RED EMPIRE STORY

Nick Armbrister nickspoetrybooks4@yahoo.co.uk

www.myspace.com/nickspoetrybooks

3,350 words

RED EMPIRE by Nick Armbrister

It was an evil empire that stretched one third of the way around the world, eight thousand miles from Europe to Asia, crossing many time zones and types of topography from the hot deserts of Kazakhstan to icy Siberian wastes. Silent but watchful radar eyes peered out every hour, waiting for an attack that had not happened, yet. Out to sea, into space, over land, in the air, this vigilance went on to set into motion, into movement that would lead to Armageddon if a suspect blip proved to be an enemy bomber, one of many doing its deadly work. An event would happen today, smaller but of equal consequences. History would be made, missiles launched and people’s lives changed forever, some ended permanently...

Air Base 1602, Kamachatka Peninsula. Alert jets stood on the concrete waiting for the order to scramble with pilots strapped into the cockpits, canopies down and power on. Four long sleek missiles hung under the silver aircraft, bare metal shining in the new spring sun. Two missiles per wing, two Infra-Red guided homing in on an enemies engine exhaust, balanced out by two Radar guided missiles homing onto metal reflected on the interceptor’s own radar. Like a torch in the night sky saying, “I am here!”

Lead Pilot Sevinsky Tupelov checked his radio for the nth time. In his native Russian he spoke businesslike: “Red Bird Lead to tower, any new orders for us? Over.”

A reply was instantaneous. “No new orders yet, Red Bird Lead. All screens are clear. Keep vigilant and alert. If we have any new information we will contact you. Out.”

Three hours into the alert it happened – an intermittent blip on the Long Range radar screen. One sweep of the lazy radar arm – blip. Nothing for several seconds. Radar operator becoming aware, staring at his now blank screen, willing it to blip again and kill his boredom. Blip. Yes, there! Blip, blip, blip. A solid skin paint passing extreme range coming into the radars eye, an all-seeing Type 21 “Light Top” Long Range Search Radar, at a range of two hundred and eight miles. No given altitude yet. A couple more minutes and that information would be forthcoming. In the meantime:

“Radar Station North at Air Base 1602 to Command. We have an unknown contact estimated speed four hundred miles an hour on a bearing of 150 degrees at extreme range. No given height yet. Standby for that information Command. Over.” People came to life and computers absorbed data from the unseen contact seen by the Long Range radar. Men trained in the science of air defence did their jobs – they were the best. A chain of events started that couldn’t be stopped. Human nature and human error would lead to catastrophe – it was a sign of the times.

“Command to Radar Station North, observe contact and keep reporting bearing and height information when you get it. If the target comes to within one hundred and fifty miles, scramble your alert jets. Your orders are to identify and classify. Out.” The Command centre located two hundred miles north of the airbase issued their orders.

“Okay, Command, will do. Standby for new range information.” Checking his green screen for several seconds and taking in the numbers, the operator replied: “Target is now one hundred and ninety four miles still on the same heading and at the same speed. Height is now thirty six thousand feet. Over.”

Moving closer to them the bogey headed through the clear blue cloudless sky. A snow-covered landscape evened out this beautiful view, idyllic in itself – a distraction of what would later happen.

“Okay Radar Station North, try to communicate verbally with the unidentified aircraft. It might be an American spy plane. We need to identify this. Out.”

Peering at his scope the Long Range Radar Controller picked up his intercom link and contacted his superior officer in Command. “Captain, this is Sergeant Valeri. I have picked up a Long Range contact on radar at 150 degrees, speed four hundred, height thirty six thousand. The target is unidentified, repeat unidentified. I have contacted Air Defence Control and have been ordered to scramble the alert planes when the target crosses one hundred and fifty miles distance from our base.”

“Keep reading off the range, height, speed and bearing. Inform Control every ten miles and also myself. Presently I will pass target spotting to the Medium Range Controller. Good work Sergeant Valeri.”

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In the alert interceptors Lead Pilot Tupelov fidgeted against his tight seat straps. Thoughts of his coming leave distracted him from his duties: no more snowy wastes, no more twenty four hour alert duties, twelve spent in this cramped Sukhoi cockpit for his Motherland. A sharp radio call snapped him out of his daydream; instinct took over and he became all the professional. “Lead Pilot Tupelov, this is the Control Tower. We have an unidentified radar contact presently passing the one hundred and fifty mile line, the Point of No Return. Height is thirty six thousand feet, bearing one five zero degrees, speed four hundred miles an hour. Your orders are to scramble with Red Bird Two and to identify and to escort the intruder out of our airspace. If the target doesn’t comply your orders are to fire warning shots and to destroy it if it doesn’t comply. Over.”

“Okay. Lead Pilot Tupelov and Wingman Ivan will comply. Out.”

In the radar complex all verbal orders for the target to identify itself remained unanswered. Was it a deliberate ploy or a grave error? On the runway both Sukhoi Su­-15 “Flagon” alert interceptors started the engines and finished their cockpit checks. Taxiing out to the runway orders were exchanged and followed. Lighting the afterburners for take off, the morning was shattered by four sheets of flame pushing the silver fighters down the concrete and into the sky. Red stars on their flanks showed up ominously as the jets climbed up into the blue sky, arcing out to sea towards the intruder. Missiles were armed and radars activated from standby mode. The race was on.

Coming out of afterburner to save fuel with speed at six hundred knots, both huge Sukhoi jets increased height leaving their base behind them on the receding coastline. Passing thirty five thousand feet after three minutes of climb they slowed the climb as they came to the intruder’s altitude. Both “Spin Scan” radars in the interceptors’ nose stayed blank; their search range was only eighty kilometres with a lock on range of fifty in good conditions. Old radars using vacuum tubes took some careful handling to work properly. Here in the clear air at altitude with no weather to confuse the radar or ground clutter to give false echoes, conditions couldn’t be better. It would be less than a minute when they acquired the target at roughly fifty miles distance; that would run down to thirty miles lock on when the radar could guide a missile successfully. Radar seekers in the missile would seek out the enemy and obliterate it. Trying his Infra-Red Search and Track sensor to find the target, Tupelov grumbled to himself when his screen remained blank. He knew he was out of range and a head-on intercept had the least probability of success. A tail chase would be best suited due to the heat of the engines but precious fuel would be used to overhaul the target plane. This intercept profile was a head-on one, so Ground Radar guided them to the target. Commands came through Tupelov’s headphones that he relayed to his wingman, but he would be able to find the enemy anyhow due to his experience and it being daylight and clear weather.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------On the ground tension mounted. This had never happened before for all intruders had turned away of their own accord or been escorted by the interceptors at a range little less than 200 miles. This was much closer – it was different. It must be an American spy plane, one of their modified Boeing airliners full of listening gear and cameras and God knows what to monitor Soviet radars and communications in the area. Could it be a bomber, one of the dangerous B-52’s armed with nuclear bombs? What if it was a rogue pilot on a one-way doomsday mission, intent on starting a Third World War? His training quickly stopped him from second-guessing. Procedures had to be followed. If the alert fighters failed then ground-based missiles would be armed and turned towards the distant target until forty miles away, then launched. A last minute insurance policy for one could never be too sure. Mother Russia needed to be protected from the enemy Capitalists.

There! At a search range of fifty-three miles the “Spin Scan” radar of Red Bird Two painted the target, not a faint paint like the Long Range radar had picked up before but a firm image. It must be a large aircraft! “Red Bird Two to Red Bird Leader. I have picked up a contact off our nose at fifty-three miles. Do you have it yet? Over.”

“Aaah, no Red Bird Two, don’t have it on my scope yet. What heading is it on?”

“Off our nose now passing fifty miles. Heading is five degrees off our track. Over.”

“I have it now, Red Bird Two, I have him on my scope. Stick close and be observant. I will contact Ground Control for further instructions. Out.”

Distance counted down on radar displays, in computer banks, in people’s heads. A faint contrail became visible at thirty kilometres, a delicate thread of white gossamer trailing behind the target. Frozen water droplets from the engine’s exhaust. Their own contrails would soon be visible from their smaller Sukhoi jets, both of which would still be smaller than whatever they were intercepting. This was a large target. Infra-Red sensors picked up a faint heat trace but not enough for a firing solution. No problem, the radar moved into Lock On mode. Tupelov’s gloved hands moved over controls establishing the Lock On for the Radar guided missiles, two on each Sukhoi. If launched now these deadly AA-6 “Anab” medium range missiles would speed towards their enemy at a speed of Mach 3 and kill it. Unless decoyed by large amounts of chaff or by electronic jamming. The Infra Red guided missiles picked up a heat trace at a head-on distance at fifteen kilometres, half of the thirty of their Radar Guided brothers.

Shooting through the sky like a pair of predators on the hunt, the merge began – a silver airplane came into blue streaming a large contrail. Big, fat, with four engines. A Boeing of some kind

“There he is, there he is! Come round and circle him. Take up position on his starboard wing. I’ll take the port and attempt to see if they visually acquire us.” In his excitement Lead Pilot Tupelov forgot to use the correct terminology for his wingman. It didn’t matter – the message passed from fighter to fighter.

“Yes, I see him Red Bird Lead. Will formate to starboard on him. Out.” Arcing round and joining formation both silver red starred jets joined the Boeing in a textbook formation, studying the target plane for many seconds, gathering information. Tupelov used his training to do his duty; he checked his throttle settings, opened his airbrakes slightly and moved his stick to waggle his wings. Then flashed his landing lights in broad daylight – a useless act? And again, rock his wings, the lights. No reply. Time for a radio call.

“Unidentified aircraft, you are in restricted airspace. Identify yourself and prepare to follow us. Over.”

No reply came. Several seconds passed and the message was passed again. Silence followed. Lead Pilot Tupelov radioed his base and reported the situation. They ordered him to fire two bursts of warning shots. Mounted below the fuselage of each Sukhoi fighter was a pair of cannon packs each containing a deadly twin barrel 23mm cannon and one hundred and twenty rounds of High Explosive cannon shells, a deadly cargo of death. Gently pressing the arming switch and flicking up the spring-loaded switch on his control stick, Tupelov pressed the trigger with his thumb. His twenty-five ton jet shook as a one second burst from his cannon sent fifty or so shells spearing into the blue sky.

This had an effect. Dipping his port wing and banking round hard, the heavy Boeing curved into the flight path of the lead Soviet fighter. Tupelov was about to fire again when his wingman shouted a warning. At the same time he saw the imminent collision. His left hand firewalled the throttles to maximum dry thrust and his right hand pushed the control stick downwards to get him out of the way of danger. His quick reflexes and training controlled his fear and anger. He was safe, the port wing of the Boeing missed Tupelov’s cockpit canopy by thirty feet. He hadn’t lost his edge. “Red Bird Lead to Red Bird Two. Follow his turn. I’ll join you in a minute. Keep on his tail and arm your weapons.”

“On his tail, Red Bird Lead, following. Weapons are armed. Out.”

“Red Bird Lead to Control. Target aircraft has just aggressively turned towards me as I fired warning shots. He missed me by ten metres and is heading away from his original course. I am in formation behind him now with Red Bird Two. Aircraft identity is confirmed as a silver Boeing 707 type plane. No visible markings or identification markings are visible. Request permission to bring it down, over.”

That was it, then. All means of identification had failed. Now a line had been crossed and people would die and an airplane would be destroyed. A reply came through quickly, clearly worded.

“Target course is bringing him closer to us. Permission is granted to open fire and destroy him. Out.”

In position with his wingman Tupelov matched the Boeing’s speed and fine-tuned his Heads Up Display so he could still see the big fat jetliner past his glowing green target cross. This hovered over a large circle of the fuselage, radar locked on in cannon mode. Slowly, almost intimately, Lead Pilot Tupelov pressed the trigger shooting his shells out, no warning this time. Five hundred yards ahead a multitude of orange flashes danced on the Boeing as 23mm High Explosive shells exploded. Pieces of metal tumbled lazily backwards and downwards. Holes remained where the smooth alloy skin had been hit; damage was minor relating to the size of the target – not enough to bring it down. With a touch of left rudder Tupelov gently yawed his interceptor so he was behind the left wing and twin engines which both spewed out a turbulent exhaust that froze and became a jet contrail in the frigid air. Acting quickly he climbed out of this so he was above but in the same position. Pushing his nose down he fired a one second burst as his nose fell through the line of the target. He used his momentum to roll away from the turbulence and contrails, not stopping to inspect his fire.

“Red Bird Two, your turn to open fire. Aim to disable his engines or fuel tanks; his fuselage soaks up your gunfire. I will cover you. Over.”

“Will do, Red Bird Leader. It looks like your last burst has damaged him; he is smoking on the port wing. Am lining up now. Out.” Wingman Sergeant Ivan replied, wondering what it would be like, doing this for real.

In a similar manner to his leader, Number Two lined his jet up and opened fire, his first burst arcing lazily over the starboard wing. Calming his nerves and his breathing, he fired again after correcting his aim. Letting all of his ammunition go in one long burst, he peppered the silver Boeing with lethal High Explosive shells, cutting hydraulic control lines to the starboard wing flaps. Fluid flowed like blood down the damaged wing and atomised in the airflow into a fine mist. One section of flap came away from the control mounting and moved down its actuator path, jamming on one side. This created drag and turbulence and shook the whole aircraft. Jagged shell holes and damage doomed the Boeing. A section of spoiler from the front leading edge of the wing detached to spin past like confetti. Flames leapt out of a shattered number four engine. Shattered fan blades had punctured fuel lines and more dangerously the main outboard fuel tank. Escaping fuel streamed back and mixed with hydraulic fluid, a Devil’s brew that ignited with a whoomph! Losing height with locked controls and a dead engine and major damage, time was against the Boeing.

“Red Bird Two to Red Bird Lead, I have exhausted my ammunition. Target plane is badly damaged. Over.”

“Red Bird Lead to Red Bird Two. Drop back onto me – we will use heat seeking missiles to finish him. The fire will provide a strong heat signature greater than his engines. Stay by my side and we will fire together from ten kilometres. Standby to manoeuvre now. Out.”

Describing a large circle, both of the silver Sukhoi “Flagon” interceptors came round and positioned themselves ten clicks behind the doomed Boeing. While doing this Tupelov informed Control of current events. At twenty thousand feet Tupelov used his infra red sensor to lock onto the heat, three running engines and a hundred long banner of flame from the right wing tanks, leaking hydraulic fluid, a dead engine and port wing damage on an engine that still ran. Locking his “Spin Scan” radar on made sure he wouldn’t miss or fail. On his radar screen a large box surrounded the blip of the Boeing; a similar one with a cross inside was displayed on the HUD. On the Infra-Red sensor screen a black shape like a knife on edge with a long sausage in the middle showed up. White bits danced and glowed angrily – fire and heat from the damaged and remaining engines. A high pitch noise filled Tupelov’s earphones telling him that his heat seeking AA-6 “Anab” missiles had a solid lock on. Ivan’s followed a moment later. In unison both pilots launched. Under each outer wing panel a heat seeking Infra-Red guided missile left its launch rail on a tail of white fire. Leaving a delicate white smoke trail, four missiles speared through the blue sky to their target covering miles in seconds at Mach 3 plus. In a simultaneous impact and detonation four warheads appeared as one and destroyed the target. There were yellow flashes as four one hundred and forty pound explosive warheads, mixed with titanium shrapnel, caused carnage. Blown into large bits, taken to pieces by missile power, flaming debris fell earthwards. A cloud of burning fuel fanned out, black smoke boiling upwards. Trails of fiery smoke followed what had once been a large shiny silver airplane, down to a watery grave. No one survived, no one baled out, nothing.

Once again the Soviet Motherland had been protected from foreign airborne intrusion by the enemy by a powerful system of radars and interceptors. If this had been a B-52 with a Hydrogen bomb, a city or more would have been saved. With fuel running low both Soviet interceptors turned for home. One last radio message was sent by a quiet Lead Pilot Tupelov.

“Target is destroyed, repeat target is destroyed by cannon and missile fire. It has blown up and is falling into the ocean. There appears to be no survivors. Permission to return to base. Over.”

“Control to Red Bird Lead, good work,” Control replied. “Permission granted. Return to base. Use runway one-two. Search and rescue planes are scrambling. Please give shoot down location. Out.”

An international incident had occurred, people had died, an airplane shot down. Was it a spy plane or an airliner? Events would move fast now, either to solve this tragic event or lead to World War Three. God knew the answer.

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