The electronic systems officer heard the warble in his earphones even before the visual warning appeared on the threat board. "We've been illuminated, Skipper! In the India-band. No missile lock yet."
"Dammit!" cursed the pilot as sweat spurted from his brow. "Maybe they don't have us on visual." "Let's hope," said Whizzo in a tremulous voice. "Yeah, let's see if we can shake 'em." Then the pilot heaved the stick forward and turned the wheel as sharply as he dared.
Tupelov's mouth was agape. He knew his nose radar was dead on, but he was not getting a return.
The lieutenant had never been briefed on the stealth bomber and had no idea of its true capabilities, but he knew the aircraft was very large. He'd seen it, and had it at virtual point-blank radar range. Yet it still would not generate a return. That was impossible, he thought.
Actually, it was possible. If Thpelov had dived straight down on the flat dorsal side of the aircraft, he would have gotten a radar return. But aimed directly from the side the radar signals were deflected or absorbed.
"Well, speak up, man," demanded the colonel over the radio. "Have you shot it down yet?"
Tbpelov gulped. "I do not understand, Comrade Colonel. I am directly on the aircraft's tails, but my missiles will not lock on."
"What is your armament?"
"AA-lOs, sir."
"I told you," huffed Leonov, "the American bomber is designed to avoid radar. Have you other missiles?"
"Yes, Colonel. Aphid heat-seekers."
"Then use them, you fool!"
"Yes, sir." Thpelov was still whipping in and out of cloud patches. He looked ahead and the mystery aircraft was gone. His heart sank until he spied it below him, banking to the right. He wasn't about to lose it again, so he cut in his afterburners to close within two kilometers. He lined up the lumbering craft once more and activated his Aphid infrared missiles. But again, the projectiles refused to lock on, this time defeated by the bomber's masked exhaust. Some of the air scooped up by the intakes was routed around the engine and injected into the exhaust wake to cool the heat signature.
By now, Ibpelov was a basket case. "My Aphid missiles will not lock on either, Comrade Colonel."
A groan came back through the radio. "Then use your cannon, man! Your cannon!"
The young pilot was now mimicking the wide, serpentine turns of his target to stay on its tail. He hadn't thought about his single 23mm cannon, and didn't even know if the magazine was loaded. He turned on the arming switch, and felt a wave of relief when the green light indicated that some conscientious technician had filled the magazine with cannon shells before his Fulcrum left Tselinograd. He pressed his thumb against the red button on his control stick to clear the gun, and a washboard of vibrations ran through his seat — inducing a strange calm into Tbpelov. He looked at the clumsy bomber, trying desperately to hide. It was pitiful, really. He knew it was no match for his nimble Fulcrum.
He pulled back on the stick and brought the Fulcrum up until it was four kilometers above the batwing. Remembering his training, he pushed the stick forward in an assault dive, and placed the target — God, it was big — in the fixed aiming circle of his head-up display. The Fulcrum continued to close on the batwing, but l\ipelov waited until it almost filled the entire circle before pressing the red button.
The pilot was beginning to hope the radar illumination had been a random sweep, but then he felt the vibration and heard the rapid thump-thump-thump of the 23mm cannon shells ripping into his fragile aircraft.
The stealth bomber's greatest strength was also its greatest weakness, in that all of the aircraft's defensive eggs had been placed into one basket — its maneuverability and speed had been traded off for the cloak of radar invisibility. But once that veil of invisibility was penetrated, all that was left for the bomber was a funeral dance. As the first slugs tore into the composite fiber body, the pilot knew it was all over. The cannon shells ripped through fuel tanks, hydraulic lines, electronic components, and on-board computers. The pilot and the Whizzo watched the control panel go haywire just before they were pitched forward into it by centrifugal force. The big bird was spinning out of control.
"Whizzo!" pleaded the Ghost Two pilot over the intercom. "Send the burst! Then eject! Eject! Eject!"
His companion hit the button which sent a high-speed, prerecorded "burst" message to the Milstar communications satellite, then reached under his chair and yanked on the eject handle. The section of ceiling above him disappeared with a BANG! followed by the KA-POW! of his ejector seat exploding. With a swift lack in the butt, the rocket-propelled chair shot him through the opening in a blur.
Hipelov watched in fascination as little black puffs erupted on the dorsal side of the giant batwing. He then pulled his Fulcrum up in a tight loop so he could make ready for another pass, if need be — but he quickly saw that it wasn't necessary. The plodding aircraft seemed to sag to one side before cartwheeling down in a slow death spiral.
"I hit it!" cried Hipelov. "Comrade Colonel, I hit it! It is going down!"
There was a howl of exultation over the radio. "Outstanding, Lieutenant! Outstanding! I have your location plotted and I am dispatching a search party immediately."
"Roger, Colonel. I see a parachute deploying now… and another."
"Excellent," replied the colonel. "The search party will pick up the prisoners. Now, Lieutenant — I daresay it will soon be Captain — did you say you observed two stealth aircraft during your near miss?"
"That is correct, Colonel."
"Where is the other one?"
Hipelov was taken aback. "I do not know, Colonel. I was lucky to find this one with a visual search. I have not seen the other one. They must have taken separate vectors after the near collision."
Some seconds elapsed before the colonel returned. "Lieutenant, listen carefully. We do not know for sure, but these stealth aircraft may be carrying nuclear weapons. I have scrambled the 61st Interceptor Regiment at Balkhash to assist you, but it will take them at least forty-five minutes to reach your location. We must find that second bomber quickly."
"Yes, Colonel. But I am starting to run low on fuel."
"Damn the fuel!" bellowed Leonov. "Find that other plane! Find it!"
"Roger, Comrade Colonel."
Tbpelov didn't know what else to do, so he started his sawtooth search pattern anew, in the direction his Fulcrum was pointing — which was northeast.
Ghost Leader was still flying an evasive pattern northwest of the Baikonur Cosmodrome when the ESO handed him a terse decoded message. The pilot read the paper, which said, simply, go. He looked at his companion. "Okay, Whizzo, it's confirmed. We're going in. How long until the shuttle puts down on the taiget runway?"
The electronic systems officer checked his notes and the digital display on the NavComputer. He then rechecked it with his own navigation program on his personal Hewlett-Packard 41C calculator. "Looks like twenty-four minutes until the shuttle touches down. We've got eleven minutes to the IP from here, plus seventeen minutes on the bomb run. That's a total of twenty-eight minutes to target, which means the shuttle will be on the runway for four minutes before we drop — assuming our data on the shuttle landing time is accurate… Also, all this chasing around up here has sucked up a lot of our fuel. I'm not sure if we can make it back to our refuel rendezvous as is."