Free Iron Wolf by Dale Brown Page B

exasperation boil over into rage. “Say again, Warsaw Operations Center. Exactly what kind of mess are you ordering us into?”
    â€œThe situation is unclear, Ry ś Lead,” the controller said. Kaczor could almost hear the man’s apologetic shrug. “We have confused reports of Russian troops on the ground west of the Bug River. And now a SAM battery of the Sixtieth Rocketry Squadron says it has fired on Russian fighter-bombers.”
    â€œFired on the Russians!?” Kaczor exclaimed. “Jesus Christ! Are we at war?”
    â€œThis situation is—”
    â€œUnclear,” the MiG-29 pilot growled, interrupting. “Fine. Great. Wonderful. Look, did the SAMs hit anything?”
    â€œWe’ve lost communication with the battery,” the controller admitted.
    Briefly, Kaczor closed his eyes, fighting down the urge to cut loose with a wave of profanity that would probably deafen anyone listening in and earn him yet another reprimand from his squadron commander. Just as quickly, he opened them again. His MiG-29s were already flying blind in a figurative sense. There was no point in doing the same thing literally.
    â€œWell, what can you tell me, then?” he asked with exaggerated patience.
    â€œWe have intermittent radar contact with two rapidly maneuvering unidentified aircraft over the border area,” the controller told him carefully. “We evaluate them as Russian Su-34s.”
    Kaczor absorbed that in silence. According to the best intelligence he’d seen, the Su-34 carried a multimode phased-array radar that could pick out fighter-sized targets at up to ninety kilometers in all aspects. That was a hell of lot better than the old Soviet piece-of-shit Phazotron in his MiG-29 could do. He’d be lucky to spot the Russians at seventy kilometers and that would only be if they were flying right out in front of him. Against aircraft coming up behind, he wouldn’t get pings until they were within thirty-five kilometers.
    In a short-range aerial knife fight, the Polish pilot was sure his Fulcrum and its AA-11 Archer heat-seeking missiles could defeat the bigger, somewhat less maneuverable Russian planes. The problem would be surviving long enough to get into close range. He wished again that the air force had installed a better radar as part of the major avionics upgrades they had applied to the MiG-29s.
    â€œSo . . . what are my orders, Center?” he asked finally.
    â€œWe need you to clarify the situation,” the controller said. This time there was no mistaking the embarrassment in his voice. “Do not engage the Russians unless you are fired upon. Observe and report only, if possible.”
    â€œUnderstood, Center,” Kaczor said through gritted teeth. “Lynx Flight Leader, out.”
    He checked his American-made digital navigational display. He and his wingman, Lieutenant Milosz Czarny, were already within one hundred kilometers of the border. At this speed, they should be able to detect those Russian Su-34s in just a couple of minutes.
    â€œYou heard the man, Milosz,” he radioed the other pilot. “Finger off the trigger, okay?’
    â€œ Jak dla mnie, w porz ą dku! Fine by me!” Czarny said. “You know this stinks, right?”
    â€œ Stinks is too nice a word,” Kaczor replied. “So we do this carefully. We go in. We take a peek. And if this is a real shooting war and not some diplomatic clusterfuck, we bug out and wait for backup. Okay?”
    Czarny waggled the wings of his MiG-29 in emphatic agreement. “Copy that—”
    BEEP-BEEP-BEEP.
    For a split second, Kaczor froze in horror. Then his eyes flashed to the readout from his radar warning receiver. They were being painted by Irbis-E phased-array radars—the kind of radar system carried by Russia’s ultra-advanced Su-35 fighters. That was bad. Very bad. What made it worse was realizing that the Su-35s were already behind them. And