Chapter 1
Start writing here…PROLOGUE
Arm! arm! it is — it is — the cannon’s opening roar.
(Lord Byron)
Damascus, Syria
He was loving it.
The atmosphere inside the Foreign Ministry building was warm and jovial. The attendees were all smiles. Hugs and kisses on the cheeks were being exchanged in abundance. Months of tedious diplomatic efforts had paid off. It was by all means a lovely scene. Lovelier still was the sight of the crowd, waiting for him to speak, to utter his words of desideratum. A lot of important people, pro-government and opposition alike had come to see and listen to the firebrand of a leader whose political dexterity for a new Syria had brought the whole country to the brink of hope.
President Saad Hafez al-Abid had been invited as a guest of honor for the signing of a landmark peace accord recently concluded between the ruling regime and its opponents. Once the ceasefire had taken hold the proximity talks between the two sides to chalk out a mechanism for forming a transitional government had lasted for more than eight months. The talks had been indirect, mediated by negotiators. Issues of governance, a constitutional review and future UN‑backed election had been the main points of discussions. Disagreements over who participated and who did not had been rife since the beginning. Eventually everything had been worked out. Saad had saved himself. Now he hoped to contest the upcoming elections and go on ruling his people. For now, instead of hosting his erstwhile enemies in his palace, he had deftly gathered them here in the ministry building. As he had calculated, it served to put his opposition in its place.
A beaming Swede had taken the center stage. He was the United Nations representative for Syria. He had worked hard to bring the two battling sides to the negotiation table, though al-Abid knew better. Another man had been the key force in deciding his country’s fate. A very powerful man whose support had turned the tables in the protracted civil war raging in Syria. That decisive support alone in the form of fighter-bombers, tanks and missiles had brought his rivals to their knees begging for peace. Despite his requests the Russian president had declined to attend the event. He had sent his foreign minister. Saad understood. Unless his counterparts from America, Europe or China were there he would stay away. Ego versus ego.
A large number of ministers, diplomats and envoys from across the Middle East had arrived. Some very important tribal elders, senior civil and military officials, and his party bigwigs were also attending. As the meek, turbaned mullah, the current Grand Mufti of Syria, harangued on and praised al-Abid’s efforts for bringing peace to the country, he feigned attention, smiling and occasionally clapping, though he utterly loathed that sycophant.
Not that he did not enjoy himself the ceremony. It was his show. It was a day of joy and celebration in more than one way. A peace agreement was a sign of mending fences, yes. But most important would be another step today. After signing and handshakes, he and his otherwise small Alawite faction would officially become a part of the transitional government. Those who would be conducting elections would do so at his beck and call. He would remain a king, albeit with a slightly different title.
He was excited. The restive Sunni population would finally fold up in no time. No more funds from the Saudis or Qataris, no chance of support by the Americans. No, nothing at all. Even if he could not win again, Alawites, his Alawites, would own Syria. Period. No beating about the bush.
The man finished his speech and hundreds of hands began clapping in rhythm. Suddenly, all hell broke loose. A huge explosion ripped through the crowd just forty yards away.
It was deafening. He instinctively dropped to the ground. People flew through the air before his eyes. Three of his security men from the special protection unit flung themselves over him, almost burying him under a collective human mass. He felt their bodies jerk abruptly, then go limp. They were hit.
Thick smoke churned up. The bomb-proof screen was shattered, taking the brunt of the explosion. Pieces of stone smashed into him. His face and arms burned. Something sharp pierced his back. He stifled a cry. The pain was enormous. As he winced and tried to push the dead guards away, he heard screams. In fact a lot of screaming was going on but his eardrums had been busted. He lifted his head slowly and peeked around, his heart in a grip of terror.
The bomb had gone off in one of the front rows, directly facing the VIP area. It seemed to have taken out a good portion of the VIP platform. Along with most of the dignitaries as well. The Russian foreign minister and the UN envoy were both dead. So was the Grand Mufti. And his own defense minister, one of close buddies. And a half dozen other ministers and conference attendees. The generals commanding the Republican Guards and his Intelligence department had met the same fate. His own life was spared barely, thanks to the guards, and a sheet of Kevlar and reinforced glass.
It was a bloodbath. A wave of nausea erupted inside him. He doubled over and vomited. His head was still spinning when he was pulled out from under a pile of injured men and mangled corpses by his surviving security detail and half-carried, half-dragged through multiple corridors to a small door at the back of the building. They cleared the building immediately, using that door to avoid any possible danger at the main entrance. He ran for a hundred yards to a waiting armored vehicle. That short distance he ran was a tour through hell, amid a cacophony of gunshots and screams of terror, running footsteps and vehicle horns.
Saad was bleeding from a number of cuts on his face, arms and back. Though looking horrible and bad, his gashes were all superficial, not at all life-threatening. Deeper and more grievous were the wounds to his ego, enraging him more than hurting or frightening him. Despite being the most powerful ruler in the history of Syria and commanding his country’s large military, he was running for his life, away from the terrorists and their attack. It was totally disgraceful.
As he was being rushed away, more loud explosions and gunshots sounded. The terrorists were spraying small arms rounds from a nearby street. Some others were even closer, chanting jihadist slogans and throwing grenades at the security personnel who were reacting, trying to organize themselves and firing back. Only one suicide bomber had somehow managed to get close enough to blow himself up. Rest of the terrorists had just lingered around, waiting, counting on the shock and chaos of the suicide blast to make their next move. Half a dozen of them were in action now. They poured indiscriminate fire into the people who were scrambling for safety. It was a bedlam.
A squad of security men was positioning itself between the president and the assailants while several police and army troops were encircling them, trying to isolate and engage each terrorist in a series of small firefights.
Saad’s fifty year old body felt exhausted by the time he reached a safer spot. His breaths were coming in short, intense pants after that spurt of exertion under fire. He was pushed head first into the back of his armored car. Two security guards joined him as the driver raced the engine, turned sharply and sped away behind a pair of military jeeps. Another car was trailing it.
His wounds were cleaned by one of his guards. By now, he was boiling with anger. He promised himself to hunt the perpetrators, no matter what the cost. Whosoever had pulled the triggers and set off the bombs had not been acting alone. They would all be killed eventually, he knew. His security forces were already mounting a massive response. The masterminds, however, would be elusive, hiding behind layers of secrecy. Maybe, across the borders. He certainly would not back down from meting out justice to them. A swift and deadly justice.
He would send the unholy gods of war to rain destruction upon them.
NEWS EXCERPTS
SYRIAN PRESIDENT BARELY ESCAPES ASSASSINATION; SCORES OTHERS KILLED
(BBC News, December 22, 2017): In what seemed to be a brazen terrorist attack, the Syrian president Saad Hafez al-Abid just had a narrow escape today when a ceremony for the landmark Syrian peace agreement turned into a bloodbath. According to the reports, al-Abid along with some opposition politicians, foreign delegates and prominent local people were attending the much awaited conference where the signing of an important peace deal was going on when a suicide bomber exploded himself in the crowd. Seconds later, other terrorists opened fire with automatic rifles and hurled grenades. The president, though mildly injured, was saved by the protective glass screen and the heroic sacrifices of his personal bodyguard force.
The Russian foreign minister and the UN special envoy for Syria were among the prominent people killed.
TERROR CONTINUES UNABATED IN SYRIA
(The Associated Press, December 23, 2017): With the shock of yesterday’s terrorist attack against her president still gripping Syria, two more acts of terrorism jolted the country once again when gunmen stormed the huge Shiite Zainab Mosque in Damascus, followed by a bomb blast in a packed bus near the same shrine.
Islamist terrorists sprayed gunfire and began killing people attending a ritual at the mosque. As the security forces launched an operation to tackle a subsequent nightmarish hostage situation and executions, a bloody firefight erupted lasting for hours that eventually claimed more than three hundred human lives. In the second incident, a powerful bomb ripped through a passenger bus at a nearby intersection, destroying it and killing a total of a hundred and eighty five men, women and children.
WILL ANNIHILATE TERRORISTS AND THEIR SUPPORTERS‑PRESIDENT AL‑ABID
(The Observer, December 23, 2017): His face bruised and sporting a couple of bandages, president Saad al-Abid today appeared on the national television, looking wounded yet determined. Just like his nation.
In his characteristic style, waving his fist at the camera, he vowed to finish once and for all the menace of terrorism and terminate every terrorist and his supporters in no time.
TURKISH HAND IN TERROR ACTS EVIDENT AFTER INITIAL INVESTIGATIONS
(Interfax, December 24, 2017): A high-level joint Russian and Syrian investigation team handling the recent terrorist incidents has in its preliminary report pinpointed the Turkish National Intelligence Organization, or the MIT, as the main culprit. The shocking revelation seems to have confirmed the media speculations about the involvement of Turkish-backed militants and their masterminds in the neighboring country.
RUSSIAN PARLIAMENT IN SESSION TO DISCUSS OPTIONS IN RESPONSE TO ACTS OF TERROR
(BBC News, December 24, 2017): A charged atmosphere was most noticeable during a joint session of the Russian parliament where after observing a minute of silence in the memory of terror victims, legislators hotly debated the issue of militancy and its untoward effects for the whole Syrian state. Both ruling and opposition members unanimously adopted a resolution condemning Turkey and the United States for the alleged role they were playing in wreaking havoc in Syria.
RUSSIAN MILITARY PUT ON HIGHEST ALERT TO TACKLE TERRORISM BY AMERICA AND ALLIES
(Reuters, December 24, 2017): A Russian defense ministry official briefly discussed the preparedness of Russian armed forces and their role in any contingency in the prevailing circumstances. He refused to rule out the use of military force in dealing with ‘the evil of terror’ and its external abettors in neighboring Turkey and other places.
A FINAL SOLUTION TO THE TERROR PROBLEM MUST‑ RUSSIAN PRESIDENT
(The Times, December 25, 2017): Russian president Anatoly Ruslan lambasted America for more than a half hour in his fire-belching speech today in the Duma. He openly challenged the United States for a military duel anywhere, anytime and threatened to whip the hell out of their ‘fascist designs’ of conquering the Middle East by terrorism.
AGGRESSION ON ANY PRETEXT WILL BE FOUGHT WITH ALL POSSIBLE MEANS‑US PRESIDENT
(CNN TV, December 25, 2017): The American president Mr. Hutchison expressed his willingness to work with Russia on combating terrorism, but he was equally determined to deter any military action by the Russians as a means of punishing Turkey. He stressed upon the need of resolving all issues through meaningful dialogue. He was addressing a gathering of foreign delegates at the White House.
DIPLOMATS KICKED OUT BY RUSSIA AND TURKEY
(Al-Jazeera TV, December 26, 2017): Tensions between the two sides escalated to a new level when the diplomats were summarily expelled on both sides amid a deepening crisis after terrorists hit multiple targets in Syria and killed the Russian foreign minister. Despite mediating efforts by the UN and China, the two countries refused to cool off and did not seem to give diplomacy a fair chance in their affairs.
RUAF UNITS PREPARE FOR A POSSIBLE WAR IN MIDDLE EAST
(Janes Intelligence Review, December 26, 2017): The combat, mobility and support arms of the Russian Air Force are fully active in preparing themselves for a range of possible scenarios, including a full-blown war, with Turkey and USA in the Middle East. According to numerous reports the RuAF’s regional air bases, radar sites, and command and control elements are being activated as per existing plans to conduct any operation against the enemy in the shortest possible time.
A US‑RUSSIA WAR IS ONLY DAYS AWAY
(Stratfor-www.stratfor.com, December 26, 2017): The crisis stemming out from acts of terror in the Middle East is snowballing. According to a number of disturbing reports and analyses, despite a concerted diplomatic campaign by the UN and major powers, both America and Russia are headed for a military showdown in the coming days.
WE’LL GIVE AMERICA A HYPER WAR‑RUSSIAN DEFENSE MINISTER
(The Russian News Agency TASS, December 26, 2017): The Russian defense minister appeared very confident while talking to the reporters in a press conference about a lightning fast, overwhelming war in the Middle East. He mentioned the ‘Hyper War’, a battle concept revolving around a quick tri-service offensive and vowed to accomplish all stipulated aims in no more than two weeks of intense, sustained operations.
AIR OPS WILL BE PIVOTAL IN ANY WAR SCENARIO‑COMMANDER USAF
(MSNBC, December 26, 2017): The Chief of the United States Air Force, General Timothy Larsen today visited an air base in Turkey and took a final stock of the war preparations being made by the American airmen stationed there. He addressed the deployed troops and emphasized the importance of leaving no stone unturned in readying themselves for a possible war with a ‘near peer’ on unfavorable terms. He pointed out that the air operations would be critical and catalytic in any possible confrontation on land, in the air or at sea.
1
Air Command and Control Centre, Poggio Renatico, Italy
‘Good morning, General,’ Cecil Perdue Jr. greeted as he entered the office. He was a handsome man in his early forties with an angular face, short hair and sharp brown eyes. A full-bird colonel and a top graduate of the United States Air Force’s Air Warfare Center, Perdue had distinguished himself as a fighter pilot over the skies of Kosovo and Iraq. Now he was assigned to work as one of the directors at the NATO facility south of Venice. The deployable center was linked to a series of sensors, including early warning radars distributed in Italy and other NATO countries, AWACS radar planes and satellites.
Perdue preferred flying his F‑15 Eagle to riding a desk. But that was his assignment these days, another paper-pushing staff officer. It came with the rank. It was his second month in the job. Love it or not, he had to do it. It however did not mean that he savored the energy-sapping conference sessions or the mind-numbing meetings.
‘Mornin, Perdue. Coffee?’ Brigadier General Bernard Zane said, motioning toward a coffee maker. He was standing over his desk and watching a wall-mounted TV set. Being in charge of operations at the Allied Air Command headquarters, he was Perdue’s immediate boss. As the situation on the NATO’s southern borders had worsened, the key staff at the NATO Allied Air Command had shifted to the Deployable Air Command and Control Center in Poggio Renatico. Even the peace time shelters had been substituted for a new well-protected underground bunker. Though the trouble had arisen out of the Middle East, Russia was a European problem. It had always been like that over the centuries.
‘Thanks, sir. I’d like it.’ He went to the coffee maker and poured himself a cup. It was strong and hot, the way he preferred his brew.
‘Looks like things are heating up,’ Zane commented, his eyes riveted to the screen. The television was tuned to the Al-Jazeera channel. A perfectly attired and neatly coiffed up woman was talking breathlessly. Zane raised the volume.
’The Turkish prime minister has just announced that his country has decided to deny Russian ships entry into the Marmara Sea through the Strait of Bosporus. It comes after the recent escalation in the crisis that’s gripped the region in the wake of the Damascus terror incidents. As you already know the Russian foreign minister had died along with most of al-Abid’s ruling junta.
‘The Russian reaction to this decision is expected to come shortly, though it’s fairly simple to guess what it’d be like. The Russians have already declared the assassinations as acts of war committed against Russia and have vowed to deal with the perpetrators in the harshest possible way. Stay with us for further details as the situation unfolds.’
‘Have the Turks really gone over the edge?’ Zane said worriedly. ‘Ruslan is already pissed off at them. This would definitely not sit well with him.’ He had muted the TV.
Perdue silently wondered at the vagaries of international relations. Only months earlier Russia and Turkey had been warming up to each other like never before, negotiating major arms deals and thumbing their noses at America and her NATO partners. He spoke. ‘Ruslan has already named them as collaborators in the terror plot that killed his foreign minister and one of his close friends. Even accused them of deliberately sabotaging the peace deal in collusion with us Yankees.’
‘Actually speaking, the Russians have already shifted their vessels into the Mediterranean,’ Zane said, remembering from a report he had seen earlier and continued. ‘Ruslan is shrewd enough to have guessed such move eventually happening. So he kinda anticipated and got his ships across.’
‘He’s nothing less than a cunning fox,’ Perdue agreed. The Russian president had been a thorn in the side of the West for too long. Drawing on his experience as an intelligence man in the erstwhile KGB, he had schemed to tackle his traditional opponents with subterfuge instead of guns or bombs. For a number of reasons, he had come out a winner, though a few of his victories had been Pyrrhic ones. His taking over of Crimea had cost him dearly in the form of economic sanctions. Most of his cronies were barred from traveling to the western destinations for business and pleasure. Some had’d their assets frozen by the European governments.
‘The big question is whether he’d act.’
‘He has to act forcefully this time. Too much is at stake for Russia now. Ruslan’s personal power base is also shaken by what many believe a direct act of terror against his close friend and foreign minister,’ Zane explained. ‘It’s not Chechnya, Georgia or Crimea. All those were peripheral, distant affairs. Here, it’s an altogether different ball game. He’s put too much effort in Syria. It’s their last surviving bastion in the Mideast. He’s been staring daggers at us by stationing his forces in Syria. If he blinks now, so much bad could happen to him and Russia.’
‘So he means business this time?’ Perdue asked.
‘Certainly, unless he’s got a political death wish which I don’t think he relishes much.’
‘It means a war is coming to our doorstep very soon. No, sir?’
‘I’m sure about it, Perdue. Really damn sure, man.’
‘Sir, for all his brouhaha, would Ruslan choose to engage us in the air where he’s the weakest?’
‘He has got no other choice. What do you think? Will the Russian army invade Turkey? Or will his navy engage our carriers or subs in order to land troops in Antalya?’
‘I see your point, general. Still, I doubt he’s going to take us on in a traditional manner. Very unlikely, sir. Ruslan will definitely throw in a few surprises to make life harder for his foes. He likes to play. The fight comes only as a last resort. His wrestling is for sport only.’
‘Let him play the way he likes,’ Zane snorted. ‘All his monkey wrenches wouldn’t matter a bit. My Raptors would see to that, man. He’s got no idea what he’s getting’ into.’ Zane was too cocksure about his toys. Perdue wondered if the man had really grown out of his cockpit days.
Perdue hesitated for a long nervous pause, then went on. He had decided not to be swayed by his boss. ‘My assessment is that once the cork flies away and Ruslan achieves his political breakthrough by intimidating our regional allies, he would conduct a massive air war supported by land and sea-based missiles. We’ve got no foolproof anti-missile system in place. A really grim scenario, sir. Especially for us,’ Perdue commented. For a moment he imagined a future filled only with catastrophe. A shooting war with Russia could deteriorate very rapidly into something very sinister. Ruslan was dangerous enough with ten thousand nukes and a short list of options. What would he do if cornered? Perdue wondered.
‘No, Colonel. Nothing grim about it. I want you to prepare ourselves for a very short but exciting air war with Russia. Ruslan would see what our air power could do to his designs in the region,’ Zane said bombastically.
Perdue had to listen as the other man outlined his campaign plan against a probable Russian offensive in the region. Some points he liked. Others he could not agree to. A few he really despised. Or feared. He was feeling cold as the general showered him with his tactical brilliance.
Most senior officers at the Allied Command Headquarter were professionally competent. Some were even superb. Zane was another story. He and another general, a Dutch two-star who commanded the ACCC, really sucked. He dreaded the day when he would lose all patience and throw punches in their faces.
Mediterranean Sea
With gloved hands she advanced the twin throttles to military power, then into afterburner. The aircraft, like a furious hound at the leash, was straining and shaking under the tremendous thrust of the big turbofans. Jet exhaust flames were burning so furiously it seemed the blast deflector would melt like a butter bar. Lieutenant Tracey ‘Turbo’ Foster threw a salute to the plane shooter. Her F/A‑18C Hornet jet was ready to blast off the carrier.
The shooter got into his fencer’s coup de pointe posture and touched the deck dramatically, signaling his catapult operator to launch.
She was jarred to the bones as the Hornet charged down the deck with a thunderous howl. The excruciating G‑forces slammed her hard against the seat back and nearly knocked the wind out of her. The cat stroke had pushed the aircraft from zero to approximately 150 knots in about two short but violent seconds.
Feeling slightly light-headed, she lifted into the crisp afternoon air off the carrier’s bow and slapped the landing gear up. Her wingman had launched too. To her left a small flock of gulls was wisely keeping distance from the machine beasts riding the sky. Below, the carrier George W. Bush was slicing through the low, foam-crested waves of the sea.
The Carrier Strike Group Two was operating in the Antalya Basin, off the west coast of Cyprus. The carrier and her escorts were spread widely over the sea.
As Lieutenant (JG) Jack ‘Cliffhanger’ Clifford in the second bird settled on her wing and both pilots climbed for altitude, she exchanged the usual information with her controller aboard the carrier. It was their routine patrol sortie. The two fliers from the VFA‑37 Raging Bulls had’d a single mission the previous night. Now they were grateful for another opportunity to go up and drill some holes in the sky. After a brief air-combat maneuvering session, the pilots were scheduled to practice buddy refueling with one of their sister squadron’s Super Hornets before making a landing. Their first surprise came when she was told by her carrier’s control tower to proceed east and contact a NATO E‑3G Sentry radar plane flying out of Konya, Turkey.
An airborne contact along the Syrian coast was stirring suspicion, she was told.
The AWACS bird had picked up the unknown aircraft after it had emerged over the coastal waters south of Latakia and headed toward Lebanon and Israel. Initially tagged as a Russian Dozor‑600 unmanned aerial vehicle, it soon turned out to be a slow-moving IL‑20 manned reconnaissance aircraft based on its past behavior. The brass wanted it shadowed this time, and that task went to Tracey and her wingman.
‘2, Lead. Let’s chat up with the Sentry on button 5,’ she called her wingman and selected the radio channel for the AWACS frequency. ‘Gazehound, Turbo flight. 2-ship reporting.’
The radio squawked. ‘What’s this call sign? If you are Turbo, then we’re squirt guns here.’ There was a certain hint of mischief in the voice.
Tracey felt anger build up inside her. Her moniker had been slapped upon her by one of her academy mates during the early days, clearly meant to poke and taunt her for her enthusiasm. Bloody chauvinists, she had categorized them. At first she couldn’t stand it, but eventually it grew on her. Besides, it was better than some of the other nicknames she’d heard over the years.
She had known then that some of her male colleagues felt uneasy about her, maybe intimidated by her presence in an otherwise macho profession. Very few had realized that the stunningly beautiful girl from Boca Raton, Florida, with her pale gray eyes, sculpted features and a cream-and-peaches skin had a resolve of steel too. Despite the women serving in the navy for a long time some men refused to grow up. As if she gave a damn. Instead, she had worked hard and excelled, while some of the über macho guys had been weeded out in the process.
She keyed her microphone. ‘Hey jerk, stop behaving like a clown.’
More giggles on the radio. Then another voice appeared, probably a senior man, she thought. ‘Turbo, turn right 20. Initial vector 160, angels 20.’ She was being told to proceed southeast at an altitude of twenty thousand feet.
Tracey uttered a ‘Roger’ and moved the center-mounted stick. The Hornet turned. Clifford was following her. Her eyes glanced over the dimly lit instrument array and found nothing remotely troubling. The radar and the warner were normal too. Their quarry was a couple hundred miles away, she was informed. Single bogey, no escorts. They were closing on him very comfortably.
There had been a recent surge in the Russian spy flights in the Mediterranean. Based in Syria, the Russian IL‑20 Coots regularly performed long-range reconnaissance missions in the region, flying in international airspace with their transponders turned off; a standard practice for almost all snooping aircraft. At least thrice in the last couple of weeks, the Russian spy planes flying close to the civilian airways were involved in near collision incidents and had smacked the living daylights out of the crews and passengers alike. Unfazed, the Russkies had continued performing intelligence gathering missions, ostensibly eavesdropping on the ISIL militants’ communications. In reality, they listened on the American military and its allies, detecting, classifying and storing their systems’ emissions to build an Electronic Order of Battle in the region.
The Hornet pair tore through the air. Cyprus’s southern tip passed beneath her port wing. In addition to the American U‑2s, a Royal Air Force detachment was based there at Akrotiri. The Brits were using it for operations against the terrorists in the region. Typhoons and Tornadoes! Good birds and great pilots, though with funny radio chatter, she thought in amusement.
Tracey was getting the air picture on her multi-function display through Link‑16. Her own radar was on standby. The bogey was at twenty five thousand feet, continuing south leisurely. Nice. It would be a standard practice intercept.
Turbo flight continued on, flying through the light haze hung over the sky. Her warner chirped. She looked at the screen. A ship-borne air search radar was sweeping her jet. Top Plate, aboard the Russian cruiser Varyag.
Gazehound called. ‘Turbo, bogey’s turning. Heading 280, maintaining angels 25 and 300 knots.’ The Russian had changed his course off the coast of Beirut. Both Hornets and the Coot were bearing down on each other now. To prevent the Coot from knowing about the intercept, Tracey and her wingman would not use their own radars.
As they closed further, the Sentry directed them into a wide encircling maneuver. Tracey caressed her control stick for the gentle turn. Just at that moment her warner beeped again. A bright SA‑21 began flashing on the display almost simultaneously!
Shit. She cursed and called on the radio. ‘2, dirt, Growler, Hmeimim.’ A Russian long range radar associated with the SA‑21 SAM system at the Hmeimim air base near Latakia was wide awake and painting them. It meant the Russians were watching their spy flight and anyone interested in it. The missile system’s presence in Syria and its location had been known to the Americans since long.
Her radio squawked. ‘Turbo, bogey 270 now, twenty mike, angels twenty. Go for it.’ It was the controller aboard the AWACS bird.
‘Roger, Gazehound,’ Tracey acknowledged. Switching to the interplane again, she radioed her wingman. ‘2, combat spread and check switches safe.’ Though the tensions were high between the two countries, America was not at war with Russia. Tracey had every desire to keep it that way. They would buzz the Coot with weapons safe. Not even a peep from their radars.
‘2,’ Clifford acknowledged.
Another call came from the AWACS. ‘Turbo, Russkies scrambling an alert force from Hmeimim. Flankers, probably.’ One of the technicians was monitoring the airwaves. A pair of Russian fighters was getting airborne.
At eight miles from the target, she saw it. The gray-painted prop bird was lumbering ahead. ‘Tally, single bogey, 2 right,’ she called out and zoomed into the air before executing a knife-edge turn to place herself parallel to the Russian’s course. The Hornet eased itself along the Coot. Clifford stayed slightly behind and higher.
‘Hi, old geezer,’ she muttered. Flying on the Russian’s left shoulder, she examined it closely. The Coot was pretty downbeat. It had started life in the 1960s, she knew. Two pairs of propeller-powered smoky engines on the wings, a big pod under the forward fuselage, two stubby lateral fairings. Lots of antennae all over the body. The spy plane flew on without showing any reaction. Cool sucker. This guy has balls, she thought. Flying unescorted and bounced by armed fighters over the sea, yet cruising along as if all worries thrown to the wind.
Then it altered course and turned north. Tracey slowly drifted away and radioed the AWACS. It had been a successful interception.
Her warner beeped again with a different tone. Clifford called her. ‘Lead, mud, Growler.’ The Russian SAM was solidly tracking the American fighters, sort of warning them off. If they wanted, they could launch now and probably hit. The Growler had the range.
As the Hornet pair was turning away, Tracey got another warning on her RWR. She glimpsed at the display. An airborne radar icon was there. One of the Russian fighters was hitting her with its powerful radar. Her wingman sang out. ‘Lead, spikes, Flanker. It’s jinxing us.’
The Russian Su‑35 was locking them up at maximum range. She was not a bit worried, though angered by the gesture. Gangster style, the Russian was flashing and pointing its gun at her, probably knowing too well she carried better guns. If it came to that, she thought wishfully, eyeing the Delta Slammer under her port wing.
Suppressing a sudden urge to break into the approaching fighters, she turned west toward the carrier, wingman in her tow. She would oblige the Russians one day.
Air Command and Control Center, Poggio Renatico, Italy
Colonel Cecil Perdue Jr. and other staff officers rose from their seats as Brigadier General Bernard Zane strode into the conference room. The general seated at the head of the long table. An enlisted woman placed the briefing folder before him and left the room. The man wasted no times in preliminaries.
‘People, I’m coming straight from a Supreme Headquarters Allied Powers Europe briefing. The top man there told it’s gonna be real. The Russians are gearing up for a showdown very soon.’
The attendees took the information without showing any enthusiasm. They had already guessed as much. For a full-fledged meeting at the ACCC, the Allied Air Command’s boss would have also been present, along with his deputy and the center’s commanding general. In that case, Zane would have probably taken a side chair and kept quiet. But the senior men were away and he ruled the roost. It was a routine daily briefing, though Zane seemed to enjoy it, he noted.
Zane looked at his intelligence man and spoke. ‘Ok, Bill. Tell us what’s cooking up on your side?’
Colonel William Galecki had already started to fiddle with the multimedia. His first slide popped up on the screen instantly. It outlined the deployment of the Russian air assets in the region. Clearing his throat, he said. ‘Sir, the Russians have stationed seven fighter regiments in Syria so far. Mostly, Su‑35s, Su‑30s and Mig‑29s for air combat role. Also, some ground attack birds like Su‑24s and ‑25s. More than a hundred n’ fifty birds in total.’
‘What air bases?’
‘In addition to Latakia and Shayrat already at their disposal, they’re sending their warplanes to Dumayr near Damascus and Tiyas in the vicinity of Palmyra. An air strip near Qamishli has come up to stage helicopters and ground strike planes in support of special operation forces in the north, surely, against Turkey very soon if the tempers don’t cool down.’
‘What about AWACS and tankers?’
‘Three A‑50 early warning aircraft are operating out of Shayrat. An unspecified number of aerial tankers have been reported at Hmeimim. All IL‑78s. Big mothers.’
Zane looked unhappy. ‘State of air defenses?’
‘On the high-end side the only significant item is the SA‑21 Growler, their flagship SAM. Two systems proudly sit at Hmeimim and north of Masyaf. Ultra-long range, with three different types of missiles for countering a variety of threats, including aircraft, and cruise and ballistic missiles. It can strike targets in an arc that takes in much of Israel; the eastern Mediterranean, including Cyprus, where the British jets are based; and northwards to cover a large part of Turkey beyond the Syrian border. So far we’ve no indication that Russia intends to disrupt our air operations. But the presence of the missile system inevitably complicates our tactical planning.’
‘Implications?’ Zane asked.
‘It’s more of a strategic asset, general. Part of a bigger plan. From the Baltic, through Ukraine and Crimea, to the eastern Mediterranean, Moscow has been deploying sophisticated anti-access capabilities like the SA‑21; these presumably are intended to constrain our deployments in the event of any crisis.’
‘Any problems if we wanna take those bastards out?’ Zane questioned.
‘Well, it could be problematic. A potent system in its self, it’s guarded by a very agile shorter-ranged, surface-to-air missile battery able to knock down attacking anti-radar missiles and guided munitions.’
‘Bad news for any Wild Weasel guy going out to take a bead on it,’ Perdue commented, failing to hide his unease.
‘Indeed,’ Galecki acknowledged quietly.
‘What if we go after it with standoff cruise missiles or PGMs off a stealth bomber instead of our usual HARMs?’ Perdue asked, referring to the AGM‑88C High-speed Anti-Radiation Missile.
‘It’d be tricky. A HARM has a range of fifty miles. An F‑16 would be already dead before it got close enough to fire the shot. Its protectors could just as easily shoot down a HARM or a Tomahawk missile, for that matter. Take into account the Russian GPS jammers and all our missiles become vulnerable.’
‘That leaves only the laser-guided bombs,’ someone commented.
‘Impossible. Any aircraft would need to get extremely close to lase and shoot. Wouldn’t happen without first going through a mass scale slaughter in the air,’ Perdue countered.
‘What’s the damned solution then?’ asked Zane in frustration. He was shaking his head.
‘For now, none, sir,’ Perdue replied honestly. ‘But I’m sure my team and I will find it.’
Relieved that someone else had offered himself, Galecki continued. ‘Our electronic intel flights have picked up mostly SA‑17s and SA‑22s for close range protection at the bases and other important locations. Very capable little bastards.’
‘Any more good news, Bill?’ Zane asked sarcastically.
‘RuAF is also deploying a sizable portion of its inventory to the bases in the Crimean Peninsula. Close to the theater. Bombers, recon planes, naval strike squadrons, the usual heavy stuff.’
Zane nodded without commenting. As Galecki changed gears and displayed the friendly deployments on screen, Perdue spoke up. ‘Sir, I’d like to suggest we request more Raptors in our area too. Once we get them, we should disperse those birds.’
Another colonel jumped in. ‘More fighters wouldn’t win us a fight. We should consider positioning additional bombers in the region.’
Zane silently studied the array of images displayed on the screen denoting various air bases in use by the US military and its allies in the region. Pointing his finger at the display he said. ‘Frankly speaking, I don’t see a need for anything extra. No fighters, no bombers. What’ve we got here looks sufficient to me. You guys must tell me how to use these things properly.’ Currently, more than twenty F‑22s belonging to the Hawaii-based 199th Fighter Squadron had been deployed to Al-Udeid. It came under the Central Command area of responsibility, however.
’Sir, my mantra is, ‘‘No kill like overkill.’’ We’re pitted against the Russians. These guys are a totally different league than any other ragtag military we’ve faced off so far in the region,’ Perdue insisted.
‘Colonel, Iraq under Saddam Hussain wasn’t a ragtag militia, but we trounced them. Twice.’
‘They had numbers and hardware, but they fought no better than did any half-assed force. Eventually they paid for that.’
Zane leaned forward and said. ‘As I can see a squadron worth of F‑22s would surely keep their air force at bay, what to talk of actually fighting us. Raptor is fabulous, my dear. They know it n’ give it the respect it truly deserves. Besides, as a matter of fact the Air Combat Command isn’t going to release any additional birds. ’
Perdue decided not to press further. He went in another direction. ‘Air bases in the region are a key to the conduct of any successful operations. And it’s a major weakness as well. Our top-notch fighters are effective as long the bases they operate from remain available or intact. If an enemy takes out the bases, either militarily or through political subterfuge, we’re hamstrung.’
‘I don’t agree here,’ Zane huffed before going on. ’Even if they resort to air base interdiction ops we’ve got more bases at our disposal here than the Russians could ever hope to neutralize. And once we respond in kind then the Russians would suddenly find no place remaining inside Syria other than a goat barn to park their aircraft.
‘Sir, I—’
He was interrupted by the general. ‘Tell me, colonel, how many bases are they currently using in Syria?’
‘Four in total. A small strip at Qamishli is being expanded,’ Perdue replied.
‘That’s all. See, we’ve got a dozen primary bases at our disposal. Lots more if things come to that. In my opinion, it’s the Russians who need to worry, not us.’
Perdue kept quiet as all other staff officers just nodded, but did not confront the general. The man had risen up in an air force addicted to too many easy victories against unworthy foes. Russians would be another story. He made a mental note to discuss the issue with him after the meeting. In private.
Galecki meanwhile had proceeded to highlight the components of the Russian military spying operations in the region. He began talking. ’Our friends, the Russkies, have set up an elaborate military intelligence gathering network, primarily based in Syria. It’s supported by elements operating out of southern Russia and Crimea, Armenia and Iran. A very significant input is provided by their air force, and naval ships in the Black Sea and the Mediterranean.
‘As you can see,’ he flashed his laser pointer at a map, ’their listening posts are strategically located across Syria for a comprehensive coverage and interlinkage. These stations are staffed by the GRU operatives and technical guys. GRU is their military intelligence branch, by the way. The extent of Russian-Syrian intelligence and military cooperation is vast and has been established for many decades. In 2006, it leaked out that Hezbollah was receiving intelligence from two Russian-Syrian intelligence posts during its war with Israel, one of which was identified as being located on the Golan Heights.
‘Ok. Go on,’ Zane said.
‘May I urge you to recall one such important Joint Russian-Syrian post at Al-Harra near the Golan Heights was overrun by the Free Syria Army back in 2014. Code-named Center S, it was a major setup until we got it taken over by the rebels. It had been interfering with our efforts to train and arm rebels in Daraa province.’
‘Sweet mother of Jesus! Are you sure? I heard it was the Israelis who supervised the attack,’ Zane asked in bewilderment.
Galecki gave a know-it-all smile. ‘Oh yes, sir. It was a beautiful op planned and executed by the DoD. A good part was that the Russians got out in time. Somebody favored them with a timely tip-off,’ he said with a slight wink.
Perdue rolled his eyes. Galecki went on, circling a spot on the map with his pointer. ’West of Damascus, near the Beirut-Damascus highway, here’s a Russian satellite imagery analysis center, where Russian personnel work with the Syrians on satellite imagery, used at present to track the movements of the rebels. It can just as easily track us for that matter.
’Additionally, the Russian air force has got a couple of Coot spy birds based at Latakia. We’ve seen an increase in their ops tempo. Then offshore, there’s Vasily Tatischev, the spy ship. It’s always sailing in the Med and snooping around.’
Zane nodded, glancing at the big wall clock. ‘Anything else, Bill?’
‘One interesting thing that merits mentioning here is the presence of Russian passive emitter location systems in Syria. Kolchugas are unproven, but that’s not a reason to discard their potential role in undermining our ops.’ He was referring to a listening system that was often touted as a measure to detect stealth jets by snooping on their emissions.
‘What about the Krasukha?’ Perdue asked pointedly.
‘Frankly telling, not much is known about the capabilities of this electronic warfare system. A mobile setup, it rides upon a BAZ four-axle cross country truck. My analysts offer it can jam the AWACS and UAV data links. Can also disrupt low-orbiting recon satellites. No specifics, only conjectures though.’
Perdue thought over it in silence. American intelligence had very scant information about some potentially game-changing technologies in the other camp. If actually working as advertised, the systems could seriously dislocate any advantage the US enjoyed over the Russians, be it in stealth, spy planes or satellites.
As they adjourned, he met his own staffers in the office and briefed them on what had transpired in the meeting with the general. He fielded questions, got an update on the recently collected intel, status of the Ops department personnel, did a time hack with everyone, then dismissed the teams to do their own briefings.
