THE BEZERKER ALGORITHM PART II

“This American covert base has cost you hundreds of men, dozens of aircraft, tons of supplies,” General Potemkin said.
“Comrade General,” Bondarev explained. “Lavrentiya was a mosquito bite. Unlike at Anadyr we lost only a few personnel, and no critical capabilities. I have already given orders for the aircraft of the 573rd to be assigned to the crews of the 6983rd. The Nebo array will be up again within 12 hours. There will be no impact on ground support for LOSOS.”
Potemkin looked unimpressed. “You misunderstand, Colonel. First Anadyr, now Lavrentiya. These attacks have cost the VVS political capital and the respect of our peers. I want to see this American base dug out from under that island and obliterated.”
Bondarev was looking at the map of Little Diomede. “If they can fly a UCAV out of a hole in that cliff face, then I can put a missile down their throats.”
“It would be better to land a detachment of special forces,” Lieutenant Butyrskaya said. “They could deal with US security, secure the base. There may be valuable intel, not least examples of these new amphibious UCAVs.”
General Potemkin coughed, “I commend the Comrade Lieutenant for her professionalism. However, we can glean whatever intelligence can be gleaned from the burning sunken wrecks of these American floatplanes. I do agree though that special forces will be needed to ensure the complete destruction of this base. We don’t know what is in there, or how it is protected.” He turned to Bondarev, “Colonel, I authorize a combined-forces attack on Little Diomede immediately. You will use whatever assets are required to eliminate the threat, and achieve the complete destruction of the enemy base.”
“Yes General,” Bondarev said. “I’ll lead the air attack myself.”
Potemkin appeared to think carefully, “Ordinarily I would say your place is here, overseeing our operations over Alaska. But within these walls Comrade Colonel, a newsworthy victory wouldn’t hurt you right now. No one is blaming you directly for the losses these US aircraft have inflicted behind our line of control, but…”
“But they are…” Bondarev finished for him.
Potemkin gave him a wry smile. “We move on Nome in three days. These pinprick attacks have not impacted the schedule for LOSOS, but they must be stopped.”
“I’ll see to it,” Bondarev assured him. “And if the Americans dare come north against us, I will hold them back.”
“Good, good. Tell me Colonel, is there anything you need?” Potemkin asked, expansively. “I can’t magically make a replacement squadron of Hunter pilots available, but how about fuel, weapons, food?”
“Yes Comrade General. I do have one request,” Bondarev said. "A squadron of F-47 Fantoms.”

*
*


“Something big is going down,” Perri said. “Hook up the radio will you?” He had taken the scope off his rifle and was peering through a shrapnel hole in the water tank, which was easier than looking through one lens of the binoculars. He and Dave had made themselves a pretty cool nest, spreading out their sleeping bags on the bottom of the tank so they could sit in relative comfort. They’d been through the cantonment and salvaged a couple of wooden boxes that they could fit through the manhole, along with bottled water, canned fruit and vegetables and unspoiled dry food like breakfast cereals they’d recovered from the larder of a destroyed mess hall. They had a big juice bottle for pissing in, so the only time they had to leave the tank was if they needed to crap, and they had even found a few rolls of dry toilet paper for that.
What Perri was seeing was a whole bunch of activity on the airfield. He had been counting aircraft, but it was hard, because they were not only parked out beside the airfield or on the apron, but also under camouflaged canvas shelters behind walls made of barrels and sand bags. He figured there were at least fifty jets and maybe six propeller driven transports, plus three helicopters, distributed around the airfield. The jets had been taking off and landing in pairs, about every thirty minutes to an hour, with the largest a single flight of three which had departed about a half hour earlier. That had also been a little strange, because they had seen a large airliner style aircraft circling overhead, and then the three jets had taken off, fallen into formation with it, and then all of them had headed north.
But now he saw a large number of trucks and aircrew running around, and about ten jets were taxiing out, forming a line on the single runway, clearly getting ready for takeoff. He could see the engines had been started on another four or five, and even more were being pulled out of their hangars by towing trucks.
Even from inside the tank, two miles away from the airfield, the building roar of jet engines was palpable.
“Here you go,” Dave said, handing him up the radio handset. “Have you seen anyone we know out there?” They hadn’t seen the hostages from Gambell since they had been taken into the town, and both boys were wondering how they were doing. Their families were over there. And it was hard to shake the image of those mass graves, the small shoes and gloves lying half buried in the dirt.
“No, nothing,” Perri said, then squeezed the button on the handset. “Hey what was that stupid code name Sarge asked us to use instead of our names?”
“White Bear?”
“Yeah, thanks.” Perri clicked the button on the radio handset. “Sarge, are you there, this is White Bear, come in?” He had to repeat the call a couple of times, but that was normal. Sarge always answered eventually.
“Sarge here White Bear, how are you doing?”
“Doing just fine thanks Sarge,” Perri said. He put his eye to the hole in the tank again. “Sarge, I can see about fifty or sixty different aircraft on the base here. I can give you a run-down later, but I need to tell you, something big is happening.”
“Tell me exactly what you see, son,” the man said calmly.
“I see about twenty aircraft getting ready to take off, maybe more,” Perri said. “I think they’re mostly Sukhoi-35s and 57s, some Migs, but there are a few drones too, Hunters.”
“When you say ‘getting ready’, exactly what do you mean?”
As Sarge spoke, the first of the jets roared down the runway and lifted into the air. He held his hands up to his ears, then lowered the mike to his mouth again, “Did you hear that? I mean they are all taking off, that was the first one.”
“OK, got that. Anything else? Do you see rotary aircraft, transports anything like that?”
Perri watched as another pair of jets took off. “No, just the fighters. Oh wait, it may be nothing, but about a half hour ago there was a big airliner type of aircraft up high, circling over the island. Three jets took off, met up with it like an escort, you know, and they all headed north.”
Perri heard a noise like paper rustling at the other end. “Can you be more precise? What did the big aircraft look like, exactly what direction on the compass did they go? Not east, or southeast? Definitely north?”
Perri knew why he was asking. East was Alaska. Southeast the US mainland. North was … nothing. Big Diomede, Little Diomede. Open sea. “Yeah, north,” Perri said. “The big plane was way up high, just a little white shape. And I didn’t check the compass, I just know they went north,” he said. He looked at Dave in case the boy had anything to add, but he just shrugged. Another aircraft roared off the runway outside.
“I’m going to have to log out,” Perri said, “I don’t want to be yelling, and it’s getting noisy here. You got about twenty Russian fighters taking off right now. That’s all I can tell you.”
“OK White Bear, keep the radio close. Call me in thirty. I’ll have more questions, Sarge out.”
Perri sat down, hands over his ears. The metal of the perforated water tank was like a kind of echo chamber and the noise of the jets came in through the walls and shrapnel holes and bounced around, assaulting them from all sides. There was nothing they could do except grit their teeth and ride it out.

*
*


Admiral Solanta had come through for Rodriguez. He hadn’t been wild about the idea of sending his last remaining UCAVs up against a vastly superior enemy force, nor had he been wild about the idea of setting a trap that no matter how successful would more or less give away the location of his very expensive subterranean station under Little Diomede. But what he knew, that Rodriguez and O’Hare didn’t, was that congruent with the planned engagement over the Strait, a US Columbia class sub would be testing a nuclear armed hypersonic cruise missile off the coast of the Kuril Islands. If he could deal a significant blow to Russian air power over the Bering Strait at the same time as Russia got the message the US was deadly serious about defending its territorial integrity, it might just be enough to avert all out war.
He sent word to Rodriguez that he was committing two anti-air capable submersible fast attack drones (S-FADs) to the defense of Little Diomede. The Hunter Class S-FAD was a particularly potent weapons platform. A trimaran design, with the vast majority of its hull and superstructure built of lightweight and radar-translucent carbon-composite materials it had a length of around 130 feet and a long and streamlined center hull. Originally designed to be able to hunt and kill anything from nuclear to the newest near silent air-independent diesel subs it soon became evident the platform was capable of being adapted to serve multiple roles including sea launched ground or air attack missiles. Lurking beneath the waves, with only a cable-buoy mounted Naval Integrated Fire Control-Counter Air (NIF-CA) data link to air and land radar and satellite tracking systems each anti-air S-FAD/A carried 12 cells capable of firing the latest over-the-horizon, networked SM-6 (Enhanced) anti-air missile with active seeker autonomous terminal interception capabilities.
Solanta had intended to send his S-FADs north in support of the Enterprise Carrier Battle Group and two had already reached station in the Bering Strait when the Enterprise was forced to turn back, so he had kept them on station and in reserve. It was a platform that had demonstrated an ability in testing to intercept everything from fast moving fighters and bombers to satellites or ballistic missiles. But it had never been used in combat, until now.
Rodriguez' OPORD was simple: draw the enemy to Little Diomede and identify targets for the S-FADs. With a projected shoot-kill ratio of 70% against 5th gen Russian fighters the two S-FADs between them should be able to account for about 16 Russian aircraft. He’d just seen HUMINT indicating Russia was sending around 20 aircraft against Little Diomede, leaving Rodriguez and Bunny to mop up the remainder and then put their drones down in Nome. The Admiral hoped with a bit of luck, they may even be able to avert a direct strike on the base and if the ploy off the Kurils worked, the shooting match could be over before Russia could gather itself and mount a new attack on the island base.
It was a calculated risk. And his personnel on Little Diomede had already proven Lady Luck was their personal friend.

*
*

The FLASH traffic from NORAD came in almost simultaneous with an alert flashing onto Bunny’s threat warning screen. She scanned both reports.
“OK, we better get down to the deck ma’am,” Bunny said. They had both been lying on makeshift bunks inside the trailer, trying to doze, saving their strength. “ANR has intel indicating Russian aircraft are scrambling from Savoonga. Estimated 20+ bogies and they are headed this way. Bugsy outside has just detected what looks like a Beriev AWACS aircraft, with escort, taking up station about fifty miles south of us. We need to get our EW birds up there, jam that sucker and get those S-FADs networked.” She looked over at Rodriguez. “This is it, Boss.”
“Bugsy?” Rodriguez asked.
“The Fantom out in the harbor. I gave it a name,” Bunny shrugged. “It’s earned it.”
Rodriguez smiled, “OK Lieutenant, let’s get your production line rolling…”
They had a Fantom locked and loaded on the cat and had it on standby power, ready for a five minute power up and launch. The rest of the drones were queued, fueled, armed and programmed – two with Electronic Warfare pods and the rest with CUDA air-air missiles. They had disarmed the explosives in the cave, but were acutely aware that a lucky Russian shot through the cavern mouth or down the chute could trigger one of the charges and bring the roof down on them. It would have to be extremely lucky – the chute was only 100 feet wide and putting a missile all the way through it would be like Luke Skywalker’s Hail Mary shot at the Death Star thermal exhaust port. The only way to attack them within the cave would be from water level - a missile fired straight into the mouth of the cave - but all that would do, unless it was a nuke, was to take out the dock and command trailer. Bunny would lose her cockpit, and they would be deaf and blind (perhaps literally) but the flight deck was shielded from a direct hit for exactly that reason, and as long as the EMALS kept working, the chute was clear, and at least one of them was alive, they could keep launching.
One last precaution they had taken was to create a ‘castle keep’ - a fortified position deep inside the network of racks and belts serving the catapult feeder system; with light, food and water, arms and ammunition and a low frequency radio linked to the subsea array in the Strait so that they could stay in contact with CNAF. Bunny had wryly observed that they could hold off an army from inside the ‘keep’, so they were more likely to die of thirst and hunger, or boredom.
They sprinted down to the flight deck and pulled on helmets, as much so that they could communicate, as for protection. The first drone was already locked and loaded, so Bunny waited behind the blast shield while Rodriguez went to the shooter’s chair, just like in her former life aboard carriers. The console showed a lot of different readouts, digital and mechanical, but in the end it came down to just two buttons really: charge and launch. She hit the first, and the EMALS started humming. It was already on reserve power, and needed only a few minutes to reach full charge, drawing on only a small percentage of the power that could be generated by the small nuclear power plant buried deep under the Rock. As it charged, it triggered the engine start up sequence for the Fantom and the liquid hydrogen Scimitar engine whined into life. A slipstream exhaust fan sucked most of the displaced air down into vents for distribution around the cave, but not all, and dust and small particles started swirling while a small ripple began dancing on the surface of the Pond. Green lights began showing on the shooter’s console, telling her the EMALS was fully charged at ready to deliver the required thrust, the drone was locked to the shuttle, its engine was at full power, ready for the afterburner to be lit, and its combat and autopilot systems were up.
They rushed through the launch sequence.
“Preparing to light the tail,” Bunny said into her helmet mike. “Clear?”
“Clear, aye,” confirmed Rodriguez, crouching lower.
“Launching.”
The EMALS fired and the afterburner roared, hurling the Fantom along the catapult, flinging it down the chute and out into the open air. They both watched the shrinking silhouette to see that it flew true, turning away and slowly pulling up until it was gone from the small letterbox view they had of it.
“EW 1 away,” Bunny said. As she spoke, the catapult shuttle returned to its start position while the automated delivery system lifted a new drone cartridge off the conveyor belt, and dropped it on the catapult rails. Bunny hit a release and the two halves of the cartridge fell away into pits on either side of the catapult and were ejected into the Pond, like bowling pins at the back of an alley. While Rodriguez fixed a hand-held system diagnostics unit to the newly arrived Fantom, in essence ‘booting’ the drone to life, Bunny was rocking it back and forth to lock it into place on the shuttle and fitting the holding rods.
Rodriguez felt the Fantom thud into place.
“Locked!” Bunny said, arms in the air, stepping away.
“Booted!” Rodriguez said a moment later, seeing the go-codes on her handset and pulling the magnetic connecting cable off the access point on the drone’s skin.
Bunny jumped over the blast protector again, as Rodriguez ran for the shooter’s chair. Every minute now was literally life, or death. The Russians scrambling from Saint Lawrence would be forming up, waiting for guidance from their AWACS aircraft. If they formed up in the usual Russian formation of two flights of three, the first fighters could be on their way already. Flying time from Saint Lawrence to the Rock was about 20 minutes for an Su-57. They needed to get at least eight Fantoms in the air by then. What they were trying to do had never been done before. Launch two EW birds then a hex of air-to-air Fantoms inside thirty minutes? With only two people. It was crazy.
As she waited for her shooter’s console to light up green, she looked over at Bunny and saw the woman looking across at her too.
They could be hit at any moment but Bunny was grinning like a fool, “Are we having fun yet ma’am?”



*
*

“Spruce leader, this is Spruce Control,” Bondarev heard his AWACS controller say. “We are experiencing heavy jamming. Intermittent signal loss on several frequencies. Status over the target is unchanged, no activity.”
Bondarev cursed. The observation from the AWACS controller was contradictory. If the enemy had started active jamming, then the situation over the target had changed, obviously. It showed they had detected or anticipated Russian activity, they had spotted or suspected the presence of the AWACS plane, and were targeting it with EW aircraft. It was unlikely to be ground or satellite based jamming, therefore there was at least one US stealth aircraft in the OA that the AWACS and mainland based radar had not yet detected. Probably more than one.
He had taken off in the lead formation from Savoonga. Spent ten frustrating minutes forming up. Was still 20 minutes from Little Diomede. His flight of six aircraft would set up a CAP over the island. If there were any enemy aircraft in the air near the island, he would deal with them. And he didn’t need the AWACS controller to tell him they weren’t picking up any returns, he could see that on his empty threat warning screen. The only upside was that it confirmed beyond doubt that there was a significant enemy base on the island.
It was an interesting tactical challenge. Recon photos showed a small cave at water level, with an opening not much higher or wider than the profile of one of his Okhotniks. It was conceivable you could fly a drone through it, but it would require skill. And there was no clear flight path cleared along the water outside the cave. Several fishing boats were wrecked in the shallow harbor lying in front of the cave, so while it was possible a ski-equipped drone could land in the mouth of the cave, taking off would be problematic as there wasn’t enough ‘runway’ to get an aircraft up to takeoff speed. Once he had dealt with any threats, he needed to get a low level look at the mouth of the cave himself before he sent his special ops team in.
Following behind him were ground-attack armed Okhotniks, three with deep penetrating precision guided bombs with 1500 lb. warheads that could punch through 10 feet of hardened concrete, or 20 feet of soil. The rest were armed with short range ground attack missiles designed to take out enemy armor. Their warheads were smaller, but their guidance systems more precise. If he was to have a chance of getting a shot inside that cave mouth, it would most likely be with an Okhotnik, flying in at wave top height and delivering its ordnance at point blank range.
An icon Bondarev had rarely seen on his HUD threat display started blinking, as the AWACS aircraft broadcast again, “Spruce Control to Spruce leader, we are blind. Total signal failure. Interference on all frequencies, anti-jamming measures ineffective. Sorry Spruce leader, we could give you a vector to the likely source of the jamming, but you are already headed there. We will update if status changes.”
“Spruce leader, understood, out,” Bondarev replied.
He quickly scanned his HUD, the skies, his wingmen’s’ positions. The passive and active sensors on his Sukhois should be able to burn through any jamming once he arrived over the target, but that meant long range missiles were virtually useless, reducing his effective payload from eight to four missiles per aircraft. He was not concerned. The jamming aircraft were likely just unarmed UAVs. And if there was a significant force of UCAVs in the OA, the AWACS should have picked them up before it went off the air.
“Spruce leader to Spruce flight,” Bondarev said, speaking to his wingmen. “Radars up, arm short range ordnance, take your targeting from your flight leaders. We are probably facing stealth UAVs, stay sharp.”
He flicked his eyes around the skies and across his instruments again. That familiar combat operation tension was building in him. He didn’t believe the BS from pilots or commanders who tried to sound like a combat mission was just another day at the office. Any flight had the potential to cost you your life if you weren’t careful, and a combat mission put all the odds against you. And different thoughts went through your head. You couldn’t shut them out. He had no wife and he didn’t think about his mother or father at times like this. He thought about his grandfather, hero of the Russian Federation, former commander of the Aerospace Forces. The man who had taught him to fly, nearly thirty years ago, sitting on his lap in the cockpit of a Yak-152 turbo prop, his feet working the rudder pedals while Bondarev flew with stick and throttle. The man who had taught him how to fight – not the combat maneuvers, but the mindset he needed. “Kill without thought,” his grandfather had told him. “Without regret. The enemy pilot has made a choice to fly, to fight, and to die if needed. No pilot in modern war is there against his will. If he wanted, he could object, refuse to fight, and take the consequences. But if he fights, he also accepts the consequences.” His grandfather had died of old age ten years ago now, but Bondarev imagined the man watching his every move when he was in the air. Looking out for him? No, that was his own job, but perhaps guiding his decisions, yes.
His lessons applied to a bygone era though. Bondarev and his men were almost certainly going into combat against soul-less robots, not flesh and blood men or women. There were no moral dilemmas in the destruction of silicon and steel, only tactical ones. In a ritual that never varied, Bondarev crossed himself, and muttered under his breath, “Be with me Dedushka.”

*
*

“Fourth CUDA bird away!” Rodriguez called, bent double and panting. She was ready to collapse, had no idea how Bunny was still standing. The stocky, well-muscled aviator had stripped to her singlet, uniform trousers, gloves and boots. Her white, short cropped hair glistened with sweat and it ran in rivulets down her back between her shoulder blades. As they watched the sixth Fantom depart, Bunny arched her back. Rodriguez handed her a bottle filled with electrolytes and high dose caffeine and she chugged it hungrily.
Bunny looked over at the command trailer, “Ivan will be overhead any minute,” she said. “And my babies will still be trying to form up. I want to get into that trailer and get them through the sh*tstorm they’re flying into.”
“If those S-FADs don’t do their job, and Russian ground attack aircraft break though, the #%&*$# will be in here, not out there,” Rodriguez reminded her. They both watched wearily as the loading crane lifted another Fantom cartridge off the belt and dropped it on the catapult rails. So far, the only mechanical failure had been a catapult locking mechanism on the second Fantom that didn’t want to engage. They had talked through what they would do for nearly every possible failure scenario, and for this one, their only possible option was to push the malfunctioning drone down the rails and into the Pond at the end of the deck, losing not only a machine, but precious time. Just as Rodriguez was about to call it, the Fantom shuttle had clunked into place. “I’ve seen your code in action,” Rodriguez said. “Your ‘babies’ can look after themselves.”
Of course Bunny wanted to be at her desk, head in her VR helmet, guiding her machines through the engagement but she couldn’t be in two places. She had been forced to launch them in autonomous mode and leave them to fight or die on their own. The algorithm she had plugged in was hyper-defensive at the merge though – her EW birds and her fighting hex would seek altitude and try to ‘spot’ targets for the S-FADs, which would be pulling data from the UCAVs, their own targeting systems and ANR to triangulate the Russian aircraft. Only when the S-FADs reported they were weapons dry and disengaging would Bunny’s UCAVs engage and even then they were programmed to only engage with missiles, evade and then bug out for recovery at Nome and Port Clarence.
That’s what she’d told Rodriguez anyway. It wasn’t exactly dishonest, but she might have omitted to tell her CO that she had also programmed her Bezerker algorithm into the two EW UCAVs. It would be triggered if they were engaged and were in a guns dry state. Her logic was that if the engagement got to the state where her EW machines were still engaged after the S-FADs and her fighting hex were out of the fight, things were desperate enough to justify a little suicidality.
“Well, they’re going to need all the friends they can get,” Bunny sighed, looking at the next Fantom in line. “Are we just going to stand here doing the girl talk thing, or are we going to get this hex launched?”

*
*

The first CUDA armed Fantoms formed up north of Little Diomede and started creating a fighting hex. Their neural networks linked to share data, their passive and active targeting systems scanned the sky for targets to feed to the submersibles. The two EW Fantoms already airborne were sending data to the hex and the S-FADs on both the AWACS and its escort, but also a new group of aircraft entering the combat area which were radiating fearlessly, clearly confident and bent on detecting the US stealth aircraft. The two electronic warfare Fantoms had reached 30,000 feet and were climbing for 50. Bunny had programmed the flight waypoints for the EW Fantoms to be staggered between the Russian AWACS and Little Diomede, and Fantom EW 1 was jamming the AWACS undetected from a distance of only ten miles. It had a perfect lock on the AWACS plane and one of the S-FADs designated it as a priority target.
As Bondarev’s flight of six Sukhois flashed by underneath it, the S-FAD flooded opened its missile cell doors and launched. Fired from below the surface using high pressure steam the launch cannisters of seven missiles broke out above the water and the SM-6/E booster engines fired, accelerating the missiles to three and a half times the speed of sound. One launch cannister failed to release, sending its missile into a cartwheeling death across the surface of the sea. The other six missiles arced straight into the sky. Pulling on the data from three remote sources, coupled with their own active seeker systems, they took just over a second to cover the 30,000 feet to their targets.

*
*


The first Bondarev knew that his AWACS crew was under attack was a brief radar tone, the appearance of an enemy missile icon on his HUD showing a contact below him, then the flash of light and ball of flame on the horizon behind him that signaled the 160m dollar AWACs' destruction.
Before he could even react his combat AI took control of his aircraft, automatically fired flares and chaff and began to maneuver radically.
His formation split like a starburst, every pilot looking desperately for the source of the attack, threat warning HUDs ominously empty of enemy aircraft but his blurred vision could see the threat marked on his HUD. Ground launch! His head swiveled quickly, looking for the telltale contrail of a missile to tell him where it had been fired from. He was over the open ocean, so whatever ship had killed his AWACS must be close. He felt as much as saw a missile scream past his port wing and explode overhead. Simultaneously, left and right of him, he saw four of his wingmen hit, dissolving in bright yellow balls of fire.
As his machine pulled out of a near vertical dive he saw what must be the wreckage of the Beriev spiraling down to the sea, trailing ugly black and brown smoke behind it and around him, nothing but clear blue sky. Far below, a parachute bloomed, then another. That meant little. They aircrew still had to survive landing in the freezing sea below. Bondarev cursed and took back his stick. His threat display was only showing a general vector to a jamming signal over the Diomede islands. Threat display empty, sky clear! He flipped his radar to ground scan mode. Nothing! Where had the attack come from?! He flung his machine around the sky, bullying it down toward the relative safety of the waves below.
For the first time in multiple missions, Bondarev was at a loss. “Spruce Leader to Spruce flight, report!”
“Spruce 5,” a single voice replied. “Forming up Colonel. Orders?”
Bondarev checked his tac display, “I have a strong lock on a stationary radar signature by Little Diomede,” he said. “Do you copy?” The only threat on his board was an American radar broadcasting by the eastern side of the island. His AI had tagged it as an F-47 signature, but it was not moving. Perhaps it was the aircraft Arsharvin’s UAV had photographed, either landing or preparing to launch? It didn’t feel right. On the edge of his display he saw his follow on flight entering the combat area, another six Su-57s followed by 12 Mig-41s. Behind them should be six ground attack configured Okhotniks.
“Acknowledged, Spruce leader.” His remaining wingman responded. “Orders please?” The man sounded on the edge of panic.
Bondarev didn’t even have time to reply before his missile threat warning sounded again and the stick was ripped from his hands as his machine desperately inverted and dived.

*
*

The first S-FAD/A loosed two more missiles in the direction of Bondarev and his wingman but they were now moving into the optimal kill zone for the second S-FAD so it handed them off and turned its attention to the next wave of incoming Russian fighters. It had claimed four kills with its first seven shots, had two SM-6/E missiles in flight and three left. Based on solid and unconfirmed returns combined with standard Russian flight doctrine it estimated at least 12 Russian aircraft in the approaching wave. It had a firm lock on only four, but that was more than it had missiles for anyway. It sent its remaining three SM-6/Es downrange then closing its cell doors, reeled in its targeting comms buoy, cut off all emissions and began a silent glide toward the bottom of the Bering Strait.

*
*

One, two… five! Bondarev quickly counted five missile icons, and within the blink of an eye they detonated. His wingman, Spruce 5, had broken high, managing only to attract both of the missiles launched at them, and his machine disappeared in a maelstrom of metal and fire. In horror, Bondarev listened as voices full of controlled terror filled the air and the icons of his follow on wave began to wink out. Five missiles, four kills this time. He remaining nine Su-57s scattered wildly, looking for the source of the attack in vain.
Bondarev was down on the deck, back in control of his machine, still screaming toward Little Diomede but with nothing at which to aim his rage and anger than the loudly emitting F-47 still stationary next to the island and the vague vector he had to the jamming aircraft now high above him. He’d led his men into a trap and could see nothing for it but to call on them to disengage. He thumbed his comms.
“Spruce leader to all Spruce aircraft …” he called. His time had run out. With a sickening feeling of finality he heard a new missile launch tone, saw the icons for multiple ground launched missiles appear right in front of him, and closed his eyes.
Ignoring the virtual surrender of its pilot, the Sukhoi’s AI took control of the aircraft, rolled the machine hard to starboard, using thrust vectoring to put it at a radical angle of approach to the incoming missiles, punched flares and chaff and Bondarev felt his vision going red. An explosion, behind. Safe. A second, right above his damn head!
His aircraft shuddered and began to wing over toward the sea. He grabbed the stick, disengaged the AI, tried to keep his machine level, felt it falling away underneath him. Tried to roll level to port, and it was like trying to roll a damn airliner upright, so he took a crazy risk, flick rolled to starboard instead. The Sukhoi responded normally to the stick for a starboard roll, and he stopped the roll as the aircraft came level. Warnings were flashing in his HUD and in his ears. He realized he was pulling back on the stick, but the nose was still dropping slightly. Engine temp redlining. He eased back on the throttle, pushed the stick forward. Engine fire! Extinguishers fired automatically and that warning went out, but he could hear his engine slowly spinning down. HUD was down. Tac display was down. He could hear the comms of his remaining pilots, tried to order them to break off and RTB but got no response; he was deaf, blind and dumb, shooting over the sea still aimed at Little Diomede, not much more than 1,000 feet above the waves. If his Okhotniks began their ingress now, they would be decimated. His nose dipped as his engine began to spool down.
The Su-57 wasn’t a glider. But it wasn’t a brick either. He still had electrical power and the dynamic control surface modulation system did its best to optimize his wing for low speed flight as he fought to keep some altitude, avoid a stall, avoid the fighter tipping over onto one wing and going into a death spiral. He desperately scanned the sky around him, checked his altitude. He was already down to 800!
He should punch out.



Up ahead he saw a broad channel of sea, coasts on each side, too far away, and straight in front, the twin islands of Big Diomede and Little Diomede. Big Diomede was Russian territory. Uninhabited, but Russian. Little Diomede was, he now knew for sure, an enemy base. An enemy base that had survived an attack with mini-MOAB munitions, hit and hurt Anadyr and Lavrentiya, and had now claimed at least eight of his own aircraft, probably significantly more thinking of that last volley of missiles. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw several parachutes. Drones did not need parachutes, they could only be his own men. Destroyed by what? Ground based anti-air defences on Little Diomede? It couldn’t be – they had hit the island with MOABs, overflown it a hundred times in recent weeks without incident, scoured satellite and ELINT data for any sign of anti-air defences. Arsharvin had concluded its only defense was a solid cap of basalt.
As much as they were friends, it was an unforgivable mistake.
He was dropping toward the Little Diomede from the east and could feel, without looking at his instruments, that he was not going to clear it. Choices flashed through his head like items on a menu. Steer a little to starboard, punch out in the water between the two islands, swim for Big Diomede and Russian territory. Or punch out either near or over little Diomede and wait on the enemy island until the Spetsnaz or a rescue unit arrived, assuming they could even get through. But he had no idea what the currents were like between the islands, could just imagine himself being caught and swept north or south into the open sea where he would die in minutes from the cold, despite his insulated flight suit. His nose dipped further … no way to get over Little Diomede now … it was decision time. He scanned the rocky shore ahead of him … could jump in or near the small wreckage strewn harbor at the base of that cliff there … worst case swim to the mast of one of the sunken ships, best case, make it to shore … but what if he jumped right in the middle of all that wreckage, or got blown past … once again he was wracked with indecision. Dedushka! Why can’t I think!?
What the hell? In the middle of the cliff face ahead of him he saw a small rectangular aperture, not much wider or higher than his aircraft. He wouldn’t even have noticed if he hadn’t been pointed straight at it, and even then might have missed it except that out of its black maw an American Fantom blasted into the air and turning right in front of him, began a fast climbing turn to port.
A cold calm came over him. Suddenly his path was clear. He would aim his Sukhoi at the opening in the rock and fly his machine straight into it.
“This is Spruce Leader,” he called on his radio, just in case anyone could hear. “I have been hit, lost engine power, going down. Oak leader, get the job done, you are in command. Good luck Akinfeev. Bondarev out.”

*
*

“No response!” Rodriguez called out. She had the boot unit connected to the hull of the Fantom they had just dropped onto the catapult, and hit the command to initiate engine startup, but got nothing, even the boot unit was showing a blank display. It was their last drone. They had managed to get eight up, this would be the ninth, and the last CUDA armed fighter if they could only boot it to life.
“Try another boot unit!” Bunny yelled back. “It might not be the drone.”
Running back to her shooter’s console, she pulled out a reserve boot unit and turned it on. For safety’s sake she took a spare magnetic connection cable too, in case it was a cable problem. Bunny took the chance to swig some water. They had gotten ten Fantoms into the air now, but had no idea what was going on above them. What they were doing was the equivalent of firing arrows blindfolded into the air, one after the other, at a target they weren’t even sure was still there. Except of course that the arrows had brains and reflexes of their own. And if the enemy was out there, they would find them. What happened after that, that was a question of man against machine.
She slapped the magnetic connector onto the port on the side of the drone, and hit the boot command. An error code flashed up.
“Fault in fuel cell, access port 23a!” she called. “Where the hell is access port 23A!?.”
Bunny put her water bottle away and ran towards their engineering supply room, “I’ll get another fuel cell!”
“Goddamit!” Rodriguez said, going back to her console and pulling up the drone service schematics. “Port 23A, 23A … where are you?” She punched in a search string and a wire diagram came up on her screen, the battery port highlighted in pulsing blue. It was on the portside fuselage, under the wing root. Grabbing a pistol grip screwdriver she ran to the drone, ducked under the wing, located the port and ripped it open. The hydrogen fuel cell inside was held fast in a metal brace and she had to free it before she could pull it out. As she turned to drop it on the ground, Bunny jogged up, holding a new cell and she jammed it into the bracket, closed the port door and Rodriguez screwed it into place.
They had wasted valuable time. Bunny turned to Rodriguez, about to say something when a huge explosion threw them off their feet and fire roared out of the chute.

*
*



Bondarev never saw his machine hit the cliff. He had centered the nose of the Sukhoi just above the hole in the cliff face to allow for the last few feet of descent. He’d judged it was 500 feet above sea level, or about 500 feet below his safe ejection height. About a hundred feet from the cliff face, he pulled the ejection lever. His canopy flew away and the ejection gun hammered his seat out of the cockpit, then a rocket booster blasted him into the cold air at 200G per second. In any ejection there was a one in three chance the pilot would break their back, but when the alternative was to end as a red smear on a cliff face in the middle of the Bering Strait, it wasn’t something Bondarev had even thought about. His immediate problem was whether his chute would even deploy in time to retard his fall at this low altitude. The Sukhoi was equipped with a ‘zero-zero’ ejection system, designed to be safe even if the pilot ejected at zero altitude, zero speed, but while he was about 500 feet above the sea he was still ejecting below ground level if you counted from the top of the cliff face.
The solid fuel rocket boosters on the bottom of his chair burned white hot for 0.2 seconds, lifting him 200 feet into the air over Little Diomede. Having taken altitude data from the dying Sukhoi, the seat computer calculated it should dump the chair immediately and deploy both the drogue and main parachutes. Bondarev was still moving forward at about 500 miles an hour as he started to drop. He felt himself being jerked out of the chair - if his back hadn’t been broken by the kick out of the cockpit, there was another chance it would be snapped by the chute deploying - and he saw the lip of the cliff face disappear below him in a blur. He was still wearing his helmet, so he registered the explosion of his aircraft as a bright flash somewhere below his legs, but didn’t hear it; then his chute opened and swung him forward like a child on a swing. His legs kicked out in front of him and then he swung back down, the black rock and ice of the island rushing up to meet him. He braced for a hard impact, but the ground was a little further away than he had first sensed. A second went past, then another, then he hit hard.

*
*

Lieutenant Colonel Artem Akinfeev, Bondarev’s second in command and leader of the Mig-41 Oak squadron had heard his COs shouted missile warning as he came under attack over Little Diomede but he hadn’t heeded it. It wasn’t that he doubted the sanity of the order, questioned the tactical wisdom of committing his aircraft before the source of the threat was identified, or was arrogantly overconfident about the capabilituies of his Gen 6 Mig stealth fighters.
He hadn’t heeded Bondarev’s warning, because he was already dead.
Having dispatched most of Bondarev’s squadron the remaining S-FAD had immediately moved to engage the incoming Sukhois and Migs. An SM-6/E missile had struck his machine from a low portside aspect, detonating inches from his fuel tanks, causing an explosion that incinerated both the Mig and Artem Akinfeev in milliseconds. Akinfeev’s wingman, Lieutenant Igor Tzubya, had also heard Bondarev’s warning but luckily he had time to respond and had evaded the missile that had been aimed at him.
“Oak 4 to Birch leader, we are engaged over target,” he said to the Okhotnik commander, pushing his machine down to sea level to try to recover stealth capability as his sensors showed American Aegis ground-air and Fantom air-air radar sweeping across the skin of his fighter. “Hold your current position, do not approach the target. Repeat, do not approach.”
Igor Tzubya’s call sign was ‘Yeti’ because of his coolness under fire, and he showed it now, his voice giving no sign of the stress he was feeling, either mental or physical. As he recovered his stealth profile he swung his aircraft around toward the source of the Aegis radar and was looking for a surface ship when far ahead of him, he saw two sea launched missiles leap from the empty water. A submersible anti-air system! He had no air-ground weapons other than his guns, but he knew exactly how to respond. He locked the rough position of the S-FAD on his targeting system and sent the data to the other Russian aircraft.
“Oak squadron, get down on the deck,” he said. “We’re being targeted by sub-launched missiles. Converge on my coordinates!” Tzubya commanded. Tzubya and his men were trained in how to counter an S-FAD attack. The S-FAD had to be stationary to launch and the trick was to stay as close to the launch point as possible. After clearing the surface of the sea and being kicked out of their cannisters the SM-6/E missiles would accelerate straight up and then start homing on their targets, but if the targets were below them and close, they would be forced to try a radical 180 degree reverse to get back down to sea level to hit a circling aircraft. It was a maneouver they weren’t optimised to achieve and the chances of a miss were greatly improved.
Assuming there was only one S-FAD out there firing, of course.
He had no option. In moments he was joined by the remaining five fighters of Oak squadron and they began tight banking turns over the last known position of the S-FAD. He tried desperately to get a visual on the submersible drone but that was impossible. The water below glittered with sunlight, the reflections blinding.
“Missile launch!” one of his men called and he saw to port one of the missile cannisters exploding out of the water, the rocket booster igniting and sending the missile out of sight overhead.
“Hold your positions unless they get a lock!” he called sternly, knowing the pressure to break away would be almost irresistible to many pilots.
He counted the aircraft swimming through the air behind him. So few. But that must mean the enemy S-FAD was growing short on missiles.
He just had to hold his nerve.



*
*

If Rodriguez and Bunny had been in any doubt about whether there was a war going on outside, it disappeared in the gout of flame that spewed out of the chute at the end of the catapult. Having been standing off to one side pushing the wings of the disabled Fantom the flame spewed out of the chute between them and they scrambled aside, Rodriguez on all fours, Bunny almost comically crabbing backwards on her butt.
What saved them from almost certain immolation was that Bondarev’s Sukhoi had struck the cliff face about six feet over the chute. Smashing into the rock, its fuel tanks had ruptured and spewed flaming fuel into the chute, but the plane itself had simply pancaked into the cliff above the chute, exploded with huge force as its ammunition and fuel detonated, and then dropped to the rocky beach below.
Ironically, the smoking wreck served to obscure the chute from anyone who might have been looking for it from the air or sea.
When the fire subsided, Bunny stuck her head up and peered down the chute, still seeing unobstructed daylight ahead. “Missile, you think?”
“Had to be,” Rodriguez agreed. “But they missed. Come on, we can’t expect they’ll keep missing. And you can bet it’s just a matter of time before they’ll dropping some heavy harm on that cave mouth.
Let’s hustle!”
Having installed the new fuel cell and locked it down, they booted up their last drone without any drama and got it ready to launch. Rodriguez had no way of knowing how many of their fighters out there were still operational, but they had now put two EW aircraft and a full hex of A2A in the air. If the S-FADs had done their job, and each Fantom just killed two Russians each, they would account for the best part of a full enemy squadron. That would have to hurt. She checked her panel. Oh what now!
She deciphered the data on her screen. “EMALS is overheating,” she told Bunny. “We can push it, risk that it seizes, or wait and let it cool.”
“How long?”
“Ten … nine minutes.”
At that moment they heard a mighty crash outside as something, probably one of the combatants, smashed into the water in the harbor outside the cave mouth.
“We might not have ten minutes,” Bunny said. “I say take the shot, even if the damn thing blows up.” Her words were all fire and brimstone, but Rodriguez could see the woman was about to pass out if she didn’t kill herself with overexertion first.
“I’ll see if I can bypass the EMALS safety code,” Rodriguez said. “You run up to the trailer, try to get a read on what is happening out there. Grab some electrolytes, then get back here.”
“Yes ma’am,” Bunny said, without hesitation. She wanted to know what was happening above the Rock just as much as Rodriguez did. Rodriguez noticed she didn’t run over to the trailer, but moved with a shuffling jog.
They just needed to get their last Fantom away. Then they could rest forever.

*
*

Bondarev hit the hard ice covered rock and rolled. As he tumbled he tried to keep his head and his arms tucked in, but his head took a heavy blow that made him see stars even through the helmet. When he stopped rolling, he tried to stand, but found he couldn’t balance, even to get up into a crouch. Brain injury, something told him. Concussion. Take it easy. No one is shooting at you down here.
He decided to lie still where he had landed, knees curled up to his chest. He pulled his parachute up around himself to keep warm, felt down to his trouser leg and triggered his emergency beacon. No rescue could come until the area was secure, but at least aircraft above would know he was down and still alive.
Which, miraculously, he seemed to be. He gingerly rolled one foot, then the other, to test for a broken ankle. The same for his wrists and hands. He knew he might not feel any pain for a few minutes, the amount of adrenaline that had to be flowing, but it seemed he had gotten down in one piece. He still had spots in front of his eyes when he opened them, and a massive headache, but no pain in his back, no splintered bones.
He was, however, lying on the stone and ice roof of an enemy air base in the middle of a shooting war and if his pilots could secure the airspace over the island there would be an air strike bowling in any minute now.
Gathering himself, he rolled into a crouch. About two hundred feet to his left he saw what must have been the remains of the American radome. It was nothing more than blasted metal stumps and rough foundations but it offered the only potential shelter on the whole rock, in case any of the incoming Russian munitions went high.
He looked up at the clear blue sky, could see some contrails, and far away, a burning machine falling from the sky. He had no idea if it was American or Russian. But judging by the first ten minutes of the battle, he wasn’t hopeful. It was the first time he had ever gone up against an autonomous sub launched air defense system.
And it had kicked his human a$$.

*
*