The Red Line

by Walt Gragg

  At least there was nothing for the Patriot soldiers to do for the first minute. Sixty seconds behind the initial group, a second set of six triangles suddenly appeared. They were followed moments later by another pair, and behind them a final aircraft. All were on the same flight path as the first group. There was little doubt they were coming for the Patriot.

  Morgan instantly recognized the immense danger. She started interrogating the first of the nine new triangles bearing down upon them.

  “Got them yet, Lieutenant?”

  “Identification coming in,” she said. “Lead aircraft in second flight is hostile. Cleared for engagement.”

  “Lead aircraft identified as hostile,” Fowler said, so the lieutenant could verify he understood her command. “Beginning engagement procedure.”

  “Second and third aircraft also identified as hostile,” Morgan said. “Cleared for engagement on second and third aircraft.”

  “Roger. Beginning engagement of . . .” He stopped in midsentence as the screens flashed new information.

  Even as the data for the later flights was being fed into the system, the computer and radar were locked onto the original targets. While Fowler typed in the command to track and target the newer aircraft, the computer recognized that the first MiG had reached the firing point.

  The computer selected a missile from the number six launcher and gave the command to fire. Belching hellfire and brimstone, a two-thousand-pound missile rocketed out of the launcher’s top left canister. A sleek nineteen-foot killer raced skyward at incredible speed. The instant the missile was launched, there existed a 98 percent chance of a successful kill. In all likelihood, the pilot in the intruder was already dead. The Russian just didn’t yet know that his fleeting life had come to an end.

  “Confirm launch of first missile at . . .” Fowler glanced at his watch. “Zero-eight-fourteen. Paul, notify regiment of first launch.”

  “Roger. Notifying regiment of initial launch at zero-eight-fourteen local time.”

  They would have preferred to stop and follow the flight of the missile as it rushed into the heavens at nearly four times the speed of sound. At two thousand miles per hour, the Patriot would reach the oncoming enemy fighter in just over forty-five seconds. But if they wanted to live to see another day, the crew in the Engagement Control Station didn’t have forty-five seconds to spare. There were still fourteen aircraft roaring at them through the first frigid rays of the early-morning sunrise. All had a single goal in mind—end the Patriot soldiers’ existence.

  Fowler and Morgan returned to the fight.

  “Targeting second and third fighters in second flight,” Fowler said.

  The computer grabbed a missile from the number two launcher and hurled it into the sky. Two seconds later, it fired a third missile, this time from launcher number eight. Three missiles appeared on their screens. Each was rushing into the heavens to seek and destroy. Two more pilots, as yet unaware, had less than a minute remaining.

  There were twenty-nine missiles still waiting on the launchers to bring havoc to the German skies.

  “Confirm second and third firings also at zero-eight-fourteen,” Fowler said. “Notify regiment of further launches.”

  “Notification under way,” Paul said.

  “Confirm hostile on second flight aircraft four, five, and six,” Morgan said.

  “Roger,” Fowler answered. “Targeting second flight of aircraft four, five, and six.”

  Thirty-five miles away, the onboard radar of the first fighter recognized the threat streaking toward it across the heavens. The aircraft screamed for its pilot to take evasive action. The lead triangle broke from the pack and attempted to dive thirty thousand feet to the ground below. The Russian hoped he could conceal himself in the ground clutter and lose the incoming missile. But the pilot’s desperate maneuver was bound to fail. The Patriot’s highly sophisticated computer immediately readjusted the missile’s flight. The missile matched the fighter’s every move. Even if by some miracle the pilot reached the sheltering ground, the Patriot system was far too advanced to be fooled. The missile, twice as fast and far more agile than the fighter, wouldn’t relent as it locked the MiG in its death throes and narrowed the distance between them with each passing moment.

  The Patriot computer fired a fourth missile, again selecting one from the number six launcher. Right behind it, a fifth missile, from launcher number one, roared off its platform. The computer had reached the maximum number of aircraft that could be simultaneously engaged. Until one of the missiles destroyed its target, or failed in the attempt, no further firings would occur.

  In the first flight, all but the trailing aircraft were being hunted down by the great birds of prey. With their radars warning them that certain death was on the wing, the pigeons scattered to the four winds. Only the final fighter in the group continued its persistent quest to eliminate the world’s premier destroyer of airplanes.

  Fifteen miles behind the first flight, the second group of six came on. Given enough time, the Patriot would deal with each and every one of them.

  The only question remaining was whether there would be enough time.

  “Confirm two more firings at zero-eight-fifteen,” Fowler said.

  “Paul, tell the Stinger teams to prepare for target acquisition,” Morgan said. “I think we might need them.”

  “Notifying Stinger teams and confirming firings with regiment.”

  Morgan began interrogating the final three aircraft.

  “The two fighters in the third flight confirmed as hostile,” she said. “Begin targeting.”

  “Roger. Confirm hostiles in third flight of two aircraft,” Fowler said, his eyes never leaving his screen.

  The first missile reached out a sharpened talon to seize its helpless victim. The MiG-29 exploded, disappearing like a vapor from the slowly brightening sky. The Patriot confirmed the kill. A small tic-tac-toe symbol appeared over the aircraft’s triangle. The tic-tac-toe started to flash. In a few seconds, the scattered pieces of the destroyed fighter fell from the heavens. And the tic-tac-toe disappeared from the screens.

  Fowler glanced at his watch once again. “Confirm initial kill at zero-eight-fifteen,” he said.

  “Roger,” Morgan said. “Kill confirmed at zero-eight-fifteen.”

  A sixth missile leaped from its launcher. It raced to meet the final fighter in the initial flight. There were five missiles in the air, eight more fighters targeted, one enemy plane destroyed, and a final unidentified aircraft with which to deal.

  The clock was ticking for the Patriot crew. Any mistake at this point, no matter how small, would likely be fatal.

  Another blinking tic-tac-toe flashed over one of the fleeing triangles. A second Russian aircraft was no more.

  “Second kill at zero-eight-sixteen,” Fowler said. His voice was businesslike, masking the feelings of panic within him that were increasing by the second.

  “Confirm second kill at zero-eight-sixteen,” the lieutenant said. She half turned in her chair. “Paul, pass on to regiment, second confirmed kill at zero-eight-sixteen.”

  “Roger. Second confirmed kill at zero-eight-sixteen.”

  The four triangles being hunted were heading away from the battery’s location. But the other nine were coming on fast. None of the six aircraft in the targeted second flight had yet been fired upon. They were thirty miles away and growing nearer. At a thousand miles per hour, they roared toward the Patriot team.

  If the enemy wasn’t stopped, Fowler and Morgan had just over a minute to live.

  With a second fighter destroyed, the Patriot launched once more. Fire roared from beneath the number two launcher. Another long missile, silhouetted in the lingering shadows of the growing sunrise, leaped from its launch tube. The pilot in the lead aircraft in the second flight would never see the coming day.

  “Confirm firin
g of a seventh missile at zero-eight-sixteen,” Fowler said. As he watched the images on the screen, his concern continued to grow. There were still far too many of the enemy needing to be engaged and little time remaining to do so.

  “Roger. Firing confirmed.”

  A third flashing tic-tac-toe appeared on the screens. Somewhere in the dawning skies over southern Germany, another pilot’s life had ended.

  “Third kill recorded,” Fowler said.

  “Third kill confirmed.”

  Paul didn’t wait for them to tell him to notify regiment. He started relaying the latest firing and kill information on his own.

  Ten miles behind the second flight, the pair of hostiles also raced toward the Patriot battery. A few miles behind them, a lone aircraft trailed.

  Morgan began interrogating the last fighter. The Patriot computer ordered the radar to send out the identification code. In the nose of the American F-16, the message was received and the proper response transmitted. A friendly symbol appeared next to the trailing triangle.

  “Final aircraft is friendly. Do not target,” Morgan said. “Say again. Do not target final aircraft. Aircraft has been identified as friendly.”

  “Understood,” Fowler said. “Confirm on my screen that final aircraft is friendly.”

  The second flight continued to close with the Patriot battery. If they didn’t stop the MiGs, Fowler and Morgan had forty-five seconds before a fiery death in the form of air-to-ground missiles would reach down to claim them.

  The computer hurled another Patriot into the skies. The second fighter in the second flight would be its next victim. It would be a few more seconds, however, before the high-flying Russian would realize that he’d been abruptly transformed from hunter to hunted.

  The straining jet engines of fighters four and five in the first flight gave their pilots all they had. Still, it wasn’t nearly enough. The Russians were vastly overmatched. The steadfast missiles closed with their targets. Two more flashing tic-tac-toes found their way onto Fowler’s and Morgan’s screens. Another pair of MiGs had vanished from the early-morning sky.

  The Patriot was free to fire once again. Launchers five and seven roared to life. A pair of missiles carried death into the heavens at Mach 3.9. Only fifteen miles separated the Patriots from their targets. In less than thirty seconds, the killers would span the distance between themselves and the planes.

  Once again, all the Patriot engagement team could do was stare at their screens while the computer and the radar coordinated their maximum load of five missiles.

  The first four fighters in the second flight ran in different directions. Each pilot clung to the desperate hope that he could somehow find a way to save his frail life. The final two fighters in the flight continued their determined quest to reach the air-defense battery. Fifteen seconds passed. The pair of MiGs closed to within ten miles of their target. Beneath their sleek wings and bloated bellies, their missiles glistened in a blinding morning sun’s first rays.

  Fowler and Morgan watched the two triangles nearing the battery. Another pair of hostiles was ten miles behind. The air defenders understood they had little time left.

  “Paul, tell the Stingers to prepare for an attack!” Morgan said. “Targets are north-by-northeast.”

  Paul spoke into his headset once more.

  “This is going to be close,” Fowler said.

  As the first pair entered a steep dive, the MiG pilots armed their air-to-ground missiles. The Stinger gunners pointed their shoulder-mounted air-defense weapons toward the heavens. With the five-mile limit of their small missiles, all the Americans could do was stand their ground and wait. They could see the black dots in the sky growing quite large, but were helpless to do anything about it. Behind the diving fighters, three more dots in the rising sun were coming quite near.

  The MiGs would release their missiles just as they reached the three-mile point. They’d be close enough to have a decent chance of hitting the target, yet far enough away to keep the Stingers from locking on and firing in time to stop the attack. At that distance, they’d also be near enough that a Patriot missile wouldn’t have the time to activate and find the plunging fighters before the MiGs found them.

  In fifteen seconds, Fowler, Morgan, and Paul would reach their end.

  A Patriot smashed into the last fighter in the first flight. Tic-tac-toe.

  The computer instantly fired upon the first of the diving aircraft. The MiG was eight miles away. Five miles from its firing point, it came on. The pilot saw the Patriot launch. But he knew that at so short a distance his only chance of escaping was by destroying the Patriot computer before its missile destroyed him. He had to make it to the three-mile point before the Patriot did.

  He’d never release his missiles. Twice as fast as the MiG, the Patriot reached up to pluck it from the skies with three miles to spare. The MiG exploded six miles above the Engagement Control Station. A ball of fire tumbled to the ground a few hundred yards east of the American battery.

  Undeterred by what had happened to its brother, the final aircraft in the second flight continued its teeth-rattling dive. The Stingers waited. They strained to obtain a lock onto the plunging fighter. Each gunner begged to hear the firing tone ringing in his ears. The MiG was nearly ready to unleash its ordnance. There was a single mile to cover before he would launch a handful of lethal missiles. It was too late for either the Patriot or Stingers to intercept the fighter in time.

  Fowler, Morgan, and Paul had eight seconds to live.

  They stared at their screens. Disbelief spread across their faces. Fowler gripped the computer keyboard with all his might. He could sense the hair on his arms standing straight up.

  From out of nowhere, the plummeting fighter’s radar suddenly warned the Russian that he was under attack. The confused pilot hesitated, uncertain of what his aircraft was trying to tell him. He’d seen the Patriot destroy his partner, but he was convinced the Patriot hadn’t fired again. Much too late, the resolute Russian realized the missile that would decimate his aircraft wasn’t reaching up from the ground to find him. The missile that was coming to end his life was approaching from the rear.

  The F-16 Falcon was twelve miles behind the diving MiG. The two fighters just ahead of the American pilot had led her directly to the attack on the Patriot battery. She watched her display as her Sparrow missile raced across the sky toward the diving enemy. The Russian reacted to this new threat to his survival. He broke off his dive and soared upward at incredible speed. Nevertheless, the American kept her Sparrow right on target. The chase was short and sweet. A fireball erupted in front of the Falcon as the MiG died beneath the speeding Sparrow’s attack.

  As the MiGs began disengaging from the earlier air battle, it hadn’t taken the AWACS commander long to determine what the enemy was up to. Unable to directly warn the air-defense units, the AWACS did the best it could. The Sentry One commander issued an urgent order for any available aircraft to intercept the Russian fighters. The lone F-16, her wingman killed moments earlier, had chased fourteen MiGs across the German skies in their one-hundred-mile journey to destroy Charlie Battery. The American pilot knew she couldn’t stop all fourteen, so she bided her time. Running with her radar off to hide her presence, she waited for the Patriots to do most of the dirty work for her. With the seconds in Fowler’s, Morgan’s, and Paul’s lives down to single digits, the F-16 struck.

  The final pair of fighters was just beginning their own dives when the Sparrow raced right between them and smashed into the MiG a few miles ahead. For the first time, the Russians realized they weren’t alone. Both took severe evasive action.

  One right after the other, four Patriots destroyed the fleeing fighters of the second flight. The Patriot computer fired on the final pair of MiGs. The F-16 saw the dual launch. She pulled well away and waited for the Patriots to finish the job.

  The MiGs also saw the
Patriot fire. With barely ten miles between prey and killer, they knew there’d be no chance for escape. Their own tic-tac-toes were scant moments way.

  Within seconds of each other, the pair exploded.

  With the destruction of the last of the MiGs, the F-16 turned and headed north to Ramstein.

  Inside the small van, the blood returned to the Americans’ faces as the final of the hostile triangles was covered by the flashing symbols. A warming wave of relief washed over them.

  None was able to muster the strength to utter a single sound after so narrow an escape. They sat in self-imposed silence for nearly a minute.

  “Confirm thirteen missiles launched and thirteen kills recorded,” Morgan finally said.

  “Roger,” Fowler said. “I confirm thirteen missiles fired and thirteen kills. Paul, notify regiment.”

  “Notifying regiment of thirteen launches and thirteen kills.”

  They were elated to be alive. But there was no time for celebration. Letting their minds wander too far from the images on their screens could still be fatal. They returned to the task at hand. As the air battle continued, the hundreds of triangles were far more scattered than they’d been earlier.

  There was nothing within seventy-five miles of the Patriot battery. And to their relief, no indications that another attack on their position was imminent. For the moment, there was little to do but observe the surviving triangles as they battled and died in the blood-tinged skies over Germany.

  • • •

  The report came in thirty minutes later.

  “Oh, man, you’re kidding!” Paul said into his headset. “Are you sure about that?”

  He looked into the curious faces staring up at him from the front of the compartment. “Regiment says that seven of the sixteen Patriot batteries and all of the Hawk firing units were destroyed by enemy fighters. Alpha and Bravo Batteries both bought it.”