Black Sea Affair

CHAPTER 14

EC-2 Hawkeye

Codename Papa Bear

28 miles southwest of Kars, Turkey

The U.S. Navy EC-2 Hawkeye, with its twin propellers and dome on the top that looked like a giant flying saucer affixed to the aircraft, had taken off from the aircraft carrier USS Nimitz, operating off the northwestern tip of Cyprus.

The revolving dome atop the aircraft gave the Hawkeye the unique ability to watch all air traffic, military and civilian, for a range of five hundred miles each way. For the next four hours, the Hawkeye would quarterback all of NATO air activity for military missions over northeastern Turkey and Georgia.

From inside the plane, Navy Master Chief Rick Cantor monitored air activity over Georgia, Chechnya, and Armenia all afternoon. The screen showed that dozens of Russian sorties had been taking off from Erebuni Air Base in Armenia, flown to Chechnya through Azerbaijan, dropped their bombs, and returned along the same route.

No sign, however, of any Russian planes threatening Georgian airspace. Not until fifteen hundred hours.

Master Chief Cantor was sipping his last mug of coffee when radar showed two blips representing hostile aircraft heading straight for the Georgian border. Cantor squinted his eyes to make sure he wasn't seeing things. The blips were crossing into Georgian airspace from Chechnya!

Russian MiGs.

If not intercepted, their flight path would take them straight over of the Georgian capital city of Tbilisi.

F-15 Eagle

Codename Eagle Three

35 miles east of Tbilisi, Georgia

Eagle Three! Papa Bear! Be advised two hostile aircraft penetrating Georgian airspace in your sector! Course one-eight-zero degrees. Range twenty-five miles. Bandits flying south roughly along forty-five-degree east longitudinal line on course for Tbilisi. Intercept! I repeat, intercept!"

"Papa Bear! Eagle Three! We're on it. Plotting course for intercept!" A. J. Riddle made a wide, looping circle, bringing his Strike Eagle back on a course to the west. His wingman, Air Force First Lieutenant Travis Martin, followed suit.

"Eagle Four! Eagle Three!"

"Eagle Three, " Lieutenant Martin said.

"Travis, on my mark, hit afterburners. We've gotta cut these suckers off."

"Roger that, sir."

"Stand by, Travis. Three, two, one, now!"

Captain Riddle pushed his throttle to the floor. The F-15 rocketed to the west on an intercept course for the Russian planes. First Lieutenant Martin followed suit.

MiG-29

Codename Fulcrum Four

80 miles east of Tbilisi, Georgia

Junior Lieutenant Staas Budarin was watching the plethora of activity on his radar screen.

Most of the white blips against the green background represented military flights by NATO aircraft crisscrossing the airspace around Tbilisi. So far, none of the NATO flights in the area had responded to the intrusion by MiGs into Georgian airspace.

Staas looked down at the mountainous terrain passing seven thousand feet below. At least there were no bursts of white smoke in sight. Of course, they were well above the range of most surface-to-air missiles. But the air-to-air variety caused concern, particularly the short-range Sidewinders and medium-ranged Phoenix missiles armed on most of the American interceptors.

Staas felt totally alone. Captain Giorsky, who was tailing him about two miles to his rear, had ordered radio silence until they were over Armenia.

F-15 Eagle

Codename Eagle Three

45 miles north of Tbilisi, Georgia

Captain A. J. Riddle looked out from the canopy of his F-15 Eagle at three o'clock. Adrenaline shot through his body.

"Papa Bear! Eagle Three! I've got two MiGs in sight! Bearing one-eight-zero. Headed straight toward Tbilisi. Awaiting your instructions."

"Eagle Three! Papa Bear. Orders from National Command Authority are as follows. Intercept. Intercept. Attempt to divert. If bandits enter Tbilisi airspace, attack. Repeat, if bandits enter Tbilisi airspace, attack."

A command relayed from National Command Authority meant that the president himself was involved in the order being relayed. That thought brought chills to A. J. as he repeated the order back to the airborne command post on board the Hawkeye. "Roger that, Papa Bear. Intercept. Intercept. Attempt diversion. Attack if Bandits enter Tbilisi airspace."

"Eagle Three, Papa Bear! Copy that, Eagle Three."

A. J. flipped the switch opening a direct channel to his wingman, Lieutenant Travis Martin. "Eagle Four, Eagle Three. I've got the lead guy, you take the rear. Our orders are to intercept, attempt diversion, but attack if bandits enter Tbilisi airspace. Got it?"

"Got it. Roger that, Eagle Three. I'm following your lead."

MiG-29

Codename Fulcrum Four

40 miles north of Tbilisi, Georgia

Staas looked out the cockpit to his left. The F-15 Strike Eagle had swooped in from out of nowhere, and was matching speed about forty yards or so out to his left. Staas recognized the insignia of the United States Air Force painted on the side of the war bird. The American pilot was making all kinds of motions with his hand and was pointing to his left.

This hand signal needed no translation from English to Russian. The American was ordering Staas to "peel off."

Junior Lieutenant Staas Budarin had to somehow let the American know that turning was impossible, that they simply needed a harmless passage of overflight through Georgia for a few more minutes before reaching Armenia.

He held his palms up, and began pointing straight ahead, over and over again.

This seemed to make the American angrier. The pilot gave the "peel off" signal with a renewed vengeance. He was pointing to his left faster, and with staccatolike chops.

Captain Giorsky had ordered radio silence. But that was academic now. He must somehow tell the American that his intentions were harmless. He switched on an international hailing frequency on his radio and prayed that the Yank understood Russian. "Ya nee magu perverneetzyah! Ya nee magu perverneetzyah!"

F-15 Eagle

Codename Eagle Three

35 miles north of Tbilisi, Georgia

Eagle Three. Papa Bear. What is your status?" "Papa Bear. Eagle Three. Visual contact made. I'm getting angry hand gestures and transmission in Russian. Bandit refuses breakoff. Repeat, bandit refuses breakoff."

"Eagle Three. Papa Bear. Bandit entering Tbilisi airspace. Execute shoot-down order. Repeat, execute shoot down."

"Papa Bear. Eagle Three. Roger that. I'm breaking off to acquire firing position."

MiG-29

Codename Fulcrum Three

35 miles north of Tbilisi, Georgia

Captain Alexander Giorsky had been watching this strange game of cat and mouse between the F-15 and his junior partner. Now the American seemed to be breaking off the pursuit. The Strike Eagle looped away from the Fulcrum, making a wide turn far out to the left.

Perhaps this was a good thing. Perhaps the American had understood the broadcast on the international frequency when Staas had said, "Ya nee magu perverneetzyah!" I cannot turn left.

Perhaps not!

The American was now looping in behind the Fulcrum, as if to acquire a firing position.

Giorsky decided to break radio silence.

"Fulcrum Four, Fulcrum Three. Bandit on your tail! I'm locking onto him. Hit afterburners! Now!"

F-15 Eagle

Codename Eagle Three

35 miles north of Tbilisi, Georgia

Captain A. J. Riddle had trained for this all of his professional career.

Now the moment was at hand.

This was a moment that most American fighter pilots never encountered. Still, for this moment, most American fighter pilots would give their right arms.

The opportunity to engage a hostile enemy aircraft.

But reality was not what he had expected. Instead of the high adrenaline that he imagined would come at this moment, sobering reality chilled his body.

He was about to shoot down an enemy aircraft, if that aircraft did not shoot him down first. Someone would die. His adversary could be a family man, like him, with a wife and small children at home.

And even if the other pilot survived, women and children on the ground could be killed by falling wreckage from the aircraft.

Captain Riddle swung the Strike Eagle around to the rear of the Fulcrum, which was still on a course for the dead center of Tbilisi. He mentally reminded himself that the Russian had refused to peel off, and was engaged in a military sortie for the center of the capital of a nation that was a United States ally.

The S-24 surface-to-ground rockets that the MiGs typically carried could be targeted for any place in the capital, including the parliament building or the presidential residence. Its Alamo missiles and its can nons were a threat to NATO planes, including his own. The Russians had been ordered to stay out of Georgia. This pilot was taking hostile action by violating that order. The rules of engagement left only one option.

Riddle settled the Eagle into a chase position about a mile behind the Fulcrum, and five hundred feet above it.

Riddle armed missile number one, then fed the tracking data from the plane's radar into the fire launch computer.

Three seconds later, a red flashing light appeared on the console.

Target acquired. Target acquired. Target acquired.

Riddle felt that surge of adrenaline. His thumb pressed the fire button.

The AIM-9L Sidewinder missile dropped from the right wing about ten feet through the air, then ignited in a burst of flame and white smoke, streaking out in front of the F-15.

"Papa Bear. Eagle Three. Missile in the air!"

MiG-29

Codename Fulcrum Four

30 miles north of Tbilisi, Georgia

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. The strident alarm brought Staas's eyes to the flashing red monitor on the cockpit control panel. Next to the Engine Failure alarm, this was the one alarm most dreaded by fighter pilots.

Missile lock! Missile lock! Missile lock!

Staas felt cold sweat all over his body. Kapitan Giorsky had tried radioing him, but he could not hear because of the alarm. His hands trembled as he hit the transmit button.

"Kapitan! He has locked onto me! Help me!"

There was no answer.

"Kapitan! Missile in the air!"

MiG-29

Codename Fulcrum Three

28 miles north of Tbilisi, Georgia

The petrified voice came squeaking over the air-to-air frequency and into Giorsky's headset.

"Help me, Kapitan! Please, help me!"

Giorsky saw the Eagle downrange, but Staas's Fulcrum was out of sight.

"Kapitan! Missile in the air!"

"Staas, pull up! Pull up now! Pull up and hit afterburners!"

Giorsky armed the R-73 Archer missile and pushed the launch button.

F-15 Eagle

Codename Eagle Three

30 miles north of Tbilisi, Georgia

A. J. Riddle could do nothing but wait. The seconds seemed like an eternity as he watched the Sidewinder close in on its target.

Time to impact. Five seconds. Four. Three. Two. One.

A burst of smoke in the sky five miles downrange.

Smoke and debris fell in multiple plumes, streaking down, down toward the ground.

Captain Riddle checked his radar screen. The target had vanished.

Riddle looked for signs of a parachute. Nothing on the horizon.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

The warning indicator light located directly above the radar sceen was flashing. A fast-moving heat-seeking missile was closing in!

A. J. pulled up on the stick and shot the Eagle up, up directly into the sun, which at this altitude was a blazing ball. He tried looking away, but the G-forces pushing him back in his seat made it difficult to turn his face away.

The missile came fast, like a bloodhound sniffing a deer, homing on the exhaust from the Eagle's turbofan engines. Cockpit monitors showed the missile closing distance.

2000 yards.

1500 yards.

1000 yards.

A. J.'s life flashed in a lightning bolt in front of him. Memories of Christmases and Thanksgivings past, with his cousins and grandparents around the dining room table for holiday meals. His graduation from USC. His marriage to Mary Frances. The birth of their son Michael and daughter Holly.

500 yards.

400 yards.

A. J. gripped the joystick with his right hand.

300 yards.

200 yards.

He punched the button, firing five decoy flares into the blue sky. The flares popped out like fireworks on the Fourth of July.

As the flares exploded, he jerked the stick a hard left.

The plane twirled and tumbled out of its ascent. The horizon spun like a gyroscope. The altimeter dropped like a rock. A. J. was on a roller coaster ride. His stomach was still at twenty thousand feet. The rest of his body was somewhere well below that. He thought about ejecting, but an upside-down ejection could be fatal.

He fought, desperately, to regain control of his aircraft. At six thousand feet, the horizon leveled out again, and his stomach caught up with the rest of his body.

A. J. looked up. The Russian missile had flown through the decoys and locked onto the sun's rays, exploding harmlessly in the sky. He scanned the sky above him, looking for the Russian.

"Eagle Three. Eagle Four. You okay?"

"Eagle Four. Eagle Three. Piece of cake."

"Great flying, boss."

"No time for that. Where's our bandit?"

"Got him on my scope, " Lieutenant Travis Martin said. "Still at course one-eight-zero at ten thousand. He's over the outskirts of Tbilisi."

A. J. looked down at his radar scope and spotted the MiG. "It's payback time, Travis. Let's go get him!"

Captain A. J. Riddle set the Eagle for a course of 180 degrees and hit the afterburners.

MiG-29

Codename Fulcrum Three

Over the northern outskirts of Tbilisi, Georgia

Another fifteen minutes or so, and the danger would have passed, Gior-sky thought. He had continued monitoring his radar scope for signs of the two F-15s. Perhaps the R-73 Archer missile had done its job.

Nothing like a heat-seeking missile up another plane's rear to jar the enemy's confidence a bit.

If he had only fired the Archer before the American launched the Stinger that hit Staas. Giorsky had scanned the skies for parachutes, but saw nothing. Under the circumstances, he couldn't circle the area looking for signs of life.

Poor Staas. Shot down on his first combat mission only three months before his first child was to be born. The ultrasounds showed that it would be a boy. Staas was building a plastic model of the Fulcrum that was to be his boy's first present. What pride he had taken in building that model. He had spent hours painting the tiny red star on the plane's tailfin.

Giorsky would write to Staas's widow. He would tell Irina that Staas spoke of his unfailing love for her. Then he would finish building the model for Staas's son. He would write to the boy. He would remind the son that Staas died the death of a combat hero in defense of the Motherland.

Giorsky wondered about the pilot who shot Staas from the skies. Was he still alive? Did he have a wife or children? If so, who would write his family and tell of their father's death? But was the American really dead? Had he even been shot down?

Surely he had killed the American. True, he had wanted to tangle with an F-15. But not this way. Not by firing a missile up the American's jet stream without first a test to see who was the better pilot.

It seemed so unchivalrous. To let a missile fight for a warrior. Whatever happened to gladiator against gladiator? Or ace against ace?

He felt like he had shot a man in the back. Then again, that is exactly what the American had done to Staas. But this was part of the age of high-tech warfare.

Even still, he admired the American's tactics against the missile attack. The evasive maneuver was just what Giorsky would've done against a fast-moving infrared missile: climb for the sun, then at the last second before impact, release decoy flares and roll out.

In theory, the missile would be fooled by the decoy flares, and come out on the other side sniffing the heat from the sun. At least that was the theory.

In reality, this was a desperate do-or-die maneuver that could work, but only if the roll-out was not premature.

Roll away too early, and the missile would recover, catch up, and not be fooled again.

Roll too late, and the warhead was up your tailpipe.

All this was a nerve-wracking game of Russian roulette. And nobody played Russian roulette like the Russians. Not even the mighty Americans.

Giorsky checked his radar screen again.

Still nothing. Only forty miles to the Armenian border. Just a few more minutes and he would be home-free.

Perhaps this was his lucky day.

F-15 Eagle

Codename Eagle Four Over Tbilisi, Georgia

First Lieutenant Travis Martin was piloting his F-15 Eagle a quarter of a mile ahead of Captain A. J. Riddle's plane.

"Eagle Three, Eagle Four."

"Eagle Three, " Captain Riddle said.

"Sir, he's within range of my Sidewinders. Shall I do the honors?"

"By all means, Lieutenant. He's all yours."

Martin armed missile number two, then fed the tracking data from the plane's radar into the fire launch computer.

A red flashing light appeared on the console.

Target acquired. Target acquired. Target acquired.

Travis Martin hit the fire button. The Sidewinder dropped from the wing of the Eagle and fell through the air. A second later, the missile burst forward like lightning, painting a white streak through the blue skies above Tbilisi.

MiG-29

Codename Fulcrum Three

Over southern outskirts of Tbilisi, Georgia

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. The alarm riveted Giorsky's eyes to his radar screen. Two enemy jets were converging on him from behind, almost at forty-five-degree angles. One was slightly closer than the other. A missile, probably a Sidewinder, was streaking toward him from the closer jet.

Giorsky pulled back on his stick, aimed the Fulcrum at the blazing sun, and hit the afterburners. G-forces plastered him back into his seat. The missile was closing fast.

400 yards.

300 yards.

200 yards.

100 yards.

Giorsky fired eight decoy flares from the belly of the Fulcrum and pushed the stick hard left.

F-15 Eagle

Codename Eagle Four Over Tbilisi, Georgia

Lieutenant Travis Martin had followed the MiG on its rapid ascent and was craning his neck, scanning the dark heavens above him when an exploding cloud of smoke and fire appeared at two o'clock, about two thousand yards from his position.

"Yeah! Captain, we've got missile detonation."

"Eagle Four. Eagle Three. I see that too. Any signs of the MiG?"

"Don't see him, sir. I think I got him!"

"Don't count your chickens before they hatch."

"Eagle Three, Eagle Four. Nothing could've survived that, sir."

"Let's hope you're right. Swing back around on my wing. We'll sweep the area, call in our report, then head back to Incirlik. Our relief should be on station in ten minutes."

"Roger that, Captain. Making my loop now."

MiG-29

Codename Fulcrum Three

Somewhere over Tbilisi, Georgia

The missile had smashed into one of the decoy flares, setting off an explosion that had rocked the Fulcrum, sending it into a tailspin. The plane had dropped several thousand feet, but Giorsky had regained control.

He had gotten lucky again.

No, not luck.

Skill.

He thought about quitting while his luck was still good.

The two F-15s that had tried shooting him down streaked over his plane, about a thousand feet above him, headed southwest – in the direction of Incirlik.

Alexander did a quick check of his instrument panel to make sure that no damage had been sustained by the explosion.

A quick decision was at hand. Head for Armenia, or…

Alexander turned the Fulcrum in a southwesterly direction, pulled back on the stick, and hit the afterburners.

F-15 Eagle

Codename Eagle Three

Somewhere over Tbilisi, Georgia

Eagle Three. Papa Bear. Be advised your relief is on patrol over Tbilisi. Set course for two-two-two degrees and return to base."

"Papa Bear. Eagle Three. Acknowledge, " Captain Riddle said. "Set course two-two-two and return to base. We're on our way home." A. J. reached down and hit the frequency switch for direct contact with Travis Martin in Eagle Four.

"Eagle Four. Eagle Three. You copy that, Travis?"

"Copy that, Captain, I'm on your wing."

A. J. looked out to his right and saw the familiar sight of Travis's F-15 floating in the sky.

"Got you in sight, Eagle Four. Let's go home."

"Roger that, boss. There's no place like home."

For the first time since takeoff from Incirlik earlier in the day, A. J. Riddle breathed a relieved sigh. He wasn't certain that Travis Martin's missile had brought down the Fulcrum. But of this he was certain. Captain Adam Silverstein in Eagle Five, and his wingman, First Lieutenant Jim Blanchard in Eagle Six, were now on duty over the skies of Tbilisi.

If the MiG had escaped, or if more MiGs crossed the border from Chechnya, Silverstein and Blanchard would have to deal with them. At least for now.

A. J. sat back in his cockpit. Despite all the emotions of actually having killed a man, all the years of training had paid off. He had scored his first combat victory. He had taken evasive action in a tension-filled life-or-death situation to evade an enemy air-to-air missile. He would give briefings up the chain-of-command about his encounters with the two MiG-29s. He would be summoned to discuss the evasive maneuvers with other pilots who would be flying into the theater. Articles would be written in Air War College journals about the first encounter between an F-15 and a MiG-29.

But all that could wait. For now, this would be a ride home that he would enjoy. The first item on the agenda when he landed would be to call his bride Mary Frances and tell her how much he loved her.

Then he would ask to speak to his boy Michael and his girl Holly and he would tell him that he loved them too. Life was too short and too fragile, Captain A. J. Riddle had decided in the last fifteen minutes, not to pass up any opportunity to tell a loved one how much they are loved.

There may never be another chance.

With the hum of the wind rushing around his windshield at more than six hundred miles an hour, A. J. closed his eyes for just a few seconds of relaxation.

EC-2 Hawkeye

Codename Papa Bear

50 miles south of Kars, Turkey

The Navy Hawkeye flew in broad circles around the city of Kars, Turkey, where Navy Master Chief Rick Cantor kept his eyes glued to the radar scope showing air activity over the entire nation of Georgia, plus parts of Turkey, Armenia, and Chechnya.

From his duty station ten thousand feet above the Turkish landscape, Cantor's attention had been rivited on the missile exchange between the two Russian MiG-29s and the two United States Air Force F-15s.

Cantor was tracking the Eagles beginning their return flight to Incirlik when a blip reappeared on the radar screen that moments ago had disappeared.

The blip showed that one of the MiGs was alive and well. Apparently it had disappeared behind the turbulent explosion of the Stinger missile and somehow had momentarily dropped off the screen. Now the MiG was back and was making a run at the departing F-15s!

"Eagle Three! Threat. Two-two-zero. Eight o'clock. Ten thousand!"

F-15 Eagle

Codename Eagle Three

Master Chief Cantor's warning shot an electrical jolt through Captain Riddle. He looked down at his radar screen. The bandit had returned from the dead! The MiG-29 was chasing the two F-15s, and did not seem intent on stopping at the Turkish border!

"Eagle Four, Eagle Three! On my word, split!"

"Roger that!"

The splitting maneuver would force the bandit to commit to one Eagle or the other.

"On my mark… Now! Split!"

A. J. Riddle jerked his joystick to the left. Travis Martin jerked right. The F-15s cut away from each other, almost at forty-five-degree angles, as if splitting at the vortex of the letter Y.

The Eagles rolled and fired more popping flares from their bellies, streaking past like fireworks on the Fourth of July.

"Eagle Three. Papa Bear. Bandit broke left. He's on your tail."

"Roger that, Papa Bear."

Captain Riddle had a few more flares to fire, but after that, his ability to evade would depend on pure piloting skills.

The Eagles split in opposite arches, dropping several dozen smoking flares through the blue sky. The flares popped, each a fizzling fire streaking a trail of smoke across the sky to confuse enemy heat-seeking missiles.

"Eagle Three, what's your status?" A. J. heard Papa Bear's inquiry, but could not free himself to respond.

"Papa Bear. Eagle Four. Eagle Three has shifted. Off my nose."

A. J. heard Travis Martin's voice, but again could not respond. He had to focus on keeping his aircraft at such an angle that it would be difficult for an infrared missile launch.

"Eagle Four to Eagle Three. Bandit six o'clock. Eagle Three, break left!"

A. J. responded to his wing man's instruction by again jerking the stick hard left. The horizon spun like a spinning gyroscope. Shooting through the sky at six hundred miles per hour, in a belly-up position, he fired one more round of flares, and then peeled harder left.

"Papa Bear, he's giving me a good fight, " A. J. said, managing to get off a quick radio burst in the midst of the hard bank.

"Eagle Four. Papa Bear. What is Eagle Three's status?"

"Negative roll. Five thousand. Eagle Three is defending. Firing flares."

A. J. craned his neck around. The Fulcrum was behind him still, maybe within five hundred yards. Too close for a missile shot. This guy was going for machine guns!

"Eagle Three, Eagle Four!" Lieutenant Travis Martin's voice sounded in again. "Keep that turn going! Bandit! Six o'clock."

"Roger that, " A. J. said, pushing harder on the stick to the left. He battled the G-forces to look around again. The Red Baron was still at an angle, but was closing closer to a straight line. He remembered the intelligence reports that for close-in combat, the Fulcrum was rumored to be more agile than both the F-16 and F-15. No wonder this guy was trying to get in close. Plus the close distance made it too risky for Travis Martin to launch a missile at the Fulcrum for fear of taking out A. J. as well.

This guy was a shrewd fighter pilot, and had a bucketful of Russian testosterone.

"Eagle Three! Eagle Four! I've got shots in the air! Repeat, shots in the air!"

A. J. looked out to his right. White tracers flew through the air just past his right wing! This cat was already firing his thirty-millimeter cannon.

If the Russian straightened out that angle just a bit more, this party would be over. He had to try an evasive maneuver to get in behind the Russian and become the pursuer, rather than the pursued.

One thousand three, one thousand two, one thousand one. A. J. yanked back on the stick and hit his afterburners. The Eagle stalled for a split second, and then shot toward the heavens. He put the Eagle in a reverse vertical loop, like riding the inside loop of a roller coaster. The horizon was rightside up, then standing on its end, then upside down, then standing on its end again.

The plane emerged from the loop and the horizon was in its proper place. The Eagle was now behind the Fulcrum.

"Yeah! Take that, Igor!" A. J. pushed down on the throttle. The Fulcrum might be more maneuverable, but the Eagle had the speed. The Fulcrum's jet engines were growing larger as the Eagle closed the distance.

The Fulcrum tried a quick left-turn belly roll. The Eagle matched the turn and the acrobatic roll. "Good try, but not good enough!"

Now the Fulcrum tried banking hard to the right. A. J. pushed his stick to the right, and the Eagle followed suit.

"Eagle Three. Papa Bear. What's your status?"

"Papa Bear. I've got him in my gunsights. He's pretty good, but I'm moving in for the kill." The horizon was at a forty-five-degree angle now, as the planes continued their hard bank to the right. The Eagle was inching closer. The Fulcrum was within a hair of A. J.'s gun sights.

A. J. flipped a switch and armed the Eagle's twenty-millimeter cannon with exploding shells.

"Papa Bear, I'm moving in for guns." A. J. gave his jet slightly more throttle. The angle closed some more. The Fulcrum was almost in the crosshairs… almost… getting closer…

A. J. squeezed the trigger of the six-barrel Gatling-style cannon. "I got shots in the air!" Tracers flew at the twin tailpipes of the Russian jet with twenty-millimeter exploding shells. Fire erupted in the Fulcrum's tailpipe and black smoke spewed forth immediately.

"Bull's-eye!" A. J. shouted, as the MiG started a downward streak. "Bull's-eye!" He repeated. "I got him!"

"Great work, boss!" Lieutenant Travis Martin said.

"Keep an eye on that plane, " A. J. said. This kill would be legitimate, if he had to keep shooting bullets into the falling wreckage all the way to the ground. No more ghost planes resurfacing on radar. Not this time, baby.

"Eagle Three, Eagle Four. Bandit's dropping like a rock. I've got a parachute in the sky at two o'clock."

A. J. looked out and saw a white chute with a man dangling at the end.

"Mark position, " he said, then radioed the control plan. "Papa Bear, Eagle Three. We've got a downed Russian MiG and parachute at…" A. J. was shocked that the dogfight that had erupted over Tbilisi had spilledover the Turkish border. The Russian pilot, if he was still alive, would parachute into NATO territory. "Fifty miles east of the Turkish border."

"Eagle Three, Papa Bear. Copy that. We've got choppers in the area. Eagle Three, be advised the area is now free of bandits. Proceed as ordered, return to Incirlik."

"Papa Bear. Eagle Three. Roger that. We're coming home."

U.S. Army Apache helicopter

Fifty miles east of Arivan, Turkey

CW04 Adam Jackson, United States Army, sat in the cockpit at the controls of his Apache attack helicopter. He was hovering at five hundred feet over the snaky, mountainous road between the Turkish towns of Kars and Arivan.

Chief Warrant Officer Jackson had heard the radio traffic between the Navy EC-2 Hawkeye and the U.S. Air Force F-15 about the downed Russian jet. As soon as the transmission was complete, he spotted a white parachute, about two miles downrange, floating down toward the road just to his east.

Jackson pivoted the chopper on a stationary rotating axis in the air, dipped the nose, and flew toward the descending parachute.

"Papa Bear. Apache One. I have a visual on that parachute. Repeat, I have a visual on the parachute. He's coming down fifty miles east of Arivan. Looks like he may land on the main road."

"Apache One. Papa Bear. Proceed to landing site. Rescue downed pilot."

"Papa Bear. Roger that. Proceeding now."

Jackson pressed the aircraft's internal intercom system to the Apache's cargo bay.

"Ranger leader, be on alert. We've spotted the Russian pilot. He's coming down two miles downrange."

A voice came back through Jackson's headset. "Roger that, Apache One. Just get us into position and we'll take care of the rest."

"Roger that, Ranger leader. Stand by."

Jackson hovered for a moment. When the pilot hit the ground, Jackson nudged forward on the throttle. In a moment, he was hovering directly over the downed pilot, who was looking up, shielding his face from the chopper's downdraft. His clothes, hair, and downed parachute were blowing wildly in the wind.

"Ranger leader, we're at one hundred feet."

"Okay, Apache, we're good to go!"

Four one-hundred-foot ropes dropped from the chopper's cargo bay. A squad of U.S. Army Rangers, wearing camouflaged combat fatigues, shimmied down the ropes in groups of fours.

Jackson looked down. Six Rangers were already on the ground. They surrounded the Russian and pointed their M-16s at him from every direction. The Russian's hands were in the air. Jackson looked for a spot on the road, about a hundred yards downrange. He steered the Apache to just above the spot, and then set the chopper down on the road.