A short time later, Charlie Flight passed over the squadron revetments on their way to the ordnance pads to the north of the squadron area. There were five attack craft set in the 22nd Squadron’s row. The pilots and copilots from Charlie could see maintenance crew swarming over the craft.
“With Your Name Here down and those five out of action the squadron’s down to ten AC’s,” Hokstra said.
“That means more work for us,” Pete said. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I didn’t have anything else planned for today.”
Hokstra laughed. “Nor did I.”
Tower Control directed the flight to set down near the big ordnance movers that would trundle their way from craft to craft, rearming or refitting each as was necessary.
Once Ticket Puncher was on the ground, Welsh began shut down procedures. He knew it would be at least an hour and a half before the squadron would resume operations.
Welsh retracted the canopy, and once it locked open he could hear the sound of a lift powering its way up beside his craft.
“Not a scratch on her,” came a voice from below. It was Sergeant Chen.
Welsh detached the seat straps and leaned over the side of the cockpit. “You were expecting damage, chief?” he said with a smile.
“I wouldn’t be waiting over here for you if I did, sir,” Chen replied as the lift stopped its climb. “Same weapons load?”
“Yes. The Pythans have SAM vehicles by the way.”
Chen smiled. “I’ll tell Ordnance. You’re going hunting, right, LT?”
Pete nodded. “If they’ll let me.”
“Best bird, best pilot, and SAMs are the biggest threat to attack craft, sir. They’ll use you, unless the ground attack goes wrong.”
“It was just getting started, but the Land Forces will do fine.”
“Let’s get you out of there and on the ground, LT.”
-(o)-
“They tell me we’ll be ready to go in fifteen or twenty minutes,” LTC Brooks said to the 22nd Squadron crew gathered in a small building near the ordnance pad. “We will continue our support of Land Forces, except for Lieutenant Welsh and a volunteer crew. They’ll be hunting SAM launchers.”
A hand went up immediately.
Brooks pointed at the pilot. “Bolan. The job’s yours.”
“What if I was just going to ask a question, sir,” Bolan said with a smile. His comment made most of the people in the room laugh.
“Too late,” Brooks said returning the smile. “It appears the launchers are in sector five, somewhere beyond the third phase line. An AC from the Thirty-Fourth made a pass to try and locate the vehicles, but was chased away by ground fire and shoulder-fired missiles. We should have satellite surveillance shots of the area you can upload before we take off. Land Forces has artillery assets pounding the area trying to make things uncomfortable for them. Notify the artillery when you move into the sector so they can shift fire, clear?”
-(o)-
Twelve attack craft from the 22nd flew in formation to sector five, coming in from behind the advancing Land Forces units pushing to the east. Two of the damaged AC’s from the earlier mission had been repaired in time to make the second round.
As they flew over the wooded area that had been fought over two hours earlier, they could see the Coalition ground units more than two kilometers ahead approaching a ridge that marked the second phase line. The advance was ahead of schedule.
“Welsh, Bolan, break off and find those SAMs,” LTC Brooks ordered. “Use teamwork and watch each other’s tails. We’re short enough on AC’s as it is. Good hunting.”
Welsh broke to the left, Bolan flying to his echelon right. The area where the SAM launchers were operating was a hill with heavy tree cover, and the pair intended to close on the terrain feature at low altitude.
“Approximately thirty seconds to the hill,” Frigo said. “I’ll notify the artillery we’re going in.”
“Roger. I’d bet the Pythans are hiding on the backside of the hill when they’re not actively firing on Coalition vehicles,” Welsh said.
“You’ll get no takers on that,” Bolan replied. “They’re likely reloading back there as well.”
“If we can get close enough for thermal scans maybe we can pin down where that is,” Pete said. “No reloads, no more SAM launches.”
“That sounds like a nice idea, but who are we gonna find stupid enough to do that?” Bolan said.
“I only see two attack craft here,” Frigo said. “That kinda limits our choices. I vote not us.”
Pete laughed quietly as he eyed up the hill.
“Let’s orbit the hill,” he said. “We can use beam fire to support each other when the missiles start flying, and you know there will be a lot of them.”
“Roger,” Bolan replied. “We’re ready when you are.”
“No time like the present,” Pete said. “Going up.”
Pete pulled the nose up and vectored thrust to maximize his climb rate. He shot from treetop level to an altitude that allowed him to look down on the hill in no time.
He smiled. That’ll startle the hell out of them, he thought.
Shoulder-fired missiles flew from the trees, tracking him.
“Or not,” he said to himself.
The missiles turned in pursuit as Welsh arced around the hill, but he wasn’t concerned, the shoulder-fired missiles were short-ranged and he was far enough away and going fast enough that they were no danger to him.
A plume of flame and smoke erupted from the trees below, and from the plume came a larger missile fired from a SAM vehicle.
“SAM, eight o’clock!” Frigo said.
“Got it,” Pete replied. “I can designate if you fire now,” he said calculating the time and distance of the weapons involved and the two attack craft.
The SAM was a far more formidable threat than its shoulder-fired cousins were. It was faster, longer-ranged, more difficult to decoy, and carried a far more powerful warhead.
“Firing four missiles,” Bolan said.
Pete could hear the sound of the missiles blasting from their recoilless launchers in the background of Bolan’s broadcast. “Roger,” he responded.
Seven seconds until I light up the launcher with the designator beam. Seven seconds to find it and kill the SAM before it gets close enough to hurt me, flashed through his mind.
Pete could see Bolan’s missiles cutting through the air, flying in the general direction of the site where the missile emerged from the trees. He zoomed in on the hill with the magnifying optics Sergeant Chen had installed on the port side, seeking the launch vehicle.
At the same time, Pete was swiveling the lower beam into a position to fire on the closing SAM. His sensors showed him that the Pythans were firing dazzlers at the missiles.
At the edge of his field of vision Pete caught movement, a Pythan tracked vehicle with three SAMs on board cutting down a path under the trees.
Kill the SAM first, then designate, he thought.
Two shots from the beam tore through the missile, damaging it enough to cause it to break apart into pieces both large and small.
The SAM track disappeared under the tree canopy as Pete activated the designator beam.
Best guess, you got one second, he thought.
He moved the beam down the hill, hoping the SAM track continued its last seen course of travel.
The explosion that blasted from the hillside revealed he had guessed right.
“SAM tracks, that’s what we’re dealing with,” Pete said. “Good kill.”
The two attack craft continued their orbits around the hill looking for any sign of where the Pythan forces might be, maintaining the spacing that kept them on opposite sides of the circle so they could support one another.
Several circuits revealed nothing.
“We need to get lower,” Pete said.
“I know,” Bolan replied. “That’s going to get us within auto cannon and shoulder-fired missile range.”
; “True. Fly erratically and hope random fire doesn’t tag you. Going down.”
Pete nosed down and descended. As he did shoulder-fired missiles began flying from the trees. He jinked upwards then banked to port to bring both beam guns to bear on the missiles and pecked away at them. His maneuver brought him in close to the hillside and as he altered course and banked to starboard he caught a glimpse of another SAM track parked in a draw near the top of the hill. He pulled away from the hill and the SAM track fired a brace of missiles, then it pulled from the draw seeking concealment under the tree cover.
Pete pulled hard starboard, ignoring the missiles for now, bringing his mag gun into play. He fired a half dozen armor-piercing rounds, seeing at least one hit spark off the side of the track. He nosed down and banked to port, noting that several shoulder-fired missiles had joined the hunt. A quick glance at his rear sensor display showed him the SAM track was stationary, but its sensors were locked onto him and the missiles were closing.
“Robbo, SAM track. Sending coordinates. I immobilized it, but it’s still kicking. Its missiles are tracking on me, so you don’t have to worry about that at least,” Pete blurted as fast as he could.
Bolan climbed for altitude while Frigo sought the SAM track with sensors.
Welsh climbed as well, dropping flector chaff, which was plylar and metallic strips, ultrafine strands of wire, and powdered metal, all to reflect and baffle locator and tracking beams on the missile and launcher.
He altered course, trying to keep the cloud of chaff between himself and the missiles. His sensors showed him it worked, but the missiles reacquired him almost immediately.
The damned Pythan missile crew toggled to heat seeking, he thought. He altered course and brought both beams to bear, watching the SAMs alter course to match. In the background, he saw Bolan firing on the SAM track.
“Missiles away, aiming optically,” Frigo announced.
The shoulder-fired missiles were spent and had fallen away, but Pete had the SAMs closing straight at him.
An easy shot, passed through his mind as he fired the beams. The lead missile exploded and the second missile was torn into shreds when it flew into the debris cloud of the first.
“SAMs!” Frigo said. “Fired from the north side of the hill. we’re going evasive.”
Welsh brought Ticket Puncher about, seeking Bolan’s location on his craft’s sensors and with his eyes.
Bolan was on the deck and headed down the hill turning to the south with a pair of SAMs closing from the north. Pete could tell what Bolan’s plan was: he would arc around until he could use the hill and countermeasures to try and break the lock the missiles had on his craft; hope Frigo could kill the missiles with beam guns; or get blown up; whichever came first.
Shoulder-fired missiles joined the hunt and tracers from auto cannons streaked past Bolan’s bird.
Pete grimaced. He was out of beam gun range and there was nothing he could do to help his friend.
“The ammo dump, the ammo dump! We just passed over it! Got it on thermals,” Frigo said. The excitement in her voice belied the precarious position she and Bolan were in. “Sending coordinates.”
Within seconds, Pete’s map display blinked the location of the ammo dump.
“We’re hit!” Bolan said. “Auto cannons and—ing—ountermeasures—still there. —munications—We—”
Welsh tried to adjust his communications system, even though he knew it was not a problem on his end. He saw Bolan’s bird going over the southern edge of the hill, sunlight glinting off the clouds of flector chaff as one SAM and several shoulder-fired missiles pursued. Auto cannon tracers crisscrossed in the air and heat flares dropped from Bolan’s craft glowed brightly in an effort to draw missiles away as Bolan and Frigo disappeared from sight.
Welsh bared his teeth and growled in anger as he arced Ticket Puncher around to bring the port side to bear on the ammo dump. A quick call to MFC informed them that there was a good chance Bolan’s crate was down.
The ammo dump goes down, then the SAM track, he thought.
Welsh went over the target high, staying out of auto cannon and shoulder-fired missile range. There was nothing the Pythans could do to counter his unguided missiles, unless they can pack it all up and move it before the warheads explode, he thought.
Welsh fired sixteen of his thirty-two missiles, firing them in fours, targeting points throughout the area Bolan and Frigo had marked.
In the short time it took the missiles to cover the distance, Welsh altered course slightly, swinging north on the prowl for the SAM track that had fired at his squadron mates.
The ammunition dump exploded. At first, it was Welsh’s sixteen warheads and a few sympathetic explosions, then the rest of the dump went in a near instantaneous cascade of destruction. The shockwave leveled acres of trees on the hillside and jarred Ticket Puncher savagely enough to make Pete wince. The smoke billowed high above the hilltop, visible for a considerable distance, even to those on the opposite side of the hill.
Welsh had a general idea of where the SAM track might be based on where the smoke trail originated. He flew with his port side low to get maximum use of his sensors and scanners.
“Drake-Two-One-Niner, this is MFC,” sounded in his helmet, shaking him from his concentration.
“MFC, Two-One-Niner.”
“Two-One-Niner, we have an infantry unit cut off in sector five, can you assist?”
“Roger, send coordinates.” Revenge can wait.
“Two-One-Niner, sent. Will advise unit. Unit will have friendly forces indicators activated. By the way, is the giant explosion and smoke column your doing?”
“MFC, roger. Any word on Drake-Four-Zero-Two?” he asked giving Bolan’s identifier.
“Negative, Two-One-Niner.”
“Roger,” Welsh said with disappointment. “Will advise when on station, out.”
Welsh leveled off and picked up the pace. As he came around the hillside he scanned his commo codes, double checking he was given the right codes for the infantry unit he was to assist. He didn’t want to find he had the wrong codes once he was actually engaging Pythan units.
A sensor notification pinged in his ear. A quick mental scan told him it was the SAM track. On his present course, he would pass right over it.
Pete threw Ticket Puncher over on its port side and sought a visual lock on the target. His sensors detected the SAM track locking him up. As he passed overhead, he fired a pair of missiles. He could see the turret on the SAM track rotating, its missiles pointed directly at him.
Welsh leveled out once again and sought the location of the infantry unit while keeping tabs on the launcher behind him.
A missile lock warning sounded, then the SAM track exploded. Another lock warning sounded as a SAM leapt from the smoke of the destroyed vehicle. Shoulder-fired missiles flew toward him from the south.
Welsh had a head start on the SAMs, enough that they were beyond the range of his beam guns. He increased his speed and angled his course northward. He would need to come to port to get an angle on the largest Pythan force that was pressuring the Coalition infantry unit from the east. His course would also buy him more time before he would have to deal with the SAMs.
Welsh set his communications to the infantry unit’s frequency and scanned the data MFC had sent to him to further his understanding of the tactical situation ahead.
The infantry unit was from the 3rd battalion, 81st Regiment, First Brigade, of the 63rd Division, the same battalion Welsh ended up with after his last shoot down. The unit, Delta Company, was sent to expel Pythan forces from a position at the approach to the hill Welsh had been attacking. Delta was successful, but heavy Pythan mortar fire had prevented units on either side from advancing and pinned the company down. A subsequent counterattack by the Pythans left Delta surrounded. Land Forces artillery was unable to bring fire on the closest enemy units because of their close proximity to the company, but they were dropping interdiction fire to the east to prevent
Pythan reinforcements from moving up.
“Eden-Four-Two, this is Drake-Two-One-Niner. I understand you could use a little air power,” Welsh said.
“Drake-Two-One-Niner, Eden-Four-Two. Roger that. How close can you bring support?” the infantry commander replied. Large volumes of small arms fire rattled in the background.
“As close as you want, Four-Two.”
“Two-One-Niner, we have a designator, what ordnance do you have?”
“Non-guided HE missiles and a mag gun, Four-Two. HE and armor piercing rounds available.”
“Non-guided? I don’t know how I feel about that.”
“I’m a NIVO. I’ll get the job done.”
“A NIVO? That’s all you had to say, Two-One-Niner. We have a roughly oval perimeter. The biggest threat is from the east, but the Pythans west of us are trouble as well. We have friendly forces indicators at points around the perimeter. Just tell us when to duck.”
Pete smiled. “Will do. Be there in thirty seconds.”
Using his magnifying optics he looked over the area where the infantry company fought for survival. It was as the MFC information and the infantry commander had illustrated, except for a small group of forty or fifty Pythan soldiers moving in from the east. Welsh surmised they had made their through the artillery barrage despite the danger in an effort to reinforce their comrades.
How to deal with all this? he thought.
Problem: SAMs closing, coming within beam range in a few seconds. Three infantry targets, two east, one west, passed through his mind in a flash as things outside the cockpit seemed to slow to a crawl.
It was a matter of priorities and time. Did he have time to target the SAMs, the Pythan infantry to the east and west, and the infantry reinforcements moving up? That was the question, the equation that needed a solution. He processed all he knew and came to a conclusion: yes, if he did everything right and nothing new and detrimental arose to alter or blunt his current actions.
He factored the timing, the weapons available to him, the distance, the positions, the speeds, and formed his modes and order of action. Just then his sensors let him see that it was all for naught. Shoulder-fired missiles were closing, and if he intended to accomplish his mission and survive, he must now trust that luck was on his side, and luck was not a thing his brain or neural interface system could account for.
Conflict: The Pythan War, Invasion Page 32