Chapter 108 – Untouchable Heights
"Twenty-four—they've climbed to twenty-four!" The radar officer in the rear cabin nearly slammed his fist onto the display. "Damn it, these Soviets!"
The Tomcat, pride of the U.S. Navy and designed to defend a 500-kilometer airspace around its carrier, was now helpless. It could only watch as the intruders approached—completely out of reach.
If it had been another type of aircraft, George could have maneuvered into a dogfight, used the Tomcat's superb performance, and won the encounter. But now, all they could do was observe.
Soon, the target disappeared from radar.
Not because it had turned away—but because the radar antenna had reached its elevation limit. Even with its advanced flat-slot design, the AWG-9 radar was still mechanically steered. It had physically tilted as far up as it could. Beyond that, nothing.
George looked skyward and caught a glimpse of three shimmering points of light, streaking overhead like meteors.
"Boxer, boxer, prepare to return." The carrier's voice crackled through the headset.
Intercept? There was no intercept. The MiG-25s had flown straight past them. Even if the Kitty Hawk launched another wave of aircraft, it wouldn't change anything now. The MiGs had won this round.
Fortunately for the carrier group, the MiG-25s weren't configured for anti-ship missions. Though the aircraft had interception and reconnaissance variants, none were capable of carrying the massive missiles required to threaten surface vessels. The heavy anti-ship missiles of the era could only be deployed by bombers, not fighters.
"Boxer, copy," George replied. He removed his oxygen mask, pulled the stick gently, and swept the wings forward for landing configuration. With a graceful arc, the Tomcat circled wide around the formation, readying to recover aboard the Kitty Hawk.
"Ura!" echoed through the sky. The engine roar filled the MiG-25 cockpits as the reconnaissance pilot cheered over the radio.
The reconnaissance variant didn't have radar, but thanks to the shared frequency with the escorting MiG-25PD fighters, the crew knew they had been locked onto. It had been tense—radar locks were never comforting—but now, the threat was far behind. The Americans had given up.
Steel and speed. The Soviets had built a monster.
Andrei felt a swelling pride. To have Americans craning their necks skyward, helpless, was deeply satisfying.
Altitude: 30,000 meters. Speed: Mach 2.8. The sleek Soviet fighters now flew directly over the U.S. carrier group.
Below, American warships buzzed with radar activity. Their systems scanned frantically, but their frustration was palpable. The Soviet aircraft had pierced their air defense perimeter. In a real war, these MiGs could have plunged into attack at any moment.
The MiG-25 might not carry bombs specifically designed for ship targets, but a dive-bombing run from 30,000 meters would still deal devastating kinetic damage. Even a small bomb, dropped from that height, would hit like a missile. And if it had been nuclear...
Aboard the lead cruiser, the CG-11 Chicago, tension peaked.
Originally commissioned in 1945 as a Baltimore-class heavy cruiser, Chicago had been converted into a missile cruiser in the early '60s. Her forward turrets had been stripped to make way for the "Brass Knight" long-range SAM system.
Even with her radar arrays and missile launchers gleaming, she was a relic—designed for a war already passed. The Cold War's new demands left her feeling inadequate.
"Damn, they're flying at 30,000 meters!" Lieutenant Colonel Johnson, Chicago's captain, cursed aloud on the bridge.
Even the Navy's next-generation Standard missiles—still in development—were rated for 24,000 meters. No missile in the fleet could touch those targets.
The Brass Knight system, with its 11-meter-long ramjet-powered missiles, stood tall on Chicago's forward deck. But even it had no answer for this altitude and speed.
Three Mach 3 fighters soared overhead. Three perfect contrails etched the blue. Below, the U.S. Navy was grounded in reality.
Inside the MiG-25R's cockpit, the automated camera system had already started snapping high-resolution photographs. Every formation detail, every deck configuration, every radar mast—it was all being recorded.
"027, I have an idea." High above the Pacific, Andrei's voice broke the radio silence. His breathing was calm, steady—mixed with the rhythmic hiss of helmet oxygen.