Phantom Strike

by William H. Lovejoy

  Kriswell said, “I’ve always wanted to fly a combat mission.”

  “You can fly it, Tom. Just don’t touch anything,” Demion told him.

  Sliding down the ladder to the crew compartment, he found a crowd. Potter, Borman, Cavanaugh, and Littlefield had not been able to wait it out, sitting in the cargo bay. They were ranged around Maal and Vrdla, who were seated next to each other at the console.

  Potter had rigged up an oxygen distribution hose for all of the extra people, and Formsby plugged into it. Borman handed him an extra headset. They were all conversing over the aircraft’s internal communications system.

  “Thank you, Benjamin.” He was still trying to remember everyone’s names.

  He peered over Vrdla’s shoulder at the screen.

  “Tell me, please, Samuel.”

  Vrdla used a stubby forefinger to point to each blip on the screen. They were not using the Identify Friend or Foe equipment, so none of the blips was automatically tagged by the computer.

  “This is Andy and Norm. They’re making two-seven-zero, and they’re a hundred-and-forty-five miles north of us. Over here,” — about forty miles west of Wyatt — “is Bucky. He’s doing all right, and he’s a hundred-and-twenty out. Ahead of him, here, is Karl and Dave. They’re a hundred out. This fucker here is the MiG. He’s slowing some, but he’s still hauling ass. He’s twenty-one away. Here, south of us, is the tanker.”

  “No chance that Gettman will catch the MiG, is there?” Formsby asked.

  “Not in this world,” Vrdla said.

  “What do you think, Neil?” Maal asked.

  “I think it is time. Perhaps past time.”

  “Jim?” Maal asked.

  “Let’s go with Neil’s timing, Denny,” Demion said.

  Maal sat up straighter in his seat, worked his shoulders, then placed his hands on the twin joysticks in front of him. The right one controlled ailerons and elevators. The left controlled rudders and throttles. A small Bakelite box in front of the joysticks had several toggle switches identified with black labelling tape — LNDG GEAR, FLAPS, AUTOPIL, FUEL SEL. There were a couple of additional controls for setting the autopilot.

  Set into the console was a cathode ray tube that displayed the C-130F’s pertinent data via a radio feedback. Airspeed, heading, altitude, attitude (turn-and-bank indicator), and rate-of-climb were the primary readouts, but engine tachometers and oil pressure relays were also shown.

  A similar setup had been used to control the RPV F-4s with the addition of the video relay.

  Maal reached forward and flipped off the autopilot. Using the sticks, he kept the RPV in its turn.

  “Where do we want to go, Neil?”

  Formsby glanced at the aircraft positions on the radar screen. “I think about oh-five-oh should do it, Dennis.”

  Maal eased out of his turn as the heading came up. “Five-zero, right on.”

  Formsby checked the tanker’s altitude. Twenty-five thousand feet.

  “Then, I’d like to see you put it in a slightly nose-down altitude.”

  “We want speed, right?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I think I can get about four hundred knots out of her,” Maal said.

  He eased the nose down until the rate-of-climb indicator showed a negative twenty-five-feet-per-minute. Then he pushed the left stick full forward.

  “We’re not getting the same revs out of each engine,” he said. “She’s probably shaking pretty good.”

  Formsby looked at the tachometer readouts and found them differing by as much as a couple of hundred revolutions.

  “If it gets to be a problem,” he said, “go ahead and back off.”

  The five men standing in the compartment behind the console operators remained quiet staring at the readouts and the radar screen.

  “What’s it look like, Sam?” Demion asked from his pilot’s station.

  “Denny’s got her up to three-nine-zero knots,” Vrdla said. “I’m showing her six miles away, closing fast. She’s ten thousand below us.”

  “And the MiG?”

  “One-seven.”

  “From my reading of the combat action,” Formsby said “I believe the MiG will only have Aphids left. He’s got to position himself within five miles of us.”

  “I think he can do that,” Kriswell said.

  “Tanker’s three miles away,” Vrdla said.

  “I’m going now,” Demion said. “Grab onto something solid.”

  The men standing in the compartment reached for grab bars. Formsby gripped the back of Maal’s seat, which was bolted to the deck.

  Abruptly, Demion put the nose down and began a steep dive.

  “He saw that,” Vrdla reported. “And I don’t think he liked it. He’s coming on a little faster. I read him at Mach one-point-five. One-two out.”

  “Lucas, you ready?” Demion asked.

  “Ready, boss,” Littlefield said.

  He held a cable with a handgrip and two thumb switches on the end of it. The switches controlled the chaff and flare dispensers on the countermeasures pods.

  “I do not think he has radar-guided missiles,” Formsby said, “but it wouldn’t hint to be cautious.”

  “Jam him,” Demion said.

  Vrdla clicked on the radar-jamming transmitters in both countermeasures pods.

  “The tanker just went under us, Jim,” Vrdla said. “We had about a two-thousand-foot clearance.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Demion said.

  “I’ve got the tanker up to four-hundred-and-six knots,” Maal said. “But the jamming is interfering with my control.”

  “Let’s not worry about control at this very minute,” Formsby said.

  “Four-oh-six knots? Hell,” Demion said, “I can beat that.”

  He did not pull out of his dive.

  *

  Ibrahim Ramad had picked up the second blip on his radar screen a few minutes before. Again, he was amazed. The raiders had at least eight aircraft. Ghazi’s information had been entirely incorrect.

  The newest aircraft was also a slow mover, and he estimated it for a transport.

  They would not actually attempt to land troops at Marada Air Base and attempt to capture it intact, would they?

  Then again, he was landing troops in Ethiopia.

  Anything was possible.

  Distance to target: twenty kilometres.

  His target was running, but slowly. It was also losing altitude.

  The new target was advancing on him at a much lower altitude.

  The blips merged as they passed each other, and the newest target kept coming.

  A foolish, foolish pilot, he thought.

  Altitude seventy-five hundred meters.

  The target was now ten kilometres away.

  He began easing off the throttles.

  The primary target continued to dive.

  The second target continued toward him.

  A verifiable idiot.

  He would take his original target first, then come back for the second.

  Speed down to Mach 1.1. He needed to be much slower to make his turn back.

  Distance to target eight kilometres.

  Back on the throttles.

  A burble as he passed down through the sonic barrier.

  Seven kilometres. The second target had now passed below him and was behind.

  His primary target began to level off at three thousand meters of altitude, then to zigzag. He knew what was coming.

  Ramad grinned his pleasure.

  Six kilometres.

  Soon.

  Airspeed six hundred knots.

  Five kilometres.

  Ahead, against the desert floor, he saw it. A bright and shiny C-130, banking left and right as it attempted to foil his shot.

  He held the MiG steady, and when the transport slipped through his sight, triggered off two AA-8s.

  He knew, deep in his heart and soul, that it was a perfect shot against an unarmed C-130. The commanders of thi
s treacherous incursion against Ramad’s personal empire would pay dearly. They would bum in hell forever.

  And he would collect the evidence which would prove their treachery, and it would exonerate him with those in Tripoli.

  Exonerate?

  He required no exoneration.

  His duties were performed only in the advancement of his native land.

  For the first time, however, he allowed the possibility that there had been some damage at Marada Air Base. Perhaps even at the chemical plant. He did not think it would be extensive, and when he showed the Leader that he had saved the day, had destroyed the commanders, he would be received in honour.

  Ramad rolled to the right and pulled the control stick hard toward his crotch.

  The MiG responded aggressively, turning hard back to the north.

  He concentrated on finding the other transport on his radar screen.

  There.

  It also was diving, but at a shallow rate. It was twenty-five kilometres ahead of him, to the north, but he would catch it easily.

  He glanced up at his rear-view mirror in time to catch the twin white-yellow flashes as his missiles disintegrated the C-130.

  The sheer pleasure of it coursed through his veins and made him proud, a true warrior supporting the cause of Allah.

  Fifteen kilometres.

  Checking the armaments panel, he made certain that his final AA-8 was selected.

  His thumb caressed the firing stud without setting it off.

  It was most sensual.

  WHOOF!

  The MiG jumped slightly sideways.

  The shudder in the airframe brought him out of his reverie. His head jerked back and forth as he sought the explanation from his instruments.

  The left turbojet had ceased to operate. The RPMs were spinning quickly down.

  WHOOF!

  The right turbojet flamed out.

  Ramad’s eyes darted to the fuel state indicator.

  It read: 0 KILOGRAMS.

  Impossible! He could not be out of fuel!

  But he was.

  He had utilized the afterburners for most of, too much of, his flight.

  Quickly, he looked at the screen.

  The target was pulling ahead, sixteen kilometres from him.

  Furious, he thumbed-off the missile.

  It screamed from its rail, but it was mindless, and it swirled the skies ahead of him, seeking a target, but not finding one, detonating itself harmlessly.

  It could not happen to him!

  The speed began to drop drastically, and he put the nose down to restore it.

  Still, he was down to four hundred knots very quickly. Ignoring the automatic operation of the computer, he extended the wings from their swept-back configuration to increase his lift.

  Altitude two thousand meters.

  Looking frantically around, he tried to orient himself.

  There was nothing. Not a road nor a hill nor a wadi for a landmark.

  He checked the radar screen.

  His target was now far ahead, but worse, another blip had appeared on the screen, coming at him very rapidly. It would be one of the escaping F-4s.

  His glide was steep, but he could not take many evasive manoeuvres without losing lift and altitude.

  Turning slightly to the right, moving toward the east, he attempted to widen the gap between himself and the approaching F-4.

  Seconds later, he saw the aircraft as it neared him, slowing, and turning to match his direction.

  His speed was down to 330 knots.

  The F-4 descended, pulling in behind him.

  He waited for the missile.

  It should not have come to this, Merciful Allah. I only sought to do your bidding.

  The F-4 suddenly accelerated and moved up along his left wing.

  Ramad looked over at them.

  There was a black face in the front seat and a white face in the rear.

  The black man held up the middle finger of his right hand, then abruptly climbed away, increasing speed, performed a wing-over directly over Ramad’s cockpit, then was gone.

  Ramad’s relief was so great that, for precious moments he did not realize how close to the ground he was.

  When he saw the dunes ahead of him, without one flat spot available, he looked at the altimeter: 635 meters above ground level.

  No more time.

  He tucked his elbows in, grabbed the ejection handle between his legs, and jerked.

  The ejection seat crunched his spine as it fired.

  Nineteen

  “I just didn’t have the heart to shoot the son of a bitch down,” Gettman said.

  “Karl did give him the finger,” Zimmerman added, “so that probably got to his ego.”

  “Did you see a chute?” Formsby asked.

  “Yeah, he made it out,” Gettman said, “but if he walks sixty miles in any direction, he still ain’t going to find anything. That sucker better have a good radio and a hell of a lot of water with him.”

  “Any asshole that can’t figure out he’s running out of gas deserves the walk,” Zimmerman said.

  “What is your fuel state?” Formsby asked.

  “Well,” Gettman said, “uh, come to think of it, we may be joining him shortly.”

  “Conserve as well as you can,” Demion said.

  “How are you guys doing?” Gettman asked.

  “He blew the hell out of a bunch of flares,” Formsby said. “Lucas did us proud.”

  He looked over to Littlefield, who gave him a big, wide grin and held up his flare launching control. Demion said, “We’re going to reduce speed now, so everyone else can catch up with us. I’ll hold it around two-two-zero knots.”

  “Damn, Jim, you don’t have to do that,” Barr broke in. “I can catch you any day of the week. Wings or no wings.”

  Maal waved Formsby close and spoke over the intercom, “Let her go now?”

  “I believe she has done her job well, don’t you, Dennis? I firmly believe she diverted his attention from a thorough attack against us.”

  “I hate to do this, Neil.”

  “If we simply let her go, and they do not shoot her down farther north, she could reach the Mediterranean,” Formsby said. “But she might not hit hard enough to detonate the plastic explosive.”

  Maal shoved his elevator stick forward and watched the readouts. At a rate-of-climb of negative five hundred-feet-per-minute, he centred the stick.

  They did not have to wait long.

  After a few minutes, all of the feedback readouts went blank.

  Barr came up on the radio. “I saw her go in. I offered up a prayer.”

  “Did the plastic detonate, Nelson?” Formsby asked.

  “It must have, along with the fuel tanks. She’s an inferno.”

  Maal climbed out of the seat he had occupied for so long and said, “Lucas, you have any of that rotten coffee left.”

  “I don’t think so, Denny, but I’ll make more. How rotten do you want it?”

  “Just as bad as you can get it.”

  Most of the others settled to the deck to sit, and Formsby climbed the ladder back to the flight deck and took the engineer/navigator’s seat. He pulled on the headset but did not bother connecting the oxygen mask. They were flying at three thousand feet now.

  It was pretty much quiet on the intercom and the tactical channel.

  He supposed most of them were thinking about Wyatt.

  Until Vrdla spoke up. “We may have a minor problem, Jim.”

  “What’s that?” Demion asked.

  “I just picked up two targets to our east. Range two-one-five and closing. They’re slow moving. I give ’em three-five-oh knots.”

  “That’s an unexpected development,” Demion said. “I thought we’d planned it out for every contingency.”

  “It has to be two of those troop transports that took off earlier,” Formsby said. “They will not be armed.”

  “That’s right,” Kriswell said. “What the hell c
an they do?”

  *

  Martin Church had gone down the hallway to the men’s room. When he got back, he found that Embry had contacted the NSA and asked for an infrared image again.

  He sat down at the table and stared at the blue-green-orange-red splotches on the monitor.

  “Where are we now, George?”

  Embry pressed a finger against the screen. “See that bright red spot. The tanker went in.”

  “Jesus!”

  “It wasn’t manned, Marty.”

  “Goddamn it! George, will you quit springing this shit on me? Are any of them manned?”

  “The rest of them. Everyone’s still airborne. The last hostile plane in the region went down. I don’t know whether it was shot down or not, but it didn’t burn.”

  “So all these hot spots are our planes?”

  “Except these two down here to the east. I’ve been watching them.”

  “That’s wonderful. Can you watch them into oblivion?”

  “Doubt it, Marty.”

  The telephone rang, startling him. His concentration on the screen had been so intense for so long — it didn’t seem like only an hour and forty minutes — that he had blanked out the rest of the world.

  Embry scooted back in his castered chair and grabbed the phone from the desk.

  “Yeah, put her through.”

  He handed the phone to Church.

  “You get to talk to her, Marty.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Kramer.”

  Church took the phone and pressed it to his ear.

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me what’s happening,” she said. The anxiety in her voice was palpable.

  “There’s really not much to report just yet,” he said. Just the destruction of an air base, a chemical factory, a bomber squadron, and an interceptor squadron. Of course, none of that would ever be reported outside of Agency channels.

  “You’ve got to be watching it,” she said. “You have all your secret devices.”

  “Indirectly,” he admitted.

  “Tell me, goddamn it!”

  “Everyone with whom we are concerned is still airborne,” he said, “but that’s all I can say right now.”

  “Thank you,” Kramer said and hung up.

  Church looked at the screen, at the relative positions of the hot spots. Two of them were lagging far behind, but he didn’t know who was flying them, and he certainly wouldn’t pass speculation on to her.