Thunderbolt: an NTSB / military technothriller (Miranda Chase Book 2)

by M. L. Buchman

  Ashton’s half smile said that he knew exactly what he was doing, and Billy would have to thank him later for helping make the other guys suffer. It was good to, for once, be on the right side of a little superior-officer hazing.

  Billy wasn’t dumb enough to trust Ashton, but he might have to shed the “Ass-face” tag in his head.

  Now Kiley had selected Billy and Toucan and a pair of Lightning II pilots from his class for a crazy preflight briefing, then told them to meet him upstairs at the simulators.

  “Ve vant you to untershtand,” Kipper started in a terrible German accent for reasons that no one could ever guess. Kipper was from Texas. “You musht untershtand,” he continued in twangy Germanish, “how der enemy cease der Varthog in ze battle.”

  “You said it, bro.” Preacher—whose pa was a preacher—slapped Kipper on the back. Toucan snorted and picked up the theme with an effete British tone.

  Billy kept his mouth shut because, if he guessed right…

  Sure enough, Lt. Colonel Kiley, who they’d just left behind in the first-floor briefing room, down a not-all-that-long hall, was somehow standing at the door to the sim room before they’d gotten there.

  Toucan sounded like he was choking on something painful.

  “Sir,” Billy saluted Kiley as he entered the room.

  Not even a ghost of a smile. Maybe he was twins.

  The others followed him in silence.

  Once they were all inside, Kiley shut the door with a heavy thud.

  “Take the front four sims stations. Lt. Blake on the right, you other three the order doesn’t matter. Each station has been set up with simplified controls for four US drones: a trio of MQ-9 Reapers, and Lieutenant Blake will have the stealth RQ-170 Sentinel drone.”

  “Lucky shit,” Toucan muttered.

  No argument from him. He couldn’t wait. The only thing sweeter would be an RQ-180, but they were still so classified that it was unclear if they even existed yet. Rumor mill said yes, but even inside the USAF the official word was no word at all.

  “All of your aircraft are slower and less maneuverable than the simulated A-10s in this scenario. Your task will be to take them out in any way possible.”

  Yep! One damn crazy-ass scenario. But Billy kept that thought to himself as he climbed into his sim.

  “You’ll be engaging against come of our top pilots from the 40th Flight Test Squadron right here at Eglin.”

  “Where are they?” Preacher called out.

  Kiley didn’t bother answering.

  Not here, was the only answer that mattered.

  The RQ-170 was a stealth surveillance drone, R for reconnaissance, so he’d be the eyes for the other three guys who were MQ for multi-role drone.

  That at least made some sense.

  There was a variation of the Warthog called the OA-10. Its purpose was more as a combat controller rather than an attack craft.

  Command versus fighter? He’d always assumed he’d fly the latter. This was an interesting change he’d have to think about later.

  Then he saw that the RQ-170 wasn’t wholly unarmed.

  He so loved this job.

  31

  Billy had already been soaring aloft when he plugged in and took over his simulated aircraft.

  The RQ-170 Sentinel drone floated along comfortably at sixty-thousand feet, three miles above the A-10 Thunderbolt II’s service ceiling. From up here he could see from New Orleans to Tampa, The Florida panhandle and Eglin to the north, and the vast sweep of the Gulf below and to the south.

  Felt as if he could see the whole world.

  He could also see—

  “Flight, this is Poet. Three A-10s cruising southwest out of Eglin. Range one-five-zero miles. Altitude twenty thousand.”

  Toucan, who’d been circling as scout farthest to the east, turned and began racing in their direction as fast as his Reaper drone would allow.

  This was too easy.

  They had altitude and surprise on their sides.

  Three Hellfire missiles and they’d be done.

  Training would be over too fast. Billy wanted to stretch it out a little.

  Kipper was the closest, flying a mere ten thousand feet above the A-10s.

  “Kipper, drop a Mark 81 on their heads.”

  “Uh, Roger that.”

  And moments later, a two hundred and fifty-pound bomb was falling out of the heavens on the Thunderbolts’ heads. The 81 was a dumb bomb, so it wouldn’t blow up until it hit something.

  The chances of that were damned close to zero—it was a foot across in the middle of the whole sky.

  It should have fallen through the trio of A-10s.

  Billy hadn’t expected it to even be noticed until it hit the ocean below the A-10s and blew up some water. Drawing their attention downward was what he’d been counting on.

  By pure chance, it hit the wingtip of the trailing A-10. The explosion shattered the plane.

  Through the length of three heartbeats, nothing else happened.

  No ejection—the software probably decided that the bomb fragments had killed the pilot.

  No response from the other two aircraft.

  By the fourth heartbeat, the two remaining jets both stood on their wings’ end and turned away from each other to avoid being a common target. They’d been ticking along at two hundred knots, but now jolted up into the high-three hundreds.

  “Kipper, don’t let them get an angle on you.”

  But a Reaper wasn’t an A-10—slow but steady was the drone’s game, a hundred knots slower than an A-10.

  The lead plane, which had circled west, pulled up hard. When its nose angled straight at the sky, it unleashed an AIM-9 Sidewinder missile.

  Billy could see the trademark smoke cloud as the A-10 then lit off the GAU-8/A Avenger rotary cannon built into the Thunderbolt’s nose.

  The cannon shells were faster so they reached Kipper’s Reaper drone two full seconds ahead of the missile. Half the shells missed, but the A-10’s pilot was good enough that it didn’t matter.

  The drone stumbled in midair.

  Attitude control gone, it twisted like a drunk in the sky and nosed south with an uncontrolled bank.

  Then the Sidewinder hit and Kipper’s bird was gone from the sky.

  Billy forced himself to look away from the unfolding disaster—which the sim portrayed beautifully—to find the other A-10.

  “Preacher—” was all he had time to say before the other A-10 had wiped out a second Reaper drone.

  Billy could already hear what Lt. Colonel Kiley would say during the debrief. You never, ever play around when you have a tactical advantage in a battle. You should have hit them hard and hit them simultaneously.

  Because, damn but the A-10s could maneuver.

  “Lesson learned, sir. Lesson learned.” Billy told himself aloud to reinforce it.

  “Toucan. Drop ’em!”

  Toucan fired a pair of Hellfires at one A-10 and then targeted and fired at the other.

  Both A-10s corrected hard and kicked flares and chaff.

  But one of them got close enough to unload a pair of Hydra missiles in Toucan’s direction.

  A Reaper just wasn’t up to evasive action.

  The firing A-10 caught a Hellfire in the fuselage for its trouble.

  Billy realized that the Thunderbolt pilot had taken his shot at the Reaper knowing he wouldn’t be able to get clear of Toucan’s Hellfire if he did so. Even in a sim, that was a tough choice. It probably meant the pilot would have made the same choice in real life.

  Lieutenant William Blake, if it ever comes down to it, that’s the standard you want to live up to.

  The last A-10 scooted clear with a maneuver that Billy would have to study later. It was masterful. These guys were amazing; no surprise Kiley had said they were the best.

  Now it was his lightly armed RQ-170 Sentinel surveillance drone and one very pissed-off Warthog pilot.

  How stealthy was a Sentinel exactly?

 
The A-10 was clearly circling and searching…but it wasn’t coming in his direction.

  Billy slid his drone down from his lofty observer post, being careful to stay behind the A-10 as much as possible. He might be invisible—or nearly—on radar, but not visually. His paint job was probably a cream-gray, but that only blended somewhat against the light haziness of a Florida winter sky.

  To his advantage, the afternoon sun was low to the horizon.

  In fact…

  He waited until the A-10 had just circled through facing west into the sun. The moment it curled away, Billy slid the Sentinel down until he was directly in line with the sun as it kissed the horizon.

  Now he waited.

  The A-10 circled once more, slower this time as its radar and the pilot’s eyes reported no threats.

  Once the A-10 had missed him and began a long descent to survey the wreckage of his teammates for possible survivors, Billy pushed the throttles forward.

  The A-10 was faster only when it wanted to be, so he had to get close soon and maintain surprise. If the A-10 put on full thrust, he’d never catch it.

  An A-10 was an incredibly tough plane. They had safely returned to base and landed with blown-up engines, shot-off tail sections, and enough holes in them that the pilot would never have survived without the titanium “bathtub” of armor he sat in.

  But the laminated acrylic canopy was only so robust.

  The designers knew it was a weak point. That why most A-10s had a “fake canopy” painted on their bellies, so that enemies would waste precious moments firing at that supposedly vulnerable spot.

  Billy managed to climb up over the A-10’s tail at under a hundred meters range with no reaction from the Warthog’s pilot.

  It seemed unfair. The pilot had flown such a masterful flight in order to stay alive through the surprise attack.

  But he’d also taught Billy not to hesitate.

  Billy sighted the .50 cal machine gun at the back of the pilot’s head, clearly visible through the back of the canopy.

  The simulation’s resolution was fantastic. He could actually see the flag emblem on the guy’s helmet.

  He put it dead center in his sights.

  Then Billy opened fire.

  32

  The code on the Cray XC50 supercomputer in Subbasement 2 of the AFAMS building registered the change-of-state of the R14A10GM3 variable to true.

  The subroutine proceeded through the next four steps:

  Generate a four-word message.

  Deliver the phrase to three separate secure cellphones.

  After all three phones provided a delivery confirmation, drop the external connection.

  Finally, the subroutine erased itself and the program that had called it.

  33

  Senator Ramson lay flat on his back.

  The top-floor Presidential Suite at the Kimpton George had been available. It was warm and awash in the winter sunlight streaming in through the broad windows.

  He was a special customer, so they’d given him a discount.

  Yes, he’d definitely keep it overnight.

  Rose had greeted him as he’d hoped, in only a tie—his Swoop the red-tailed hawk one, the University of Utah’s finally-PC mascot. They hadn’t made it to the big bed; she’d already been lounging on the deep blue sofa when he’d arrived.

  He’d joined her there.

  She now straddled him facing away. So, he had a double handful of her ass while she rubbed her hand down over herself and then him.

  Gods but she had amazing fingers.

  After some careful consideration—from his very advantageous angle—he’d definitely take Rose’s ass over Clarissa Reese’s any day. He hissed in a deep breath as those perfectly manicured nails ran—

  His phone buzzed where he’d tossed it on the thick glass coffee table. The sound harsh enough to pull his attention away from where he could just see the side of Rose’s breast from behind.

  Ramson glanced sideways at the phone for just an instant.

  It had landed face up.

  Four words.

  Not one or two.

  Gulf of Mexico three.

  About time.

  He turned his attention back to where his wife was taking him.

  All the ego boost he needed was thirty years of having Miss Utah in his bed.

  Or on the couch.

  34

  Staff Sergeant Matthews wished to God that he had more sense.

  He’d had about eighteen too many tequila shots last night.

  Okay, maybe eight, but it felt like eighteen.

  Worse, he’d started the night with a hot co-ed bar babe—because God in all his blessed wisdom had put North Las Vegas campus of the College of Southern Nevada just four blocks from his job at Nellis Air Force Base—but he hadn’t woken up with her. Or any sign that he’d even been with her. No used condom, no nasty note, no wallet emptied in pissed-off vengeance.

  He was used to waking up to those signs—never carried much cash for that reason—but not today.

  Strikeout on all fronts.

  Today he’d woken up still drunk. That had made the entire day a slow descent into the pure hell of a blinding hangover.

  Why was everything so damn loud on a flight line?

  He’d gotten through the morning okay, but now it was late afternoon. All day he’d been pumping aspirin, B-12, and chugging water, knowing what was coming.

  Hadn’t helped.

  But you didn’t let Master Sergeant Neville see that.

  Sir. No sir.

  Master Sergeant Neville of Nellis Air Force Base had a standard to uphold and the Good Lord had designated him to be the man to do it.

  Matthews didn’t mind the self-righteous evangelicals. Some of them were damned cute. A surprising number were willing to “momentarily” ignore their morals for a night out. It didn’t seem right, but he made a point of never complaining.

  If they got a little preachy during sex, it didn’t bother him much. As long as they didn’t ask him to pray with them before or after.

  Not Master Sergeant Neville. Things bothered him a whole lot.

  Especially men on his flight line who had lost a battle with that Devil Drink—a particular high horse of his that always had the capital letters. You could hear them whenever he was on a roll.

  The other guys had shielded him as well as they could while he’d just put his head down and worked, prepping planes for flight and servicing them when they rolled back in.

  Last flight of the day. A couple of A-10s from the 66th Weapons Squadron headed aloft for a training flight. Go out and shoot some guns in the desert for a while.

  At least he wouldn’t have to be there when they fired off those big Avenger cannons. Loud enough that his skull absolutely would split.

  He got Number One prepped and all of the paperwork signed off.

  On Number Two, his last, he managed to get it prepped in time…somehow.

  “Come on, boy. Let’s sit in the sun and enjoy the fruits of a good day’s work,” Neville of Nellis came up to him as the two A-10s lit off their engines and finally taxied out into the cool November afternoon.

  Shit!

  He’d thought that he’d covered well enough. He’d even sworn off drink, at least for tonight until his brain cells recovered. Though he’d been thinking he might swing by the bar just to see if that hot bar babe was still around.

  Bracing himself for the firing squad of one of Neville of Nellis’ morality lectures, Matthews followed him out of the hangar and into the sun.

  He hauled on his shades, which cut the sunlight down to merely intolerable.

  Neville led him to a wooden shipping crate for an A-10 nose wheel landing strut that was pushed up against the side of the hangar like a bench and sat down.

  Neville always gave his lectures standing up.

  Serious talks were done in his office.

  What was this?

  Matthews sat beside him.

  For a while, a
s the A-10s taxied down to the south end of Runway 03 Left, they just sat in silence.

  The sun’s warmth felt good after all day in the hangar’s cool shadows. Like it was finally cooking the last of the alcohol out of his bloodstream.

  “You’ve been doing a good job, Matthews.”

  “Thank you, master sergeant.” He tried to keep the caution out of his tone—carrot before the axe?

  “I watch you push hard.”

  Never harder than surviving today.

  “What do you think about moving up to team lead?”

  Matthews could only blink in surprise. That meant a rank and pay bump. But…

  His current tour would be over in a few months and he hadn’t re-upped yet.

  Neville would know that.

  So, he’d only get the bump if he re-upped.

  Air Force wasn’t a bad gig. Another two years in wouldn’t be a burden at all—he’d already done eight. And to get that extra stripe and do it as a Technical Sergeant seemed like a good deal.

  “I like the sound of that, master sergeant.” He let it sit a moment longer. “I like that a lot.”

  They shook on it and leaned back to watch the A-10’s takeoff.

  Number One came streaking down the runway. Then, with that characteristic “pop,” it transitioned from just sliding along the pavement to banging up into the sky. Not like the F-14 Tomcat—which had always looked like magic the way it climbed—but no slouch of a machine either. He’d grown rather fond of the old Warthogs.

  Next in line, Number Two rolled onto the active the runway.

  No lecture in sight, Matthews relaxed and rested his hands on his thighs.

  Maybe he should believe in miracles…good news after a miserable day.

  It took him a moment to notice that his hand was resting directly on his thigh…instead of on the screwdriver he usually kept handy in his right thigh pocket.

  Damn it! He liked that screwdriver.

  He tried to picture the last place he’d seen it.

  Then he remembered.

  He’d set it down for a moment after checking a couple of fittings, so that he could pump some more aspirin and B-12.