Richard Shirreff - War with Russia

Bertinetti thought fast; it was too late to stop now and, anyway, he would be a stationary target out here on the tarmac. “Cobra Two, I’m rolling now. I’ll take my chances.” No time for a normal takeoff. Just get into the air as quickly as possible.

Not a moment too soon either, as ahead of him, alongside the perimeter fence, he saw flashes of gunfire as four Bofors, 40-millimeter cannons of the Latvian Air Force air defense, desperately tried to engage a pair of Su-25SM Frogfoot fighter-bombers as they hurtled past, loosing their rocket pods as they did so. Explosions seared into the night sky as multiple rockets found their targets and the base’s heavy air defenses fell silent.

“Focus on takeoff. Nothing else matters. You can deal with them when you’re airborne.” Bertinetti was back at Nellis Air Force Base in the southern Nevada desert and he heard the voice of his instructor on the Red Flag exercises.

His brain remained on auto as he released the throttle, while the F-16 bucked forward like a bronco in a Western rodeo. Ahead of him the other F-16 was taking off, piloted by his wingman Captain Mike Ryan, the flames from its engines flaring in a series of concentric rings, repeated deep red then lighter in the darkness, from shockwaves caused by supersonic efflux from the jet pipe coming into immediate contact with the subsonic air just behind the aircraft. As his own aircraft gathered speed, he was conscious of the runway bumping beneath him and the forest flashing by. Then he saw a necklace of tracer as 30-millimeter cannon rounds from an Su-25, passing low over the runway, blasted past his canopy at high velocity, before immediately overshooting him.

Not a chance, brother. You were just a bit too keen , Bertinetti thought to himself, elated at his lucky escape.

In less than twenty seconds he had reached takeoff speed of 180 knots and, as he applied gentle aft pressure to the stick, the bumping from the runway ceased. He was airborne.

“Keep the stick back”—his flight instructor’s voice from Nellis was once again in his ear. He sensed the power of the afterburner beneath him as the nose of the F-16 reached near vertical and surged higher, ever higher. He felt the G-forces dragging him back and the G-suit compress around his limbs, to restrict the flow of blood to his lower body and ensure his brain continued to function. In another twenty seconds his altimeter registered 15,000 feet and the tracer was left far below him. He was now high above the clouds. Away to the east the first glimmers of dawn were reaching over the far horizon, while to the west, and toward home, it was still pitch black. He banked toward the light.

For a moment he was alone, all was peaceful and he felt the familiar, but always exhilarating, sensation of being airborne. Now he could think: first, and foremost, where the hell are those bandits? Until he was at full power and height they had the advantage.

Next link up with Mike. What could they do to help protect the air base from attack? Any restrictions placed on him by his rules of engagement were now irrelevant as he had been fired upon by a Russian plane.

Decision made. He’d first do what he could to protect the Latvians and Americans in the base from attack and then he’d head home, as ordered. Besides, he had a score to settle with the Russians.

“Apollo, this is Ghost One. Are you airborne?” A voice crackled urgently in Bertinetti’s headphones. It was Mike Ryan.

“Affirmative, Ghost One. Airborne and spoiling for the fight. We gotta go after those Su-25 Frogfoots. Those are our guys on the ground down there and they’re getting hammered.”

“Roger, Apollo. Glad to hear you’re with me. It’s been kinda lonely waiting for you.” Ryan’s relief was palpable.

And then Bertinetti heard another, more urgent, American voice in his headset.

“Apollo, Apollo, this is Lielvārde. We’re under attack.” It was ground control. “Two Bandits. One eight zero, closing on the airfield at fifteen thousand feet.”

“Copy that, ground. I’ve got them on radar. Ghost One. We’re attacking… Ghost One. Keep me covered. Datalinking the targets now.”

Bertinetti banked in the direction of the red icons in the multifunction displays in the cockpit, one beside each knee, which were the Russian aircraft out there in the darkness, and opened up the throttle. He felt the surge of power as the engine kicked in. This time there would be no ambush. He was the ambusher.

On his multifunction display he picked up the tell-tale icons of another two Su-25 Frogfoot fighter-bombers lining up to bomb the air base.

“Apollo, Fox Three,” said Bertinetti, indicating that he was engaging the closest with an AIM-120 Advanced Medium-Range Air-to-Air Missile, known to all as the AMRAAM.

In the cockpit he felt a momentary shudder, as the two under-slung missiles were launched.

The missiles seemed to pause, then their rocket motors flared and they suddenly surged forward, their flaming burners disappearing into bright red dots as they accelerated toward their target.

Then it was time to concentrate on the second Su-25. As his head-up display indicated that the weapon system had locked onto the second aircraft, he stabbed the weapon release with his right thumb.

In his head-up display he saw both targets maneuver violently to evade the missiles, banking into a steep dive, left and right. There was a flash as the first missile exploded harmlessly. Then, from his cockpit, Bertinetti saw the yellow-and-red flash of a second, much bigger explosion, as one of the aircraft erupted into a fireball that continued billowing forward for a second or so, before starting to float toward the earth.

Another explosion and another fireball told Bertinetti the second aircraft had also been hit. The sequence had been too quick for either pilot to have had a chance to pull the ejection handle and escape; exactly as had happened to his wingman and friend, Leroy, back in Ukraine. “Those were for you, Leroy,” Bertinetti muttered to himself.

“Ground, splash two,” said Bertinetti into his microphone. “Time for us to head for Aviano. But we’ll be back.”

There was no response from Lielvārde Air Base.

THE VIP BLACKHAWK helicopter of the US Army’s 12th Aviation Battalion, the unit responsible for transporting the Washington power elite, circled over the forest in the dark, turned into the wind and then hovered before settling on the “H” of the landing site set high in the Catoctin Mountains of north Maryland, at Camp David, the presidential retreat.

As the rotors slowed and the engine closed down, General Abe MacWhite, sitting in the comfortable airline seat in the passenger compartment, spoke into the fixed microphone that went with the headsets he wore. “Thanks, Chief. Great flight… and sorry to disturb your weekend.”

“No problem, Sir,” came the response from the pilot. “That’s what we’re here for. We’ll be ready to take you back to DC when you’re done.”

Typical of the boss , thought Colonel Bear Smythson. He never forgets to thank the troops for what they do for him. That pilot would never have guessed the gravity of the news he was carrying to the President.

Even during the Cuban Missile Crisis of 1962, when the world had stood on the verge of nuclear Armageddon, the Soviets had pulled back at the eleventh hour. Today, however, the Russians had thrown caution and common sense to the winds and attacked three NATO countries without warning. It was going to take cool heads to ensure that nuclear missiles did not start flying and mutually assured destruction became a reality.