The system was running perfectly, Pavlo Tychina thought. The AN/AQQ-901 electronic interface pod, mounted on his left fuselage pylon, had taken several GPS satellite updates in the past few minutes and had made its final position update. The Doppler radar velocities compared favorably — the system was tight.
Tychina did not need to refer to a checklist — the switches had been configured for him, the computers were in command. The unlock and weapon prearm codes had been entered in for him by Colonel Mace before takeoff — even though they were now allies, no American was going to allow foreign officers any access to classified codes and arming procedures. It was just as well. Pilots should be pilots, not locksmiths.
They had fought their way past the best of Russia’s defenses and sacrificed many good pilots and aircraft for this moment. The war had come full circle. Like the mythical Phoenix of his nickname, his life had begun in the radiation-fuel fires of L’vov Air Base, and it was about to end in those same nuclear fires again, this time over the capital city of his enemy. His eyes sought out the control indicator — and just as he focused on it, he saw the MISSILE POWER light begin to blink as the AGM-131 Short-Range Attack Missile he carried on his right fuselage pylon received its final navigation-data dump from the AQQ-901 pod, performed a complete self-test, sampled the air outside the Sukhoi-17 bomber, quickly tested its stubby control surfaces, decided it was ready to launch, then dropped clear of the fuselage.
Three seconds later, the missile’s first-stage motor ignited, and the missile leaped into the sky on a long tongue of flame.
The sight of that missile rising into the sky toward Domodedovo made him smile. To think that the Americans, not the Ukrainians, had originally planned to do this awful task! Americans simply had no inkling of what it was like to have their homeland invaded, their people killed by the thousands, their entire way of life ripped away from them far beyond their control. America would have been hated if it had accomplished this attack. Ukrayina was acting in self-defense — it had a moral and legal right to mount any soft of attack in order to defend its homeland.
Pavlo knew that his flight plan said to turn west and try to make it as close to the Belarus border as he could before flaming out — he didn’t have enough gas to make it out of Russia, let alone back to Ukrayina — but he kept the nose pointed toward the bright city lights of Moscow and even started a slight climb so he could get a better view. He knew he was supposed to put on his antiflashblindness goggles and close off the cockpit too, but that would be depriving him of the best seat in the house.
It was time to record his last will and testament, indulge in a few seconds of rhetoric — he had earned as much by successfully accomplishing this fearsome task. He set his primary radio to 243.0, the international emergency channel, keyed the mike, and said in Russian, “Good morning, Russia. This is Colonel of Air Defense Aviation Pavlo Grigor’evich Tychina of the Air Force of the Republic of Ukrayina. I am of sound mind and body, acting under orders of the President of the, Ukrainian Republic and the Parliament.
“I have just launched an RKV-500B missile at Domodedovo air-port, where I understand the butcher Vitaly Velichko is hiding. I wish him a swift journey to Hell.” He hoped that lying about the missile, calling it a Russian cruise missile rather than an American AGM-131, would leave no doubt in anyone’s mind that the attack was launched by Ukrayina, not America — at least he wanted to get full credit for this deed.
“This strike is in retaliation for my beloved fiancèe, Mikola Kor-neichuk, who was killed by a similar weapon fired by a Russian Tupo-lev-22 bomber several days ago in the attack against Ukrayina, and for the other nuclear bomb attacks against Ukrayina that left thousands dead or maimed. It is done on behalf of myself, my country, and the good people of the Republic of Turkey, who offered their hand in friendship. I hope this action stops the conflict between Russia and the NATO allies. If it does, I wish you all peace. If it does not, I will see you all in Hell very soon. I hope that—”
He could not finish his sentence because a blinding flash of pure white light obliterated every sound, every sense in his body. He felt no pain, heard no engine sounds. He missed the familiar rumble of the old Sukhoi-17 between his legs, but he knew he had done his task well.
Colonel Pavlo Tychina was twenty miles from Domodedovo airport, ground zero for the twenty-kiloton AGM-131 SRAM-B missile, when it descended and exploded at precisely five thousand feet above ground. The fireball was five miles in diameter, completely enveloping the airport and vaporizing everything it touched, including the entire twenty-story command post and senior leadership bunker set under forty feet of concrete under the airport, and throwing millions of tons of debris a hundred thousand feet in the air with the power of ten volcanoes.
Vitaly Velichko was reduced to superheated gas in a millionth of a second as he conferred with his military commanders, sitting around a table on the sixth floor of the bunker, drinking vodka and plotting the invasions of Romania, Turkey, Georgia, Kazakhstan, and Alaska by Russian troops.
Pavlo Tychina was not caught in the fireball, but the overpressure from the explosion swatted his Su-17 out of the sky like a tennis ball hit with an overhead smash. Only God could see the smile on his face as he crashed into the frozen Russian ground.
EPILOGUE
A nation which makes the
final sacrifice for life
and freedom does not get beaten.
Daren Mace lightly touched her arm: “Rebecca? Wake up.”
“Huh? What … Jesus!” She was sitting in the cockpit of her RF-111G Vampire bomber, her gloves and helmet on and the canopy closed — but somehow she had fallen asleep, and the airspeed had been allowed to drift almost to zero. It was still dark outside, but she could tell that they were right on the deck, lower than treetop level — the altimeter tape was reading only five hundred feet! She grabbed for the throttles, jamming them forward to military power—
“Easy, Rebecca,” Mace said, grabbing for her hands. “We’re on the ground. In Vilnius, Lithuania — remember? The crew chiefs are here to load us up.” Slightly embarrassed, Rebecca and Daren climbed out of the cockpit, where they had been sitting guard all night ready to launch again, and let the maintenance control team from Incirlik in to do their job.
The Vampires had been refueled as soon as they touched down at Vilnius International Airport, and a maintenance control team that had been sent the day of the attack had fixed the radar and patched the fuel leaks in Furness’ aircraft. Now, two hours after landing, a C-17 Globemaster III transport delivered external fuel tanks, Sidewinder missiles, starter cartridges, four AGM-88C HARM missiles, and two CBU-89 “Gator” mine dispersal weapons for each Vampire — a typical defense-suppression load — along with security guards, command post personnel, and a new strike routing, this time targeting armor divisions that might roll across the Russian frontier toward Lithuania. The weapons and fuel tanks were quickly uploaded onto both aircraft, and Thunder One and Thunder Two went on cockpit alert.
“So it wasn’t a nightmare,” Furness said. “It wasn’t a dream.”
“Nope, we really did it,” Mace replied. They were both wrapped in leather and fur coats borrowed from the Lithuanian Self-Defense Forces, wearing helmets so they could monitor the radios. Both crewmen were wearing survival vests under their coats, complete with 45-caliber automatics — they could be going to war at any time, and they had to be thinking tactical warfare now. A warm-air hose from the external power cart hooked up to the Vampire kept them warm inside the cockpit despite below-freezing temperatures outside. “Pavlo did it.”