Satan's Tail d-7

by Dale Brown

2250

  The Ethiopian pilot repeated his warning: The aircraft must identify itself or be considered hostile and be shot down.

  Breanna bristled. Baker-Baker Two's belly was loaded with Piranha guidance buoys; she had no offensive weapons. If the Ethiopian MiG fired, all she would be able to do was duck.

  "Computer has weapons ID'd as AA-12 Adders," said Spiderman, referring to the NATO designation of the antiair missiles the lead aircraft was packing. Known in Russia as the R-77, the missile was commonly referred to as the "AM-RAAMski." It had an effective range of perhaps one hundred kilometers; when it came within twenty kilometers of its target, it turned on an active radar guidance system that was difficult to break. The aircraft probably also carried R-73s, known in the West as AA-11s. These were shorter range heat-seeking weapons, mean suckers in a knife fight.

  "Radar is locked," warned the copilot. "They're firing at us!"

  "Countermeasures. Hold on everyone — this may get ugly."

  Aboard the Wisconsin,

  over the Gulf of Aden

  2252

  "They're firing at them!" warned McNamara.

  Dog already had the throttle at the last stop, but leaned on the slider anyway.

  "They're taking evasive action," said McNamara, monitoring the radar at the copilot station. "ECMs, ducking away. The Ethiopians split into twos, Colonel — looks like they're trying to get them from both sides."

  "Prepare our Scorpions," he told him. "Zen, the Ethiopians have opened fire. Two AA-12 Adders have been launched."

  "Flighthawk leader," said Zen. "Still zero-five from intercept on the southernmost group."

  Aboard Baker-Baker Two,

  over the Gulf of Aden

  2253

  The Megafortress rolled on her left wing, pirouetting in the air as a cloud of metal chaff blossomed above her, an enticing target for the Russian-made air-to-air missile. Between the decoy and the electronic fuzz broadcast by Baker-Baker Two's electronic countermeasures, Breanna had no doubt she would avoid the enemy missile. She was concerned about the follow-up attack. The lead MiG had swung sharply east and then cut north, undoubtedly hoping to swing back around while her attention was on his wing-man's missiles. At the same time, he dove closer to the waves, hoping to go so low that her radar couldn't find him. If his maneuvers succeeded, he'd end up behind her, in perfect position to fire his closer-range heat seekers. Meanwhile, the second element of MiGs would close from the south, preventing her from running away.

  The tactics would have been effective against another aircraft, but the Megafortress's radar had no trouble keeping track of the enemy plane's position, and unlike other aircraft, it had a stinger in its tail — literally.

  As the first AMRAAMski sucked the decoy and exploded a mile and a half away, the MiG began accelerating, trying to close the gap between them.

  "Stinger air mines," Breanna told her copilot.

  "Stinger is up," said Spiderman.

  "He's closing. Firing two heat seekers!"

  "Relax, Spiderman, I've done this before," said Breanna. The Russian-made missiles had been fired from roughly five miles away, too far to guarantee a hit against any aircraft, let alone the Megafortress. Breanna waited a beat, then tossed flares out as decoys and tucked hard right. But rather than cutting into a sharp zigzag and losing her pursuer, she stayed with the turn, inviting the MiG to close and take another shot. A cue in her heads-up display warned her that he had switched to his gun radar, but he was not yet in range. Bre-anna started a cut back, again just enough to keep her quarry thinking that he was the hunter. "Firing," warned Spiderman.

  "Boy, he is a slow learner," said Breanna. The MiG was roughly three and a half miles off, too far for his bullets to strike the Megafortress.

  "Two more contacts closing," warned Spiderman.

  "Hang in there," said Breanna. She nudged left, lining her adversary up. "Stinger ready?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "Now!" she told the copilot, slamming the throttles and using the Megafortress's control surfaces as air brakes to dramatically lower her airspeed. The Stinger air mines exploded practically in the face of the following MiG pilot. By the time he realized what was going on, his Tumansky turbojet had sucked in enough tungsten to open a salvage yard — which was about all his jet was useful for.

  "He's down! He's ejecting!" shouted Spiderman. "Way to go, Captain!"

  Breanna's answer was to sleek her wings and mash the throttle back to military power, then tuck the Megafortress into a roll — two more radar-guided missiles were headed their way.

  Aboard the Wisconsin,

  over the Gulf of Aden

  2255

  Zen cursed as the missile flared beneath the wing of the MiG-21 closest to the Flighthawk — he hadn't quite made it in time.

  "Weapon is an AA-12," said the computer. "Target is Baker-Baker Two. Hawk One remains undetected. Time to target engagement, thirty seconds."

  Zen leaned forward as he flew, keeping an even pressure on the joystick controlling the Flighthawk, referred to as Hawk One by the computer. He couldn't worry about the missile now, even though it had been aimed at an aircraft flown by his wife; he had to concentrate on the MiG, three miles dead ahead of him.

  Or rather, dead ahead of the Flighthawk. He was nearly twenty miles to the southeast. But when he flew the robot, it was as if he were sitting in its nose, rushing toward the enemy plane.

  The rectangular aiming cue in his main screen began blinking yellow, indicating that he was approaching firing range. He nudged left slightly, putting the MiG's tailpipe in the middle of the screen, which was actually a holographic projection in the visor of his helmet. The aiming cue turned solid red; Zen waited another second, then pressed the trigger. A dotted black line appeared in front of the Flighthawk. Zen nudged the stick left, pushing the line through the rear tail plane and then up through the wing of his target. The MiG's right wing flipped upward, then pushed hard down. Black smoke appeared at the center of the Ethiopian plane, and then the aircraft veered right.

  Zen didn't bother to follow. He tucked left, hunting for a second target.

  Aboard Baker-Baker Two,

  over the Gulf of Aden

  2256

  Breanna had no trouble ducking the first air-to-air missile; she could actually see it in the enhanced view screen. But the second AA-12 managed to get almost under the Megafortress's wings and exploded close enough for her to feel the rumble. The emergency light panel lit immediately; even without checking, she could tell she'd taken a hit in engine three.

  "Three's losing oil!" said Spiderman.

  "Roger that. Let's shut her down. Compensate."

  Breanna checked her position as the copilot took the engine offline. They were seventy-five miles north of the So-malian coast, at only three thousand feet. The closest MiG was five miles to the south, running away.

  "Trimming," said Spiderman.

  The two pilots worked together for several minutes, adjusting the power settings in the remaining engines and fine-tuning the flight-control surfaces to compensate for the loss of the engine. The computer actually did most of the work, computing the complex forces acting on the airplane and suggesting solutions that would allow it to function nearly as well as if it had all four power plants — or as the flight control computer calculated, "eighty-five percent efficiency."

  "MiGs have broken off and are heading back toward their base," said the radar operator.

  "Acknowledged," said Breanna. "Commander Delaford?"

  "We're here."

  "How's Piranha?"

  "On course and on schedule."

  "We'll drop the second control buoy in zero-five minutes," said Breanna. "Everybody catch your breath."

  Aboard the Wisconsin,

  over the Gulf of Aden

  2256

  Zen pressed the throttle slider to maximum power, closing on the Ethiopian MiG. The other aircraft had fired its last missile and cut south toward home, inadvertently turning in the di
rection of the Flighthawk, which apparently had not been picked up by its radar.

  Zen's screen flashed yellow.

  "Flighthawk leader, the MiGs have broken off contact and are returning to base," said Dog. "They're no longer a threat."

  Zen's finger jammed against the throttle, urging the robot plane closer. His screen went to red, but he knew he didn't have a perfect shot yet, despite what the computer said. He nudged slightly to the right, willing the enemy tailpipe into the cue.

  "Flighthawk leader, break contact," said Dog.

  He could squeeze the trigger now and splash the bastard. Zen wanted to — there was no reason, in his opinion, to let any of the Ethiopians escape.

  "Zen?"

  "Flighthawk leader," said Zen, pulling off.

  * * *

  Dog nudged Wisconsin closer to the other Megafortress. The starlight video camera — it worked by magnifying the available light, which in this case was primarily from the moon rather than the stars — showed some nicks in the rear housing of engine three. The wing, however, looked undamaged, which jibed with what Breanna had said.

  "I think your damage is confined to that wing," he told her. "What's your assessment?"

  "I continue with my mission as directed. I have another buoy ready to go. I've already talked to Greasy Hands back at Dreamland. They'll have a replacement engine tuned and waiting at Khamis Mushait when we land."

  "Where did the chief steal that?" asked Dog. Greasy Hands was the top NCO and unofficial godfather of the Dreamland technical crew, or "maintainers," the men and women who kept the aircraft aloft. He knew more about the planes than the people who designed them.

  "He had two shipped in from Dreamland with the ground crew," said Breanna. "Depending on the damage to the skin, he claims the plane will be ready for its next flight. I tend to agree with him. We've flown with much worse. I can deal with it."

  "All right," said Dog. "Launch the control buoy. We'll continue to monitor. Did you track the Ethiopian pilots who bailed out?"

  "We have global positioning coordinates on one, and an approximate location on the other chute," said Breanna. "What do you want to do?"

  If the MV-22 had been in Saudi Arabia, Dog would have ordered Danny Freah to recover them so they could be questioned. Since that wasn't possible, his options were limited. He could alert Xray Pop, but the squadron already had its hands full and was unlikely to be in a position to mount a rescue much before dawn, if then. As a humanitarian gesture, Dog probably ought to alert the authorities in Djibouti, which was about fifty miles from the crash site.

  Should he show mercy to a man who had tried to kill his people?

  "Give me the location," said Dog. "We'll see if we can reach someone to pick them up."

  IV

  My Way or No Way

  Aboard the Abner Read,

  Gulf of Aden

  7 November 1997

  0800

  Storm watched the rigid hull inflatable boat pull into the landing area at the stern of Abner Read. Two more bodies had been recovered from the destroyed freighter, which had sunk during the night. Three men had not yet been recovered.

  He would get the bastards for this. He would get them and he would see personally that they paid.

  As for Bastian…

  "Captain?"

  Storm ignored the seaman who had approached him, snapping to attention and bringing his hand up in a stiff salute as one of his dead sailors was lifted from the boat. A light rain made the work all the more grim; several members of the party helping recover the remains slipped on the wet deck as they carried their fallen comrades about the destroyer. They struggled to hold the dead bodies up off the deck until they reached the litters that had been laid out for them, determined to spare them one final indignity. Only when the last body was laid down did Storm turn and give the seaman his attention.

  "Sorry, sir," said the sailor.

  Storm noted that the man's eyes were welled with tears. "They'll be avenged," Storm told him. "We'll have justice." The young man nodded. "What did you want to tell me?"

  "Commander Eisenberg sent me to tell you that Communications has that transmission you needed," said the young man. "He also said to mention that your communications unit has given out, sir. He can hear you but apparently you can't hear him."

  Storm looked down at his belt. Somewhere during the long night he had pulled the wires of the unit out and broken part of the connection. The sailor was holding a replacement unit.

  "Thanks," said Storm. "I'll take the transmission in my cabin."

  As he walked to his quarters, he pulled the old com unit off his head. Some of his blood had scabbed under the unit, and he winced as he pulled it off. Not much pain, he thought; just enough to remind him he was alive.

  Admiral Johnson's face filled the screen when he flipped on the secure communications line. Storm told him what had happened; for once the admiral listened without comment.

  "There were three patrol boats that fled the scene," Storm told him. "The Dreamland team tracked them to a harbor in Somalia, then lost them when a group of Ethiopians showed up. They had time to shoot down two planes, but they couldn't lift a finger to help us."

  "Did the Dreamland people understand what was at stake here?" asked Johnson.

  "Admiral, I can't begin to understand or speak for what was going on in their minds. I requested that they engage the boats and they refused. As for the Ethiopians — I think if we don't put our foot down, things are going to get a lot worse over here."

  "Bastian thinks he's the Lone Ranger," said Johnson. "He's not used to being part of a team."

  Finally, thought Storm, he and Admiral Johnson actually agreed on something.

  "Have you recovered your dead?" asked Johnson.

  "We're working on it. We will accomplish that. I've taken temporary command as captain of the ship as well as the task group. It seemed the most expedient and efficient way to proceed."

  Johnson didn't argue, and Storm didn't give him the chance, pushing on quickly.

  "We will accomplish the rest of the mission, sir." "You damn well better." "I intend to, Admiral."

  The screen blanked. Storm reached to turn it off, but the voice of a communications specialist aboard the admiral's flagship stopped him.

  "Captain Gale, Captain McGowan requests to speak to you, sir."

  "Put him on."

  The screen flashed. Captain Red McGowan, his face tired and drawn, appeared on the screen.

  "Sorry for your troubles," said Red. "Sorry to hear your men were lost."

  "Thanks, Red."

  "Marcum too?"

  "I'm sorry to say, yes."

  "Bastards."

  "I hate those mothers."

  Storm released a string of curses. His friend nodded as he continued, making no effort to calm him as he vented.

  "I'll get them," Storm said softly when his breath, but not his anger, had finally drained.

  "What happened with the Dreamland aircraft? They were fired on?"

  "Apparently, Bastian claims to have shot down two MiGs. They couldn't lift a finger against the patrol boats that were killing my people, but they could go out of their way to take out the Ethiopians. Ethiopians — I question whether they were even armed. The country doesn't have an air force worthy of the name."

  "You're going overboard, Storm."

  "In the two weeks plus that we've been here, they haven't attacked us once. Dreamland comes out here and all of a sudden the Ethiopians are flying miles away from their air bases and, bang bang, splashing into the gulf. I wish I could get away with that."

  "Bastian's not going to get away with anything," answered Red.

  "Do I get the Belleau Wood or what?"

  "That's not going to happen, Storm. There's just no way."

  "Then untie my hands! I have the assets I need — let me use them."

  Red winced. "If it were up to me."

  "Yeah, all right. Later." Storm punched the button on the panel, e
nding the transmission. He went and washed some of the dirt and dried blood off his face, then changed into a fresh uniform. Calmer, he dialed into Communications.

  "See if you can find Admiral Balboa for me," Storm told the officer. "Call the Joint Chiefs personnel office and ask them where Pinkie is — he's a lieutenant commander who owes me a favor. Better yet, call the Pentagon, OK? And Joint Chiefs, ask for Lou Milelo. He's a chief petty officer. Be respectful, very respectful, and tell him I need a personal favor. Then get me on the line. I'll be on the bridge."

  Near Boosaaso, Somalia,

  on the Gulf of Aden

  0810

  Ali folded the paper carefully in half, then took the lighter from his pocket and set it on fire. He watched intently as the flames consumed it, waiting until his fingers were singed to drop it into the nearby surf.

  The message it contained had been disappointing. The Ethiopian Air Force had attacked an American warplane with predictable results: Two of their pilots had been shot down. They were hoping he could look for the men in the gulf.

  The Ethiopians might be brave, but they were also foolhardy. It wasn't clear from the message what sort of plane it had been, though Ali doubted it was an Orion or any similar radar or surveillance craft; such planes were typically unequipped for air-to-air combat. And any single American warplane was more than a match for the entire Ethiopian Air Force. Brave men foolishly led to their deaths by misguided leaders — this was not God's wish.

  There was slim hope of finding the pilots, but he had been called on as a brother in religion, and could not turn down such a request. In exchange, perhaps the Ethiopians would have to help him. He needed a diversion so he could get the last of his patrol boats out of the port near Laasgoray, where it had spent the night being repaired. He needed it to join him in an attack on a fuel carrier tonight; if the attack went well, they would have more than enough diesel fuel for the Sharia, and the boats as well.

  He took a pen from his pocket and wrote down a time and place.

  "Take this message back," he told the man who had come from town. "Tell them we will do what they wish. But they must also try to have airplanes at this place and time. It would be very useful as a diversion. Let them use their courage to its best effect."