And now two of them were up there, circling over his cowering head!
How could he have been so unlucky?
Ammon slammed his fist on the console and peered out into the black night. Sweeping his eyes across the horizon, he searched for any moving stars, indicating a light from the fighters. He searched for the faint glow of an afterburner engine, a wisp of a shadow, or any hint of the fighters that were there.
But he couldn’t see a thing. He couldn’t see the ground. He couldn’t see the moon. He couldn’t even see any stars, for a light overcast had just obscured the faint celestial light.
Glancing at his radar screen, Ammon rolled the aircraft into a slight left-hand turn to fall behind a small mountain that lined up to the north. Leveling the aircraft just below the mountain’s crest, they crossed over the Russian border.
Sweeping low, jamming Reaper’s Shadow through another tight cut in the rolling hills, they sped to the northwest. Below them and to their left was Russia’s Fifth Brigade. The two thousand Russian soldiers of the Fifth Brigade were making their way along the highway, speeding to the west to act as reinforcements to the main battle front. To Ammon’s right, sitting among an outcropping of huge boulders, were three surface-to-air (SAM) missile sites. Every twelve seconds — every time the SA-6 radar swung around in its circle to beam on the low-flying bomber — Amman’s headset chirped, warning him that the radar was looking, beaming in circles for targets in the sky. Ahead of the flyers, less than twelve miles, was a triple A, anti-aircraft site. Ammon looked at his chart to where the anti-aircraft gun would be, then gently turned his bomber to the right.
“Coming right, heading three-three-eight,” he said into his mask. “Triple A site up ahead. This heading should keep us clear by at least seven miles.”
Morozov quickly checked his threat screen. He had missed the presence of the upcoming triple A.
“Good catch. This heading looks good.”
Ammon grunted, but did not reply.
Sgt Keloslysky shot his eyes up to the sky with a start. What was that sound? It was horribly loud. Like a huge, sucking, high-pitched whine. And incredibly fast. It grew from a whisper to a deafening pitch in only a few seconds. Suddenly, with a blast, the whine shifted in intensity and turned into a ear-splitting roar as a shadow flew directly over his head. He could actually feel the air compress around him, pushing on his eardrums as the aircraft shot by, seemingly inches above the snow-covered trees. Instinctively, he covered his ears. The roar faded off into the distance, even more quickly than it had come.
Sitting on the round turret of his T-80 tank, Keloslysky turned to his gunner, who was still staring up into the darkness.
“Did you see what kind of aircraft it was?” he asked tensely.
“Negative, sir. It came at us so fast! It nearly blew me out of my seat. But whatever it was, it was huge. And very low. I’ve never heard anything like that before.”
Keloslysky listened as the roar of the aircraft echoed through the trees and bounced off the bare canyon walls.
“Think we need to report it, sir?” the gunner asked nervously.
Keloslysky shook his head. “Report what, Blosko? That we heard a big roar? That we saw a quick flash in the night? What good is that going to do? We’re in the middle of a battle zone. There are probably a hundred aircraft overhead. Besides, it had to be one of our friendlies. And if it weren’t, the air-defense guys know what they’re doing.
“Now, let’s get back under the hatch, and get on our way.”
Keloslysky pushed the gunner’s head back down into the steel turret, then waved to the driver to push through a small clump of trees.
Major Vasyl Peleznogorsk flew his fighter by pure instinct. He adjusted the throttles and airspeed, selected switches, maintained his altitude, and adjusted his radar, all without looking, doing it only by feel. Glancing to his left, he checked his wingman, who was still in a loose, night-tactical formation, one mile behind, 500 feet below him, and slightly off to his left. He monitored the tactical frequency on his radio, trying to get a feel for the situation as he listened to what little he could catch of the battle going on to his west.
He sat in an SU-27, the most advanced and maneuverable fighter in the world. When it came to finding, tracking, targeting, and shooting down other aircraft, the SU-27 was unmatched. It was better than the F-15. Better than the F-16. And far better than any NATO aircraft.
As he listened to his ground controllers, screaming directions to his squadron mates and vectoring them toward the incoming Ukrainian forces, he swore once again to himself.
How could he have been so unlucky?
All those marvelous targets. All those wonderful pieces of steel and wire. All the missiles and tracers and bullets. The hope and the glory. The thrill of a kill. The thrill of escape. The rush of quick heat in his head. It was life. It was death. It was all this and more.
He had been waiting for this moment for all of his life. Waiting and hoping and training.
The largest aerial engagement since World War II.
And he was missing it all.
He was stuck out here, hundreds of miles from the aerial action. Assigned to guard the eastern border. Assigned to drone in endless circles, searching the sky for attackers that he knew weren’t even there.
So, just like Richard Ammon, who was 18,000 feet below him and twenty miles off to his right, Major Vasyl Peleznogorsk sat and cursed at his luck.
Only he did it for a much different reason.
Morozov was busily punching numbers into his offensive computer system. Their first target, a scattered deployment of mobile tactical missile launchers, hidden in a small valley and protected by a battery of SAMs and AAA, was still over two hundred miles to the north. But they were making good progress. It was all looking good. Passing the heavily defended border would be the most dangerous part. But so far, they were clean. No detection by enemy fighters. No detection by any of the ground-based radar or missile sites. Everything was going according to plan.
Morozov had already selected and programmed the weapon he would use to destroy the Russian nuclear missiles. A B-88, air-burst nuclear bomb.
Might as well start things out with a bang, he thought. Get things off to a real good start.
He finished punching the commands into his computer, double checked the coordinates, then sat back in his ejection seat and smiled.
Major Vasyl Peleznogorsk slammed his fist once again. They were just wasting time. There wasn’t anything here. And they needed him out to the west.
Glancing back, he checked his wingman’s position.
“Dark seven-oh-nine, what do you see?” he asked tersely into his mask.
“Nothing here, Major.”
“Yeah… I’ve got nothing but Bread,” Peleznogorsk replied. Bread-code word for no action. No targets. Nothing to get excited about.
Peleznogorsk glanced at his radar and compared the terrain to his chart, then keyed his microphone switch once again.
“Dark seven-oh-nine, let’s drop down to 4,000 feet. See if we can find any Bandits down low.”
Ammon looked at his time-to-target display. Thirty-five miles to the launch line. Just over three minutes to go. At two minutes, he would have to power up the Sunbeam’s batteries and start to feed flight coordinates into its on-board computers. Up to that point, Morozov would have no idea. Prior to that, he still wouldn’t know.