There was a long pause before a chastened voice responded: "Wait one… I am patching you through to the Aerospace Defense Warning Centre."
Iceberg watched the external temperature gauge start to inch up. His altitude was 400,000 feet above the earth, traveling at 16,500 mph, and the external tiles were beginning to warm up. He jettisoned the remaining fuel in the forward reaction control tanks to further improve the spacecraft's balance, then inflated his anti-g pressure suit and switched the pitch, yaw, and roll controls to auto. In five minutes he would be in die grip of the blackout, and until he took back manual control, the guidance of the spacecraft rested in the hands of the NavComputer and digital autopilot.
Monaghan hit the switch, and the pylons which had held the Phoenix missiles in place on top of die wings were released. Lamborghini watched diem drift up and away from the spacecraft, and felt the pressure inside his spacesuit increase.
"The outside is heating up," said Monaghan. "On the way down I'm gonna make the S-turns a littie tighter than programmed so we can reel in Iceberg on the flip side of the blackout. We're not gonna have that much time to find him before we have to put down somewhere, so let's keep the radar warmed up."
"I'm with you, Mad Dog."
In the Crow's Nest of the Warning Centre, Col. Valery Leo-nov felt harried, frustrated, and tired. His uniform was rumpled and his wavy gray hair disheveled. He was still way behind on the stacks of paperwork left over from the fiasco caused by that contemptible American Blackbird spy plane a few days ago. He was having to explain to every general in the Soviet Air Defense Forces why he'd missed shooting the damned thing down. And if that wasn't enough, the Americans had gone crazy and increased their military posture to an incredibly high degree. On the large screen depicting the Northern Hemisphere, there were no fewer than a hundred American bogies — undoubtedly bombers and tankers — prowling above the Arctic ice cap. For what reason he couldn't fathom. There had been no notification of the exercise through normal channels, and the Russian-language BBC broadcasts — which he secretly monitored at home — had said nothing about international tensions. He could not understand what prompted such a massive unannounced exercise. In any event, increased American bomber activity required a heightened Soviet alert posture, which consumed more of his time, and that meant he would fall further behind on his paperwork.
His phone buzzed. He grabbed it and irritably said, "Yes, what is it?"
"Yes, Comrade Colonel," replied one of the controllers. "I have the commander of radar Sector two-three-Romeo in Kazakhstan on the line. He says he has an unusual situation in his area that requires consultation with you."
Leonov sighed. "Very well. Put him through."
There were some clicks and buzzes before another voice came on the line. "Comrade Colonel?"
"Yes, yes. What is it you want?"
"Ahem, yes, Comrade Colonel. This is Major Kubasov of Sector two-three-Romeo in Kazakhstan. I have a, ah, bizarre situation here that, I am afraid, must have your attention."
Just what I need, thought Leonov. More craziness. "Very well. Speak up. What is it?"
Major Kubasov of Section 23-R quickly recounted his problem with the Fulcrum pilot, but, of course, couched it in such terms to make Hipelov sound like a lunatic."… and he insists on talking to you, Colonel," concluded Kubasov.
In a resigned voice, Leonov said, "This entire week has been madness. Why stop now? Put him through."
' 'Yes, Comrade Colonel.'' A few more squeaks came through the line. "Go ahead, Colonel."
Leonov keyed his mike. "MiG seven-seveji-echo, this is Colonel Leonov, duty officer commander of the Aerospace Defense Warning Centre. I understand you wish to speak with me."
There was static on the line until a young voice came through. "Yes, sir. This is Lieutenant Fyodor Hipelov, second battalion, 77th Interceptor Regiment, stationed at Tbilisi. I was flying a routine transport mission from Tselinograd to Tbilisi when I had a near midair collision with two unidentified aircraft in the clouds. I informed radar control division, Sector two-three-Romeo of the sighting, but was told there were no aircraft in my area except my Fulcrum, and I was ordered to land at my base. Sir, I felt the situation was serious, therefore I disobeyed those orders and commenced an air search for those unidentified aircraft. I located one and now have him in visual contact."
Hmmm, thought Leonov. This pilot did not sound deranged.
'Wait one, MiG seven-seven-echo," he said, while rotating a dial to zoom in on Section 23-R of his large projection screen. "I see you on my screen, MiG seven-seven-echo. Southwest of the Baikonur Cosmodrome. Is that correct?"
"Yes, sir."
"I see no other aircraft in your vicinity," said Leonov. "But you say you have this bogie in sight?"
"Yes, Comrade," replied Hipelov.
The colonel scratched his wavy gray hair. He found this intriguing. "Describe it to me," he ordered.
' 'Yes, sir. It is unlike anything I have ever seen. It is somewhat delta-shaped, but elongated. Black in color. Approximately the size of a Blackjack bomber. It is not propeller-driven, yet I see no engine pods for jet engines."
"Hmmm. How odd. Any markings on the wings or tail?" asked Leonov.
There was a delay in Tupelov's response. "No, sir. There are no markings on the wing or tail. In fact, sir, there is no tail stabilizer on this aircraft."
Leonov had only been curious about what the young lieutenant was saying, but when the words "no tail stabilizer" were mentioned, everything suddenly came into focus with horrifying clarity. All at once the American bombers over the Arctic ice cap made sense. The "invisible" mystery aircraft over Kazakhstan made sense. Even that Blackbird penetration made sense now. It was unthinkable. The Motherland was under a surprise attack!
Leonov looked at the screen once more. It showed only the Fulcrum. His heart leapt into his throat. "Lieutenant! That is an American stealth bomber!"
Tupelov was bewildered. He'd never heard the term "stealth bomber" before. That was because only senior officers received briefings on such advanced American technology. "I am sorry, Comrade Colonel. I do not know what a… 'stealth' bomber is."
"It is an American warplane designed to avoid radar detection!" shouted Leonov. "And it apparently works! Shoot it down! Shoot it down now!"
"Shoot it down! Shoot it down now!" screamed through Hipelov's headphones.
"At once, Comrade Colonel!" responded Hipelov. The young man's hands began trembling. Dear God, he thought. I am actually going to shoot down an American bomber. He tried to control his nervousness and remember his training. Missiles! Use the missiles! TUpelov eased back on his throtde and let the distance between him and the black batwing increase. His AA-10 radar-guided missiles had to travel at least two kilometers before the warhead would arm. He hung back four kilometers, losing sight of the target in the clouds ahead. The loss of visual contact bothered him as he illuminated his monopulse radar in the fighter's nose, which was directly in line with the bomber's tail.