Executive Intent (34 page)

“Do you want countermeasures?” Frodo asked excitedly.

“Not yet,” Boxer said after just a moment's consideration. “Let 'em come in. Standard play is one on each side so they can take pictures of each other with the big bad American bomber. These guys will be low on gas anyway—they'll get their hero shot, then leave and let the second and third formations take over.”

A few minutes later, that's exactly what happened: The first pair of bright blue Sukhoi-33 fighters moved in, one on each side of the bomber, about a hundred feet away. Boxer and Frodo didn't see any cameras.

“American bomber aircraft, this is the Russian Southern Fleet aircraft carrier
Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin
on fleet reserve channel,” a new voice announced. “You are three hundred kilometers from this task force. Combat aircraft are not permitted to approach this group. Alter course immediately and stay at least two hundred kilometers away or you may be fired upon without warning.”

“Second formation of fighters are fifty miles away, slowing,” Frodo said. Suddenly they heard another warning tone. “Fighter locked onto us!”

“Carrier
Putin,
this is Fracture Two-One,” Boxer radioed. “Do not lock your fire control radars on us. Flying near your ships is not a hostile action, but locking missile radars on us is!”

“This is your last warning, American bomber aircraft,” the controller radioed. “Do not approach! We will take immediate action.”

“What do we do, Boxer?” Frodo asked. “Do these guys want to take a shot at us?”

“This is bull,” Boxer said. “I thought this was just a photo op and nice peaceful flyby.”

The second formation of Sukhoi-33 fighters approached, one on either side, much slower than the first formation, close enough to see fuselage lights winking on and off…

…until Boxer and Frodo heard the fast-paced drumming on the cockpit canopy and realized that they weren't lights, but can
nons opening fire on them! The shells missed, but they came so close that Boxer and Frodo could feel their shock waves on the fuselage.
“Holy shit!”
Frodo shouted.
“They're shooting at us! Let's get out of here!”

“You bastards want to play—let's play,” Boxer shouted. “Get ready to go low, Frodo. Kill the freq and the transponder, get us into ‘COMBAT' mode.” She hit a button on her control stick and spoke: “Terrain-follow, clearance plane two hundred, hard ride.”

“Terrain-follow, clearance plane two hundred, hard ride,”
the flight control computer responded. Boxer watched the computer's automatic control inputs on her supercockpit display as it readjusted settings for an overwater letdown, then spoke:
“Stand by for descent, now.”
The EB-1C Vampire pitched over and started a twenty-thousand-foot-per-minute descent, rapid enough for bits of loose dirt to float to the top of the cockpit. Normally the bomber would automatically sweep the wings back to their maximum sixty-seven degree setting in the high-speed descent, but the Vampire's wings were permanently set to the full swept-wing position—lift and drag were controlled by mission-adaptive technology, where thousands of tiny actuators on the bomber's fuselage controlled the shape of the plane, so every square inch of the surface could be a lift or drag device.

“Fighters are staying high, twelve o'clock, twenty miles…no, here they come, one is heading down,” Frodo reported. “Still locked on. ‘COMBAT' mode engaged, full countermeasures active.”

“C'mon down here, boys,” Boxer said. In less than two minutes, the Vampire bomber leveled off at two hundred feet above the Gulf of Aden. Boxer watched the computer perform a self-test of the flight control system, then checked the electrical, hydraulic, and pneumatic subsystems herself.

“American B-1 bomber, this is the carrier
Putin
on GUARD channel, you are flying at an extreme low altitude and are heading
directly for the Russian task-force ships,” the Russian controller radioed. “This is considered a hostile action. You appear to be on an antiship cruise-missile attack. Alter or reverse course immediately. This is your final warning.”

“You ain't seen nuthin' yet, Comrade,” Boxer said, pushing the throttles up until they were flying at six hundred nautical miles an hour.

“One hundred miles to the first escort,” Frodo said. “Search and height-finders from the ships, and fast-PRF search from the fighters, not locked on. The third formation is supersonic, heading this way fast.”

“Armstrong has you again, Fracture,” Gonzo reported. “Now I know what a game of ‘chicken' looks like.”

“They screwed with the wrong broad, Armstrong,” Boxer said.

“We've got the bandit on your six, ten thousand above you, closing to twenty miles,” Gonzo said. “His wingman is descending slower. The third formation is maneuvering, looks like they're staying high for now. We've reported to Central Command.”

“Thanks, Armstrong,” Boxer radioed back.

“First escort is fifty miles,” Frodo said. “
Udaloy
-1-class destroyer. He's got search radar…now searching with a height-finder, not locked on.

“Coming up on thirty…hey, the fighters are peeling off!” Frodo said. “They're all climbing.”

“Can't stand the heat, eh, boys?” Boxer said. “Too bad. It's fun down here.” She peeked at Frodo and saw his eyes as big as saucers behind his clear visor. “How's it going, Frodo?”

“I'm worried about those fighters,” he said. “Why are they…?” He paused, then shouted, “Golf-band target acquisition radar from the
Udaloy,
SA-N-9 system! Not locked on.”

“Well, well, they're turning on everything today,” Boxer said. “If they want to play hardball, I'm ready to go to bat. Pushing 'em up.” She nudged the throttles up until they were supersonic—the highly
modified EB-1C Vampire was the only model of the nearly 500,000-pound B-1 bomber that was able to go supersonic at low altitude. “Come and get us now, suckers.”

 

The captain of the
Putin
snatched up the Red Phone. “Admiral, the American bomber has descended to less than one hundred meters' altitude and is approaching the task force at supersonic speed!”

The admiral swore into the phone, then ordered, “Continue full tactical engagement, weapons tight.”

“Acknowledged, full tactical engagement, weapons tight.”

“Is he radiating at all?”

“No radars, but strong electronic countermeasures.”

“Use the signal generators on him and see if he reacts,” the admiral ordered, “and advise me when he reaches the task force.” And he hung up before the captain could acknowledge.

“What in hell is going on here?” the captain muttered. “What in
hell
is going on?” He turned to the TAO. “Full-spectrum signal generators, weapons tight, full tactical engagement.”

 

“Echo-Fox band target-acquisition radar, twelve o'clock, forty miles, not locked on,” Frodo said. “S-300 missile, probably on the cruiser escort…now Golf-band target-tracking radar from the destroyer, eleven o'clock, fifteen miles, not locked on.”

“American attack bomber, this is your final warning!” the Russian controller radioed. “Alter course immediately or you will be fired upon! Respond immediately!”

“I see the destroyer!” Frodo said. They were going to pass up the starboard side; Boxer nudged the stick left. It looked to Frodo as if they were going to fly right over it! Suddenly he saw puffs of smoke shooting from each side of the vessel.
“Guns…!”

“Close-in weapon system!” Boxer shouted. “Think you can catch us, Comrades? Think again.”

“Jesus…!” It looked as if they were going to fly right through the smoke from the cannons' muzzles! Suddenly a fast-paced
beepbeepbeepbepp
sounded.
“Missile guidance!”

“It's a false signal, Frodo,” Boxer said. He couldn't believe how calm she sounded. “No warning from the computer. It's a false missile-guidance signal, trying to provoke us to do something. Time for our close-up, Mr. DeMille.” Just as they passed the destroyer, Boxer rolled the Vampire bomber into a ninety-degree bank left turn, darting just ahead of the destroyer. Frodo thought for sure the left wingtip was going to drag the water! Boxer strained to look out the left cockpit window and managed to catch a glimpse of the vapor cloud created by the supersonic shock wave roll over the destroyer's bow. “Have a face wash, courtesy of the U.S. Air Force,” she crowed happily.

“Golf-band radar…Echo-Fox radar, not locked on,” Frodo reported. Boxer rolled wings-level, then started a turn toward the aircraft carrier itself. “Why are they shooting at us? I thought this was all for show.”

“Someone obviously didn't get the memo, Frodo,” Boxer said. “But I'm not going to let the Russkies push us around. I think we'll take this pass down the port side of the carrier. Any helicopters up?”

“Yes, starboard side.”

“Good. Get your cameras ready, boys.”

“Echo-Fox radar has intermittent lock-on, Golf-band radar not locked on. Carrier's one o'clock, ten miles.”

“Where are the fighters?”

“Six o'clock, thirty miles, fifteen thousand feet.”

“We'll make the pass, then climb north to clear the fighters,” Boxer said. “Any fighters on the catapults?”

“Yes, two moving onto the forward cats.”

“I'll stay a little farther out in case they decide to launch them,” Boxer said. “It'll spoil the picture but they should still get a nice shot.”

“American attack bomber, this is the carrier
Putin,
” the Russian controller radioed once again. “This is your final warning, alter course away from this task force immediately. Acknowledge!”

“I thought you already gave us your final warning, Comrade,” Boxer said on intercom. “Just one more flyby and we're outta here. I expect to see the pictures on the Internet by the time we get home.”

 

“Admiral, American B-1 bomber on the port stern quarter, eighteen kilometers, altitude less than one hundred meters, approaching at Mach one-point-one-five!” the captain of the
Putin
shouted into the phone.

“Is he radiating, Captain?”

“Defensive electronic jamming signals only. No attack radars.”

The admiral paused for a long moment; then: “How close has he come to the task force, Captain?”

“He flew supersonic less than a kilometer from the destroyer
Vysotskiy
at ninety degrees bank. I thought there was going to be a collision! The
Vysotskiy
tried to warn him away with their close-in weapon system—the gun's guidance radar was completely jammed.”

“What about electro-optical tracking? It is daylight, Captain!”

“The crewman manning the optical tracker took cover—he thought the bomber was going to crash right into him. Several men were injured by the shock wave.”

Another pause; then: “I think the American bomber is hostile, Captain,” the admiral said in a remarkably calm and even voice, as if he was reading from a script. “Sound battle stations, full tactical engagement…all weapons released.”

 

The pass by the aircraft carrier was farther away, but they were still well within a half mile when Boxer made her supersonic high-bank right turn in front of the carrier. Frodo felt as if his arms weighed a hundred pounds each as the g-forces increased.

“Okay, Frodo, fun time's over,” Boxer said. She started a left turn and headed away from the Russian task force, staying one hundred feet above the ocean. She pulled the power back to full military power to conserve as much fuel as possible—she knew she was already eating into her reserves by doing the low-altitude, high-speed maneuvers. “Where are those fighters?”

Frodo activated the laser radar. “Closest formation is southeast, twenty miles, fifteen thousand feet,” he reported. “The other formation is…” He paused as a warning tone sounded. “India-Juliet-band target engagement radar active!” Frodo shouted.
“It's locked on!”

Suddenly the threat warning computer blared,
“Warning, warning, missile guidance, SA-N-6!”

“Here it comes!” Boxer shouted. She immediately punched the throttles into full afterburner.

“Countermeasures active!” Frodo shouted. Boxer punched the buttons on her control stick to eject decoy chaff and flares, then rolled into a hard left turn, pulled the throttles out of afterburner, and pulled on the control stick to make the turn as tight as she could. There was a bright flash of light out the right cockpit window, and both crewmembers were jerked violently to the right from the force of the exploding missile. Their supercockpit displays flickered, and the right side of Frodo's screen went blank.

Boxer rolled out of the turn before all of her airspeed bled off in the break, then selected full afterburner again…but then brought the rightmost throttle back. “Compressor stall on number four!” she shouted.

“Warning, warning, missile guidance, SA-N-4, four o'clock!”
the threat computer blared.

“Is the active defensive system up?”

“No—all ECMs faulted. I'm rebooting.”

“Hang on!” She punched out chaff and flares again, hoping the ejectors were working, then rolled into a hard right break, using the underpowered number four engine as an air brake to tighten the turn. “Can you see the missile?”

Frodo frantically scanned out his window, then shouted,
“Climb, now!”
Boxer pulled the control stick until all they could see out the front windscreen was sky, then pushed wings-level and reversed the turn. She saw a flash of light below and to her left.

“Missile guidance, SA-N-6, six o'clock!”