The missile lurched as it dropped into the slipstream. Its internal ram engines ignited with a lightning-bright flash. And then it was gone.
THIRTY-SEVEN
“I’ve got missile launch! I’ve got missile launch!” the Russian pilot screamed into his mask.
“Where?” his wingman cried.
“Ten o’clock! Low! Keep with me! I’m going down to take a look.”
Peleznogorsk rolled the SU-27 into a hard, descending left-hand turn and armed up two of his missiles, at the same time keeping his eyes on his own radar to watch the rough terrain that was rising to meet him. He leveled off at 1,500 feet. The brilliant flash had sparkled not more than four or five miles off in the distance. But now it was gone. He rolled his radar’s antenna to a look-down position so that he could search the ground beneath and before him as he chased to the area that had just flashed with light. Throughout the maneuver, he kept his eyes constantly moving, darting, and peering through the sky.
“Papa! Papa!” he screamed into his mask. “We’ve got Bandits launching Babies. I say again. We’ve got Bandits launching Babies!”
“Papa” was his ground controller. “Babies” was the code for an unidentified enemy missile.
The controller was quick to respond. “Aircraft calling Babies, say your call sign and location?”
“That’s Dark seven-oh-nine. Dark seven-oh-nine. Confirmed Baby at three-five kilometers north of Belgorod.”
There was a long moment of silence.
“Dark, confirm, three-five kilometers north of Belgorod?”
Peleznorgorsk jammed his mike once again. “Affirm! Affirm! North of Belgorod.” A sudden pause. And then, “Wait! Wait!” Peleznogorsk stared at his radar screen. He had seen it. A quick flash. Yes, there it was again. The aircraft was low. Incredibly low. It was in a turn. It’s wings and back were rolled up in a tight bank, bouncing back enough of Peleznogorsk’s radar energy to reveal the bomber’s location.
“I’ve got the Bandit,” the Russian cried. “He’s low. Turning south.”
The Bandit rolled level, and then disappeared from his screen.
“Papa, I can’t get a good track. And negative on the ID.”
Peleznogorsk pulled his radar display down to a five mile scope, the tightest beam he could have, in an attempt to focus the energy of his radar on the fleeing target. He threw both of his massive engines into full afterburner as the target pulled away. He strained his neck over the nose of his fighter, peering into the blackness of the night, looking for the enemy aircraft. The Bandit flickered once or twice, then disappeared from his screen as it dropped behind a low mound of hills. Peleznogorsk sucked in his breath and pushed up his throttles once again. Five seconds later, the target re-emerged on his screen.
“Papa!” Major Peleznogorsk called out. “I’ve got good trace, but I can’t get a lock. Target is now three-one kilometers north of Belgorod and heading south.”
“Have you got a good ID?” the controller cried. His voice was brittle and sharp. He was nearly in a panic. As the ground-radar controller, it was primarily his responsibility to find and track the incoming threats, and missing the Bandit meant that, at a minimum, he had just lost his job. He would spend the next two years of his enlistment cleaning floors. But it could be worse. And it would be far worse, if he allowed the bomber to get away.
The controller tightened up in his seat, his body rigid in fear and concentration, as the SU-27 pilot replied, “Negative ID, Papa. Negative ID on the Bandit.”
“How many targets?” the controller shot back.
Peleznogorsk paused to consider. “Only one, as far as I know. I’m only picking up one on my radar. But who knows? Maybe there’s more.”
“Okay. Okay.” the controller called back, relieved that at least it wasn’t a major attack. “I’ve got Blade Flight coming down from the Despansky Cap. ETA… four point five minutes. They will be sweeping in from the west.”
“Copy.” Peleznogorsk replied.
“Now, what about the Baby?”
“Negative on the Baby. I can confirm the launch, but the missile simply disappeared.” Peleznogorsk turned back over his shoulder to glance at his wingman.
“Two, do you see it?” he asked.
“Negative,” his wingman replied.
“That’s okay, Dark,” the controller shot back. “Forget the Baby. We’ll look for it later. How much damage can a single missile do? For now, let’s go get the Bandit. ID him if you can. But don’t wait for an ID to engage!”
Peleznogorsk glanced down at his radar. The image continued to flicker and bounce on his screen. It was still there, somewhere to the south. But it was starting to fade. It was pulling away. He only got a look at it about once every ten or fifteen seconds now. And it was far too vague a radar return to get a good lock for his missiles.
Five seconds after launch, the Sunbeam had accelerated to 740 miles per hour and dropped to only twenty feet above the frozen terrain. Its guidance systems kicked in and sent the missile on its preprogrammed flight path toward the city of Moscow. Using infrared sensors and radar, the missile mapped the ground up ahead, then compared the terrain with the data bank in its on-board computers to determine its exact location. It sped along the ground, not bouncing back, but instead absorbing the SU-27’s radar signal, while lifting itself over scattered farm houses and rows of tall trees.
It screamed along at a breathtaking pace. Like a ghost, it sped toward the city. For all intents and purposes, it was invisible. There was absolutely no hope of shooting it down.
The cockpit was very quiet. Ammon hated the silence.
The Bone’s defensive systems had fallen completely silent. Morozov must have shut them down. If there was anything out there, Ammon would never know it.
Ammon plugged back into his interplane communications cord.
“Morozov, we need the defensive systems up,” he started to plead. “You’ve got to tell me what is going on. I’ve got to know where the fighters and SAM sites are, or we’ll never get out of this thing alive.”
Ivan Morozov didn’t respond.
Ammon dished the Bone over a narrow lake and through a small cut in the hills. He pushed the aircraft as fast as he could as he made his way to the south. The aircraft vibrated quietly against the speed. He was pushing his ponies at a dead run, but without any information about possible threats, there wasn’t much else he could do.
Jamming his fighter into tight, sudden turns, Peleznogorsk followed the aircraft as best as he could. Yanking left, he watched as the signal flickered on his radar screen. The Bandit had pulled away to almost twenty-eight kilometers now. His finger strained against the fire trigger on his stick, ready to fire the missiles. But the target-tone remained at an irritating shrill. It pierced his ears with its gyrating tone, but never settled into the familiar and constant low-toned growl which would indicate his missiles were locked onto the target.
The aircraft was flying so fast! Too fast. It couldn’t have been a Ukrainian bomber. Nothing they had could keep up with this.
This wasn’t making any sense!
Peleznogorsk then realized the fleeing aircraft had to be using some kind of terrain-avoidance radar to keep from smashing into the ground. And his target acquisition computer should be able to identify the type of radar it used. He quickly punched a few keys on his computer, commanding it to do an analysis of the fleeing aircraft’s terrain-following radar signal.
Three seconds later, Peleznogorsk had his answer. And as he stared at the read-out on his screen, he couldn’t believe his own eyes.