by Dale Brown
“One at a time,” scolded Ferris.
“Indications are MiG-21 or F-7 Spin Scan-style I band radars. Old soldiers, these boys,” said O’Brien.
“Tower has cleared four planes,” said Habib. “I have his transmission loud and clear.”
“Lost radars.”
“You’re sure about four planes?” Breanna asked.
“Yes, Captain. No acknowledgments, though. I have some ground transmissions. Computer says it’s an HQ code. I can put more resources on the descramble.”
“Concentrate on the planes,” Breanna told him.
“O’Brien — any sign of that laser?”
“Negative.”
“Coyote, be advised that we believe there are four planes, not two,” said Breanna.
“Tower remains silent,” said Habib. “No ground control radio that I can pick up. We’re doing a full spin,” he added, meaning that the snooping gear was now scanning or “spinning” through frequencies looking for hits at low power or wide distances.
“No radars,” said O’Brien.
“Thanks for the information, Quicksilver,” answered the AWACS. “We continue to have only two contacts, MiG-21s, in the bushes. Eagles are being scrambled. Hold to your flight plan.”
Chapter 44
High Top
0830
“I’ve ridden motorcycles that go faster.”
“Major, I’m telling you — two hours with these engines and you have twenty percent more power. Probably thirty.
Thieves, hungry for power.”
“That’s not another stinkin’ Dylan song, is it, Garcia?”
“Knockin’ on heaven’s door, Major,” said the techie, beaming as if he’d just hit Powerball.
A Pave Low heading in toward High Top began shaking the air, kicking off a sympathetic rattle in the Bronco’s props — and Mack’s teeth.
“If we were at Dreamland — five-bladed prop, variable pitch — reinforce the wings, maybe a rocket pack for that quick boost, sellin’ postcards at the hangin’,” continued Garcia. “This is a great platform, Major. A fantastic aircraft. See this?” Garcia ducked under the wing and slapped the rear fuselage. “Four guys in here — five if they don’t have B.O. This ain’t workin’ on Maggie’s Farm, I’ll tell you that.”
“So if it’s such a great plane, how come the Marines gave it up?” Mack asked.
“They didn’t want to,” said Garcia. “You ask — they went kicking and screaming. These are boots of Spanish leather.”
“You know, Garcia, you ought to lose that speech im-pediment.”
Dust whipped toward them as the helicopter pushed in.
Mack turned his back and covered the side of his face. As the rotors died down, he turned back to Garcia. “Let’s refuel and get back in the air.”
“Uh, Major, didn’t you hear what I said?”
“That’s another Dylan song?”
“What I’ve been trying to tell you is that I have to re-tune the engines to work with the Dreamland fuel,” said Garcia.
“What?”
“Well, it all started during the first oil scare. See, what the problem is — ten-shutt!”
Garcia snapped to attention so sharply a drill sergeant would have swooned. General Elliott, lugging his overnight and a serious frown, tossed off a salute.
“Mack — when the hell are we taking off?” asked Elliott.
“I don’t know, General. There’s some sort of fuel thing.”
“Few minor adjustments to the engines, General,” said Garcia, who had served under Elliott at Dreamland. “As you recall, sir, it was under your command that JP-12B-2 was developed as a special blend for the Flighthawks, with the Megafortress engines tuned to accept it. The mix is just a little different from your JP-8 or JP-4, and over time or in extreme—”
“That’s quite all right, Garcia,” said Elliott. “Just make it work.”
“I just have to make a few adjustments. Not a big deal.
Now, if we were back home—”
“It’s okay,” said Elliott. He put out his hand as if he were a traffic cop. “Mack, I’m going back on the Pave Low. Get the plane back to Incirlik in one piece, all right?”
Chapter 45
Aboard Quicksilver
0830
Zen pushed forward, his body leaning to the right as he whipped both Flighthawks in that direction, the U/MFs about five miles apart, parallel at a separation of three thousand feet. The radar detector screen in the middle of the lower visual band showed two large yellow clumps peeking upward at him; the transmissions were ID’d as I band and the yellow indicated that, while they were active, they did not yet pose a threat to the small, stealthy Flighthawks.
“Gun Dish,” said O’Brien, adding coordinates to his warning that a Zeus radar was looking for him.
The two MiG-21s were old and primitive aircraft, easy fodder for the Americans. Zen suspected that the Iraqis were using them as decoys for the other two planes Habib had heard — which he guessed would be MiG-29s using passive sensors. The planes were approaching from the southeast, roughly eleven o’clock off Hawk One’s center line — they didn’t have a precise location, but they would have to be very low not to be detected by the AWACS.
If they’d been in Galatica, the gear would have them dotted by now.
“Connection loss in five seconds,” warned the computer.
“Bree!”
“Zen, you have to stay with me. The attack package isn’t clear. Let the Eagles get the MiGs.”
“I can nail them myself. There’s an RAF flight just south of them; if the MiGs divert, they’ll run right into them.”
“The AWACS is aware of that. It’s not our show. Let the Eagles do their job.”
“Connection loss in three, two—”
Zen yanked back on his sticks, pulling the robot planes back closer to the Megafortress. As he did, the radar in Hawk Two caught another plane flying from the south low enough to scrape a grasshopper’s belly.
“Contact, bearing 180—shit, I lost it,” he told Breanna.
“Nothing,” said O’Brien quickly.
“Blue Bandits!” shouted one of the Eagle pilots, his voice loud and excited at seeing the enemy MiG-21s.
“Nine o’clock.”
“Tally,” replied the other pilot, as calm as his wingman was excited. The two interceptors had run up from the south behind the two small planes at tremendous speed, closing to visual range to avoid the possibility — slim, but real — of locking onto friendlies in the tangled fray. With their limited radars and no ground controller to warn them, the two Iraqi jets probably didn’t even know they were in the crosshairs.
“I have the MiG on the left.”
“Two,” acknowledged the wingman.
Zen could visualize it perfectly. The pilots would have their heaters — AIM-9 Sidewinders — selected as the enemy planes grew in their HUDs. The missiles would growl, indicating they could sniff the enemy tailpipes.
But the Eagle jocks would wait a few seconds more, closing the gap. At the last second the MiG pilots would sense something, catch a reflection, a shadow, a hint — they’d start to maneuver, but it would be too late.
“Fox Two!” said both pilots, nearly in unison, as they launched their heat seekers.
“Connection loss in five seconds,” warned the computer.
Zen tucked Hawk One back to the east and gave Two a little more gas, catching up to Quicksilver. He got another contact in the bushes; it seemed to be turning.
MiG-29. Bingo.
“Quicksilver, I have a bogie. I need you to break ninety,” Zen told Breanna, asking her to cut hard to the east.
“Negative, Flighthawk commander. Give the contact to Eagle Flight.”
Screw that, thought Zen. The MiG turned toward him, and now there was a second contact. The planes were flying so low they could be pickup trucks.
Twenty-five miles away. If the Flighthawks had radar missiles, they’d be dead meat. But the U/MFs were fitted with can
nons only.
“Mission on Eight-eight Bravo is complete,” said Ferris. “We’re cleared.”
The MiG-29s continued their turns, heading south now, running away. They’d probably caught his radar.
He’d have to juice it to nail them.
Hit them now before they got within range of the RAF flight.
“Bree! I need you to stay with me. Check the Flighthawk screen.”
“Hawk commander, we’re following our game plan.
The bogies are out of reach.”
“Shit! I have them positively ID’d as MiG-29s. There’s an RAF attack package just southeast of them.”
“Location has been given to Eagle flight and Coyote, ” said Ferris.
“Shit!” Zen fought the urge to rip his helmet off and throw it against the side of the cabin.
“Jeff, they’re out of range,” said Bree.
“Yeah, now.”
“Missiles in the air!” warned O’Brien. “Launch — no wait — no launch, no launch. Slot Back radar, may be looking at an SA-2. Jeez — everything’s crazy. What the hell? I’m blank.”
* * *
“ECMS,” Breanna told Chris.
“On it already. We’re clean.”
She nosed Quicksilver ten degrees to the west, following their briefed course.
“Bree — we could have nailed those MiGs,” said Zen.
His voice frothed with anger.
Her thumb twitched, but she stayed on her course.
“Flighthawk leader, our priority was the attack mission.”
“We could have nailed them,” Zen told her.
She didn’t answer.
“Our fuel’s okay,” Chris told her.
She nodded instead of saying anything, checked her instruments quickly, then asked O’Brien about the SA-2
contacts he’d reported.
“I’m not sure — I got some sort of indication, a flash from the east. I’m not sure if it was a screw-up or what.”
“No missiles?”
“Not that I could find. Maybe they tried a launch and had an explosion, or it could have been something on the ground totally unrelated. Two or three radars flicked on at the same time, including at least one standard airport job. Iran had a long-distance air traffic on as well. I haven’t had a chance to go back and sort it out.”
“Laser?”
“Well, not that I can tell. No IR reading. I can go back and run Jennifer’s filter over the data.”
“Wait till we get down. We’re fifteen minutes from High Top, maybe a little closer.”
“Hey, Bree, you might want to listen in to this,” said Chris. “AWACS is reporting they lost contact with an RAF Tornado. The plane disappeared completely from their screens.”
Part IV: Unnecessary Risk
Chapter 46
High Top, Turkey
29 May 1997
1200
“Never ever talk to me that way when we’re flying. Never.” Breanna felt her heart pumping as she confronted her husband beneath the plane.
“I could have had those MiGs,” Zen said.
“The attack flight was our priority.”
“Those MiGs nailed the Tornado.”
“No way.”
“Listen, Bree—”
“No, you listen, Jeff.” Breanna clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking. “Anyone else talked to me that way, I’d have them thrown off the plane.”
“Oh, bullshit. I outrank you.”
“I’m in charge of the aircraft, not you.”
“Those MiGs nailed the Tornado, and I could have gotten them,” said Zen. He pushed his wheelchair back slightly on the pavement below the right wing of the Megafortress. “We could have prevented that.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it.”
“Bullshit yourself.”
“I have work to do.” Breanna turned, furious with him, furious with herself. She had done the right thing, she thought, and there was no way the MiGs nailed the Tornado. The F-15s would have been all over them.
Each stride was a grenade as she stomped toward the mess tent. Every glance pulverized the rocks around her.
The large tent was nearly empty; only Mack Smith sat in the far corner, nursing a cup of coffee. She took a bottle of water and a sandwich from the serving counter, then walked to the table farthest away from him, even though it was also the farthest from the heaters.
The wrapper claimed the sandwich was ham and cheese, though the meat looked suspiciously like roast beef. She bit into it; it tasted more like pastrami.
“Better than MREs, huh?” said Mack, coming over.
“Next Pave Low’s bringing steaks.”
“Leave me alone,” she snapped.
“Uh-oh, somebody’s in a bad mood. Tell Uncle Mack all about it.”
“One of these days, Major, someone’s going to knock that smirk so far down your throat it comes out your ass.”
“I only hope it’s you,” said Smith, taking another swig of his coffee.
* * *
Zen furled his arms in front of his chest. Breanna was right — he’d been out of line to talk to her that way in the plane.
He was right about everything else, but he still shouldn’t have talked to her that way.
But damn — he could have nailed both of those bastards. The Eagles claimed they chased the MiGs away — they said they headed into the bushes and ran back to base — but that was just cover-my-ass bullshit, he thought.
If the MiGs didn’t get the Tornado, who did?
There were a dozen candidates, starting with a stray Zeus flak dealer and ending with General Elliott’s Razor clone. Not to mention plain old mechanical failure or even pilot error; he knew of at least one Tornado that had pancaked into a mountain during the Gulf War because the pilot had lost his situational awareness.
Still, the Eagles should have made sure the MiGs were down. And out. He would’ve.
But Breanna was right about their priorities; where Quicksilver went was her call. His job was to escort, to protect her. Yes, he extended their reach, flushed out threats, and passed along the information to everyone else in the air. But his job, bottom line, was to protect her, not the other way around.
Had he wanted to nail the MiGs for the glory?
Bullshit on that.
But he could have nailed the mothers.
He owed Breanna an apology. Unsure where she’d gone, he wheeled himself toward the mobile Whiplash command post, then decided the mess tent was a better bet.
I’m sorry, he rehearsed. I was a hothead. I used to be cool but now I’m just a hothead. I’ve lost a lot of self-control since the accident.
No. Don’t blame it on the accident. That was bush league.
I’m sorry. I was out of line.
Zen was still trying to decide exactly what he would say when he entered the mess tent. Breanna was there, sitting next to Mack Smith.
Zen pushed himself toward the serving tables. A small refrigerator held drinks; there was a pile of sandwiches next to it and a large metal pot of soup, or at least something that smelled like soup. Zen took two of the sandwiches and a Coke and wheeled himself over to the table.
“Hey,” he said to Breanna.
“Hey there, robot brain,” said Mack. “Have fun this morning?”
“I always have fun, Mack.” Zen pushed his chair as close to the end of the table as he could get it, but that still left a decent gap between his chest and the surface.
He had to lean forward to put his soda and sandwiches down.
“Those sandwiches are about a week old,” said Mack.
“Check ’em for mold before you take a bite.”
Zen bit into them defiantly. He was halfway through the second when Danny Freah, Chris Ferris, Captain Fentress, and the two mission specialists crewing Quicksilver came in. Fentress had a map rolled up under his arm, along with a pair of folded maps in his hand.
“Majors, Captain,” said Danny. “Just talked
with Major Alou. He’s inbound. We want to have a briefing over in the trailer as soon as he’s down. CentCom is going to nail that SA-2 site we picked up and they need our help.”
“Is that what got the Tornado?” Zen asked.
“No one’s sure,” said Danny. “At this point it’s possible he wasn’t even shot down. But CentCom wants to hit something, and it’s the biggest target in the area. Even if it didn’t get them — and I don’t think it did — it should be taken down.”
“How close were the MiGs Major Stockard saw?” Breanna asked O’Brien.
“It’s possible they could have gotten the RAF flight if they were using very long-range missiles,” said Chris Ferris, answering for the radar specialist. “But we didn’t sniff anything in the air, and as far as we know, the AWACS didn’t have any contacts either. Not even the Eagles could find them.”
“Nothing,” added O’Brien. “If they fired Alamos, we would have known it. Their guidance systems would have given them away.”
“Alamos with heat sensors,” suggested Zen. The Alamo missiles — Russian-made AA-10s — came in at least three varieties, including a heat-seeker. But the longest-range version known to the West, the AA-1 °C, had a range of roughly twenty-two miles and used an active radar, which would have been detected. The infrared or heat-seeking version would have a much shorter range.
“Million-in-one shot,” said Ferris.
“Alamos at twenty-five miles?” said Mack. “What the hell are you guys talking about?”
As Ferris explained, Zen looked at Breanna. She was still steaming, he could tell. He tried to send his apology via ESP, but it didn’t take.
“Had to be a laser,” said Mack when he heard the details. “Only explanation.”
“So where is it, then? With the SA-2s?” said Ferris.
“Shit, they’d hide it in a mosque or something,” said Mack. “You know these ragheads.”
“That might be right,” said Danny.
“Maybe it’s with one of these radars that flicks on and off,” said Zen.
“Possible,” said Ferris. “On the other hand, none of the sites seem large enough to house an energy weapon.”