Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02

by Day of the Cheetah (v1. 1)

  His intentions were noted. Both MiGs broke off their attacks against Douglas and changed directions, climbing to line up on Dragon Five-Four. Coursey could see the Ilyushin disgorge bundles of radar-reflecting chaff and infrared decoy flares as the Falcon’s APG-88 radar locked onto the aircraft less than two miles away. The radar-lock tone was intermittent from the Ilyushin’s self-protection jamming, but the instant it steadied out Coursey hit the weapon-release button on the control stick, rolled and turned away from a murderous gun-pass by one of the MiG-2gs. But the Scorpion was a “launch-and leave” missile—it needed no guidance from the carrier aircraft after launch.

  The missile hit the forward edge of the radome, chewing a large piece out of the circular device. The wind blast immediately lifted the broken, jagged edge and ripped the forty-foot- diameter radome off its support legs and back into the 11-76’s T-tail stabilizer. The entire horizontal portion and half of the thirty-foot vertical stabilizer broke free of the aircraft and tumbled away. The Ilyushin transport skidded violently several times, heeling over so sharply that it appeared to be heading into a spin at any moment, but somehow its pilot managed to bring the one-hundred-seventy ton aircraft under control. The transport made a wobbly turn and headed south, trailing a long line of thick black smoke from its aft section.

  Coursey watched as the huge aircraft swerved southward. But as he was searching the skies for the two MiGs, a warning beeped in his helmet. He was down to less than fifteen minutes of fuel, and with a fuel-tank leak, probably much less than that.

  “Barrier, Dragon Five-Four is bingo,” he radioed as he started a turn to the right. “I’m heading north toward the margaritas. Don’t forget to send someone to pick me up.”

  “Roger, Five-Four,” the controller said. “Use channel Bravo for rescue. We will—”

  Coursey never heard the end of the transmission. The damaged MiG had missed his shot at Coursey during the attack on the Russian AWACS, but his wingman did not miss. The AA-11 Archer missile detonated on target, igniting the fuel vapors in the nearly empty tanks and creating a massive fireball in the crystal-blue Caribbean skies.

  * * *

  There was one thing that was hard to teach new pilots and even harder to reinforce in older pilots, Maraklov thought— discipline. The two young MiG pilots on the Ilyushin’s wing forgot it, and they got themselves splashed. The second two, more experienced pilots flanking the XF-34 underneath the Ilyushin, also forgot it and it cost them the effective use of the Ilyushin.

  Maraklov considered himself very damn lucky to be alive. The impact of the missile on the Ilyushin’s radar dome had forced the transport’s nose down several meters; only his computer-fast reactions saved him from crashing into the Ilyushin’s belly. He had dodged aside just in time to avoid the wild seesawing action of the transport as the pilot fought for control. Now he was tucked back on the Ilyushin’s left wing, relaying damage reports to Sebaco Airbase via satellite transceiver and kicking himself for not finding his own way out of Nicaragua.

  He activated his radar and picked up the two remaining MiG-29s and the one F-16 Falcon still in the fight. They were widely separated from each other, neither side anxious to mix it up again. He deactivated his radar, activated the tactical data-link, which gave him an image of what the E-5 AWACS was transmitting to the F-i6s. The AWACS was still tracking all the Soviet aircraft but had not paired any fighters with them. The data-link was rescrambled in random periods, and without the scrambler’s seed code it took a lengthy frequency-scan to reacquire it once it was lost, but when ANTARES was tied into the data-link it provided an excellent means to eavesdrop on the Americans and use their own radar plane to find them.

  “Escort Three and Four, this is Zavtra,” Maraklov transmitted on the convoy’s command-frequency in ANTARES’s computerized voice, using the Russian word for “tomorrow” as DreamStar’s call sign. “Join on the transport immediately.”

  “We will engage the last American fighter,” Escort Three replied. He was the one with flight control damage, anxious to settle the score. A real fool.

  “I gave you an order, join on the transport!”

  “But the American fighter is retreating, we can catch him—”

  “He’s trying to trap you,” Maraklov said. Too bad ANTARES only transmitted his voice at one volume and one tone, because mentally he was screaming at the two Soviet pilots. “They have two American fighters waiting to bushwack you. Join on the transport’s wing.” It was only a guess—the data-link picked up only the lone F-16 Falcon heading north toward Georgetown—but the American AWACS must have called in for more air cover as soon as they discovered the MiGs. Those fighters would be arriving any minute. Finally the warning sunk in, and a few minutes later Maraklov detected the two Soviet MiGs in tight fingertip formation just above and aft of the transport.

  “Escort Three, stay with the transport,” Maraklov ordered. “Check your flight controls and fuel. Escort Four, you’re useless staying in tight formation. This isn’t a damn air show. Take a position low and to the left, into the sun so you can watch the formation and we can watch you.” These Soviet pilots were like rookies, Maraklov thought as the fighters deployed themselves. Lucky for them, their machines mostly made up for their carelessness.

  “We can make it, Colonel,” one of the MiG pilots said. “We could have broken you free past the Americans—”

  “Don’t tell me what we could have done. You ruined our chances by breaking away from the Ilyushin to begin with.”

  “Our people were under attack, what was I supposed to do?”

  “Those fools in Escort One and Two should not have broken formation either,” Maraklov said. “Their actions only provoked the Americans to attack. We must return to Sebaco and reorganize ...”

  Maraklov studied the data-link image just before it scrambled once again. The first F-16 was retreating north, but three more high-speed fighters were approaching. The reinforcements had arrived.

  If we can make it back before we are destroyed, Maraklov silently added.

  * * *

  “Dragon Five-Seven, this is Barrier Command, you have the lead of the attack formation,” General Elliott radioed over the command frequency. He studied the data-link radar-depictions of the Soviet aircraft on his heads-up display. “The Soviet aircraft are at flight level one-five-zero, six-zero nautical miles, heading south. I want to draw out the XF-34, try to force it down. We’ll reinforce your group with Dragon Six-Zero flight when they get on station. Take heading of two-zero-zero to intercept. Over.”

  Tom Duncan, commander of the second F-16 flight, which was to relieve Dragon Five-Four, was not about to stay on the E-5 AWACS’s wing with two MiG-2gs in the area. “Barrier, this is Dragon Five-Seven, I copy all. Dragon Five-Six, get on the tanker, then stay and cover Barrier. Gold Flight, I’ve got the lead, coming right heading two-zero-zero. Take combat positions. Set mil power.”

  “Two.”

  “Three.” The three F-16 Falcons executed a precise right turn as they spread into a wide triangle formation, with the two wingmen about a mile away from the leader at staggered altitudes, then accelerated to two hundred knots overtake speed.

  “Gold Flight, listen up,” Duncan said to his wingmen. “We’re looking at a three-on-three situation here, but they’ve lost their AWACS and we still have ours up. The MiGs have been in the fight, and they’ve burned down weapons and fuel.” . . . On two of our F-i6s, Duncan added to himself . . . “One of the MiGs may be damaged as well. I want fast attacks, mutual support and heads-up smarts. Watch your airspeed. The Falcon can burn off energy real easy in tight turns but you can extend, regain speed and get back in the fight faster than any bird flying. Keep your speed up and use your heads.”

  “Dragon flight, this is Barrier Command,” Elliott called in on the command net. “Bogeys are at twelve o’clock, forty miles.”

  Elliott decided to drop the cold monotone of an air-combat controller—these guys were about to face an entirely differ
ent threat. “Listen up, you guys. This is General Brad Elliott, commander of the High Technology Advanced Weapons Center. Your target is the XF-34, an American experimental forward- swept wing fighter that was stolen from Dreamland a few days ago.”

  “Goddamn,” Duncan said. “We’re going after one of ours?”

  “Be advised—that fighter is much more maneuverable than the F-16,” Elliott was saying. “It fights at high angles of attack. It has a radar that can see in all directions and highspeed microprocessors that simultaneously process attack and defensive information at high speed.” Elliott decided not to tell them about ANTARES or any thought-control capabilities—this was going to be tough enough. “It has an advanced data-link capability with the E-5 AWACS; we must assume that the XF-34 is receiving and using AWACS data-link information. The Russians aren’t going to allow you to close on the XF-34. You may have to start the attack beyond visual range. I advise you not to engage the XF-34 singly or at close range. He can reverse, change directions and cause you to overshoot faster than you can believe. If you can force him to punch off his external tanks and delay overwater for several minutes, we can maybe force him to ditch. You guys are experienced fighter pilots so I won’t tell you your business. But I tell you the XF-34 is a killer. Be careful when you go for a shot. If you lose sight of him, extend and clear—don’t waste time looking for him because he’ll probably be right on your tail. Use your speed and maneuverability and your buddies to get him. Good luck.”

  “Bogeys at twelve o’clock low, twenty-five miles to nearest target, fifteen thousand feet,” the controller said. “Showing only two targets now. Second target at eleven o’clock low, thirteen thousand feet.”

  “Gold Flight copies all, Barrier,” Duncan replied. Both targets were displayed on his heads-up display as a data-link between the E-5 AWACS and the F-16. Duncan immediately selected an AIM-120C Scorpion missile and designated the leftmost target. The missile immediately received its steering information and relayed IN RANGE and ARM messages to Duncan’s heads-up display.

  “Let’s get the ball rolling. Gold Flight, fox two,” Duncan said, and squeezed off the first missile.

  * * *

  “They’re twenty-five miles behind us,” Maraklov warned. “Escort Three and Four, stay with the transport and keep the F-i6s away from it. If the Americans get any closer I’ll engage and try to keep them busy while you get away. The Nicaraguan MiG-23s should be able to help as we get closer.”

  “Shouldn’t we counter the Americans now?” the pilot of Escort Four asked. “The transport will be sure to get away . . .” Just then ANTARES transmitted a radar-threat warning to Maraklov’s brain louder than any audio signal. He reacted instantly. “All aircraft, chaff and jink, now!”

  The MiG pilots reacted quickly, but the AIM-120 missile was detected only seconds from impact, when its internal active radar steered it into its target. A huge black cloud erupted from Escort Three’s right wing, which seemed to push the fighter to the left, then hard over right into a spin. The pilot was able to eject and was even accorded the rare indignity of watching his aircraft spin into the Caribbean Sea.

  Maraklov rolled upright after his own rapid left turn. A quick radar-scan showed the F-i6s still just over twenty miles away—they had launched from long range, nearly the outer limit of the Scorpion. The sky should be filled with Scorpion missiles, but he and the other two aircraft of his convoy to Cuba had survived.

  “Escort Four, stay as low as you can over the water,” Maraklov radioed to the last remaining MiG-29. “Stay with the transport and protect it as best you can.”

  Maraklov issued a mental command and punched off his two Lluyka fuel tanks. With the added drag of the tanks gone, DreamStar suddenly seemed to wake up. The offensive and defensive options suggested by the ANTARES computer automatically jumped from a scant few to hundreds of options. Maraklov initiated a ten-G Immelmann, which got him turned around heading north toward the three F-16 attackers.

  Maraklov carried five-hundred rounds of twenty-millimeter ammunition and two AA-13 Axe radar-guided air-to-air missiles. The AA-13 was inferior to the American Scorpion—it was a fast and powerful missile, capable at ranges out to forty miles, but it weighed twice as much as the Scorpion and required continuous radar illumination by the launch aircraft to home in on its target—carrying no missiles at all would almost have been better. If he was lucky the missiles might actually hit something—but their primary use would be to break up this well-organized combat patrol of F-i6s.

  Maraklov picked out the high F-16. He was the spotter, the one who was supposed to detect the enemy first and draw fire until his wingmen could get into position to press the attack. He was also the most dangerous, since in his high and fast position he could defend himself easily yet turn quickly and bring guns or missiles to bear if his wingmen were attacked. Maraklov quickly designated the high F-16 with his attack radar, and at a range of ten miles, launched his first AA-13 missile.

  * * *

  “Missile launch, ” Duncan called out as his radar-warning receiver blared to life. “Check your trackbreakers, clear to maneuver, pick it up . . .”

  “Tally on the missile,” John “Cock” Corcoran, the pilot aboard Dragon Five-Eight shouted. “On me at my twelve. Going vertical ...”

  Corcoran pumped out chaff to decoy the missile, activated his F-i6’s trackbreakers to jam the steering signals from DreamStar to the missile, and zoomed upward to force the missile to lose some of its energy. The AA-13 locked onto the chaff and almost flew right into the cloud, but finally reacquired its true target and veered upward toward the F-16 when the chaff cloud dissipated. By then the fast-burning solid- fuel propellent had burned out, and the missile was coasting toward its target, losing speed every second. The F-16 pumped out more chaff, rolled inverted and dived straight down. The AA-13 promptly locked onto the chaff once again, flew through the chaff cloud, and exploded.

  * * *

  It had taken the F-16 pilot only a few seconds to defeat the missile, but in that short span of time the distance between DreamStar and the F-16 had decreased from ten miles to two. Maraklov knew that the F-16 could maneuver fast enough to evade the Soviet missile, but that same violent maneuvering consumed every ounce of the pilot’s concentration and took a massive physical toll—in extremely hard maneuvering in an F-16 pilots often blacked out for seconds at a time. Maraklov was hoping that the harder the F-16 pilot worked at defeating the missile—he would fall all the easier under a follow-on attack.

  And it was working. The F-16 was in a headlong dive after coming over the top in a tight hairpin turn, pulling at least three negative G’s. Unlike positive G’s, which forced blood out of the head and produced tunnel vision or blackouts, negative G’s drew blood toward the brain, creating redouts, which were much more serious. It took, he knew, at least six or seven positive G’s to incapacitate a pilot, but only two or three negative G’s. This guy had allowed himself to go right out on the edge.

  * * *

  “Dragon Five-Eight, bogey at your one o’clock low, two miles,” the controller called.

  Duncan heard the warning and scanned the sky for the attacker. He spotted both his wingman and the XF-34. The forward-swept-wing jet was making an unbelievable gun pass—instead of raising its nose to intercept Corcoran, the plane was climbing like ... like a helicopter, flying horizontally but moving vertically. As Corcoran got closer the XF-34 raised its nose and slowed its ascent, seemed to hang in mid-air, slowly raising its nose at the oncoming F-16, tracking it perfectly.

  “Bandit, twelve o’clock, Cock, get out of there, ” Duncan shouted. Too late. Corcoran barely had time to recover from the disorientation and fuzzy vision caused by the negative G-forces in the wild dive when he saw the XF-34 DreamStar angling up for him dead ahead. He tried to roll away but DreamStar kept on coming. Now in high-maneuverability mode, with its canards angled downward, DreamStar’s gun port easily tracked the F-16 through each turn and jink—the cannon muzzle ne
ver strayed from the F-16 even during the most violent maneuvers. At one mile Maraklov opened fire, spraying the F-16 with fifty rounds of twenty-millimeter shells before dodging clear. The shells ripped across the F-16 from canopy to tail, killing the pilot in a fireball of exploding fuel.

  * * *

  “Five-Eight’s been hit,” Duncan called out. “No ‘chute.”

  The full significance of Barrier Command’s warning was obvious now. The forward-swept wing aircraft, the XF-34, appeared to hover, virtually suspended in mid-air as it cut down Corcoran. No aircraft except a subsonic Harrier Jump-jet or a helicopter could do that.

  But now it was the prey, not the hunter. It had slowed itself down to practically nothing, which made it, he thought, an almost laughingly easy target. Duncan selected an AIM-132 missile, lined up on the XF-34 and waited until the missile had locked—

  In the blink of an eye the XF-34 had flat-turned, faced Duncan and began firing its cannon. Astonished, Duncan rolled hard left and dived, trying to put as much distance between his F-16 and those cannon shells as he could. He dived five thousand feet, ejected one chaff and one flare bundle to decoy any missile the Russian might have fired, then pulled hard on the stick and zoomed skyward.

  The XF-34 was waiting for him. As Duncan brought his F-i6’s nose up to reacquire his target he saw that the Russian had positioned himself to take a shot as he flew above the horizon. Duncan hit the afterburner and snapped his Falcon into tight aileron rolls to spoil the Russian’s aim . . .