It was Catherine the Great who had been the first to station Russian ships off the coast of what would become the state of Israel. From her subarctic capital in Saint Petersburg in 1769, she had ordered Russian naval forces to sail through the Straits of Gibraltar and into the Mediterranean, to tactically support—and win—a key eastern land battle.
On this October Friday, two centuries later, as Grief’s MiG-25 was racing south towards Tel Aviv, a high antenna on a Soviet ship named the Krasny Krim had seen the distinctive radar return signal and was now tracking it.
For an aircraft at 72,000 feet, the ship’s tall MR-310 Angara-A radar antenna had direct line-of-sight well beyond the visible curve of the Earth’s horizon. The captain of the Krasny Krim—“Red Crimea”—had been carefully steering a course well clear of the coastal waters and now he listened to his electronics officer’s update.
“That high-flier has steadied on a north-to-south track, Captain, altitude 22 kilometers, speed 825 meters per second.” He checked his conversion table. “Mach 2.8.”
“Any threats?”
“Da, Captain, the Israelis have several mid-altitude fighters airborne, as usual.” The tech watched his scope intently, evaluating the blips, looking for telltale signs. A flash of new data registered as one of the targets showed a rapid Doppler shift. “An Israeli jet has fired a missile.” His voice remained calm; no air-to-air missile had ever reached the Soviet MiG-25 overflights.
The captain peered eastward through the ship’s large, square side window, seeing nothing but sea and sky. No surprise. We’re 150 kilometers away. He waited.
“Captain, I’m seeing something unusual.” A different tone in the tech’s voice.
Several seconds passed. “What is it?” the captain tersely demanded.
“I see two returns now, and a rapid deceleration.” The tech’s eyebrows drew together as he stared at his screen, willing it to give him better data. Different data. “Also descent, Captain.”
He turned to face the man in the chair.
“I think the Jews hit our plane!”