Don Pendleton: Neutron Force

The lead pilot of the MiGs scowled at the beautiful city, spread out like the dynorama at some science pavilion. Exhaust fumes, oil spills, gasoline fires…civilization had done away with horses and steaming piles of horse dropping, only to replace them with smog. Briefly he wondered if society really was advancing, or going backward. Suddenly a light flashed on the control board. Time for a react check.

“Sector fourteen, all clear,” Major Alexander Karnenski reported into his helmet microphone, leveling the trim of his jet fighter.

“Acknowledged, Alpha Flight,” a crisp voice from base command replied. “Maintain and report in ten.”

“Confirm,” Karnenski said, dipping the wings slightly to start the long curve around the bustling city. His two wingmen stayed in tight formation on his flanks. Another day, another air patrol. His team had to have circled Moscow ten thousand times in their careers. Still this was an easy assignment, if a trifle boring. Oh well, anything was better than flying combat missions in Afghanistan again.

Checking the radar, the Russian pilot saw several commercial planes in the distance, as well as a couple of news helicopters hovering above the noisy traffic reporting on the congestion near the construction. Thankfully, nobody had been foolish enough to go anywhere near the forbidden zone surrounding the Kremlin. Back in the bad old days of the Communists, the standing orders would have been to shoot on sight anything that dared entered the zone. The revolutionists had been terrified of another revolution. Then came democracy, and freedom, which was closely followed by waves of terrorists attacks, and the ancient orders had been grudgingly reissued. Kill on sight. It was a chilling reminder that hard days require harsh measures.

Their aft vectors thundering in controlled power, the three MiGs arched past the sports stadium, the river, an industrial park, a shopping mall and back toward the Kremlin. Another radar scan, another curve. With almost subconscious ease, the major’s hands expertly operated the delicate controls, even though he was contemplating his girlfriend. Tatya was back in his apartment, waiting in a warm bed.

With a soft exhalation, Karnenski slumped over in his seat and died. Immediately the MiG began to drift off course as the limp hand on the joystick let go.

“Hey, stop thinking about your fat Czech woman,” Captain Constantine Steloriv joked over the radio, from the right MiG. “She can’t be that good in bed!” He knew the woman was Polish, and expected Karnenski to explode in anger over the slur. Czechs were considered fools, but Russians had great respect for the Polish.

Expectantly, Steloriv waited. But there was no reply. Only static.

“Alexander?” the captain asked in growing concern. Dead silence. “Major Alexander Karnenski, respond!”

Nothing. Only the hash of an open microphone.

“Alex, stop playing around, sir!”

By now, the lead MiG was starting to nose down toward the ground. Just a few miles ahead of the jet fighters rose the turrets and domes of the Kremlin, gleaming like gold in the bright sunlight.

“Sir, what should we do?” Lieutenant Ily Petrovich asked as the third MiG-29 pulled into sight.

Growling in ill-controlled rage, Lieutenant Steloriv swung his fighter dangerously close to the wallowing lead MiG. This was going to be tricky, and he had to stay sharp. A tiny slip at these speeds could make their wings tap, and Moscow would get a pyrotechnic display that would make the Rocket Brigade think World War III had started.

Maneuvering carefully, the captain got close enough to see Karnenski through the Plexiglas canopy. The major hung limp in his seat, held upright only by the safety harness, his head rolling around loosely. The man was clearly dead, or dead drunk. Either way, this was a disaster.

“Air Command, we have a problem.” Steloriv spoke quickly into his helmet microphone.

“Radar shows clear,” base replied curtly. “And why have you changed course without permission?”

“We haven’t. Major Karnenski seems to be unconscious and will not respond.” The captain swallowed hard. “I…I think he’s drunk, sir.”

“Checking,” the stern voice replied. There was a short pause. “Negative. The on-board sensors show no trace of alcohol in the atmosphere of the plane.”

Glancing at the surrounding array of controls, the captain was astonished. They had hidden sensors for that? Air Defense didn’t miss a trick! But that didn’t change the situation.

“Request instructions,” Steloriv said in a tight voice.

“Under the circumstances we have no choice,” the voice commanded tersely. “Our standing orders are clear. Authorization is given to fire. Shoot him down.”

“My own commander?” Steloriv gasped. “But, sir—”

“We’re over the city!” Petrovich added tersely. “The wreckage could kill hundreds of civilians!”

“We understand. You have twenty seconds to comply before we launch missiles,” base stated harshly. “Nineteen and counting.”

A salvo from the Rocket Defense would probably take out all three MiGs just to be sure of getting the right one, Steloriv realized. No choice then.

“Weapons systems armed,” the captain intoned emotionlessly. He paused for a second, then engaged every missile on board. This was a one-shot deal. “Lasers have a lock.”

“Captain, no!” Petrovich begged. “Surely there must be something we can try. Perhaps we could disable the MiG with our cannons…”

“Fire,” Steloriv whispered with a hollow feeling in his belly. His hand tightened on the joystick as he pressed the trigger button.

The MiG-29 shuddered as all eight wing-mounted missiles dropped. When they were clear of the MiG, the solid-state rocket engines exploded into flames and they streaked away.

Pulling back on the stick, the captain banked his plane hard to get away from the blast. Even with the “iron bathtub” a MiG pilot sat in for protection from small-arms fire, shrapnel often penetrated a canopy to kill a pilot. Come on, baby, come on…he urged.

The third MiG stayed at his flank, and together they climbed for the sky, the turbofans screaming from the effort. On the radar screen, Steloriv saw the nine images move together just as a flight of missiles shot upward from the SAM bunker on the ground. Goddamn Rocket Brigade! he swore. A moment later the lead MiG vanished in a series of thundering explosions that grew in volume and fury as the ground-based missiles arrived a heartbeat later.

Strolling casually through Red Square, people looked up at the terror noise in the sky, then began screaming as flaming wreckage started to rain upon them only a few blocks from the mighty Kremlin.

“Alpha Flight, return to base,” the voice on the radio commanded. “Beta wing has already been launched.”

“Confirm,” Steloriv said woodenly, leveling his trim and starting a sweep to the east. A million jumbled thoughts filled his whirling mind. Everything happened so fast. One moment they were joking about women and the next…

Casting a glance at the radar screen, Steloriv frowned. Could the major actually have died of a heart attack? It seemed highly unlikely. Their medical examinations were most through. Nobody with any weaknesses flew air patrol above a major city, especially Moscow! Even a slight heart murmur could get a fighter pilot grounded these days. But what else might have happened? What could possibly harm a perfectly healthy man inside an armored jet at a thousand feet above the ground? It was impossible, absurd, ridiculous, and had just happened before his very eyes. The idea of a heart attack, or perhaps a stroke, seemed to make sense as there was no other logical explanation.

Not unless somebody detonated a neutron bomb above Moscow, the pilot noted sourly, and we all forgot to notice.