Brown, Dale - Independent 02

by Hammerheads (v1. 1)

  But the trick of using a false missile-launch indication was an old one, and the two F-16s had made sure they used the proper defense— lagging the wingman behind a little farther when making a defensive maneuver with the enemy in front. When the lead F-16 made its sharp climb, his wingman waited two long, agonizing seconds—agonizing because there really could be a missile in the air heading for him—scanned the skies for another plane, then began a climb behind the attacker when he appeared. The maneuver worked. When the Mirage pulled in behind the lead F-16, the second F-16 was right behind him. When the lead F-16 began its dive, the less maneuverable Mirage could not follow as sharply or accelerate as quickly and remained vulnerable for the several seconds it took for the second F-16 to close within range of its multibarrel Vulcan cannon and open fire.

  “Fox three, fox three!” the second F-16 pilot called over the phone as he squeezed the trigger on his control stick. “There he is ... I can’t see who it is but it sure moves like a sonofabitch . . .”

  Aboard the Attacking Mirage F1C Fighter

  There was a moment when the F-16 was dead in his sights on the radar scope, perfectly dead-center, and he felt an almost overwhelming sense of victory—what some called the “hunter’s rush” or the “hunter’s hard-on.” He also knew it was the time he was the most vulnerable to mistakes Carefully the Cuchillo pilot checked his instruments and warned himself this was no time to get sloppy.

  He was too close for a missile shot but just outside good cannon range. Patience, patience, patience. The Cuchillo pilot knew that even though the F-16 had enough power to accelerate in a vertical climb, in this case it would probably eject chaff and flares to decoy any missile and descend to regain the airspeed lost in its emergency climb. The Cuchillo pilot therefore rolled inverted, waiting for the split-second when the F-16 would roll and pull over—its entire profile would be visible then, a perfect aspect to fire on. He couldn’t see the F-16 roll on radar—it was pitch black outside except for the occasional glimpse of lights from the Keys that would catch and hold his attention—but the instant the radar blip headed downward or when he saw a decoy flare ejected he would pull downward as well, cut off the angle and start shooting. The F-16 would fly right through his stream of bullets.

  Just as he expected the F-16 to make its move—as indicated by his own dramatic loss of airspeed in the pursuit climb—suddenly the Cuchillo pilot felt a sharp, hammering reverberate through his plane. At first he thought he had stalled his fighter, but the engines were still running. Did he squeeze the trigger? It felt as if his guns were firing—maybe he had squeezed the trigger without realizing it. He checked the threat-warning receiver—it was silent. Not even a peep from stray emissions from the F-16 in front of him . . .

  Which shouldn’t be the case. With the F-16 in so close he should be picking up something from his radar . . .

  Then he realized that he had shut off the threat-warning receiver. There was another F-16 at his six, shooting at him . . .

  Still inverted, he pulled his nose down to the ground, rolled hard right, turned ninety degrees off heading, then reversed course— anything to get out of the F-16’s radar beam and escape into the darkness. But he had overlooked another classic rule of engagement—don’t focus in on one machine for too long. He had allowed the F-16’s wingman to get behind him. He reactivated his threatwarning receiver but by now it was chirping continually and, unlike the F-16’s version, the Mirage’s threat-warning system could not tell from what direction the threat was coming.

  Darkness, low altitude—the entire engagement with the F-16 had all taken place below one thousand meters—low speed, threat warnings everywhere, nothing on the radar scope, no wingman, no real situational awareness ... it all meant only one thing. Time to bug out. Extend, escape and live to fight another day. He rolled wings-level, started a shallow descent to the relative safety of the dark sea and pushed the throttles all the way to full afterburner. Once established upright and heading south out to sea, he began searching the skies around him for any sign of the enemy . . .

  . . . And he looked aft, behind his right wing, just in time to see an AIM-9L Sidewinder missile streak out of the darkness and crash into his tailpipe. He reached down to the ejection lever between his legs but the Mirage spun end-over-end and crashed into the sea long before he could pull the yellow-painted handle. He stayed alive long enough to the feel the impact and experience the cool south Florida waters before they closed over him and crushed him to death.

  Aboard the Lead F-16 Fighter

  “Your tail’s clear, lead,” the pilot heard his wingman call out. “Splash one, Hammerheads. Hey, he came outta nowhere. ”

  The lead F-16 pilot rolled upright, then began a sharp climb when he realized he was only a hundred feet above the water. Another moment’s hesitation and he’d have been dead.

  “Trap flight, another target heading north, low altitude. Vector heading zero-three-zero, take angels one, target eight miles, velocity six hundred knots.”

  The lead pilot climbed to one thousand feet, thankful to be above the waves even if it was only a thousand feet—his Falcon fought much better at ten-thousand or twenty-thousand feet—and this time used the data-link signal from the Border Security Force to run the intercept. He rolled in behind the target and began increasing power to regain the speed he had lost escaping from the first attacker

  But he had put the power back in too slowly, recovered too slowly—after all the jinking he was still not fully caught up with his air machine. It took him several seconds of watching the airspeed meter slowly wind upward before realizing that his attack radar had locked onto the target. “Trap two has a Judy,” he reported.

  “Cleared in hot, Trap two.”

  He began a slight climb to get above the target—all medium- or long-range missiles, especially his AIM-7F, needed some altitude in order to glide in to the target so their sort-pulse rocket motors wouldn’t be used just to maintain the missile’s altitude. He got a flashing diamond on the heads-up display that encircled the radar- target square, which told him that the Sparrow missile was in launch parameters and ready to fire. The word “SHOOT” appeared just underneath the aiming reticle. As soon as he reached two thousand feet he rechecked his switch positions, called, “Trap two, fox one, fox one,” on the radio to warn of the missile launches—and squeezed the launch button.

  Aboard the Cuchillo Mirage F1C strike Fighter-Bomber

  The Mirage had no fancy lasers or radio beacons to guide the bomb, no inertial navigation set, no ring-laser gyros or satellite navigation system. The young twenty-year-old pilot, who had joined the Cuchillos only a few months after—unjustly, he felt—being washed out of a Cuban Revolutionary Air Force fighter-bombing program, was tired, excited, and nervous all at once. This was his first time that he was flying alone, with no instructor, no leader, no wingmen, not even a ground controller watching over him.

  But bombing was in his blood, and he was able to swallow his nervousness and use his excitement to help himself through this run. Being suddenly alone, without the comforting curses and grunts coming through from his lead pilot on their scrambled radio channel, at least made it easier for him to concentrate. For him, the whole world was condensed down to his cockpit, his controls, and the little yellow blips on his four-inch radar scope.

  He would have to rely on dead reckoning, depending on simple time and heading, to get within twenty miles of the target until he could pick out any recognizable landmarks on the radar, find the target visually or by using those landmarks, adjust the aircraft’s course so the track line on the radar lay across the target, then release the bomb sometime before flying over the target. If he acquired the target visually, at six hundred knots groundspeed and three hundred feet above ground, he would release the cluster-bomb unit when the end of the air-data computer probe on the nose touched the target. If he was using the radar only, he would release at one 500-meter tick on the radar back from the target for every hundred feet he was fly
ing above ground. It was imprecise, but it still had a reliability to it, especially with a cluster-bomb unit that could wipe out nearly a square-kilometer area in one pass.

  The fear and nervousness washed over him once again when the threat-warning signal beeped insistently in his helmet—they had found him. Flying straight and level like this, he was an easy target for an advanced fighter-interceptor like the F-16. He knew he had only seconds to react. He couldn't see the target yet but he knew he was on track and very close. If he tried zigzagging to escape the fighters he’d be far off-course and would have to spend too much time getting back on track.

  He pitched up hard, sending his Mirage fighter into a straight-up vertical climb. After gaining almost two thousand meters he rolled inverted and pulled his stick back, looping over the top and aiming his nose straight at the ground.

  His abrupt maneuver had saved his life—the lead F-16’s first two Sparrow missiles missed and were unable to reacquire the target before running out of power and self-destructing.

  He still couldn’t see the target, but what he could see was the entire shadowy bulk of Cudjoe Key against the dark, reflective background of the sea. The island was a little more than two kilometers long and a half-kilometer wide, with buildings and docks along the north side, a wide paved road running south, and the Border Security Force’s aerostat unit in the center of the island along with four support trailers, a power generator and a helicopter landing pad all in a five-hundred-meter-square fenced-off area. He aimed the nose of his Mirage into the center of the island, made a few small corrections when he saw the lights of the docks on the north side—and made a final correction when he saw one tiny light, either from a porch or an open doorway, peek on. The aerostat unit was the only structure in the interior of the island. That had to be it . . .

  He pickled off the cluster-bomb unit, then selected the Kingfisher anti-ship missile and launched it at the center of the island. With an F-16, maybe two, on his tail he didn’t have the luxury of searching for targets of opportunity, and without the added drag factor of the bombs, he might just have a chance to escape. He leveled off at one hundred meters, selected full afterburner power and raced south toward the open sea.

  The cluster-bomb unit, designed to be released from a high-speed horizontal laydown delivery pass, was not supposed to be driven down into the ground like a conventional bomb; the one hundred individual bomblets never had a chance to scatter, and so the devastating effect of the weapon was minimized. But the Cuchillo’s pilot’s instincts about where his target was were right on. The cluster-bomb canister opened up at three hundred feet when the special sensors in the canister detected the sharp deceleration after release and the automatic timers wound down; the bomblets dispersed only slightly but most of them landed between the aerostat recovery area and the power-generator building. There was one large secondary explosion as several bomblets destroyed the generator and exploded its diesel fuel tank, the concussion and fire reaching the data-generation and transmission facility, which cut off communications between the aerostat radar and Border Security Force headquarters.

  Border Security Force Headquarters, Aladdin City

  “Contact lost with KEYSTONE, Annette,” Fjelmann said in a low voice. The command center at Aladdin City suddenly went very quiet—no tapping of keyboards, no low voices, no footsteps. Fjelmann pounded his desktop in frustration.

  “Shake it olf,” Fields said, trying to pump her voice with enthusiasm. “Reconfigure and find those intruders. Those F-16s out there are waiting on you.”

  “Switching to Navy Key West and air traffic control radar data,” he acknowledged, punching instructions to the computer to reconfigure his display to use FAA radar from Key West and Miami Center. His screen went blank as the computers raced to convert the data from the Navy and FAA’s radars; then, slowly, the computers began to redisplay air targets, flight-information data blocks, and even managed to draw in island outlines, obstruction data, airports and airport traffic patterns. The data on sea targets was missing completely—none of the radars in use could see ships as well as the aerostats—and all of the computer’s sophisticated intercept, analysis, research and recording options reported “UNAVAILABLE.”

  The computers didn’t remember which target was which anymore, but it wasn’t hard to spot the intruder—he was heading south away from KEYSTONE at just over Mach one. “Trap flight, this is Aladdin, vectors to your target, right turn heading one-niner-zero, take two thousand feet. Altitude readout unavailable. His airspeed is seven-niner-zero and accelerating, range twenty miles.”

  Fields was monitoring the chase over the Straits of Florida when another call came in over her command network: “Aladdin, this is NAPALM. We have a situation. We’ve picked up two high-speed aircraft heading north right toward us. We have one air defense F-16 on the way. We need some help. What’s your situation?”

  ‘ Stand by, NAPALM,” Field replied over the net. “We’ve got two F-16s involved in a pursuit. KEYSTONE is down.” If they got the Hammerhead Two platform, Fields thought, it would be total disaster for the Hammerheads—there were over ninety people on that platform. They hadn’t defended the other three major Border Security Force aerostat units—she had to do everything she could to defend the last one.

  On the fighter-interceptor’s frequency Fields said, “Trap Two flight, this is Aladdin. We’ve received notice of another attack on the Hammerhead Two platform. We anticipate another two-ship fighter attack. We’ve got Trap Four responding solo. Can one of you assist?” The reply was immediate. “Affirmative, Aladdin. Designate Trap Three heading north to assist. Trap Two will continue the south intercept. Over.”

  “Copy that, Trap Two. Trap Three, fly heading three-three-eight, range one hundred ten miles, vectors to intercept. Take angels fifteen. Trap Two, your target is at twelve o’clock, eighteen miles. Call Judy.”

  But Trap Two, the former lead F-16, was still having trouble with his attack radar readjusting after an anti-jamming frequency shift. “Trap Two is still popeye,” he reported. “Should lock on any minute

  “Dammitall,” Fjelmann muttered to Fields, “he might lose this guy. We’re not sure of the target’s altitude and he could go out of range of Key West approach radar in a few minutes.”

  “Then use Miami Center’s radar and vector him in the best you can. These F-16 guys can find him if he’s pointed in the right direction. Just keep feeding him—”

  At that instant they heard, “Trap Two, Judy. Twelve o’clock, fifteen miles. He’s at two hundred feet and Mach one point two. Full burners and balls to the wall.”

  Aboard the F-16 Fighter-Interceptor Trap Two

  The moment he locked onto the target on radar he looked up and was able to see the bright yellow spot low on the horizon—the attacker was indeed in full afterburner, heading south as fast as his jet could carry him, staying low to the water in the hope that the radar- clutter from the sea would decoy a radar-guided missile. But using afterburner made it easy to spot the guy, and it was an invitation to destruction with a weapon like the Sidewinder—which was a good thing, because except for 500 rounds of twenty-millimeter ammunition the only weapons he had left were two heat-seeking Sidewinders on his wingtips. He had launched both AIM-7 Sparrow missiles on his first pass over Key Cudjoe and missed.

  The range was slowly running down—now less than twelve miles. The AIM-9L had a max range of ten miles, but it was very accurate inside eight miles and deadly from one to six. He had to wait. He decided to jettison his two external fuel tanks, which would give him an extra boost of speed when he tried for the kill. After that it was head back to the barn as fast as possible—he was already extended pretty far and the situation was worsening with every mile he continued southbound. The chase better be over very soon . . .

  The missile lock-on diamond appeared at nine-and-a-half miles, and the “SHOOT” designation appeared just inside nine miles. The F-16 pilot waited, waited, waited until just inside eight miles before calli
ng, “Trap Two, fox two,” and launching a missile from his left wingtip. The smaller Sidewinder missile didn’t rumble the air or blind the pilot like the hefty AIM-7F Sparrow missile did after launch—a smooth, silken whoosh, a sudden glare and the missile was gone. It had accelerated to Mach two before reaching one mile, and it was tracking dead on target.

  The missile’s motor winked out well before hitting the escaping fighter, so the F-16 pilot never saw exactly what happened. But he did see the afterburner on the enemy fighter extinguish, saw a quick flash of light, and nothing else. But a quick check of the radar told him the bad news—the enemy fighter was still flying. It was slowing, decelerating below the Mach very quickly, but it soon stabilized at about six hundred knots and stayed at low altitude. The Sidewinder had either missed or exploded too far away from the target to produce a lethal result.

  This guy sure had nine lives, the F-16 pilot thought. He used his attack radar to get behind his target again and waited a few more seconds before launching his last missile. He was going to wait until six miles to attack again. If the last Sidewinder didn’t work, he would have enough gas for one, maybe two gun passes before he’d be forced to turn around and head for home.

  Aboard the Mirage F1C Fighter-Bomber

  The Cuchillo pilot peered at his instrument panel, trying to shake away the blurriness and dimness. His oxygen supply had been cut off and he had no choice but to drop his face mask. He felt shards of glass in his arms and shoulders, and he was moving the throttle with his shoulder more than his left hand because all feeling had drained from his left side. Even though the air outside was pleasant and warm, the pilot shivered.