The MiG sliced through the cold air like a scalpel through skin. The cold air was dense, and provided more lift, virtually vaulting her into the air.
His orders had been explicit. Once they were clear of the Armenian airfield, there would be no further contact from any of the air controllers. The forces on the ground were simply told that he was a military aircraft on independent operations.
“So far, so good,” Greene said over ICS. “Now, as long as the Armenian’s intelligence is good, we’re okay.”
The photographs Russo had showed them were obviously taken from a satellite. The resolution was grainy and the details less distinct than Tombstone expected from American satellite shots. At first, he was inclined to chalk that off to inferior technology, and then he caught himself. Would Americans show the very best satellite shots to a foreign national? No. Tombstone knew better than that from countless Allied and NATO briefings. Even the closest allies were shown products that did not reveal the full capabilities of the system. Why would foreign nations do anything else?
So, Tombstone had fished delicately for details, asking questions about the better photographs. Russo had answered each question with more detail. Perhaps it was ground intelligence, but Tombstone doubted it. The Russian fighter-jock priest knew more than he was telling. And, had their situations been reversed, Tombstone would have done exactly the same thing.
“A little late to be worrying about the intell, isn’t it?” Tombstone asked.
“Better late than never,” Greene grumbled.
And what was it with his young pilot? For the last twenty-four hours he’d been in a surly mood. Not openly disrespectful or contentious, but Tombstone could tell he had something on his mind. A less than successful encounter with one of the Armenia women he’d been introduced to? Or maybe a touch of the flu — maybe even doubts about his mission. Well, whatever it was, he better not let it affect his performance in the backseat.
Warrant Officer Joseph Starskii had never intended to be a rebel. Most certainly, he had not intended to be part of a losing rebel force trapped in a makeshift camp, working on radar that had been modern during Stalin’s days, and under the command of officers and senior warrant officers far more brutal than those he’d known in the Russian Naval Air Service. He most certainly had never planned on military field rations as his primary subsistence.
Starskii had been comfortably retired from the service for three years and living in his native Chechnya. Sure, there were food and fuel shortages, but he had a hard time imagining any part of the world where that wasn’t so. He had a small garden, a few chickens, and, while it was hardly a luxurious or even dependable life, there were no inspections, no officers, and nobody shooting at him.
All that had changed during the first Chechen rebellion. Momentarily caught up in the furor of patriotism sweeping across the area, he had reported as ordered to the rebel commander. Once they’d found out that he could not only operate a radar but repair one as well, his fate had been sealed.
The rebel forces had spent the last five days on full alert, and the strain was starting to show. Tempers flared, careless accidents happened, and conditions were made no easier by cold military rations as their only food, and by rudimentary sanitary facilities. They smelled of too many men too long unshowered and the stench filled their operations center, although you didn’t notice after the first thirty minutes. But the initial shock of it during the moments you first walked inside was enough to stun you. It made concentrating on briefings difficult.
Even knowing they might be attacked at any moment did little to increase the state of alertness. There was only so long you could run on adrenaline, only so long, and they’d passed that point weeks ago. Now, it was a matter of conserving resources, waiting for the moment you had to act or die.
Starskii checked the contact on the screen, noting that it was radiating the appropriate IFF signal for a civilian airliner, Aeroflot, and their location matched flight plans already on file. They were the same flights he’d seen on the last two watches, and there was nothing out of the ordinary.
Suddenly, from the front of the room, he heard raised voices. Both were readily recognizable. One was his immediate supervisor, the watch officer, and the other was their operational commander. Comrade General Korsov.
The watch officer wasn’t a bad guy. They’d shared a few drinks off duty and had cautiously felt each other out on their respective views on the Chechen forces and prospects. Under different circumstances, they would have been close friends.
Korsov, however, was another matter altogether. The few times Starskii had encountered him, it had had the unexpected result of refiring his passion for the Chechen cause. Korsov represented everything bad Starskii had ever seen in the Russian Naval Air Force.
“I don’t care who told you, it was still a violation of operational security,” Korsov shouted. “If we are so sloppy with planning, how will we be during the execution?”
Starskii’s supervisor’s voice was at first placating, then defensive. “How can you expect us to do our jobs if we don’t have adequate information? If we’re not notified when you expect to launch, we would assume that you were hostile air.”
“You would have provided confirmation of my flight’s identity,” the Russian shouted. “And now, you fool, you have compromised the entire evolution.”
“I have compromised? Sir, I was simply told that your aircraft would be departing this evening.”
“And who did
Starskii ducked down behind his consul, hoping to avoid notice. Yes, he had been one of the ones told, since his sector of airspace would be involved. A sensible precaution, and he’d thought no more of it.
Within moments, Korsov loomed over him. “And you — what do you know about the flight plans for this evening?”
Reflexive self-preservation immediately took over. “Nothing, sir. The only thing scheduled is an Aeroflot flight or two, but they are all well north of us.” Starskii stared into the Russian’s eyes, frightened to his very soul. Korsov had dark, penetrating eyes that seemed to peer into his brain. Korsov knew he was lying — Starskii was certain of it.
To his surprise and relief, the general grunted and turned away. He turned back to the Starskii’s supervisor. “Who, then?”
To Starskii’s relief, the supervisor immediately took his cue. “No one, sir. They would have been told at the appropriate time.”
A long silence followed.
Had Starskii not been so involved in trying to watch the argument without being detected, he might have noticed a small air contact wink into being at the very eastern edge of his area. He might have seen it grow two or three pixels stronger for just a moment then fade away. He might have wondered what caused it.
But he never, ever, would have interrupted the argument taking place to report it.
The gentle warble of the MiG’s ECM detection gear was markedly different from that of a Tomcat. Tombstone heard Greene swear softly as he fumbled with unfamiliar dials. The frequency of the detection was displayed on the edge of Tombstone’s HUD.
“Standard ground search radar,” Greene said finally. Tombstone had already figured that out from the parameters.
“They got us yet?”
“I don’t think so. It looks like it’s just in general search mode. The thing is, Tombstone, they didn’t brief us on any ground station search radar. And if they didn’t tell us about that, what else didn’t they tell us about?”
“Like what?”
“Like ground-to-air missiles, maybe.”
Tombstone held his temper. There was no point in bitching about it, and it wasn’t unreasonable to be detected by radar. It was probably just a small airfield, maybe just a tower, that handled cross-continent flights. “We’ll deal with what’s there, Jeremy. Is it in targeting mode?”
