“We hit the enemy EW aircraft!” one of Titov’s fire-control officers announced gleefully.
With the destruction of their jammer aircraft, the radar images of the surviving seven American strike fighters sharpened considerably. Now they had no protection whatsoever against the next S-400 salvo.
It was all over in less than a minute.
Leonov pursed his lips as he listened to the whoops and cheers as Titov’s relieved officers and missile battery crews celebrated their one-sided victory. Something is wrong here, he thought critically. This attack had been defeated too easily. Much too easily. They were all missing something.
He connected directly to Titov. “Were any of your sensor posts or missile launchers fired on by any of those American aircraft, Vladimir?”
The other man sounded equally puzzled. “No, sir. Not by so much as a single standoff attack missile or bomb.”
An ugly realization dawned in Leonov’s mind. “Those were decoy drones, Colonel. There were no real U.S. Navy aircraft among them. This was a trick.”
“But to what purpose?” Titov asked.
“How many of your surface-to-air missiles did you expend against this diversion?” Leonov asked in return.
There was a moment of stunned silence. “More than half,” Titov admitted.
Leonov saw his deputy, Lieutenant General Tikhomirov, signaling frantically at him. He lowered the phone. “What is it, Semyon?”
Tikhomirov pointed toward one of their screens, which suddenly showed a new set of threat icons over Hokkaido. “The early warning radar on Iturup has just detected another large formation of enemy aircraft headed toward Knyaze-Volkonskoye.”
Leonov’s mouth tightened to a thin line. “Hell.” He spoke into the phone again. “Get your men back in control and have your regiment stand to again, Titov. The Americans were drawing your fire earlier. Now they’re sending in their real attack force.”
For the second time that night, Commander Dane “Viking” Thorsen listened to the continuous warble that showed the Russian radar on Iturup had spotted his strike force as it climbed higher, above the shelter of Hokkaido’s mountains. Now you see us, he thought cheerfully, but pretty soon you won’t.
He spoke into his radio. “This is D-Back One-Five. Nice wriggling, guys. We’ve definitely got their attention. Execute plan Echo as fragged.”
Again, Thorsen took his F/A-18E Super Hornet back down, losing altitude fast to drop back into the radar shadow. The other strike fighters and electronic warfare aircraft under his command followed him.
But this time, as soon as the warning tone from that distant surveillance radar faded away, he banked southeast — turning toward a narrow pass that ran through the range of jagged volcanic peaks bisecting Hokkaido. His aircraft were headed back toward the Reagan. Only from now on, they would stay low all the way to avoid detection.
Thorsen grinned happily. Eventually, around thirty minutes from now, those Russian assholes were going to start figuring out that they’d been suckered… for the second time in the same night. While he wasn’t sure exactly why he and the other Reagan pilots were putting on this show — that was information restricted to the CAG, the carrier air wing commander and his ultimate boss, the rear admiral in overall command of the carrier strike group — any chance to twist the bear’s tail was always welcome.
“We are ninety seconds out from the LZ,” Nadia Rozek said. She knew that her voice sounded tight and strained, and she regretted this lapse in cool, calm professionalism. But there was no help for it. They were approaching the make-or-break moment in this attempt to rescue Brad McLanahan. If the wide stretch of clear ground they’d picked out from satellite photos and maps as a landing zone turned out to be unusable — either because it was too rough or too boggy — there was no second option.
Peter Vasey peered through his HUD. The XCV-62’s forward-looking night-vision camera systems turned the darkness around them into a green-tinged version of daylight. Right now their planned landing area was a patch of brighter green against the darker green of the surrounding woods and low-lying marshes. “I have the LZ in sight,” he confirmed.
Nadia tapped one of her MFDs, scanning the area through one of the Ranger’s passive sensors. Her heart leaped when she saw the single human-sized thermal image crouched in good cover near the edge of the woods. “I see Brad!” she exclaimed. “He is alone. There are no other unidentified contacts around the LZ.”
Quickly, she toggled a single pulse from their air-to-ground radar. A tone sounded in her headset as the Ranger’s radar swept the valley ahead of them. The information it collected appeared as an image on her display. “No hidden obstructions,” she reported. “And the ground looks firm.”
“Right, then,” Vasey said decisively. “We are go for landing.” He entered a new command into his computer and throttled back. “We’d best let our passengers know.”
Nadia tapped a key. “We are coming in to the LZ, Major Schofield. Stand by.”
“Standing by,” the Canadian’s voice replied from the aft troop compartment. “My lads and I are ready to move out the moment you drop the ramp.”
Beside her, Vasey scrolled a cursor across his HUD, selecting his planned touchdown point. Another quick series of movements lowered their landing gear and disengaged the Ranger’s terrain-following system. He chopped the throttles back even farther. Control surfaces opened, providing more lift.
As its airspeed decreased, the XCV-62 descended toward the broad clearing ahead. The three Iron Wolf drones that had flown with them from Attu Island climbed slightly and banked away. Following the orders programmed in earlier by Nadia through their communications links, the two Coyotes and the Howler would circle low overhead while they were on the ground.
Alerted by the roar of several turbofan engines, Brad McLanahan looked up through overhanging branches in time to spot a distinctive batwinged aircraft slide across the sky, briefly silhouetted against the pale moon. For a moment, overcome with sheer relief, he blinked back sudden tears. You are not going to start bawling like a baby, McLanahan, he told himself fiercely. Not in front of Nadia. Or anyone else for that matter.
With his jaw clenched against an expected surge of discomfort from his injured right shoulder and leg, he forced himself back to his feet. And then the pain hit, more like a solid wall of white-hot flame than a passing wave. For a long moment, his whole world narrowed down to a single sensation.
“Jesus,” Brad hissed through gritted teeth. He breathed out deeply in an effort to expel the sudden agony that otherwise threatened to overwhelm him. Slowly, the excruciating pain from his shoulder and leg eased up, becoming merely the usual sharp, throbbing aches that never really left him, even when he dozed.
At last, he lifted his head and saw the XCV-62 Ranger touch down on the clear ground beyond the woods. The aircraft bounced once and then slowed fast as its pilot reversed thrust. Trailing a cloud of torn grass and dust, it slowed to a stop no more than a couple of hundred yards from his position.
Without waiting any longer, Brad hobbled down the gentle slope and out into the open.