The answer was painfully simple. One of Lamborghini's targets — which the $128 million Phoenix-VII prototype had destroyed — was the spent launch shroud that had covered the Progress engine and mating collar while they were transported on the Russian cargo booster. After being jettisoned, the launch shroud had drifted a mile from the other two spacecraft — reflecting a lovely radar signature.
At the same time, the Soyuz was poised directly between the Kestrel and the Intrepid, where the butterfly solar panels of the Soviet spacecraft blocked Lamborghini's radar sweeps before they could strike the American shuttle. When the Intrepid retro-fired and moved out from behind the "mask" of the Soyuz, the Kestrel's AWG-14 radar picked it up — too late to assign it as a target for the Phoenix missiles.
"Range still increasing." Lamborghini was reluctant to admit what was coming into focus as the bitter truth. "Mad Dog… I think that's Iceberg getting away."
Monaghan didn't even take time to think. With his four thousand hours in jet fighter aircraft and his Irish chromosomes, nothing but distilled instinct governed him now. He spat, "My ass!" then disengaged the autopilot from the fire-control computer and quickly flipped the Kestrel so it was traveling upside down and backward. He checked the attitude direction indicator to make sure his alignment was correct, then without hesitation he mashed the trigger button to fire the OMS engines.
As the spacecraft vibrated, Lamborghini shouted, "Mad Dog! What the hell are you doing?"
Monaghan felt himself sink into his seat as the braking action of the OMS engine took effect. "I'm going after that son of a bitch!"
Oh, joy! This was flying!
Lt. Fyodor Tupelov put his MiG-29 into a double snap roll and howled in absolute delight.
The young aviator had been a top graduate from the Frunze military academy, as well as the number-one graduate in his flite school class. His proficiency, his Party activism, and the fact that his father was a high-level Party apparatchik had enabled Tbpelov to land a plum assignment — flying the highly sophisticated MiG-29 Fulcrum fighter with the 77th Interceptor Regiment at Tbilisi. It was a rare honor for such a young man, and he was one of only two lieutenant pilots in the entire regiment. Such expensive and sophisticated aircraft were usually entrusted to older, more experienced aviators.
And what an aircraft this Fulcrum was! The athletic, blond Tbpelov often boasted that with a Fulcrum he'd gladly go to the newly reoccupied Afghanistan for a chance to tangle with one of those vaunted Pakistani F-16s. Yet because he was a young officer, Tupelov rarely got the opportunity to push his sophisticated MiG-29 to the edge of it performance "envelope." The Fulcrum was an expensive plane, and despite his flite school credentials, T\ipelov was young. Therefore, tight controls were consistently imposed on his flying. Always, from the moment he took off until he landed, his every movement was monitored by senior commanders and ground controllers. On any given training mission, Hipelov was told when to take off, when to join the formation, when to peel off from the formation, what training maneuver to execute, when to execute it, when to stop, and when to rejoin the formation. Everything was done within strict parameters. He never had a chance to truly let loose and bore holes in the sky — no opportunity to become one with the aircraft.
Until now.
Hipelov had just picked up a brand-spanking-new Fulcrum from the air-maintenance depot at Tselinograd and was en route to join his regiment at Tbilisi near the Black Sea. His new Fulcrum had been outfitted with its complement of AA-10 and Aphid missiles, along with external tanks to carry the aircraft through the 3,000-kilometer journey. Tupelov was alone with his aircraft, flying over the Kazakhstan steppes, which were covered with a patchwork quilt of giant cumulonimbus clouds. The young pilot was having the time of his life, snaking through the canyons created by the giant white thunderheads — rolling, climbing, and playing tag with the airborne pillows to his heart's content. He'd always dreamed flying could be like this, and now his dreams were fulfilled.
But Hipelov wasn't one to let his headiness carry him too far. In zipping over and around the clouds, the last thing he needed was a midair collision. He checked his map and saw that he was crossing into another air traffic control division — Sector 23-R. He set his radio for the proper frequency and keyed his mike. "Air control division, two-three-Romeo, this is MiG seven-seven-echo, do you read? Over."
"Roger, seven-seven-echo," came a detached voice over the radio, "we read you, over."
T\ipelov said, "I am flying on air defense flite plan number niner-seven-whiskey-foxtrot, from Tselinograd to Tbilisi, on vector two-three-two at eight thousand meters altitude. I am on visual flite rules. Is there any traffic in my area? Over."
"Stand by," came the robotic voice. A few seconds elapsed, then, "Negative, seven-seven-echo. You have no traffic in your sector except for an Aeroflot jetliner. It is seventy kilometers east of you at eleven thousand meters altitude en route to New Delhi on vector one-five-seven."
Seventy kilometers east, and Ttopelov was traveling west. The path ahead of him was clear as could be. "Roger, air control two-three-Romeo. Thank you. MiG seven-seven-echo, out."
But the ground controller wasn't finished yet. "We have noticed your course has been somewhat erratic, MiG seven-seven-echo. Are you having any difficulty with your aircraft?" The question was asked in a quasi-threatening tone, and this caused TUpelov to be wary. Ground controllers were always snoopy— and arrogant. They acted as if they owned the airspace. Tupelov wanted to give a response that was plausible, yet not offensive. Something that would not stir up any trouble, but allow him to keep having a good time. He keyed his mike and tried to sound authoritative. "There is no problem, air control. I am checking out the performance on a new aircraft." Which was true. "Request clearance for discretionary climb and descent between seven thousand and twelve thousand meters on my present vector."
"Very well, seven-seven-echo. Proceed at your discretion, but you are advised not to deviate from your flite plan."
That meant no loops or backtracking, but as long as he kept heading for Tbilisi, he could play as much as he wanted to— until he came within range of his regimental radar control centre. Then he would have to play it by the book. "Thank you, air control two-three-Romeo. MiG seven-seven-echo will comply with your instructions. Out.'' The young pilot smiled. Evidently he'd sounded authoritative enough. Now he could have some more fun.
Hipelov was cruising along the top of a puffy field of clouds at eight thousand meters altitude, but ahead of him the clouds billowed up into two Goliath thunderheads, extending to fifteen thousand meters in height and creating a giant canyon between them. Hipelov hooted, then shoved his throttles in and climbed up the middle of the canyon. At eleven thousand meters he leveled off and wove back and forth between the canyon walls-brushing up against one fluffy side, then the other. Ahhhhhh! Complete delight! He was deep into the canyon gorge now, and he brought his aircraft midway between the white towers to put the Fulcrum into a slow, lazy barrel roll. Hipelov was halfway through his aerobatic maneuver — poised in the heads-down inverted position — when two giant black batwings roared out of the cloud bank, sandwiched his Fulcrum between them, and then plunged into the far canyon wall — vanishing as quickly as they had appeared.
Had Ghost Leader not been held firm by his shoulder harness, he would have leapt out of his seat as he screamed, "Shit!" — and yelped at his companion, "Did you see that!?"