Whiplash d-11

by Dale Brown

  The AWACS detected one of the patrols flying up from the south on a rough intercept with the MC-17 shortly after it took off. Though it didn’t seem likely that the Iranians had spotted the cargo aircraft, the fighter group commander decided to take no chances. The group of F-15s to the south were told to intercept.

  The fighters were picked up immediately by Iranian air defenses. Radars and missile sites began tracking them along the border area, trying to lock on and launch missiles. One of the antiaircraft sites was almost directly in the MC-17’s path. The northern group of interceptors, which included an F-16 Wild Weasel SAM suppressor, was ordered to take out the defenses. More MiGs came out for them as they started toward the site.

  In the space of ninety seconds the sky became intensely crowded and angry.

  The cargo aircraft, however, remained at very low altitude, undetected by either the SAMs or the Iranian interceptors.

  “I think we can sneak by all this,” Dominick told Breanna. “We just stay on course.”

  “Exactly.”

  The word was no sooner out of her mouth than the AWACS announced a new warning: A pair of Iranian fighters had taken off from Tabriz and were heading south, in their direction. Two more aircraft were coming off the runway right behind them.

  Breanna looked at the IDs, which were flashed over via a messaging system from the AWACS. The planes were Su-27s, older Russian aircraft recently sold to Iran. They were long in the tooth — but would have no trouble shooting down an unarmed cargo aircraft. Both were equipped with improved versions of Slotback radar; the “look-down, shoot-down” radar system made it easy for them to locate and destroy aircraft at low altitudes.

  The MC-17 was a sitting duck. Even a Megafortress would have had trouble against them, if it didn’t have its Flighthawks.

  “They’ll see us as soon as they come further south,” Breanna warned Frederick. “We need to get as close to that border as we can. I’m going to call the F-15s south. Maybe they can help.”

  As soon as the Eagle pilots hit their afterburners, the Iranians changed course and headed for them.

  So far no one had fired at each other. The Iranians protested that the Americans were trespassing and would be shot down; the Americans replied that they were covering an operation on the Iraqi side of the border and would return as soon as they were confident that the Iranians would not interfere. The white lie led to considerable huffing and puffing, but no gunplay.

  Not yet, anyway.

  “We’re clear,” said Breanna, following what was going on via the AWACS link.

  But they didn’t stay clear. The second flight of Sukhois continued south, directly toward their path.

  “We have thirteen minutes to the border,” Breanna told Frederick. “Just keep on keepin’ on.”

  But the Iranians had finally spotted them. The lead Sukhoi asked the MC-17 to identify itself.

  “What should I say?” Frederick asked Breanna.

  “Tell them we’re on a mercy mission,” she said. She remembered the list of injuries, all minor except for Tarid’s bullet wound, that her people had suffered. “We have a patient who requires burn treatment.”

  “Maybe you ought to talk to them,” said the pilot, doubtfully. “Maybe they’ll believe a woman.”

  They didn’t.

  “Unidentified aircraft. We see that you are a U.S. warplane,” answered the Iranian. “You are ordered to turn to the north and fly to Tabriz airport.”

  “Negative,” said Breanna. “We have a very sick patient we’ve evacked from one of your facilities. You better check in with your superiors. Your English, by the way, is very good. Where did you learn it?”

  Flattery got her nowhere. The pilot increased his speed. The two Sukhois were now less than thirty miles away, closing the distance between the two aircraft at a little over four miles a minute.

  The border was just over twelve minutes away. More importantly, the closest American fighters, off to the south with the MiGs, were nearly fifteen minutes from firing range.

  Depending on what missiles the Iranian interceptors were carrying, they might already be in range to fire. Even if they were under orders to obtain a visual identification before making an attack, they would get to the MC-17 well before the Eagles did.

  Frederick tried to get more thrust from the engines, even though they were already at max.

  “Maybe we should do what they want,” he suggested as the Sukhois continued to gain.

  “I don’t see that as an option,” said Breanna coldly.

  “What I mean is, we make it look like we are,” explained the pilot. “We turn and head north very, very slowly. We give the F-15s a chance to catch up. When they’re here, no more problems. We turn around and go home.”

  Draw the encounter out and stall for time, then run away. There didn’t seem to be another choice.

  “Maybe you’re right,” said Breanna. “Let’s play it by ear.”

  “Iranian flight, please state your intentions,” she said as the Sukhois closed in.

  “We are going to shoot you down if you do not comply with our directions.”

  “Have you checked with your commander? We are on a mission authorized by your president.” Breanna could almost feel her nose growing.

  “You will change your heading immediately,” replied the pilot.

  Nine minutes to the border. Eleven to the Eagles.

  “They’re going to shoot us down,” said Frederick. His voice cracked, betraying the pressure he felt welling inside his chest. He’d never been in combat before. He was starting to gulp air, hyperventilating despite his efforts to stay calm.

  “It’s all right,” said Breanna. “They’re under orders to see what they’re firing at first. We have more time. Just play it out slow.”

  The Iranian jets lined themselves up on a course that would take them over the MC-17’s wings. They didn’t slow down as they approached, deciding that a close buzz of the aircraft might intimidate the pilot into doing what they wanted.

  Or crashing. Which would be just as good.

  Breanna saw it as one more minute in her favor. That gave her seven to the Eagles.

  Who now checked in with a warning of their own.

  “Iranian aircraft approaching the Iraqi border, identify yourselves,” said the lead Eagle pilot.

  The Iranians declined. Instead they circled back behind the MC-17 and fired a pair of warning shots over its wing.

  “What do you want to do?” asked Frederick.

  “I want to shoot the bastards down,” said Breanna.

  “That’s not an option.”

  “I know. But it’s what I want to do.”

  If she’d been flying a Megafortress, even without missiles or Flighthawks, it would be an option. She’d sucker them in close, then open up with the Stinger air-mine cannon in the tail.

  The MC-17 didn’t have that capability. But it did have the Ospreys.

  “Greasy Hands, when you load the Ospreys into the bay, do they go in head first or tail first?” she asked, turning around to the chief.

  “Tail first. Want to be able to take off right away. Truth of it, though, I don’t think it matters.”

  “Do you think you could fire the cannon from inside the cargo hold?”

  “Shit, I don’t know.”

  “It’s either that or get used to Iranian food for quite a while.”

  Greasy Hands unbuckled his seat belt. So did the loadmaster across from him.

  Captain Frederick was breathing hard. His hand trembled on the yoke.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” Breanna told him. “But maybe I should fly the plane through this. OK?”

  “Colonel, that’s fine,” said Frederick.

  “You’re doing all right. Just hang with me.”

  One of the Iranian jets came up close to the side. The other remained behind them.

  “You will comply or be shot down,” said the lead Iranian.

  Breanna flipped on the cockpit li
ghts, making sure he could see. Then she gave the Iranian a thumbs-up.

  “I need to know the heading and the airport data,” she told the Iranian. “And how long is the runway? Will I be able to land? How strong is the wind?”

  “You will turn to ten degrees, northeast.”

  “Which airport am I going to?”

  “You will turn to ten degrees, northeast.”

  “I have to tell my superiors where I am going,” she said. “I don’t want to get in trouble.”

  The plane behind her fired a short burst. One of the bullets grazed the bottom of the fuselage.

  “All right, I’m turning,” said Breanna, slowing down.

  * * *

  Greasy Hands was already out of breath as he reached the bottom of the ladder from the flight deck. He pushed himself toward the Ospreys, which were secured close to the ramp.

  Danny Freah jumped up from his seat.

  “Gotta get to the Osprey,” Greasy Hands told him, huffing toward the aircraft.

  “What’s going on?” asked Danny, following.

  “Iranians. Bree’s got something up her sleeve. Help me.”

  Parsons slipped as the C-17 dipped. Danny caught him, holding him upright against the second Osprey.

  “We need to get into number two,” said Greasy Hands. He pushed upright and ran to the aircraft nearest the tail. The chief twisted past the retaining strap and squeezed into the cockpit, pushing down into the pilot’s seat.

  There were two problems with Breanna’s idea. The Ospreys were transported with their wings folded up over the body, extending toward and over the front of the aircraft. That made it difficult to see through the windscreen. But they wouldn’t have much room to aim anyway; the best strategy would be to fire straight back, hoping to catch the Iranian plane by surprise.

  The second problem was more formidable. The computer initiated a systems lockdown when the aircraft was in transport mode. There was a software override, but Greasy Hands had no time to initiate it. Instead, he ducked under the panel and pulled out the master power feed, killing the computer entirely.

  “I gotta get power into this panel to get the gun working,” he told Danny. It was a shortcut they’d often used while checking the mechanical systems, but it would still take time to implement. “Tell Bree it’s gonna be a few minutes. She’s gonna have to move in front of the Sukhoi when she wants to fire. She’s aiming. And tell the loadmaster not to open the ramp until I say so.”

  “You’re opening the ramp?” said Danny.

  “Well I sure as hell ain’t gonna fire through the door,” said Greasy Hands, trying to picture the wiring diagram in his head.

  * * *

  Breanna took the turn as slowly as she could, letting the MC-17 drift downward and to the west, edging closer to the border. The F-15s tried another hail but weren’t answered.

  The Iranian on her right wing pulled a little closer. She used that as an excuse to duck off to the left.

  “Whoa, don’t get so close!” she shouted over the open microphone. “You’re going to hit us!”

  “Get back on course,” said the pilot behind her.

  “Get that guy off my wing. I can’t fly! I can’t fly!” She put as much panic into her voice as possible.

  “Calm down, Yankee.”

  “Get him to move off. Please. Please!”

  The Sukhoi started away. Breanna checked her watch. The Eagles were about five minutes away. She was a little more than three from the border.

  She cut her power again.

  “No games!” said the Iranian behind her. He punctuated his message with a few rounds from his cannon. They passed overhead and to her right.

  “We’re ready!” said Danny over the interphone. He’d grabbed a headset downstairs.

  “Open the hatch, and hang on. I have to dip low — you’ll have about two seconds to nail the son of a bitch.”

  “Go for it!”

  “Crew, hang on,” said Breanna.

  A light on her panel came on, indicating the rear ramp was opening.

  “One thousand one, one thousand two — now!” said Breanna. She shoved the aircraft downward, its tail directly in the nose of the Sukhoi.

  * * *

  “Fire! Fire! Fire!” yelled Danny, who was standing on the skid on the right side of the Osprey, his arms clamped around the spar. He could see the nose of an Iranian plane less than fifty feet away.

  Greasy Hands pressed the trigger.

  Nothing happened.

  “Fire!”

  Greasy Hands cursed, then slammed his hand on the yoke button. Bullets sputtered from the chin of Osprey, streaming from the belly of the big cargo plane.

  The pilot in the Sukhoi couldn’t understand what was happening as the plane swooped and its tail opened. He thought the American might be bailing out. As he started to correct to get back on the MC-17’s wing, tracers flew through the air at him. He pushed hard to his right, tumbling away.

  “Flares!” yelled Breanna, slamming the throttle to military power. “Button up down there and hang on!”

  She pushed the MC-17 hard left, sliding into a turn toward the Iraqi border. The aircraft fell through the sky, skidding in the air. It wasn’t designed for high g evasive maneuvers like a fighter was; it shuddered and creaked and complained, whining about the forces trying to tear its wings apart.

  But it held together nonetheless.

  The Iranian pilots circled around to follow. But the surprise gunfire from the rear of their aircraft had thrown them off, and they hesitated before pressing an attack.

  Just for a few seconds.

  “Missiles in the air!” yelled Frederick, his voice drowning out the alarm from the launch warning indicator. “Heat seekers! Two! Three!”

  “More flares,” said Breanna calmly.

  The decoy flares shot out around the plane, sucking away the missiles as Breanna pitched the MC-17 into a half turn, feinting north again but pulling back toward Iraq.

  “More missiles!”

  “Flares.”

  The big plane shook and started to drop as Breanna tried a hard jink to the right. The plane began to stall — it simply couldn’t do what she wanted and stay in the air.

  Breanna eased back on the controls, dipping the nose slightly to gain a little more speed. The first missile sniffed the decoys and exploded behind them.

  The second hit the outboard right engine.

  The plane quaked. Breanna felt the shake run up through her hand and into her spine.

  She knew exactly how this felt. She’d felt it before, over India, flying an EB-52.

  That time, there had been multiple hits. She’d wrestled the plane out over the ocean where they could be rescued.

  She’d also been in an EB-52, built to deal with serious abuse. Not a C-17, which generally didn’t encounter anything nastier than a bird strike.

  “Going through two thousand feet!” said Frederick.

  They were falling.

  “Fifteen hundred feet!”

  “Help me with the engines,” Breanna told him.

  They shut down engine four, trying to compensate by trimming their controls and adjusting the other engines.

  “We need more altitude,” warned Frederick.

  The F-15s, meanwhile, were coming in range of their AMRAAMs. The Iranians changed course north, trying to get away.

  “Globemaster, do you require assistance?” asked the lead F-15 pilot.

  “Chase them away. We’ll take care of the rest,” said Breanna.

  “Coming through fourteen hundred feet,” said Fredericks, “going to — going to fifteen hundred feet.”

  They were climbing. They had it under control.

  “Let’s bring it up to three thousand and hold it there,” said Breanna. “Until we catch our breath.”

  83

  Washington, D.C.

  Three days later

  Senator Jeffrey “Zen” Stockard rolled his wheelchair forward as the C-20 taxied up the ram
p, lights twinkling in the dim evening haze. The aircraft stopped less than ten yards away; a moment later the forward doorway opened and the stairs popped down.

  “Mama, Mama!” cried Teri Stockard, running from her father’s side as Breanna appeared in the doorway.

  Teri caught her at the foot of the steps, wrapping her in a bear hug.

  “Hey, love, I’m so glad to see you,” Breanna said, returning the hug. “I missed you so much.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Teri. Tears were falling from her eyes.

  “What are you sorry about?”

  “That I yelled at you.”

  “It’s OK, baby.” Breanna pulled her closer. “I’m sorry I missed your show. But I promise I’ll be at the next one.”

  “It’s OK if you’re not. I understand.”

  “Hey there, little girl.”

  “Uncle Danny!” Teri hugged him.

  “I owe you some bedtime stories, huh?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “All right. I’ll see you soon.”

  The rest of the Whiplash team smiled as they passed by. None of them were married, and their closest family members lived many miles away.

  “So we’re on for lunch Thursday,” Danny told Nuri, catching up to him. “Then we get back to work.”

  “Sounds good.” Nuri stretched his back. He’d gotten a kink in the plane ride on the way home. “This place better be good.”

  “It is. Or it was two weeks ago. Senator Stockard recommended it,” added Danny, pointing to Zen.

  Zen had been hanging back to give his daughter and wife some space for their reunion. He pushed his wheelchair toward them.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met,” Zen told the CIA officer. “I’m Bree’s husband.”

  “Senator, it’s an honor.”

  “Call me Zen.” Zen looked at Danny. “You guys have fun?”

  “Always,” said Danny.

  “Up for a baseball game next week? Dodgers are in town.”