Contents ( 55)
- In Memoriam
- Epigraph
- Cast of Characters
- Americans
- Russians
- Canadian
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Epilogue
- Acknowledgments
- Weapons and Acronyms
- Weapons
- Acronyms
- About the Author
- Also by Dale Brown
- Copyright
- About the Publisher
“Yeah, I hear you, Cat,” McFadden agreed. “Easing off, now.” He pulled back on his throttles, simultaneously banking left and right in a flat scissors to shake off even more airspeed. Alerted by the data link connecting their two Raptors, Parilla followed his maneuvers. Gradually, both F-22s slowed their headlong rush, dropping from more than 900 knots to around 450.
McFadden checked the diamond icon in his HUD again. It hadn’t budged an inch to either side. That Tu-142 was still flying straight on, showing absolutely no sign of turning back out of U.S. airspace. And by now, those Russians must know they were about to be intercepted by a pair of American jets. Their APG-77s had been locked on to the slower turboprop for several minutes, giving its crew plenty of time to realize they were being painted by radar. One more thing was certain. Wherever those hypothetical Su-35 escorts were, they certainly weren’t hiding in that recon plane’s radar shadow. At this range, any Russian fighters there would have stood out like deer caught in a pair of high-beam headlights.
It was high time he and Cat announced themselves, McFadden decided. He changed frequencies to the guard channel. “Russian Tu-142 military aircraft, this is one of the American F-22 fighters headed your way. You are deep inside our airspace and violating international law. Turn back now. Repeat, withdraw now. Radio your intention to comply with this order immediately, over.” He clicked off his mike and listened. For a few seconds, there was only the hiss of static.
“Russian Tu-142, you are violating—” McFadden started again, now allowing a distinctly hostile edge to creep into his voice.
“American F-22, this is the Russian Tu-142,” the other plane suddenly replied. “We regret that we are unable to comply with your request. We are only conducting a peaceful search for a missing aircraft—one of our polar research UAVs which may have strayed accidentally into this area. We have no hostile intent. Repeat, this is a peaceful search mission.”
McFadden scowled under his oxygen mask. Son of a bitch! These clowns were trying to play games. He stabbed his mike button again. “Listen up, pal, I’m not ‘requesting’ a damned thing. You will turn around immediately and get the hell out of U.S. airspace as quickly as you entered it. Understood?”
Five thousand meters below and twenty kilometers ahead of the four-engine Tu-142, Major Vadim Kuryokhin shrugged his shoulders. There had never been any real chance that the Americans would let Zinchuk and his crew probe so deeply into their national territory without interference. Or that they would buy the ridiculous cover story about some missing drone. This was going to come down to a duel of pilot skill . . . and guts.
His eyes swept the upper edge of his HUD. Two icons were visible, one for each of the oncoming F-22 Raptors. They were accompanied by rapidly changing numbers showing the estimated range and altitude of the American jets computed by his IRST system. Between their powered-up radars, radio transmissions, and external fuel tanks, neither Raptor was especially stealthy at the moment. But they were getting very, very close, and pretty soon their radars would spot the two Russian Su-35s twisting and turning down among these sharp-edged mountains and icy gorges.