They needed less than 4,000 feet of runway to become airborne. They climbed to 400 feet and did a tactical split at the end of the runway, falling into an easy route formation 200 feet abreast. Both pilots slaved their autopilots to the terrain following/avoidance radar and dropped to 150 feet above the ground. Satisfied the system was working, they accelerated to.96 Mach, 630 nautical miles per hour. They would catch the Il-76 in thirteen minutes, just before it penetrated the Polish airspace.
The two F-16s the Polish pilots were flying were not new aircraft. However, they had been completely refurbished by General Dynamics and equipped with zero-time engines before being sold to the Polish Air Force. Ultimately, the program would lead to the Poles manufacturing F-16s under a licensing agreement. But so far, the program was stalled because of American refusal to include more highly advanced avionics, or black boxes, that upgraded the F-16s’ capability. Still, the Polish pilots loved the hot performance and reliability of the jet. They only wished they had more of them and could log more flying time.
Considering they had started cold from a sound sleep, the scramble went smoothly enough. The F-16s were at the end of the runway, ready for takeoff, in nine minutes. But sector command delayed their takeoff while they tried to establish radio contact with the approaching Il-76. Lacking success, the controller finally launched the two F-16s when the Il-76 was thirty miles from the border.
The handoff to Crown East was routine and the radar operator directed the F-16s to enter a racetrack pattern fifty miles back from the border with one leg oriented toward the incoming bogie. Now three different agencies, sector command, Crown East, and civilian air-traffic control, were trying to establish radio contact with the oncoming Il-76. There was still no response and the tac officer in the bunker passed control over to his weapons officer, the radar controller in charge of directing the actual intercept. Like many officers in the Polish Air Force, she was young and new at her job. And this was her first live intercept. The Il-76 penetrated Polish airspace.
Her voice shook as she broke the two F-16s out of orbit. “Archer One and Two, you have a bogie at zero-seven-zero degrees, forty-five nautical miles. Fly vector zero-seven-zero. Visually ID and report only. Weapons safe.”
“Weapons safe,” Archer One replied, making sure his master arm switch was in the off position. He broke out of orbit and set his airspeed at.85 Mach, 510 nautical miles per hour.
“I have contact, on the nose, at forty miles,” Archer Two called over the radio. His pulse-Doppler radar had easily found the Il-76 and he locked it up. Almost immediately, the APG-68 radar broke lock. “Negative lock,” he radioed. He tried again with the same results. Then he remembered to check his radar-warning receiver to see if he was being jammed. There was no symbol on the warning display, only a chirping tone in his headset. He disregarded it.
Archer One also had the Il-76 on his radar and was experiencing the same problem. Then it hit him. Their radars were interfering with each other. “Turn your radar to standby,” he ordered, keeping his own radar in 120-degree, four-bar scan. Now he tried to lock up the target. Nothing. The weapons officer at Crown East continued to direct them into the intercept, giving them headings to set up a stern conversion.
The two Su-35s were still on the deck, directly underneath and at cospeed with the Il-76. Their radars detected the two oncoming F-16s and their wingtip jammer pods successfully jammed the F-16s’ radar, hiding their presence and denying the F-16s a radar lock-on. Automatically, the fire control system in the lead Su-35 sorted the threat and assigned targets to the R-77 missiles carried on the fuselage underneath the intakes. The R-77 was the most advanced air-to-air missile in the Russian inventory and nicknamed the “AMRAAMSKI” as it was comparable to the United States’ highly advanced AMRAAM, or Advanced Medium-range Air-to-Air Missile. When the data had been downlinked, an in-range marker flashed on the aircraft’s wide-angle HUD. The pilot hit the pickle button on his stick and two missiles leaped off the rails. Now they waited.
Archer One, the lead F-16 pilot, kept scanning the night sky outside. “Do you have a visual?” he radioed.
“No visual,” came the answer.
“The bogie is at your two o’clock, ten miles, slightly high,” the weapons controller at Crown East radioed. “Fly zero-three-zero.” She was directing them away from the Il-76 to give them turning room to convert to the bogie’s stern. The two F-16s turned to the new heading, still searching the sky for a visual contact.
“We should see his lights,” Archer Two radioed.
“Looking,” Archer One replied.
But they had never been taught how to do a proper visual scan, especially at night, and they never saw the two rocket plumbs arcing up at them from their deep four o’clock position.
“Archer One, right turn to two-five-zero,” the weapons controller radioed, turning the interceptors back into the bogie. “Target will be coming from your three o’clock to your nose, two miles, slightly high.” No answer. “Archer One, how copy?”
“What happened?” the tactical officer demanded.
“I don’t know,” the weapons controller replied. “I’ve lost all contact.” She went through the lost-communications procedures while the radar operator retuned the radar. Nothing.
“You stupid woman!” the tac officer shouted. “Two aircraft just don’t disappear.”
The radar operator’s voice came through their headsets. “The bogie is squawking now and we are in radio contact. He’s using a Vnukova call sign; a diplomatic flight. He’s calling for landing at Modlin.” Modlin was an air base twenty miles northwest of Warsaw where the Russians had landing rights.
“Has the Vnukova flight seen the F-16s?”
“He claims not,” came the answer.
“What happened?” the tac officer asked. There was no answer.
SIX
The motorcade of two black Mercedes-Benzes sandwiching the Bentley hurtled down the center of Granovsky Street. It was a throwback to the 1970s, the heyday of Soviet rule, and policemen waved off traffic and pedestrians, clearing the way to the Kremlin’s Borovitsky Gate. The barrier at the gate was raised and one of the three guards managed to wave them through, not bothering to salute. The motorcade drew to a halt in front of the Red Steps and Mikhail Vashin climbed out of the Bentley. He stood in the cool morning air, savoring the moment. Deep in his soul, his peasant heritage told him that fall was in the air and to prepare for winter. But his days in the cold were over. The spring of Mikhail Vashin was about to begin.
He climbed the steps and entered the building. Viktor Kraiko, the president of the Russian Federation, and Yaponets were waiting to escort him. “The guards at the gate,” Vashin said to Kraiko. “Sloppy. Fix it.”
“He can’t,” Yaponets said. “But I can.”
Vashin grunted. Yaponets got things done, often with a mere word or look of disapproval. He was a man with authority, a trait Russians understood instinctively. Vashin handed his overcoat to Kraiko who passed it on to an aide. “Tell me, Viktor Ivanovich, who controls the Security Council today?”
“I do,” Kraiko answered, trying to sound confident. Russian politics were a shifting quagmire of quicksand that changed with each tide.
“The meeting will go smoothly?”
“Rodonov will be difficult. He has questions about last night.”
Vashin snorted again. Vitaly Rodonov was the minister of defense and the last stumbling block in his way. So far, Kraiko’s advice to avoid a direct confrontation with Rodonov had been sound. But that time had ended.