Lomov nodded and rocked on the balls of his feet but didn’t respond.
“It’s time we did it,” Golubev demanded. “You know that we don’t have a choice. Let’s just do it. It makes no sense to delay.”
Victor Lomov glanced up at the display board once again. He had spent so many hours staring at this board over the past seven days. He leaned his forehead against the one-way glass for a second. His head seemed so heavy. He felt so tired, he closed his eyes.
After a few moments, he opened his eyes and turned to face the prime minister.
“Let’s do it then, Yevgeni,” was all he said as he turned and walked from the room.
Three hours later, Golubev had a message sent to a Ukrainian agent in Northern Russia. By early the next morning he had already completed his job.
One thousand miles to the north of Golubev’s command center lay Pskov, home of the Tu-160 Blackjack bomber, the newest and most sophisticated long-range bomber that the Russians had ever developed. Roughly equivalent to the American B-1 in both size and shape, the Blackjack was a highly capable and very threatening aircraft.
Each of Pskov’s twenty Blackjack bombers lay hidden in a cement bunker. Inside the bunkers, an armed guard stood watch over each aircraft. Security was very tight.
Sergeant Boris Kozyrav was one of the security policemen whose responsibility it was to guard the Tu-160. For eight hours a day he would stand idly by the huge bomber, endlessly trying to find new ways to keep his mind occupied. Boredom and fatigue were a constant battle, especially since he had been transferred onto the night schedule. From ten at night until six in the morning, Sgt. Kozyrav was alone in the bunker. By two in the morning, he was usually sleeping in a corner of the maintenance bin, his pack stuffed under his head as a pillow, his hat pulled down over his eyes.
For Sgt. Kozyrav, the night that Golubev and General Lomov had decided to initiate their plan was just like any other. He made his rounds, read for a while, then promptly fell asleep.
He didn’t hear the soft footsteps as they approached the aircraft from the rear of the bunker. He didn’t stir when a small black box was attached to the underside of the main landing gear. The box was placed under the main brake lines, where it would never be seen, even when the ground crews did their normal preflight inspection.
The aircraft that Sgt. Kozyrav was guarding was scheduled to fly the next day. When the aircraft lifted off from the runway and the main gear were retracted into the belly of the aircraft, the black box would only be three feet from the 27,000 pounds of jet fuel that was stored inside the Blackjack’s main fuel tank.
TWENTY-ONE
Twenty hours later, two Tu-160 Blackjack bombers were flying down the eastern coast of Canada. Although they would stay in international airspace, they intended to press the edge of the twelve-mile Air Defense Zone that surrounded the United States. After flying south along the coast of Maine, they would turn slightly eastward to clip the edge of Cape Cod. Not until then would they turn around and head back north, flying the same route back to their home in Pskov.
The purpose of their mission was twofold. First, they would once again test the United States air defense response and capabilities. They knew that Vermont Air National Guard F-16s would scramble from their alert shelters to intercept the Blackjacks just after they passed south of the coast of Maine.
But there was another purpose for this mission. Their presence was intended to be a political show of will. It had been several years since the Russians had regularly run their bombers down the eastern coast of the United States, and President Fedotov thought this might be a good time to remind his American friends of his long-range bombing capability.
The Blackjacks didn’t show up unannounced. American early warning radar had been tracking them since they passed over the southern tip of Iceland. As the American radar operators tracked the bombers on their southern route, they kept expecting them to turn around. They were more than a little surprised when the Blackjacks continued south along the Canadian coast.
When the Russian bombers were fifteen minutes from the United States border, two F-16s were scrambled to intercept and escort them along the coast. As the F-16 pilots flew out to intercept the bombers, they talked over their have-quick secure voice radio, reviewing the rules of engagement that they would follow against the Russian Blackjacks.
The rules were fairly simple. Don’t act in any hostile, aggressive, or threatening manner. Don’t intimidate the bombers in any way. As long as the Russians remained in international airspace, the fighters could only observe them from a safe distance.
But the fighters would definitely make their presence known. They would fly to the side of the bombers, occasionally flashing on their acquisition radar as a little reminder to the Russians that they weren’t alone up there in the sky.
Inside the lead F-16 was Captain Les Harris. Les spent most of his days running his father’s computer service store. Most weekends were spent inside the cockpit of an F-16. Les had been flying the F-16 Falcon for more than nine years, and it had been a long time since he had felt uncomfortable with a mission. But this one had him just a little bit rattled. Any time the Americans ran an intercept on a Russian aircraft, there was the potential for small things to be blown into international incidents.
As Captain Harris and his wingman flew north, they were receiving vectors toward the two Russian bombers from Darkhorse, the ground radar controllers. Captain Harris’s call sign was Dagger three-four. The Blackjacks were referred to as Unknown Cowboys.
Harris listened on his radio as the female controller was giving him directions. “Dagger three-four, turn left heading zero-four-zero. Your bogey is now one-two-zero miles, twelve o’clock and closing. Call when you have him on radar.”
“Roger, heading zero-four-zero for the Daggers,” Harris replied.
The Darkhorse controller’s voice was very calm and even. Husky and low. Confident and cool. It was a voice that made Harris wonder what the controller looked like. He could picture her as she sat at the console, legs crossed, arms on the table as she leaned forward and stared into her radar screen. He imagined her to be a very smooth and self-assured girl.
But the truth was, Darkhorse was also a little bit nervous. Running intercepts like this could be tricky. It was her responsibility to vector the pilots until they were within range of the F-16s’ radar. If she didn’t give the pilots a good intercept heading, they might not ever find the two Russian bombers. So she was concentrating as much as the pilots as she guided them northward to the oncoming Blackjacks.
After responding to the controller, Harris looked back at his wingman to make sure he was still in position, then glanced down to check his safety switches one more time. He had to be certain that his weapons were not armed, but instead were in the “safe” position. Harris was carrying two AMRAAM missiles, as well as a case full of 20mm shells for his cannon. It would be a very difficult thing to have to explain if he were to accidentally shoot down a Russian bomber.
So he checked his switches one more time. “Safe” and “Locked” appeared on his head-up-display.
Then Harris checked his airspeed indicator and did some simple math in his head. He figured the four aircraft were now closing at nearly 1,000 miles an hour. In a few seconds he should have the Unknown Cowboys on his AN/APG-66 radar. Then he would challenge them over the radio.