Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02

by Day of the Cheetah (v1. 1)

  “Two.”

  “Three.”

  Coursey maneuvered around behind the aircraft and its left elevator, well out of sight of the pilot and anyone looking out the windows. He could understand Barrier’s concern—airline pilots, not to mention passengers, got very nervous with armed fighters swarming nearby.

  “Barrier, looks like we got a Boeing 707, cargo configuration,” Coursey reported. As he closed in, he continued, “It has Varig colors on its tail. Stand by for serial number. Five-Six, take the right side and stay out of sight.”

  Dragon Five-Six peeled off and began to converge on the 707’s right side. Coursey pulled in close to the vertical stabilizer, well clear of the plane should it make a sudden turn. “I copy M as in Mike, five-seven-oh-seven-three alpha. No music, no weapons”— “music” meaning any hostile radar emissions or jamming.

  “Belly’s clear,” the pilot on Dragon Five-Six reported.

  “Dragon, this is Barrier. I.D. confirmed on your bogey. Resume patrol orbit and stand by.”

  “Roger, Barrier.” Coursey rolled left away from the airliner, then took a second to check his position.

  “Barrier, what are we supposed to be looking for?” Coursey asked.

  A slight pause, then: “Stand by, Five-Four.”

  They were asking the brass on board if it was okay to tell the guard puke what he was doing in the middle of nowhere, chasing down airliners, for God’s sake. He had a feeling the answer was going to be don’t ask stupid questions, guard puke.

  He got his answer sixty seconds later: “Five-Four, command says you’ll know it when you see it.”

  “Say again, Barrier?”

  Another pause; then a different voice came on the radio: “Dragon flight, your target is a single-seat fighter aircraft. It may be armed, and it may be escorted by one or more Soviet aircraft. It may be supported by a Soviet tanker. The aircraft may have U.S. Air Force markings on it. It must still be considered hostile.”

  “An American aircraft? We’re going after an American aircraft?”

  “The bad guys got it, Major,” the voice said. “We want it back. Your job is to identify it, force it to follow you to Georgetown, or if necessary destroy it. Those are your orders, Major Coursey. Over and out ”

  This was becoming less and less like a Caribbean vacation, Coursey thought.

  “Five-Six, I’ve got the lead. Join on the right.”

  “Three.”

  “Five-Five, maintain your high CAP until the next refueling, then you’ll swap with Five-Six. Set best endurance power. Seems this is going to be one long day.”

  * * *

  Colonel Edward Marsch, commander of the 21st Airborne Warning and Command Squadron from Tinker AFB looked at General Bradley Elliott and shrugged when they heard Coursey’s reaction. “Air Force Reserve boys,” he said.

  “No need to apologize for him, Colonel,” Elliott said. “I should be apologizing to him. He’s the one putting his ass on the line.”

  “How long do you think we’ll be on station?”

  “If I’m wrong we’ll get recalled in about six to eight hours. If I’m right, things will start happening in the next two, three hours.”

  “Which should I be hoping for, sir?”

  No answer. Either way, Elliott thought, it had already turned into a nightmare.

  20 June 1996, 0840 CST

  “Dragon Five-Seven flight of three reporting airborne,” the communications officer relayed to General Elliott. “ETA one- five minutes.”

  Elliott nodded, took another sip of coffee. It seemed that the Russians would actually honor the agreement drawn up with Vilizherchev. They had come up empty on each of the twelve intercepts the three F-16 Falcon interceptors had performed. Although there had been no recall order it was only ten A.M. in Washington. Still plenty of time for an agreement to be struck. They could already be on the phone together making a deal.

  “Dragon Five-Five, you take the lead,” Elliott heard the interceptor-formation leader, Major Coursey, say on the command radio. “Five-Six, you’re on his wing. I’ll take the high CAP. Let’s see if you guys have learned anything today.”

  “Two.”

  “Three.”

  Lieutenant Myers, the pilot of Dragon Five-Five, called out: “I’ve got the lead. Dragon Five-Four, clear to climb and clear the formation. Five-Six, clear to my right wing.”

  “Three,” Douglas, aboard Dragon Five-Six, replied. Of all three pilots he had had the least to say the entire flight—his vocabulary had consisted of the word “three,” his original formation assignment. Even when they changed leads, Douglas would always report in as “three” because he had started out in that position.

  “Five-Four’s outta here.”

  Elliott glanced at the master radar display. Another aircraft had just appeared on the scope at two hundred miles range. The operator had drawn an electronic line on the screen, depicting the airway A321, and the new target was dead on that line. This airway ran all the way from Rio de Janeiro to Goose Bay, passing near Colombia, Panama, Nicaragua, Cuba, Miami and New York—A321 was the most widely used airway in South and Central America. Every aircraft they had intercepted had been dead on this airway, and each had been transmitting the proper identification codes. When they were intercepted by Coursey and his wingmen they had turned out to be just what their I.D. codes said they were.

  The exercise was beginning to wear on Coursey and his pilots, so they had been swapping leads on each intercept. For the first time, the least inexperienced pilot, Myers on Five- Five, was going to be in the lead for an intercept.

  “What’s the inside pitch on Myers, Ed?” Elliott asked the 767 AWACS commander.

  “A hard-charger, from what I hear,” Marsch replied, checking his duty roster for this mission. “Top in his class at Nellis. One of the first pilots to go directly from an Air National Guard commission to F-16 ADF training. He’s low-time but he’s good.”

  Elliott nodded. A good opportunity for Myers to get some training—he hoped that was all he’d get. He checked the data readouts on the newcomer. “Relatively low altitude,” Elliott remarked. The new aircraft was at fifteen thousand feet and climbing. “Got an origin?”

  “Negative, sir,” the console operator said. “I should be getting his IFF data in a minute.”

  “Five-Four’s on the high CAP,” Coursey reported.

  “Slow down your turn rate for me, Five-Five,” Elliott heard on the radio—obviously Dragon Five-Six was having trouble keeping up with Five-Five. In many ways being a formation leader was more stressful than staying on a guy’s wing—you had to think ahead all the time. On the wing all you had to worry about was staying on the wing. As lead you had to consider your wingmen’s reactions to each of your moves and radio call—every throttle movement, hesitation, control input or decision had a ripple effect on everyone else.

  “That’s better, Bob,” Douglas on Dragon Five-Six said.

  Just then Ed Marsch handed General Elliott a messageform.

  “Message from SAC headquarters via JCS, sir,” he said. Elliott read the note, lips tightening; then nodded and flipped the note onto the console.

  “It seems the Russians have agreed to the President’s terms. They’ve promised not to move the XF-34 out of Nicaragua. They’re negotiating on terms for the removal of the aircraft— they say the aircraft is damaged and unflyable. The pilot will not be returned until the investigation is completed. We’ve been ordered to stand down. The fighters have been granted a two-night stay in Georgetown but are ordered back to Panama by Monday.”

  Marsch let out his breath, trying to restrain his relief at being ordered to get out of this duty. His E-5A AWACS radar plane was vulnerable out here, with no ready fighter protection and only a few minutes flying time from Cuba. “I’ll order the fighters from Georgetown to RTB,” he said. Elliott nodded. To the senior controller, Marsch ordered, “Tell Dragon Five-Four flight to recover to Georgetown ASAP. Set up a refueling for them if they
need it—they must be down close to an hour’s duration.” The senior controller nodded.

  “If they can properly secure your plane, Colonel,” Elliott said, “request permission for you and your crew to spend the weekend in Georgetown. It beats flying all the way back to Oklahoma. I can find my own way back to Nellis.” Back to Dreamland. Back to forced retirement. Back to disgrace . . . ?

  “Excellent suggestion, sir,” Marsch said excitedly. One weekend in the Caribbean beat a year in Oklahoma City. “I’ll work on it immediately. ”

  “We’ve got an I.D. code on the newcomer, sir,” the radar operator at the main console called out. “Checking his flight plan with Georgetown air traffic control now.”

  Marsch had gone over to the communications section, so Elliott said, “Let’s have it, Sergeant.”

  “Flight plan from Georgetown says it’s a flight of three—a Soviet Ilyushin-76 Midas tanker-transport plane and two MiG- 29 Fulcrum fighters. One four-zero-nine-six code and one mode C.” Standard civilian air-traffic beacon codes; the first transmitted aircraft-identification data, the second transmitted altitude.

  “What’s their origin?”

  “Origin code is MMNP, sir,” the operator replied. “Augusto Cesar Sandino International Airport, Managua, Nicaragua.”

  Elliott slipped on his headphones and keyed the mike switch. “S-One, this is S-Five. Have the fighters from Georgetown turned back yet?”

  Marsch’s head poked up from behind a communications console as he punched his mike button. “Affirmative, sir.”

  “Tell them to turn around and rendezvous with us,” Elliott said.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Marsch said and exited the communications console and began to walk toward Elliott, “we’ve been ordered to stand down—”

  “We got two fighters and a Soviet transport heading our way,” Elliott said. “I want to run an intercept on them. And I want cover for us until they pass.”

  Marsch returned to the master radar-console and checked the readouts. “An II-76 and a couple of MiGs. Have they got a flight plan?” The operator nodded. “They’re squawking the proper codes, General. They’re on the airway. I don’t see what the problem is—”

  “There’s no problem, Colonel,” Elliott said. “I just want an intercept on them and I want air cover for us until they leave.”

  “Sir, the mission is over,” Marsch said, “we’ve been ordered to return to base. Besides, it’s crazy running an intercept on Russian aircraft. If something goes wrong we could be in serious trouble—”

  “I know what we’ve been ordered to do, Colonel. I also know what my responsibility is and I know what your responsibility is. Do what I tell you, goddamn it.” Marsch nodded, eyes on Elliott. No question, Marsch thought, that the old man meant what he said. He turned back to the communications cabin.

  “Have the mid-CAP run an intercept on the transport,” Elliott told the senior controller. “But I want no hostile moves out there. Have the mid-CAP flank the fighters, but no radar and no tail-attack aspect. I just want them close enough for a visual on the transport.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Marsch came back to the radar cabin and stood behind Elliott. “Dragon Five-Seven flight is on its way,” the radar-console operator reported. “ETA twenty minutes.”

  “What’s the ETA on the MiGs?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “I want one of the fighters in the Dragon Five-Seven flight joined on us in twelve minutes,” Elliott said. “How’s the intercept running?” Elliott didn’t expect an answer; he could hear the strained interchange of the pilots as they closed in on their first hostile bogeys.

  * * *

  “Dragon Five-Five on heading two-zero-five, level flight level two-zero-zero,” Myers replied. The transition from flight lead to eventual Caribbean beach bum and back to flight lead was jarring.

  “Roger, Dragon,” the controller said. “Your target is one o’clock, one hundred and fifty miles, flight plan reports two MiG-29 fighters and one II-76 transport. Radar showing one primary target only—” Only one of the possible three aircraft was positively being tracked.

  “What the hell are we doing, Barrier?” Coursey said. He was still on the high combat air patrol, electing not to take over the lead from Myers. The kid needed the experience, and what better experience than intercepting some real Russians? But the sudden switch from stand-down to I.D.’ing some Russians was weird. “Say again our ROE. Over.”

  “Roger, Dragon. You are to visually I.D. and inspect the transport. Avoid hostile-attack aspects. Do not fire unless fired upon. Over.”

  “You guys got that?” Coursey said.

  “Two.” That was Myers—his voice was shakier, tenser than ever.

  “Three.” Even Douglas sounded nervous. These guys were wound pretty tight.

  “Listen up, Dragon,” Coursey said, “run it like all other intercepts. Take it nice and easy. As long as you don’t hit ’em with an attack profile the MiGs should leave you alone— they’re on a cruise to the Copacabana, that’s all. They got as much right to be here as we do. Follow the ROE and the normal air-traffic rules and we’ll be on the beach sipping cubra libras before you know it. Head’s up.”

  “Two.”

  “Three.” Douglas sounded better, but Myers sounded like someone had a vise-grip on his balls.

  “One hundred miles,” the controller said. “Rate of closure nine hundred sixty knots. Bogeys moving to one o’clock . . . radar now showing three primary targets, Dragon, repeat, three primary targets—”

  The radar-warning receivers on the F-i6s lit up. On the displays of the three Falcons was a diamond symbol. On the left display the computer identified the radar source as search- radar.

  “Dragon’s got music,” Myers reported.

  “Barrier copies,” the controller said. “Transport target may be an airborne-radar aircraft, Dragon.” The warning hung on the frequency; then the controller added: “Use caution.”

  Coursey had to laugh into his face mask.

  What the controller did not convey to the F-16 pilots was that the MiGs might be planning, computing their attack on them using the long-range radar on the II-76 just as they themselves would use the E-5’s radar to direct an attack on the MiGs. The 767 AWACS controller should be setting up options for the F-i6s in case the MiGs started to mix it up. Intelligence reported that the Soviets now used an AA-11 infrared short-range missile, code-name “Archer,” and a copy of the AIM-120 launch-and-leave medium-range missile called the AA-15 “Abolish,” but that neither was as good as the American counterpart. Well, if things went to shit they were going to find out first-hand about the Russian missile’s capabilities.

  “Eighty miles,” the controller said. “Spacing increasing between fighters and transport aircraft. Altitude readouts on all three remain flight level one-eight-zero.” The MiGs were getting some maneuvering room, Coursey thought, but it was unlikely they’d leave the transport unprotected.

  “Sixty miles. Flight level one-eight-zero. Moving to one- thirty position. Distance between fighters and transport now one mile.”

  “Barrier, Dragon Five-Seven is zero-three minutes from join-up,” Coursey heard a new voice report. That was Major Tom Duncan, the squadron operations officer and leader of the second flight. The brass must have called back the second flight of F-i6s when the MiGs showed up. At least someone on the AWACS is thinking, Coursey thought.

  “Forty miles,” the controller said. “Spacing between fighters and transport now one mile. Altitude still one-eight-zero.”

  They should just cruise on by, Coursey told himself. As long as Douglas and Myers kept their guns away from them, they shouldn’t feel threatened. Nothing’s going on here, Coursey told himself, trying to convince himself this was a routine training flight, but he began heading toward the Soviet formation as if running his own intercept on the transport. Radar-warning indications illuminated his threat receiver—he had to assume that the Russians knew he was up here . . .
>
  “Twenty miles, Dragon, moving to two o’clock position.”

  “Tally ho,” Douglas called out. It was just a speck on the horizon, but the huge Ilyushin transport moved into view. From twenty miles away the huge saucer radome, viewed from above, could be clearly seen; it resembled an American C-141 Starlifter with a flying saucer hovering over it. “Definitely an AWACS configuration,” Douglas reported.

  “Five-Five has a tally,” Myers finally said—a few more seconds and Douglas would have had to take the lead. “Coming right to intercept.”

  “Fighters moving out to two miles of the transport,” the controller reported.

  Two miles? They were still fairly close to the transport, but two miles’ separation was a long way for escort aircraft. They were loosening up their escort duties considerably . . .

  “Fighters moving to three miles . . . now four miles, Dragon,” the controller said. “Report visual contact on the fighters.”

  “Five-Six has a tally.”

  “Five-Five.” He didn’t sound very positive—Coursey guessed that he hadn’t yet picked up the fighters.

  “The fighters are breaking off to join up on you individually,” Coursey called out on the command channel. “Ignore them. Keep an eye on them, but all we want is a visual on the transport. Be careful—they might try to crowd you or hit you with a radar lock-on. Nice and easy.”

  Coursey was prophetic. “Dragon, MiGs are pairing up with you, one turning left, one turning right, both climbing. Five- Five, your bogey is at eleven o’clock, fifteen miles. Five-Six, your bogey is at two o’clock, fifteen miles.”

  “Lead, c’mon down here.” That was Myers.

  “I said ignore the fighters,” Coursey said. “Keep your damned cool.” But Coursey found it was getting harder and harder to believe himself—the Russians were up to something. What?

  “Ten miles to the transport,” the controller reported. “Five- Five, your bogey’s at nine o’clock, eight miles. Five-Six, three o’clock, seven miles . . . Dragon flight, both MiGs moving rapidly on your outboard beams, closing rapidly to three miles . . . two miles . .