The Hunt for Red October - Tom Clancy [117]
The B-52s had turned ten minutes earlier, on command from the Sentry quarterbacking the mission. The pilot had added a twist. His course to the Soviet formation took his bomber right down a commercial air route. On making his turn, he had switched his IFF transponder from its normal setting to international. He was fifty miles behind a commercial 747, thirty miles ahead of another, and on Soviet radar all three Boeing products would look exactly alike—harmless.
It was still dark down on the surface. There was no indication that the Russians were alerted yet. Their fighters were only supposed to be VFR (visual flight rules) capable, and the pilot imagined that taking off and landing on a carrier in the dark was pretty risky business, doubly so in bad weather.
"Skipper," the electronic warfare officer called on the intercom, "we're getting L- and S-band emissions. They're right where they're supposed to be."
"Roger. Enough for a return off us?"
"That's affirm, but they probably think we're flying Pan Am. No fire control stuff yet, just routine air search."
"Range to target?"
"One-three-zero miles."
It was almost time. The mission profile was such that all would hit the 125-mile circle at the same moment.
"Everything ready?"
"That's a roge."
The pilot relaxed for another minute, waiting for the signal from the entry.
"FLASHLIGHT, FLASHLIGHT, FLASHLIGHT." The signal came over the digital radio channel.
"That's it! Let 'em know we're here," the aircraft commander ordered.
"Right." The electronic warfare officer flipped the clear plastic cover off his set of toggle switches and dials controlling the aircraft's jamming systems. First he powered up his systems. This took a few seconds. The -52's electronics were all old seventies-vintage equipment, else the squadron would not be part of the junior varsity. Good learning tools, though, and the lieutenant was hoping to move up to the new B-1Bs now beginning to come off the Rockwell assembly line in California. For the past ten minutes the ESM pods on the bomber's nose and wingtips had been recording the Soviet radar signals, classifying their exact frequencies, pulse repetition rates, power, and the individual signature characteristics of the transmitters. The lieutenant was brand new to this game. He was a recent graduate of electronic warfare school, first in his class. He considered what he should do first, then selected a jamming mode, not his best, from a range of memorized options.
The Nikolayev
One hundred twenty-five miles away on the Kara-class cruiser Nikolayev, a radar michman was examining some blips that seemed to be in a circle around his formation. In an instant his screen was covered with twenty ghostly splotches tracing crazily in various directions. He shouted the alarm, echoed a second later by a brother operator. The officer of the watch hurried over to check the screen.
By the time he got there the jamming mode had changed and six lines like the spokes of a wheel were rotating slowly around a central axis.
"Plot the strobes," the officer ordered.
Now there were blotches, lines, and sparkles.
"More than one aircraft, Comrade." The michman tried flipping through his frequency settings.
"Attack warning!" another michman shouted. His ESM receiver had just reported the signals of aircraft search-radar sets of the type used to acquire targets for air-to-surface missiles.