Operation Iron Hammer
Scenario Name: Operation Iron Hammer
Time and Date: April 27, 1972, 23:00:00 (Zulu)
Friendly Forces:
Primary Country/Coalition: Soviet Union
Bases of Operation:
Airbase: Mary-2 Air Base, Turkmen SSR, Soviet Union / Mary International Airport - UTAM
Order of Battle:
Aircraft:
2x 3M 'Bison-B' Strategic Bombers
Loadout (per aircraft): 6x FAB-3000M-46 GPB
Home Base: Mary-2 Air Base
Adversarial Forces:
Primary Country/Coalition: People's Republic of China
Bases of Operation:
Military Installation: Lop Nur Nuclear Test Base, Xinjiang, China
Order of Battle (Known and Suspected):
Ground-Based Threats:
Integrated Air Defense Systems (IADS):
S-75 Dvina (SA-2 Guideline) SAM Sites: Several batteries are suspected to be defending the perimeter of the Lop Nur complex. (Estimated locations: 41.7° N, 89.8° E and 41.5° N, 89.6° E)
100mm KS-19 Anti-Aircraft Guns: Likely positioned to defend key facilities within the test site.
Early Warning Radars:
P-12 (Spoon Rest) Early Warning Radar: Expected to be providing surveillance in the region, supporting the S-75 sites. (Estimated location: 41.8° N, 90.1° E)
Aircraft:
Shenyang J-6 (MiG-19) Interceptors: Squadrons are likely on high alert at nearby airbases such as Malan Airbase (41.5472° N, 89.2611° E) to protect the high-value site.
Mission & Objectives:
Geopolitical Situation:
The Sino-Soviet split has devolved from ideological conflict to open hostility. Following border clashes on the Ussuri River, intelligence reports indicate that China is making rapid preparations for a full-scale atmospheric nuclear test at its Lop Nur facility. This test is seen by the Soviet Politburo as a direct strategic threat and a dangerous escalation. In a bid to cripple the Chinese nuclear program without resorting to a nuclear first strike, Soviet High Command has authorized a deniable, high-risk conventional air raid. The mission's goal is to destroy the primary assembly and launch infrastructure at Lop Nur using heavy conventional munitions under the cover of darkness.Friendly Mission:
You are to command a two-ship flight of 3M 'Bison-B' bombers on a deep-penetration, low-level night strike against the Chinese nuclear test facilities at Lop Nur. Your primary targets are the heavily reinforced concrete structures critical for the upcoming test. The mission requires precise navigation to avoid early detection and a swift, coordinated bombing run to maximize destruction.Success Criteria:
Primary Objective: Destroy the main weapons assembly building at Lop Nur (Coordinates: 41.658° N, 89.782° E).
Secondary Objective: Destroy the nearby launch tower support and instrumentation facility (Coordinates: 41.662° N, 89.791° E).
Constraint: Both aircraft must return to Soviet airspace. A return to any friendly base within the USSR will be considered a success.
Constraint: Maintain strict electronic silence until 100 nautical miles from the target area to delay detection.
Operation Iron Hammer: Probability Assessment
Scenario Overview
Mission: Two Soviet 3M 'Bison-B' bombers conduct a deep-penetration, low-level night strike against the Lop Nur nuclear test facility in Xinjiang, China, aiming to destroy key infrastructure and return both aircraft safely to Soviet airspace.
Key Threats: Multiple S-75 Dvina (SA-2) SAM batteries, 100mm KS-19 anti-aircraft guns, P-12 early warning radar, and J-6 (MiG-19) interceptors on high alert.
Key Factors Affecting Mission Outcome
1. Early Warning and Detection
The P-12 (Spoon Rest) radar provides 360° surveillance and is specifically designed to cue S-75 batteries against high-altitude bombers. Even with strict electronic silence, detection is likely once the bombers are within 100 nm of the target.
Nighttime, low-level approach reduces detection range but does not eliminate it, especially as the bombers close on the target area1.
2. SAM and AAA Threats
S-75 Dvina (SA-2): Highly effective against high- and medium-altitude bombers, with a proven record of downing large aircraft in the 1960s and 1970s234. At low altitude, the engagement envelope is reduced, but the risk remains significant, especially during the bomb run and egress.
100mm KS-19 Guns: Effective at medium altitudes, but less so against fast, low-flying bombers at night. Still, they pose a threat during the attack run and egress if the bombers are forced to climb or slow down.
3. Interceptor Threat
J-6 (MiG-19) Interceptors: Capable of rapid scramble and high-speed interception, but their effectiveness at night is limited by radar and GCI capabilities of the era. However, if the bombers are detected, a coordinated intercept is possible, especially during egress56.
4. Bombing Accuracy and Target Destruction
FAB-3000M-46 Bombs: These are heavy, unguided bombs. At night and from low altitude, accuracy is improved compared to high-altitude drops, but the Circular Error Probable (CEP) is still likely to be 100–200 meters or more. Achieving destruction of hardened, point targets (assembly building, launch tower) is challenging, but saturation with multiple bombs increases the odds7.
5. Bomber Survivability and Egress
Both bombers must survive the ingress, attack, and egress phases. The main risks are from S-75 launches during the attack and from J-6 interceptors or AAA during egress. Night operations and strict EMCON improve survivability, but do not guarantee it.
Probability Breakdown
Combined Full Mission Success
Probability of achieving all objectives (both targets destroyed, both bombers return):
0.65×0.50×0.40×0.55≈0.070.65 \times 0.50 \times 0.40 \times 0.55 \approx 0.070.65×0.50×0.40×0.55≈0.07 (~7%)
Partial Success
Probability of destroying at least one target and returning both bombers, or destroying both targets but losing one bomber:
~25%
Failure
Probability of failing to destroy either target, or losing both bombers:
~68%
Summary Table
Key Points
Most likely outcome: The bomber force is detected by radar, faces S-75 launches and possible J-6 interception, and may suffer losses or only partial target destruction.
Greatest risks: Early detection, effective SAM engagement, and the challenge of precision bombing against hardened targets at night.
Best practices for success:
Maintain strict EMCON and low-level approach as long as possible.
Coordinate bomb runs for maximum saturation and speed.
Egress rapidly and unpredictably to minimize exposure to interceptors and AAA.
In summary:
Odds of full mission success: ~7%
Odds of partial success: ~25%
Odds of failure: ~68%
Operation Iron Hammer is a high-risk, high-stakes deep-penetration strike, with the main threats being robust Chinese air defenses and the inherent difficulty of precision night bombing with heavy unguided munitions237.
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https://www.digitalcombatsimulator.com/upload/iblock/f76/Su-25%20Flight%20Manual%20EN.pdf
The Flight Lead
Name: Dmitri Volkov
Callsign/Codename: Iron-1 Lead
Age: 38
Nationality: Russian, Soviet Union
Affiliation: Soviet Air Forces, Long-Range Aviation
Rank/Position: Major, Aircraft Commander
Assigned Unit & Location: 201st Heavy Bomber Aviation Regiment, Mary-2 Air Base, Turkmen SSR
Physical Description: Of average height, with a wiry, resilient build. His face is weathered from years of high-altitude flight, with sharp, focused blue eyes that seem to be constantly scanning the horizon. His movements are economical and precise, betraying no excess energy.
Psychological Profile: Volkov is the archetypal Soviet officer: disciplined, stoic, and utterly dedicated to the mission. He trusts his training and his machine implicitly but harbors a deep-seated fatalism, a trait common among those who fly strategic bombers. The 7% success probability is just a number to him; the orders from High Command are the reality he serves. His primary internal conflict is the immense pressure of leading his men on a deniable, potentially suicidal mission against a "fraternal" socialist enemy, a far cry from the expected war with NATO.
Role-Specific Skills: Expert in low-level, heavy aircraft piloting; proficient in celestial and dead-reckoning navigation for long-range penetration; master of crew resource management under extreme stress.
Background Summary: A graduate of the Orenburg Higher Military Aviation School for Pilots, Volkov has spent his entire career in Long-Range Aviation. He flew transport aircraft before being selected for the elite 3M 'Bison' fleet. He is a veteran of numerous high-stakes reconnaissance and alert missions along the NATO periphery, but this is his first "hot" combat sortie. His family lives in a closed military town near Engels Air Base, and his thoughts drift to them only in the quiet moments before engine start.
The Defender
Name: Lin Wei
Callsign/Codename: N/A
Age: 42
Nationality: Chinese
Affiliation: People's Liberation Army Air Force (PLAAF)
Rank/Position: Colonel, Commander of the Lop Nur Northwestern Air Defense Sector
Assigned Unit & Location: S-75 Dvina SAM Battalion, Lop Nur Nuclear Test Base, Xinjiang
Physical Description: Tall for his generation, with a stern, angular face and hair that is just beginning to gray at the temples. He wears his immaculate uniform with an air of rigid authority. His posture is ramrod straight, whether seated at a command console or standing over a tactical map.
Psychological Profile: Colonel Lin is a staunch Maoist and a first-generation officer of the PLA. He views the Soviet "Revisionists" as a greater ideological threat than the American imperialists. The defense of Lop Nur is, in his eyes, the defense of China's very soul and its destiny as a great power. He is meticulous, demanding, and unforgiving of errors, a mindset that has earned him respect but not affection from his subordinates. He is haunted by the technological superiority of the Soviet equipment he operates, knowing his S-75s are a Soviet design now pointed back at their creators.
Role-Specific Skills: Master of Integrated Air Defense Systems (IADS) command and control; expert in S-75 engagement doctrine, particularly against low-signature targets; proficient in interpreting raw radar data to identify threats.
Background Summary: Lin Wei was a young artillery officer during the Korean War, where he witnessed the devastating power of American air supremacy firsthand. This experience forged his unwavering belief in the importance of air defense. He was among the first officers sent to the Soviet Union in the late 1950s to train on the S-75 system. Now, he is entrusted with protecting China's most vital strategic asset from his former teachers.
The Hunter
Name: Zhang Jin
Callsign/Codename: Night Dragon 3
Age: 26
Nationality: Chinese
Affiliation: People's Liberation Army Air Force (PLAAF)
Rank/Position: Captain, Interceptor Pilot
Assigned Unit & Location: 7th Fighter Division, Malan Airbase, Xinjiang
Physical Description: Lean and energetic, with sharp, quick eyes that dart around, missing nothing. He possesses a wiry strength and a pilot's characteristic swagger, tempered by the strict discipline of the PLAAF.
Psychological Profile: Zhang is aggressive, confident, and fiercely patriotic. He is a product of the Cultural Revolution's fervor and believes wholeheartedly in China's strength. He yearns for a chance to prove his mettle and the capability of his Shenyang J-6 fighter. To him, the Soviet bombers are lumbering beasts, and he feels a predator's instinct to hunt them down. His greatest fear is not death, but failure—letting an enemy bomber slip past his watch to strike the motherland. He is frustrated by the limitations of his aircraft's rudimentary radar, knowing he will be heavily reliant on Ground Control Intercept (GCI) to find his prey in the vast darkness.
Role-Specific Skills: Expert in high-speed, close-quarters aerial combat; proficient in night-flying operations and GCI procedures; skilled at maximizing the J-6's performance envelope in rapid climbs and dives.
Background Summary: Son of a party official in Gansu, Zhang was selected for the aviation program at a young age due to his sharp reflexes and political reliability. He excelled in training, showing a natural talent for gunnery and aggressive maneuvering. He idolizes the Chinese pilots who claimed victories against American aircraft over Vietnam and sees this potential confrontation as his own moment of destiny.
The Navigator
Name: Pavel "Pasha" Orlov
Callsign/Codename: Iron-1 Navigator
Age: 32
Nationality: Ukrainian, Soviet Union
Affiliation: Soviet Air Forces, Long-Range Aviation
Rank/Position: Captain, Navigator-Bombardier
Assigned Unit & Location: 201st Heavy Bomber Aviation Regiment, Mary-2 Air Base
Physical Description: Thinner and more academic in appearance than the pilot, with pale skin from spending countless hours inside a cockpit or a mission planning room. He has intense brown eyes, magnified slightly by his service-issue glasses, and long, nimble fingers adept at making precise calculations on a slide rule or plotting chart.
Psychological Profile: Orlov is a man of numbers and maps. He finds comfort in the mathematical certainty of navigation and ballistics. The chaos of combat is an unwelcome variable in his orderly world. He is intensely focused and professional, driven by a desire for technical perfection. Unlike Volkov's stoicism, Orlov's calm is a mask for a deep-seated anxiety about the unguided nature of their weapons. The success of this multi-billion ruble operation rests on his ability to align the crosshairs on a primitive bombsight in the dark, from a vibrating platform hurtling at 500 knots. The pressure is immense.
Role-Specific Skills: Master of dead reckoning and celestial navigation; expert in the operation of the OPB-11R bombsight; highly proficient in calculating bomb release parameters for unguided munitions under various flight conditions.
Background Summary: Orlov attended the Chelyabinsk Red Banner Military Aviation Institute of Navigators, where he graduated at the top of his class. He was drawn to the intellectual challenge of guiding heavy bombers across continents. He is a chess master and applies the same methodical, forward-thinking logic to mission planning. This is his first combat mission, and the abstract calculations of target destruction have now become a terrifyingly concrete responsibility.
The Strategic Mind
Name: General Aleksei Gribkov
Callsign/Codename: N/A
Age: 55
Nationality: Russian, Soviet Union
Affiliation: Soviet General Staff
Rank/Position: Colonel-General, Deputy Chief of the Main Operations Directorate
Assigned Unit & Location: The Stavka (High Command) Operations Center, Moscow
Physical Description: A stout, physically imposing man with a broad chest and a fleshy face that shows the effects of a career spent in high-pressure command. His thinning hair is combed flat, and his eyes, though often tired, possess a penetrating intelligence. He is never seen without his perfectly pressed uniform adorned with an array of service ribbons.
Psychological Profile: Gribkov is a political survivor and a master of bureaucratic warfare. He sees the world as a grand chessboard and views Operation Iron Hammer as a calculated, if risky, move to put the upstart Chinese back in their place. He is intellectually convinced of the mission's necessity but emotionally detached from the fate of the men carrying it out—they are, to him, instruments of state policy. His primary concern is the geopolitical fallout: success must be deniable, and failure must be contained. He is already preparing contingency plans and diplomatic cover stories for every possible outcome.
Role-Specific Skills: Grand strategy formulation; geopolitical risk assessment; command of joint military operations; expert in the art of "maskirovka" (military deception).
Background Summary: A veteran of the final campaigns of the Great Patriotic War, Gribkov rose through the ranks of the armored forces before transitioning to the General Staff. He was a key planner during the Warsaw Pact invasion of Czechoslovakia and is a trusted, albeit feared, figure within the Ministry of Defense. He personally advocated for this conventional strike as a more "elegant" solution than the nuclear options proposed by hardliners in the Politburo. The success or failure of Iron Hammer will directly impact his career and influence.
The First Witness
Name: Chen Bai
Callsign/Codename: N/A
Age: 21
Nationality: Chinese
Affiliation: People's Liberation Army Air Force (PLAAF)
Rank/Position: Private, Radar Operator
Assigned Unit & Location: P-12 'Spoon Rest' Early Warning Radar Station, Xinjiang
Physical Description: Young and slight, with a perpetually tired look from the monotonous hours spent staring at a circular radar screen in a dimly lit bunker. His hands are stained with ink from making logbook entries, and his uniform is often rumpled.
Psychological Profile: Bai is a conscript, sent to this remote and desolate corner of China not out of choice, but out of duty. He is often bored and longs for his home village near Xi'an. While he understands the importance of his task, the threat feels distant and abstract. His world is one of faint green lines and static, and he struggles to maintain focus through the long, quiet nights. He is terrified of making a mistake—either raising a false alarm and facing the wrath of his superiors or, even worse, missing a genuine threat. The moment a real, solid radar return appears where none should be will instantly transform his crushing boredom into heart-stopping fear.
Role-Specific Skills: Proficient in operating the P-12 radar system; trained to distinguish between ground clutter, atmospheric interference, and genuine aircraft contacts; understands basic GCI reporting protocols.
Background Summary: A farmer's son, Bai was drafted into the PLA two years prior. His good eyesight and steady hands made him a suitable candidate for a radar operator. He received six months of technical training before being assigned to this isolated outpost. He knows nothing of the grand strategy at play; he only knows his duty is to watch the screen and report anything unusual. He is the first, unsuspecting human link in the defensive chain that will be tested by Operation Iron Hammer.
The Flight Lead
Name: Viktor Orlov
Callsign/Codename: Iron-1 Lead
Age: 39
Nationality: Belarusian, Soviet Union
Affiliation: Soviet Air Forces, Long-Range Aviation
Rank/Position: Lieutenant Colonel, Squadron Commander
Assigned Unit & Location: 201st Heavy Bomber Aviation Regiment, Mary-2 Air Base, Turkmen SSR
Physical Description: A solidly built man with a broad chest and powerful hands, calloused from years of wrestling with the heavy yokes of strategic bombers. His face is deeply lined, with crow's feet etched around piercing grey eyes that betray a mix of exhaustion and intense focus.
Psychological Profile: Orlov is a pragmatist, grounded and deeply serious. He has seen too much to be swayed by patriotic fervor, viewing the mission with a cold, professional calculus. His mind is a fortress of procedure and emergency checklists. He carries the immense weight of not just his own crew, but the wingman crew as well. His internal conflict stems from the mission's "deniable" nature; he knows that if captured, he and his men will be disavowed. This knowledge fosters a grim determination to succeed at all costs, as returning home is the only true form of validation.
Role-Specific Skills: Master of low-altitude, heavy aircraft control, particularly in managing terrain-following flight without modern aids. Expert in fuel management for maximum range. Exceptional crew commander, able to project absolute calm over the intercom even when facing imminent danger.
Background Summary: The son of a partisan who fought in the forests of Belarus during the Great Patriotic War, Orlov was raised on stories of clandestine warfare. He joined the Air Force to fly fighters but his steady hands and unflappable demeanor saw him fast-tracked to the prestigious but demanding world of Long-Range Aviation. He has spent over a decade flying the 3M 'Bison', a machine he respects but does not love. He was chosen to lead this mission for his reputation as a pilot who can bring his aircraft back from situations where others would fail.
The Defender
Name: Qian "The Scholar" Wei
Callsign/Codename: N/A
Nationality: Chinese
Affiliation: People's Liberation Army Air Force (PLAAF) Air Defense Force
Rank/Position: Major, SAM Battalion Commander
Assigned Unit & Location: S-75 Dvina (SA-2) Battery, Northwestern Perimeter, Lop Nur Nuclear Test Base
Physical Description: A thin, almost frail-looking man with spectacles perched on his nose. His uniform seems a size too large for his narrow shoulders. His movements are deliberate and thoughtful, and he has a habit of stroking his chin when analyzing a problem.
Psychological Profile: Major Qian is an intellectual trapped in a soldier's uniform. He is fascinated by the technology he commands and views air defense as a complex, three-dimensional chess match. He harbors a professional respect for the Soviet pilots he is tasked to kill, viewing them as fellow practitioners of a deadly art. His primary conflict is between doctrine and reality. His training is for engaging high-altitude bombers, but his instincts and the faint signs on his scopes suggest a low-level threat. Firing his missiles into the desert floor is a waste, but letting a bomber slip through is a catastrophic failure. He must make this critical decision with incomplete data, under the baleful eyes of a political commissar standing behind him.
Role-Specific Skills: Expert in the S-75 Dvina's engagement envelope, including its theoretical limitations at low altitude. Proficient in distinguishing valid targets from ground clutter and electronic noise on the P-12 'Spoon Rest' radar display. Skilled in rapid fire-control calculation and command.
Background Summary: Qian Wei was a promising physics student at Tsinghua University before the Cultural Revolution saw him "reassigned" to the military. His technical aptitude was recognized, and he was sent to train as an air defense officer. He despises the political sloganeering of the era, finding refuge in the pure, logical world of missile ballistics and radar theory. He knows that his "bourgeois" background makes him politically vulnerable, and that a single failure at this critical post would have dire consequences.
The Hunter
Name: Liu Cixin
Callsign/Codename: Night Owl 1
Age: 27
Nationality: Chinese
Affiliation: People's Liberation Army Air Force (PLAAF)
Rank/Position: Flight Lieutenant, Interceptor Pilot
Assigned Unit & Location: 3rd Squadron, 7th Fighter Division, Malan Airbase
Physical Description: Compact and wiry, with the coiled energy of a compressed spring. His eyes are dark and intense, and he has a sharp, angular jaw. He moves with an economy of motion on the ground that explodes into aggressive action in the cockpit.
Psychological Profile: Liu is a hunter by nature. He is impatient, supremely confident in his own abilities, and views the impending scramble not with fear, but with a fervent, almost joyful anticipation. To him, the Soviet bombers are nothing more than large, slow targets. He feels a personal rivalry with the unseen enemy pilot, a desire to prove that Chinese skill and fighting spirit can overcome any technological gap. His internal conflict is a battle against the limitations of his machine; the J-6's short range and lack of effective onboard radar for night fighting mean he is almost entirely dependent on commands from the ground. This leash chafes at his aggressive independence.
Role-Specific Skills: Master of the Shenyang J-6's flight characteristics, particularly its powerful cannons in a close-range pass. Highly skilled in night formation flying and GCI (Ground Control Intercept) procedures. Possesses exceptional night vision and spatial awareness.
Background Summary: Liu grew up near an airbase in Manchuria, watching MiGs practice and dreaming of becoming a pilot. He was a natural from his first flight, showing an instinct for aerial combat that instructors noted as exceptional. He is part of a new generation of Chinese pilots who have not fought in a major war and are desperate to prove they are worthy successors to the heroes of the Korean conflict. The defense of Lop Nur is the ultimate test he has been waiting for his entire life.
The Navigator
Name: Mikhail "Misha" Belov
Callsign/Codename: Iron-1 Navigator
Age: 33
Nationality: Russian, Soviet Union
Affiliation: Soviet Air Forces, Long-Range Aviation
Rank/Position: Captain, Navigator-Bombardier
Assigned Unit & Location: 201st Heavy Bomber Aviation Regiment, Mary-2 Air Base
Physical Description: Tall and slender, with a precise, almost clinical demeanor. He has neatly combed dark hair and steady hands that are equally adept with a sextant or a slide rule. He is rarely seen without a notebook and pen in his breast pocket.
Psychological Profile: Belov lives in a world of numbers, vectors, and time. He trusts his calculations more than he trusts people. To him, the mission is the ultimate expression of his craft: a complex navigational problem with a definitive, explosive solution. The 68% chance of failure is an unacceptable margin of error that he is determined to defeat through sheer analytical rigor. His internal conflict is the terrifying gap between the precision of his charts and the crude reality of the FAB-3000M-46 bombs. He can guide the bomber to a single meter, but the weapon's accuracy is a matter of chance. This randomness is an affront to his orderly mind, and the source of a deep, unspoken dread.
Role-Specific Skills: Master of long-range dead reckoning and astro-navigation. Expert in the use of the RSIU-5 radio and ARK-5 radio compass for covert position fixing. Proficient in calculating precise bomb release points for high-tonnage, unguided munitions from a low-altitude, high-speed platform.
Background Summary: Belov was a mathematics prodigy who could have pursued a career in academia but was drawn to the practical application of his skills in aviation. He graduated from the Chelyabinsk Higher Military Aviation School of Navigators with honors. He sees beauty in a perfectly executed flight plan and finds deep satisfaction in his role as the intellectual heart of the bomber crew. He knows that while the pilot commands the aircraft, he, Mikhail Belov, commands its purpose. The fate of the mission rests on a few crucial seconds of his undivided attention.
The Long, Cold Road
23:00 Zulu - April 27, 1972
Mary-2 Air Base, Turkmen SSR, Soviet Union
The air at Mary-2 was thin and carried the chill of the high desert, a stark contrast to the oppressive heat of the day. It smelled of packed earth and JP-4 jet fuel, a scent Lieutenant Colonel Viktor Orlov associated with the singular purpose that had defined his adult life. He stood on the concrete hardstand, a solid, broad-shouldered silhouette against the immense machine he was about to command.
The Myasishchev 3M ‘Bison-B’ was a monster of the Cold War, a paradox of elegant design and brutal function. Its four Dobrynin VD-7 turbojets were slung in pods under its high-mounted, swept-back wings, giving it the look of a predatory bird. To Orlov, however, it was simply ‘Iron-1,’ his office and his potential steel coffin. Tonight, its silver skin, designed to reflect the thermal pulse of a nuclear blast, drank in the faint starlight, appearing almost black.
“Fueling complete, Comrade Colonel.” The voice of his crew chief was raspy, cutting through the low whine of the auxiliary power unit. “Tanks are full to the brim. The ten percent reserve is calculated, but the margins… they are thin. All systems check green.”
Orlov gave a curt nod, his grey eyes completing a final, methodical sweep of the aircraft. He trusted the machine, not because he loved it, but because he understood its every groan and shudder. The mission profile, however, was something he could not trust. It felt like madness born in a warm Moscow office.
Operation Iron Hammer. The name was a product of some staff officer who imagined a swift, powerful blow. But the reality was a long, cold road. A Hi-Hi-Hi profile. High-altitude ingress, high-altitude attack, high-altitude egress. They would fly straight and level at thirty-six thousand feet, a silver dart against a black velvet sky, for hundreds of miles over hostile territory. They might as well paint a target on the fuselage. The mission was not about stealth; it was about audacity. It was a calculated provocation, a deliberate display of contempt for Chinese air defenses. And they, the crew of Iron Flight, were the tip of that spear. Deniable. The word echoed in Orlov’s mind with the hollow clang of a prison door. If they were shot down—and the 68% failure probability suggested they would be—they never existed.
His navigator-bombardier, Captain Mikhail “Misha” Belov, stood beside him, a tall, slender man whose clinical demeanor was a shield for the terrifying imprecision of their task.
“The astronomical charts are set,” Belov stated, his voice as dry as the desert air. He adjusted his glasses. “But frankly, Viktor, the celestial bodies offer more predictability than our ordnance at this altitude. From eleven kilometers up, the FAB-3000 becomes a... a blunt instrument of fate. The slightest wind shear, a one-degree change in air density—it could throw the impact point off by half a kilometer.”
“The Politburo wants their message sent, Misha,” Orlov said, his voice low. He clapped a heavy hand on the navigator’s shoulder. “Your job is to make sure it’s delivered to the right address.”
Belov’s lips thinned. “My job is to solve a ballistic problem that would make a mathematician weep. I can guide this aircraft to within a meter of a point in space. But from that point, gravity and chaos take over. Precision is a fantasy tonight. We are relying on saturation.”
The weight of those words settled between them. Twelve tons of high explosives per aircraft, intended for two small, hardened targets. It was like trying to kill a fly on a wall with a sledgehammer, swung from the other side of the room. A near miss was a total failure, a waste of fuel, a waste of lives.
Orlov looked across the tarmac to the second Bison, ‘Iron-2,’ where Major Davydov was conducting his own pre-flight ritual. They would form up at two thousand feet, a brief, ten-minute concession to tactical reality, before climbing into the stratosphere, into the waiting arms of Chinese radar.
“Time to go to work,” Orlov said, the words tasting like ash. He began the climb up the ladder into the fuselage. Inside, the familiar scent of worn leather and ozone filled his nostrils. He settled into the command pilot’s seat and began his cockpit flow, fingers dancing over switches and circuit breakers. Each flip of a switch, each green light that winked to life, was a small defiance against the crushing odds.
One thing at a time, he told himself, the mantra of a man staring into the abyss. Fly the plane. Hit the altitude. Trust the numbers. Come home. The rest was just noise.
23:35 Zulu
Northwestern Perimeter, Lop Nur Nuclear Test Base, Xinjiang, China
The green sweep of the P-12 ‘Spoon Rest’ radar was a hypnotic, monotonous thing. For Private Chen Bai, it was the metronome of his shift. He sat in a stuffy, subterranean bunker, his world reduced to this cathode ray tube, the faint hum of electronics, and the smell of stale tea.
His commander, Major Qian Wei, entered the bunker. Qian was a scholar in a soldier’s uniform, a man fascinated by the deadly chess match of air defense. He stood behind Bai, his thin frame casting a long shadow over the console.
“The night is quiet, Comrade Major,” Bai reported, his voice flat.
Qian nodded, his eyes fixed on the screen. He was not looking at the clutter near the mountains; his gaze was far out, toward the northwestern edge of the scope. The briefing from Sector Command had been explicit: the Soviet Revisionists, drunk on their perceived superiority, might attempt a high-altitude provocation. They were to watch for the classic signs of a strategic bomber profile.
“Their doctrine is arrogant,” Qian said, almost to himself. “They believe their high-altitude performance makes them invulnerable to our interceptors. They underestimate the reach of the Dvina.”
Qian felt a strange sense of anticipation. His S-75 batteries were designed for this exact scenario. This was the threat they trained for, the one described in every manual. Unlike the terrifying prospect of a low-level intruder sneaking under his radar, this was a battle he understood, a problem for which he had a clear and potent solution. His men were drilled, his liquid-fueled missiles were stable, and his ‘Fan Song’ engagement radars were calibrated. This was not a chaotic scramble; it was the methodical application of force. The wolf would not hide among the sheep; it would announce its presence from miles away, daring the shepherd to act.
“Stay focused on the outer ranges, Private,” Qian ordered, his voice calm and authoritative. “They will not be a surprise. They will be an inevitability.”
Bai nodded, his attention shifting to the far reaches of the screen. He was no longer just watching for anomalies; he was waiting for a guest he knew was coming.
00:45 Zulu
Ascending to 36,000 feet, over the Kazakh SSR
The two Bisons of Iron Flight leveled off, their climb from the 2,000-foot formation point leaving the dense lower atmosphere far behind. At 36,000 feet, the world transformed. The sky above was no longer black, but a deep, star-dusted indigo. Below, the earth was a formless darkness, its horizon a gently curving line separating the void of the ground from the void of space. The air was smooth, the turbulence of the lower altitudes a distant memory. The four VD-7 engines hummed a steady, powerful tune, their thrust pushing the bombers eastward at over 900 kilometers per hour.
It was, Viktor Orlov thought, a lonely and terrible beauty. They were utterly exposed. Every radar station from Tashkent to Beijing could see them now if they pointed their antennas in the right direction. There was no hiding, no terrain to mask their approach. They were two silver needles, drawing a straight, defiant line across the map, daring someone to challenge them. The EMCON silence felt absurd, a token gesture when their very presence was a shout.
In the glazed nose, Misha Belov worked under a dim red light, cross-referencing his star charts with his chronometer. Navigation up here was pure, a precise science. But it led toward an imprecise, violent conclusion. He keyed the intercom, his voice a disembodied whisper in the quiet cockpit.
“One hour to the border. The winds are stable. We are exactly on course and on time. Fuel consumption is nominal.”
“Understood,” Orlov replied. Nominal was good. The 10% reserve was not a comfort blanket; it was the bare minimum required to survive an engine failure or an extended evasion. Every kilogram of JP-4 was precious.
He glanced at his co-pilot, a young, eager Lieutenant. “Stay sharp. The party will start soon.”
The Lieutenant swallowed, his eyes wide as he stared into the star-filled emptiness. This was his first operational flight. To him, the probability of failure was just a number. To Orlov, it was a living thing, waiting for them just over the horizon.
01:30 Zulu
The Stavka Operations Center, Moscow
“Comrade General, Iron Flight is approaching the Chinese border. Altitude and speed are stable. They are on profile.”
Colonel-General Aleksei Gribkov stared at the two illuminated dots on the massive map display. They were moving with the inexorable slowness of a clock’s hand. This was the critical phase. The plan’s audacity was its core component. A low-level sneak attack could be dismissed as a rogue action. A high-altitude strategic bomber flight path was an unmistakable message from the Soviet state directly to the Chinese leadership. It said: We can reach you whenever we wish. Your most vital secrets are not safe.
It was a move of immense arrogance, and immense risk. But Gribkov understood that in the calculus of nations, sometimes arrogance was the sharpest weapon.
“Have we registered any response from their air defense network?” he asked, his voice a low growl.
“Not yet, Comrade General,” the aide replied. “Their early warning radars are active, as expected. But no tracking locks, no change in their alert status.”
Gribkov permitted himself a thin, cold smile. They were letting them come. The Chinese were proud. They would not just challenge the intruders; they would wait until they were deep inside, over the heart of their territory, and then try to annihilate them. It was exactly what he would do. The chess match had begun.
02:15 Zulu
P-12 Radar Station, Lop Nur
“Contact.”
Private Bai’s voice was steady, professional. There was no panic. The two blips had appeared on the far edge of his screen exactly where Major Qian had predicted, crawling out of the northwest. They were high, fast, and unmistakable.
“Sky Sentry, this is Watcher-7,” he said into his headset, his hand tracing their course on the glass with a grease pencil. “I have two positive contacts, bearing three-three-five, range four hundred kilometers. Confirming high-altitude bomber profile. Course one-one-zero. Speed nine-twenty kilometers per hour.”
In the command bunker, Major Qian took the report with a grim satisfaction. “Acknowledged, Watcher-7. Maintain contact. You are now the primary tracking station.”
He turned to his own officers. The atmosphere was electric with tense efficiency.
“This is not a drill,” Qian announced, his voice cutting through the hum of the electronics. “Battalions one and two, bring your systems to full combat readiness. Begin fueling sequence for twelve missiles. Slave your Fan Song trackers to Watcher-7’s data feed, but do not—I repeat—do not emit until they are within engagement range. Two hundred kilometers. Not one meter before.”
He wanted the Soviet pilots to feel secure in their arrogance for as long as possible. Let them fly deeper into the trap.
A phone buzzed. It was the line to Malan Airbase. “Scramble Night Owl flight,” Qian ordered. “Vector them to intercept grid delta-seven. They are to hold at thirty thousand feet and await my command. The bombers are theirs once they get past my missile belt. If they get past it.”
At Malan, the klaxon sounded, a sharp, urgent summons. Captain Zhang Jin swung his legs out of his bunk, a wolf’s grin on his face. This was no drill. This was the hunt. As he ran to his J-6 fighter, he looked up at the star-dusted sky. Somewhere up there, in the cold, thin air, his prey was coming.
02:49 Zulu
Aboard ‘Iron-1’, 210 kilometers from Lop Nur
“One minute to the IP,” Misha Belov announced, his voice tight with strain. The Initial Point was the final turn toward the target. “Bomb bay doors opening now.”
A deep hydraulic groan resonated through the fuselage as the massive doors swung open, exposing the six FAB-3000 bombs to the freezing -50°C air. The aircraft vibrated slightly as the aerodynamics changed.
“Doors open,” Orlov confirmed. His entire being was focused on keeping the Bison perfectly stable. The slightest deviation now would be magnified into a kilometer-wide error on the ground.
It was then that the world ended.
A shrill, piercing tone erupted in their headsets. The radar warning receiver panel lit up like a festival tree.
“Radar contact!” the electronics officer shouted. “Multiple contacts! It’s the whole network! They’re all lighting up!”
A new sound joined the cacophony, a deep, steady pinging that signified something far more lethal.
“Fan Song! They’re painting us with engagement radar! Bearing dead ahead!”
And then the tone changed to a solid, unbroken screech. The sound of death.
“LOCK ON! WE HAVE A FIRM LOCK! Comrade Colonel, they have a firing solution!”
Belov, hunched over his bombsight, flinched but did not look up. He was frantically trying to align the crosshairs. “Hold it steady, Viktor! Just a few more seconds! Hold it steady!”
“Missile launch! Missile launch!” the EWO screamed. “Multiple launches from the ground! I count four! Four contrails!”
Orlov didn’t need the warning. He saw them. From their god-like perch at 36,000 feet, the missiles looked like tiny, brilliant stars being born on the desert floor below. They rose with an unnerving, majestic slowness, their fiery tails etching perfectly straight lines into the blackness. For a few seconds, they seemed to hang there, climbing through the thick lower atmosphere. Then, as they hit the thin air of the stratosphere, they accelerated with terrifying speed, their rocket motors burning with a pure, white intensity. They were no longer majestic. They were four fingers of fate, reaching for them across the void.
“Hold it… hold it…” Belov muttered, his hand trembling on his control knob.
“I can’t!” Orlov roared. The choice was gone. It was Belov’s precision against four tons of high-explosive, radar-guided death. “BREAK LEFT! JETTISON CHAFF!”
He threw the yoke hard over, wrenching the fifty-ton bomber into a violent, screaming bank. The massive airframe groaned in protest, G-forces slamming the crew into their seats. A cloud of shimmering aluminum foil erupted from the dispensers on the tail, a desperate, glittering shield against the inevitable.
In the nose, Misha Belov was thrown against the side of his canopy. His bombsight, which had been perfectly centered on the target coordinates, now showed nothing but the black, star-filled abyss.
“No!” he screamed into the intercom, his voice a cry of pure anguish. “I’ve lost the target! The solution is gone!”
Outside, the four Soviet-made S-75 missiles, guided by the steady hand of Major Qian Wei, corrected their course. They ignored the cloud of chaff, their proximity fuses armed, closing the final few kilometers to their high-altitude targets in seconds.
The sky erupted.
Not in a single point, but in four expanding spheres of incandescent white light. The S-75 missiles, their proximity fuses calculating the moment of maximum lethality, detonated in a precisely staggered pattern around the two evading bombers. For a heartbeat, the void at 36,000 feet was brighter than day, a ghastly, silent flash that bleached all color from the world.
Aboard ‘Iron-1’, the shockwave hit like a physical blow. The massive bomber, already stressed to its limits in the turn, was tossed violently upward and sideways. Viktor Orlov’s helmet slammed against the canopy glass, and a galaxy of stars exploded behind his eyes. Alarms screamed, a cacophony of electronic panic drowning out the shriek of the RWR. Red lights flashed across the instrument panel, each one a testament to some new and terrible failure.
“Shrapnel! We’re hit!” the co-pilot yelled, his voice cracking. “Port outer engine is on fire! Hydraulic pressure dropping in line two!”
Orlov fought the yoke, his powerful arms straining against the controls as the aircraft tried to roll onto its back. The dead weight of the number one engine, its turbine blades likely shredded by missile fragments, created a massive asymmetric drag. “Shut down number one! Hit the fire extinguishers! I need manual control, now!”
From the tail gunner’s remote station, a voice laced with awe and terror crackled over the intercom. “Iron-2 is gone! Comrade Colonel… it’s gone! It just… came apart.”
Orlov risked a glance over his shoulder. Where the steady navigation lights of his wingman had been, there was only a blossoming, orange-and-black funeral pyre. Major Davydov’s Bison, less lucky in its evasion, had evidently caught the full fury of at least one warhead. The fireball was already miles behind them, a rapidly dimming ember falling through the stratosphere, taking twelve good men with it. There was no time to mourn. There was only time to fly.
“Status report! Now!” Orlov roared, wrestling the wounded beast back toward something resembling level flight. The fire warning light for the number one engine winked out, a small victory in a sea of catastrophic failure.
“Number one engine is out and secured,” the flight engineer confirmed. “But we have multiple fuselage breaches. The cabin is not holding pressure. We are on emergency oxygen.”
“Navigator, talk to me!”
Misha Belov’s voice came back, stripped of its academic calm, raw with the shock of their new reality. “The mission is a failure, Viktor. We are one hundred eighty kilometers past the IP. The targets are behind us. My bombing equipment is useless.” His precise world of numbers and vectors had been blown apart. Now, there was only one number that mattered: the distance home.
“Then get me a new course,” Orlov commanded, his voice cold iron. The mind of the squadron commander took over, suppressing the fear, the grief, the searing pain in his head. The primary objective was gone. The secondary objective was irrelevant. A new mission had just been assigned by the universe itself: survive. “Route us to the nearest friendly border. Avoid their main air defense belts. I don’t care where.”
“The way we came is a death trap,” Belov said, his voice regaining some of its analytical tone as he focused on the new problem. “They will be waiting. The safest route… is north. Toward the Mongolian People’s Republic. It is longer. The terrain is mountainous. But their radar coverage there is… sparse.”
“How long?”
A pause, filled with the frantic scratching of a pencil on a chart and the clicks of a slide rule. “With the drag from the dead engine and our current fuel state… it will be close, Viktor. The ten percent reserve is already gone. We may have to glide the last fifty kilometers.”
“Then we glide,” Orlov said without hesitation. He banked the crippled bomber gently onto a new heading of zero-one-five. Every degree of turn felt sluggish, a reminder of the gaping wounds in their aircraft. The long, cold road had just become longer, colder, and infinitely more desperate.
In the subterranean command bunker at Lop Nur, a cheer went up. The tactical display showed one of the hostile bomber tracks vanishing in a starburst of electronic noise. The second track, labeled Hostile-Alpha, had flared brightly on the screen as its radar signature changed, then veered sharply north, its speed dropping.
“One kill confirmed!” an operator shouted. “Target Beta is destroyed!”
Major Qian Wei felt a grim, professional satisfaction. His system had performed exactly as designed. The arrogant intruders had paid the price for their provocation. He allowed himself a moment to watch the surviving target’s track. It was wounded, bleeding speed and altitude, running not west, back to its masters, but north, like a crippled animal seeking shelter in the wilderness.
“He is running for Mongolia,” Qian said to his executive officer. “A desperate move. He knows our primary defenses are oriented west and south.”
“Shall we engage with Battalion Four, Comrade Major? They may have a low-probability shot as he skirts their range.”
Qian stroked his chin, considering the geometry of the problem. A long-range shot was a waste of a valuable missile. The bomber was already crippled. Now was not the time for brute force. Now was the time for the hunter.
He picked up the direct line to Air Defense Control. “Sky Sentry to Sky Sentry Control. Report one target destroyed. The remaining target, Hostile-Alpha, is damaged and is attempting to flee north along vector zero-one-five. He is a wounded bird. I am relinquishing engagement priority. The hunt belongs to the interceptors now.” He paused, then added, “Advise Night Owl flight that their prey is bleeding.”
“Night Owl 1, this is Sky Sentry Control. Your primary target has been neutralized by surface-to-air assets.”
The GCI controller’s voice was flat and professional in Captain Zhang Jin’s helmet, but he heard the undertone of pride. The missile-men had scored first. A flash of hot-blooded jealousy shot through him. He had been circling in his J-6 at thirty thousand feet, a leashed predator, watching the distant fireworks with a mix of awe and frustration.
“The second bandit is yours, Night Owl,” the voice continued, pulling him back to the mission. “He is damaged and heading north. Vector zero-two-zero. Climb to thirty-eight thousand feet and accelerate to maximum intercept speed. You will be approaching from his six o’clock low. He will not see you coming.”
The leash was off.
“Night Owl 1 copies all,” Zhang said, his voice taut with anticipation. A wounded giant. It was even better. An equal fight was for sportsmen; a kill was for soldiers.
He pushed the throttles of his Shenyang J-6 forward to the stops. The twin Tumansky engines roared, and the fighter surged ahead, pressing him back into his seat. He was a creature of pure aggression, and his machine was an extension of that will. The J-6, a rugged gunfighter, climbed like a rocket, trading altitude for speed. He ignored his own rudimentary radar scope; it was useless. His world was the GCI controller’s voice and the steady hum of his engines.
“Sky Sentry, give me range and bearing.”
“Stand by, Night Owl… The target is one hundred fifty kilometers ahead of you, still tracking north. He is losing altitude. Now passing through thirty-four thousand feet. Your intercept solution is positive. You are closing the distance.”
Zhang grinned in the darkness of his cockpit. He could almost smell the fear and leaking hydraulic fluid of the Soviet bomber. He was a Night Dragon, a hunter of the dark skies. And he was closing in for the kill. He checked his armament panel. Three 30mm cannons, fully loaded with high-explosive incendiary rounds. He would not need missiles. He would do this the old way. Up close. Personal. He would look the revisionist pig in the eye before he tore his aircraft to pieces.
Aboard ‘Iron-1’, a semblance of controlled chaos had settled in. They were alive, a fact that seemed miraculous. The immediate fires were out, but the aircraft was a wreck. A freezing wind screamed through a dozen shrapnel holes in the fuselage, tearing away any residual warmth. The crew, huddled in their positions, communicated in clipped, professional bursts, their breath pluming in front of them on the emergency oxygen that was now their lifeblood.
Misha Belov, his navigator’s pride shattered, worked with grim determination. His charts were covered in new red pencil lines, a desperate spiderweb of possible courses, fuel consumption calculations, and time-to-destination estimates. Each one told the same bleak story: they would not make it. Not unless a miracle happened.
“Comrade Colonel,” Belov’s voice was strained over the intercom, the wind whistling in the background of his transmission. “At our current rate of fuel consumption, with the drag from the dead engine… we will be fifty kilometers short of the Mongolian border. At best.”
“What is the terrain at that point?” Orlov asked, his eyes scanning the flickering gauges.
“The Altai Mountains. Peaks up to four thousand meters.”
A death sentence. Crashing was not an option. A controlled landing was impossible. The only choice would be to bail out over the northernmost fringe of China. To be captured. To be disavowed. To disappear into a Chinese prison, branded as a criminal, forgotten by his country.
Orlov’s hands tightened on the yoke. He had failed Davydov and the crew of Iron-2. He would not fail the men he had left. There had to be another way. Could he dive, trading altitude for speed and distance at the very end? Could he shut down another engine to conserve fuel, and hope to restart it? His mind raced through emergency procedures, through the lessons learned over two decades of flying.
It was the EWO who broke his concentration. His voice, which had been methodically calling out Chinese radar probes, suddenly jumped an octave.
“Colonel! New contact!”
“What is it?” Orlov demanded. “Another SAM site?”
“No… no, this is different. High speed. Moving too fast for a bomber. It’s behind us. Six o’clock low and climbing… climbing fast.” The EWO’s professional detachment was gone, replaced by raw fear. “It has to be an interceptor.”
Orlov felt his blood run cold. He craned his neck, trying to see into the blackness behind them, but it was useless. They were blind. The Bison’s only defense against a tailing fighter was its rear turret, armed with two 23mm cannons, a peashooter against a hornet.
“Tail gunner, do you have eyes on anything?”
“Negative, Colonel!” came the reply. “The sky is empty! I see nothing!”
But he was there. Orlov knew it as surely as he knew his own name. Out there in the dark, a hunter was stalking them, guided by an unseen hand on the ground. They had survived the missiles, the technological terrors of the new age, only to be faced with the oldest threat of all: a lone fighter on their tail, coming for the kill.
The voice of Sky Sentry Control was a lifeline of calm in the violent darkness of Captain Zhang’s cockpit. “Night Owl 1, range is now ten kilometers. Your target is directly ahead, maintaining course. Begin visual search.”
Zhang’s eyes, already adapted to the deep black, scanned the starfield. He wasn’t looking for lights. A bomber running for its life would be blacked out. He was looking for a void. A patch of sky where the stars should be, but weren’t. For a full minute, he saw nothing but the cold, distant glitter of constellations. Then, his hunter’s instinct paid off.
There. A smudge. A shape so vast and dark it was like a hole had been cut from the fabric of the night. It was huge, far larger than he had imagined, a wounded leviathan swimming through the stratosphere. The distinctive high tail and swept wings of the Myasishchev bomber were unmistakable.
A surge of pure, predatory ecstasy flooded through him. The missile-men had claimed one, but this one—the survivor—was his.
“Sky Sentry, I have visual contact,” he transmitted, his voice steady, betraying none of the fire in his blood. “I am commencing my attack run. Night Owl 1 is going silent.” He switched off his transmitter and flipped the guarded red cover on his armament panel. With a satisfying click, he moved the switch to ‘ARMED.’ His cannons were ready.
Aboard ‘Iron-1’, the proximity tone from the EWO’s station was a relentless, high-pitched scream. The interceptor was no longer probing; it was on top of them.
“He’s playing with us,” Viktor Orlov spat, his knuckles white on the yoke. “He’s sitting back there where we can’t see him.”
The tail gunner’s voice was frantic. “Still nothing, Comrade Colonel! The darkness is total!”
“Then light it up for him,” Orlov ordered, a desperate gambit. “Fire a three-second burst of tracers directly to our six o’clock. Let’s see if we can make him flinch before he gets set.”
“Firing!”
From the rear of the crippled bomber, a stream of brilliant red lights slashed through the night, a futile line drawn in the empty sky. The tracers illuminated nothing, revealing only their own desperation before fading into the void.
For Zhang, the display was a gift. The foolish, beautiful stream of red provided a perfect aiming reference. The bomber crew had confirmed they were blind and panicked. He saw the tracers fly harmlessly below him as he maintained his position in the bomber’s upper-rear blind spot. Now, the time for stalking was over.
“No more guidance needed, Sky Sentry,” he whispered into his mask. He rolled the J-6 hard onto its side, pulling the stick into his lap. The G-forces crushed him into his seat as the fighter carved a tight, descending arc, repositioning for an attack run not from the tail, but from the bomber’s wounded port side. He would use their existing damage against them, attacking from the direction of the dead engine, where their maneuverability was weakest.
The enormous silhouette of the Bison filled his gunsight. It was impossible to miss.
“CONTACT!” the tail gunner’s voice screamed over the intercom, no longer a report but a shriek of sheer terror. “Port side! Seven o’clock high! He’s diving on us! He’s—”
The rest of the warning was lost in a deafening, brutal roar. It was not the single boom of a missile but a series of percussive, metallic explosions that hammered the length of the aircraft. It sounded as if a giant were trying to tear the fuselage apart with a steel claw. Shrapnel ripped through the cabin. Instruments shattered. A new, far more urgent alarm began to howl.
Orlov felt the controls go sickeningly soft in his hands as hydraulic lines severed. He looked to his left, out the canopy, and saw a horrifying sight. A river of fire was pouring from the port wing, which was being stitched by a line of brilliant, flashing impacts from the J-6’s 30mm cannons.
The co-pilot’s voice rose above the din, screaming the words Orlov already knew. “We’re hit! We’re hit again! The port wing is on fire! He tore us apart!”
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