KAHLIA AKASHA - JOY OF FLIGHT
KAHLIA AKASHA - ISFAHAN NUCLEAR
STRIKE
KAHLIA AKASHA - FINAL FLIGHT
A series of short
stories by Nick Armbrister available as a free download to promote Nick’s
writing and creativity in a positive way for our world and her people.
All rights reserved,
no part of this work maybe reproduced other than a single paragraph for
reviewing purposes.
Copyright Nick
Armbrister 2010.
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LULU ID:
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8746999
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This series of books
is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is
purely coincidental. The characters and storylines are created from the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. However the Aeroprogress T-720
turboprop light multi-role warplane exists as a design study, was never built,
never entered military service or was used in anger in any war. All writing
based upon the improved, up rated and more deadly Aeroprogress T-720B version based
warplane is fiction and from the mind of the author.
See more about Nick
and his varied writing on www.myspace.com/nickspoetrybooks.
Dedication
This book is dedicated
to the talented Soviet/Russian airplane designers who dared to design a very
different type of warplane. This book is for you, though your little plane was
never built or flew, you dared to dream and design. I made her more dangerous
and deadly and brought her to life. Salute!
KAHLIA AKASHA
He was a man who never conformed to the norm.
He was not average, ordinary or normal. If anything, he was weird, strange and
– different. He didn’t look his 33 years and though he had been through so
much, felt so much pain, lost his innocence so long ago, he was still youthful.
He had a dark soul, balanced by his light side. In the nuclear war that had
killed some twelve million souls, hadn’t he celebrated and then broken down and
wept like a baby – without really knowing why? His yin and yang was perfectly
balanced, picture perfect. Lord Satan, help anyone who crossed his dark side,
though…
He had always looked
skywards, for he loved the sky, the huge majestic sky scapes, always changing,
never the same twice, just like himself.
Did he model himself on the same version of that very sky? The one where
his beloved air aces and heroines flew fought and died? Douglas Bader – legend
had it that this guy could pull more g-forces in a tight turn. The reason? He
had no legs. Lilya Litvyak, his Soviet heroine, was killed in air combat over
sixty years ago in air combat at 22 years old. She was his real heroine of the
tortured sky, torn apart by cannon shells and burning airplanes. Yes, he did
love her even though time, space and death separated them forever. He wondered
many times, did she really carry white lilies in her cockpit? Had she looked at
them as she fell at Dmitriyevka, Russia? And he must not forget Amelia. Amelia
Earhart who flew off into the blue and just vanished, to become aviation’s
biggest ever mystery. How many times had he almost celebrated when bits of old
alloy metal had been found at Nikomouro Atoll? It could only have come from an
airplane, her airplane, he dreamed. Maybe it was better that way, to let her
loss remain a mystery. It was more romantic, but on some days he pleaded with
his pagan gods and goddesses to solve this damn mystery, once and for all.
Anyway, he had his own airplane, a very special one. He called his plane “her”
and had even given her a name, a very beautiful Russian name – Kahlia Akasha.
He flew her regularly, when he could afford fuel to get her into the sky, from
the old single-track runway at Oldham Edge. Now this strip was his own. No one
else wanted it due to the unsuitability of it in a crosswind, but he could do
it; she – Kahlia Akasha – could, too, for her powerful turboprop had more than
enough power. She had up till now, anyhow. He would have screwed her if he could,
a Russian girl called Kahlia Akasha, only 20 years old; any man would have died
for the chance. Yeah, right, dream on…
She was a girl of the
sky, a warplane made in the old Soviet Union at Factory Number 1962, situated
deep inside Siberia far from any town or village – just Factory Number 1962.
Now she was his; he paid less than ten thousand for her and what a bargain he
had got. She didn’t need repairing and had just been through a full overhaul
which included a zero hour engine and airframe, really a new airplane. After
basic checks she was ready for flight. The Russians fuelled her, topped up the
lubricants like engine oil and hydraulic oil and anything else that needed
doing. They showed him three times how to do this so he would be able to do it
on his own when he was back in England with his plane. He paid for Kahlia
Akasha with his own money, acquired from the black market in Norway. On a ferry
flight back home, they set off from her old home, Factory Number 1962, across
Siberia to Scandinavia to a refuelling stop in Sweden and then on to home. To
Oldham, a once thriving textile town in the north England heartlands, a real
working class town if there ever was one. Many a tough young man lived there
and many died in drunken knife fights or shoot ’em ups, a tough bunch just like
the German dock workers he had seen in Hamburg or the Norwegian Black Metallers
he had seen while on his travels. Oldham had been through so much too: Nazi V-1
missile attacks in the Second World War, race riots that burned the town from
end to end, a French air attack with Mirage and Rafale fighter bombers pounding
the local Aerospace plant and communication centres in the recent fishing
dispute over fishing quotas of 1999, which led to a small war. What stupid
idiots, he had thought, many times – how easily mankind went to war. We would
never learn, would we? He idly wondered if his Russian girl could stop a Mirage
2000 or Rafale in air combat? Both French fighters carried forty-mile
air-to-air missiles; all Kahlia Akasha had was some five-mile plus range off
bore sight heat seekers when in Russian service. Her fighter version with a
Mig29 engine remained just a design, unbuilt. Yet he knew she could out loop
and out manoeuvre them in close combat and get on their tail, then nail them.
Again the thought of if only she was here five years earlier, he could have
been an air ace from his base on the Edge and followed in the footsteps of his
old mentors, Bader or Litvak. He could have gained immortality in the rain
soaked skies. He smiled at the thought; that would have suited him just fine, a
blast of red flame and a funeral pyre of black smoke, the ultimate airborne
funeral. Like Lilya, no known grave, at least for forty years in her case.
He walked up the
steep track to where she was, his plane, his girl. No, an airplane, his father
had told him – it flies through the air, so it’s an airplane. She needed
fuelling and checking before the day’s flight and then the air test, a few
manoeuvres and speed runs. He was already in the clouds but he had work to do
so he focused his mind and walked to the single story building by the side of
the single-track 2,000-foot concrete runway. Arriving, he keyed in a security
code, unlocked the two deadlocks and entered the door. A dozen halogen spot lamps
came on right away, triggered by a pressure switch operated by body weight just
in the floor by the doorway. His eyes adjusted to the bright light, to the
stark blackness in the middle of his vision, to her. Yin and yang in perfect
balance, like him. She was there before him, his Kahlia Akasha, born, rather
than made, in 1984, a child of the cold war generation like himself.
She was a thing of
extraordinary beauty. He stood there for five minutes staring at his airplane,
his girl. Almost embarrassed, he looked away. Everything was just as he had
left it. He walked closer to his own desire, for hadn’t he felt every human
emotion in her cockpit while airborne in the gaping maw of the skies? She was a
bit bigger than a late mark Spitfire in length and span, a few thousand pounds
heaver in weight and more than twice as powerful, with weapons never before
dreamed of, to kill and to maim, to do her job of close air support and close
air combat. He never fired a single bullet or shell or dropped a single bomb or
weapon from his beloved girl, let alone used four Bright Star off bore sight
heat seeking missiles on her outer underwing pylons, or four medium range
guided attack missiles or the twin barrel 30-millimetre cannon pack under her
fuselage. The gun was still attached but he had no ammo and no fairing to put
there if he removed it, so he left it in place as a memory of what she really
might have been, a girl with teeth. On his ferry flight he had been over two
thousand pounds under her maximum gross weight with four underwing fuel tanks,
enough fuel with one stop for the 2,300 mile flight from Factory Number 1962 in
Siberia to Oldham. He felt she could lift even more when she had taken off fuel
laden from the snowy wastes. Half an hour into their flight, he hesitantly did
a barrel role, slowly turning 360 degrees in the sky while flying forwards. She
handled well even on cruising power. He felt the weight of 2,500 pounds of fuel
weighing him and the plane down when they were briefly upside down; more rudder
and stick allowed for this and he was delighted. Not many other airplanes could
be flown like this, so carefree. Never had he been so happy – well, just once.
He had a girl once, long ago now. She was a
really dark one, a real girl of the foreign lands, from Sweden, and for a while
she had been his girlfriend. They had made plans to live in a third country but
it all fell apart due to distance and age difference. Her name had been
Angelica. He had named his warplane after a Goddess of the northern sky, a Norwegian
Goddess of the heavens. Was this because he still loved Angelica? Silly, but he
knew she was the only girl he would ever be in love with. Half a dozen girls
had been and gone in the meantime but they were really just company and someone
to be physical with in lovemaking, nothing more and nothing less. He prepared
his own company and the skies – they were enough, and now he had a means of
sharing the skies, his plane, the real Kahlia Akasha.
On the return flight,
he had brought his airplane down in a perfect landing at a Swedish Air Force
base to refuel. Gripen fighters were based there. He had idly wondered if he
should ask the base commander for a dogfight but he was being silly – he had a
long flight back to England to finish and he needed to be sensible. He was
still unfamiliar with his plane’s controls so he needed more experience before
anything more than basic flying was carried out. He thought of dropping by on
Angelica for he still knew her address and the house where they had both lived
for a few precious months. He really wanted to see her; an ache filled him deep
inside, a feeling he fought hard to control but he had to, just had to. He
didn’t want to ruin her life again, to bring back all those memories that he
himself struggled with time and time again. No, he would leave it as just a
memory. No one on the Gripen base knew his past romantic history so he would
refuel and move on. No journey to see her, even though she lived just half an
hour away by car. No fly-by to get an airborne view: he would return home as
soon as he could, at one third throttle, optimum throttle and good cruising
speed all the way. At two hundred knots and thirteen hundred miles it would be
awhile, but home would come closer to him and his new girl.
Snapping back to now,
to reality, he actually looked before him, at the airplane. He noticed her
layout, so very futuristic, like twenty years ahead of what is now, in any
year, period. She rested on her three-wheel undercarriage, a nose wheel and one
under each wing that retracted for zero drag in flight. She had a large swept
wing of perfect design with a large amount of sweep back for high speed flight
and agility. Two small vertical fins were situated on each wing tip for
stability. A pair of large vertical fins with powerful rudders mounted on
structural beams were just opposite the leading edge root extension, a section
of wing with shallow sweep on it at the leading edge of the main wing. The
rudders, at the back of the wing each, were connected by a single horizontal stabiliser,
which had an elevator control that worked together with the large inboard flaps
for low speed control. At higher speeds these flaps provided a high degree of
authority to maintain controlled flight. Ailerons backed up by canard
foreplanes provided the rest of the flight control surfaces to fly this girl of
the sky. The canards occupied a position just in front of the main cockpit near
the nose but not enough to give bad visibility. An airbrake mounted under each
inner wing section slowed the plane down in high speed flight and manoeuvres
and sometimes on landing when a short run was needed. His Oldham Edge strip
needed their use but normal length runways only needed flaps and canards for a
reasonably short landing run.
She was all black, a
menacing colour in any light but against the spot lamps, she was like some
primeval monster from the depths, an illusion of optics. She almost hid her
great agility and speed sitting there silent on the hangar floor, again an
illusion. A shark like fuselage housed a multi-mode radar in the very nose, the
key sensor for combat and navigation. With air to air modes for close combat,
air to ground modes for anti-tank and attack missions, precise navigation modes
with a type of terrain following and a basic air to sea mode for ship attack,
this radar did a specialist job. An infrared sensor mounted in front of the
first cockpit provided infrared search and target identification without the
enemy being aware he was being watched. In good weather this sensor provided good
navigation out to ten miles or so but cloud, rain and smoke hindered it
somewhat. It made night flying a great joy on cloudless nights and he had done
a dozen night flights and planned many more yet. A laser range finder was
coupled with the infrared sensor to provide distance of the target or distance
to, say, a hill when low level flight was being practised. Twin air data probes three feet long
protruded over and above the nose to give flight data to the instruments and
computers. They gave the airplane an appearance of a large predatory catfish
waiting to strike. Two single seat cockpits under a huge one piece plastic
canopy gave superb vision in almost a full circle, essential due to a crowded
airspace during an air battle or flying near to the ground. Two pairs of eyes
also gave good observation. He had flown her from both cockpits but he
preferred the forward cockpit due to the slightly better forward view. In
combat the pilot sat in the rear cockpit and the weapons man in the front using
the radar, infrared and other sensors to aim weapons or to navigate. A similar
set of flight controls was in both cockpits so changing over was no problem.
The main radar displays was repeated in both cockpits as was the other sensors;
a main difference was weapon options, controlled from the front, so the pilot
had to get the weapons man to set up his weapons for him other than the off
boresight air-to-air missiles and main cannon in the air combat role. However,
he had his plane but no weapons whatsoever and he flew her from which seat he
preferred depending on his mood. Behind the tandem cockpits were the main fuel
tanks and an avionics bay, above which was a large air intake for the engine, a
single large Aeroprogress turboprop of quite compact size yet providing some
4,500-shaft horsepower. This was a jet engine turning a large eight bladed
prop, with carbon fibre blades, the power of his Russian girl. When turning,
these carbon fibre blades were invisible but deadly knives turning at several
revolutions per minute, easily enough to decapitate a person.
He started the start up procedure: first a
walk round check of his black heroine, around the port (left) wing and circling
the plane checking all control surfaces for movement, for alignment or damage,
inspecting all access panels securely fastened, no loose fasteners or screws,
undercarriage in order with no hydraulic leaks or cuts in the tires, to the
large dorsal air intake to see if any object blocked the vent and opening. Onto
the eight-bladed propeller, each blade straight as a knife and not being bent
or broken; an unbalanced prop could shake her to pieces in seconds. Pausing to
check the time, he looked again at her, not to find any problems but to take in
her aesthetics and beauty, equal to a Spitfire in her delicate feminine beauty,
a goddess of the blue summer skies. Snapping out of his reverie, he completed
his checks, underwing weapons hardpoints secure and underfuselage empty cannon
firmly in place. If this were a real wartime combat flight, uploaded weapons
would be checked, warheads armed and weapons computers loaded with target data.
Checks complete, he fuelled her up with the liquid that would take Kahlia
Akasha into the skies. Her engine would run off normal jet fuel, standard
petrol or for a short period, on paraffin which was a last option as the engine
would need flushing out of the fuel system afterwards. Walking to the fuel
bowser ten yards away by the hangar wall, he took the control arm and turned on
the electric motor which turned the big fat rubber tires. These squeaked on the
spotless hangar floor. He wheeled the bowser to the correct position slowly.
Opening the hatch on
the left wing/fuselage fairing, he earthed both bowser and aircraft with
special rubber straps to stop any sparks. Just like filling your car up: fuel
hatch open, fuel cap off, fuel nozzle in place onto the connector, turn on the
pumps. All automatic, hydraulic controlled and finished in five minutes. When
the tanks were full a sensor stopped fuel flow so none was wasted or spilled. A
manual back up allowed a slower operation from hand held drums if need be; on a
wartime mission this would be routine. Pump shut off, cap on, hatch shut, move
the bowser back to position and check the fuel amount – yes, half fuel load of
fifteen hundred pounds on board for the short test flight. An hour or so of
flying at full throttle, more at a slower speed.
He opened the massive
teardrop canopy, climbed aboard into the front cockpit. Main power online,
flight computers spooling up in two minutes to be displayed on three medium
size multi-function displays. Flight data, engine data, navigation maps and
weapons data was shown on each screen, in any order as a matter of personal
choice. He liked his nav data and maps on the left screen, flight instrument
data on the right and simulated weapon info on the middle screen. Taking ten
minutes to flick through the menus on each screen, he checked his airplanes
condition. Navigation data indicated a map of his location; he was marked by a
simple “x”, the runway and hangar could be clearly seen, as could the
surrounding area in clear computer graphics. The airfield was shown at an
indicated height of 831 feet above sea level, sensors on the plane checked and
adjusted height at any airfield which they landed at. Many an old plane had
been lost due to wrong airfield height which a pilot had to input into his
altimeter. A single push of a button changed the scale of the map to any of ten
different scales; more sensors scanned the heavens for Russian or Western navigation
satellites giving accuracy of a metre. If the constellation of satellites
failed, a disc containing information could be downloaded into the nav computer
in minutes; this could be target data or purely maps.
Now for engine start
up: click the main menu, scroll down and pick start up procedure, follow the
basic instructions. No red lights, no errors or problems, ready to go in six
steps, eight bladed prop turning, the auxiliary power unit having spun up the
main engine. Itself a small jet engine, the APU used fuel from the main tanks
and shut down when the engine was at speed. With prop a blur, steady at two
thousand revs a minute, he moved the single throttle slowly forward and
released the brakes.
Moving forward,
slowly, slowly, slowly, past the open hangar doors at the click of his remote
control into the early afternoon air, under a clear cloudless blue sky. Hangar
doors closing, lights out, now turning onto the runway after a twenty-yard taxi
run, a two thousand foot runway of concrete ended in grass and bushes.
A feeling of
anticipation came over him, with a bit of nerves to keep him alert, sharp. One
last check of all systems, a look at the wide angle Heads Up Display (HUD) that
was at eye level, flight data and compass was shown. Now, almost time… Almost.
If this were a Soviet combat mission he would have a triple layer flight suit,
fireproof boots, a g-suit for hard manoeuvres and finally a helmet complete
with Helmet Mounted Sight. Great for off boresight missiles, one glance and
click the switch and missile away, a revolution in air combat. Of course he had
no helmet, no weapons, no flight suit on, just a pair of old army boots along
with his black jeans and t-shirt. After all this was just a short test flight
and a few basic manoeuvres. He was strapped into his ejection seat but left the
safety pins in and only fastened his seat straps. Nothing would go wrong, for
he maintained her well – he was an expert. Turning up the air conditioning, he
opened the throttle all the way to the stops, brakes off and away we go.
A gentle feeling of
speed building up to a push into the seat, a positive feeling of acceleration
like a giant hang pressing you down, a rush of excitement and happiness. Yes!
We are here, in the crucial moment before flight, speed building up. 60, 70,
80, 90, 100, 110 mph and lift off speed. Keep her on the deck for a bit more,
now! 115 mph. Up and away into the blue, we are airborne, me and my Kahlia
Akasha, together, climbing up steeply with wings level to the horizon but up
and up and up. Bring up the landing gear and flaps into the flight position,
less drag, more speed. Two hundred miles an hour, nose up steeply to sixty
degrees angle and watch the speed increase up the scale to maximum climb limit,
a seal level rate of 8,000 feet per minute. Speed increasing up to 350 mph,
slowly to 400 mph, maximum for this weight and full power, a real joy and
feeling of total freedom – so this is how the birds feel then… Real freedom…
He must remember that
he had no oxygen mask on so he must not go above eighteen thousand or he could
lose consciousness; if the pressurised cockpit failed, he would die a slow
asphyxiated death. He levelled off at sixteen thousand even though an exited
voice in his head said “Climb!”, “Climb!”. He did a speed test, still at max
throttle: his rate of speed increased breathtakingly! She was a quick little
thing with 4,500 shp pushing her along in the turbulent free sky.
A flight path over
Lancashire to the Yorkshire border, a stunning black airplane well worth a second
glance. Red stars on her wings, tail and fuselage from another time, yet living
history right here, part of her history. Top speed coming up. An indicated air
speed of five hundred and ninety miles an hour, Mach 0.85, level flight; just
think, with one quick push of the stick and she could go supersonic given
enough height. A feeling of freedom, a rush of clear air and a vista of blue
and perfect view, hills, fields and towns below.
At Kahlia Akasha’s
maximum height of fifty thousand feet she could reach six hundred and thirty
miles an hour due to the high thin air. At sea level this became five hundred
and forty five miles an hour. For five minutes he kept this speed, then stick
full forward with his right hand and a vertical dive. He screamed with pure joy
as the g-forces took hold and briefly lifted him out of his seat as level
became the vertical. Down, down, down, horizon shifting crazily, ground coming
up, details swam into focus, positive g-load taking hold pressing him into the
seat, hard. Three g’s as they screamed downwards, seconds left to pull up as
details below come into view – a copse of trees, a small lake and farm
buildings. Pull up!
Down to three
thousand now, a ground height of 1,200 here. Stick way back, a madman’s pull,
make the flight computer work. What a rush! Seven g’s coming on, pushing his
head down and blurring my vision to red, grey and almost black. Scream, shaking
his head, he can beat this, he must beat it or oblivion will take them – we
will avoid the ground and fly, fly, fly. And we do, yes we do.
Airspeed down to 250
on the pullout but increasing slowly, from almost supersonic in the dive.
Throttle back and level flight now, get my head together. Wow! This is better
than sex with Angelica. What a plane, all his, he is so lucky, a dream in
reality.
No time for reverie.
Where are we? Okay, time for some more manoeuvres, what shall we do now? A few
rolls, almost without thinking, the sky pivoting on a central axis around him
and his black plane. With a roll rate approaching 360 degrees per second you
really felt it when pushing the envelope. A roll to the right, then to the left
in less than ten seconds, dizzying and stunning the senses. Now a barrel roll,
like the first ever manoeuvre he had ever done in her, now seemingly so long
ago, familiar now like a pair of old boots, he thought, in no way violent like
a flick roll that was at the other end of her agility. Just like a real woman,
he laughed – she will bite you without warning, yet be as gentle as an angel. An
angel and a devil all in one!
KAHLIA AKASHA ISFAHAN NUCLEAR STRIKE
(Please play
"I don’t feel like dancing" by the Scissor Sisters.)
We painted my lovely warplane white for our deadly
strike on our enemy, Iran. After Iran kidnapped 12 British military personnel
and damaged a destroyer, the nod was given. Act on the No1 enemy's No 1 target
– Isfahan, a city of a million, numerous military targets, an airbase and the
infamous nuclear facility – a real bomb factory. We painted her white after
much preparation, with special radar-absorbent stealth paint. Faint red soviet
stars in the usual places, wings, tail, fuselage. Red bort number 666, we acted
for the devil. We sweated, we fucked, we got drunk, we ate and slept by the
plane. We got the single thermonuclear bomb from an abandoned bunker in East
Germany – an electronics package to let bomb and jet talk, removal of the twin
barrel 30mm underfuselage cannon to house the bomb semi-recessed, new
computer software to allow blind bombing at night/bad weather linked to the
autopilot, four practise missions, additional weapons and a re-paint was all it
took. Now the mission was for real.
We took off on
mission from our secret base on the edge of Oldham. We bought the single runway
at a discount rate, along with our prop jet fighter. I met my partner online,
on an old pen-pal site, now long hacked. She loved planes and war like I did.
The rest is history. Here we were on the runway; she did the cockpit checks,
armed the bomb, checked our other weapons, fuel status and other systems. Climb
out was gentle to save fuel, throttle set to cruise, altitude increased in
steps to 50,000ft. No rush at a steep angle, just slight nose up to our angelic
height. We would be shielded from any radar by our stealth paint, low radar
profile, height and route round all radars – both enemy and friendly.
I looked out at the
ground below, towns all lit up in the clear night air. A view for miles,
leaving the northwest of England, towns of Oldham, Ashton, Rochdale and
Manchester. Out over the North Sea, over mainland Europe. By autopilot, but I
couldn’t sleep. From my rear cockpit, I watched my gal, my love. She checked
systems, radar, infra-red, weapons, avionics. Radar blips of airliners ten
thousand feet below us showed on my radar repeater. Looking out and down, I
could see two jet planes on separate headings, vapour trailing, nav lights
blinking. A pretty site. No trouble from NATO radar or anyone else. We weren't
there, invisible. An interception by a fast jet would be a challenge to evade.
If, say, a Hungarian Gripen
scrambled after they picked us up, could we escape? If he went at supersonic
low level, he could zoom climb to get us, for he was twice as fast. Had Amraam missiles with
forty mile kill range and could shoot four at once! We could jam his radar, his
missile radars, drop chaff decoys, use our greater agility and our stealth. It
would only take one missile to hit us. If we evaded three, one was still all it
would take. We would fire back with our bright star short range dog fight missiles,
our axe head medium range weapons, or dive to ground level, make him hit the
ground. Or run him out of fuel. It never happened over Hungary or anywhere
else, our technology was our cloak. We would fight if we had to, over Iran
almost definitely. To do our evil work, anything goes. We both knew this.
The Iranian coast
came up. My gal passed radar control to me, air to air to sweep ahead for any
enemy fighters on combat air patrol, training missions or scrambling up after
us. We were ready. I had two short and two medium range missiles to kill any
brave Iranian stupid to stop us. We had four drop tanks inboard of our
missiles. These would be jettisoned when empty. Red light flashed – last two
tanks empty. I dropped them over the coast, our first gift to Iran. Soon we
would unleash the sun. Our speed increased, less drag. My lover calmly alerted
me to two search radars ahead, below us. One to each side. We ghosted past,
stealth cloaking us like a rapist hunting his prey. No lock on as we passed;
any blip they got from us would be seen as an anomaly.
I gently pushed the
single throttle forwards to reach our attack speed – 610mph. Our top speed with
half weapon load. I climbed slowly to use our speed for height. We slowed in
the thin upper air, hardly enough to give lift. Engine power pushed us forth,
up to 53,524ft. It was the maximum height that we could fly level. Nothing
could touch us. More radars searching below us, a great web of electronic eyes
many miles apart. Short, medium, long range. All to detect the enemy, be it
Israel, America, Britain or another, us, doing covert work for the Brits.
In a Soviet warbird.
There! A group of blips on the screen!
No missile trails or
launch warnings, just the problem radars. We had no anti-radar weapons; we needed
more air-to-air than anti-radar missiles. The threat was more deadly. We
started to leave the radar group behind. Our jamming denied them more than the
shortest lock. It was enough, though. Our own radar picked up rising airborne
targets – Iranian fighters. I locked up the four most dangerous closest jets.
All I had to do was click my trigger on the stick or lock my helmet site to
fire if time was short. Distance and time to target unwound in my head’s up
display. Jammers switched to air-to-air.
Missile range coming
up, now! I confirmed with my gal, then launched one medium range weapon. It
glared like a demon, spearing down into the dusk sky. On my scope our axe head
missile merged with plane. A distant flash – nothing. Five other Iranian jets
turned away, shocked by my first blood. They'd be back.
We changed course.
Isfahan was ten minutes away. My gal armed our single one-megaton nuclear bomb.
All in the green. Here we go, countdown on my screen. Bomb drop will be
automatic but my lover and I will ghost it, both press the red button just to
make sure. Our most intimate act. Fuck! Enemy jets coming back, three to port,
four to starboard. Classic sandwich tactic. My weapons outrange them but we
only have one BVR missile. I’ll hit the group to our left! Here we go – missile
away! Range closing, they’re going supersonic. Close the gap. Ready, our two
bright star weapons, the Soviets’ best close range weapon. I drop chaff and
flares, set jammers to auto. Talk to my gal. Okay? Yes. Glad to be here? Yes,
wouldn't be anywhere else.
Here we go, their
mid-range weapons speed to us. Most fired blind, their dated air-to-air radars
just can’t see us. Our tech is better than theirs. Bang! My axe head blows an
Iranian Sukhoi to kingdom come. Four missiles from the left jets, five to the
right. Only one of the latter guides, with a faint lock on. Chaff decoys it,
jamming takes care of their radar. I turn sharply to port – my entrance to
Isfahan is there. Locking up my two heat seekers by infra-red, I have two more
kills. Steady, wait for five mile range – one away, two away. Straight and
level through any remaining fighters. No need to turn, to pursue them. We
outfought them in level flight by our technology. In a dogfight we had the best
plane ever built. I see my two missiles hit home – only one left.
We shoot past the
last jet, drop decoys to stop any missiles fired by the others. For some
reason there was none. We were one our own. A walk in the park. Two
minutes to go. Nothing would stop us. We are ready, last checks, our last
weapon ready. We had four kills, a million more would follow. See it now,
industrial haze, faint street plan, big buildings, grey against the brown
desert, straight line of the nearby Mig airfield and the main target - Isfahan
nuclear facility. Queen of the Iranian bomb program, where they built the
weapon used on the Jews. Israel held back, for World War III would follow their
revenge. We acted for them all.
Shit! Surface to air missile launched, one
after the other. Launched blind or by infra-red, can see the dust kicked up and
light of the rocket engines. Now multiple search radars lighting up, to guide
the missiles. Jamming now, chaff, flares released, gently weave my jet in the
thin upper air to add to the confusion. Multiple explosions far below, medium
height stuff. We are too high. Just two reach our height, missing on a
ballistic trajectory. Now level flight, wings level. 5,4,3,2,1 – bomb away!
My finger and my
gal’s finger follow up auto release. Two minutes to detonation height of five
thousand feet above Isfahan city centre. Everything in 15 miles would be
destroyed, city, airbase, nuke site. A million plus dead and injured. More
missiles, all ballistic. Not a single lock on, we did it!
Turn to escape
heading, stay high to be safe for we were unarmed now. Our speed 630, our
maximum. We would feel a moderate shockwave. Nothing more. We could have gone
in low level but flak would have been a danger, as well as high fuel burn.
Flash! Whiteness, the touch of God. We did it! Targets destroyed. Time
to go home...
FINAL FLIGHT
Harriers hit us at
dawn. Did their job pretty well. Bombed our runway, cratering the tarmac in a
dozen places, killing six groundcrew, two aircrew and two officers. Our fuel
truck went-up, too, as did three planes. We can use the grass to fly; we’ll
miss our groundcrew, but we can service our own jets. Sacha and his WSO never
got to the shelter. A sad loss, we’ll fight back even harder. Officers, screw
them. Fuelling by hand from 50-gallon drums and hand pump is hard, but what we
train for. Our planes can’t be replaced. Scorched and blasted to bits, like our
lost men. Gone. Time to fly, to hit back against NATO. Yes, we’ll really screw
them over. Everyone to the briefing tent, including my Annie. She’s my
co-pilot, navigator, Weapon System Operator, and sensor operator. She’s good,
that’s why I chose her to be with me in battle. She is second-to-none – and I’m
in love with her, completely. If our officers knew of our affair, I’d be
grounded – she would be transferred at the least. But, this is war – World War
III, to be exact.
We receive a full briefing considering our field conditions. Our
officers are jerks, but good at their job. Everyone listened, wanting to miss
nothing. We all knew some would die.
To our warplanes! Take the netting off – annoying as it always snags on
the eight-blade prop. Open the cockpit canopy. Annie climbs into her front
cockpit to do the pre-flight check and bring the systems up. I do the walk round
checking to see if anything isn’t as it should be. I get to the weapons and
remove the arming pins. Our loadout is two Brightstar IR air-to-air missiles on
each outer wing pylon, two Saffron anti-tank missiles inboard, two Medusa
anti-radar missiles on the inner wing pylons and, to enhance our range, three
drop-tanks: two inboard of the Medusas and a centreline one behind the
semi-recessed twin 23mm cannon pack. This Annie armed when I was in the
cockpit. Nothing amiss, I climbed aboard and did my own pre-flight, checked
with Annie that everything was green, then closed the canopy.
Signalling to the groundcrew to remove the power lead, I initiated
start-up procedure: six steps to get our eight-blade prop spinning. Hear the
APU whine and turn the turboprop over. Noise building, even in my earphones. All
okay on the MFD showing engine parameters. Move the single throttle from idle
to minimum to max power. Feel our bird come alive. See Annie busy with her
screens. Check to see if she is okay that our plane is; switch to encrypted
channel and quick clearance to go. Yes! We roll out of our earth revetment to
the grass take-off strip. Why didn’t the Harriers sow denial weapons? We’d have
lost more jets. Full power, away we go, bumping over the grass past burnt-out
planes, to the sky. We are airborne! Climb out at shallow angle to stay below
NATO radar (we don’t believe it, radar has moved on) and give us maximum
surprise.
Our fuel burn is higher but we are so near the front... I scan my three
MFD screens, see we’re being picked up by NATO radar, so I drop us lower – our
radar-absorbing paint and carbon fibre helps, but death is death. My tension
increases.
I see Annie before me, her head moving from display to display, to her
HUD, to look outside and back again. I feel the urge to tell her what she means
to me, that the songs are true. I don’t. I order a new course to our target. We
all fly alone. Good or bad tactics? Historians will discuss this later, if
anyone survives this.
Suddenly, our RWR comes alive – NATO fighter! I turn into the threat
that my display shows is to my port. I order Annie to turn our ECM jammer to
manual then to auto. Should’ve done it before! Could be our death! I switch my
HUD to dogfight mode and do a series of turns to check our tail. Clear. There!
Sun glinting on a canopy, a flare of flame as a missile is launched.
Heat-seeker this close; dropping chaff to break his lock, flares to blind his
missile. Come on, Annie, jam his radar, be my eyes. G-force crushes me; my turn
takes us to a wing above the ground. Be careful! Climb, full combat power.
Turn, roll and face him. His Sidewinder misses as my turn is too tight and the
missile cannot follow us. BANG! As it detonates twenty metres away, shockwave
from 25 pounds of iron filled with explosives shakes my plane. A Devil slap,
white-hot shrapnel cuts into the right wing, two neat holes in the carbon fibre
skin. I glance at the holes, at my MFD showing minor damage only, nothing bad,
and at the holes again, then at the enemy. I recognise him as an F-20
Tigershark as she shoots past. NATO’s best fighter means trouble.
Annie turns our radar to air-to-air, gives me control of it and our two
Brightstar missiles and wishes me luck as I turn and follow him. Almost out of
sight, he arcs around in a high g-turn to re-attack. My Topaz radar acquires him,
I lock him up with my HOTAS controls and I grunt as a green box appears on my HUD.
His coffin, should he enter it. My helmet sights back it up, gives overkill
when my enemy is outside my HUD. I bring our nose up, roll wings level and
speed towards him. Several hundred feet up and climbing, visible to AWACS and
everyone else scanning heavenwards. Growl in my ear. Lock-on! F-20 in my helmet
sights, just above my HUD. Press the tit, port Brightstar ignites on a tail of
fire, spears away so fast. I half roll turn and dive away for the deck. I punch
out half-a-dozen flares and chaff, ignoring the centre MFD and HUD repeater
saying that Annie is dispensing the same damn countermeasures. Close in, our
jammers struggle due to his high power agile radar. The RWR gives bearings on
two search radar. SAMs. More dangerous than any F-20 – hidden death from below.
Cutting it fine, I dive us below tree level, roll into a valley and safety. Our
RWR goes black. Glancing around and above, I see a brief explosion over a hill.
Did we get him or did he evade our missiles, like we did his – just? Ground
warning horn blaring – ten feet limit! I pull-up around fallen boulders, turn
around valley sides, follow a winding path. In my element, I lift my wing as
the horn goes off again. Annie shouts her curses at me, the war...
Recklessly, I scream at her, my Annie who’d die if I push instead of
pull the stick. Who I’d never let anyone else have – like my plane. I killed
the damn horn, pushed my control stick and we headed lower. Five feet above
level ground, she screams in terror, startling me. I pull-up over a boulder as
big as a tank. Glancing at my mirror, I see dust kicked up by my prop-wash. I
let our nose rise, kick full right rudder and snap-roll in the valley. Scream
my love for Annie, who turns to look at me in terror, some loose black hair
twirling with the g-force. She sees my wicked grin and returns it, briefly. I
level off as the valley dies out. Annie curses me, says she loves me for
always, that I’m the best pilot. I smile. This is as close to marriage as we
could get.
Hell! Armoured column! Tanks passing under us. No radar. I line-up to
fire my 23mm cannon, see shells strike a tank without harm. Another. Too much
top-armour. Troop carrier. Quick correction – got him! Light armour smashed by
my explosive and armour piercing shells. I smile at the thought of NATO troops
being blown to bits, burned alive and killed. Annie brings up ground scan on
the radar, tells me what I can already see: thirty-plus vehicles on one narrow road;
now SAM or antiaircraft defence as the RWR was blank. I fire at another APC.
Ordered Annie to lock-up a tank with a Saffron on our next pass. At full
throttle, I open the air-breaks, turn on a wing and shoot back down the line.
Annie smoothly talks herself through her act, launches. I felt the kick back as
our port anti-tank missile left the rail. Down it went to kill a Challenger
tank in one go. Soon, our other Saffron did the same, another tank and crew
dead. What a run! Better than any training exercise, any day! Around again with
guns blazing, searching-out troop carriers that stop to try and save their men.
I get one kill, another damaged before my ammo runs out. Annie calls up the
squadron and army tank-killing choppers to come to the party. We head-back to
base.
Mission almost over, quick exhilaration of battle leaves me tired. Annie
snaps me out of my reverie as we change course. My IFF gives off friendly
signals as Annie tells me Major Topol, our CO, has congratulated us on the tank
find. He is inbound to attack, coordinating with two other of our planes. Two
others had used all their ammo on pre-set targets, they RTB. We had already
lost one jet with crew missing. Annie made it clear that it was so nearly us, I
stopped her. I am a better pilot than what-was-his-name? The new guy from
Kirov. Newbies die first. Still, my two years on Sukhoi Su-25s in Afghanistan
had taught me well. I was hit by small arms fire nine times, lost an engine to
a Stinger and struggled back in a dying jet. There weren’t many 25s then, I was
honoured by my CO but that meant little when I saw my comrades die every week.
Then I learnt to hate officers, transferred out of the war to the new
Aeroprogress training centre on the new Sukhoi T.720B attack fighter. My combat
experience was needed due to their new design being ready to be shipped to the
war. We spent two years deciding what worked, what didn’t. A guerrilla war was
nothing for what we planned for: the full takeover of Western Europe by force.
I was shocked when I learnt the truth, but I had expected it. NATO had
sabre-rattled against our front line re-equipment. Our new T.720B was just such
a weapon, along with attack choppers like our Mil 28 and Kamov 52, our MiG 29
and Sukhoi 27 multirole fighters, our Tupelov 22M3 and Tupelov 160 nuclear
bombers. Not to mention the nuclear missiles for if – and when – NATO
responded. We had new tanks, APCs and all the other equipment we would need. As
the T.720B was a two-seater, I was crewed with Annie to show her what tactical
fighting was all about. Falling in-love wasn’t part of the plan, our secret and
ours alone. Now we needed one another like never before. It was total war.
Suddenly, our RWR came alive with three ground radars searching for us.
Immediately one locked-on to us, warning tone changing from a mesmerising sound
like a bird to an evil report that I turned down. A second had got intermittent
lock. We, me and Annie, talked, planned. Climbing so we popped-up permanently
on their scopes, we turned our jammer to manual. Annie gently found their
frequency, told the computer to follow any shifts and jammed them every three
seconds, on a low power setting. We didn’t have long before a Roland SAN came
after us. Now! Annie ordered. She
launched our port Medusa in hunter-killer mode, down the NATO radar beam. He
would be hit, even if silent. He emitted and died, data linked to us before
impact confirmed a hard-kill. Annie launched our last offensive weapon at
another site; this was further and launched two Roland SAMs on our tail. I got
us in the weeds, Annie dumped countermeasures and jammed them. Rolling and
turning over flat fields at 500 knots was fast but not Mach 3 like a Roland. I
checked my fuel on my MFD; time to drop our wing tanks. Jolt as they fell free,
our centre one will follow when empty. Speed 550 now, no indication of a
hard-kill. Both Rolands go whizzing off our track, ballistic. We got past them!
Just one IR missile left, better take no chances. Got our map up on my centre MFD,
check with Annie for best course. Fuel is okay but combat must be avoided.
On our encrypted radio something comes through. NATO just went tactical
with nukes! Annie swears. This is it – they did it, pushed the button. More
orders, Annie patches them to me. In code. I go white. All planes RTB to
re-fuel and re-arm with tactical nuclear weapons. No words said, just a code
sequence unique to each surviving plane. Target data discs would be given when
we landed, our bombs loaded with engine running. Hot refuelling. Annie already
gave me the two best ways back. I take the fastest. NATO troops fire small arms
at us, red tracer arcs past us, missing. Jinking around trees and low hills we
come to base. I send our codeword and slow to land. A fast blur distracts me.
No! Annie!
Whiteness.
Watch
this space for more writing by Nick Armbrister.
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