by Dale Brown
in the northern Arabian Sea
0654
CAPTAIN HONGWU NEARLY LOST HIS BALANCE AS THE SHIP absorbed the blows of the Harpoon missiles. The lights blinked off but came back.
There were three more missiles. Hongwu heard the air boss trying to direct the aircraft to intercept them. The Harpoons were subsonic and flew relatively predictable patterns, but shooting them down was exceedingly difficult, and it did not seem that his pilots could accomplish the task.
Still, if only one was intercepted, he felt they could survive.
The close-in weapons were so loud that Hongwu could hear them even here as they aimed at the incoming missiles. He grabbed the nearby table, sensing they would miss. The ship shook with an explosion, this one much closer than the others.
The lights went out. Captain Hongwu found himself on the deck, the emergency lights on. Someone helped him up.
“We’ve taken two more strikes to the hull below the hangar deck,” said the damage control officer. “Compartments 103, 105, 107, are taking water. We have not heard from—”
“Can the Tai-shan aircraft take off?” asked Captain Hongwu.
“We believe so, sir. They are still being prepared.”
“That is of primary importance. Deal with the damage expeditiously, but those aircraft must launch.”
“Air Group One reports that the Indian aircraft carrier has begun to sink at the bow,” said the air boss. “Should they attack alternative targets?”
“Have them attack the American warship,” Hongwu told him. “They are our priority now.”
NSC Situation Room,
Washington, D.C.
2101, 14 January 1998
(0701, 15 January, Karachi)
ALL OF THE MISSILES LAUNCHED FROM BOTH PAKISTAN AND India had been disabled by the T-Rays. But the attack on the Deng Xiaoping, though it left the aircraft carrier on fire, had not stopped preparations to launch the Tai-shan aircraft. A near-real-time photo from the U-2 spy showed a swarm of men prepping the planes, even as a damage control party played a fire hose on a piece of decking a few yards away.
“Bastards are going to go ahead and nuke India anyway,” Freeman said, looking at the image.
“Maybe they don’t know we’ve destroyed the missiles,” said Jed.
“They should by now. They see an advantage and they want to take it.”
“More likely, the Chinese aren’t entirely sure what’s going on,” said President Martindale. He put his coffee mug down—a Secret Service agent had retrieved some from the cafeteria upstairs. “Time to talk to them.”
“And say what?” demanded Freeman.
Rather than answering him, the President turned to Jed Barley. “You ever play poker, young Jed?”
“Um, sure.”
“One of the advantages of stud is that your opponent knows part of your hand. The better the hand looks, the more he has to guess.”
“They’ll never trust us,” said Freeman.
“I’m counting on that. Give me the phone.”
Aboard the Levitow,
over India
0704
THEY HADN’T SPOTTED THE FLIGHTHAWK YET, BUT INDIA’S western coastline lay fifty miles ahead. The Levitow had made better time than Breanna had hoped.
But their free ride was about to come to an end.
“Two Su-27s coming from the west,” Stewart told her. “Their radars are working.”
“Do we have the Flighthawk?”
“Not on radar. It may be too low for us to see until we get closer.”
They should have found it by now. But it was just one more problem she didn’t have time to worry about.
“Lou, do you think you could operate the Stinger air mines from the auxiliary station? I’ll need Jan to help me fly the aircraft if we have to do any sort of maneuvering.”
“Not a problem.”
“Ground radar active,” said Stewart. “Rajendra—phased array. Fire control for Akash.”
“The missiles have a thirty kilometer range,” said Bullet. “About nineteen miles. We should be able to steer away from them.”
“That’s what we’re going to do,” Breanna said. “Give me a heading.”
ZEN SAT AT HIS STATION, WAITING FOR THE FLIGHTHAWK TO pop onto the tracking scope. While they were not precisely on the flight route the plane was supposed to take, they were close enough. Even if for some reason they couldn’t find it on radar, the Flighthawk would periodically send out a signal, in a sense “calling home.” Its power was limited for tactical reasons, but he knew they should have no problem finding each other at fifty miles.
“I guess this is what girls go through waiting for a guy to call back after a first date, huh, Dork?” Zen asked.
“Must be.”
“You got a girlfriend?” Zen asked the other pilot.
“Kinda.”
“Kinda?”
Before Dork could answer, the Flighthawk’s locator beacon lit on the screen.
“All right,” Zen said. The Flighthawk was about fifty-three miles behind them, off the east. He was about to tell Breanna that via the interphone, then remembered that the system was out.
“Run up and tell Captain Stockard our escort is behind us. Present speed and course, it ought to catch up in about ten minutes.”
THE COURSE AROUND THE AKASH MISSILES ALSO TOOK THEM out of the path of the Su-27s, which for the moment at least did not appear to have seen them. Her airspeed tacked below 250 knots; no matter what Breanna did, she couldn’t get it any faster. She was at 23,000 feet, and had to keep edging lower as her speed crept downward.
“Big base at Puna,” warned Bullet, who was working to psych what might lie ahead. “MiG-29s. They’ll be patrolling near Mumbai.”
Breanna planned to turn back west and make the coast well north of Mumbai, but there was a good possibility that the radars in the area would see them. Nor could she risk getting under the radar coverage—on two engines, she’d never be able to climb out of danger.
“Su-27s are turning in our direction,” said Stewart.
“The Flighthawk is behind us,” shouted Dork, coming onto the flightdeck. “Pick us up in about ten minutes.”
“Something to shoot for,” said Breanna, starting her turn toward the coast.
Aboard the Wisconsin,
passing over the coast of India
0705
THE MORNING SUN HAD PAINTED THE NORTHERN ARABIAN Sea a brilliant azure blue. But black clouds dotted the horizon as Colonel Bastian flew his aircraft over the coastline at treetop level; the naval conflict had continued, unaffected by the electromagnetic pulses originating from the east.
Dog pushed the aircraft down closer to the waves. They’d seen four contrails as they approached the coast, but so far no other aircraft. If they’d been targeted by anyone, they had no way of knowing.
“Colonel Bastian?”
Dog recognized Major Catsman’s voice on the Dreamland communications channel.
“Bastian.”
“The Fisher has been shot down. They were attacked by at least six Chinese fighters when the Abner Read launched its attack on the Deng Xiaoping.”
“They attacked the Deng?”
“Two fighters were headed in their direction. They may have been under attack and saw that as their only chance to strike,” said Catsman. “The Deng Xiaoping has been hit but is still afloat. They’re preparing the Tai-shan planes for launch.”
“Do you have a location on where the Fisher went down?”
“We have an approximate location, Colonel. The Abner Read is too far south to conduct rescue operations at this time.”
“How far am I from them?”
“I can only give you an approximate location. You’re northeast about sixty miles.”
He had four Harpoon missiles in the bomb bay, but no way to fire them.
“I need to talk to Storm,” he told Catsman. “Stand by.”
Aboard the Levitow,
nearing the c
oast of India
0706
A LAYER OF TURBULENT AIR RATTLED THE PLANE. BREANNA was forced to edge the Levitow still lower, her airspeed dipping precariously.
“The Su-27s are challenging us,” said Stewart. “What should I tell them?”
Breanna considered saying they were a civilian airliner, but that was unlikely to stop them from coming and having a look; civilian flights had been banned.
“Tell them who we are. Say we were on a reconnaissance flight and are returning home.”
“You think that’s going to make a difference?”
“I think they might have to ask their ground controller what to do. Maybe we’ll gain a few minutes.”
“We still have the Scorpions,” said Stewart.
“We’d have to turn and get in their faces to fire,” said Breanna. “We’ll hold off for now.”
There were three other reasons not to fire. First of all, opening the bay doors would deprive them of even more momentum, making it more difficult to fly the plane. Second, the fighters would detect the missiles and undoubtedly launch their own. And last—and most important for Breanna—using the missiles would lessen the possibility that she could intercept the Tai-shan planes.
Sixty seconds later one of the Indian pilots told them they were in Indian territory and would have to divert to the air base at Puna “or face the consequences.”
“What consequences would those be?” asked Breanna.
“Dire,” responded the pilot.
Breanna told Bullet to find out how long it would be before the Flighthawk caught up. Then she went back on the line with the Indian pilot.
“I don’t think I can make it to Puna,” she said. “My intention is to ditch in the sea. One of my engines tore loose from its mount and damaged the wing. We’re very low on fuel. I do not want to cause a national catastrophe.”
The pilot told her to stand by.
“Three minutes,” said Bullet, running upstairs.
“Five more to get to the coast from here,” said Stewart. “Maybe if you make a feint for Puna, you can gain some more time.”
“I’m worried about their missile batteries,” Breanna told her. “SA-12s. Our best bet is to stay on course.”
ZEN SPENT THE TIME WAITING TRYING TO WORK OUT EXACTLY how he would take down the two fighters. They were now east of them, not quite aligned with the Megafortress’s tail but headed in that direction. The Flighthawk was approaching from the east as well, though to the south of the Sukhois. Given the Megafortress’s condition, he wanted to engage them as far from the mother ship as possible, certainly before they were close enough to fire their infrared missiles. But he had no control over that—even when the Flighthawk got close enough to reestablish its connection, he’d still be more than ten miles behind the enemy fighters. Worse, the loss of the interphone system made it almost impossible to coordinate strategy with Breanna. Sending people back and forth between the decks took too much time.
“Dork, tell Breanna if these guys stay in their present formation, I’ll take Bandit One to the east.”
“OK,” said Dork. “Major, you ever play telephone?”
“Huh?”
“You know, where you whisper a message in someone’s ear and they pass it on? We could do that here.”
“Isn’t the purpose of that to show how mangled a message can be?”
“Well, yeah, but it’s better than nothing.”
“All right, it’s a good idea, Dork. Set it up. Hey—you just got yourself a new nickname: Telephone.”
“I think I like Dork better.”
“YOU WILL PROCEED AS DIRECTED. EMERGENCY VEHICLES ARE standing by,” the Indian pilot told Breanna.
Ain’t that sweet, thought Breanna. Prison cells too, no doubt.
“Can you give me a course heading and a—um, a—uh…” Breanna continued to stall. “Distance. I need a distance.”
The Indian pilot, clearly losing patience, told her to change her heading forty degrees—now.
“Zen has control of the Flighthawk!” said Bullet, the last link in the communications chain. “Needs another two minutes to get behind them.”
“Tell him I’m going to descend a bit,” said Breanna.
“The Indian fighters are right on our back now, Bree,” said Stewart.
“Visual range?”
“Not yet, but very close. Just about within range for an A-10 heat-seeker.”
“Lou, be ready to turn the Stinger radar on as soon as I say.” Breanna pushed the nose of the Megafortress forward, descending. Five minutes on this course—five minutes to the sea.
But so what? The Sukhois could easily follow them there.
“American aircraft—you are ordered to change course or face the consequences.”
“He’s activated his gun radar,” said Stewart. “I think he’ll close and try throwing some warning shots across the bow.”
Come on, Zen, Breanna thought. Hurry up with that Flighthawk.
ZEN COULD SEE THE TWO INDIAN FIGHTERS AHEAD, FLYING parallel and very close to the Megafortress’s tail.
“Megafortress descending!” said Dork.
“Sixty seconds.” Zen flexed his hand around the joystick. The Indian pilots, so focused on what they were doing, had not bothered to check six—or maybe they had looked behind their aircraft and missed the diminutive Flighthawk.
“Can you get both planes?” Dork asked.
Maybe. But he couldn’t guarantee it.
“No,” said Zen. “Tell Breanna to take the one to the west with the Stinger air mines. She has west. Confirm.”
The Flighthawk pushed on steadily. He was two miles away—the screen began blinking red.
“Confirmed. She has west.”
“Ready!” yelled Zen as the screen went solid red.
“Ready!” yelled Dork.
“Go!” Zen began firing.
BREANNA PUSHED THE MEGAFORTRESS TO HER LEFT AS HARD as she dared, throwing the rear Stinger battery in the face of the Indian fighter. At the same time, the Stinger began firing even though it couldn’t possibly have locked on its target yet.
The Levitow began to shake. Tracers were popping to its right.
“Going for the coast!” Breanna shouted, her words intended for Zen. “Stewart—what’s our status?”
“Bandit One breaking off. Two is still behind us.”
Breanna started to push the nose of the Megafortress forward, wanting to increase her speed and give Zen some room to work with as he went for the other fighter. As she did, the Megafortress started to flail to the side, and within seconds she was fighting a yaw.
ZEN GOT TWO LONG BURSTS INTO BANDIT ONE, ENOUGH TO draw smoke from her tailpipe. He let the fighter go, turning to try and get some shots on the other one. Bandit Two rolled away, just as a hail of air mines exploded behind the Megafortress.
As Zen followed the Indian plane downward, he caught a glimpse of the damaged EB–52. It was much worse than he had thought—the right wing had several large cracks running through it, with gaps big enough to see the foam protection for the fuel tanks. The starboard tailplane had been chewed up; less than a quarter of it remained.
Bandit Two, still concentrating on the Megafortress, swung into position to fire his heat-seekers. Tucking his nose down, Zen got the Sukhoi in the middle of his crosshairs and sent a stream of bullets across its wings, across its fuselage, across the burning hulk he turned the plane into.
“Scratch Bandit Two,” he told Dork, pulling off. “I’m going to bird-dog over the coast.”
It was then that he finally noticed that the Megafortress was moving back and forth in the air, each swing a little stronger.
DESPERATE TO CONTROL THE SHIP, BREANNA HAD STEWART dial back power to engine one as she tried to rebalance her aircraft. It helped, but it also cost more airspeed. The water, at least, was just ahead, beyond a thick line of factories and boats.
“Radar—Top Plate—there’s a patrol boat off shore,” said Stewart. “Correct t
hat—a frigate. They’ll have Geckos.”
“Gecko” was the NATO code word for SA-N-4s. The missiles would be potent under any circumstance, but the Megafortress would be an easy target now.
“Where are they?”
“Ten miles ahead.”
“ECMs.” Breanna had the plane back almost completely under control, the yaw reduced to a wobble. Her altitude was now below fifteen thousand feet. Forget the missiles, she thought, they’d be low enough for the antiaircraft guns by the time they got close to the frigate. “I’m going to go north,” she said. “We need to get some distance between us and that ship.”
As she prepared to bank, the Megafortress abruptly dropped thirty feet.
ZEN TURNED THE FLIGHTHAWK BACK TOWARD THE MEGAFORTRESS. As he came close, he saw a chunk of the right wing’s skin fly off, pried loose by the plane’s violent shakes and the wind’s ravenous appetite. He couldn’t tell for certain, but he thought the cracks he’d noticed before were longer.
They weren’t going to make it.
“Tell Breanna to select the view from Hawk Three,” he told Dork.
BREANNA ALTERNATELY WRESTLED AND COAXED THE AIRPLANE, knowing it was a losing battle. The only question was where they were going to crash.
She preferred ditching at sea, where the shot-up plane wouldn’t kill any civilians when it crashed. It would also be arguably better to bail there, since they might have a chance of being picked up by a U.S. ship or even the Osprey, rather than the Indian authorities.
“All right, crew, here’s what we’re going to do—we’re not going to make it much farther. We have six ejection seats and eight people. I’m going to go out with a parachute from the Flighthawk deck. We’ll draw straws for the other place.”
“I volunteer,” said Stewart.
“I’m sure everyone will volunteer,” she said. “That’s why we’re drawing straws.”
ZEN HAD ALREADY DECIDED WHAT HE WAS GOING TO DO WHEN Dork passed the word. He turned the Flighthawk over to the computer, then pulled off his helmet.
“Doesn’t make any sense for me to use the ejection seat. I have nothing left to protect,” he said. “I’ll take my chances dropping.”