrees left of their present heading. “Steering is good to intercept the airway,” Luger said. “The new flight plan is entered and active.”
“Are we clear of Attu airspace?” Elliott asked.
“Affirmative,” McLanahan said, checking his chart and the satellite navigator’s present position readout. “Attu is off our four o’clock, just over a hundred miles. We’re in international airspace.”
“Second-station computer control coming in,” Elliott said. He engaged the autopilot to the navigation computers, and the Old Dog banked left in response to the new turning signals. Soon the heading bug was centered at the top of the heading indicator case.
“We’ll be within high radar coverage of Ossora Airfield in about an hour,” Luger reported.
“Good,” Elliott said. He forced himself to relax and found that his grip on the yoke was that much tighter. “If there are any last-minute equipment checks to do, now’s the time to do them. If not, try to get some rest.”
Ormack looked across at the three-star general beside him, and they exchanged smiles.
“Well, at least try to relax,” Elliott corrected himself.
Luger checked the position and heading readouts and marked a fix point on his chart. “ ‘Relax,’ he says. Better said than done. Less than an hour from low level, about two hours to the target—a target in goddamned Russia—and he wants us to—”
He glanced over at McLanahan. His partner had his arms wrapped around his body, his head awkwardly lying back on the headrest of his ejection seat. His snoring could be clearly heard over the roar of the Old Dog’s eight turbofan engines.
“Amazing,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Absolutely fuckin’ amazing.”
“Ten minutes from horizon crossing,” Luger announced.
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 unbuckle 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 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 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 Kommandorskiye, 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,” McLanahan 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, “Ya 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.”
“Two-two-one, you are Soviet military plane?” Elliott asked.
“Yes!” came an enthusiastic reply. “Pay Vay Oh Strany. Far East Command.” Elliott translated to the crew, as he did all the Russian.
“PVO Strany,” Elliott said over interphone. “Air Defense unit. Could be a Bear or Backfire recon plane.”
“Or a fighter,” Angelina said.
“Gyda vi zhivyoti—excuse, pazhaloosta. Where you from, four-five Fox?” the Soviet pilot asked. “New York? Los Angeles? I know San Francisco.”
“Butte, Montana,” Elliott asked. Let him chew on that.
“Mon-tanya? My English not very good. They teach English but we do not use much. Difficult.”
A pause, then: “Four-five Fox, contact Kommandorskiye Approach on two-six-five decimal five. Immediately.” The new voice was clipped, military, authoritative.
“Da, tovarisch,” Elliott replied.
“I report … I report you on course okay, commander,” the Russian pilot said in a low, almost secretive voice. “You correcting back. Not okay to come closer. Okay, commander?”
“Balshoya spasiba, tovarisch,” Elliott replied. “Thank you.”
“Pazhaloosta. Nice to talk English to you, Montanya.”
“Two-six-five decimal five, roger,” Elliott repeated. Just before he changed channels he asked, “Atkooda vi? Where are you from, two-two-one?”
“Ya iz—er, I from Kevitz,” the Soviet pilot said with hometown pride. “Big fisherman. Nice to talk, Montanya. Dasfidaniva, mnyabileochin priyatna!”
Ormack shook his head as he changed the radio frequency. “Nice son of a bitch, wasn’t he?”
“Kevitz,” Elliott said. “That’s what Kavaznya was known as before they built the laser there.”
“He gave us a break,” Luger said. “I’ll bet he plotted our position. He must’ve noticed us because we were so far outside the airway.”
“He’s not scanning us on radar anymore,” Wendy reported. Elliott reset the frequency on the number one radio. “You’re not going to contact Kommandorskiye, are you General?” Ormack said.
