“US aircraft, we cannot comply. I am advised this safety perimeter has been agreed personally between the Presidents of Russia and the United States. I ask you to check with a senior officer, and to respect the safety perimeter.” Bondarev did not say ‘or else’, but suspected he did not have to.
There was an ominous silence on the Guard frequency as the two flights continued to converge at supersonic speeds. Bondarev’s infrared tracking system suddenly kicked in, picking up the incoming American aircraft before he could see them. They were two thousand feet below him, five miles away and rising to meet him head-on.
“Element 1, break left, Element 2, break right, Element 3, hold station, all Elements prepare for defensive maneuvers,” Bondarev ordered, and hauled his own three plane element into a sweeping and nonthreatening banking turn that presented their broadside profiles to the incoming Americans. Splitting the formation would force the enemy to do the same though, so it wasn’t a completely defensive move. Bondarev felt his gut tighten as he saw the US squadron split into two flights of three aircraft each, matching heading and speed with the Russian fighters, but staying behind them in a superior firing position.
Bondarev relaxed a little, or as much as was possible with an armed enemy on his tail.
“US flight commander, this is Colonel Ivan Smirnov of the Russian 3rd Air and Air Defense Forces Command,” Bondarev lied. “I ask again for you to stay with us here, outside the agreed perimeter of rescue operations. You can see I am taking pains to convince you we are not interested in a hostile engagement.”
“Is that right Ivan?” came the drawl of the American behind him. “Then you wouldn’t mind ordering the three plane flight you have low on our six to break away, would you?”
Bondarev chuckled; so the Americans could see his fighters down low and they didn’t like it. Well, let them stay worried about that. “I will happily do so when you confirm that US aircraft will respect the no-fly zone agreed between our two Presidents for the duration of this rescue operation.”
There were several minutes silence again. Bondarev pulled his element around slowly in a wide racetrack circle, the US aircraft trailing behind him, staying in a firing position. All it would take was an American with a twitchy trigger finger and he would get a missile up his backside. He checked his fuel state. He could keep this up for another thirty minutes, by which time his second in command leading Eagle flight, a further six Su-57s, should arrive to replace him on station over Saint Lawrence and he would have to withdraw to refuel. The arrival of new Russian aircraft was certain to make the Americans even more nervous.
“Swan 1 from Raptor Control, I am showing another 12 bogies headed for your operations area. Preliminary analysis indicates F-22s, probably Air National Guard. They will be within missile range in 15 minutes.”
Right then the US commander came back on the radio, “I have been authorized to advise, Colonel Smirnov, that we will temporarily accede to your request. You are currently at the limit of the authorized incursion area, please do not stray closer to US territorial airspace. We will be holding station here until you withdraw.” With that, the US fighter formation throttled back and settled a more comfortable distance behind Bondarev’s fighters — not so close as to provoke any hasty reactions, but still in a perfect firing position if their orders should change. Bondarev also noted they had not switched off their targeting radars.
The submarine ruse had worked, for now! “Acknowledged US aircraft commander,” Bondarev said. “Your cooperation is appreciated.” Bondarev smiled, ignoring the radar warning tone still chiming in his ears. They had the overconfident American pilots exactly where they wanted them.
While Yevgeny Bondarev was managing the first interception of the air war, Perri pulled himself from the freezing water at the opposite side of the bay and threw his rifle up onto the rocks. His fingers were numb and he struggled to get a grip on the stone. All the way across the bay he had expected to hear the crack of rifle fire and feel the thud of a bullet between his shoulder blades. Stroking fast, zigzagging in the water, he couldn’t see where the Russian soldiers who had been doubling down the runway toward Gambell had gone, but he hoped they had better things to do than chase him down. Finally he got his hands working and hauled himself over the sharp rocks to the cover of some old shipping containers that had been dumped there. Pulling open a rusting door, he crawled inside, stripping off his freezing wet clothes. Naked now, he unrolled the sealskin blanket from around his rifle and shook the worst of the water from it. The wrapping had done what it was supposed to — the rifle was dry. Perri turned the blanket inside out and wound it around himself. He let himself shiver inside the blanket, body heat returning to the surface of his skin. After several minutes he gathered up his wet clothes and rung them as dry as he could. August on Saint Lawrence, middle of the morning, it was only about 40–45 degrees out of the wind. He needed to get somewhere warm. Staying outside in the ever-present wind would mean he could be hit with hypothermia. Wincing, he dropped the blanket, pulled on his wet clothes, then wrapped the blanket around himself again. He began shaking uncontrollably and squatted, letting the tremors settle and pass. He had to keep moving!
When he felt able, he stood, took up his rifle and slung it over his shoulders. Peering out of the door of the container, he saw nothing unusual. Shouting? He thought he heard some shouting from the center of the village, about two miles away. He looked in the opposite direction. Across the harbor road and a few hundred yards up a slight hill was the town’s old abandoned gas station. When everyone had finally gone over to hydrogen fuel cells and renewables, the old gas station and its diesel generator were stripped bare and then forgotten.
It would do, for now.
Private Zubkhov wasn’t cold, but he wasn’t much happier than Perri. He knew his comrades were in the village, rousing the small local population out of their houses and into the big village school gymnasium. There were no police, there should be no fighting, he knew that. But that was his mission, not this… salvage duty. Behind him, the Russian military machine ground into action, fat-bellied helicopters disgorging the men and materials they would need to secure the airfield. He saw pallets of tents and food being unloaded beside crates of arms and ammunition. From one helicopter, troops in the green overalls of load crews were pulling out crated parts for an anti-aircraft missile system. Down the runway, Zubkhov saw two or three crews throwing down sandbags and preparing portable 9K333 Verba-C surface-to-air missiles, but despite their advanced multispectral optical seeker — ultraviolet, near infrared, and mid-infrared — he knew they would offer scant protection against stealth fighters or stealth cruise missiles until the air defense unit got a satellite dish up and networked the Verba into the data feed from longer range airborne radar and satellite surveillance. He heard shouting from the direction of one of the choppers as a crate threatened to tip and fall and men struggled beneath it. Forget that, he was in no hurry to help with the grunt work. He was Spetsnaz dammit.
He looked with professional interest at the wrecked ATV and wondered briefly exactly where he had hit it. He had aimed for the bulbous engine housing behind the man’s legs, and one of his two shots had apparently connected. He looked it over from the side he was standing on, and saw nothing. Then he walked around the ATV and saw with satisfaction the big black hole his bullet had made, leaking some sort of engine fluid. He pulled the machine back upright — no easy task, it felt like it weighed a ton — and did what his commanding officer had ordered him to do, checking the compartment under the seat for maps or papers.