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.”
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 Su20 “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 intruders 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.”
