Japan has developed its own nuclear arsenal. Should Russia attempt to launch a first strike upon Japan, the Japanese government will, with profound regret, order a massive retaliatory strike upon Russia.”
It was late in the day in Moscow when Kalugin received the Japanese answer from Danilov. He read the reply carefully, then handed the paper back without a word.
12
By working throughout the long evening and short night, the officers and enlisted men of Major Chernov’s squadron at the Zeya Air Base got six planes into flyable condition. The planes were ready a half hour before the true dawn. Chernov had the best one armed with cannon shells and four AA-10 missiles. Chernov had ordered five of his pilots, the five most senior, to fly to Chita, five hundred nautical miles west, well beyond range of the Zeros. Now he slapped them on the back, watched them strap in, start engines, and taxi. They took off one by one, white-hot exhausts accelerating faster and faster and faster. The roar of their engines filled the night with a deep, rolling thunder. The fighters kept their exterior lights off and did not bother to rendezvous. They retracted their wheels as they came out of burner and turned west. Still, it was several minutes before the roar of the last plane had faded. Yan Chernov stood beside the sixth plane and listened until even the background moan was gone and all he could hear were the insects chirping and singing, as they had done on this steppe every summer since the world was young. The senior warrant officer came over. They shook hands. “Roll the trucks now,” Chernov said. “Get the men to Chita, if possible. If not, go as far west as you can. The Japanese may attack at dawn, hoping to catch us sleeping.” He glanced at his watch. The night at these latitudes was only two hours long. “Do you really think so, Major?”
“There is a chance they’ll strike as soon as there is light enough.”
“Why today?”
“I hurt them yesterday. They should have hit us days ago. Now they will.”
“I suppose.”
Chernov shrugged. “This morning or soon.”
“I’ve already sent the other trucks on. I’ll wait and go with your linesmen.”
Chernov held out his hand. The warrant office took it. The major smoked the last of his cigarettes as he eyed the northeastern sky, waiting for the first glow of dawn. He had been rationing himself, to make the cigarettes last. When these were gone…, well, without money … The night was not really dark. At this latitude summer night could accurately be described as a deep twilight. He could see stars, so the sky was clear and visibility good. Chernov had grown up in a village dozens of miles from the nearest town, far from urban light pollution, so stars were old friends. He had finished his last cigarette and was strolling around the airplane, touching it, caressing it, trying to stay calm and focused, when the stars in the east began to fade. He climbed to the cockpit and the senior linesman helped him strap in. “Take care of yourself, sir.”
“Peace and friendship, Sergeant,” the pilot said, repeating the traditional phrase. He sat alone in the cockpit, watching the sky turn pale. He had no fuel to waste, yet if he delayed his takeoff too long, the Japanese would catch him on the ground. If they came. He could wait no longer. He gave the signal to the linesman. Seven minutes later, sitting on the end of the runway, he ran through his takeoff checklist. Everything looked good. The radio didn’t work, so he didn’t turn it on. The ECM gear did work. He watched the telltale lights intently, listened with the volume turned up to maximum. And he saw and heard nothing. Maybe the Japanese weren’t coming. Maybe he would be shot for cowardice in the face of the enemy. Be shot by that officious desk general who had called yesterday wanting the brigadier. A sick joke, that. The stars were going fast. Yan Chernov released the brakes and smoothly shoved the throttles forward to the stops. Pressures good, fuel flow fine, rpm and tailpipe temperatures coming up nicely … Now he lit the burners. The white light of the afterburners split the darkness like newborn stars. The acceleration pushed him back into the seat. Despite the fact the Sukhoi-27 was a big plane, weighing about 44,000 pounds this morning, it accelerated quickly. Soon the trim lifted the nose-wheel off the pavement. He steadied her there, flew her off. Gear up, then out of burner as soon as possible. When everything was up and in, he turned to the southwest. The most probable direction for an approach by enemy attackers was southeast. If he could make another side attack before they spotted him, he might be able to … He leveled at ten thousand feet and let the speed build to.8 Mach. At this low altitude, fuel flow was high. Nervous, he glanced again at his watch. He had been airborne for six minutes. After ten minutes of flight, he began a long, slow 180-degree turn. His head was on a swivel, searching the early-morning sky in every direction, especially to the south and east. He was tempted to tap his radar for one sweep, just to see, but he decided it was too dangerous. The sky to the northeast was a pale blue. Visibility excellent, easily fifty miles. It’s just that small airplanes more than a few miles away arc exceedingly difficult to see in the great va/s of the sky, he thought. And this early, with the earth below still dark, the task was almost impossible— unless the planes were in that northeast quadrant, silhouetted against the growing light. He tried to resist the temptation to stare toward the northeast. They would probably approach the base from the southwest, from the darkness!
He searched futilely in all directions. Nothing. Maybe the Japanese aren’t coming. What a fucked-up war! It’s every man for himself, comrades. We have fucked up our country so badly that we have nothing to sustain our soldiers with. It’s poor, polluted, filled with starving people and radioactive waste. Chernov did a 360-degree circle, then another one. He was sweating. Well, this idea was stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He should have gone with the others to Chita, talked to the people at headquarters from a telephone there, set up a liaison with a tanker squadron. Su-27’s should be operated from a secure, well-defended base, one properly supplied with fuel and ordnance and spare parts, one beyond the range of the Japanese. Then, with the help of airborne tankers, the fighters could be launched on combat missions against the enemy here at Zeya or even at Khabarovsk. Why dawn? Why did he think they would come at dawn?
He admitted to himself that he didn’t know the answer to that question. He just sensed it. A dawn attack seemed to fit. He glanced at his fuel gauge. Then his watch. Keep the eyes moving, look at that sky, look for the tiniest speck that isn’t supposed to be there. His ECM chirped. Just a chirp and a flash of light. He eyed the panel, waiting for the light to flash again, waiting for a strobe to indicate direction. Nothing. He looked outside. He couldn’t maintain a watch on the damned panel. Maybe a Japanese pilot had given in to the temptation that Chernov had resisted— maybe he had tickled his radar, let it sweep once, just to verify that…, to verify … Three tiny specks, way out there, against the blue of the dawn. The sun was just ready to pop over the earth’s rim, and above the growing light in the sky he could see moving black specks. Three. No, four. Five. Six. Moving to the west. They would pass well north of Chernov’s position. S. Six. Damn! Why did there have to be so many?
He turned to the southwest. If he came out of the darkest part of the sky while they were working over the base, he would be difficult to acquire visually. They would turn their radars on as soon as they suspected he was around. Still, if he got first shot … Yah Chernov eased the throttles forward, right against the stops. He wasn’t ready for afterburner yet. Full power without the burners gave him.95 Mach. Now the ECM panel lit up. The Zeros were looking for planes over Zeya. He eased the nose into a descent, let the plane accelerate, retrimming constantly. Mach 1, now 1.1, now 1.2. Still at full military power. He made the turn to go back toward the base, checked the handheld GPS. Master armament switch on. Four missiles selected, lights red. They were armed and ready. Each squeeze of the trigger on the stick would fire one. He leveled at five hundred feet, just above the earth. Down to Mach 1.1, decelerating because the engines could not hold him supersonic without the thrust of the afterburners. If only he had a modern plane, like an F-22. Or even a Zero.
Fifteen miles. Fourteen. Thirteen — a nautical mile every six seconds. He glanced again at the ECM panel. All ahead, nothing behind. Nothing behind that was radiating. He took a ragged breath, tried to calm himself. His heart felt like a trip-hammer in his chest. Ten miles. Nine. Eight … At seven miles he pulled the nose up five degrees and squeezed off an AA-10 missile. Then a second, third, and fourth, as fast as he could pull the trigger. These fire- and-forget missiles had active radar homing. With luck, two or three of them would find targets. He opened the afterburners full. The acceleration pushed him back into his seat. His fingers flicked the switches to select “Gun” on the armament panel. The Japanese must have picked up the radar emissions of the inbound missiles. Now he flipped the switch that caused his radar to transmit. The scope blossomed. He was still looking outside, through the gunsight, when he saw the first flash — a missile hit. Now another. And a third. The fourth missile must have missed. Yan Chernov glanced at the radar scope, quickly turned one of the knobs to adjust the gain. A plane on the
