“602, Tsaryov. Are you approaching target?”
“Yes, I am approaching target. Moving in closer.”
They all listened intently, only the hiss of the radio indicating they were still in touch with the interceptor.
“Tsaryov, 602. The target’s strobe light is blinking. I am within two kilometres. Target height 33,000. Instructions, over.
“Tsaryov, 602. Wait. Target is decreasing speed and climbing. It’s going too slow. I’m going to pass it. I’ll fly back around.”
“602, Tsaryov. Increase speed.”
“I have increased speed.”
“Has the target increased speed?”
“Negative, its speed is decreasing.”
“602, Tsaryov. Open fire, open fire on target.”
“It’s too late. I am alongside of it. It’s going too slow, about 400 kilometres per hour. We have already flown beyond the island.”
“602, Tsaryov. Roger. Take up a position for an attack.”
“I will have to fall back if I am to hit the target.”
“602, Tsaryov. Try and destroy it with cannons.”
The comms hissed, blanked out as the 23mm gun pods on the fuselage pylons erupted, rounds firing in the direction of the passenger aircraft.
“I’ve tried. No success. Target now at 35,000.”
Dimitriev, incensed, picked up a handset and broke into the conversation. “Greckov, cut out all of this crap. What the hell is going on? I repeat my command. Get your pilots to fire on the target, fire missiles, bring it down!”
The Commander of the 41st Fighter Regiment responded quickly, recognising his commander’s impatience. “Task received. We will destroy the target with missile fire.”
“Just carry out my orders and destroy it. Fuck, how long does it take to get into attack position? The target is already above neutral waters. Engage afterburners immediately. Tsaryov, bring in the Mig-23, call sign 502, as well. While we’re wasting time, the intruder is getting away.”
“Tsaryov, 602. Dropping back. Coming in above and behind. Will try missiles.”
Oborin reduced the power of the fighter’s turbojet engines, dropping right back, getting into a position where he could approach the unidentified aircraft from above and behind again.
“Tsaryov, 502. Ten kilometres to target. I see the target and 602 on screen.”
“602, Tsaryov. Approach and destroy target now.”
“Roger. I have lock-on again.”
“Are you closing in on the target?”
“I am closing in on the target. I have lock-on. Distance to target eight kilometres.”
“602, Tsaryov. Afterburner. Afterburner!”
“I have already switched it on.”
“Launch!”
“Tsaryov. I have executed launch.”
“Comrade General Dimitriev, 602 has launched.”
“Greckov, I don’t understand. What the hell is going on? Shoot it down. Now!” ordered Dimitriev.
“He has launched, sir,” responded Greckov.
“Follow the target, follow the target. Get 602 out of there and bring in 502.”
“Tsaryov, 602. Target destroyed. Low on fuel, returning to base.”
“Colonel Greckov, this General Dimitriev. Why is the target still flying? Why did he not shoot it down?”
“602, Tsaryov. Break off attack, heading 360.”
“Tsaryov, 602. Roger.”
“Tsaryov, 502. What are my instructions? My wing tanks have lit up. Fuel low. I am turning left, heading of 180.”
“Greckov, did Oborin see the missiles explode? Hello?” demanded Dimitriev.
“He fired two missiles, Comrade General.”
“Ask him yourself. Get onto channel 2 and ask him yourself. Did he see the explosions?”
“602, Greckov. Did you launch one missile or both?”
“I launched both.”
He sat down in front of the large Resolute desk, made from the timbers of HMS Resolute in 1879 and presented to President Rutherford B Hayes by Queen Victoria in 1880. A brass desk lamp sat on the highly polished surface at the far end. Behind him, the room featured three large, south-facing windows. In his charcoal-grey suit, crisp white shirt and navy and light blue striped tie, he looked every inch the President of the most powerful country in the world: the President of the United States. Behind him, the US flag and the President’s flag stood proud either side of the centre window.
The cameraman gave the President the signal to start.
“I’m coming before you tonight about the Korean airline massacre, the attack by the Soviet Union against 277 innocent men, women and children aboard an unarmed Korean passenger plane. This crime against humanity must never be forgotten, here or throughout the world…
“…and make no mistake about it, this attack was not just against ourselves or the Republic of Korea. This was the Soviet Union against the world and the standards of decency which guide human relations among people everywhere. It was an act of barbarism, born of a society which wantonly disregards individual rights and the value of human life, and seeks constantly to expand and dominate other nations…
“…we have informed the Soviets that we’re suspending negotiations on several bilateral arrangements we had under consideration…
“…I’ve told you of the negotiations we have suspended as a result of the Korean airline massacre, but we cannot, we must not give up our effort to reduce the arsenals of destructive weapons threatening the world…
“…we are more determined than ever to reduce and, if possible, eliminate the threat hanging over mankind…”
Chapter 6
The Soviet junior lieutenant placed the cup of coffee on the metal desk in front of his duty commanding officer.
“I’ve just finished the duty roster for the next month, Comrade Colonel. Would you like me to bring it in now, sir?”
The duty officer picked up the cup, sniffed the aroma, then put it back down next to his peaked cap with its light blue band and piping, the large saddle-shaped crown face down.
“Smells good, Azarov. No, I’ll look at it later. Who is manning the console?”
“Captain Bezrukov, sir.”
Lieutenant Colonel Sergei Perov sat back, swinging his highly polished booted feet up onto the desk in front of him, leaning his weight back, precariously supported on the two thin legs of his uncomfortable metal chair. He swung forward, grabbed his coffee again and then leant back, rocking slightly the spindly chair. He took a sip from his favourite porcelain cup, a gift from his wife on her return from a trip into East Germany the previous year. It was Mycin, significantly superior to anything that was made in Mother Russia, he thought. He felt guilty for a fraction of a second about his disloyal thoughts, but then accepted that his motherland couldn’t expect to be perfect at everything.
“OK, I’ll do a tour of the site once I’ve finished this.” Perov held his cup up towards his junior officer.
The lieutenant left to carry on with his duties, leaving Perov to his own thoughts. The forty-four year old Soviet Air Defence Lieutenant Colonel was the senior officer on duty at the command centre for the Oko Nuclear Ballistic Missile Warning Centre, south of Moscow. The Oko satellites, in Molniya, highly elliptical, and geosynchronous orbits were used to identify the launches of ballistic missiles, primarily from the continental United States. This command post at Serpukhov-15 was one of two Oko control centres, the other one being at Pivan-1 in the Russian far east. This western control centre, in the Moscow ablast, communicated with four of the geosynchronous satellites on four of the seven locations looking over the Atlantic. The other three, casting their eye over the Pacific, were controlled by Pivan-1.