The Persona Protocol - By Andy McDermott Page 0,128
us a little extra time,’ Adam corrected. ‘Two-zero-one, turn back to the south-east, maximum speed. You’ve got to reach US airspace.’
‘Those fighters will catch up again long before then,’ the pilot pointed out.
‘Just get as far as you can. We’ll do the same. Out.’ He banked the Beriev away from the business jet. As he turned, he saw two faces gawping at him through the cabin portholes: Holly Jo and Kyle. He gave them a brief wave, then looked back at the controls.
‘They’re following us,’ Tony reported as the Bombardier changed course.
‘They’re not the only ones.’ Although he couldn’t see them, Adam knew the Russian fighters were still out there.
And now they were mad.
The lead Su-35 pilot powered his plane back up through the clouds. He was shaking; both with shock at the near-miss, and with anger. Attacked – by a seaplane! It was almost insulting that somebody in a tub of a Beriev had tried to intimidate him. What made it worse was that they had succeeded.
Now he would show the Beriev’s pilot the true meaning of intimidation.
He activated his fighter’s fire-control systems. The Flanker’s Irbis radar was capable of detecting targets as far as four hundred kilometres away, but the two he was now hunting were only at one hundredth of that distance. ‘Bandits at eleven o’clock high, bearing one-one-zero degrees,’ he told his companion. ‘Let’s get them.’
Both Sukhois banked hard, afterburners flaring as they surged in pursuit.
Adam watched the Bombardier overtaking his plane. Even with its two powerful engines, the aerodynamic compromises needed to make the Be-200 amphibious limited its maximum speed to just over five hundred knots. The Global 6000 had almost a ninety-knot advantage.
Not that it mattered: both aircraft were in a losing race. The Flankers could achieve well over Mach 2, getting on for three times faster.
He switched one of the displays to a computerised map. The plane was now about halfway between the Russian coast and the north-western tip of St Lawrence Island. US airspace officially began twelve nautical miles from the land’s edge, matching the limits of its territorial waters.
At the seaplane’s top speed, it would still take more than two minutes to reach it.
And he didn’t have two minutes. ‘Attention seaplane, attention unidentified seaplane,’ said a voice in his headphones. The Russian pilot was speaking in thickly accented English, but his barely restrained fury was clear. ‘You have committed an aggressive act against military aircraft of the Russian Federation. You will turn to three-two-five degrees and land at Provideniya airport, where you will be placed under arrest. I have missile lock on your plane. If you do not obey, I will shoot you down. You have twenty seconds to comply.’
‘Not good?’ said Tony, seeing Adam’s expression.
‘Not good. They’re going to fire if we don’t turn back.’
The Global 6000’s pilot had already made his decision, the other jet peeling away. One of the Flankers followed it. ‘I guess that settles it,’ Tony said mournfully. ‘See you in the gulag . . .’
‘You now have ten seconds,’ said the Russian. The Beriev was dead centre in his HUD, a trilling warble in his headphones assuring him that he had a solid missile lock on his target. ‘Nine. Eight . . .’
A new sound, an insistent, piercing shrill. Threat warning indicators flashed red. Someone had locked weapons on to him! But who—
‘Russian fighters, Russian fighters,’ said a new voice. American. ‘We have missile lock on both your aircraft.’
The display revealed that the radar beam pinning him was coming from astern. The pilot twisted in his seat to spot its source. He glimpsed an ominous grey shadow against the sky, closing in from behind.
An F-22 Raptor, the most advanced fighter aircraft in the world.
‘You will disengage immediately and allow the two civilian aircraft to proceed on their way,’ the Raptor pilot continued. ‘If you do not, we will use all necessary force to protect them.’
‘What do we do?’ asked the Russian’s wingman, frantic.
The pilot choked back his rage. He had always wanted to know how a dogfight between a Flanker and a Raptor would play out, not believing for one minute the American claims of the latter’s superiority and certain that he was more than a match for any US pilot . . . but from such a weakened position, any challenge would be suicide.
‘Withdraw,’ he snarled. ‘Break off and withdraw.’
Tony was pressed against the window again, watching the Flanker curve away. An F-22 followed it, a hound corralling its prey. ‘They’re bugging out!’