While the Royal Air Force gave its own unique brand of hell to such unwelcome visitors, Dragon and her sisters also reminded the Russian bombers that, like during the Cold War, they were not wanted in this part of the neighborhood. Intelligence, as well as over-the-horizon radar stations in Scotland, told the Royal Navy what was headed their way. This was how Fryatt knew he could expect airborne company tonight, in fact within the hour. In the meantime, however, he was content to cherish the star-lit Arctic night.
Fryatt raised his dominant hand to the sky. It was the left one. He waved the square of his palm about, half-expecting the protuberances of his fingers to displace the stars, to push them along into streaks of lights, to wash them around like glitter that floated in black ink. Despite the grin on his face and this moment of suspended reality, Fryatt failed to influence the canvas of night, and in the end, remained as inconsequential as he had expected to be. However, when a sailor burst through the bridge hatch and announced that the ship’s Action Information Center had an airborne radar contact, Fryatt knew that, at the very least, he could affect terrestrial events. He could influence the behavior of his fellow humans. He took one last draw of the sharp air. It reminded him he was alive, and, it reminded him he wanted to stay that way.
“Captain on the bridge,” was announced as Fryatt re-entered the warm enclosure. Fryatt always loved the sound of those four words. Just a lad from Hounslow, he still felt a rush as highly-qualified uniformed people acknowledged his presence, straightened their stance, and raised their chins. His thoughts turned to that of his charge — his ship.
The vibration of Dragon’s bridge deck spoke to him. It said that the ship was slicing through the water at some 25 knots. Deep in the hull, Dragon’s twin gas turbines and diesel generators thumped away. Fryatt felt them provide power to the electric motors, which in turn sent 27,000 horsepower to the shafts. Two propellers translated this power to the water, cutting it, grabbing it, and pushing it away. Going to his chair, Fryatt ran his hands over the bridge control panel. He dragged each finger across the hard knobs and soft rubber-covered buttons. A ship is like a familiar lover, he pondered. As her tremble was felt, one adjusted touch to achieve harmonious vibration, to take her in the right direction, to bring her where she wanted, where she longed, to go. Fryatt sat down in his chair. It, too, vibrated. He smiled as Dragon hummed happily along.
Lieutenant-Commander Nigel Williams—Dragon’s second-in-command and one of 190 souls aboard — peered at a terminal. Bathed in its green glow, Williams’ eyes squinted, his jaw set. Then he turned to the captain.
“Sir, the ship is at ‘air warning yellow,’” telling the captain that his men and women were ready for trouble.
“Lovely night,” the captain responded, acknowledging the information while maintaining his façade of unflappability.
“It is.”
A bell rang. Williams spun around again to check another screen.
“Flash. Op Room reports airborne contacts,” Williams announced.
“Right,” the captain said with a glance to the clock. “Our Russian friends are right on time. Bring the ship to ‘air warning red.’ Maintain speed and course.”
Williams acknowledged and brought the ship to action stations.
Dragon’s dimly lit Op Room was cold. Despite the heaters, the icy Norwegian Sea reached through the hull and chilled the bones of the sailors manning rows of computer terminals and radar screens. One of these sailors energized the SAMPSON 3-D multifunction phased-array radar perched high atop Dragon’s forward mast. It fired beams through the atmosphere and found two low-altitude targets, populating the Op Room’s screens with blips and numbers.
“Flag, AWO, probable targets. Two tracks inbound at two-seven-five degrees. Altitude: 3,000 feet. Speed: Mach zero-point-nine.” The numbers beside the radar blips changed. “Tracks have accelerated. Now at Mach one-point-one. They’ve gone supersonic. Flight profile suggests Russian Backfire bombers.”
The Tu-22M Backfire was a swing-wing, long-range strategic and maritime strike bomber. Its two giant Kuznetsov NK-25 turbofans pushed the big bomber to Mach 1.88. When not on nuclear patrol, Backfires usually left base with a load of long-range anti-ship missiles; likely the older, though effective, AS-4 Kitchens; or worse for Dragon, newer SS-N-22 Sunburns.
“Radar warning,” a sailor yelled out. The Backfires had energized their Down Beat missile targeting radar and painted Dragon with energy. Though Dragon’s sloped sides, faceted mast and radar-absorbent material inhibited the Backfire’s ability to lock on, the closer the airplanes got, the higher their chance of a successful missile launch. The Russian bombers drove in hard and fast.
“Jam their signal,” Captain Fryatt ordered. Though he knew the Russians were unlikely to fire, he would play the game by the rules anyway and try to send them home with bruised egos. From the top of Dragon’s main mast, the integrated intercept and jammer suite’s antenna began to transmit at the same wavelength as the Backfires’ radar. If all went as advertised, an electronic fog had spread across the Backfire’s cockpit screen, temporarily concealing Dragon’s movements. Fryatt ordered a hard turn to port. The ship’s company braced against the lean of the deck. “Shoot them down,” Fryatt told Williams with a cheeky grin.
Williams smiled back. As they had discussed previously, Dragon would use the intruders to conduct an exercise. Williams picked up the VUU — the ship’s Voice User Unit — and told the AIC to run an Aster missile drill. The ship’s phased-array radar fired a targeting beam into the face of the two Backfires. A Klaxon sounded aboard Dragon. It warned the ship’s company to stay away from the Sylver A-50 vertical launch system, an array of 48 missile cells sunk into the ship’s forward deck. Inside each cell hid a dart-shaped Aster surface-to-air missile.
The Aster series could engage and take down aircraft, cruise missiles and ballistic missiles. Right now, the Russian’s cockpit warning panels must be lit up like a Christmas tree, Fryatt thought. They know that the tables have been turned, that they had been detected, were being targeted, and should I so desire, supersonic missiles would soon be on the way to rip into their fuselage and wings. Fryatt stood, went to the windscreen, and peered out at Dragon’s forward deck.
Had the captain authorized release of weapons, two Asters would have blasted open their frangible cell covers, erupted from the deck in a fountain of fire, and raced off to meet the Backfires. Op Room announced the radar contacts had climbed, slowed, and turned around.
“Well, that was fun,” Fryatt said to the bridge crew. They all chuckled and nodded. “Bring us back to patrol course and reduce speed to 18 knots. Stand down from air warning red and revert to yellow.”
Several minutes later Captain Fryatt was in his cabin reading and eating a sandwich. He heard a knock at the door.