Sukhoi-33 fighters taxiing onto the aircraft carrier Vladimir Putin’s forward catapults, with two more behind the blast deflectors, getting ready to hook up to the catapults as well. It was the data being passed down from the space station. “Is that happening right now?”
“Now it’s starting to get interesting,” Boxer said, and suddenly she didn’t feel like cracking jokes anymore. “We’re getting your imagery, Armstrong,” she radioed.
“We’ll have that satellite feed for only about sixty seconds, Fracture, and after that our sensor coverage will be spotty for the next thirty minutes,” Gonzo said. “You really stirred them up. You might want to think about getting out of there. Your tanker is at your five o’clock, three hundred ninety miles in the refueling anchor.”
“Not quite yet, Armstrong,” Boxer said. “I think we somehow hurt their feelings-I want to see what they’re going to do about it.”
“X-band radar in high-PRF lock-on,” Frodo reported as he watched the intercept on his passive electromagnetic threat detector. The high-PRF, or pulse-rate frequency, meant that the Sukhoi-33’s radar was solidly locked onto the Vampire. “Passing off to the left. Why are they locking us up, Boxer?”
“Fracture, first formation will be passing below and to your left…now.” Boxer didn’t see anything. The threat detectors depicted the two Russian carrier jets streak past them, and moments later they felt two sharp burbles as the twin supersonic shock waves passed.
“Christ, that was close,” Frodo breathed.
“Fracture, second formation is closing at six hundred knots, two hundred miles,” Gonzo reported. “Third formation is on the catapults. We’re losing full-time coverage.”
“Copy, Armstrong,” Boxer said. “Frodo, let’s set the LADAR to intermittent.”
“LADAR radiating,” Frodo said, trying to keep his voice steady. In “Intermittent” mode, the Vampire’s laser radar would broadcast for a second or two every ten to fifteen seconds to get a better picture of the intercept, but avoid being tracked by the Russians in case they had laser detectors. The supercockpit display clearly showed all the players now, even tracking the fighters behind the Vampire and identifying the aircraft on the Putin’s deck getting ready to launch and the rescue helicopters hovering beside the carrier in case of an emergency.
“We’ve got a real furball forming here now,” Boxer commented. “These guys are serious.”
“Admiral, it is an American B-1 bomber,” the captain of the Putin said on the direct line to the flag bridge. “They are on the fleet reserve frequency and are transmitting air-traffic codes as directed by our controllers, as agreed in the Memorandum of Understanding.”
“I do not want an American bomber anywhere near this task force, Captain!” the admiral shouted. “Get him away from here!”
“But, sir, are they not permitted free navigation over international waters? How can we-”
“I told you, Captain, I do not want that plane anywhere near this task force,” the admiral said. “They might decide to shoot a cruise missile in our direction, like the damned Chinese did to the Americans. Get it away from here, now!”
“We’re approaching two hundred miles to the carrier, Boxer,” Frodo said, “and one-ninety to the first escort. We-”
And at that moment they heard, “Caution, caution, target tracking mode, Sukhoi-33, five o’clock, nineteen miles.”
“Do you want countermeasures?” Frodo asked excitedly.
“Not yet,” Boxer said after just a moment’s consideration. “Let ’em come in. Standard play is one on each side so they can take pictures of each other with the big bad American bomber. These guys will be low on gas anyway- they’ll get their hero shot, then leave and let the second and third formations take over.”
A few minutes later, that’s exactly what happened: The first pair of bright blue Sukhoi-33 fighters moved in, one on each side of the bomber, about a hundred feet away. Boxer and Frodo didn’t see any cameras.
“American bomber aircraft, this is the Russian Southern Fleet aircraft carrier Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin on fleet reserve channel,” a new voice announced. “You are three hundred kilometers from this task force. Combat aircraft are not permitted to approach this group. Alter course immediately and stay at least two hundred kilometers away or you may be fired upon without warning.”
“Second formation of fighters are fifty miles away, slowing,” Frodo said. Suddenly they heard another warning tone. “Fighter locked onto us!”
“Carrier Putin, this is Fracture Two-One,” Boxer radioed. “Do not lock your fire control radars on us. Flying near your ships is not a hostile action, but locking missile radars on us is!”
“This is your last warning, American bomber aircraft,” the controller radioed. “Do not approach! We will take immediate action.”
“What do we do, Boxer?” Frodo asked. “Do these guys want to take a shot at us?”
“This is bull,” Boxer said. “I thought this was just a photo op and nice peaceful flyby.”
The second formation of Sukhoi-33 fighters approached, one on either side, much slower than the first formation, close enough to see fuselage lights winking on and off…
…until Boxer and Frodo heard the fast-paced drumming on the cockpit canopy and realized that they weren’t lights, but cannons opening fire on them! The shells missed, but they came so close that Boxer and Frodo could feel their shock waves on the fuselage. “Holy shit!” Frodo shouted. “They’re shooting at us! Let’s get out of here!”
“You bastards want to play-let’s play,” Boxer shouted. “Get ready to go low, Frodo. Kill the freq and the transponder, get us into ‘COMBAT’ mode.” She hit a button on her control stick and spoke: “Terrain-follow, clearance plane two hundred, hard ride.”
“Terrain-follow, clearance plane two hundred, hard ride,” the flight control computer responded. Boxer watched the computer’s automatic control inputs on her supercockpit display as it readjusted settings for an overwater letdown, then spoke: “Stand by for descent, now.” The EB-1C Vampire pitched over and started a twenty- thousand-foot-per-minute descent, rapid enough for bits of loose dirt to float to the top of the cockpit. Normally the bomber would automatically sweep the wings back to their maximum sixty-seven degree setting in the high-speed descent, but the Vampire’s wings were permanently set to the full swept-wing position-lift and drag were controlled by mission-adaptive technology, where thousands of tiny actuators on the bomber’s fuselage controlled the shape of the plane, so every square inch of the surface could be a lift or drag device.
“Fighters are staying high, twelve o’clock, twenty miles…no, here they come, one is heading down,” Frodo reported. “Still locked on. ‘COMBAT’ mode engaged, full countermeasures active.”
“C’mon down here, boys,” Boxer said. In less than two minutes, the Vampire bomber leveled off at two hundred feet above the Gulf of Aden. Boxer watched the computer perform a self-test of the flight control system, then checked the electrical, hydraulic, and pneumatic subsystems herself.
“American B-1 bomber, this is the carrier Putin on GUARD channel, you are flying at an extreme low altitude and are heading directly for the Russian task-force ships,” the Russian controller radioed. “This is considered a hostile action. You appear to be on an antiship cruise-missile attack. Alter or reverse course immediately. This is your final warning.”
“You ain’t seen nuthin’ yet, Comrade,” Boxer said, pushing the throttles up until they were flying at six hundred nautical miles an hour.
“One hundred miles to the first escort,” Frodo said. “Search and height-finders from the ships, and fast-PRF search from the fighters, not locked on. The third formation is supersonic, heading this way fast.”
“Armstrong has you again, Fracture,” Gonzo reported. “Now I know what a game of ‘chicken’ looks like.”
“They screwed with the wrong broad, Armstrong,” Boxer said.
“We’ve got the bandit on your six, ten thousand above you, closing to twenty miles,” Gonzo said. “His wingman is descending slower. The third formation is maneuvering, looks like they’re staying high for now. We’ve reported to Central Command.”
“Thanks, Armstrong,” Boxer radioed back.
“First escort is fifty miles,” Frodo said. “Udaloy-1-class destroyer. He’s got search radar…now searching with a height-finder, not locked on.
“Coming up on thirty…hey, the fighters are peeling off!” Frodo said. “They’re all climbing.”
“Can’t stand the heat, eh, boys?” Boxer said. “Too bad. It’s fun down here.” She peeked at Frodo and saw his eyes as big as saucers behind his clear visor. “How’s it going, Frodo?”
