Читаем Threat Level Black полностью

Howe checked his fuel state against the matrix and notes he’d prepared on his flight board. He seemed to be doing slightly better than anticipated, consuming less fuel than he’d used getting across the United States. The specially built GE engines were considerably more efficient than the Russian Saturn Al-31Fs, standard equipment on the Su-27. (Contrary to published reports, the Sukhoi’s power plants were used rather than Aviadvigatel D30- F6s from the MiG-31 Foxhound.) Still, there was no confusing the Berkut with the F/A-22V, which could fly halfway around the world and back on a tank of gas. The plane’s thin wings might help maneuvering, but they left little space for jet fuel. The fuselage on the American plane was actually a little bigger than the Russian model and added a bit more capacity, but the plane’s ferry range only topped two thousand miles with a good tailwind. So refueling was a necessity.

Howe’s tanker was an ancient beast, a military version of Boeing’s venerable 707 that lumbered ahead, director lights glowing like the sign on a 7-Eleven as Howe ambled in for a Big Gulp. The Berkut’s fly-by-wire yoke-like the F-16 and F/A-22, it was a sidestick, mounted at the side of the pilot’s seat-sat easy in his hand as he moved into position behind the flying gas station. A pair of F-15s checked in over the horizon, playing their role in the elaborate game of cat and mouse concocted to keep Howe’s mission from being known.

“Ivan One, you read us?”

“Roger that, Rogue Flight.”

“Juice up and let’s have at it,” said the F-15 pilot.

Under other circumstances, the jocks might have exchanged some good-natured banter, but the normally loquacious Eagle pilots were under instructions to keep radio traffic to a minimum. The situation in Korea had the Eagles’ unit at its highest alert, and even though the men didn’t know what Howe’s mission was, they surely guessed at his destination.

Even with all that, the flight leader couldn’t resist a whistle when he spotted Howe’s plane in the last rays of sunlight as he climbed through thirty thousand feet.

“At you,” said Howe, initiating the mock encounter. He put the plane on its wing as the F-15s crisscrossed above him, one pursuing while the other orbited west. The brief tangle was over inside of two minutes-about as long as a real furball might have lasted. The two F-15s rocketed back and forth as Howe hit the deck outside of easy radar coverage. Within a few minutes they were headed toward Misawa Air Base. Their radio calls now referred to three flights, as would the landing instructions.

A flight of F/A-22s made a radio call to an AWACS. Orbiting to the south of Howe’s course about seventy-five miles from the Korean coast, the interceptors were both decoys and emergency guard dogs: They and an AWACS plane operating to the east would watch for North Korean fighter action and would sprint to Howe’s aid if necessary.

Howe, meanwhile, had nosed down below one hundred feet, clipping along close enough to sniff the foam from the waves. He checked his fuel-still doing good-checked the rest of his instruments, studied the radar warning receiver or RWR, reviewed his course. Everything was in the green.

Nothing to do now but fly into the gathering darkness. And so he did.

Thirty-two minutes later Howe slid over the Russian coast, ducking past the blunt fingers of an early-warning radar and pushing into North Korean territory. While most of the North Korean radar system was aimed at Seoul and the coast, there were radars and some SAMs here and they couldn’t be ignored. Howe’s course had been painstakingly worked out to run through the gaps, but he had to fly very low, hiding the sharp corners of his aircraft in the clutter of radar returns thrown off by the ground. While Howe’s plane carried electronic countermeasures that could confuse the radars, using the jammers would be like turning a flashlight on in a darkened room: The Koreans would know he was there. And so he threaded a crooked needle as he flew, staying low and near mountainsides. The need to follow a precise course and the danger that he was in were a blessing in a way: They focused his thoughts entirely on his ship and what was around him. While immensely fatiguing, in another way the sheer concentration and immersion in what he was doing relaxed him. His muscles moved in an unconscious way, his eyes gathering data without conscious thought, his body and soul funneled into the moment. Waypoint after waypoint, Howe moved inextricably toward his goal. Nothing outside of the tense cocoon of his plane and the surrounding defenses disturbed him; the world consisted only of the Berkut and the people who would destroy it if they could.

And then he was fifty miles from his destination, just under ten minutes from putting down.