Arctic Storm Rising Dale Brown (literature books to read TXT) 📖

and face felt onfire with the strain involved in this prolonged, low-altitude flight.

“Colonel, that American AWACS plane is moving,” Sukachov reported again over the intercom. “Both the strength and bearingof its radar emissions have changed.”

“Moving where?” Zinchuk snapped.

“Due east from its previous position,” the Tu-142’s defense systems operator said.

Zinchuk frowned. “Heading back to its base?”

“No, sir,” Sukachov told him. “The E-3’s course would take it more southeast if that were the case. This looks like a change in deployment instead.”

“Is that usual?”

Sukachov hesitated and then admitted, “I’m afraid not, Colonel. In fact, it’s a definite departure from the standard operationalpatterns we’ve observed in the past.”

“Which could indicate that the Americans are onto us,” Zinchuk guessed.

“That is a possibility,” the other man said. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “If their AWACS plane continues eastwardon its present heading, it will be in a position to detect us once we cross the coast and have to climb over the mountains.”

Zinchuk fought down the urge to rattle off a string of violent, profane curses. Doing so might make him feel better, but hearingtheir commander lose control of his temper would only unnerve the rest of the Tu-142’s eleven-man crew. As it was, severaldays of long, difficult patrols across the polar ice cap had already put them all on edge.

He winced. Had this hazardous, borderline insane flight just above the ice been for nothing? “How could the Americans knowwhat we’re doing?” he demanded angrily. “Were we spotted by that fixed radar site at Barter Island?” On their present course,they were drawing ever closer to the American FPS-117 long-range array just off the Alaska mainland.

“No, sir,” Sukachov promised. “At this altitude, we’re still well below its horizon.”

Impatiently, Zinchuk forced himself to set aside the question of how the Americans apparently knew what they were doing. Thatwas something for intelligence officers in Moscow to sort out later—once he and his crew returned and were debriefed. Maybetheir plane had been spotted by an American spy satellite in orbit, as hard as that seemed to believe. Or maybe the CIA hadits own spies inside the Ministry of Defense. What mattered now was that he do whatever was necessary to press onward withthis risky reconnaissance mission . . . and to preserve whatever was left of their most important tactical surprise.

He glanced out the left side of the Tu-142’s cockpit. There, about a kilometer off his wing, he could just barely make out the needle-nosed profile of one of the two Su-35s assigned to escort him deep into the American interior. Between the fighter’s winter camouflage and blinding flurries of snow howling across the windswept ice, it was incredibly difficult to spot. Unfortunately, he knew, visual detection and radar detection were two very different things. Su-35s were incredibly agile combat aircraft, but they were not stealth fighters.

Nevertheless, Zinchuk thought, there were still a few tricks he could play to confuse the enemy’s radar picture. He keyedhis mike. “Bodyguard Lead, this is Prospector. Close in on my aircraft. Tuck yourselves in as tight as you can, right behindeach wing.”

“Prospector, Bodyguard,” he heard Major Kuryokhin reply. “Copy that. Moving into your shadow now.”

Zinchuk concentrated on holding the big reconnaissance plane straight and level while the two much-smaller jet fighters carefullymaneuvered into position—closing on the Tu-142 until they were flying only a couple of dozen meters away on each side. Withluck and skill, their smaller radar signatures would blend with that of the much-larger aircraft, presenting the Americanswith what should appear on their screens as only a single bogey.

Several minutes later, Zinchuk heard Lieutenant Gorsheniov, the Tu-142’s navigator, call out over the intercom, “Feet dry!”They had just crossed the Alaska coast and were now back over land.

With a touch of weary cynicism, the colonel considered how little practical difference there was between the sea’s ice-coveredexpanses and the snow-and-ice-layered frozen tundra stretching ahead of them. Colliding with either surface—solid land orsolid water—meant sudden death. Slowly, he pulled back on the yoke, bringing the Tu-142’s nose up a few degrees to begin asteady climb to higher altitude. The northernmost slopes of the rugged mountains making up the Brooks Range were only sixtykilometers away.

Over Central Alaska

That Same Time

Two dark gray F-22 Raptors from the Ninetieth Fighter Squadron flew north-northeast from Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson.Both carried twin six-hundred-gallon external fuel tanks mounted on underwing pylons and a full internal weapons payload ofsix AIM-120 AMRAAM radar-guided missiles and two AIM-9X Sidewinder heat-seekers. They were headed toward a midair rendezvouswith Exult One-Five, the RC-135V Rivet Joint electronic intelligence aircraft currently orbiting west of Fairbanks.

Aboard the lead Raptor, Captain Connor “Doc” McFadden suddenly heard the voice of an air controller from Elmendorf-Richardsoncome up over his radio. “Casino Lead, this is Air Ops Center,” the controller said. “We’re changing your mission. Both our E-3 Sentry and Barter Island have picked up the same new air contact—probably another Tu-142 patrol plane. It just crossed the coast east of Barter Island, heading south-southeast at around three hundred and eighty knots. Bearing zero-one-five, range three hundred and forty miles, altitude six thousand and climbing. We need you to intercept, positively identify, and warn off that Russian aircraft.”

McFadden clicked his mike. “Copy that, Ops,” he said tersely. “Anything else we should know about?”

“Affirmative, Casino,” the controller told him. “Signals intelligence from Exult One-Five strongly suggests the Russian recon plane could be accompanied by combat aircraft, probably Su-35s. And the E-3 says that bogey may be a little too big to be just one aircraft. So stay sharp.”

McFadden whistled softly off-mike. So the Russians had figured out a way to provide fighter escorts for their patrol planescoming over the Arctic? Well, that was a new twist, and not a good one. “Lead to Casino Two,” he radioed. “Let’s punch it,Cat. The closer we intercept these guys to the coast, the more maneuvering room we’ll have.”

“Copy that, Doc,” his wingman, Lieutenant Allison “Cat” Parilla, acknowledged. “But that blizzard coming across the mountains is really nasty.”

McFadden nodded to himself. The quick meteorology brief they’d