The Last One Standing Page 3

By SimHQ on August 18, 2004 in _air2, hide

I went first to visit Kolya, the meteorologist, before consulting with Lt. Kulikov and the Armourer. Kolya was as cool as always; nothing perturbs him. Over cucumber slices in his cramped office, he informed me that the 503rd would also be in the air, and an American helicopter as well, flying south.

This he knew because he had briefed the American helicopter crew and Major Grachev on the weather in Suhumi district for the coming day. They would depart soon after I was scheduled to, and Kolya found that most odd.

“And it seems you will be there all alone, Sacha. Take care that you do not stray too far toward Tkvarcheli; Major Grachev was particularly concerned about the area near the train station, where you and Lt. Sandakchiev bombed the train station last spring. I saw photos of a HAWK missile system in his papers as well. I would not stray from the coast, were I you. Other than that threat of… precipitation…,” he winked, “your flight will have marvelously clear weather and twenty-eight degree temperatures. You will not have turbulence, either, as long as you stay away from the mountains.”

So. This is why the Commander is so sure of the mujahids’ plans. We have laid a trap, and it is not only that I am the bait, but a mission flown by our comrades as well. Alexei and Dmitri, I am sure. I can put the pieces together, you see.

I was preoccupied as Lt. Kulikov and I went over the loadout for 11-Red. I ordered a 1500 liter centreline tank, for endurance. One R-27RE missile, and one R-27TE. They are longer-ranged than the Matra MICA or Super-530F and will give me first engagement. As insurance, I order two of the new R-77, the RVV-AE. This is a better missile than the American AMRAAM in close combat and deadly at what the Americans call “Rne,” no-escape range. I carefully clean my helmet optics; I may need to use my R-73 close-combat missiles in this scrap. The Mirage is fast and if I do not work quickly I will have to fight them.

Lt. Kulikov and I walked around the spotless 11-Red, gleaming orange-blue in the sodium-vapour lights of the hardened aircraft shelter. The lights gave an odd, muted reddish tint to the polished whiteness of the missiles our gloved, sweating technicians carefully fitted under the wings.

My crew helped me into the cockpit and tightened the straps over my shoulders. I secured my helmet over my head, and drew on my flying gloves, and reset my watch; my father Dmitri sent me his old Strela chronograph last week that he wore in the War of Attrition when he flew the MiG-21 against Israel with the fathers of the very people I now fight. War changes us all, and not for the better. The Strela (it means “Arrow” in your English tongue’s) golden hands and numbers winked at me in the orangey light.

The APU wound up and Kulikov gave the signal to start my right engine, then my left. The air conditioning came on, cooling me in the hot cockpit. I saluted my crew-chief, and closed the canopy, nosing 11-Red into the morning sun.

Down ramp, I could see bombs being armed on a grey-painted Su-33 — Alexei’s from the look of it. I would show him something, this time. My MiG can dance, he is not loaded down with bombs that will make him wallow in the mud like the pig. Not today.

I taxi to the hold-line at Runway 22 and wait for clearance.

When it is given, I push the throttles against their stops and feel 11-Red rocket down the runway on full afterburner lifting smoothly…

into a screaming vertical climb at less than one third the distance!

Slammed against my seat, I cannot help but squeal, just like a young girl, at the feeling, it is like the roller-coaster that the younger Americans talk of so much! I have ridden one of those, though, and it does not compare to the MiG.

“Destiny Angel, clear to 3,000 meters as filed. Push channel 2 for Captain Scarlet.”

Adler tower ceding control to the NATO E-3 prowling the skies to the west.

I change channel and thumb the mike button on my throttle.

“Captain Scarlet, Destiny Angel out of Adler for one-eight thousand, entering your zone.”

It has not been so very long since I last worked with the E-3. One follows American-style procedure with the Westerners. I will show them once again that we are professionals too.

The clipped British tones of the NATO flight controller greet me.

“Hallo, Destiny Angel. Clear for your mission as filed. Set IFF according to plan and squawk, please.”

“Roger.”

I settle down for what I think is a long cruise. But it is not to be. Briefly, my SPO-15 beeps, the Buk system registering me. Its crew will be watching with their optical system. Nothing must give them away.