Liberia jtf-1

by David E. Meadows

  What the hell a cryptologist did, none of them knew. When asked, Alan always replied jokingly that he could tell them what he did, but then he was honor-bound to kill them. Or he could tell them a “wee bit about the dangerous world of Cryppies,” and then just beat the hell out of them.

  Nash smiled. It was unusual for four A-type personalities such as theirs to come together and work so closely as a team. Probably because none of them competed against each other for promotion and none of them were really in charge. Well, technically he was, but he seldom exercised that right.

  He glanced at the data-link monitor. Pauline was right. The scientists and other UFAV pilots would understand if they lost contact, but the naysayers at the Pentagon would jump on this as an example of a failed “leap ahead” technology. There was more riding on this than many knew.

  No, they had to maintain a line of sight between these mock-up cockpits strapped down in the hangar bay of the USS Boxer and those UFAVs boring holes in the sky. There was another relay capability they could use. It had had limited testing, but Nash knew it could work, but if he had to use it, it would be the first time in an operational environment. The Unmanned Fighter Aerial Vehicles were designed so that one of them could orbit at high altitude, allowing the others to link through it with their aircraft. This would allow the other UFAVs to operate at a lower, out-of-line-of-sight range. It was a fallback data link when satellite connectivity was unavailable, as it was here. It was also a power-projection capability to extend the range of a UFAV hundreds of miles inland. The downside—damn, there’s always a downside to everything—was crossing his fingers and hoping it worked outside of the controlled environment.

  “Deathhead Three,” he acknowledged. “Thanks for the reminder on the data link. Everyone keep an eye on those diagnostic lights. If you see anything that smacks of data-link interruption, tell the others. Talk to you after the intercept.”

  “Good luck, Nash,” Pauline said. Then she added, “Ensign, I hope you know what you’re doing. If you had spoken up when I asked, we could be flying as a team again. But nooooo, you had to keep quiet about our success—”

  “Good luck, Lieutenant,” Engine Ichmens interrupted. “I may be able to recall that dogfight later.”

  Nash heard the slight click as Pauline and Alan changed to channel one. The four pilots still had their own internal channels, but now they would only interrupt in the event something drastic happened.

  The left-side screen showed the edge of Ensign Ichmens’s UFAV nose cone entering the field of vision of the camera. Jurgen had joined up.

  “Good position, Jurgen.”

  “Deathhead Leader, Deathhead Four; come to course three-two-zero. Maintain altitude one-two-zero,” Petty Officer Turner said. “You will be coming in low and nose-on to approaching aircraft.”

  “Roger, Boxer,” Nash replied. He glanced at his altimeter. “Deathhead Four, climb two thousand to one-two-zero, maintain position on my left. Coming to course three-two-zero now.” He put the UFAV in a slight turn, correcting the course by a few degrees, and then pulled back on the stick, bringing the nose up. Motion on his left screen caught his attention. He watched for a brief moment as the nose of Jurgen’s UFAV reappeared and crept up until the Deathhead Four UFAV was flying alongside him in tight formation. Then Jurgen’s UFAV eased back as he assumed wingman position to Nash’s lead UFAV.

  “Boxer, Deathhead Leader; one-two-zero altitude, steady on course three-two-zero.”

  “Roger, Deathhead Formation. I hold bandit course one-four-zero, descending, passing two-five-zero. Intercept in five minutes.”

  Nash clicked his transmitter a couple of times, acknowledging the transmission. The French fighter was descending toward them, passing through twenty-five thousand feet.

  “Why do you think he’s descending, Lieutenant Shoemaker?”

  Nash pressed the private-line button. “No chatter, Jurgen.” Wasn’t the time for them to start a separate chat. Remain focused and let the AIC do his job.

  “Deathhead Formation, Boxer; Admiral Holman says intentions are to try to keep you out of visual of the French fighter as long as possible.”

  “Roger, understand.” Once the French saw they weren’t F- 14’s, then the dance of the titans would stop, freeing the French to do whatever they decided. It was inconceivable to Nash how the country directly responsible for America’s independence, and which America helped free in World War II, could reach the point where it felt threaten by America.

  He smiled, recalling Pauline’s response to such a question. “I mean, how can they be upset? Don’t we have French companies like Kentucky Fried Chicken, McDonald’s, and Disney World scattered all over America?”

  “Deathhead Formation, Boxer; come to course three-five-five. Maintain current altitude. You are on course toward Boxer task force, distance twenty nautical miles.”

  Nash reached up and touched the focus of the cameras on the UFAV. The ships should come in range shortly.

  “Deathhead Formation, Deathhead Formation,” Petty Officer Turner said urgently. “French fighter is not alone. Video return shows two fighters. I repeat, two fighters. They must have been riding close up, one over the other to fool the radar, but they have broken apart.”

  “Roger, understand, Petty Officer Turner. Where are they?” Nash asked, his head twisting as he searched his screens for any reflection or movement that would reveal the French fighters.

  “Yes, sir. I have them from you, bearing three-three-six, range twenty-five. Still descending, passing altitude two-two-zero. They may have you painted, sir.”

  Nash nodded. If the French aircraft radars had them painted, as radar operators say, then his electronic-warfare suite didn’t show it. “Seems to me, Petty Officer Turner, that those aircraft are intercepting us rather than us them. I think instead of us trying to make the task force, we should engage them. If nothing else, we can confuse them for a few more minutes. I believe the secret of this operational deception is to buy time.”

  “Roger, sir. Wait one.”

  Nash knew the young Air Intercept Controller was discussing the proposal with the officers in Combat. Most likely the admiral was up there, but at a minimum Captain Green or Captain Upmann would be there.

  “Deathhead Leader, come to course three-three-zero, ascend to altitude two-four-zero.”

  “Roger, Boxer. Understand.

  “Deathhead Four, this is Deathhead Leader. Turning your way, shipmate. Steady up on course three-three-zero, maintain wingman position, and follow me up. Appears we are going to force them to either follow us above the few clouds in the area, or give us the chance to attack them from above.”

  “Roger, tallyho!” Jurgen shouted, using aviator terminology that he was about to engage the enemy.

  “Deathhead Formation. Be advised, weapons free not authorized at this time.”

  * * *

  “Tallyho!” Holman said aloud. “Tell them they aren’t authorized to engage.”

  “Admiral, the French are on an intercept course to them!”

  “Yes, they are, Leo, but they are on an intercept course to two unmanned aerial vehicles.” He’d be damned if he was going to call them aircraft. “What am I going to do? Authorize the shoot-down of manned French fighter aircraft to protect unmanned aircraft? Can’t do it. Not yet. They’re still our allies.”

  “What do we do if they fire on them?”

  “They evade, they jam, they twist and turn, and avoid. But they don’t fire on those aircraft. They maneuver like real pilots know how to do.”

  “They can’t engage anyway, Admiral. They only have air-to-ground missiles on them.”

  “I thought they had guns.”

  Upmann’s eyebrows bunched. “They do, but I don’t think they are loaded,” he said, his voice trailing off.

  “Don’t think, Leo,” Holman said harshly. “Find out. If they’re armed, tell those pi1-operators to lock down their firing mechanism.” The last thing he wanted was to be respons
ible for setting an international precedence for UFAVs to shoot down manned aircraft. The United States had only used them against enemy forces to protect American lives. As much as Colbert pissed him off, being pissed off was not a good argument for following the rules of engagement that gave him permission to shoot down hostile aircraft.

  * * *

  “Roger, Boxer; we understand, but be advised our cannons aren’t loaded and we have air-to-surface missiles; not air-to-air. We can intercept and engage, but we have no defense. And if we should lose these two UFAVs, then you are limited to one UFAV to escort the Marines to Kingsville because the other one is going to have to act as a relay.”

  “Roger, I will pass this information to Commander W.”

  “Lieutenant, I have the Frenchmen visually,” Jurgen said. “They’re at our ten o’clock, below us about four thousand feet. I think they are circling for a left-to-right pass.”

  Nash looked where Jurgen said he saw the French fighters. A brief reflection of sunlight highlighted the French aircraft. The two were in a similar formation to his and Jurgen’s. A lead aircraft with a wingman slightly back on the left side. The two aircraft were in a turn that would carry them behind and beneath the two UFAVs.

  “Boxer, Deathhead Leader; we have visual on the bandits. Request permission to engage.”

  “Wait one.”

  * * *

  “Admiral, they have the French fighters and want permission to engage.”

  Holman bit his lower lip. Time was the key element here. “Where’s our landing force?”

  A few seconds passed. He walked the two steps to the holograph display. The lieutenant manning the console hit the “refresh” button. The holograph display simmered slightly for a couple of seconds. Icons moved as positions were updated. Four CH-53 helicopters followed by two Ospreys were reflected several miles from the coast. At a higher altitude, Pauline and Jurgen’s UFAVs followed. The display showed the two UFAVs closing the landing force formation. Northwest of the task force, two French fighters merged beneath the two UFAVs. The landing force should be safe. They would cross the shore in the next couple of minutes. Northwest of Joint Task Force Liberia, three French Super Etendards orbited in a standard racetrack combat-air-patrol formation.

  “Permission denied. Divert the two UFAVs away from the French fighters and head them toward Kingsville to help the landing force.”

  * * *

  “Deathhead formation, Boxer; permission denied. Turn to course one-six-zero. Maintain altitude. New mission is to join support elements for evacuation operation.”

  The front of Nash’s screen blacked out for a moment as a French Super Etendard blew past it, heading up with afterburner on. The view on the screens bounced as turbulence knocked the smaller UFAV around in the air. The stick shook in his hand. The altimeter showed him losing altitude. He glanced at the screen to his left, afraid for a moment he and Jurgen’s UFAVs would collide. Nothing there but a few clouds zooming past him.

  “Too late, Boxer. Just been buzzed by one of the bandits. They know we’re here.”

  * * *

  “Means the French know we have no aircraft carrier and no Tomcats,” Holman said, biting his lip lightly.

  “May still take them some time to figure it out, Admiral.” Leo Upmann glanced at his watch. “They may be having their lunch. By the time the French pilots relay their information back, the operations people interpret it. Pull straws to see who has the pleasure of taking the news to their pompous French admiral — it could be ten to twenty more minutes.”

  “If that’s true, then they are less professional than I have known the French to be. We have to assume they have figured it out.”

  “Aye, sir. We have ordered the UFAVs south to join the landing force.”

  “Ma’am,” the Air Search Radar operator said to Commander Stephanie Wlazinierz. “The three French fighters to our northwest have left pattern and are now on intercept course toward the landing-force formation.”

  Holman looked at Leo, who shrugged his shoulders. “Guess I was wrong. We got those three up north and two to our southwest. Those two southwest of us are nearer the landing force if they decide to head that way. I would suggest, Admiral, we need to keep them occupied. Those three heading on intercept course with the landing force won’t reach them before they pass over the coast. It’ll be hard to track them with that mess of jungle and rain forest cluttering up their radar capability. Those southwest of us, though, could be on top within five minutes. I recommend we treat them as hostiles, Admiral. Have Lieutenant Shoemaker and his wingman engage them.”

  Holman shook his head. He patted his shirt pocket like a security blanket. “We could.” He nodded. “Okay, Captain Upmann, they have permission to engage, but do not have ‘weapons free’ authority. Unless the French fire on our landing force, I will not authorize unmanned vehicles to return fire regardless of what those French pilots do.”

  “Sir, they have nothing to fire,” Upmann said, referring to the UFAVs

  “Bullshit, Leo. If I was a pilot and got jumped by an enemy and all I had were air-to-ground missiles, I would fire them just to keep them confused and pray for a lucky hit. Thank God they don’t have their cannons loaded.”

  * * *

  “Jurgen, you okay?”

  “Roger, Lieutenant. I have you slightly above me and to my right.”

  “Where are they?”

  As if listening on their private line, Petty Officer Turner spoke. “Deathhead Formation. You may engage, but with weapons tight. You are not authorized to fire even if fired upon.”

  “Let ourselves get shot down?”

  “Sir, your orders are to engage and keep them occupied while our forces continue toward Kingsville.”

  “But—” Jurgen broke in.

  “Roger, understand. Doesn’t really matter since we only have air-to-ground missiles on board,” Nash said, interrupting his wingman.

  “Deathhead Four, switch to tactical channel twenty-two. Your controller will be Chief Petty Officer Cooper. Deathhead Leader, remain this channel.”

  “Roger,” Ensign Jurgen Ichmens said.

  A click followed almost immediately. Nash reached up, moved his helmet slightly, and ran his handkerchief across his forehead. They were separating the UFAVs for the engagement.

  “Turner, tell the boss up there to get the other UFAV ready for launch!” Nash said urgently. “If we lose one of these, we can reconfigure—”

  “Deathhead Leader, come right NOW! Descend immediately two-zero-zero!” Petty Officer Turner shouted.

  Nash shoved the stick down and to the right, putting the UFAV into a spiral spin. Déjà vu thoughts from the incident in North Carolina crossed his mind. He looked at the G-force meter: ten Gs. Nash eased back on the stick. The UFAV started to vibrate, shock waves transmitted back through the data link to the controls of the mock-up cockpit. He jerked his head to the left and saw the underside of the French fighter as it passed. That was close.

  Nash pulled the stick to the right and brought the nose up.

  “Contact two miles, separation one thousand feet, right-hand turn.”

  He’s coming around for another pass. Nash wondered briefly if the fighter had fired on him. He bit his lower lip. As long as the French fighter used cannon, the only sign the UFAV was being fired upon would be him seeing flashes from the cannon or the UFAV being hit. Otherwise, it was practically impossible for him to know.

  Well, a manned fighter could take a few Gs. The UFAV was capable of much more. At least, it was supposed to be capable of more. The crash in North Carolina had reduced Nash’s confidence slightly in the turn capability of the Unmanned Fighter Aerial Vehicles. He pulled the stick back and watched the heads-up display on the front screen while he glanced at the G meter: 13–14—15—16—the controls began to vibrate. He eased back, bringing the G meter to 12.

  “Fire-control-radar switch on.”

  A second passed before Petty Officer Turner spoke. “Deathhead Leader
, turn off fire-control radar, sir. You are authorized to use air-search mode only.”

  “Air-search mode only! If I don’t use the fire-control mode, Turner, I won’t be able to engage him at close range. It’ll all be smear because he’ll be inside the minimum range.”

  “Yes, sir, I know. Orders are no fire-control radar.”

  “I’m in a slight spiral, heading down toward the sea. I have a fighter on my tail. They won’t let me turn on my fire-control radar so I can have a better look at what I am fighting.”

  “That’s because we’re not being allowed to fight!”

  * * *

  “Okay, Alan, push that fighter of yours a little farther out. You’re making me nervous being this close,” Pauline told Jurgen.

  “Roger, madam.”

  “Quit that. Makes me either sound old or a manager of a whorehouse.”

  “Let me see — old or manager of a lively business establishment? Decisions, decisions, decisions. I don’t think you’d do good ‘old.’”

  “I think you’re doing that on purpose.”

  “Deathhead Two, Boxer; you should be able to see the helicopters, Lieutenant,” Petty Officer Watts said. “They should be below you at six thousand feet at your three o’clock.”

  Pauline leaned toward her screen as if she could look below the frame. She searched the view, knowing a movement or flash of sunlight off the helicopters would catch her attention. There it was!

  “Got them, Watts. Alan, you see them?”

  “Yeah. Got ’em.”

  “Deathhead Formation, descend to seven thousand. Come to course zero-eight-five.”

  “Follow me, Alan. Keep wingman position.” Pauline pushed the stick forward and slightly to the right. The front view shifted as the UFAV turned right and began to descend. She turned her head left for a moment, and saw Valverde’s aircraft maintaining the same distance and position. He was good. Had to give him that.

  The digital readout on the altimeter sped by. Too fast. She pulled up slightly on the stick to slow the descent. A quick glance showed that her wingman had adjusted his descent automatically to compensate for the change.