Whizzo's bug eyes were transfixed on the nose-camera video screen."Yeah!" he replied in a quaking voice. "And I think I saw some missiles under the wing!"
Ghost Leader uttered another high-pitched "Shit!" Then he gulped and asked, "Is the laser channel open?"
Whizzo nervously fiddled with his hand controller before saying, "Open, Skipper."
The pilot keyed his mike. "Ghost Two, this is Lead. Did you see that?"
"See it?" came the excited reply. "I nearly took his fucking tail section off!"
Lead's stomach started knotting up. "Oh, great, just what we need. Did you catch what it was?"
"I dunno," said Ghost Two anxiously. "It was too fast. A Fulcrum? Maybe a Flanker? Can't say. Whatever it was, it had a double tail — I can tell you that for sure. It didn't clear my windshield by more than ten feet. You think they got us spotted?"
"I don't know. Hold on." Leader was sweating as he turned to the major and asked, "You picking up anything?"
The Whizzo scanned his instruments. "Nothing, Skipper.
Threat board shows only normal search radars working. Nothing in the X-ray or India bands."
"My Whizzo says we're not picking up any SAM search, air-to-air search, or lock-on," said Leader to Ghost TVvo. "Only normal navigational search."
"My Whizzo says the same thing," replied Two. "But how did they know where to look for us?"
"Damned if I know," said Leader through his teeth. "Listen, we better split up and take evasive action. If Omaha transmits the go signal, you take the alternate southern approach to the target and I'll come in from the north. Stay in the clouds as much as you can. They may be looking for us, but I bet we're still blind on their radar."
"Roger, Lead. We'll see you back in Muskrat" — slang for Muscat. "If we get the go, put your load where it counts."
"You got it, Ghost Two. Good luck. Lead out." After cutting the transmission, Leader said through the intercom, "All right, Whizzo, I don't know how they found us, but it looks like we've been spotted. Even so, we're sticking with the game plan. I think we'll be okay as long as we stay in the clouds. If we get the go, Ghost T\vo will approach from the south and we'll come in from the north. Keep an eye on that threat board."
"Roger, Skipper."
Leader pushed his control stick forward and turned the wheel. The batwing responded and began a lumbering, diving turn to the northeast.
Fyodor Tbpelov tried to hold the Fulcrum steady in level flight, but he was shaking so violently from fright that it was difficult. And when his shaking turned into sobs, it became almost impossible. God in heaven! What had he seen? Those big, black, sinister creatures had come out of nowhere and almost swallowed his Fulcrum. They did not look of this world. Tbpelov clutched the control stick with two hands. He'd never known such panic. He forced himself to take long, even breaths. Good.
That helped… deeper breaths now. Better. He kept the oxygen going in and out, and slowly the terror subsided. Hipelov was regaining control of himself and his aircraft. As the clouds whipped by his cockpit, he told himself to go back to flite school basics. Identify the problem, then correct it.
First, what were they? They were unlike anything Hipelov had ever seen. The concept of a UFO was foreign to him, so it didn't even enter his mind. He knew that however bizarre, those flying black batwings were of this earth. And if they were in Russian airspace, that meant the ground air traffic controllers had to know about them; for in the Soviet Union, no one ever left the ground without filing a laborious flite plan. And if that was the case, the air controller in Sector 23-Romeo had been grossly negligent, incredibly stupid, or had deliberately lied to him. When this thought took hold in Hipelov's mind, his fear was quickly supplanted by anger — a deep, searing, blinding fury — and he keyed his mike. "Air control division, Sector two-three-Romeo, this is MiG seven-seven-echo. Do you read? Over."
There was a pause until a bored voice came on the air. "Roger, seven-seven-echo, we read you, over."
Hipelov recognized the voice as the one that had given him his original clearance. "Air control, on our last transmission I thought you said there was no air traffic in my area!"
There were some moments of silence before the controller came back: "Affirmative, seven-seven-echo. I have you on my screen at one-one-zero-seven-eight meters altitude, bearing two-two-niner degrees. There is no traffic in your area except for the Aeroflot flite you were advised of earlier."
Hipelov's face turned scarlet. "You listen to me, you stupid ass! I just avoided a midair collision by no more than three meters with two unidentified aircraft! Why did you not advise me of them?"
The controller responded in a puzzled voice, "You say you almost had a midair collision?"
"Yes, you ass! How many times do I have to repeat myself? Your negligence could have gotten me killed!"
There was a pause before the controller said, "You are mistaken, seven-seven-echo. I see nothing on my screen in your area but your aircraft.''
"Mistaken! I could have touched those bogies if I had wanted to! Are you asleep down there? Or just stupid? Or both?"
There was another pause, longer this time, and a different voice came on the radio. "MiG seven-seven-echo, this is the commander of Sector two-three-Romeo air traffic division. You claim you had a near miss?"
The feet that the ground control commander was on the radio stole some of T\ipelov's thunder, but nevertheless, he pressed his case. "Yes, Commander, that is correct."
"Describe the aircraft to me," ordered the commander.
"There were two aircraft," said Hipelov precisely. "Delta shaped. Black in color. No maricings that I could see. Very large. Bigger than a Backfire bomber. Perhaps as big as a Blackjack."
A moment of silence. "Big as a Blackjack bomber?"
"Yes, Commander," replied Hipelov.
It was a biting voice that came over the radio now. "You listen to me, MiG seven-seven-echo. If we can see your tiny aircraft on our screen, do you not think we would be able to see two huge Blackjack-sized airplanes?"
Hipelov was careful. "Yes, Commander, I would think so. Are you saying you are not tracking them?"
"That is exactly what I am saying, seven-seven-echo," replied the commander. "We are tracking no aircraft of any kind near your location, except for the Aeroflot jediner that is far from you. How do you explain that?"
Puzzled, Hipelov said, "I cannot explain it, Commander. I only know what I saw. The two aircraft were very large, and I almost collided with one."
A grunt came over the air. "Would you be suffering from hypoxia, seven-seven-echo?"
Hipelov was startled at this suggestion. "Absolutely not, Commander. My oxygen is working fine."
Another grunt. "Your flite plan shows you are assigned to the 77th Interceptor Regiment at Tbilisi. Is that correct?"
"That is correct, Commander."
The ground control commander's voice was hard now. "You are hereby ordered to continue on your flite plan. I am preparing a report about your hallucinations that will be on your commanding officer's desk when you arrive. In the future, I suggest you stay away from the vodka before piloting one of the Motherland's aircraft."
"But Comrade Commander," protested Thpelov, "I saw—"
"Our radar can see better than your vodka-filled, bloodshot eyes, MiG seven-seven-echo. In fact, I can see you now on my screen, but I do not see these two Blackjack-sized aircraft you claim to have nearly collided with. Now quit hallucinating, get off this channel, and report to your commanding officer in Tbilisi at once! Preferably sober. Sector two-three-Romeo, out."