Warrior Class

Over the Black Sea

“There they are, sir,” one of the lookouts radioed. “They look like Russian helicopters. Mil Mi-14s, long-range land-based helicopters. No markings on them.”

“What in hell do they want?” the ship’s captain, Sergei Trevnikov, muttered nervously, restlessly peering at the helicopters through his binoculars. He hoped they were just joyriding or patrolling, since there was no place for helicopters that big to set down on his ship. “Still no response on hailing frequencies or aviation emergency channels?”

“No, sir.”

“Pasasi zalupu!” Trevnikov swore. Trevnikov was the skipper of the Russian oil tanker Ustinov, a privately owned tanker based out of Novorossijsk carrying almost a million barrels of crude oil bound for the big new oil terminal at Burgas, Bulgaria. He was accustomed to supply, medical, and VIP helicopters coming out to the ship all the time, but these three helicopters were unidentified, unannounced, and definitely unwanted.

“Quickly, have the quartermaster break out rifles and side arms,” Trevnikov ordered. He switched channels on his radio to the Black Sea emergency distress frequency. “Russian Federation Navy, Russian Federation Navy, Russian Federation Navy, this is the Russian flag tanker vessel Ustinov on emergency channel, under way ninety-eight kilometers north of Zonguldak, Turkey, heading west on transit approach to the Metyorgaz terminal at Burgas. Three military helicopters are approaching us from the north. They appear to be Russian-made military Mi-14 helicopters. They are unidentified and are not responding to our hails. We request immediate assistance. Over.”

It took several calls, but moments later a Russian Federation Navy radio operator sent the captain over to another channel. “Tanker Ustinov, we read you loud and clear,” the radioman said. “Are you in danger at this time?”

“Danger? Da, byt v glubokay zhopi! Yes, I’m in deep shit! I think these bastards mean to board us! They are maneuvering in on our bow right now.”

“We acknowledge, Ustinov,” the Russian radio operator said. “We are passing along your request for assistance at this time. Maintain a watch on this channel and advise of any hostile action. Over.”

“What should we do in the meantime? Suck our thumbs? Should we stop?”

“Command suggests you comply with their instructions to avoid any damage to your vessel that will render you dead in the water or unable to maintain steerageway,” the radio operator replied. “Are you laden at this time?”

“Hell, yes, we’re laden — we have a million barrels of crude oil on board!” Trevnikov shouted. He paused, decided, and then added, “We are a Metyorgaz vessel. Do you understand? Metyorgaz. Check our records — you’ll learn who owns this vessel and all the oil in it. I suggest you tell that to your superiors, and you had better do it quick.”

It was indeed quick. Only a few minutes later, a different voice came on the radio. “Tanker Ustinov, this is Commander Boriskov, commander of the destroyer Besstrashny, Seventy-ninth Destroyer Group, Novorossijsk,” came the announcement. “We copy you are being interdicted by unidentified military helicopters in treaty waters. Describe any markings you see and any weapons visible.”

“They are big fucking transport helicopters,” Trevnikov replied. Now the Russian Navy was doing something. Mention “Metyorgaz” to them, and they all start quaking in their boots. No one, not even the Russian Federation Navy, wants to fuck with Pavel Kazakov. “I don’t see any markings or weapons.”

“We acknowledge. Patrol and action aircraft and vessels are under way,” the commander said. “We recommend you reverse course if able and do not give permission to be boarded.”

“Well, no shit,” Trevnikov said. “But I will miss my offload slot if I come about.” The new Metyorgaz terminal at Burgas, Bulgaria, which had just opened, was one of the largest and finest in all of Eastern Europe. The new Metyorgaz pipeline from Burgas to Vlore, Albania, was cutting the cost of transporting petroleum to markets in Western Europe by thirty percent at least, which meant huge profits for all users. As a result, the Burgas terminal was always booked, and reserved slots could be held open only for very short periods of time. A delay of even six or seven hours could mean sitting at anchor in the Black Sea for days waiting for another slot. “Can’t you send a fighter jet out here to scare these bastards away?”

“We are readying armed aircraft at this time,” the Navy commander said, “but it will take them some time to reach your position. You will help us by reversing course. Acknowledge.”

“All right, all right,” Trevnikov said. To his helmsman, he ordered, “Helm, hard about.” He liked giving that order, because it took big tankers like the Ustinov, over two hundred meters long and over one hundred and fifty thousand tons, almost an hour and about thirty kilometers to execute a course reversal. “I am executing a heading change, coming to starboard to heading zero- six-zero,” Trevnikov radioed.

“Very well,” the Navy guy said. “Where are these helicopters now?”

Trevnikov searched the horizon and followed his bridge crew’s pointing fingers. “About two hundred meters off my bow,” he replied on the radio. “They are carrying fuel tanks. They look like torpedoes, but they are fuel tanks. My men tell me they are Mi- 14 transport helicopters. They are approaching amidships … wait! I see ropes! They are throwing ropes down from the helicopters … they are rappelling down from the helicopters! Soldiers! Commandos! They are invading my ship with commandos! About eight from each helicopter! They are on my deck, moving toward the wheelhouse! There are commandos on my ship!”

“Remain calm, Captain,” the Russian navy commander said. “Our patrol aircraft is less than ten minutes out, we are dispatching jet aircraft, and we have a warship about two hours away. Can you secure the bridge?”

“Against commandos? For two hours? Are you insane?” Trevnikov ordered the doors shut and barred. He had no illusions that he could put up any kind of defense against them, but he was determined to try. He had his crew members take cover in front of the helmsman’s console, where they had good cover and could see both bridge wing doors, and he secured and locked the two weather doors and the inside passageway door. Four of his crew members were armed, two with automatic rifles and the other two with automatic pistols.

Ten minutes later, the steel weather door on the port side of the bridge blew open. To the captain’s surprise, a lone, unarmed figure stepped into the doorway. “Open fire!” the captain shouted. All four men began firing as fast as they could. The figure simply stood there … and stood there. He never went down. They must have emptied eighty rounds on him — he was less than ten meters away — but he did not go down.

“Astanavleevat’sya!” the officer shouted in very poor Russian, with a definite Western accent. “Gyde deerektaram?”

“Who are you?” the captain shouted in Russian. The air was thick and hazy with the smell of burnt gunpowder. Did they have blanks or noisemakers in their guns? Why didn’t he go down …? “What do you want?” To his men, he said in a low but urgent voice, “Reload quickly, dammit!”

“Gyde deerektaram ” the figure repeated.

“Speak English — your Russian is giving me a headache,” Trevnikov shouted, now in English. “I am the captain. What in hell do you want on my ship?” At that moment, the starboard-side weather door blew open too, and just like the first, another figure stood, unarmed, in the doorway. One crew member with a rifle opened fire, emptying a thirty-round magazine on him in five seconds — but like the first, he did not go down. The first armored terrorist just stood there, calmly observing while his partner was shot at with a rifle. “Who are you?” the captain repeated, his eyes bugging out in sheer terror now. “What do you want?”

“I want you to shut up and do as you are told,” the first commando replied. “Drop your weapons and no one will get hurt, I promise.”

“Ssat ya na nivo hat’el!” the executive officer shouted, and he raised his reloaded pistol at the first man, who had taken several steps toward the Russians. But before the XO could fire, they heard and felt a snap of electricity emanating from somewhere on the figure’s body, and the XO flew backward, crumpled against the forward bulkhead, and lay jerking and twitching in muscle spasms on the deck.

“Drop your weapons now!” the second figure ordered. They did, and they all stood. up from behind the console with their hands raised in surrender. More commandos ran in and quickly began to search the bridge crew. They quickly bound the bridge officers’ hands behind their backs with nylon handcuffs, all but the captain, and led them away.

“Your ship is now under my command,” the first figure said in an electronically synthesized voice, like a robot’s. The captain stared in disbelief at him. He was dressed head to toe in what appeared to be a thin gray outfit, with a full-face helmet and a thin molded backpack. There was not a mark on him from bullets or from anything else. The captain noticed small protrusions from his shoulders that looked like electrodes — probably the source of the shock beam that had disabled his executive officer.

“You are hijacking an oil tanker? In the middle of the fucking Black Sea? Do you have any idea of what the hell you are doing?”

“We’ll see,” the strange commando said. He began issuing orders to his men as they herded the bridge crew out. The second commando, dressed in the strange but obviously very effective body armor as well, departed the bridge.

Trevnikov stepped closer to the masked commando. “Do you know who owns this vessel, asshole?”

“Metyorgaz,” the commando replied.

“And do you know who owns Metyorgaz?”

“Metyor IIG.”

“And do you know—?’

“I know perfectly well that Pavel Kazakov, the Russian gangster and drug lord, owns this vessel and all the oil in it,” the commando said, with a hint of triumph in his voice. “But you won’t be making any deliveries for him anymore.”

“That is not your first mistake today, aslayop,” Trevnikov said. This time it was his turn to give the terrorist an evil smile. “But it could very well be your last. When Comrade Kazakov finds out some American commandos in silly dance costumes hijacked his tanker, he’ll take great pleasure in roasting you all alive.”

“Don’t count on it, sraka,” the commando said. He took a plastic handcuff from a belt pouch behind his back and bound Trevnikov’s hands behind his back himself, and he was led out of the bridge.

Twenty minutes later, the terrorists had rounded up the entire crew and had them assembled on the bow with their hands on their heads. Two more helicopters soon arrived, carrying two dozen masked men, armed only with side arms, who took over the controls of the ship, plus several long crates and other supplies brought in slung under the helicopters. Soon the tanker Ustinov was heading south, toward Turkey.

But they were not alone for long. Several minutes later, several more helicopters arrived: one belonging to a state-controlled Turkish Radio and Television Corporation TV crew from Ankara, plus two Mil Mi-14 Haze land-based marine assault helicopters belonging to the Russian Federation Naval Infantry.

“Attention, commandos aboard the Ustinov, this is the Russian Federation Naval Infantry,” the radio call came. “You have illegally commandeered a Russian Federation flag vessel on the high seas. We have orders to take control of the vessel. We order you to immediately surrender control of the vessel and all of you come out on deck in plain sight and with weapons on the deck.” No reply. “Do not be a fool,” the Russian commander went on. “We have a Russian Navy destroyer less than two hours away. You will not reach any shore before our destroyer reaches you.” Still no reply. “Very well. Prepare to die.”

The Russian transport helicopters kept coming. They were within a mile of the Ustinov when suddenly a bright line of fire arced across the darkening evening sky from the mid-deck of the tanker. A missile struck one of the Russian Federation Navy helicopters, its engine exploded into a thousand pieces, and it plunged into the Black Sea. The other helicopter immediately reversed course and headed back to Russia. A Turkish Coast Guard helicopter, on the scene monitoring the tanker as it headed toward the Turkish coast, was on the crash scene immediately to help rescue survivors.

Darkness had fallen by the time the second wave arrived: a Russian Federation Navy Sukhoi-24 “Fencer” attack plane from Novorossijsk. The Su-24 carried two Kh-29 “Kedge” imaging-infrared guided air-to-surface missiles. It remained above fifteen thousand feet and kept its speed up to avoid being a target for shoulder-fired missiles from the hijackers on the ship. At a range of ten miles, the pilot was able to lock the stem of the Ustinov in his imaging-infrared telescopic sensor. His orders: shoot out the Ustinov’s rudder and propeller and disable it. At a range of five miles, the Kh-29 was within range. The pilot unsafed his firing button …

… and at that exact moment, the Su-24’s right engine exploded in a ball of fire, and the crew ejected seconds before the whole plane exploded.

It took another hour for a second Sukhoi-24 attack jet to reach the tanker, but it, too, disappeared from radar shortly before launching an attack on the tanker — and it, too, was well out of range of a man-portable antiaircraft missile. Several minutes later, one of the engines on a Russian Federation Navy Tupolev-95 maritime patrol and attack plane inbound toward the tanker was hit and destroyed by another missile, and the plane was forced to turn back.

By then, the Russian Federation Navy destroyer Besstrashny, originally based in Ukraine but moved to Novorossijsk when the ship was transferred back to Russia after the breakup of the Soviet Union, was close on the scene. The tactical action officers aboard the Russian destroyer had warned all air and surface traffic away from the area, and its Kamov Ka-27 helicopter had already been datalinking the tanker’s exact position to the ship. There were several Turkish Coast Guard vessels in the vicinity, all coastal patrol vessels carrying light weapons — no threat to the Besstrashny, one of the largest warships in the Black Sea.

The skipper met with the weapons officers and tactical action officer in the Combat Information Center. “When will we be within range of the Ustinov?” Captain Boriskov asked.

“We are well within range of the 3M-82 Moskit, sir,” the weapons officer responded. The Moskit was a large supersonic, radar-guided antiship missile.

“I don’t want to sink the damn ship, just disable it,” the captain said.

“Then all we have is the forward AK-130 until we’re within helicopter range,” the TAO cut in.

“What do we target? The rudder area? The props? Engineering?”

“I suggest we hit the superstructure, sir,” the TAO said. “Create some confusion, maybe kill a bunch of the terrorists, and send the naval infantry aboard to try to take control of the ship again. If we disable the ship’s steering and propulsion systems, we could create an even larger disaster if we can’t stop the ship and it runs aground in Turkey.”

“Ask me if I care if it runs aground in Turkey,” the captain sneered.

“But if it did, it would be partially our fault — and that might be the terrorists’ ultimate objective,” one of the intelligence officers said. He lowered his voice, then added, “Remember who owns that ship and its cargo, sir.”

The skipper’s face blanched. Pavel Kazakov.

In the last several months, Pavel Kazakov had become one of the wealthiest, most well-known, and most talked-about men in the entire world. He’d already had an evil reputation that had made him simply dangerous. Now he had real, legitimate power behind him. His oil empire stretched from the Caspian to the Adriatic Sea. He was shipping more oil than half the members of OPEC, and he was doing it more cheaply and more efficiently than anyone could believe. Nations and corporations were becoming rich from him, which meant more and more nations were protecting and underwriting his ventures.

His chief underwriter seemed to be the Russian Army itself. From Georgia in the east to Albania in the west, the Russian army maintained a continuous, ominous presence. Although Russian troops were not in Georgia itself, the Republic of Georgia knew that thousands of Russian troops were massed on its northern border, ready to invade if the government was unwilling or unable to control rival factional fighting in the Nagorno-Karabakh region that might affect Metyorgaz oil-transport operations. The Russian army was already cracking down on the cross-border movement of Muslim rebels between the province of Chechnya and Georgia, and they were not shy about crossing the border on occasion to pursue Muslim guerrillas. The Russian navy had also increased patrols on the Black Sea to protect increased tanker traffic.

Most significantly, the Russian army was back in the Balkans with a force and presence unseen since World War II. Fifty thousand troops were stationed in eleven key bases in Bulgaria, Macedonia, Serbia, Bosnia-Herzegovina, Croatia, Montenegro, the Serbian provinces of Vojvodina and Kosovo, and Albania, ostensibly as “peacekeepers” enforcing United Nations resolutions. Their presence was centered around the new Metyorgaz pipeline route, so there was very little doubt about their real mission, but they also enforced United Nations resolutions and even abided by most NATO rules of engagement and operations orders, operating almost at will throughout the Balkans, from Slovenia to the Black Sea, from Hungary to the Greek border.

But rather than feel threatened, the countries saw this as an advantage. Fighting between the government and gunrunners or drug dealers had all but vanished — the Russian army was ruthless in pursuing anyone even suspected of illegally crossing the borders, selling drugs, or trying to rearm rebel forces anywhere in the Balkans. Incidents of clashes between Serbs and other ethnic groups in the Balkans, and between the various religious factions, had all but ceased as well. The Balkans were actually enjoying the first real semblance of peace since the bad old days of Marshal Tito.

True, there were always large numbers of Russian or German transport planes on almost every large airport in several major cities in the Balkans, or a Russian or German attack helicopter flying overhead all the time. This made many folks nervous, especially the older generations, who could still remember World War II. Whereas a few months earlier Pavel Kazakov had been reviled and pursued throughout Europe — he was still under indictment for narcotics trafficking and other violent crimes in twenty-three countries around the world — today he was being lauded as some sort of savior, a dashing entrepreneur rescuing the poorest nations in Europe from abject poverty. He was sponsoring drug-eradication programs in several dozen nations around the world — this from the man who had perfected the art of drug smuggling in Europe to a fine art, whom some had once accused of pumping heroin through his pipelines instead of oil.

But no one could doubt that their presence was benefiting everyone. The bottom line: everyone seemed to be getting rich from the oil. What was there not to like?

“A sort of eco-terrorist thing?” the skipper asked, immediately aware that it was his responsibility — not to mention in his, and his family’s, best interest — not to screw this up. He shook his head when the intel officer nodded. “Ni kruti mn’e yaytsa, “ he said with disgust. “The tanker has an alternate control center on the second floor of the superstructure,” the chief engineer’s mate said, producing a faxed sketch of the tanker. “If we shell the bridge, even destroy it, we can still control the ship from there. The terrorists are very likely up on the bridge — we’re bound to nail a few of them there.”

“All right,” the captain decided. “We close the distance until we can get within pinpoint firing range of the tanker, then shell the superstructure only, staying away from the alternate control center, the rudder, and the propulsion system. Weapons, what range would that be?”

“We should use the optronic sights and laser rangefinder,” he suggested. “In this weather, in these conditions, we should close to at least fifteen kilometers.”

“Very well,” Boriskov said. “Just before we start shelling the superstructure, we’ll launch the air and surface assault craft. Coordinate your shelling with the assault” The officers nodded their heads in agreement. “Loshka gavna v bochki m’oda. There’s still a spoonful of shit in the honey barrel. What about the Sukhoi-24 and Tupolev-95 attacks? What hit them? Any ideas?”

“No idea, sir,” the TAO replied. “We’re just now within radar range of the area where they were hit. We’ve been monitoring Turkey’s air traffic control network, and there’s no sign of any attack aircraft launching from there.”

“I don’t think Turkey would be stupid enough to interfere with this incident,” the captain said. “It doesn’t make sense — Turkey helping a bunch of idiotic terrorists trying to hijack an oil tanker. Where do they think they are going to go? We’ll put a stop to this in no time.”

Codlea, Bulgaria

“Wake up!” Fursenko shouted wildly. “Wake up, damn you, or he’ll kill us all!” He could smell alcohol, and beads of sweat popped on the back of his neck.

Ion Stoica’s head felt as if it was going to explode, and his mouth and tongue felt as dry and as rough as sandpaper. He rolled wearily onto his side. “What in hell do you want, Fursenko?”

“One of Metyor’s oil tankers in the Black Sea is under attack,” Fursenko exclaimed. That got Stoica’s attention. “Someone has hijacked it! Comrade Kazakov wants you to launch immediately!”

Stoica struggled to his feet, put on his flight suit over a pair of lightweight cotton underwear, stumbled into his boots, and headed out of his room in a small building adjacent to the main hangar. That little wooden building had been his home now for over eight months. Up until three months before, he had had to share it with Gennadi Yegorov, his weapons officer aboard the Metyor Mt-179 stealth fighter, but he’d finally convinced him to get his own place. Yegorov had made up a place over the main hangar — the noise from the aircraft maintenance crews below didn’t bother him.

They made their way across the dark dirt streets toward the security checkpoint to the main hangar where the Mt-179 Tyenee had been stored. Except for just a few test flights, they hadn’t flown the bird too often. NATO and Romanian air patrols had come fairly close to the base, but the Mt-179 had been able to dispatch them quickly and easily.

“You’ve been drinking!” Fursenko said, horrified, as they passed through the outer security post.

“Screw you, Doctor,” Stoica said. “I’ve been holed up in this place for over half a year with no leave and no time off. The food is lousy and I haven’t seen a woman worth fucking in three months. I bought some homemade wine from one of the locals, and if I’d had a chance to drink some then, I probably would’ve fucked the old hag. Now shut up. You’re making my head hurt.”

Yegorov was already inside, drawing on a chart of the Black Sea and northern Turkey. The guy was unreal, Stoica thought — noise, loneliness, quiet, and deprivation didn’t bother Yegorov one bit. He didn’t smoke, drink, play cards, or party like the others assigned here. He had a lot of male friends in the maintenance department — maybe Gennadi was curing his loneliness with some late-night visits to the maintenance group’s barracks. Maybe that’s why he’d agreed to relocate to over the maintenance hangar.

“Ion’s here, sir,” Yegorov said to a speakerphone.

“Nice of you to join us, Stoica,” the sneering voice of Pavel Kazakov came over the speaker.

“Sorry, sir. I came as soon as I heard.” He stopped himself from making an obscene gesture to the speakerphone, motioned to a maintenance officer for coffee, and pulled out a cigarette from a flight suit pocket. “Some retards are attacking one of your tankers?”

“A group of terrorists — the exact number is unknown, but around eight to twelve — fast-roped onto the tanker Ustinov a couple hours ago,” Yegorov summarized. “They have shoulder-fired antiaircraft missiles and have shot down a Navy helicopter. The tanker is heading south into Turkish waters, destination unknown.”

Stoica shook his head, totally confused. He took a big sip of coffee. “So what are we supposed to do?”

“Two Russian maritime patrol aircraft, a Sukhoi-24 and Tupolev-95, were attacked by an undetected aircraft en route to the tanker,” Yegorov explained. “Mr. Kazakov believes someone — NATO, the Americans, or perhaps the Turks — have sent stealth aircraft into the area to keep the Russian aircraft away. He wants us to investigate. Tonight.”

“Yes, sir,” Stoica said, trying to sound enthusiastic. “If someone’s up there, we’ll nail his ass to the wall.” He turned to the maintenance officer. “How long before we are ready to fly?”

“About twenty minutes, sir,” the officer said. Stoica nodded, inwardly groaning. It was going to take him a lot longer than that to sober up. Maybe coffee and some one-hundred-percent oxygen would help.

“There is a Russian destroyer pursuing the tanker, getting ready to land some naval infantry on the tanker to recapture it,” Kazakov said. “If there’s another aircraft out there, I want you to get it. Don’t let anyone get a shot off at either the tanker or the destroyer. I want that tanker recovered intact and the oil safe. Do you understand?” The line went dead before anyone could respond.

Stoica finished the coffee with a gulp. “Good luck to you, too, sir,” he muttered sarcastically.

Aboard the Russian Federation Navy destroyer Besstrashny

With the captain back on the bridge monitoring the attack, their plan got under way. The tactical action officer (TAO) fed in information from his India-band surface-search radar when it came within range, followed by more precise targeting information from its optronic telescopic night sight and laser rangefinder. The tanker was on a constant heading and speed, so targeting was easy. “Bridge, combat,” the TAO radioed, “we’ve got a clear sight of the target, Captain.”

The captain got up, went to the aft part of the bridge, and checked the repeaters of the targeting screens from the Combat Information Center. The sights were clearly locked on the upper portion of the large white superstructure. “Very well. Range?”

“Twenty-one kilometers, sir.”

“Any change in target heading or speed?”

“No, sir.”

“Any other aircraft or vessels nearby?”

“No vessels within ten kilometers of the tanker, sir. All of the vessels nearby have been accounted for. No threat to us.”

“Very well. Launch the surface and air attack teams.” A small team of six Russian Federation Naval Infantry commandos were launched aboard the Besstrashny’s Ka-27 helicopter and sent to try to secretly board the tanker; at the same time, they loaded a launch with two dozen Naval Infantry commandos to attempt a raid from the sea.

When fifteen kilometers out, the stem section of the tanker was in clear sight on the optronic monitors. “Still no change in target heading or speed,” the TAO reported. “It looks like it’s simply going to ground itself on the northern Turkish coast, about halfway between the Turkish naval base at Eregli and the coastal resort city of Zonguldak.”

“Any oil facilities there?” the skipper asked his intelligence officer. “Any way the Turks can off-load the oil?”

“You mean, steal it?” the intel officer asked incredulously.

“Just answer the damned question.”

“Zonguldak is a coastal residential, resort, and university town,” the intel officer said. “Large desalinization plant, large nuclear-power-generating facility there, but no oil refineries or oil off-loading or transshipment facilities.”

“A nuclear power plant, eh?” the captain mused. “Is it on the coast?”

“It’s about twenty kilometers south of the projected impact area and about two kilometers inland, closer to the naval base.”

The captain was still considering the eco-terrorist angle, but it was starting to distract him, and he didn’t need that right now. “Comm, Bridge, send one last message to fleet headquarters, requesting permission to begin our operation.”

A few moments later: “Bridge, Comm, message from Fleet, operation approved, commence when ready.”

“Very well.” He picked up the ship’s intercom. “All hands, this is the captain. We will commence attack operations immediately.” To the officer of the deck, he ordered, “Sound general quarters.” The alarms and announcements began, and the captain was handed his helmet, headphones, and life jacket. “Release batteries. Commence…”

“Bridge, Combat, high-speed air bandit, bearing zero-five-zero, range three-two kilometers, low, heading southwest at nine-two-zero kilometers per hour!”

“Byt v glubokay zhopi, there’s our mystery attacker,” the captain swore.

“Recommend heading two-three-zero, flank speed, and canceling the attack on the tanker, sir,” the executive officer said.

“My orders are to stop those terrorists from taking that tanker into Turkish waters,” the captain said. “Maintain course and speed, stand by to open fire.”

“He’s not turning,” the satellite surveillance officer reported. “Increasing speed to twenty knots.”

“Looks like he’s not going to break off his attack on the tanker,” Jon Masters said. “We might be too late.”

“Not yet,” David Luger said. “I’ll push AALF up and take it down, and let’s see what he does.”

Masters and Luger, along with a team of technicians, were aboard Sky Masters Inc.’s DC-10 carrier aircraft, orbiting sixty miles north near Ukrainian airspace. The satellite images they were viewing came from a string of six small imaging reconnaissance satellites called NIRTSats (Need It Right This Second satellites), launched earlier by Masters specifically for this operation. The satellites, beaming their signals to a geosynchronous relay satellite that then sent the images to the DC-10 launch aircraft, would provide continuous images of the entire Black Sea region for the next week.

Luger happily entered commands into a keyboard. Fifty miles to the south, a small aircraft began a steep dive and accelerated to almost the speed of sound. The small aircraft was called “AALF,” an acronym that stood for Autonomous Air Launched Fighter. Launched from the DC- 10, AALF was a sophisticated, high-speed, highly maneuverable cruise missile with a brain. AALF was not steered like other unmanned aerial vehicles. It was simply given a task to do, and AALF would use its neural computer logic functions, combined with sensor and preprogrammed threat data, to determine its own way to accomplish the mission. David Luger simply acted as the coach, telling AALF what they wanted it to do. After it had been first launched from the DC-10, AALF had been ordered to be an interceptor, and it had sneaked up on the Sukhoi-24 and Tupolev-95 aircraft and attacked them with internal Sidewinder air-to-air missiles.

Right now, Luger wanted AALF to pretend it was a sea-skimming antiship missile. AALF descended until it was less than two hundred feet above the Black Sea, then accelerated to six hundred miles an hour and headed for the destroyer Besstrashny, making an occasional zigzag pattern as a sophisticated antiship missile would do. The Besstrashny responded as expected, turning hard to starboard to present as small a target to the incoming missile as possible and also to bring its aft 130-millimeter dual-purpose guns and aft SA-N-7 antiaircraft missiles to bear.

Then, just before AALF flew within gun range, it turned away, staying outside maximum gun range. The crew of the Russian destroyer couldn’t ignore the threat, so they kept on maneuvering to keep its stem to the missile in case it started another attack. As it did, the tanker Ustinov sailed farther and farther away, well out of gun range now. The Ka-27 helicopter with its commandos on board had no choice but to turn around — they could not risk facing more shoulder-fired antiaircraft missiles without some sort of covering fire to help screen their approach. The launch carrying two dozen naval infantry commandos continued their approach, easily overtaking the much slower tanker.

“See ‘em yet, guys?” Luger radioed. He was watching the launch’s approach on the satellite surveillance video. “About four miles dead astern, heading toward you at forty knots.”

Patrick McLanahan deactivated his helmet’s electronic visor. He and Hal Briggs were wearing the electronic body armor and had led the assault on the tanker. The armor had originally been developed by Sky Masters Inc. as a lightweight protective anti-explosive sheathing inside airliner’s cargo compartments. But the material, nicknamed BERP (Ballistic Electro-Reactive Process), had been adapted for many other uses, including strong, lightweight protection for special operations commandos. Patrick picked up the electromagnetic rail gun rifle and steadied it or the safety rail of the starboard pilot’s wing. He searched, using his helmet-mounted imaging infrared sensor, positioned the rifle, then activated the rifle’s electronic sight. “Contact,” he radioed back to Luger. “Brave boys. They keep on coming, even though their cover is completely gone.”

“Don’t let them get within mortar or antitank range, Muck.”

“Don’t worry, Dave,” Patrick said. He aimed his rifle and fired. A streak of blue-yellow vapor ripped through the night sky, followed by a supersonic CCRRAACCKK! as loud as a thunderclap. The sausage-size hypersonic projectile pierced the front of the launch, passing between the launch captain and helmsman and barely missing one commando, before passing through the deck, right through the diesel engine, out the bottom near the stem, and through one hundred and fifty feet of seawater before burying itself seventy-five feet in the bottom of the Black Sea. The launch’s engine sputtered, coughed, and died within seconds. The automatic bilge pumps activated as the water in the bilges started to get deeper. Soon, the commandos and the crew were scurrying for life preservers.

“Target neutralized,” Luger radioed. “He’s dead in the water. Good shooting, Muck. I’m going to recall AALF for refueling. That destroyer won’t be back in gun range before AALF gets refueled.”

“Roger,” Patrick responded. “We’re working on rigging auxiliary control for remote operation. Stay in touch. You should be expecting company any minute.”

“We’re ready for them. Texas out.” Luger entered commands into the computer.

AALF stopped making false attacks on the Russian destroyer Besstrashny and headed back to the DC-10. It automatically began an approach behind the launch aircraft. Luger extended a refueling probe, much like a U.S. Air Force KC- 10 Extender tanker, and, using its onboard radar as well as following laser steering signals from the DC-10, AALF flew itself toward the refueling probe. A small receptacle popped open on the upper portion of its fuselage, it guided itself into position, and the drone flew itself into contact with the probe. Mechanical clamps secured the drone onto the probe, and it began taking on jet fuel directly from the DC-10’s fuel tanks.

But while AALF was attached to the DC-10’s refueling probe, the crew was in its most vulnerable position — and AALF’s approach had been watched and plotted by Russian ground-based and airborne radars. Minutes after AALF attached itself to the probe, threat-warning receivers on board the DC-10 bleeped to life. “Russian MiG-27s, bearing zero-seven-zero, forty-seven miles, coming in fast!” the sensor technician shouted. “We’ve got company!”

“I’m detaching AALF and sending it after them,” Luger said. “Jon, tell the flight crew to get us out of here ASAP.” Luger entered instructions into AALF’s computerized brain, and the little craft detached itself from the refueling probe, drifted behind and away from the DC-10, then turned and flew toward the oncoming MiGs. The DC- 10 turned northwest and headed for the Ukrainian coast.

AALF was a small aircraft, much smaller than a MiG-27, but it had been built for speed and maneuverability, not stealth. It detected the MiG’s radar-guided missile attacks, evaded the first salvo, and flew close enough to the pack to cause them to break formation and scatter. But there were too many Russians versus one unarmed aircraft, and no matter how smart, fast, and maneuverable it was, it couldn’t evade its attackers and protect the DC-10 at the same time. When it turned to pursue two MiGs that had pressed their attack westward toward the DC-10, two more MiGs managed to bracket it from behind and kill it with a heat-seeking-missile shot.

“Those MiGs got past AALF,” the sensor operator said. “They’re on our six, thirty-nine miles and closing fast.”

The two MiG-27s in the lead had shot their two long-range radar-guided missiles at the drone already, so they had to continue to close in on the DC-10 for a heat-seeking-missile shot. But they had orders to get a visual ID on the aircraft first, so they continued inside missile range. They closed the distance quickly — their quarry was obviously very large and not very maneuverable, with three big engines glowing bright enough to be seen ten kilometers away on the IRSTS infrared sensor. The pilot of the lead MiG could feel buffeting and hear the engine roar from five kilometers away. This aircraft had to be big to create turbulence like that! He flew a bit farther to one side, out of the turbulent air, and continued. Just a few more seconds and he’d—

Suddenly the Russian MiG pilot’s threat warning indicators lit up like a holiday centerpiece. They were surrounded by fighters! Where did they come from? Who …?

“Attention, attention, unidentified MiG-27 aircraft at our twelve o’clock position,” the MiG pilots heard in fluent Russian, “this is Eskadril Twenty-seven, Six-twenty-six Polk, Odessa, Viyskovo-Povitryani Syly, Air Force of Ukraine. You are in violation of Ukrainian airspace. You will turn right immediately to head south, decelerate, and lower your landing gear, or you will be attacked without further warning.”

“Twenty-seventh Squadron, this is the Ninety-first Squadron, Novorossiysk, Air Force of the Russian Federation,” the lead MiG-27 pilot replied. “We are in pursuit of unidentified hostile combat aircraft that attacked a Russian tanker and a Russian Federation Navy destroyer. The unidentified hostile is at our twelve o’clock position. We request your help to pursue and identify this hostile. Over.”

In response, the MiG-27 on the leader’s right wing exploded in a ball of fire.

The Russian pilot couldn’t believe what he’d just seen. “You … you shot down my wingman!” he cried on the radio. “You bastards! How could you do this? We are allies! We are neighbors!”

“Negative, Russian MiG, negative!” the Ukrainian pilot responded. “Turn starboard right now or you will be destroyed!”

“You cannot do this! This is not permitted!”

“You will be fish food if you do not comply immediately!” the Ukrainian pilot responded. “Turn now!”

He had no other choice. The MiG-27 pilot pushed his control stick right and pulled his throttle back a few notches. The large unidentified aircraft quickly disappeared from his IRSTS sensor. He thought about turning and trying a missile snapshot at the aircraft — but at that exact moment, he saw a burst of cannon fire shoot from a fighter just a few meters off his left side. The damned Ukrainian fighter was right there! The threat warning receiver counted six more aircraft in the vicinity. “Flaps and gear, or you will be shot down!” the Ukrainian warned him. He had no choice but to comply. With his flaps and landing gear down, his fire control system automatically shut itself down.

“Bastards!” the Russian pilot shouted. “What do you think you’re doing? We have permission to overfly Ukrainian airspace when necessary for defense purposes! Aren’t you familiar with our memorandum of understanding? We are allies!”

“Not anymore, we’re not,” the Ukrainian responded. “The Russian Federation is no longer welcome over Ukrainian airspace.”

“What in hell are you talking about? Russia has the right to fly over the Black Sea or anywhere else we choose.”

“This airspace belongs to the Black Sea Alliance,” the Ukrainian pilot said. “Russian warplanes are not welcome over Alliance airspace.”

“The what? What Black Sea Alliance?”

“This,” came a different voice. The Russian pilot looked. The aircraft off his left wing turned its identification lights on…

… and revealed itself not as a Ukrainian fighter, but as a Turkish F-16 fighter! It still wore the star and crescent of Turkey, but it wore the blue and gold of the Republic of Ukraine on its tail as well!

“Left turn smartly heading one-eight-zero, then flank speed to intercept that tanker!” Captain Boriskov of the Russian navy destroyer Besstrashny ordered. “I want all the patrol and smaller combatants available to rendezvous with us as soon as possible. We need help to stop that tanker before it reaches Turkish territorial waters.”

“Our fighters report downing one unidentified aircraft,” the tactical action officer reported. “But now our fighters are surrounded by Turkish and Ukrainian interceptors, and one of our fighters has been shot down. Our fighters are greatly outnumbered.”

“Turkish interceptors?” the captain retorted. “What are Turkish interceptors doing flying over Ukraine?”

“They call themselves the Black Sea Alliance,” the executive officer replied. “The aircraft are flying both flags. They prohibited Russian aircraft from entering their airspace, and they shot down one of our planes.”

“My God, are they insane? What is this Black Sea Alliance? What in hell is going on here? How many fighters are up there?”

“There are at least six up there, outnumbering them two to one — MiG-29s and F-16s. They have forced our fighters to withdraw.”

“Is Novorossiysk sending more fighters?” the captain asked.

“Negative,” the TAO replied. “They were pursuing an unidentified aircraft when they entered Ukrainian airspace, but that aircraft has disappeared over Ukraine. There is no longer any justification for overflying Ukrainian airspace, so no more aircraft will be launched.”

“What about helping us?” the captain shouted. “We need helicopter-capable warships out here to launch an assault on the terrorists holding that tanker.”

“The frigate Ladny is two and a half hours out,” the executive officer said. “They are switching their ASW helicopter with an armed attack helicopter to assist in an armed assault on the tanker. Three Border Patrol Type 206MP missile hydrofoil patrol boats are also en route, about seventy minutes out.”

“Barely enough time,” the captain muttered. “How long until the tanker crosses into Turkish waters?”

“Should be within Turkish treaty waters in ten minutes on present course and speed.”

The captain shrugged. “No matter. We won’t let a little thing like lines on a map stop us. Notify me when the hydrofoils come into range and the Ka-27 is refueled, and we’ll try another assault on the tanker. How long until we get back within gun range?”

“Fifteen minutes.”

“We’ll try a couple shots on the superstructure and perhaps convince them to give themselves up,” the captain said. “Notify me when we get within extreme gun range.”

It was the weirdest chase anyone had ever seen — two massive ships, separated by just a few miles, with one pursuing the other at barely the speed of a brisk bicycle ride. With aircraft, Captain Boriskov thought, everything happens so fast; with maritime warfare, everything happens so slow. But soon they were within maximum range of the forward AK-130, and the big twin-barreled gun opened fire. Two 70-pound high-explosive shells impacted the superstructure just a few seconds apart, ripping huge holes in the living spaces. A second two-round volley hit the bridge itself. A small fire started in the living and engineering spaces from the first blast.

“This is the Ustinov,” a voice came on the radio. “Congratulations on your shooting — you have managed to destroy the bridge. I don’t think we can control the ship well enough from the auxiliary control station. But I wouldn’t fire any more rounds at the superstructure. We have sent the Ustinov’s crew into those spaces. Hit us again, and you’ll be killing your fellow Russians.”

“Cease fire, cease fire,” the captain said, looking on with his repeater of the telescopic low-light optronic gun sight. “This is Captain Boriskov of the Russian Federation Navy destroyer Besstrashny,” the skipper responded on the radio in English. “What kind of cowards put hostages in harm’s way? You should release the crew into lifeboats. This is between you and me.”

“I think we will leave the crew where they are for now-they’re safe as long as you stop firing into our superstructure.”

“Who are you? What do you want?”

“Never mind who I am,” Patrick McLanahan responded. “We wish to send Comrade Pavel Kazakov a little message: if he flies his little stealth toy any more, he and all of his partners and business associates will suffer.”

“What stealth toy? What are you talking about?”

“Pavel Kazakov has been involved in a campaign of terror and mayhem throughout Europe,” Patrick went on. “He has been responsible for creating enough fear and destruction within the Balkans that the international community was forced to respond by sending Russian peacekeepers into otherwise peaceful countries. But all this has been created specifically so the Russian army can protect Kazakov’s new pipeline.”

“You claim the Russian Army is in league with Pavel Kazakov? Ridiculous.”

“President Sen’kov, Colonel-General Zhurbenko, and many others in the Russian military high command are on Kazakov’s payroll,” Patrick replied. “If they weren’t enticed by Kazakov’s money, Kazakov sent his Metyor-179 stealth fighter-bomber in to attack. Kazakov has killed thousands in order to create enough fear to convince others to go along.”

“What proof do you have of all this?”

“We have sent a tape recording of conversations between Kazakov, Metyor Aerospace Director Fursenko, Chief of the General Staff Zhurbenko, and Russian National Security Advisor Yejsk, to the world’s major media outlets, discussing this plan,” Patrick said. “Zhurbenko and Yejsk agree to mobilize the Russian army in response to the terror created by Kazakov and his stealth warplane, specifically so Russian troops could occupy and control foreign territory that Kazakov needed to build his pipeline across the Balkans from the Black Sea to the Adriatic Sea. By tonight, the whole world will have heard this tape.

“How do we know this tape is authentic? How do we know any of this is real?”

“Because we have also included a tape recording of President Sen’kov of Russia discussing the matter with President Thorn of the United States,” Patrick radioed. “Sen’kov agreed to let two captured American pilots free in exchange for Thorn agreeing not to reveal the contents of the tape. The Russian government eventually leaked the information on the two captured Americans and their aircraft shot down over Russia.”

“So President Thomas Thorn was involved in this as well?”

“President Thorn’s goal was the release of his captured fliers,” McLanahan replied. “Sen’kov’s goal was not to have embarrassing intelligence information leak out on how he was going to go along with crime boss and drug dealer Kazakov in taking over the Balkans in order to share in the profits of a one-hundred-million-dollar-per-day oil venture. If Thorn is guilty of anything, it is of trusting Sen’kov. Sen’kov is guilty of collusion with Pavel Kazakov.”

“Well, this is a very interesting fairy tale,” Boriskov said. But he was worried. For the past several months, this is exactly what most of the Russian military forces had been doing: protecting Pavel Kazakov’s business interests. He and many of his fellow officers had been wondering about the grand scheme, although it seemed to be a lucrative deal for everyone. Perhaps that was the reason: Sen’kov, Zhurbenko, and others in Moscow were getting kickbacks from Kazakov, in exchange for providing protection for his oil enterprise. Now the Russian Navy had become his unwitting bodyguards, too. “What do you intend to do with the tanker?”

“We intend this to be a down payment on the very large bill Kazakov owes to the people of the Balkans,” Patrick replied, “especially the people of Kukes, Struga, Ohrid, Resen, and those who died in the NATO E-3 AWACS radar plane and the Turkish F-16 shot down over the Black Sea by his marauding stealth fighter. This tanker and its cargo represent a half-billion-dollar investment for Pavel Kazakov. We are going to send it to the bottom of the Black Sea.”

“Shto?” Boriskov shouted. “You cannot do that! It would be a monumental ecological disaster! That spill would pollute a large portion of the Black Sea for years!”

“Let it be on Pavel Kazakov’s hands,” Patrick said. “Maybe by sinking this ship, the world will soon learn everything about Kazakov and his bloody greed.”

“What are we going to do, Captain?” the Besstrashny’s executive officer asked. “We won’t be able to reach it in time.”

“We are going to have to disable it,” Boriskov said. “Combat, this is the captain. Target the rudder and propulsion area of the stem on the tanker. I want it stopped dead in the water. Once we catch up to it, we’ll board it and hold it until help comes from Russia.”

“We are inside Turkish treaty waters, Captain,” the navigator warned. “We are prohibited from discharging weapons.”

“This is an emergency situation,” the captain said. “Combat, carry out my last—”

“Bridge, Combat, high-speed aircraft inbound, low altitude, bearing zero-two-zero, range eight-seven kilometers, speed … speed thirteen hundred kilometers per hour!” the radar operators in the Combat Information Center called out. “Multiple contacts.”

“Attention, attention, destroyer Besstrashny, this is the Black Sea Alliance bomber north of you,” the bridge crew heard moments later. “You have entered Alliance treaty waters and are hereby ordered to reverse course immediately or you will be fired upon.”

“There’s that Alliance bullshit again,” Boriskov exclaimed. “Number One, battle stations.” The battle stations alarm rang once again. “Combat, release batteries on the forward 130 only and open fire. Disable the tanker before it gets too far into Turkish treaty waters.” The AK-130 cannon opened fire on the tanker, one two-round volley every four seconds. The stem of the tanker Ustinov exploded in a burst of flames.

“Bridge, Combat, inbound antiship missiles, bearing zero-two-zero, eighty kilometers and closing, speed nine hundred kilometers per hour and accelerating, sea-skimmer! Additional radar contact aircraft, bearing three-four-zero, multiple contacts, low altitude and high speed, possible antiship missile attack profile as well.”

“Helm, hard to port heading zero-two-zero,” Boriskov ordered. “Combat, Bridge, cease fire on the tanker. Stand by to defend against high-speed sea-skimmer. All defensive batteries released.”

“Sir! Look! The tanker!” Boriskov turned and saw a massive ball and column of fire, like a small nuclear explosion, erupt on the forward portion of the tanker. The fire was so bright that it cast shadows on the deck of the Besstrashny over twenty kilometers away. Seconds later, the shock wave from the blast rolled over them, rattling windows and sending a vibration through the deck.

“The tanker is gone,” Boriskov said. “It’ll be on the bottom in minutes, and they’ll be cleaning up that oil slick for the next ten years.”

“Bridge, Combat, numerous small vessels approaching the tanker from the south,” the radar operator reported. “Possibly Turkish naval patrol boats or fire boats.”

“Never mind the damned tanker — it’s gone,” Boriskov shouted. “Time to impact on that sea-skimmer?”

“Sea-skimmer passing twelve hundred kilometers per hour,” the radar operator reported. “Time to impact, three point four minutes.”

“Count down every fifteen seconds.”

“Destroyer Besstrashny, this is the Black Sea Alliance Air Command. You will reverse course immediately or we will continue our attack,” the radio message said.

“How dare you attack a flagship of the Russian Federation Navy!” Boriskov retorted. “I warn you, abort this attack or consider it an act of war!”

“You have committed an act of war by opening fire in Turkish waters without authorization,” the bomber crew responded. “We have begun the countdown on five more antiship missiles, Captain, and we will launch them if you do not cease fire and reverse course immediately. It may be an act of war, but the Besstrashny will be the first casualty if you do not head out of Alliance waters immediately.”

“Time to impact, three minutes.”

The bridge crew looked over at their captain in horror. They were positioned correctly to defend against the first missile, but not against more fired from a different angle. If the other bombers launched, the Besstrashny’s defenses could be quickly overwhelmed.

“Black Sea Alliance, or whoever you are,” Boriskov radioed, “this is the Besstrashny. We will exit your waters without further incident. Abort your attack.” Seconds later, they saw a flash of light in the sky, and the CIC reported they had lost contact with the first sea-skimmer.

“Yibis ana v rot!” Boriskov swore loudly. “Comm, Bridge, notify Destroyer Group in Novorossiysk — tell them we came under attack by some group calling itself the Black Sea Alliance. Give position, include details of the weapon they fired at us, notify them that we are being directed on where to go from here under threat of massive aerial attack, and ask for instructions.”

Rather than make it better, the oxygen just seemed to be making Stoica’s headache worse. He tried to gulp down some water to keep his mouth and throat moistened, but his liver was sucking all the moisture out of his body to try to digest all that rotgut wine, and he was losing that battle.

Yegorov wasn’t making it any better. He was continuing a steady stream of chatter on the intercom, repeating every message over and over. “Six bombers! Did you hear that? This Black Sea Alliance has surrounded the Besstrashny with six bombers! This Black Sea Alliance has got balls, I’ll admit that.”

“Can you please shut up and just find the one closest to the destroyer, Gennadi?” Stoica asked.

“I’m not sure which one without activating the radar.”

“Then just pick one, and let’s let him lead us to the others,” Stoica said impatiently. “This is not rocket science.”

“The nearest one is at our eleven o’clock, range approximately fifty kilometers,” Yegorov said. “Just outside maximum missile range.”

“I know what the maximum range of our missiles is, damn you, I know,” Stoica moaned. Along with the four emergency R-60 missiles in their wing launchers, the Mt-179 Tyenee carried an AKU-58 external weapon pylon on each wing with one radar-guided R-27P missile on the bottom of the pylon and one R-60 heat-seeking missile on each side of the pylon, plus two Kh-29TF TV-guided missiles in the bomb bay, with its receiver pod bolted onto the aft external centerline weapon station behind the bomb bay. The R-27P was one of Russia’s newest air-to-air missiles, developed by Metyor Aerospace, that was designed to home in on enemy radar signals — it did not need any guidance signals from its launch aircraft.

“You’re lucky if that old hag didn’t mix some kerosene in with that wine, Ion,” Yegorov said, and chuckled.

“Idi na-huy, Gennadi.”

“Forty kilometers. Coming within R-27 range. Ready to commit weapons.”

“Where are the other bombers?”

“I’m detecting two more aircraft at our two and three o’clock positions, range unknown, so they must be farther than fifty kilometers away. Surface search radar only — no fire control or uplink signals. I think they’re the bombers that are covering the Besstrashny.”

“Any sign of those fighters?”

“None.”

Stoica ripped off his oxygen mask in frustration. The one-hundred percent oxygen he was breathing to try to recover from his hangover was drying out his mouth and throat even faster. He knew, but didn’t want to concede, that pure oxygen really did nothing: only time was effective in recovering from the effects of too much alcohol. He had already drained both of his canteens of water on this flight, and they had been airborne less than an hour. His skin was starting to crawl, his hands were shaking, and if he moved his eyes too fast, all the gauges would start to pinwheel around the cockpit on him. He would never make it through an entire four-hour patrol. If he didn’t get down out of this plane and into bed in the next hour, he was going to pass out.

“Warm up the R-27s and give me a hot button,” Stoica ordered.

“Roger,” Yegorov said. A moment later: “R-27s ready. What’s your plan, Ion?”

“Simple — take them all out,” Stoica said. He got a lock-on tone in his headset and pressed the launch button. The first R-27 leapt off the starboard rail and disappeared into the night sky on a yellow line of fire. The sudden burst of light sent slivers of pain shooting through Stoica’s head. Seconds later, they saw a large, bright explosion off in the distance — the missile had found its target. “Splash one bomber. Line up the next one, Gennadi.”

“Radars are down, Ion,” Yegorov said. “All the other bombers shut down their search radars.” Without an enemy radar indication, the bombers assumed that their attacker had a home-on-radar guided missile — all they had to do was turn off their radars to take that capability away. That meant that the Tyenee had to turn on its radar to lock on to the bombers.

“Then fire up ours,” Stoica ordered. He turned slightly to the right. “We know he’s off our nose right now — radiate for five seconds and let’s go get him.”

“It’s too dangerous, Ion,” Yegorov said. “There’s still at least five enemy aircraft out there, and we don’t know where the fighters are. Let them reveal themselves. Don’t worry — we’ve got lots of fuel.”

Stoica bent his head down so his mouth was pointing directly down on the floor and so nothing in his stomach would hit his instruments, but it was only dry heaves. Those were definitely the worst. “I said, go to radiate on the radar and let’s nail those bombers,” Stoica ordered again. “We don’t have time to waste. They can begin their attack on the destroyer at any second.”

“But they’re not—”

“I said, turn the damned radar on, and do it now!” Stoica shouted, tasting and nearly retching again on bile in his throat.

“Radar on,” Yegorov finally reported. “Bandits at twelve and one o’clock, forty-five and sixty kilometers.”

“Got him,” Stoica said. “Keep the radar on.” He locked up the first bomber and shot their second R-27 missile.

“Enemy aircraft inbound!” Yegorov shouted. “Five o’clock, fifty kilometers and closing fast! Enemy fighters, probably F-16s!” Stoica started hard S turns around the axis of attack on his quarry, not willing to break radar lock and trying to confuse the inbound fighters. “Still closing, forty kilometers, intermediate lock growing to a solid lock. Ion, let’s get out of here!”

The two Metyor pilots could see beads of decoy flares ejecting into the night sky, their magnesium spheres bright enough to be seen for a hundred kilometers. They knew that the second bomber had detected the missile-steering uplink signal, which meant a missile was in the air, and it began ejecting chaff bundles to decoy the radar. Sure enough, Stoica could see his radar lock-on box remaining stationary, not following the string of decoy flares, then suddenly following, only to be decoyed off its target again.

“It missed, Ion!” Yegorov shouted. He realized they had stayed on virtually the same heading for too long, allowing the pursuing fighters to deploy in a wide spread-out pattern — no matter which way they turned, one of the fighters could begin a high-speed tail-chase on them. “Bandits at thirty kilometers! Let’s get out of here! Radar down!” The lock-on box disappeared, meaning Yegorov had shut off the attack radar. “Solid lock on us, Ion! They’ve got us!”

“Then we fight our way out,” Stoica said. “Radar to transmit. Warm up the R-60s.” Just then, they heard a DEEDLEDEEDLEDEEDLE! warning tone in their helmet headsets. “Missile launch radar! Chaff! Flares!” Yegorov ejected decoys while Stoica threw the Mt-179 into a hard right turn. “I said, radar to transmit!” he shouted.

Yegorov had to fight through the rapidly building g forces to turn on the attack radar and pre-arm all of the remaining R-60 missiles. “Your button is hot, Ion, R-60s external and internal. in sequence are ready.”

The nearest enemy fighter was just starting a hard climbing right turn, apparently after firing a radar-guided missile. Stoica quickly reversed direction, shoved in full afterburner power, and climbed after him. He saw and then felt a hard SLAM! underneath and just behind him — one of the enemy missiles had just missed by less than fifty meters. Seconds later, he got a “Lock” indication on his heads-up display and fired one R-60 heat-seeker. He knew he shouldn’t turn away from an enemy fighter above him — he had plenty of energy to turn back and pursue — but he was one versus at least four, and he had to keep moving. Besides, the guy above him was either defensive now, or he was dead.

Stoica immediately executed a hard-right diving turn to aim his radar back to where he thought the enemy fighters were. The fighter farthest to the west was turning after him, but another was still flying straight, crossing under and behind to cover his leader’s tail. Stoica tightened his turn even more to go after the wingman — but he received a stall warning buffet and felt his wings rumble in protest. “Airspeed!” Yegorov warned.

“Screw airspeed — this bastard’s mine!” Stoica growled. He kept the turn in. The turn bled off lots of speed, but the dive helped, and he was able to keep it just above stall speed. When he rolled out, the enemy fighter was almost in front of him, starting a turn to the east to cover, and Stoica fired an R-60 at him.

Another warning warble. “Missile launch!” Yegorov cried out. “Break left!”

Stoica threw the stealth fighter into a tight left turn. But that was a mistake. They had been just above stall speed for the past several moments, and the level break he had just made pushed him into a full stall — and with one wing down, the Mt-179 entered a snapping left spin. Stoica heard a loud WHACK! and a yelp, then a moan, then silence. “You all right, Gennadi?” No response, just another moan. What in hell happened? But Stoica had no time to check him out further — if he didn’t stop this spin quickly, they’d both be hurting.

Because of its forward swept-wing technology, the aerodynamic characteristics of the Metyor-179 stealth fighter were unlike those of any other aircraft. A stall-spin in an aircraft designed to be super-maneuverable was usually fatal, and stall recovery was not like any other aircraft. Rather than trying to counteract the spin with rudder, lower the nose, and level the wings as in a normal airplane, Stoica had to pull power, use flaps, the speed brake, and ailerons to slow down as much as possible, turn off the automatic flight-controls, match the control stick and rudder controls to the aircraft attitude, then reset the automatic flight control system. He had to do that as fast and as many times as necessary until the plane recovered itself. Sometimes it happened on the first try and the stall-spin lasted one or two turns; other times it lasted longer and he could lose a frightening amount of altitude in a hurry.

It took four complete turns and almost a thousand meters’ altitude before Stoica could regain control. The threat scope still showed three enemy fighters out there — he had tagged only one. The spin recovery routine had sapped almost all his airspeed, so he had no choice but to stay straight and level until airspeed built back up.

The enemy fighters didn’t waste time — they started in after him again, rolling in behind him in the blink of an eye. Stoica immediately turned left, staying level until his airspeed built up enough, then raised his nose and aimed for the first fighter, waiting until it presented itself. He knew he couldn’t stay like this long, so he fired one missile, acquired a second fighter, fired another missile nose-to-nose, then veered right and dove before he stalled out again.

Stoica knew he had used all of his pylon-mounted missiles, so it was time to jettison the empty pylons. Just in time — once they were gone, they’d regain their stealth profile, and it sure would help his chances of survival if the enemy couldn’t see him. He leveled off. The three enemy fighters were still up there, but they had dodged away and were defensive. “Okay, Gennadi,” he said to his backseater as he leveled off. “Jettison the pylons and let’s take those zas’er’as on a trip to the bottom of the Black Sea.” No response. “Gennadi? What in hell are you doing back there?” He adjusted his mirror to inside the rear cockpit — and saw Yegorov’s head lolling down from side to side. One of the sharp turns must’ve caught him unawares and knocked him unconscious against the canopy.

There were only a few things the pilot of the Mt-179 could not do from the front seat — unfortunately, jettisoning pylons was one of them. Stoica was stuck with them until Yegorov woke up. “Gennadi!” he shouted. “Gennadi! Wake up!” Yegorov did not appear to be fully unconscious, just stunned, but he was definitely not responding.

Definitely time to get the hell away from here. Stoica turned westbound and started a rapid descent, trying to get to a lower altitude quickly while the F- 16 fighters were regrouping. The Tyenee wasn’t totally stealthy anymore with the pylons on, even though they were empty, but the farther he could fly away from the F-16s, the harder he would be to detect — and if there were any seas below, he might be able to hide in the radar reflections from the—

DEEDLE DEEDLE DEEDLE! Not so fast, Stoica thought — one of the F-16s had locked on to him already, about forty kilometers behind him. He increased his descent rate to six thousand meters per minute and reached one hundred meters above the Black Sea in less than a minute. Now it was a foot race. The Romanian coastline was four hundred kilometers ahead. It was very flat until about one hundred and fifty kilometers in, but then the Transylvanian Alps rose quickly across the interior, and he could hide. It would be a long flight, almost twenty minutes at this speed, but maybe the Turkish F- 16s were already low on fuel and wouldn’t be able to give chase.

The threat warning receiver was blaring constantly. The F-16s were still behind him about thirty kilometers away. Any second now, if they still had any radar-guided missiles, they would—

DEEDLEDEEDLEDEEDLE! came the missile launch warning. Stoica pulled his throttles to idle, popped chaff, and started a tight right break. He could hear Yegorov’s head slam against the left side of the cockpit, and he wondered how much brain damage the guy had suffered….

“Where am IT’ Yegorov moaned.

“Gennadi! Wake up!” Stoica shouted. “Don’t touch any controls! Do you hear me? Don’t touch anything!” Stoica knew that a crew member awakening suddenly while sleeping in a cockpit or after passing out from lack of oxygen or g forces will sometimes grab something, responding to a dream or a sensation — they’ll punch themselves out, drop weapons, or even shut down engines.

“I … I can’t breathe.

“We’re defensive, Gennadi, trying to get away from a gaggle of Turkish fighters,” Stoica said, grunting through the g forces. “I need you to jettison the pylons—”

“Fighters!” Yegorov suddenly shouted. He’d obviously just got a look at the threat receiver, which depicted three enemy fighters and at least one enemy missile bearing down on him. “Break! Break! I’m ejecting chaff—!”

“I’m rolled out,” Stoica said. “No chaff.” The jammers had taken care of the uplink signal, and clouds of radar-reflecting chaff strewn behind them had drawn the Turkish missile away. “Are you all right, Gennadi?”

“I think so.”

“Slowly, carefully, jettison the pylons,” Stoica said. “They’re empty. Don’t jettison any other weapons, just the pylons.” Stoica rolled straight and level. “I’m wings-level, Gennadi. Punch ‘em off.”

“What …?”

“I said, punch the goddamned pylons …!” But Stoica heard yet another DEEDLE DEEDLE DEEDLE! radar lock-on warning. He had no choice. He banked steeply right and climbed into the enemy fighter. Seconds later, he got another lock-on tone, and he fired one R-60 missile at him from an internal wing launcher. Stoica immediately faked left, dropped chaff and flares, and then rolled right and descended back to less than a hundred meters above the sea. He saw a bright flash off his left side-he hoped that was another Turkish fighter on his way to taking a swim. “Gennadi, punch the pylons off, now!”

“Ack … acknowledged,” Yegorov said weakly. Stoica rolled wings-level just as he felt a rumble through the aircraft as the weapon pylons popped off.

“Fault indication,” Yegorov said weakly. Stoica glanced at the MASTER CAUTION light, then at the caution panel. No problem — a fault in an empty launcher — and he punched the caution light off and ignored it. There were only two F-16s behind him now — he’d got another one! — and the last two had their radars on but could not lock on to him. He was stealthy again!

Stoica jammed in full military power and started a gentle climb back toward the east. Now he had the advantage. He lined up on the nearest F-16, using his radar threat receiver until the infrared search-and-track system locked on, then fired another missile from an internal launcher from less than six kilometers away. That missile tracked dead-on and hit seconds later. Another kill!

Stoica considered going back after the remaining bombers. Now that he was stealthy again, the bombers were his to plink apart as he chose, and killing F-16 fighters was not much of a challenge right now for him. But as he scanned the warning and caution panel again, he knew he was done for the day — and maybe for a long time. Sure enough, the internal missile launchers had a fault — no, not just a fault this time, a major failure, a LAUNCHER HOT message, meaning there was an electrical fire in the wing. “Gennadi, launcher hot, cut off weapons power now!” Fortunately, Yegorov was alert enough to do it, and the LAUNCHER HOT warning light went off a few seconds after he isolated power. There were still a few yellow advisory lights on, including the launcher shutter door jam, the same problem that had been dogging them for months now, but there were no red warning lights, and for now they were okay.

It didn’t mean they were out of danger, only that they probably weren’t going to fly apart in the next few minutes. Good time to get out of here. The remaining bombers were indeed tempting, and he still had his internal cannon to use instead of the internal R-60 missiles, but that would be pushing his luck. He had already scored kills against two Ukrainian Backfire bombers and two Turkish F-16 Falcon fighters. That was a pretty good night’s work. Plus, his head was still ready to split open, and Yegorov was certainly in no shape to fly the plane. Stoica turned the plane westbound again toward Codlea, again thanking the stars he was alive and victorious.

“Stand by, Besstrashny, “ they heard a few moments later. He read off a series of geographical coordinates. “That is your exit point from Alliance waters, Besstrashny. Steer directly for that point. We will be monitoring your departure with patrol aircraft. Any deviation will result in an immediate attack, and this time we will not abort the missiles.”

“Acknowledged,” Boriskov spat. “Combat, Bridge, what’s happening up there? There is a Russian fighter up there?”

“We don’t know if it’s Russian or not,” the tactical action officer responded. “All we know is that one Ukrainian bomber and two Turkish fighters were suddenly shot down. The unidentified aircraft may have been shot down, too — the Turkish fighters seemed to cave lost contact.”

Captain Boriskov smiled and nodded enthusiastically — whoever it was, he should be given a medal, even if he got shot himself. “Did the bombers depart? Where are they?”

“They just shut down radars, but they are still up there, Just outside our antiaircraft missile range.

Too bad — Boriskov would’ve liked one more chance to get that tanker. “What’s the situation around the tanker?”

“Surrounded by numerous vessels and aircraft now, sir,” the radar operator replied. Boriskov went out to the port wing and scanned the horizon aft. There was still a very bright glow where the Ustinov was — it was going to burn for a very, very long time.

He hated to leave a fight like this, Boriskov thought. Another nation had actually shot a supersonic antiship missile at a Russian warship, in the Black Sea — once considered a Russian lake — and he could do nothing but turn tail. It was humiliating.

But as bad as running was to him, the idea of being a part of defending scum like Pavel Kazakov was even worse. If the story that terrorist had told was true, that Russian president Valentin Sen’kov was part of a deal with Kazakov to use the Russian military to help secure land to build an oil pipeline — just to fill their own pockets, that was truly humiliating.

Boriskov didn’t like being pushed around by anyone — not someone calling themselves the Black Sea Alliance, not by a worthless politician, and especially not by a thug like Pavel Kazakov.