He stepped inside and the forward entrance door was closed. He heard the whine of an engine as it came to life. The sense of euphoria was back. His time had definitely come.
General Prudnokov stood with the honor guard and saluted the TU-204 as it taxied out. The salute wasn’t for Vashin but for the crew and his beautiful airplane. “For Mother Russia,” he vowed quietly.
Pontowski was talking to Waldo over the Have Quick radio as they climbed to the east. “Fuel’s going to be a problem. We need to jettison our bombs.” Each of the eight F-16s were carrying two Mark-84 2,000-pound bombs that were intended for the target at Yalta. Now they were excess baggage.
“There’s a bomb range to the south,” Waldo said. “We can jettison them safe over there. But I doubt if the range officer is on duty or if the range is open.”
Fuel is always a problem in a jet fighter and hesitation meant valuable fuel lost. “Let’s do it,” Pontowski said. “Enter the range single ship, one mile in trail. I’ll come off the range and turn downwind for the rejoin. Form up in two flights of four, fingertip formation. I’ll lead Red Flight, with Emil on my wing as Red Two.” He named the other two pilots who would be Red Three and Red Four. “Waldo you lead Blue Flight.” Again, he called off who would be Blue Two, Three, and Four. Seven clicks on the mike buttons answered him.
They turned toward the range. “Select jettison safe,” he radioed. Seven more clicks answered as the pilots hit the selective jettison button on the right multifunctional display. Then they highlighted stations three and seven, the hard points under the wings where the bombs were carried. But Waldo’s wingman, Blue Two, accidentally selected station eight where an AIM-9M air-to-air heat-seeking missile was carried.
“Master Arm on,” Pontowski radioed as he approached the range straight and level. When he judged he was clear, he hit the pickle button. He felt the two bombs come off but visually checked to be sure. Since the bombs weren’t armed, there was no explosion, only a cloud of dust.
“Six o’clock at 300 meters,” Emil called, scoring the drop. He pickled off his bombs and one by one the fighters followed. Waldo’s wingman, Blue Two, hit his pickle button and the bomb on the left wing separated cleanly. The AIM-9 on his right wing leaped off the rail and headed straight for Waldo.
The number-three pilot in Waldo’s formation, Blue Three, saw it and yelled, “WALDO! BREAK LEFT!” Waldo’s reactions were honed by years of experience and he rolled his F-16 to the left and buried his nose, loading the aircraft with 8 Gs. The missile flashed by, barely missing him.
“Jesus H. Christ!” Waldo shouted over the radio. “What asshole…”
“Blue Two,” Pontowski transmitted, overriding him, “break right and fall in behind the last man. Select the correct station and pickle the bomb.” It was a bad start to the mission and Pontowski had to get it turned around. If Blue Two could not get his bomb off, Pontowski was going to send him home and he would fly the mission with seven aircraft. But everyone’s confidence would be shaken. He watched as Blue Two circled. The bomb came off cleanly. Pontowski breathed easier. “Join up as briefed,” he radioed. The eight aircraft turned to the east.
A torrent of Polish filled Pontowski’s earphones as Emil gave Blue Two a tongue-lashing. While the Americans didn’t understand a word said, the meaning was obvious from the ripping tone. It had to be a devastating barrage. Pontowski waited for the first break to set things straight. His first priority was to keep them functioning as a tight team. “We all make switchology errors,” he radioed. “Our job is to learn from it. When you make a mistake, correct it and get on the with the mission. You can sort it out on the ground, after you land. The key is to always press ahead. Remember that. PRESS!” He hoped they all got the message. “Blue Two, you and Waldo owe Blue Three a beer. That was a good call and he saved your worthless ass.”
Waldo knew exactly what Pontowski was doing: stay focused on the mission, keep their confidence up. He keyed his mike and joked, “Hey, a kill’s a kill. But next time, make it a bad guy.”
“Sorry, Waldo,” Blue Two transmitted. “I fucked up. Bad.”
Pontowski heard the anguish in the young pilot’s voice. He had to get them all back on track. “We’ve got an old saying, ‘no harm, no foul.’ Press.” Seven clicks answered him. They were all back as a team. “Weapons safe,” Pontowski radioed. He didn’t need to waste another missile.
Brian and Matt were under the truck and pulling on the rope tied to the bumper. “We can’t budge it,” Brian said. “It’s hung up on something in the river.”
“How long has he been in the water?” Matt asked.
“Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes,” Zeth replied. “Too long.”
“If I can get into the front seat,” Brian said, “I can start the engine and back up. We can pull him out.”
“No,” Zeth ordered. “You’ll get shot.” Suddenly, the rope snapped free and snaked across the ground, running downstream. Zeth saw it immediately. “The current’s pushed him against our bank.” She pointed into the dark. “He’s down there about the length of the rope.”
“Let’s go get him,” Matt said, crawling out from under the truck. Brian was right behind him. Now the numerous times they had run the confidence course at NMMI paid off. They were into the brush in seconds and moving fast.
Zeth waited, the minutes ticking, the tension tingling in her. She almost screamed when Brian rolled back under the truck. “We found him. He’s alive and hung up in driftwood that’s piled against a tree. He can see where the shooter is and he said not to come get him or we’ll get shot.”
Zeth thought for a moment. “Where’s the bastard?”
Brian pointed to a shadow on the far bank. “Right about there.”
“How long do you think it will take to get Chuck out of the water?”
“A minute, maybe.”
“The shooter’s got to be using a night-vision scope,” Zeth said. “You go back and when you’re ready, yell ‘Go.’ I’ll shine my flashlight at him and wash out his scope. My TAC officer did it once to me during training and I was blinded for about a minute.”
“Got it,” Brian said. He disappeared into the night.
Zeth crawled out from under the truck and reached into the backseat. She groped around until she found the flashlight. Then she stood, using the angle of the truck as a shield, and held the flashlight on the hood. She crouched behind the fender, her hand over her head, and aimed the flashlight at the spot in the darkness.
Now it was up to Emil to get them safely through Belarus and into the Ukraine. Emil punched a new frequency into his VHF radio. “Minsk Control,” he radioed in his accentless Russian. “This is Vnukova One and Two, climbing to thirty-four thousand feet, destination Kiev.”
“Vnukova aircraft,” the ground controller replied, “our radar paints two aircraft and we do not have a flight plan, or clearance, for your flight to transit Belarus. Remain outside Belarus airspace.”
The first part of the plan had worked and the Belarus radar was painting each formation as a single return. Now Emil had to bluff their way into Belarussian airspace. “We are a diplomatic flight of two aircraft returning from Poland. We filed a flight plan but the Polish pigs are asleep.”
“As usual,” the controller replied. He had handled many of the diplomatic flights. “Say type of aircraft,” he radioed, bored with the whole thing.