Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02

by Day of the Cheetah (v1. 1)

  Sarcasm did not transmit well through ANTARES, but Zaykov nodded her understanding. “They are all afraid to touch the aircraft,” she said. “They’re afraid you will electrocute them. The chief has to order them to do the simplest task.”

  “At this rate I’ll be forced to make the crossing in daylight,” Maraklov said.

  “They should be finished in a few minutes.”

  “But that’s only the first of about a dozen major items that need to be inspected before I can launch. It’s almost sunrise now. I’ll have half the U.S. Navy on top of me before I can fly a hundred miles, and in daylight with two external tanks I’ll be a sitting duck.”

  “Our headquarters is coordinating with the Nicaraguan navy in sweeping the Caribbean for any American ships that might get in your way,” Zaykov said. “So far, they report no American ships closer than six hundred miles, except those in the Canal Zone and Puerto Rico. Besides, we have been informed by Moscow that the Americans have agreed not to take any action for five days. They will be totally unprepared for this.”

  “Never mind all that,” Maraklov said, “just make those idiots out there work as fast as they can. Every minute I sit on the ground in this hell-hole is another mile closer the Americans can get. . .

  One Hundred Miles Southwest of the Cayman Islands

  Saturday, 20 June 1996, 0500 CDT

  “Dragon Five-One flight, this is Georgetown radar,” the cheerful British voice announced over the command radio. “Welcome to the Cayman Islands. Stand by for frequency assignments.”

  “Now this is what I call a summer camp,” Major John Coursey said happily, taking another sip of orange juice. Coursey was one of twelve F-16 ADF pilots from Howard Air Force Base in Panama taking part in an operation they had come to know simply as Barrier. Coursey was the leader of Dragon Blue, one of four three-ship cells in the huge fighter formation. The twelve fighters were all from the 107th Fighter Interceptor Group, New York Air National Guard, from Niagara Falls International Airport, deployed to Panama in one-month rotations. They were all serving their annual training commitment, which for F-16 pilots was always more than the standard Air National Guard two weeks per year.

  “One week in Panama is heaven,” Coursey said over the scrambled interplane frequency, “but a secret mission to the Cayman Islands is a real hardship.”

  “Cut the chatter, Blue flight,” came the order from the squadron commander, Lieutenant Colonel George Tinker. “Okay, listen up. Red, Yellow and Gold stay on me for recovery. Blue, Georgetown Radar will clear you to an orbit just outside their airspace, blocking altitudes from five to thirty thousand. You’re required to squawk modes and codes even though you’re outside their airspace, but you are cleared to strangle if you get into a situation. Get together with your tanker for refueling, then set up a high- and mid-CAP as directed by Barrier Control. Watch your fuel. No one goes below three thousand pounds over the high fix at Georgetown. Everyone got it?”

  “Don’t drink all the margaritas down there, boss,” Coursey said.

  “No screwing around, Blue Leader,” Tinker radioed back.

  “We’re expecting some brass on board Barrier Control for this one.” Barrier Control was the 767 AWACS radar plane that would be controlling the fighters from its more protected orbit point closer to the Cayman Islands.

  “Blue Lead copies. We’ll look pretty for the brass.”

  “You’d better. Dragon flight minus Blue, come right and start descent. Blue flight, watch your gas, and good hunting.”

  “Blue flight is clear,” Coursey reported as he watched the three groups of F-16 Falcon air-defense fighters execute a tight echelon turn to the right as they began their approach into Georgetown, the capital city of the Cayman Islands.

  Coursey sucked in his breath. Against the crystal-blue shimmering backdrop of the Caribbean Sea, the large formation looked spectacular—especially to a desk-bound accountant from Tonawanda, New York, for whom the biggest excitement in life lately was having the Delaware Avenue monorail going into downtown Buffalo arrive on time. The Air National Guard was the country’s biggest secret, he told himself—he was getting a great Caribbean vacation paid for by Uncle Sam, and all he had to do was fly one of the hottest jet fighters in the world.

  “Dragon Five-Four flight, this is Georgetown radar. Squawk mode three code zero-zero-one-four, mode C on, and have your wingmen squawk standby,” the juicy sounding controller from the Grand Cayman said.

  “Anything you say, babe,” Coursey was feeling altogether the hot pilot. He knew his wingmen would check that their mode three identification beacons were in standby—they were placed in standby so collision alerts between fighters in the formation would not continually show on radar—so he double-checked his IFF settings and got himself comfortable.

  “Dragon Five-Four flight, you are cleared to orbit as required within one-zero-zero nautical miles of BRAC intersection as requested, in the block from five thousand to thirty-five thousand feet. Contact me on this frequency if you require assistance. Clear to switch to tactical frequencies. Georgetown radar clear.”

  Coursey was about to ask her for an after-hours phone number but it was time to get things organized. “Roger, Georgetown. You have a nice day, now. Dragon flight, push blue.”

  “Two.”

  “Three.”

  “Blue” was the assigned common scrambled UHF frequency to be used by Coursey’s flight, the AWACS known as Barrier Control, and King 27, their KC-10 tanker out of Homestead AFB, Florida.

  “Dragon flight, check,” Coursey called out a few seconds after switching frequencies.

  “Two.”

  “Three,” his wingmen responded.

  “Station check, report with fuel status.” Coursey took a fast look at Dragon Five off his right wingtip. The big centerline fuel tank on the F-i6s made the sleek bird awkward looking, not to mention the huge decrease in performance and range— those tanks would be the first to go if they engaged any hostiles out here. Each F-16 carried two AIM-132B European-built infrared-guided ASRAAM (Advanced Short-Range Air-to-Air Missiles for close-range “dogfighting” engagements) and two AIM-120C AMRAAM (Advanced Medium-Range Air-to-Air Missiles for longer-range attacks), along with five hundred rounds of twenty-millimeter ammunition. They were loaded and ready, but out here, flying quietly and peacefully over the sparkling blue Caribbean, trouble seemed a zillion miles away.

  “Let’s hear it, Dragon flight.”

  “Two’s in the green, four and five hundred all safe, eight thousand.” He had called out his overall status, his armament number and status, and his fuel remaining.

  “Three’s in the green, four and five hundred safe, seven- point-seven.”

  “Looks like everyone’s thirsty here,” Coursey said. The large external fuel tanks on the three fighters’ bellies were all empty—they were usually empty shortly after a heavy gross- weight takeoff—and the internal fuel loads were also depleted by half. They all had about an hour’s worth of fuel left, plus the required forty-five minutes reserve. “Lead’s got eight-point- one, four and five hundred. Break. King Two-Seven, this is Dragon Five-Four Flight of three on tac blue, over.”

  “Dragon flight, this is King Two-Seven, read you loud and clear,” the KC-10 air-refueling tanker radioed back. “We’re receiving your position beacons, codes verified. We’re seventy miles north of your position on a heading of two-zero-zero, altitude twenty thousand feet. Over.”

  “Copy, Two-Seven,” Coursey replied. “You’ve got three receivers at nineteen thousand feet, onload as briefed, point parallel auto rendezvous. Weapons all report safe and ready for refueling. We’ll do a few orbits out here to stay in our assigned block, then turn northbound at thirty miles.” “Copy, Dragon.”

  Coursey began some gentle standard-rate turns in order to burn some time without going outside his assigned airspace. A few moments later he heard, “King Two-Seven at fifty miles.” “Copy. Dragon flight, take route spacing, stand by for auto rendezvous
.” The two members of Coursey’s formation stayed in formation but increased the distance between aircraft to almost a mile. Dragon Four started a turn to the north, and Coursey watched to make sure his wingmen were staying with him.

  “Thirty miles . . . twenty miles, stand by for turn . . .”

  At seventeen miles, on the dot, Coursey’s F-16 Falcon started a left turn and gentle climb. A few moments later one of Coursey’s wingmen called, “Tally ho, ten-thirty position.” Coursey stared harder toward the crystal-blue horizon and finally spotted the huge green converted DC-io airliner in the distance.

  “Lead’s got a tally.”

  It appeared as if the F-16 formation was on a collision course with the huge tanker, but in auto-mode it always looked like that. Coursey pulled his throttle back to ninety percent and pegged his airspeed at four hundred twenty knots. By the time the computer-controlled turn was done, the tanker was looming over the lead F-16 fighter’s nose like a storm cloud, and the autopilot beeped to remind the pilot that the rendezvous was completed.

  “Dragon Five-Four flight, this is King Two-Seven boom operator, radio check.”

  “Dragon lead’s loud and clear.”

  “Two.”

  “Three.”

  “Loud and clear up here. Dragon Five-Four cleared to the contact position; Two-Seven is ready.”

  “Dragon Five-Four moving up on auto.”

  The tanker’s nozzle was aligned less than a thousand feet ahead. Coursey punched off the autopilot and moved the throttle to eighty percent, which, after his years of experience he knew would give him the three-hundred-knot refueling speed he wanted; tiny speedbrake deflections would take care of any excess speed. He opened the air-refueling receptacle on the F-i6’s spine and checked the status indications on his heads-up display. They showed ready for refueling.

  “Dragon Five-Four stabilized pre-contact and ready,” Coursey reported.

  Coursey carefully guided his fighter under the KC-io’s broad belly, following the rows of director lights arranged along the tanker’s bottom, until he received a steady yellow light— which placed the front glare-shield right on the tanker’s UHF antenna blade.

  “Stabilize ...” Behind Coursey’s canopy the twenty-foot boom extended its tubular nozzle, and like some alien mating ritual the boom operator extended the nozzle into the F-i6’s receptacle. Coursey’s HUD indicated CONTACT.

  “Contact Five-Four.”

  “Contact Two-Seven,” the boom operator replied. At that, the copilot on the KC-io activated the refueling boost pumps and began transferring fuel. When the boom operator’s flow panel showed a positive transfer rate, he reported, “Taking fuel.”

  “Give me five thousand and we’ll cycle,” Coursey said. Each fighter in the formation would take on a token load at first to confirm that their refueling systems were working; once all fighters could take fuel, they would spend more time on the boom and fill to full tanks. Five thousand pounds of fuel took only thirty seconds to transfer. Coursey disengaged from the tanker and swung out to the left to let Dragon Five-Five in on the boom.

  The pilot aboard Five-Five, a young lieutenant who had just finished F-16 training and then reported directly into the Guard, had a bit more trouble completing the rendezvous. On his first attempt he moved no closer than ten feet from the extended nozzle.

  “Forward ten, Dragon Five-Five,” the boom operator prompted. Coursey could see the F-16 inch closer, but he always pulled off too much speed or ducked down away from the nozzle.

  “Forward twelve.”

  Impatience got the better of him. This time he shoved in too much power and overcorrected. The F-16 slid under the KC-io so far that the vertical stabilizer looked as if it was going to scrape against the refueler’s boom pod.

  “Breakaway, breakaway, breakaway,” the boom operator called out. Not exactly an emergency situation but the KC-io’s response was automatic—the boom shot full up into its retracted position, the engines went to full power, the tanker began a steady climb. Dragon Five yanked off his power and slid out of sight. Coursey and Dragon Six stayed on the tanker’s wingtip as it pulled ahead.

  “Two-Seven, this is Dragon Leader, Dragon Five-Five is well clear,” Coursey radioed to the tanker, trying to keep Five in sight. “Cancel breakaway. Clear Dragon Five-Six to the contact position, and clear Dragon Five-Five to the right wing. Five-Five, take a breather and try to relax.”

  “Dragon Five-Five, clear to Dragon Five-Six’s right wing,” the boom operator said. The F-16 that had balked its hookup reappeared, sliding under Dragon Five-Six and moving into position on Six’s right wingtip.

  “Dragon Five-Five is on your right, Five-Six.”

  “Dragon Five-Six, clear to the contact position, Two-Seven is ready.” Five-Six moved smoothly down into contact position, and fifteen seconds later it was taking fuel. A minute later he was back off Five-Five’s right wing, and Dragon Five-Five was moving back into contact position.

  “All right, Myers,” Coursey told the pilot of Dragon Five- Five, “you’ve already embarrassed yourself in front of these tanker toads—try not to do it again. Remember, these Falcons don’t like being muscled around. They respond to gentle inputs. Just like the ladies. Remember your visual cues and for God’s sake, relax.”

  He watched as Dragon Five-Five again began his approach to contact position. Myers needed this hookup for much more than just to avoid embarrassment. If he didn’t get his refueling on this pass he’d have to take the tanker, turn north and attempt another contact while heading for Georgetown. It would be highly embarrassing for one of Coursey’s wingmen to come back alone because he couldn’t accomplish a refueling, especially in near-ideal weather conditions. But whatever else Myers had on his mind, he apparently had finally managed to put it behind him as he made contact with the KC-io on the first try.

  “Fill ’er up, Two-Seven,” Coursey said. “We’ll top off in reverse order. I’ll be on radio two.” Coursey switched radios momentarily to his second non-scrambled UHF radio. “Barrier Control, this is Dragon Five-Four flight. How copy?”

  “Dragon Five-Four flight, this is Barrier Control, loud and clear. Over.”

  “We will complete refueling in one-zero minutes,” Coursey said. “Looks like we’ll have three birds in the green. We’ll be in the center of the assigned area at completion. Over.”

  “Copy all, Dragon flight,” the controller replied. “First response will be in approximately zero-eight minutes. Upon completion of refueling, take flight level two-five-zero and heading two-zero-five for your first intercept.”

  “Copy all, Barrier. We’ll report back when refueling is complete.”

  Dragon Five-Five was topped off in three minutes, after easing out of the boom’s refueling envelope twice. Five-Six had an easier time of it, completing his refueling in two minutes. Coursey took a bit longer than two minutes, electing to use lower pump pressure from the tanker to avoid pressure disconnects, which would result in less than completely full tanks. The KC-io then executed a right turn and headed north for its orbit point near Georgetown, and Dragon flight headed southwest toward their first intercept.

  “Five-Five, you got the high CAP,” Coursey said. “Top of the block is three-five-oh, so take three-three for now.” The high CAP (Combat Air Patrol) was an overlook position from where he could react quickly to hostile situations below him.

  Coursey hoped as Dragon Five-Five started his climb to thirty-three thousand feet that the advantages of the high- combat air patrol would make up for Myers’ inexperience.

  “Barrier, Dragon flight on blue,” Coursey called on the scrambled command radio. “Two on heading two-zero-five and twenty-five thousand feet. One on the high CAP at three- three-oh.”

  “Roger, Dragon,” the controller on board the Boeing 767 AWACS radar aircraft replied, “your bogey is at twelve moving to one o’clock, forty miles.” Coursey checked his infrared spotting scope, which was slaved to the data-link from the AWACS—right on the money.
The F-i6’s infrared seeker laid an aiming square on the target and began feeding targeting information to the missile’s weapons computer.

  “Dragon has IR lock, twelve o’clock.”

  “That’s your target, Dragon,” the controller confirmed.

  Coursey started a left turn to take a greater angle into the target. The target wasn’t maneuvering.

  “Dragon, we’ve got modes and codes on this one,” the controller said. “Verify I.D. and make sure he’s a solo.”

  “Rog.” Coursey allowed himself to relax a bit. “Modes and codes,” meant the AWACS was picking up standard airliner- beacon codes, such as air-traffic control codes and altitude readouts, but they wanted each aircraft checked out visually anyway. Apparently whoever they were looking for could transmit standard codes. They were also expecting whoever they were looking for to be either traveling in a formation or trying to sneak through underneath another aircraft, a tactic that even in high-tech, super-electronic times could still only be detected visually.

  “Twenty miles, one o’clock,” the controller said.

  “Five-Six, take spacing, coming right,” Coursey ordered. Dragon Five-Six did a slow aileron roll to the right, which instantly increased his spacing from his leader to about a halfmile. When he was stabilized in route formation, Coursey started a turn toward his bogey.

  “Twelve o’clock, ten miles.”

  “Tally Ho, Five-Four,” Coursey called out. The aircraft was just off the right side of his F-i6’s nose, heading north. It was still not maneuvering, nor was it giving off any telltale radar emissions of its own.

  “Five-Four, this is a message from Barrier command, don’t let the target’s crew see you out there,” the controller of the AWACS said. “Select a course well aft of the cockpit and any cabin windows. Over.”

  “Copy, Dragon flight, check.”