Thorsen kept his eyes moving between his fighter’s nav display and its threat-warning system. Winning tonight’s little game with the Russians would demand both absolute precision… and deception. He listened intently for the chirping sound that would indicate he was being painted by enemy radar. There was only silence. “Confirm naked,” he radioed.
Affirmative replies flowed through his headset. No one else in the strike force showed any hostile radar warning receiver indications either. For the moment, they were effectively invisible. Seconds later, his F/A-18E reached the preset point. “Action Delta,” Thorsen ordered.
He pulled back on the stick slightly, climbed a couple of hundred feet, and then toggled the weapons release. One after another, two small ADM-160B miniature air-launched decoys, or MALDs, fell away from under his Super Hornet’s wings.
Immediately Thorsen broke hard left, clearing the way for the pilots in his wake to launch their own decoys. His wingman turned with him. Thirteen of the fighters in the two Super Hornet squadrons were carrying MALDs. The other eleven were armed for air-to-air combat — ready to engage only if the strike force was jumped by Russian aircraft, or if the enemy launched a retaliatory attack against the Reagan and its escorts.
In pairs, the rest of the F/A-18Es reached the launch point, fired their MALDs, and rolled back toward Hokkaido. They were accompanied by the pair of EA-18G Growler electronic warfare aircraft assigned to this mission.
Behind the departing navy strike force, a flock of twenty-six tiny decoys arrowed onward toward the Russian coastline. Ultralight turbojet engines propelled them at close to six hundred knots. Programs were running in their onboard computers, counting down the minutes to activation. Once that happened, the decoys would begin mimicking the radar signatures and flight profiles of the Super Hornets and Growlers. Two of them were more advanced ADM-160C MALD-Js, equipped to act both as decoys and as radar jammers.
Colonel General Leonov sat down at his workstation and snapped, “Brief me, Semyon!”
His deputy, Lieutenant General Semyon Tikhomirov, obeyed, offering a quick rundown of the most recent developments. “Our air defense missile regiments at Knyaze, Komsomolsk, Vladivostok, and Nakhodka are on full alert. So are all army and Pacific Fleet units in Kamchatka and on the Kurils.”
“What about our fighter and bomber regiments?” Leonov asked.
“The alert Su-35S fighters from both the 23rd Fighter Aviation Regiment at Dzemgi near Komsomolsk and the 22nd Regiment at Tsentralnaya Uglovaya near Vladivostok have already scrambled. They are currently orbiting over both air bases, awaiting further orders. Both regiments are fueling and arming their remaining aircraft with all possible speed. The Su-24s and Su-34s of the 277th Bomber Aviation Regiment and the Su-25s of the 18th Guards Attack Aviation Regiment have also been alerted, but it will take considerably more time to ready their planes for operations.”
“And the Americans? Where are they now?”
Tikhomirov brought up a map. A solid red line indicated the flight path followed by the carrier-based aircraft while they were being tracked on radar. It faded out over Hokkaido, replaced by a dotted red line extending out across the Sea of Japan… aimed straight at Khabarovsk and onward toward the Vostochny Cosmodrome much farther inland. A small blip just off the Russian coast pulsed slowly, moving steadily northwest with every separate pulse. “This is the air staff’s projection of that enemy formation’s most likely current position, based on its last known course and speed.”
Leonov nodded. This estimate could be wrong, particularly if the enemy strike force had radically altered its heading after dropping off radar. But that was doubtful. If the Americans were serious about hitting Vostochny, they first had to knock out the S-400 SAMs sited just east of Khabarovsk. Given the distances involved and the need to fly in heavily loaded with air-to-ground ordnance, those U.S. Navy F/A-18s couldn’t dick around. They wouldn’t have the fuel to carry out elaborate maneuvers designed to spread Russia’s defenses. No, he thought coldly, it was straight up the middle or nothing for those American pilots — trusting in their Super Hornets’ defensive systems and jamming support from electronic warfare planes to break through and destroy his S-400 launchers and radars.
That wasn’t a particularly good bet.
Then Leonov frowned. But it wasn’t impossible either, especially if the Americans used some of the high-tech drones and radar-spoofing technology pioneered by the mercenary Iron Wolf Squadron in recent conflicts with Russia. If so, it would be wise to move a backup force into position. He looked at Tikhomirov. “Tell Colonel Federov at Dzemgi that I want every available fighter from his regiment in the air as soon as possible. Send them west of Khabarovsk, ready to intercept any enemy strike aircraft that slip through.”
Impatiently, Colonel Ivan Federov tugged on his flight helmet and hurried toward his waiting Su-35S fighter. From all across the airfield, the earsplitting howl of Saturn AL-41F1S turbofan engines spooling up shattered the night. A handful of his regiment’s aircraft were already taxiing out of their revetments and hardened shelters. He scowled. Between planes that were down for routine maintenance and the inevitable delays involved in rousting sleeping pilots and ground crews out of their quarters, the 23rd would be fortunate to get half its strength into the air before this American raid had come and gone.
It was not the sort of result that would endear him to his superiors, especially Colonel General Leonov. The commander of Russia’s aerospace forces was not a man who accepted excuses, even when they were reasonable.
Swearing under his breath, Federov started up the ladder to the Su-35’s cockpit. With a bit of luck, he might get a chance to tangle with the enemy’s F/A-18s. Coming back to Dzemgi with a couple of kills should absolve a host of other perceived sins.
“Colonel!” a voice yelled up at him, pitched to carry over the shrill din of jet engines coming to life.
He turned around on the ladder, furious at the interruption. “What?”
It was Uvarov, his executive officer. He looked out of breath. “Lieutenant Khryukin just phoned in from that little town up north. He says—”
Federov’s temper exploded. “Fuck that little shit!” he snarled. “For God’s sake, Uvarov, we’re in a combat situation here! I don’t have time to deal with that moron right now. You handle whatever mess Khryukin has made.” Then, dismissing the interruption from his mind, he swung himself into the Su-35’s cockpit and started strapping in.
“Multiple faint S-band, X-band, and VHF radar emissions detected from ten o’clock to eight o’clock. Some are ground-based. Others are airborne. Ranges indeterminate. Detection probabilities are all nil,” the XCV-62’s computer announced calmly.
Nadia Rozek studied her threat-warning display closely and then turned to Peter Vasey with a triumphant smile. “Something seems to have rattled the Russians, Constable. They appear to be activating every available radar set between Vladivostok and Komsomolsk.”
“Do tell,” the Englishman said dryly. He kept his eyes fixed firmly on his HUD and his hands poised carefully on the stick and throttles. Even with the help of the Ranger’s digital terrain-following system, a night flight at low altitude over the sea was a dangerous business. A split-second loss of focus at the wrong moment could send them plowing nose first into the ocean.