Part #1 - the pilots, and the reluctant tanker
Characters in the upcoming action thriller 'BLUE SHIELD' by FX Holden:
USAF Captain Georgia 'Cyborg' Leeson, 495th Fighter Squadron “Valkyries.
From the novel:
“Something you should know. Woo assigned me to your wing so I could observe and report on your fitness to command.”
“He what?” Cyborg asked. “This was after Sandman went down?”
“Yeah, but it wasn’t related to that. Woo said he reviewed that engagement and couldn’t fault your conduct. He said his concerns are about your ‘emotional fitness.’”
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Captain Vadim ‘Beartooth’ Korenchuk of Ukraine’s 299th Tactical 1st Aviation Squadron
From the novel:
This wasn’t Beartooth’s first rodeo. Several years of dodging Russian fighters and SAMs had taught him Russians went low when they were defensive, so as he shoved his throttle forward, he set his altitude to 10,000 feet and used his rudder to fishtail his aircraft, nose swinging slowly left and right as he leaned into his sights and searched the sky ahead for a blur, a contrail, or … a moving dot.
“Got you, Dovboyob,” he cursed out loud, uncaging his missiles. What his eyes could see, the SOL-25 could track, and as the Russian aircraft accelerated high over the top of him, Beartooth heard the tone in his ears he’d been waiting for, and launched a missile at it.
As he did, he saw a flash below the wings of the Russian aircraft, and an object streaked away before it began curving downward. Toward Korenchuk.
A Frogfoot cornered like a Ford 150 truck, and the Russian missile had him dead to rights. But Korenchuk slammed his stick over, yanked and banked as he sprayed decoys into the sky behind him. Because Korenchuk was Ukrainian, and as Russia had learned, a Ukrainian didn’t consider themselves dead until their mother was weeping over their casket. And even then …
Captain Roman Gribov of Ukraine’s 65th Coastal Missile Division, Neptune Battery 3
From the novel:
Gribov and the American heard muffled detonations off the coast, ran outside and up to the lip of the revetment to see foam and mist rising from the surface of the sea on the near horizon, a low gray warship just visible as it accelerated away from the coast.
“Russian mine hunter,” Gribov said. In the daylight, the spiderweb of burn scars across the Ukrainian officer’s face and neck looked tight, white, and painful. “Must have triggered a mine.”
“Triggered a hundred mines,” Smith corrected him. The dull explosions were continuing, up and down the coast, north and south. And then he saw something else. White contrails, lifting off the sea.
The veteran Ukrainian Captain recognized them immediately. “Missiles!” he yelled, grabbing Smith by his collar and hauling him back down the revetment. “We have to get inside!”
They ran down the side of the embankment, arms flailing, Gribov yelling to a squad of his men who were standing around, smoking by a supply truck. “In cover! Get to cover!” he yelled, standing by the doorway of the bunker, shoving first Smith, and then his men bodily through the bunker entrance before taking one last look outside, and slamming the iron door behind him.
There had been a pregnant moment of near silence, broken only by the panting breath of the men in the small concrete room. One of the men asked, “What the hell, Captain?” Just before the first Russian warhead landed right on top of their fully loaded, fueled and armed Neptune missile launcher, and hell was exactly where Gribov suddenly found himself.
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