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
Unhurriedly, with painstaking effort, Colonel Alexei Petrov maneuvered into position behind the humpbacked tanker aircraft. Small bright lights outlined the drogue basket streaming behind the IL-78. He’d locked the basket into the bomber’s sophisticated IR targeting system. Steering, speed, and range indicators glowed across his HUD. They changed constantly as he closed in, making infinitesimally small adjustments to his stick and throttles.
Minutes earlier, he had extended their refueling probe from its normal, stowed position inside a compartment along the right side of the PAK-DA’s nose. Now, it was just a question of mating the probe with the drogue basket as it wobbled and danced in the big Ilyushin’s wake. Using a steerable boom system like that pioneered by the U.S. Air Force would be faster and more efficient, Petrov knew. Unfortunately, for some reason known only to its aircraft designers, Russia had never bothered to adopt the more advanced technique.
The lighted drogue basket grew steadily larger through the canopy as he drew nearer. And now, Petrov had become one with his aircraft. The PAK-DA’s stick and throttles were simply extensions of his own body. Like a skilled dancer reacting instinctively to the improvised moves of his partner, he followed the movements of the drogue as it juddered and bounced through turbulent air.
Easy, easy, he thought, almost there. Capture! For a fraction of a second, the probe scraped along the inside of the basket and then, with a soft ca-clunk, it slid into the drogue’s center receptacle and locked in place.
“Contact,” Bunin confirmed from his seat. Numbers started to change on one of his displays. “Taking on fuel.”
More time passed while Petrov concentrated on keeping station on the IL-78 tanker ahead. That required continuous tiny adjustments to his flight controls. Any sudden, unexpected movement could rip their refueling probe out of the drogue and damage both. Despite the cool air flowing from the PAK-DA’s climate control system, droplets of sweat were beading up under his flight helmet and oxygen mask.
“We’re topped off,” Bunin reported. “All fuel tanks are full.”
“Mat’ Kuritsa, Mother Hen, this is Shadow One,” Petrov radioed. “We’re gassed up and ready to break away.”
“Copy that, Shadow,” the tanker pilot replied. “Clearing away on your signal.”
“Mother Hen, execute breakaway . . . now!” Petrov ordered. At the same time, he pulled his engine throttles back a notch and pushed his stick forward slightly. The bomber’s nose dipped a few degrees. The noise of their NK-65 turbofans diminished as they descended a couple hundred meters. In the same moment, the big Ilyushin up ahead of them increased its own speed and climbed away. The tanker was already banking into an easy left turn that would take it back west toward its home base southeast of Moscow. The big IL-78’s two Su-57 fighter escorts rolled in behind it.
Instantly, the drogue and refueling probe separated in a quick plume of aerosolized fuel. Bunin tapped an icon on his display. The probe retracted back into the PAK-DA’s nose. Numbers flickered across Petrov’s HUD as their computer recalculated the aircraft’s estimated RCS, its radar cross-section. Without the awkward, angular shape of the fuel probe sticking out in front, they should now appear to be only about the size of a large bird to any radar hunting them.