Sharp nodded. It was a well-known fact that the Soviets were years behind the West in jet engine technology. What the Americans achieved by sophisticated engineering and advanced materials, the Russians got by brute force at the cost of higher fuel consumption.
But high-tech or low-tech, the effect was the same, Sharp reminded himself. When those interceptors came they could be damn dangerous.
"Make sure our people know about this," he told the operator.
"Already done," the operator replied, pleased he had anticipated the civilian.
The operator turned back to his screen, scowled at it, then reached over and fiddled with the controls.
"Hello, hello," the operator said to himself. "Looky here." Then he thumbed his mike.
"Okay, we’ve got contact. Bearing 231 and range approximately 220 nautical miles. Height 500."
The pilot’s voice squawked in his earphones. "Five thousand?"
"Negative. Five hundred."
"Understood," the pilot came back. "Five hundred feet."
"Eagle Flight," the flight controller’s voice came on the circuit, "you are cleared. Now go!"
"Eedyoteh!" Go!
Senior Lieutenant Sergei Sergovitch Abrin of the PVO-the Soviet air defense forces-eased the throttle on the Mig 29 Flanker forward. The plane rolled down the rain-slick runway gathering speed as it came. In his rear view mirror he could see his wingman behind and to his right. He was vaguely conscious that the second pair of his flight was taking off on the parallel runway several hundred meters to his left.
The weather was abominable, fog and occasional flurries of snow and rain. But that was nothing out of the ordinary and Senior Lieutenant Abrin had nearly a thousand hours flying out of this base.
As they passed the critical point, he eased back on the stick and the powerful interceptor lunged into the air. Even as he climbed into the overcast, Sergei Abrin ran another quick check of his systems.
A Mig 29 had the range for this mission and no Soviet interceptor carried a more powerful or sophisticated radar than the one in the nose of his Flanker. Whatever those things were they were damn hard to pick up on radar and he would need all the power he had.
Satisfied, he watched the altimeter wind up and considered what he and his men were heading into.
For weeks now the powerful warning radars along the coast of Siberia had been getting anomalous and faint returns from out over the narrow sea that separated Russia and Alaska. Recon flights had shown nothing and previous attempts to intercept these things had failed. After the usual dithering and indecision, Moscow had decided to make a serious effort to discover what was happening on this most sensitive of borders.
An early warning aircraft had been assigned and interceptor squadrons were given permission to depart from their regular training plans to investigate in force the next time something was sighted. They were also fitted with long-range fuel tanks and given full loads of fuel-a departure in the defection-conscious Soviet air force. If that wasn’t enough to convince the pilots how serious this was, the KGB showed up and installed a number of very black boxes in each aircraft.
Senior Lieutenant Abrin thought of himself as a man of the world, as befitted the son of a medium-high party official. He had his own theory about this thing.
It was no accident that nearly invisible aircraft were flying along the US-USSR border. Obviously the United States intended this series of provocations as a tactic to wring further arms concessions from the Soviet negotiators in Vienna.
Well, they would learn the folly of their ways. For longer than Sergei Abrin had been alive, the men and machines of the PVO had stood between the Motherland and the Capitalist aggressors. If they wanted to play games over this narrow sea they would find that the Red Air Force could play also-and far better.
Still, he thought as his interceptor raced out over the ocean. This was a bitch of a day to be flying.
"Go!"
Patrol Two kneed the dragon and pulled on the reins. In response the beast swept into a wide, gentle turn. He was obviously happy to be going home and so was Patrol Two.
The squadron leader’s instructions had been explicit. Head out on this track for four day-tenths, then reverse course and return to the temporary base the dragon riders had established on one of the small islands. Each rider had set out alone on a slightly different course to cover as much of this strange new world as they possibly could in the least amount of time. The squadron leader didn’t want to stay on the island too long for fear of discovery and for once Patrol Two fully agreed with him. They would pause another day to rest their dragons and then they would leave this ill-begotten place.
This particular corner was worse than most, Patrol Two admitted as the dragon’s strong wingbeats bore them along. Not only was there the strangeness here that made dragons uncomfortable and dampened the effect of magic. Here there was also constant fog mixed with freezing rain and snow from thick, low-hanging clouds that forever darkened the sky. Were it not for the dragon’s homing instinct and the fact they had flown a straight course out, Patrol Two wasn’t at all sure they could find their way back to their fellows.
A weak sun broke through a ragged hole in the clouds, turning the sea the color of fresh-beaten lead. Patrol Two frowned. The sun seemed to be in the wrong place. Then a shake of the head. Well, it wasn’t the only thing that was wrong here.
A window popped up on Craig’s screen. In it, in full color and three dimensions, was a robot.
"Ready, master," the robot intoned.
"Ready for what?" he snapped. All his worker robots looked alike. Then he saw the designation in the status line under the window. "Oh, the jammer! Then turn it on!"
The robot nodded and winked out while Craig turned his attention back to the warbot he was designing. But now he was smiling.
He had suspected all along that the dragon riders who flitted around the edges of his realm had some kind of communications system. It was magic rather than radio and it had taken a lot of work to discover just how it worked. Once he knew, he had set his robots to work building jammers. Now he had just cut his enemies’ communications link.
Maybe that will clear those damn dragons out of my airspace, he thought as he went back to work on the warbot.
"Now go!"
Major Michael Francis Xavier Gilligan grunted and broke out of the holding pattern. A quick check of the cockpit panels, a fast glance to the right to make sure Smitty, his wingman, was still in position and he concentrated on his descent. Five hundred feet wasn’t a lot of altitude for a high-performance fighter in this kind of weather. A few seconds inattention and you’d fly right into the water.
Bitch of a day to go flying, Gilligan thought to himself. Then he turned his full attention to the job at hand.
Patrol Two looked down at the now-useless communications crystal and swore luridly. Between the winds and the fog, the rider and dragon were perilously close to being lost. And now this!
This, thought Patrol Two, is turning into one bitch of a day.
Sharp hunched over the operator’s shoulder, staring at the big screen as if he was about to dive into it.
"Incoming aircraft!" one of the other operators sang out. Sharp jerked erect and hurried to the man’s console.