Doleckis could not believe his eyes — it was not two helicopters down there, it was one! “Control, seven-one-one, I see the bogey. It’s… it’s a large, cargo-type rotorcraft, painted in camouflage, with engines mounted on long wingtips. It’s heading—”
And suddenly the thing made a sharp turn, then accelerated faster than any rotorcraft he had ever seen. Frantically he searched the skies for the thing. No helicopter could move like that — it had taken off like a rocket. “Control, I’ve lost visual. It turned northbound and accelerated out of sight. Seven-one-one flight, get on an eastbound heading and search for this thing.”
“Two,” Stebut replied.
“Control, I’m switching to Lida Approach for radar advisories. Seven-one-one flight, go button ten.”
“Two.”
Doleckis switched radio frequencies, checked in his wingman, then said, “Lida Naval, flight seven-one-one of two with you tactical. Requesting vectors to unidentified aircraft last seen heading northbound, altitude approximately twenty to thirty meters.
“Flight seven-one-one flight of two, understand tactical,” the approach controller replied. After the “tactical” call, the controller’s responsibility now was to clear the airspace around the two fighters and work with them to find the unknown aircraft. “I have you radar-identified. Have your wingman squawk normal if you are no longer in formation.” A second later the coded identification beacon for the Sukhoi-17 popped onto the screen, flying nearly parallel with the MiG-27, but three hundred meters higher. “Seven-one-one Bravo, you are radar-identified.”
“Bravo,” Stebut replied.
“Be advised, seven-one-one flight, I show no other aircraft in your vicinity. If your contact is at thirty meters I will be unable to advise you unless he gets within thirty kilometers of Lida. Over.”
Damn! Doleckis swore. They were right on top of him, and they lost him! “Copy, Approach. If you have any intermittent contacts, advise us immediately—”
“Bravo has contact on the bogey!” Stebut interrupted. “He’s heading zero-four-zero, a few klicks north of the river … he’s banking right, heading for the river again. Shit, Vladi, it’s a tilt-rotor aircraft. He’s switched to airplane mode. An American tilt-rotor!”
Doleckis frantically searched the sky above him for the Sukhoi-17, finally spotting it. “I’ve got a visual on you, Frantsi. You’ve got the lead. Stay on this freq. I’m going back to button nine.”
“Copy. Bravo has the lead.”
Doleckis switched his radio to the command-post frequency. “Control this is seven-one-one flight of two tactical. We have contact with the bogey. It is an American tilt-rotor aircraft. It is crossing back and forth over the border, heading east-northeast at high speed. Seven-one-one Bravo has the pursuit. We are standing by to engage. Request further orders. Over.”
This time a very familiar male voice came on the line — the air wing commander. Finally a senior officer had taken charge of the chase. “Seven-one-one, I want both of you on this channel. Bring Bravo to this frequency immediately. Over.”
“Seven-one-one copy. Control, off frequency, monitor GUARD, report back.” Doleckis went back to the approach-control frequency, told Stebut to switch to the command-post freq, then switched back himself. “Control, seven-one-one flight of two tactical back on your frequency.”
“Seven-one-one, your orders are to force that aircraft down,” the wing commander said on the command-post frequency. “Smorgon is sending attack helicopters to assist, but their ETA to your position is unknown at this time. Bracket. him on both sides, give him warning shots, and attempt to disable him with cannon fire if you think you can do it without causing a crash. I want the tilt-rotor and its crew intact. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” Doleckis replied.
“Bravo understands,” Stebut replied. “Bravo’s in a descent. I’ll take the left, Vladi, you take the right?’
“I’ve got a good visual on you,” Doleckis said, swinging over to the right as the big Sukhoi-17 began descending behind the tilt-rotor aircraft. “Clear to descend on the left.” Doleckis never practiced intercept procedures — he was an air-to-mud fighter pilot, not air-to-air — but it was clear what the commander wanted — he wanted that aircraft to …
Suddenly the tilt-rotor aircraft heeled sharply on its right wing, decelerated rapidly, and disappeared from view. It had been traveling nearly four hundred kilometers an hour, and in the blink of an eye it had slowed to half that speed and turned with an impossible tight turning radius. “Seven-one-one lost contact! Turning right to reacquire.”
“Bravo lost contact,” Stebut added immediately. “I’ve got a visual on you, Alpha, you’re in the lead.”
“I’ve got the lead,” Doleckis acknowledged. This cat-and-mouse game could go on for a long time, Doleckis thought as he banked hard right and strained out his canopy to spot the American aircraft. But he also knew that the longer they had this guy turning and stopping, the greater the chances that he wasn’t going to accomplish his mission. He was a very long way from home; and at that altitude, switching from airplane to helicopter mode the way he was, he was sucking a lot of gas.
But when he completed his turn, the tilt-rotor aircraft was nowhere to be seen. “Seven-one-one Alpha has lost contact.”
“Bravo has contact on the bogey, Vladi,” Stebut cried out on the radio. “He’s hovering right below you. He turned and then stopped… hey, it looks like he’s flying backwards. Damn, I’m going to overshoot… Bravo has lost contact. I’ve got a visual on you, Vladi, you’re cleared to maneuver.
“I’m maneuvering left and up, Frantsi,” Doleckis said. “Give me a few hundred meters.”
Doleckis increased his airspeed to his maximum flaps-down airspeed, banked left, and climbed. He gained three hundred meters, continuing his left turn until his airspeed had bled off nearly to approach speed, then pointed his nose down at the ground — at the end of his turn, he should be aimed back at the target.
“Control, I need instructions,” Doleckis radioed. “Fixed-wings are not going to be able to bracket him. We can keep him in sight, but we are not going to be able to fly with him. Request permission to—”
Just then Doleckis regained visual contact with the tilt-rotor aircraft, and at the same time he saw the Sukhoi-17 fighter-bomber peel off to the right, then swing back to the left to keep him in sight. The tilt-rotor aircraft was indeed hovering in place — and now he was pivoting to the left, tracking the Sukhoi with the precision of a radar-guided gun. “Bravo, tighten your turn, then reverse. It looks like that tilt-rotor is tracking—”
And at that instant a plume of smoke and a streak of light erupted from the tilt-rotor aircraft. A line of bright white smoke extended quickly right at the Sukhoi.
“Break, Frantsi, break! Flares!” Doleckis shouted.
Stebut tightened his bank to 60 degrees, but the tiny missile hit before he had a chance to pump out any decoy flares.
At first nothing happened — only a flash of bright light right near Stebut’s tailpipe, but soon black smoke began pouring out of the engine. Before Doleckis could say anything else, he saw the canopy fly off the Sukhoi-17, followed later by the ejection seat flying clear of the aircraft on a plume of yellow fire. It was the first time he had ever seen a stricken aircraft, the first time he had ever seen anyone eject from an aircraft except in the training films. It was horrifying, like watching someone getting hit by a car or getting gored by a raging bull. Stebut’s parachute opened, but it had time to swing only once or twice before it plunged into the trees. It looked like Frantsi hit pretty hard. The parachute disappeared in the foliage as if sucked inside by the trees.