While Emil and Pontowski hooked around behind the target, Waldo was down on the deck, his airspeed meter bouncing off Mach 1.6. When Crown East called the range at four miles, Waldo pulled his nose up and firewalled the throttle. “Waldo’s shooting the moon,” Pontowski told Emil. “Keep your turn coming. Do you see the Flankers?” But Emil didn’t respond. “Emil!” The pilot’s head slumped sideways, unconscious from hyperventilation.
Waldo was going straight up and the target was on his nose. He punched through a cloud deck and saw the Ilyushin-76. “Target is friendly,” he radioed. “Repeat, friendly.” Then, “Two chicks in trail! Flankers, Flankers. I have Emil in sight.” He passed behind the Flankers escorting the Ilyushin, still going straight up.
At the same time, the two Flankers saw Pontowski’s aircraft and turned toward it. “I’ve got it!” Pontowski shouted, taking control of the aircraft from the rear seat. He jerked the F-16’s nose around, loading the jet with nine Gs. He grunted hard, fighting the G forces. A loud chirping buzz in his headset warned him that one of the Flankers had locked him up on radar for a missile shot. What unfolded next occurred at a speed that defied normal senses. When Pontowski judged they were in range of an infrared missile, he pulled the throttle full aft to reduce the heat signature an infrared-guided missile needed to guide on. At the same time he hit the flare button on the throttle. A burst of four flares popped out behind the F-16 to capture any heat-seeking missile’s guidance head.
Waldo ruddered his jet over on top in time to see one of the Flankers and Pontowski’s F-16 come together in the merge in what looked like a head-on collision. Automatically, he keyed his radio and yelled, “Break left! Take it down!” He snorted in satisfaction as Pontowski’s F-16 did exactly that. The other Flanker rolled as its nose sliced toward the ground to follow Pontowski into the dive. “Shit hot!” Waldo roared over the radio. They had set up a perfect sandwich to have the Flanker for lunch. “Pitch back now!” Waldo ordered.
“Pitching back,” Pontowski shouted, pulling on his control stick, bringing his F-16’s nose up and onto the Flanker that was now heading down but still above him. Then Waldo blasted through, splitting the air between the two Flankers. Immediately, Waldo pitched back into the lead Flanker, the one not engaging Pontowski.
Nothing in the experience of the two Flanker pilots had prepared them for such a close engagement so aggressively executed. A flurry of Russian was exchanged over the radio and, as one, they turned to the east and headed back for the border, trying to act as friendly as possible.
Emil was conscious, his breathing normal. “What happened?”
Pontowski peeled his face mask back and wiped the sweat away with the back of his glove. “Just doing a Hook-ID,” he replied, trying to sound bored and nonchalant.
“Fuel check,” Waldo radioed. His fuel was low and he suspected Pontowski’s was probably lower. He was right and it was time to head home.
By the time they landed, every pilot in the air regiment had heard about the engagement. It was standing room only when Waldo led Pontowski and Emil into the briefing room. Waldo’s face was etched with the imprint of his oxygen mask and his flight suit white with dried sweat. “This is not going to be a pretty debrief,” he began. “In a Hook-ID, you have a contract with me to not engage unless we have each other in sight. Otherwise, it’s turn and run away. Did you see me before engaging?” Pontowski shook his head. “Then we fucked up, big time.” The room was shocked into silence. Pontowski nodded in acknowledgment and made a note on his kneeboard.
The Poles listened in amazement as the two Americans dissected the mission, telling each other what they had done wrong and how to avoid making the same mistake again. The debrief lasted longer than the flight and, afterward, Emil waited to speak to Pontowski in private. “Thank you for not mentioning that I passed out from hyperventilation.”
Pontowski slapped him on the shoulder. “You’re a good pilot. We’ll work on it.” Emil nodded, ready to follow Pontowski anywhere and determined to prove himself.
TWENTY-FOUR
Vashin’s fascination burned the moment he entered the command post. He had never suspected such a structure existed and the long underground corridors showed none of the decay afflicting the rest of the Russian military. He told the driver of the electrified golf cart whisking him to the operations center to slow so he could take it all in. The respect paid by the officers who recognized him was exactly right; an unsmiling face, an inquisitive look, followed by a little nod. The cart stopped in front of a heavy blast door that led to the ops center.
“So, this is where we conduct a war,” Vashin said, still not truly believing he had reached the heart of the Russian military.
The general major, a one-star, escorting Vashin turned him over to the general colonel, a three-star, who would take him inside. Vashin almost laughed when he saw the old-fashioned Plexiglas wallboards where sergeants still posted information in grease pencil. His own Action Room buried in the basement of Vashin Towers made this look like a throwback to the Cold War. The three-star led him to a traditional map table that was surrounded by more generals.
A trim colonel stood on the opposite side of the map table with a big screen behind him. “Good morning, Mr. Vashin. I will be briefing the raid on the headquarters of the Polish SPS. Please interrupt if you have any questions.” The distinctive emblem of the SPS flashed on the screen. “The double fishhook on the tail of the P has a special significance,” the briefer said. “It was the symbol of Fighting Poland, the Polish resistance in the Great War.”
Vashin snorted. “A foolishness we’ll soon end.” The generals surrounding him all nodded in agreement.
A map of Poland flashed on the screen and highlighted the location of the target near Kutno, seventy miles west of Warsaw. “We are employing unconventional forces which will be parachuted in,” the briefer said. “If you will direct your attention to the large scale chart in front of you, I will point out the objectives and outline the plan of attack.”
Vashin leaned over the map table and he felt himself come alive. This was his destiny, the master planner controlling events, deciding who would live and die. A feeling of absolute power surged through him. Now he appreciated why the ops center continued to use old-fashioned ways of command. The map table, the chart, the pieces moving on the board were tangible, not images on a computer screen. He moved around the table as the briefing unfolded and looked at the map from every angle. Yes! This was the only way to run a military operation. He made a suggestion about the placement of a blocking force.
The generals discussed it briefly and their doubts turned to acceptance. The change was made and Vashin shifted his position, still listening to the colonel giving the briefing.
He had never been more alive.
The battered Lada crunched down the narrow lane, its half-bald tires slipping on the ice and snow. Large, well-kept dachas, country residences of the rich and powerful, were hidden in the trees. Since there were no addresses or signs, the driver carefully counted the houses, finally arriving at the desired number. He turned off the lane and parked. General Colonel Peter Prudnokov was waiting for him. “You’re a wanted man,” Prudnokov said. The driver got out of the car and removed the wiper blades. Even in dacha country, theft was a major problem. He put the blades in the pocket of his overcoat.