Dark Wing

by Richard Herman

  The launch/guidance operator scanned his panel. “All circuits test yellow,” he said. Every red light on the panel had gone out and had been replaced by a yellow light as each circuit was activated and tested positive for continuity.

  The captain shot Sung another worried look. Sung nodded. “Activate launch circuits,” the captain said.

  The launch/guidance operator threw a series of toggle switches on the panel in front of him and then looked at the captain. “Ready for consent.” The captain’s hand moved, flicking open the guarded switch and shoving it forward. All the yellow lights but two flicked to green. The missile was hot and only needed its guidance system to come on line.

  Now the launch/guidance operator’s hands flew over his control panel in a series of well-practiced actions. The last two yellow lights blinked to green. “Internal gyro stabilized,” he reported. “Automatic guidance in the green.” For the first twenty seconds of flight, the Guideline was a ballistic missile that relied on its own internal guidance system. At twenty seconds, the solid-fuel booster separated, exposing the UHF radio antennas and allowing the liquid-fueled sustainer rocket to kick in. Normally, the missile would then rely on radio-command guidance from the Fan Song radar as it painted the target.

  But this time, it would be a visual launch and there would be no telltale Fan Song radar transmissions to warn the AWACS that it was under attack by a surface-to-air missile.

  Sunday, October 20

  Wuzhou, China

  The caret on the airspeed tape in the HUD refused to go beyond 330 knots. “Come on!” Pontowski shouted. But the Warthog was tired and 330 was all he was going to get hauling bombs at two hundred feet above the deck. Ahead of him, he could see the town of Wuzhou. Use the road as a pointer to the school, he reminded himself. The compound is on the northeastern edge of town, between the road and the river.

  Again, he cursed his slow airspeed. Even though Pontowski was moving over the ground at 557 feet a second, fast by normal human standards, a determined gunner on the ground could track him, especially when he popped. He would have been much happier at twice the speed. But the Warthog had never been designed to go fast. However, if everything went according to plan, all eight aircraft would attack and be off target less than three minutes after Pontowski dropped his bombs.

  Now Pontowski could see the road angling in on his left. But he still could not make out the school building Kang had turned into the center of his headquarters compound. He was almost to the pop point and still no target.

  “Triple A coming from the river,” Buns, his wingman, transmitted, his voice amazingly calm. Pontowski could see rapid puffs of smoke coming from a gun pit on the river levee. “I’m in on the left,” Buns called as his nose turned toward the gun pit.

  Ten seconds later Pontowski reached his pop point and saw the school at his two o’clock position. Even at 330 knots, the attack was developing at a speed that defied normal thought and Pontowski’s reactions were automatic. He honked back on the stick and climbed. At nine hundred feet he rolled 135 degrees, apexed at twelve hundred feet, and pulled the Warthog’s nose to the target. He was vaguely aware of small black puffs flashing above him—Triple A coming from the gun pit. Not even close.

  Now, he did have time to evaluate. He had apexed at exactly one mile from the target, the HUD’s velocity vector symbol was beyond the target—marking the spot he would hit the ground if he didn’t pull out. His dive angle of fifteen degrees was wired and his airspeed rooted on 325 knots. Perfect.

  A flash of exploding bombs off to his left caught his attention. “I’m clear,” Buns radioed. The puffs stopped. Buns had taken out the battery. Were there more?

  The target was marching down the HUD’s PIBL, the projected bomb impact line, toward the pipper. He could see dark figures running for cover—all soldiers. Subconsciously, he was thankful that Jin Chu had been right about the school being evacuated. Then he saw the unmistakable flash of an SA-7 being launched. The shoulder-held missile the Soviets called the Strela, or Arrow, streaked toward his wingman’s jet. “Break right!” he yelled over the radio. The momentary distraction had taken his eyes out of the HUD. When he reacquired the target, it was still on the PIBL and almost to the pipper. LASTE had saved the bomb run. At 768 feet above the ground, the pipper reached the target and his thumb mashed the pickle button.

  The six bombs rippled off and Pontowski pulled back on the stick, loading the Warthog with four gs in two seconds, the standard escape maneuver. He glanced back at the compound and saw his first bomb explode. He looked away.

  Pontowski’s first bomb hit seventy feet short of the main building and exploded in the midst of three communications vans and two trucks. The blast from the bomb blew in the building’s outer wall while the frag pattern from the bomb and numerous secondary explosions from ammunition reached out over a thousand feet into a bivouac area. The second bomb hit short of the north wall of the building. The blast collapsed the north wing and set it on fire. The third bomb landed in the building’s center and penetrated to the basement before it exploded. The building was collapsing in on itself in a domino effect when the fourth bomb landed in the kitchen located in the south wing. The men at breakfast were vaporized by the succeeding blasts that built and fed on one another. The fifth bomb hit thirty feet south of the building and blasted a thirty-foot crater in the soft earth. A pillar of smoke, dirt, and debris rose into the air and then settled over the burning building. The sixth bomb’s fusing malfunctioned and the bomb buried itself in over forty feet of soft earth. It would go undetected for six years until the vibration caused by a farmer’s tractor set it off.

  Two more Hogs dropped bombs on the compound, leveling the area while their wingmen provided cover and dropped canisters of CBU-58s on any air defenses foolish enough to announce their presence. The last two aircraft in Maggot’s flight could not see the compound because of smoke and flames so they hit the supply dump and motor pool area on the other side of the river.

  Kang’s body would be found the next day under a ton of rubble. Charred, shrunk, and dismembered, his body was identifiable only by his distinctive bridgework. The soldiers dumped his remains into a common grave with 687 other bodies. A bulldozer sealed the grave.

  Pontowski never saw the death and destruction his bombs created. Instead, he scanned the area and concentrated on finding Buns for a rejoin. Ideally, they would join and egress in a two-ship formation. He jinked to the left and saw a flash of flame engulf the tail section of a Warthog that was too far away to be Buns. “Shee-it,” Maggot yelled over the radio, drawing the obscenity into two syllables, “I’m hit.”

  Sunday, October 20

  The Sino-Vietnamese border, China

  “Colonel Sung,” the plotter sang out, “AWACS in range.” Sung forced himself to remain calm. He desperately wanted to shoot down the intruder.

  The tracker in the cupola, Sergeant Lu, announced he was tracking the AWACS.

  “Permission to fire?” the captain asked. His voice was shaking.

  “Granted,” Sung said.

  “Fire!”

  The roar of the launching missile shook the control van and for the next twenty seconds an equally deafening silence ruled the men. Then from the launch/guidance operator, “Positive missile guidance.”

  The thirty-five-foot-long Guideline missile resembled a flying telephone pole as it arced onto the AWACS. The computer-activated commands transitioned its flight from a lead pursuit course to a pure collision course as it neared the unsuspecting AWACS. This particular Guideline missile was twenty-nine years old and had been manufactured in the Soviet Union. It had been carefully maintained against the ravages of time and the solid-fuel booster and guidance circuits worked perfectly throughout the launch. Even the liquid-fueled sustainer rocket functioned within design parameters, which meant the missile responded accurately to guidance commands.

  Sergeant Lu could not believe his luck as the AWACS banked away from him, presenting him with a perfec
t plan form to track on. He watched in satisfaction as the missile closed on the aircraft. But without a radar signal to home on, the proximity fuse did not work and the missile struck the fuselage at the left wing root just as the AWACS rolled out of its turn. Because the missile hit at a low angle of incidence, it bounced off and the impact fuse malfunctioned. The self-destruct mechanism sensed the loss of stability and detonated the 288-pound high-explosive warhead as the missile tumbled. A huge fireball belched below the AWACS and Sergeant Lu reported a direct hit. Two observation posts confirmed his report.

  But the high explosive in the missile’s warhead had degraded over the years and the detonation was uneven, causing a much lower-order explosion.

  The underside of the AWACS’ fuselage took the brunt of the explosion as the high explosive ripped into the AWACS, shredding metal and peppering the control surfaces on the left wing and the number one and two engines. Shrapnel tore into the forward cargo and equipment hold, called the forward lobe. The high-velocity charged pieces of metal ripped into the wiring, junction boxes, and radios packed into the equipment racks.

  Fire and smoke filled the forward lobe and poured into the main cabin.

  Sunday, October 20

  Near Wuzhou, China

  “I think a Grail nailed you,” Pontowski transmitted as he headed for Maggot. Where was Buns? He slid into a position below and behind Maggot to check the A-10 for battle damage. He could see hydraulic fluid streaking the ripped panels of the fuselage’s underside.

  “Shee-it,” was the only reply. Maggot headed south and slowed while Pontowski joined on his right.

  Behind them, Pontowski could see only smoke and flames. We did what we came for, he thought. Time to head home. It would be a gift if Maggot was the only one with battle damage and with a little help from the AWACS, they should be able to get Maggot safely home. He hit the transmit button, “Phoenix, say position of bandits.”

  Maggot drowned out any reply from the AWACS with, “Bandits! Two o’clock, high, eight miles.”

  Pontowski had no trouble finding the bandits this time. “Circle the Hogs,” he ordered.

  CHAPTER 25

  Sunday, October 20

  Near the Sino-Vietnamese border, Vietnam

  Major Marissa LaGrange was standing in the aisle beside her senior director when the explosion rocked the aircraft. Her next conscious thought was, Why am I lying on the deck? After that, her reactions were instinctive, honed by long hours of practice in the simulator. She jumped to her feet, jammed on her quick don oxygen mask and plugged into the intercom. “Oxygen masks!” she roared. “Oxygen on 100 percent. Sit down and strap in. Clear your consoles, shut up, and get your checklists out. And follow ‘em!”

  The heavy smoke pouring onto the main deck was blinding her. A crew member bolted past her heading to the rear of the aircraft. She grabbed him. “Sit the fuck down and do your job!” She pushed him into a seat.

  She turned and pointed at Orly, the airborne radar technician sitting at the lone console aft of the wing. “Orly, pop the over-the-wing hatch. Vent this mutha.” The sergeant leaped out of his seat and tore at the hatch. Within seconds, the smoke lessened and she could see through her tears. Now she had the source of the smoke. It was coming from the forward lobe.

  Talk to the pilot first, she thought. “Buzz …”

  “Stand by …” His voice was labored.

  We’re straight and level, LaGrange thought. He’s handling the emergency up there. Put out the fire back here. On net one of the intercom: “Fire fighters—Orly and Benny. Get ready … forward lobe … you’re going down … fire fighters’ masks … gloves … fire extinguishers.” Much to her surprise, and without a word of protest, Orly rushed past her, giving a thumbs-up signal. The two men were at the hatch in the floor, waiting for her command.

  The pilot’s voice came over the intercom. “All fire lights are out, control checks okay, but we’ve lost our number two. Say status.” Buzz had just told LaGrange that he had no indication of a fire and while he did have positive control of the aircraft, they were flying on three engines. And he wanted to know what was going on in the rear.

  “I’m sending two fire fighters into the forward lobe now,” LaGrange answered. “The smoke is venting.” She motioned Orly and Benny down the hatch.

  “Is the fire out?”

  “How the hell would I know?” LaGrange snapped. “They just went down.”

  “Rog,” the pilot replied. “We’re heading for home.”

  LaGrange felt the E-3 turn gently onto a new course. She took a deep breath and forced herself to forget the fire and smoke for a moment. She had to regain situational awareness and called the senior director. “Say status.”

  “Radar and all communications out. Bossman last reported off target and bandits in area. The last radio call I heard was ‘Circle the Hogs.’ They’re in trouble, Major.”

  Damn! she thought. The Warthogs needed help and the AWACS was heading in the wrong direction. Should she risk her crew again? They had taken one hit and had not observed antiaircraft fire. So it had to be a SAM. Would another one be waiting for them? Just one missile, she thought, with no radar warning. Then it came to her. They had been nailed by a single missile visually launched. But standard employment doctrine for surface-to-air missiles called for two missiles to be committed against a high-value target. And they were certainly that. Why only one? To insure success under such degraded conditions, a whole flock of missiles should have been barraged at them. Maybe that was the Last of the Mohicans. Her decision was almost made. But she had to get the fire out first.

  “Moose!” she bellowed on net one. “Get your ass down into the forward lobe and sort those dumb dicks out.”

  “Hey,” he answered, “I’m not a fire fighter!”

  “You are now. Move!” The Monday morning quarterbacks are going to have fun with that decision, she thought, sending my best weapons controller down to fight a fire. But she had a very good reason for her decision. Moose hated her guts and could work miracles when he was pissed at her. She watched as he jammed a fire fighter’s mask over his face and disappeared down the hatch.

  “Major,” one of the weapons controllers said, “checklist complete. What now?”

  “Keep your thumb on the checklist,” LaGrange replied. “Why?”

  “Better on the checklist than up your ass,” she shot back. Things were returning to normal.

  Moose’s voice crackled over the intercom. “Orly and Benny bought it. They’re dead!”

  I sent them down too soon! she raged at herself. Worry about that later. Moose is still alive. “The fucking fire, Moose!”

  “Workin’ it,” he grunted. “It’s the power junction control box to the radios.” She could hear the swoosh of a fire extinguisher over the intercom. “Nah, it’s a couple of radios and the forced-air fan.” Again, she heard the swoosh of the fire extinguisher. The smoke coming from the forward lobe started to dissipate. “Fire’s out,” Moose told her. Now she could hear a loud knocking sound coming over the intercom.

  “What the hell’s going on?” she asked, forcing her voice to be calm. No answer. To the pilot, “Buzz, the fire’s out back here. Have I got four generators on line?”

  “Rog,” he answered.

  “Return to orbit now,” she ordered.

  “You crazy?” He was shouting.

  She stifled the urge to yell at him. Buzz was an emotional type and she had to explain things to him. “The Warthogs are tangling with a gaggle of J-8s and unless we do our job, they ain’t nothing but dog meat.”

  The pilot’s answer was a cool “Rog” as the aircraft banked to the right, into the two good engines, and reversed course.

  LaGrange thought about the situation. “If there are any clouds out there,” she said, “stay above ‘em or in ‘em.”

  Again, the same cool and laconic “Rog” came back.

  “Stalwart fellow,” she mumbled into her mike, loud enough for everyone to hear. Time for ano
ther problem. She made sure she was on net one. “Everyone listen up. We’re returning to station. Slovic, get the radar back on line. Mercer, sort out the radios. I want max corn ASAP.”

  Mercer, the communications tech, looked puzzled. “What about Moose … Cap’n Penko?”

  “Power ‘em up sequentially. Talk to him and see what happens.”

  “Radar coming on line now,” Slovic, the backup airborne radar tech, said.

  “I’ve isolated the damaged circuits,” Moose said over the intercom. “Turn ‘em on, Mercer. I’ll tell you if you need to shut a radio down.”

  Again, LaGrange could hear a loud knocking sound coming from the forward lobe. “What the hell you doing down there?”

  “Trying,” Moose grunted, “to get … the equipment rack … off the bodies.”

  So that’s what happened, she reasoned. They got trapped. Probably cooked. “Leave ‘em down there,” she ordered. Moose’s head appeared out of the hatch. He ripped off the fire fighter’s mask and took a deep breath. Slowly he pulled himself out of the hatch. LaGrange plugged into her long communications cord and walked over to him. He was sitting on the deck, his skin still glowing from the heat and his flight suit smoldering. He reeked of smoke and a cooked-meat aroma. “You okay?” she asked.

  “Yeah. I’m okay.” He glared at her. “You want to know what happened?”

  “Later.”

  Moose wasn’t about to wait until later. He wanted her to know what he had been through. “You sent ‘em down when the smoke was too thick. They couldn’t see. The aft equipment rack cracked loose and fell on ‘em—probably when the aircraft turned. It pinned Orly and cut Benny’s oxygen hose. They didn’t stand a chance, Major.” There was condemnation in his voice.

  But she wasn’t about to respond to it. Not now. Perhaps later. When she was alone. “Get back to your station,” she said, keeping her voice under tight control.