The Ukrainian planes were in remarkably good condition. As expected, most were MiG-23 fighters. As if on cue, the Turkish officer gave Tychina a copy of his list of foreign planes parked there: one hundred and thirteen Ukrainian Mikoyan-Gurevich-23 fighters, thirty-one MiG-27 bombers, and twenty-seven Sukhoi-17 bombers. The Turkish officer’s inventory did not specify which models were present. There were a few two-seat trainer versions — three MiG-23 UB-models and two Su-17 UM-models — both with combat capability. Consistent with the threat of Russian air raids, all of the Sukhoi-17 single-seaters were H- or K-model reconnaissance planes — they would have survived because they were probably all in the air during the Russian bomb runs. They still had the special pylons fitted for long-range fuel tanks, electronic countermeasures pods, and the Ogarkov-213 sensor pod on the centerline station, but all of the external stores had been removed. “Excuse me please,” Tychina asked the Turkish officer, “but did these aircraft arrive with tanks? Pods? Photographic devices?”
“They were removed and have been confiscated, for now,” the officer replied, his voice a bit tense as he wondered — worried — if the Ukrainian would pull off that mask. “Orders. You understand.”
“Yes, thank you,” Tychina acknowledged. As long as he got them back in working order, Tychina thought, he didn’t care if the Turks took a few apart to study or analyze them. He would gladly trade them for missiles and bombs to arm his planes anyway.
The Sukhoi-17 reconnaissance planes were about twenty years old, and although Tychina knew maintenance on these old birds was usually meticulous, the lack of money for spare parts had taken their toll on them, and they looked their age. The Su-17 was an older model Sukhoi-7 single-engine fighter with the outer one-half of its wings cut off and a swinging variable-geometry section added. The round, open “carp nose” design was primitive and cumbersome, providing very little room for a decent attack radar, but the increased performance of the swing-wing addition was a quantum leap over fixed-geometry designs of the time, and eventually the Su-17 comprised over one-third of the tactical air inventory of the old Soviet Union and was widely exported.
Although the Sukhoi-17 strike planes were valuable, the thirty-one MiG-27s were the prize of Tychina’s little attack fleet. They were basically the same as the MiG-23 fighters, but with a greatly strengthened fuselage, lots of armor plating around the pilot, and a big 30-millimeter multibarrel strafing and tank-killing gun replacing the GSh-23 air-to-air gun on the fighter. Most of the MiG-27s here were M-models, about ten years old, with laser rangefinders for precision-guided bombs that could illuminate targets behind and far off to the side of the plane. The-27 could carry just about every weapon in the Ukrainian arsenal — TV-guided bombs, laser-guided bombs, antiradiation missiles, and antiship missiles, as well as air-to-air defensive missiles …
… that is, if Ukrayina had an arsenal anymore. Thank God General Panchenko had had the foresight to worry about a major Russian invasion and sent those weapons shipments here. Panchenko was the hero, not he, Pavlo Tychina. The first order of business would be to organize his aircrews and maintenance technicians to inspect these weapons…
… that is, if he had any maintenance troops here. Tychina had brought pilots, not maintenance troops or technicians. There were no transport planes available to take supplies or survivors out of L’vov — and Tychina assumed it was the same at the other bases — so hopefully General Panchenko arranged for civil transports, overland convoys, or very dangerous sea transportation for the badly needed maintenance guys. These planes weren’t going anywhere without proper support.
“I thank you for taking such good care of Ukrayina’s fighter jets,” Tychina told his host with genuine appreciation.
“You’re welcome,” the Turkish officer replied halfheartedly. He wasn’t sure if Tychina really meant the compliment, since most of the Ukrainian planes looked like shit. They were noisy, smelly, smoky, their radios were bad, and they dropped rivets, inspection plates, large pieces of rubber, and insulation constantly, creating a hazard for the Turkish planes at Kayseri.
They exited the flight line and drove through the base toward the Turkish headquarters. Kayseri Air Base was the most modern, most impressive military installation Tychina had ever seen. The above-ground hangars were huge, thick concrete structures, not weak tin or aluminum over a steel frame like most ex-Soviet facilities in Ukrayina, and Pavlo noticed many gated and guarded ramps leading to underground hangars. Aircraft taxiways were very wide, with enough room for a single Bear-class bomber or several fighter-size aircraft to taxi side by side — many of the taxiways had runway-type markings on them, indicating that they could be used for takeoff and landing if the main runway was in use or damaged.
Although the base was primarily a fighter training base, it was clearly ready for war. Antiaircraft gun and missile emplacements were everywhere, including several Patriot missile batteries and several short-range mobile antiaircraft batteries, including the West’s newest weapon system, a combination 30-millimeter Gatling gun with dual feed (antiarmor and antiaircraft explosive rounds) and eight-round Stinger missile battery all on one fast all-terrain truck, using both radar and electro-optical guidance systems. All air defense units were manned at full strength, despite the freezing temperatures. Tychina noted the detailed attention paid to camouflaging every air defense site with realistic-looking white nets and setting up inflatable decoys and radar reflectors around the base. The headquarters building itself was modern and fairly new, but the camouflage makers on base had actually taken great pains to make it more nondescript, to blend in with the snow. The flagpoles and other monuments around the building had been removed, and nearby buildings had similar defensive positions set up around them to make it harder for enemy invaders to immediately determine which building was the headquarters.
Tychina was surprised to see two of his senior pilots, both from L’vov, seated outside the commander’s office. They were slouched in their seats, totally bored, with their legs extended straight and their boots tipped up on their heels, tapping them together to show how tired and irritated they were. Pavlo turned to see a Turkish security officer seated across from them, glaring at the two pilots in utter disgust, as if he was ready to pull out his pistol and shoot them both — and Tychina knew why.
The two pilots snapped to attention when they saw him approach. Tychina was overjoyed to see two familiar, friendly faces, but he felt some sort of strain in the room and held his exuberance carefully in check until he found out exactly what was going on. “Captain Mikitenko, Captain Skliarenko,” he greeted them in Ukrainian, returning their salutes but then folding his hands behind his back so as to not invite them to shake hands or clasp shoulders, as was customary. Tychina acknowledged the security officer seated across from the two pilots — obviously a guard assigned to the two pilots — who continued to stare disrespectfully at the two young Ukrainians after a polite bow to Tychina.
“Colonel, it is great to see you,” Mikitenko said in Ukrainian. “We’ve been stuck here for the past six hours.”
“They haven’t even let us go to the bathroom,” Skliarenko complained. “I’m about ready to pop. Can you get these guys to let us go to the head, Pavlo?”
On that last sentence, Tychina caught it — the smell of alcohol, strong, fortified Moldovan cherry wine. He leaned closer to Mikitenko and smelled apricot brandy on his breath. “You assholes, you’ve been drinking?” Tychina thundered.