.
at lower altitudes the mountains would block out reports from coastal or partially terrain-obscured stations. All had reported negative contact…
Yuri had taken his Fulcrum nine hundred kilometers along the Korakskoje Mountains toward Trebleski and Beringovskiy, the main coastal air-defense base and radar installation north of Ossora. He was sure the B-52 would stay along the Korakskoje, hiding in the rugged mountain peaks, then destroy or jam the Beringovskiy radar and head out across the Gulf of Anadyr toward Alaska. With the powerful Beringovskiy radar down, the inferior MiG-23s of the Trebleski Air Reserve Forces, although very heavily armed, would not be able to spot the low-flying B-52 or engage it.
Papendreyov checked his fuel. He would already be in emergency fuel status if he had not taken along the largest external feel tank available, but now he was again very low on fuel. Only his long idle glide from high altitude left him with enough to make some decisions… Trebleski was the most obvious choice for a quick-turn refueling.
but Anadyr, a small limited-operations base, was available and within gliding range. He had been briefed, though, not to use Anadyr or other such warm-weather bases except in an emergency.
He had no choice-Trebleski it had to be. He switched his radios to Trebleski Command Post.requested permission for landing and a 'hot' refueling, a battlefield-quick refueling technique where a high-pressure tank truck pumped fuel while the aircraft engines were still running.
'Ossora one-seven-one. Trebleski copies your request.
Stand by.'
'Standing by,' Papendreyov replied. Then: 'Trebleski.
say latest reports on intruder aircraft.'
'One-seven-one.intruder last reported by Ossora radar bearing two-eight-two true, range twenty-one kilometers, heading three-four-one true.'
'That report is hours old, Control. Any other reports?Has Beringovskiy reported contact?'
'No reports by Beringovskiy radar, one-seven-one. You are cleared for approach to Trebleski Airfield, descend and maintain two thousand meters. Your request for hot refueling has been delayed. Expect cold refueling support in bunker seventeen on landing.'
'Control, I am a priority air-defense aircraft. Request k priority hot refueling.'
'Copy your request, one-seven-one,' the Trebleski controller replied.
'Priority request is being delayed by your headquarters. Stand by for confirmation of your flight-tasking.
Reset transponder to one-one-one-seven for positive identification.
Stand by this frequency' Papendreyov swore into his face mask. So that was the reason for the delay… by requesting priority refueling he'd forced Trebleski to run a check on his flight-tasking order-which, of course, Yuri didn't have. If he'd just accepted a normal bunker refueling he would have gotten a fast turnaround because of the air-defense emergency and Trebleski wouldn't have double-checked. Now Ossora would know exactly where he'd taken his fighter on its unauthorized chase.
No doubt they'd order him arrested after landing.
Yuri checked his chart, saw he was now actually closer to Anadyr than Trebleski. Anadyr would have fuel, might even be set up for a hot refueling. He could wait at Anadyr and monitor the interceptor frequency for any sign of the B-52, then chase it down and destroy it.
If the B-52 didn't show-but that was impossible-he could refuel, cruise back to Ossora and try to talk his way out of a court-martial or a firing squad.
He ignored the request to set a new identification code and pointed his MiG-29 Fulcrum toward Anadyr, switching radio frequencies to Anadyr's command post. He would be in radio range of the base in half an hour, and he would still have almost an hour's worth of fuel once over Anadyr…
ANADYR FAR EAST FIGHTER-INTERCEPTOR BASE, RUSSIA
Sergei Serbientlov was indulging in one of his few delights Chinese food. It wasn't exactly a popular dish in this remote corner of the Soviet Union but perhaps that was one of the reasons why he enjoyed cooking and eating Chinese food-it set him apart. Unfortunately it was that sort of anti — Sovie thinking-and eating-that got him stuck in Anadyr in the fir place, but everyone had to be somewhere.
Besides, it wasn't so bad. It wasn't a state of exile being here in the very northeastern tip of the Soviet Union; it was more like an unscheduled, involuntary reassignment. He had free housing, free food, vehicles at his disposal and a few hundred rubles extra every month being sent back to his family i Irkutsk.
Plus, he had responsibility and a lot of autonomy. During the preceding two months and for the next two, he had been an would be the chief custodian of a Far East Defense Force. Fighter-Interceptor Base.
It didn't matter that there were no fighters here-he was in charge of the base. He was the chief policeman, firefighters banker, lawyer, janitor and mayor of millions of rubles of equipment and buildings.
During the long dark winter months he was the richest and most powerful man in this province of fishermen, trappers, and loggers.
Sergei now deftly manipulated a hand-whittled pair of chopsticks to pick up a mass of noodles and fish. He had grow the seasonings and herbs himself in a greenhouse on the base and he frequently traded with the villagers and nearby fishermen for the fish and flour to make the noodles. They seemed to have everything, and Sergei was sure that the fishermen took their boats out into the wild Anadyrskij Zaliv across to Saint Lawrence Island or even Nome to trade with the Americans.
He passed his nose over the noodles and spiced fish. It was a strange concoction for breakfast, but his only other option was some four-month-old ryepa-turnips-from some old witch in town. No thank you.
He brought the savory, heavily spiced noodles to his lips and was about to take a bite when the double — doors leading to the outer hallway burst open and two figures rushed into the tiny office and half-stumbled, half-ran up to the chest-high counter that extended the length of the room.
The taller of the two was dragging his right leg, which was covered with blackened blood from toe to hip. He had an arm over the shoulder of his companion, who was wrapped in a coarse green blanket.
'Gdve poonkt skoray pomashchi!' the injured man screamed in thick monotone Russian. 'My leg!Where's the hospital?'
Sergei nearly dropped his noodles in his lap. 'What?'
'Where is the hospital?My leg-' 'There is no hospital. What happened to your leg?' Sergei came quickly from behind the long counter to the two men.
Except on closer inspection he found that the man in the blanket was a woman. She had long, salt-and- pepper gray hair and deep, dark eyes-she could have been Oriental herself, Sergei guessed, or Latin. Her lips chattered in the cold as she looked quickly at Sergei, then averted her eyes to her injured companion.
The man dragged himself over to a rough wooden bench in a far corner of the office and dropped onto it. He was tall and ruggedly built, perhaps an old military man. He looked frozen as well, and his skin was gray and sunken-probably from loss of blood, Sergei thought.
'Gyde polizei?' the man said. His accent was strange, obviously not from the local area, although very few locals were from this obscure corner of the world.
'Why do you want the police?' Sergei bent to examine the man's leg.
He couldn't see the wound itself but the blood loss was obviously great. 'There are no police here. The village constables won't come to the base. I will help you all I can, but only if you tell me-' — A@yet, spasiba. 'Suddenly Sergei was looking into the barrel of a very big, very ugly blue-black automatic pistol. As the muzzle touched his nose, Sergei slowly rose and backed away.
The woman threw off her blanket and helped the injured man to his feet.
Her clothing made Sergei forget about the pistol.
She was wearing a short, rough blue jacket-denim. She was wearing denim. And then Sergei noticed her blue jeans ant fancy leather boots.
blue jeans?' Sergei said, one of the few foreign phrases he knew.
