A fast mental inquiry and the GPS satellite-navigation system checked DreamStar’s position, computed a likely flight path around known population centers and defense areas, measured the distance between present position and the tiny dry lake, Laguna de Santiaguillo, where Kramer and Moffitt in north central Mexico were supposed to be waiting with a fuel truck. Laguna de Santiaguillo was an abandoned training facility (KGB assets utilizing locals equally receptive to rubles and dollars) in the foothills of the Sierra Madre Occidental mountains, well within range of two Mexican fighter bases at Mazat- lan and Monterrey. A lousy location, Maraklov thought, but the only one possible on such short notice.
The computer had his answer after a relatively long two- second pause: three hundred miles to the Gulf of California, another seven hundred fifty miles along the west ridge of the Sierra Madre Occidental mountains, then across the Remedias River valley to Laguna de Santiaguillo. He was traveling at one point one Mach, about nine hundred miles per hour, and was consuming twenty thousand pounds of fuel an hour. He had exactly twenty-two thousand pounds of fuel remaining. Which meant, at his current setting, he would flame out right over Laguna de Santiaguillo. He would have more fuel available if he used an idle-power descent and a long glide for landing, but he’d have less if he had to dodge any more missiles or if he had to use afterburner.
Another mental command and he checked the two AIM- 120C Scorpion missiles, then tried a test arming. Both were fitted with instrumented warheads, but otherwise would launch and track like fully operational weapons. He could use them if he got himself cornered. He would, though, have to shoot very carefully—without explosive warheads there would be no proximity detonation; each shot had to be a direct hit.
But up here, the possibility of anyone touching him seemed unlikely. There were still search radars all around him, resembling huge green cones rising out of the terrain, but there were large gaps between the radar cones and he was picking his way through them, using slight heading changes to put a mountain or ridge line between himself and the radar cones. Smaller yellow blobs, giant mushrooms, appeared now and then—the lethal envelope of surface-to-air missiles stationed below—but he was avoiding them as well. Now he was almost out of the Dreamland complex, accelerating past one thousand miles per hour.
Speed and stealth meant survival more than fancy flying or superior weaponry. The first time he had decided to steal DreamStar he’d imagined himself taking on the air might of the whole southeastern United States, flying rings around the best fighters and the best pilots in the world, winning out over a billion dollars’ worth of hardware. Well, it wasn’t going to happen that way. He was going to sneak out, hiding behind every shadow, measuring every quart of fuel.
Whatever it took . . .
For the first time he really allowed his body to relax. He had stolen DreamStar right out from under the noses of the people who wanted to give up on his baby. And now he even dared to think that he might actually make it all the way.
He was allowed that heady thought for precisely forty seconds. From out of nowhere, a green triangle of energy appeared in front of him. There was no time to evade. The green triangle enveloped him, and instantly turned to yellow . . .
* * *
This thing was truly amazing, Major Edward Frost, the radar navigator aboard the B-52 Megafortress Plus, marveled. A goddamned B-52 bomber with more gadgets and modes and functions and bells and whistles than L.A. Air Traffic Control.
Frost was studying a fourteen-inch by ten-inch rectangular video display terminal set on one-hundred-mile range. A circle cursor, automatically laid on a radar return that matched the preprogrammed parameters set by Frost, was tracking a high-altitude, high-speed target dead ahead. You told the system what you wanted to find and it did the searching. It was a hell of a lot different from only a few years ago when radar navs on B-52 bombers concentrated on terrain and cultural returns—mountains, buildings, towns. This B-52 was different.
Major Frost hit the mike button near his right foot. “Pilot, radar. Radar contact aircraft, one o’clock, eighty-five miles.” He punched a function key on his keyboard. “Altitude six thousand five hundred, airspeed . . . hey, he’s moving out. Airspeed one thousand one hundred knots.”
He hit another function key, and the display changed to a maze of arcs, lines, grids. The computer had presented a series of options for approaching the target.
Frost shook his head. Here I am, sitting in a B-52 bomber planning to attack a high-speed fighter!
“Turn right heading zero-five two to IR intercept in six-two nautical miles. Automatic intercept is available.” Then to Angelina Pereira: “I’m aligned for guidance-mode transfer at any time—”
“Belay that,” General John Ormack said over interphone. “Weapons stay on safe—that’s our damned plane out there, Frost.”
“Sorry, got carried away.”
“Auto-intercept coming on, crew.” Ormack connected the digital autopilot to the intercept computer and monitored the Old Dog’s turn, pushing the throttles up to ninety five percent power to keep the angle of attack low. The autopilot made several small corrections farther to the right as the distance between the two aircraft rapidly decreased.
“Exactly what are we trying to accomplish here, General?” George Wendelstat, the safety observer asked. Wendelstat was firmly strapped into the instructor-pilot’s seat, wearing a backpack-style parachute on his beefy shoulders. His face was cherry red and he was sweating in spite of the B-52’s cool interior temperature. “Do you mean to attack that aircraft?” “What I mean to do is everything I possibly can to turn that aircraft back,” Ormack said. “If I can’t get him to turn around I mean to delay him long enough for help to arrive.”
“But this is suicide,” Wendelstat protested. “A B-52 against this DreamStar? That’s a fighter plane, isn’t it?”
“It’s also a stolen aircraft from my research center,” Ormack said. “I’m not going to let this guy go without trying to do something—”
“Including getting us all killed?”
“I know the limits of this crew and aircraft,” Ormack said. “We have the capability to engage DreamStar and hopefully detain him long enough for help to arrive. I won’t go beyond the limits of my responsibility or common sense—”
“You already have. He can launch a missile against us at any second—”
“Seventy miles and closing fast, General.”
“Wendelstat, sit back and shut up,” Colonel Jeff Khan, the copilot, broke in. “The general knows what he’s doing.” Ormack reached up to the overhead communications console and switched his command radio to channel eleven. “CATTLECAR, this is Dog Zero Two. We have the hostile at our twelve o’clock, seventy miles. Closing on an intercept course. Requesting instructions from HAWC Alpha as soon as possible.”
“Break. Zero Two, this is HAWC Alpha. You can’t do anything up there, John. We’re vectoring in the F-i6s now. Get out of the area as fast as you can. Over.”
“I’ve got a lock-on and I’m turning for an I.D. intercept, Alpha,” Ormack answered back. “I can turn it into a radar pass at any time. Just say the word.”
“Sixty miles.”
“He’s got two Scorpion missiles, John,” Elliott said. “Repeat—he’s armed with two live Scorpions. You won’t have a chance. Disengage and leave the area—”
“I’ve got two Scorpions too, General. Plus I’ve got jammers that can counter the Scorpion’s active radar. He doesn’t.”
“He can fly circles around your Scorpions—”
Ormack interrupted again. “I can engage him, maybe force him to turn back, maybe knock the sonofabitch down. Or I can let him fly our plane to Central America or wherever the hell he’s going. Which is it going to be?”
No immediate reply. Ormack nodded—he’d gotten his answer. “Radar, change to Scorpion-attack profile. Crew, prepare to engage hostile air target.”
Frost had his finger on the function key and hit it even before Orm
ack finished giving the order. Immediately the Old Dog heeled over into forty degrees of bank, then abruptly rolled out. It was now aiming for a spot several miles along DreamStar’s flight path, projecting out to intersect the fighter’s path at the AIM-i2oC’s optimum flight range. Ormack pushed his throttles up to full power, then reached over to his left-side panel and flipped a gang-barred four-way switch. “Guns, you have Scorpion missile launch consent.” “Confirmed,” Angelina Pereira replied. “Left pylon on automatic launch, missile counting down . . . twenty seconds to launch.”
On the UHF radio Ormack said, “CATTLECAR, this is Dog Zero Two. Clear airspace for red fox engagement. Be advised, red buzzer activity on all frequencies. Dog Zero Two out.” On interphone Ormack said, “Defense, clear for electronic countermeasures. Crew, prepare for air combat engagement.”
“Fifteen seconds ...”
Suddenly a metallic, computer-modified voice cut in on the frequency: “Dog Zero Two, disengage. I’m warning you.” Khan looked puzzled. “Who the hell was . . . ?”
“ANTARES. The master computer on DreamStar.” Ormack flipped to the channel. “This is Dog Zero Two. Who’s this?”
“This is Colonel Andrei Ivanschichin Maraklov, General Ormack.” Maraklov thought before continuing: should he give his American name? But he was never going to return to America—the KGB or the CIA would see to that—and they would find out anyway. “You know me as Captain Kenneth Francis James, sir. ”
Ormack swore through his oxygen mask. “Goddamn—Ken James stole DreamStar.” He switched his command radio to channel eleven. “Alpha, monitor GUARD channel. Urgent.” He then quickly switched his radio to the universal emergency frequency, guard.
“James—Ken—Mara ... whatever the hell it is ... land that plane immediately. I have orders to attack.” On interphone he told Angelina Pereira to get ready to cancel the auto attack. “Yes, sir . . . ten seconds.”
“Turn off your attack radar immediately, General Ormack,” the computerized voice of Maraklov on the emergency channel said, “or I will have no choice but to defend myself.”
“Damn it, James, you’re about ten seconds from getting your ass blown out of the sky. Decrease speed and lower your landing gear or I’ll engage.”
No reply.
“Five seconds . . . four . . . three ...”
“Any change in his airspeed or heading?”
“Negative,” from Frost. “Still goin’ full blast . . .”
“Launch commit,” Angelina said.
There was a muffled screech of rocket exhaust from the left wing, as the first Scorpion missile raced out of its streamlined cannister. It ran on course toward its quarry. Unlike previous air-to-air missiles, the C-version of the Scorpion did not glide or cruise to its target; even though it was still considered a medium-range missile it stayed powered throughout its flight.
“Uplink tracking . . . missile now tracking . . . dead on course ...”
* * *
The bands of yellow, signifying the B-52’s tracking radar illuminating his aircraft, suddenly changed to red. Maraklov caught a chill. This was real, Ormack wasn’t bluffing. This Dog Zero Two had live missiles on board, and he was under attack. By a B-52 bomber. . .
He activated his attack radar. The radar image of the B-52, still over fifty miles away, seemed the size of a flying mountain. His radar wasn’t picking it up but he knew the missile was only seconds from impact. His reactions were executed at the speed of thought . . .
He turned right toward the B-52, exposing only the minimum radar cross-section of his aircraft possible. He then began a series of high-speed reversals using the canards in their high- maneuverability mode, not rolling into each turn but sidestepping, darting back and forth, keeping only DreamStar’s
front cross-section aimed toward the B-52. The B-52 would be carrying AIM-120C, same as DreamStar. The AIM-120 was a fabulous weapon, with big fins to steer it toward its target. But its developers ten years earlier had never envisaged an aircraft that could move sideways like DreamStar.
Maraklov continued to shoot back and forth for another two seconds, completing two full horizontal S-slides, making each dodge wider than the other, using his high-maneuverability canards to keep DreamStar’s nose pointed at where he thought the missile would be. It was a gamble. With each turn, he hoped, the Scorpion missile would have to make bigger and bigger turns to maintain lock-on. As DreamStar’s side-steps got bigger, the missile’s turn rates had to increase even faster to keep up—not fast enough, he hoped, for the missile to track its target at close range.
He was at the top of a right ninety-degree bank and about to execute another hard left break when he heard and felt a sharp bang to his left. He had been very lucky this time. Forced farther and farther out of phase, the missile was opposite his canopy when its proximity warhead detected it was within lethal range. Maraklov waited for the concussion and flak to hit, but nothing happened and all systems reported with a good status check when queried by an instantaneous mental command. Then Maraklov realized the Megafortress must have been on a test flight and so would not have live warheads in its missiles. Which diminished but hardly eliminated their threat.
He had never paid much attention to the Megafortress Plus project, thinking of it as just another one of Elliott’s eccentric boondoggles. Another underestimation . . .
A quick flash of his all-aspect-attack radar showed the B-52 maneuvering hard right, moving back into attack position, its huge wings pulling it easily around and behind him. The enormous plane had to be pulling at least four or five G’s, Maraklov thought. It was enough force to rip the wings off any conventional bomber and many fighters as well. Ormack obviously meant business, and he had the hardware to back him up. This was no place for a fight, even with a supposedly decrepit B-52.
ANTARES, however, always favoring the offensive, was begging for a fight and had recommended a high yo-yo maneuver—a hard vertical pull, zoom over the top, then an inverted dive to lock-on—to pull behind and above the B-52 to get into missile-firing position. Maraklov queried about fuel: now he was two thousand pounds below the fuel curve instead of two thousand pounds above it. He had no time to waste with a missile pass. Every time ANTARES activated its attack radar, even in small, frequency-agile bursts, the B-52 would jam it. ANTARES was being forced to use older and older data to process an attack. Besides, if the B-52 could jam DreamStar’s phased-array radar, it could easily jam the AIM-i2o’s conventional pulse-Doppler active radar. It was definitely time to bug out. Maraklov canceled the right high-G yo-yo and pulled into a sharp left turn, using radar to clear terrain until he could get established on course again.
ANTARES tried to tell him, but Maraklov wasn’t listening— tried to tell him that a left turn was precisely the wrong thing to do.
He barely had time to roll wings-level when the missile- launch warning hammered into his consciousness. This time it wasn’t a head-to-head engagement—the B-52 was in missile- launch position, behind and slightly to the left, the cutoff angle established, the missile already aiming ahead of its target’s flight path. Radar, infrared, laser—whatever he had, DreamStar was wide open. The Scorpion missile was even close enough to be picked up on radar . . .
But ANTARES, literally, did not comprehend the meaning of surrender—it would compute escape and attack options until it ran out of power to energize its circuitry. And Maraklov, feeling he had no hope of survival, had surrendered control of DreamStar to ANTARES.
The computer took over. Using its high-lift wings and full canard deflection, DreamStar executed a sharp ninety-degree pitch-up at max afterburner. The Scorpion missile overshot but turned precisely with DreamStar, arcing nearly up to twenty-thousand feet before following the guidance signals from the Old Dog and pitching over hard for the kill. The missile was now aimed straight down, passing Mach four, locked on, closing in again on DreamStar’s tail.
With its canards again in high-lift configuration, DreamStar continued its inverted ro
ll, screaming below, then back up through the horizon. It was now clawing for altitude, skimming across the high desert floor by only a few feet. The Scorpion missile tracked every move, following DreamStar’s high-G loop. The missile broke Mach five as it closed in on its target ...
Which suddenly stopped in mid-air, then climbed five hundred feet straight up. The missile could make a fourteen-G turn, far greater than any fighter yet designed, but not even this high-tech missile could discontinue a Mach-five diving loop and then turned a ninety-degree corner. The Scorpion missile tracked perfectly, but at such close range, and moving at almost a mile per second, its turn radius was several hundred feet greater than its altitude above ground. The missile exploded into the Amargosa Desert, just a few yards from a truck stop northwest of Jackass Airport oflF highway 95.
The threat gone, the maneuver accomplished, ANTARES switched to offense in less time than it took for the last of the Old Dog’s missiles to disintegrate into the hard desert floor. With its attack-radar activated, it quickly searched for the enemy. At such close range even the Stealth fibersteel skin and radar energy-absorbing honeycomb arrays couldn’t diminish the huge radar cross-section of the Megafortress Plus. Lock-on, data transfer, active seeker lock-on, missile stabilization test, unlock, motor firing, launch.
The thing was done before Maraklov really knew it—missile flight time was barely four seconds . . .
* * *
“Missile launch, ” Wendy called over interphone. “Break right ”
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