dropped a bomb on just about the most important piece of land in the Soviet Union next to Red Square itself.
There… at the very bottom of his radar… j before another wave of interference flooded his scope, a cr with a circle around it appeared, then disappeared. Hos radar emissions. The B-52's own radar, the one that obviously was used to steer whatever weapon they had launched against him, had given them away.
He rolled further left on an intercept course. Switching attack radar to STANDBY to avoid giving himself awaywas useless, anyway, with the heavy jamming-he maneuvered to parallel the B-52's course. The radar emission from the B-52 was sporadic-they were looking for him, he was sure, but being careful not to transmit too long. Not careful enough, though. They transmitted on their radar long enou for him to compute their track.
He set the infrared search-and-track seeker to maximum depression and waited for the supercooled eye of the seeker to find the B-52-there was, he knew, the possibility of the seeker locking onto a warm building with the angle so low, but eight jet engines should be brighter than anything else in the sky or on the ground right now. He was already at the minimum safe altitude for the sector he was in, and without solid visual contact on the terrain, descending any lower would be suicide.
He increased throttle to ninety-five percent and waited. Soon, he was sure, the range would decrease to the point where the seeker would lock-on, and then he'd stay high and pick off the intruder…
When a few minutes later the infrared seeker locked onto a hot target there was no mistaking the size or intensity of the target. The infrared seeker had a longer range than the AA-6 missile, so, he realized, he would need to close in on the B-52 a bit more.
Yuri thought about using the attack radar once more to get a range-only estimate on the B-52, but that would give him away. If he was in range of a surveillance-radar site they could give him a range to the B-52, but for some reason he couldn't hear the station at Korf or Ossora.
Probably too low, too close to the mountains… if he couldn't hear them on the radio they surely couldn't see him on radar.
Yuri's track had been fairly constant for the last few moments, meaning that the B-52 was making no evasive maneuvers. He relaxed his grip on his control stick and throttles… maybe they didn't know he was behind them.
The B-52's tail radar hadn't been activated for several minutes.
He had to launch before they spotted him on that tail radar Suddenly he felt it-a slight shudder through the titanium body of his Fulcrum fighter. He scanned his engine instruments for a malfunction, but already suspected the cause-wake turbulence from the B-52's engines, he was closing quickly. He stared as hard as he could out the canopy of his Fulcrum but couldn't see it.
But that too was unnecessary A moment later a green light spewed on his weapon-control panel… his selected AA-6 heat-seeking missiles were tracking the target.
TMIA He released the safeties on the launch button on his control stick and A scratchy, faded message blared on both of his command radios.
'For all Ossora and Korf units, code yellow. Repe, code yellow.
Acknowledge immediately and comply.
His fingers didn't move from the missile launch button, but neither did it squeeze. A general forces recall…
'All Ossora units, code yellow. Acknowledge and comply.
He tried to force himself to make a decision. He had the B-52 in his sights, but if he transmitted on his radio, so close to the B-52, they might hear or detect his transmission and evade or reattack. The Korf interceptor units had all responded immediately to the recall instructions. All of the Ossora units had probably responded as well-all but him. His career was probably already in jeopardy. A young pilot commanding a long-range fighter, capable of reaching Japan or Alaska, who didn't respond immediately to recall instructions could easily end up attacking vegetables in a warehouse in some isolated Siberian base. Or worse.
'Vawl. 'Papendreyov swore aloud, maintained track on the target, activated his command radio and said, 'Element seven acknowledges.
Triangulate position immediately. Stand by. Closing on intruder.'
'Element seven, comply immediately with instructions, came the voice once again. His number had been called in time-he was indeed the last one to rejoin at the navigation beacon over Ossora. His ticket to Ust- Melechenskiy three hundred miles north of the Arctic Circle was probably already being processed…
Fat harebrained dogs, Yuri let loose, this time to himself. Enraged, he pressed the missile-launch button and began a climbing left turn toward Ossora… before realizing that the green I.R TRACK light had long extinguished. The two hundred thousand ruble missiles vanished into the darkness. Yuri proceeded to curse all his superiors, the flight commander, the ground controllers, the command post officers at everyone else he could think of on his way back to the rendezvous point. He wasn't worried about that icy base Siberia-he was worried about exactly how he'd wring the neck of the first person unlucky enough to get in his way General Elliott and Lieutenant Colonel Ormack, acting unison, forced the Old Dog lower and lower into the mountains.
The terrain-following computer was already set COLA, the lowest setting possible in the automatic mode, but with the threat of a Soviet fighter on their tail, even a hundred feet above the ground was like ten thousand. There were constant warning beeps as the automatic-climb commands were overridden by the two pilots, and the bomber's radar altimeter, measuring the exact distance between the bomber's belly and the ground, occasionally entered the double-digit area.
Dave Luger's one good eye, and both of Patrick McLanahan's, were on the ground-mapping display of McLanahan's ten-inch scope. The two navigators carefully called out even the smallest peaks and ridges that could pose a threat. Elliott and Ormack reacted in sync-one man forcing the bomber lower, the other scanning the instruments and nudging it higher in response to the warnings from the terrain-following computer and what he heard over the interphone.
'He was so close,' Wendy said, 'his radio signal was so strong I swear I heard him over interphone. 'She swallowed, studying her video displays. 'His signal is decreasing… I think he's leaving 'My scope's clear,' Angelina reported, shivering for a moment, 'I saw him for a second, but he's gone.'
Elliott relaxed his grip on the yoke and let the terrainfollowing computer control the Old Dog again. 'Well, that was close. I saw the missiles hit out there… they were so damned close, and we didn't even know he was out there. We didn't even know Ossom AIRFIELD Yuri Papendreyov stood at attention before his squadron-leader's desk in the PVO Strany Interceptor Squadron reads room at Ossora Airfield.
The squadron leader, a thin, age naval commander named Vasholtov, still on active duty from the Great Patriotic War, paced behind his desk.
Not a word had been spoken yet, even though Papendreyov had been standin at attention for two minutes.
He had to chew this young Papendreyov cub out a few minutes longer, the squadron leader thought to himself-although that didn't always mean a verbal tirade. The squadron-and his superiors-expected a good five to ten minutes of closed-door time, perhaps a slammed door, a curse or two then an administrative reprimand. It would go no farther that the squadron records-good pilots who didn't drink on the job were hard to find in the cold, barren Kamchatka-and the reprimand would disappear after a month or two. How he hated these chewing-out sessions. But it had to be done to maintai the discipline and integrity of his unit.
'You have disappointed your entire squadron, Papendrey ov,' the old squadron leader finally said, glancing at the youn- Fulcrum pilot.
'Failure immediately to acknowledge a recal instruction is almost as serious as treason. Or desertion. 'The youngster didn't blink.
Didn't move a muscle-most youn- pilots would be melting at the mention of the word 'treason.'
Vasholtov studied the youngster for a moment. Papendreyov could have been from Berlin or even further west-Copenhagen or Britain. He was of average height but broad shouldered with close-shaved blond curls and narrow blue eyes gazed straight ahead. His boots were polished to a high gloss, every zipper was closed and every patch on his flight suit was perfectly aligned. Five years from now this young pilot would probably be a flight commander… The new breed, Vasholtov thought, but just now this 'new breed' needed a tongue-lashing. Vasholtov knew how fast unrest, boredom, lack of discipline and insubordination grew in a unit where the men, especially the young ones, thought the commander didn't care. Might as well get it over with…
'I suppose you will now tell me that your radio was malfunctioning.
