The Megafortress made another hard left turn, correcting on course, dropping six air-retarded cluster bomb canisters on a power substation at the periphery of the palace grounds before making a hard right turn back toward the Presidential Palace. Wickland ordered a climb to one thousand feet, then sixty seconds later released another stick of six cluster bomb dispensers on the security guard barracks and headquarters outside the palace gates. The last releases were virtually simultaneous: two gravity bombs on the front gates themselves, the last stick of cluster bombs on the entry way to the palace, and two more gravity bombs on the palace itself.
The Megafortress then continued eastbound, passing right over Matiga Airfield, the old American Wheelus Air Force Base on the eastern side of the city. Antiaircraft artillery units fired into the sky all around them, but the Megafortress’s jammers and trackbreakers kept any of the radar-guided heavier-caliber units from locking in on them. The final bomb run was right across the center of the airfield, dropping the remaining gravity bombs on the runway, radar facility, and control tower, then seeding cluster bombs throughout the aircraft parking areas. Almost a dozen aircraft of all kinds, from fighters to cargo planes to helicopters, were destroyed.
“Set clearance plane COLA,” Tanaka ordered. The Megafortress turned sharply northward away from the coast, but Tanaka had to override the autopilot because it appeared they turned right toward a large Libyan warship in the Gulf of Sidra.
“We’ve got company,” Wickland said. “MiG-23s, coming in fast, seven o’clock, eleven miles.” At that same instant, they received another warning: “Missile launch, SAN-8 from that Libyan warship!” The threat defense computers ejected chaff and flares, and the Megafortress did a hard right break back toward the coast near Ed Dachla. The naval surface-to-air missile exploded less than a hundred feet off their left side, violently shaking the big bomber.
“I think we got some fuel leaks from the left wing, and we’re losing pressurization,” Tanaka reported. “I’ve also got a fault on the left ruddervator trim system.”
“We got a ‘MISSILE HOT’ light on the left weapon pylon,” Wickland said. He acknowledged the fault, but by then the weapons computer had ejected first the left pylon and its remaining air-to-air missiles, and then the right pylon to balance out the aircraft. “There goes the last of our heaters.” He checked the supercockpit display. “I think we’re clear of that ship, but the fighters are coming in hot,” he said. “Let’s continue southeast. We’ll try to make it to the Cussabat Mountains—the MiGs may not be able to find us there.”
But they were too late. The first MiG-23 moved in almost at the speed of sound and fired a heat-seeking missile from point-blank range. The Megafortress detected the missile launch and immediately initiated a right break, ejecting chaff and flares from the left ejectors. The combination of the decoys and the active laser countermeasures system steered the missile away from a direct hit, but the Russian-made R-60 missile exploded just ahead of the left wingtip.
“Shit, we lost the entire left wingtip!” Tanaka shouted. The vibration coming from the left wing was tremendous—it felt as if the entire wing was going to snap right off. “I’ve got to slow down or we’ll lose the whole wing!”
“The second MiG coming in fast!”
“Stinger airmines!” Tanaka shouted. “Blast that sucker!”
But the second MiG-23 was already firing its twenty-three-millimeter cannon as the airmines were launched, and the bullets hit first: Warning messages flashed on all of the multifunction displays in the Megafortress’s cockpit. Wickland looked out his window and saw the number-four engine throwing off tongues of flames and flashes of fire. “Oh, Jesus!” he shouted. “We’re hit!”
“Just make sure you smoke that MiG!” Tanaka shouted. He kept his eyes flying over the system readouts, hands on the controls and throttles and his feet on the rudder pedals, ready in an instant to take over if the Megafortress’s flight computer didn’t immediately respond. But the computer was in charge for now: By the time the warning messages had flashed on the screens, the computers had already shut down the number-four engine, discharged the fire extinguishers, isolated the hydraulic, pneumatic, electrical, and fuel systems to that engine, and had reconfigured all of the aircraft systems to take up the load from the destroyed engine.
“The second MiG is breaking away,” Wickland said, checking the supercockpit display. “I think we got—” He stopped when the computer issued a fresh warning: “The first MiG is heading for us again. Nine o’clock, eight miles and closing fast.” A moment later: “Another MiG inbound, six o’clock, twenty-five miles. Both are locked on.” With a shut-down and shattered number-four engine, the radar cross-section of the normally very stealthy Megafortress was multiplied a hundred times, making it an easy target.
Tanaka started a hard right turn. “We’re going to have to take them over the desert,” he said. “No other way to do it.” He looked over at his partner. “Make sure your straps are tight, Gonzo. Put your clear visor down and zip your jacket all the way up.” Wickland looked as if he was going to shrivel up and die as he hurriedly pulled his shoulder and lap belts as tight as he could stand, his hands shaking uncontrollably.
They had not quite finished their turn when the computer reported, “Warning, radar lock MiG-23, two o'clock, fifteen miles. . . warning, missile launch, MiG-23 R- 24.. . missile launch, MiG-23, R-24”
“Jammers and countermeasures active,” Wickland said tonelessly. “Active laser countermeasures firing ... decoys out.. Everything had to work perfectly now—they were well outside their absconded Libyan air-to-air missile’s range. Tanaka started up and down jinks, trying to get the radar-guided missiles to overcorrect and overshoot their target. For a moment Wickland thought he could see the missiles heading toward him, but he knew that was impossible—traveling at night over three times the speed of sound, the naked eye could never see them. His hands closed over the handles of his ejection seat.
“Don’t wait for my order,” he heard Tanaka say. “If the missiles hit, just go. Don’t wait for me. Don’t wait...” And just then, Wickland saw a tremendous burst of light and a huge fireball blossom directly in front of him. His fingers tightened on the lever and he began to rotate them upward, exposing the ejection initiation trigger....
CENTRAL LIBYA
A SHORT TIME LATER
Within a few minutes after receiving the call from Tripoli, the crews aboard two dozen mobile SS-12 missiles, armed with a variety of warheads—ranging from one-thousand- pound high-explosive to chemical to subatomic neutron— prepared their missiles for launch. Within five minutes of receiving the final launch order, one by one, the rockets lifted off into the dawn sky on columns of fire.
“Giant zero! Giant zero! Rockets detected!” the mission commander aboard the second AL-52 Dragon reported. After refueling, the Dragon had gone on patrol over west-central Egypt, covering both the Salimah oil fields and Cairo from any rockets launched from Libya.
Long before the mission commander even keyed the microphone, the most sophisticated computer system ever placed aboard any aircraft was already prosecuting the attack. The mission commander merely watched in fascination as the chemicals they carried in the tail section of the plane mixed and created their magic, and the Dragon came to life once again. The crew watched through the telescopic optics as the SS-12 rocket was blown apart by the COIL laser.
“Yeah, baby, yeahl” the mission commander crowed. “We got it!” The LADAR warning system bleeped again as more SS-12 rockets were detected. But one by one, the AL-52 Dragon aircraft detected and attacked every SS-12 that rose out of the desert.
As it attacked each one, coordinates of the launch points were transmitted to U.S. Air Force B-2 Spirit stealth bombers orbiting over southern Libya and northern Chad. The coordinates of the launchers were instantly programmed into satellite-guided AGM-158A standoff missiles, which were launched from well over one hundred miles away within moments after the rockets were launched. Th
e missiles, called the Joint Air-to-Surface Standoff Missile, carried a one-thousand-pound high- explosive warhead and an infrared terminal seeker. The missile flew toward the rocket’s launch point, detected the red-hot launcher and support trucks with its heat-seeking terminal sensor, and destroyed them with pinpoint accuracy.
OVER SOUTHERN TRIPOLI, LIBYA
THAT SAME TIME
“Wait!” Tanaka shouted, pulling Wickland’s hand carefully away from the ejection handle. “That wasn’t the missile!” The fireball became a fat comet, arcing across the night sky. Seconds later, a second fireball appeared, this one spinning crazily across the horizon like a burning tumbleweed blown across a prairie. “What the hell... ?”
“Yo, Zero,” a voice came over the long-forgotten command radio channel. “Is that you out there?”
“Bud? Is that you?”
“Roger that,” John “Bud” Franken, at the command of the second, improved AL-52 Dragon aircraft, replied. “Looks like we got here right on time. What’s your status?”
“We’re short one engine and we have a few more holes now than we did at takeoff,” Tanaka said, “but we’re still flying. Can you clear our six for us so we can get the hell out of here?”
“Roger that,” Bud Franken replied. He turned to Lindsey Reeves in the mission commander’s seat. “You got them, Linds?”
Lindsey Reeves, Franken’s mission commander, checked her supercockpit display. The LADAR attack computer already highlighted the fighters for her—both of them were converging on the crippled Megafortress bomber. “Got ’em!” she crowed. “Nine o’clock, sixty miles, heading northeast at six hundred knots, one thousand feet a.g.l.”
“Let’s see what this baby can do,” Franken said. “Light ’em up, Linds.”
Reeves touched the MiGs’ icon on her display, then said, “Attack Dragon” into the voice-command computer.
“Attack commit Dragon, stop attack the attack computer responded. A few moments later, capacitors in the rear fuselage started receiving and storing power from the aircraft’s generators. At the same time, the deformable mirror turret in the nose unstowed and pointed itself at the Libyan fighters. When all of the capacitors reported full, the attack computer reported, “Laser ready”
“Laser commit,” Lindsey said.
Franken flipped his consent switch. “Go get ’em, kiddo.” Lindsey did the same on her side.
“Laser commit, stop attack ” the computer reported.
The laser radar system tracked and measured the target, then also sampled the atmosphere at the target and sent corrective and focusing instructions to the deformable mirror. At the same instant, the capacitors in the rear of the aircraft started pumping massive waves of energy into the plasma generators. Four hundred diode lasers focused laser light onto the center of a small aluminum chamber, burning a pellet of deuterium-tritium fuel the size of a grain of sand, creating a ball of deuterium-tritium-enhanced gas. Confined and heated by the lasers and now weighing thousands of pounds, the superheated ball of gas quickly reached a temperature of one hundred million degrees Celsius—ten times hotter than the surface of the sun. At that temperature, the atoms of deuterium and tritium were blasted apart, creating a mixture of free electrons and ions—also known as plasma. The plasma field lasted for only a millionth of a second; three other plasma generators acted in series to generate an almost continuous wave of plasma energy.
Corralled and steered by a magnetic waveguide chamber, the plasma field, more powerful than all the nuclear explosions ever created but existing for only a few trillionths of a second, pounded into the laser generator chamber, where the massive pulse of energy excited thousands of glass disks containing neodymium, a rare earth element. The plasma energy stripped the neodymium atoms off the glass, creating an immensely powerful pulse of light. The light was reflected into the Faraday oscillator, which bounced the light back and forth between cooled mirrors until the light was in perfect synchronization, then fired it out into the laser waveguide. An amplifier intensified the beam even more, and spatial filters focused the beam down to a tiny spot, then expanded the beam to three feet in diameter, where it was projected onto the deformable mirror, then reflected into space.
In the cockpit, it was anticlimactic—there was no loud hum, no recoil, and no sound at all except for the faint vibration of the turret moving as it tracked the target. Lindsey did receive some warning indications dealing with the plasma generators. The plasma generators were in effect plasma-yield weapon warheads, capable of destroying all matter around it for hundreds of feet in all directions—the explosion was simply controlled and shortened into pulses contained by magnetic fields. They were setting off thousands of plasma-yield explosions every second in the back of the AL-52 aircraft—not exactly a safe or secure situation. The technology was very new, virtually untested, and in rough design stage only—they had few safety devices installed simply because they did not have enough information on what the really dangerous subsystems were. The whole system was a hazard.
But despite the warning messages, Lindsey let the laser sequence go—and in the next few seconds, history was made.
The laser beam that hit the first Libyan MiG-23 fighter was akin to a blowtorch against a stick of butter—the fighter’s fuselage was not merely melted, but vaporized at the same instant. The beam focused on the fattest section of the aircraft—the fuselage between the wings, containing the midbody fuel tank, the fighter’s largest fuel tank. The superheated metal ignited the three thousand gallons of vaporized jet fuel in the blink of an eye, creating a fireball over a mile in diameter that swallowed the fighter and sent burning clouds of fire spreading across the night sky like a man-made aurora borealis. The explosion was plainly visible from over one hundred and fifty miles away.
“Lost contact,” Lindsey said matter-of-factly, still monitoring the laser engagement on her supercockpit display.
“My God,” Bud Franken gasped, dropping his mask in surprise. “We did it. We nailed it.” He had to pull himself back into the present—he was astonished, thinking of the power of this incredible weapon. They were over sixty miles away from the target. In one instant, the image of the MiG-23 fighter, magnified by the laser’s telescope and deformable mirror, was sharp and clear—the next instant it was gone, lost in a ball of superheated gas. There was almost no debris—nothing except a wave of fire quickly dissipating in the sky. “Let’s tag that last fighter.”
“Attack target Dragon,” Lindsey repeated, touching the screen again. Seconds later the second MiG disappeared from their screens as well.
“Zero, this is Bud, splash two fighters,” Franken said. “Your tail is clear. Clear to head to the rendezvous point. We can cover you almost until you reach Israeli airspace.”
As they watched the EB-52 retreat to the northeast, to rendezvous with the DC-10 tanker for its refueling anchor, Reeves also monitored another aircraft—this one a small, slow one, flying at barely treetop level, across the sands toward southeast Tripoli. This aircraft was datalinking its threat receiver information to the AL-52 Dragon, and now a pop-up threat displayed itself on Lindsey’s supercockpit display. “The MV-22 has got an SA-10 at his twelve o’clock, thirty miles,” Franken said. “His signal is pretty strong—he’ll get within detection threshold in less than five miles.” On the command channel, he radioed, “Motorboat, this is Dragon, you’ve got a threat ahead that’s locking on you. Reverse course.”
“Can you tag him, Dragon?” the pilot of the MV-22 Pave Hammer tilt-rotor aircraft asked.
“Stand by,” Franken replied. He turned to his young mission commander. “Can you get him, Linds?”
“I’m slaving on him now,” Reeves said. She slaved the laser’s telescope to the threat location datalinked from the MV-22. “I got the command vehicle,” she said happily. She moved the target cursor from the radar dish itself to the command cab, located on the back of the same vehicle. “Let’s see what happens—
But before she could commit, thei
r threat receiver changed from a “SEARCH” warning to a “LOCK” warning and instantly to a “MISSILE LAUNCH” warning. “SA-10 in the air!” Reeves shouted.
“Reverse course, Motorboat,” Franken said. “Full countermeasures.” To Reeves he said, “Nab that sucker, Linds!” Lindsey Reeves had already switched from slaving mode to the laser radar, and the system instantly picked up the two incoming SA-10 missiles. “Got the SAMs,” she said. “Attack SA-10 missiles Dragon.”
“Warning, plasma generator number three not ready ” the computer spoke.
“What does that mean, ‘not ready’?” Franken asked. “We’ve gotten several warning messages from about a dozen different components of the laser,” Reeves said, “but I’ve bypassed them all. I think the plasma generator vessels are becoming too hot, both from the heat of the fusion reaction and the stray radiation leakage impregnating the aluminum. The magnetic fields can’t contain all the particles, and it weakens the reactor vessel.”
Franken checked the supercockpit display. “We’ve got no choice now, Linds,” he said. “If a reactor fails, we jettison it and we’re done for the day.”
“I agree,” Reeves said. To the computer she said, “Deactivate generator number three, reset warning, and attack Dragon.”
“Laser commit, stop attack,” the computer replied. “Caution, plasma generator number one overtemp, stop attack” Computer cautions did not require an override: Lindsey simply remained silent, and the computer processed the attack. Seconds later both SA-10 missiles were destroyed, and Reeves turned her attention back to the saved set of coordinates for the SA-10 command vehicle. “C’mon, baby,” she said. “Show me what you got.” The laser radar system couldn’t fully compensate for the massive atmospheric distortion caused by shooting down through the atmosphere—but this time, it didn’t need to. The plasma laser beam could only focus down to two feet in diameter—but with over two megawatts’ worth of power, it was enough. The laser instantly burned through the dielectric fiberglass panel covering the face of the phased array radar, melted several hundred emitter arrays underneath, then burned clear through the thin metal radar structure. The beam stayed on target long enough to weaken the steel supporting the radar, and the radar collapsed backward against the command cab, knocking the entire unit out of commission.
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