“Acknowledged, Spruce leader.” His remaining wingman responded. “Orders please?” The man sounded on the edge of panic.
Bondarev didn’t even have time to reply before his missile threat warning sounded again and the stick was ripped from his hands as his machine desperately inverted and dived.
The first S-FAD/A loosed two more missiles in the direction of Bondarev and his wingman but they were now moving into the optimal kill zone for the second S-FAD so it handed them off and turned its attention to the next wave of incoming Russian fighters. It had claimed five kills with its first seven shots, had two SM-6/E missiles in flight and three left. Based on solid and unconfirmed returns combined with standard Russian flight doctrine it estimated at least 12 Russian aircraft in the approaching wave. It had a firm lock on only four, but that was more than it had missiles for anyway. It sent its remaining three SM-6/Es downrange then closing its cell doors, reeled in its targeting comms buoy, cut off all emissions and began a silent glide toward the bottom of the Bering Strait.
One, two… five! Bondarev quickly counted five missile icons, and within the blink of an eye they detonated. His wingman, Spruce 5, had broken high, managing only to attract both of the missiles launched at them, and his machine disappeared in a maelstrom of metal and fire. In horror, Bondarev listened as voices full of controlled terror filled the air and the icons of his follow-on wave began to wink out. Five missiles, four kills this time. The remaining nine Su-57s scattered wildly, looking for the source of the attack in vain.
Bondarev was down on the deck, back in control of his machine, still screaming toward Little Diomede but with nothing at which to aim his rage and anger than the loudly emitting F-47 still stationary next to the island and the vague vector he had to the jamming aircraft now high above him. He’d led his men into a trap and could see nothing for it but to call on them to disengage. He thumbed his comms.
“Spruce leader to all Spruce aircraft…” he called. His time had run out. With a sickening feeling of finality he heard a new missile launch tone, saw the icons of a dozen enemy missiles appear right in front of him, and closed his eyes.
Ignoring the virtual surrender of its pilot, the Sukhoi’s AI took control of the aircraft, rolled the machine hard to starboard, using thrust vectoring to put it at a radical angle of approach to the incoming missiles, punched flares and chaff and Bondarev felt his vision going red. An explosion, behind. Safe. A second, right below his damn feet!
His aircraft shuddered and began to wing over toward the sea. He grabbed the stick, disengaged the AI, tried to keep his machine level, felt it falling away to starboard underneath him. Tried to roll level to port, and it was like trying to roll a damn airliner upright, so he took a crazy risk, flick rolled to starboard instead. The Sukhoi responded normally to the stick for a starboard roll, and he stopped the roll as the aircraft came level. Warnings were flashing in his heads-up display and in his ears. He realized he was pulling back on the stick, but the nose was still dropping slightly. He had one engine dead, the other was still online but temps were redlining. He eased back on the throttle, pushed the stick forward. Engine fire! Extinguishers fired automatically and that warning went out, but he could hear his remaining engine slowly spinning down. heads-up display was down. Tac display was down. He could hear the comms of his remaining pilots, tried to order them to break off and RTB but got no response; he was deaf, blind and dumb, shooting over the sea still aimed at Little Diomede, not much more than 1,000 feet above the waves. If his Okhotniks began their ingress now, they would be decimated. His nose dipped as his engine began to spool down.
The Su-57 wasn’t a glider. But it wasn’t a brick either. He still had electrical power and the dynamic control surface modulation system did its best to optimize his wings for low-speed flight as he fought to keep some altitude, avoid a stall, avoid the fighter tipping over onto one wing and going into a death spiral. He desperately scanned the sky around him, checked his altitude. He was already down to 800!
He should punch out.
Up ahead he saw a broad channel of sea, coasts on each side, too far away, and straight in front, the twin islands of Big Diomede and Little Diomede. Big Diomede was Russian territory. Uninhabited, but Russian. Little Diomede was, he now knew for sure, an enemy base. An enemy base that had survived an attack with FAE munitions, hit and hurt Anadyr and Lavrentiya, and had now claimed at least eight of his own aircraft, probably significantly more thinking of that last volley of missiles. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw several parachutes. Drones did not need parachutes, they could only be his own men. Destroyed by what? Ground-based anti-air defenses on Little Diomede? It couldn’t be — they had hit the island with iron bombs, overflown it a hundred times in recent weeks without incident, scoured satellite and electronic intel data for any sign of anti-air defenses. Arsharvin had concluded its only defense was a solid cap of basalt.
As much as they were friends, it was an unforgivable mistake.
He was dropping toward Little Diomede from the east and could feel, without looking at his instruments, that he was not going to clear it. Choices flashed through his head like items on a menu. Steer a little to starboard, punch out over the water between the two islands, swim for Big Diomede and Russian territory. Or punch out either near or over little Diomede and wait on the enemy island until the Spetsnaz or a rescue unit arrived, assuming they could even get through. But he had no idea what the currents were like between the islands, could just imagine himself being caught and swept north or south into the open sea where he would die in minutes from the cold, despite his insulated flight suit. His nose dipped further… no way to get over Little Diomede now… it was decision time. He scanned the rocky shore ahead of him… could jump in or near the small wreckage strewn harbor at the base of that cliff there… worst case swim to the mast of one of the sunken ships, best case, make it to shore… but what if he jumped right in the middle of all that wreckage, or got blown past… once again he was wracked with indecision. Dedushka! Why can’t I think!?
What the hell? In the middle of the cliff face ahead of him he saw a small rectangular aperture, not much wider or higher than his aircraft. He wouldn’t even have noticed if he hadn’t been pointed straight at it, and even then might have missed it except that out of its black maw an American Fantom blasted into the air, and turning right in front of him, began a fast climbing turn to port.
A cold calm came over him. Suddenly his path was clear. He would aim his Sukhoi at the opening in the rock and fly his machine straight into it.
“This is Spruce Leader,” he called on his radio, just in case anyone could hear. “I have been hit, lost engine power, going down. Oak leader, get the job done, you are in command. Good luck Akinfeev. Bondarev out.”
“No response!” Rodriguez called out. She had the boot unit connected to the hull of the Fantom they had just dropped onto the catapult, and hit the command to initiate engine start-up, but got nothing, even the boot unit was showing a blank display. It was their last drone. They had managed to get seven up, this would be the eighth, and the last Cuda armed fighter if they could only boot it to life.