Point of Impact

by Point of Impact (retail) (epub)

  ‘So what’s new?’ Nick replied as he loaded the mission data into his third computer of the day.

  Twenty minutes before take-off time, Drew punched the radio button. ‘Right, who’s ready?’

  By a miracle all the crews now had functioning aircraft. Both the nominated crews for the mission – Drew and Nick, and DJ and Ali – began to taxi out, leaving the others sitting there, engines running.

  ‘Sorry, Tiger Three and Four,’ Drew said. ‘We’ll do our best to break something during weapons check.’

  ‘Like hell you will,’ Jumbo said, already sweating profusely, wedged in his cockpit with nowhere to go and facing the prospect of having to stay there for another hour.

  Drew and Nick, and DJ and Ali lined up on the runway and took off, tongues of flame from the Tempests’ afterburners searing red streaks into the slowly lightening sky. As they swung round in a wide curve to the east, Drew glanced back at the two other aircraft in Slingshot mode – on the ground with their engines running – ready to take off instantly if anything went wrong with the jets already airborne.

  Approaching the first gate off the Adriatic coast, Drew called, ‘Weapons check,’ and began testing every part of their weapons systems. He checked the flow of nitrogen coolant to the Sidewinder’s heatseeking head, while Nick tuned the radar missile systems.

  Both crews then tried out their chaff, DJ dropping behind Drew’s jet while Ali checked on the radar that the aluminium foil actually came out when Nick punched the button, and then flying ahead while Nick returned the compliment.

  ‘Flare check?’ Nick said.

  ‘At seventy quid a time? You’re joking of course. We fired one five years ago. That’ll have to do until the next Gulf War.’

  ‘You sound more and more like Russell every day.’

  ‘Oh all right, sod the Air Marshal’s new curtains. Flare check.’ He pressed the button and sent a flare out behind the jet.

  ‘Flare sighted,’ confirmed DJ, as a flare like a miniature sun, burning hotter than the aircraft’s engines, drifted away below them.

  Fifteen miles out from the shoreline, Drew checked in with the guard ship Red Dwarf, an American missile cruiser steaming constantly to and fro, parallel to the coast. ‘Tigers One and Two, serviceable.’

  ‘Okay, Tiger,’ came a mid-Western drawl, ‘this is Red Dwarf relaying message to Gióia and handing you over to Magic 2–1. Have a good trip.’

  Drew thought of the reserve crews huddled in their cockpits back at Gióia, hearing the welcome call on their radios to stand down.

  He could imagine Jumbo’s sigh of relief as he shut down the engines and began to prise himself out of the seat. ‘How many layers do you think Jumbo’ll dare to take off?’

  Nick laughed. ‘He’ll be sweating like a pig in the crew room, but he won’t strip off more than the outer layer. If he gets a call to scramble it’ll take him fifteen minutes to finish his sandwiches, never mind get back into his flying gear.’

  The banter was brittle as they approached hostile territory. Almost as soon as Red Dwarf cleared the radio, Drew heard the AWACs controller checking in. ‘Morning, Tiger, this is Magic 2–1.’

  ‘Morning, Magic, two aircraft for Gate 5, Drop 4.’

  ‘Roger, Tiger, Gate 5, Drop 4. Roving CAP. No change to mission.’

  As they entered their gate, they crossed the invisible line separating the safe, friendly forces’ areas behind them from the hostile territory ahead. Drew reached down to touch the ejection handle beneath his seat like a talisman. He knew that Nick would be doing exactly the same thing.

  Drew scanned the warning panel for the thousandth time since they had taken off, alert for any flicker that might signal another uncontrolled dive, but it stayed reassuringly blank.

  There were now other, more immediate dangers to worry about. As the friendly symbols faded from the radar warner, hostile ones identifying the known Triple-A and missile sites began to spring up on the screen instead. Each was greeted by a brief warning tone from the radar warner, cranking up the tension in the cockpit another notch.

  Nick began chanting a mantra from the back seat: ‘Triple-A, one o’clock, outside lethal range. Sam 2, three o’clock, outside lethal range. Triple-A, eleven o’clock, just outside lethal range.’

  As they flashed through their drop point, Drew called up DJ and Ali. He heard DJ’s voice still catching and made himself speak more slowly and calmly. ‘Okay, guys, we’ll take a look at all the sites where you’d normally find helicopters flying. First up Mostar, fifteen miles, twenty degrees left of your nose.’

  ‘Looks like the Met man got it wrong again,’ Nick said, taking in the already well-broken cloud. ‘If that’s cloud on the deck, I’m Genghis Khan.’

  The jets swung round to the north, following the Neretva river up to Mostar. Even from fifteen thousand feet, they could see the city clearly as the first rays of the sun tinged the rooftops with red.

  ‘That’s it,’ Drew said. ‘It’s not much but it’s home to the boys down there. The helicopters normally sit at the football stadium, which is coming under our left wing now. Nine times out of ten they’re heading due north along the river valley up towards Gornji Vakuf, but we’ll get to that later. Next stop Sarajevo.’

  Drew put his jet into a long turn towards the north-east, pushing the throttles to climb steadily towards the snow-capped mountains. They flashed over a ridge between two towering summits and plunged down towards Sarajevo. As they circled the city, they could see the battered tower blocks pockmarked with shell craters and the black scars of burnt-out buildings. The Serbs’ dawn shelling was already in progress and Drew could see the orange flash of shell bursts and puffs of grey smoke drifting west on the wind.

  ‘Let’s go down to two hundred and fifty feet and have a closer look.’ He pushed the stick forward to drop the nose. They skimmed over the city, spotting a few startled white faces in the drab grey streets. Fires were raging in one cluster of buildings that had taken a barrage of Serb shells and a stream of figures hurried from it, clutching a few pathetic belongings.

  ‘Just another day in paradise,’ Nick said gloomily. Drew swung the Tempest away from the city, following a narrow twisting valley up towards Gornji Vakuf. They flew on, the deserted, thickly forested mountains punctuated by a succession of grey, war-ravaged towns, their buildings holed and crumbling like rotten teeth.

  They skimmed down over the foothills to the edge of the Danube plain and swept over Banja Luka and through the Bihać pocket. Drew knew that Nick and Ali would be using both the jet’s electronic eyes and their own Mark 1 human eyeballs as they searched for any sign of hostile actions. They still scanned the skies around them for hostile contacts, but much more of their attention was now focused on their green screens. They stared intently, alert and dry-mouthed, dreading the warning that would tell them that a missile was about to be launched at them or the telltale puff of smoke and dust on the ground that would show it had already been fired.

  They made it safely through the danger zones and kept flying out towards the coast. Drew checked his watch and his fuel and then called, ‘Magic this is Tiger, for Drop 3, Gate 8, meeting up with Texaco Two.’

  ‘Roger, Tiger, Claret One and Two replacing you.’

  As they came out of the exit gate, Drew and Nick shut down their weapons systems. ‘This always makes me think of when I was in Germany,’ Nick said. ‘A Phantom had just come off quick-reaction alert and he went straight into a big NATO exercise still fully armed up. He started hunting down a Jaguar, called, “Fox Two, Fox Two”, and two missiles came off the aircraft. They hit the Jaguar and blew it apart. Luckily the pilot ejected just in time.’

  ‘Is there nothing we do that doesn’t remind you of someone cocking it up?’ Drew said. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m having a hard enough time persuading myself that this thing isn’t going to crack us into the hillside on its own without you finding new ways to scare the shit out of me.’

  Nick chuckled. ‘
The funniest thing was that there was an Italian in a 104 chasing the Jaguar. When he saw it disintegrate, he radioed in, “Okay, I’m going home. The Brits are playing for real today”.’

  They found their tanker circling out over the Adriatic and both Tempests dropped in behind and began inching their way towards its trailing drogues.

  Slipping the refuelling probe in the nose of the Tempest into the basket trailing from the tanker was as easy as threading a needle in the driver’s seat of a Ferrari during a Grand Prix. Drew eased the jet forward, making minute adjustments to the stick and the throttles as Nick talked him on to the basket. He relaxed as the probe slipped home and fuel began to pump into their tanks.

  Refuelling complete, he let the Tempest drop away from the tanker and, with DJ keeping station alongside, they pulled into a turn to the east, ramming the throttles forward to boost their speed as they flew back in towards their entry gate. Two other fighters were already dropping in behind the tanker for their refuelling slot.

  ‘Traffic’s heavy this morning,’ Nick said.

  They were four miles out from the entry gate and busy rearming the weapons systems ready for their second CAP of the day, when an F16 appeared from nowhere and hurtled a few feet over the top of the cockpit. Drew and Nick both ducked, their hearts pounding.

  ‘Christ, that was close,’ Nick said, his hands trembling. ‘I could have reached out and touched him.’

  ‘Magic 2–1, this is Tiger, two aircraft for Gate 5, Drop 4… and if that F16 had been ten feet closer, there’d have only been one aircraft for Gate 5.’

  A laconic American drawl answered. ‘Roger that, Tiger. By the way, haven’t you heard? AWACs don’t do air traffic control. We direct missions; it’s your job to keep yourself out of trouble.’

  ‘Sorry, Magic,’ Drew said. ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’

  As they swept back in towards Mostar, AWACs welcomed them with an update. ‘Helicopter at Jellystone two-five-zero, twenty miles. Friendlies, Claret One and Two, at two-nine-zero, leaving the area for Tanker.’

  The French Mirages left to take their turn on the tanker as the Tempests took up station. As they flew over the football pitch, Nick had the stabiscope pressed to his eyes. ‘Helicopters on the ground, rotors not turning. Wait for it, correction, rotors now turning.’

  Drew reported immediately to AWACs.

  ‘Roger, Tiger, monitor and report.’

  They had been on station for only ten minutes when one of the helicopters took off, its dark shadow skimming over the city as it aimed for the valley snaking away to the north.

  Drew immediately challenged it on Guard, the international distress frequency. ‘Helicopter two miles north of Mostar, heading three-four-zero, you are in violation of United Nations Resolution number 773. Exit the area or you will be engaged.’

  He could hear the AWACs controller repeating the warning and, even though he knew that nothing would happen, felt himself tensing.

  He waited a moment. ‘They’re not responding, Magic. Authority to follow them?’

  ‘Roger, Tiger, authorisation granted.’

  They followed the helicopter for fifty miles, routinely issuing challenges and being just as routinely ignored. The helicopter finally landed in a field on the outskirts of Gornji Vacuf and began unloading troops.

  ‘Log it,’ Drew said wearily, ‘violation number 993, another ethnic cleansing squad escorted safely to their destination.’

  Chapter Twelve

  As Drew and Nick returned from another refuelling slot for their final CAP, AWACs had fresh instructions. ‘Go to Oscar. CAP orientation three-four-zero. Static CAP.’

  Drew groaned.

  ‘Static CAPs are bad enough to start with,’ Nick said, ‘but a static CAP in range of a SAM 2 site is like playing Russian roulette with a bullet in every chamber.’

  They began circling just to the south of Banja Luka, picking up the signal from the Serbian surveillance radar as it tracked them across the sky. ‘As long as that’s all they point at us, we’ll be fine,’ Drew said easily, settling into the dull but dangerous routine. He glanced out of the canopy and saw DJ’s jet still in formation, to the side and slightly behind.

  As they patrolled their increasingly monotonous beat, he could see a constant series of shellbursts, smoke suddenly erupting, then drifting slowly away on the wind.

  ‘I’m glad we’re not down there,’ Nick said as another barrage went off.

  Drew snapped upright as he saw grey smoke bursting in the sky ahead of them. ‘They’re shooting at us,’ he yelled. ‘Break right, DJ, break right and widen.’

  Drew threw his jet into a hard left turn, slamming the throttle forward to max power, but as he did so he saw DJ’s lurch drunkenly from side to side.

  ‘We’ve been hit. We’ve been hit.’ DJ’s voice had risen an octave in six words.

  Drew had to fight to control his own shock. It was the first time any of them had been hit. He waited until he could trust his own voice. ‘Don’t panic, DJ. How serious is it?’

  ‘Just a minute.’

  As he waited, Drew could feel his skin crawling. He scanned the sky around them constantly, tensing at every burst of grey smoke in the air. He could imagine DJ frantically scanning his warning panel and flicking switches as Ali went through the Bold Face emergency drills.

  ‘The fly-by-wire has dropped out and we’re stuck in mechanical mode. It’s supposed to be triple-redundant.’

  ‘Then something’s blown a hole in all three sets of wires.’ Drew’s unemotional voice belied his own unease.

  ‘We’re also losing our hydraulics. We’ve no flaps or nose-wheel steering.’ DJ’s voice was cracking again.

  ‘You’re holding straight and level flight, DJ – you’re going to get out of this okay. Let’s get out of here first and then I’ll check you for leaks.’

  He called up AWACs immediately. ‘Magic, Tiger 2–1 Bravo’s been hit. Triple-A, from south-west corner of Jellystone. We’re exiting the area now. We can’t make Drop 3 or 4 so we’re going to set a course straight for Gióia on bearing two-three-zero.’

  ‘Okay, Tiger, we’ll coordinate with the guard ships and the other aircraft.’

  They could hear AWACs rattling out commands, calling in air support. Two F16s armed with cluster bombs responded to the call and went racing in towards Banja Luka.

  As soon as the Tempests were out of Triple-A and missile range, Drew began a battle-damage inspection on DJ’s jet, flying within a few feet of him as he checked underneath it and then rising over the top to look down on it. As he went up the side, he saw a series of gaping holes in the fuselage and a plume of escaping fuel making its own thin grey vapour trail. Suddenly the aircraft lurched dangerously close to them.

  ‘Christ, DJ, keep it steady.’

  Drew could hear the tension in DJ’s voice as he responded. ‘This is as steady as it gets. Every time I touch the stick it bucks like a bronco.’

  Drew tried to keep his tone light. ‘Okay, DJ, the good news is no fires. Most of the damage is in the area by the avionics bay, so that’s why your fly-by-wire has dropped out. Fuel’s leaking quite badly. Let’s put out a Mayday call and head straight for home.’

  As they flew on, they could hear the cross-chat between the AWACs and one of the F16s.

  ‘Stinger 2–1, I can see more firing. Shit, that was close. Magic, Stinger 2–1 is being fired on. Request authority to engage.’

  ‘Sorry, Stinger, no authority yet. Sunray has referred it to Gotham. Trying to get authority at this time. Stand by.’

  Drew snorted into his intercom. ‘What’s the point of having a two-star general sitting in COC for just this kind of situation, if all he ever does is refer it back to the UN?’

  For the next five minutes, they listened to the increasingly anguished requests for authorisation from the F16, and the AWACs controller’s mounting anger as he tried unsuccessfully to obtain it from the Combat Operations Centre. ‘I’ve got guys up there like sitting ducks
. What the hell’s going on?’

  ‘Gotham commander can’t be contacted. You have no, repeat no, authorisation to engage.’

  ‘All right, that’s it,’ the AWACs controller said abruptly. ‘I’ll take the flak for this if there’s any flying later on, but let’s clear the area now. All aircraft within fifty-mile radius of Jellystone, clear the area immediately.’

  ‘The Serbs will have helicopters up within ten minutes,’ Drew said, ‘shifting more troops and strafing a few Bosnian villages.’

  ‘I know,’ Nick said, ‘but at least AWACs did the right thing.’

  ‘Unlike those gutless bastards at COC.’

  ‘Come on, Drew. There’s nothing we can do about it. Let’s get off this frequency and concentrate on getting DJ home in one piece.’

  Switching channels, Drew heard DJ talking to Italian Air Traffic Control and cut in. ‘DJ, concentrate on your flying. I’ll handle ATC.’

  The Italian Air Traffic Control handed them over to ATC at Gióia. ‘Mayday 2–1. Understand 2–1 Alpha is the emergency.’

  ‘No, it’s Bravo,’ Drew said patiently.

  ‘What’s the nature of the emergency?’

  ‘He’s lost the fly-by-wire and he’s leaking fuel. We’re going to have to make an emergency cable engagement.’

  ‘Roger. It’ll take us twenty minutes to get it rigged.’ The controller hit the button to set the sirens blaring across the airfield.

  ‘It’s going to have to be a hell of a lot faster than that. He’s leaking fuel badly. Ready or not, we’re going to have to put it on the ground inside five minutes.’

  The jets dropped through the cloud ceiling to begin their approach, engines rumbling like distant thunder.

  Drew thumbed the radio button. ‘What’s your fuel state, DJ?’

  ‘Fuel critical. The red warning’s on.’

  ‘Don’t worry, you’ll make it.’ Drew released the button, then added, ‘I hope.’ Gusts of wind shook the aircraft and he shot an anxious look at DJ. He could see his head rocking from side to side as he fought to hold the Tempest on line.