Waveoff (Murphy's Lawless Book 6)

by Chris Kennedy

  “What do you think?” Murphy asked as he walked up, nodding toward the craft.

  Bowden took a moment to inspect it. “Looks like a cheap version of the space shuttle with ducted-thrust nacelles, built by the lowest bidder.” He looked again and saw where some of the pieces had been hammered to make them fit in place. “In Russia.” He took a few steps to one side to get a better look at the forward section of the craft. “Looks like it’s seen a lot of use. Wouldn’t be surprised if they bounced the nose off an asteroid or two. I’m not talking little ones, either.”

  He shrugged and walked back. “Looks like a work vehicle that’s been ridden hard and put away wet plenty of times. Why?”

  “We’re going to turn that craft—and two others just like it—into fighter/bombers, just like your old Hornet.”

  Bowden laughed for at least 20 seconds, finally stopping when his stomach started hurting. “Thanks, Major,” he said when he caught his breath. “I haven’t had a laugh like that since…” His voice trailed off as his thoughts came up short against the event that split his life into two parts: everything that had come before, and everything since that day. “I haven’t laughed like that in a long time,” he finished after a few seconds. He smiled. “Seriously, though, what’s it for?”

  “Exactly what I said. We’re going to turn it into an attack craft for a mission we have coming up, while giving it enough air-to-air capability to get it there and back safely.”

  “That thing is a beast,” Bowden said, walking up to one of the wings and slapping it. The sound it made told him it wasn’t made of the same metal as his beloved Hornet. “It’ll never be a fighter. Maybe a bomber. It’s ugly enough, just like the old A-6E Intruders that used to be in my air wing.”

  “You may not know this,” Murphy said, “but the SpinDogs have never thought about fighting in atmosphere before, and this is their craft with the best in-atmo performance. All they were ever worried about was getting in and out fast, so it’s got plenty of power, but no real armament.”

  “Reminds me of an F-4 Phantom,” Bowden said. “You know? The plane that proved even a refrigerator will fly if given enough thrust?” He paused and then added, “That’s why you brought me here, isn’t it? You want me to turn this into a fighter/attack craft.” He narrowed his eyes. “You probably want me to fly it, too, and then you want me to carry out whatever mission you’ve got in mind for it.”

  “Well, of course I want you to turn it into a bomber. You’re the guy with the aviation engineering background. You’re also a Navy Test Pilot School graduate, and you were an applicant for the astronaut program—”

  “Yeah, and now look at me,” Bowden said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “Now I’m a ‘real’ astronaut.”

  “I’m not here to debate your qualifications. I’m here—”

  “How do you know all that about me, anyway?”

  Murphy’s jaw tightened, and his eyes hardened; he clearly did not like being interrupted. “I probably know everything there is to know about you.” His jaw relaxed a little. “Our liberators found extensive records on all of us. They knew more about me than I think I knew myself.”

  “Then you know why I’m not going to fly this thing.”

  Murphy nodded. “I do. I know all about your last flight in Africa. I also know that event happened hundreds of years ago, and it wasn’t your fault.”

  “Doesn’t matter whose fault it was,” Bowden said. “I can still see that child…and it feels like it was just yesterday. To me, anyway.”

  “I understand. It seems like just yesterday to me, as well, and I’m hoping to use your experience to make sure we don’t have it happen here, too. There are civilians in the vicinity of the target and killing them will…will only piss off their leaders that much more.” Murphy’s voice was as hard and carefully controlled as his face.

  Bowden nodded and turned away so the major wouldn’t see the moisture in his eyes. “What—” His voice caught, then he said more normally, “Tell me about the target and its environment.”

  “The target is an intersystem transmitter and antenna complex located in the foothills of the planet below us. It must be destroyed, or the locals are going to announce our presence here and call in the Kulsians to wipe us out. I’d rather that didn’t happen as I’d like to still be here when our ride home gets back.”

  Bowden nodded. “Okay, so probably an antenna and a building. Both can be taken out with the appropriate application of high explosives. What’s so hard about it?”

  “There’s a town nearby that we absolutely cannot drop bombs on. Also, we don’t know how well it will be defended. We know they’re activating secret weapons caches as fast as they can, but we don’t know what’s in them. They have armored vehicles—even though most are beat-to-shit hand-me-downs—so we have to assume they have triple-A and probably some sort of handheld IR SAMs, even if they’re early generation ones. They may also have air support. You’ll have to take that into account, too.”

  “What kind?”

  “Blimps.”

  “Blimps?” Bowden asked incredulously. He pointed to the interface craft. “Even with that thing, blimps aren’t air support; they’re obstacles.”

  “Either way, they have to be dealt with.”

  “True,” Bowden replied as he considered flying through a landscape littered with giant mobile airships. That might be…complicated. “Okay, get me the info on the target complex and the environment around it, and I’ll do some back-of-the-napkin weaponeering on it.”

  * * *

  Bowden spread out the imagery on one of the refectory tables and pointed at the target area. “For this being the equivalent of a third world country, this is still going to be a bitch, based on the target, what they’re defending it with, and what we have to attack it.” He scratched his head. “They’re using the terrain well, too, which makes it hard to get at.”

  When Murphy only nodded, Bowden continued, “The target is this massive dish and the arm holding the transmitter and receiver hanging over it. The complex is a lot like Arecibo back home, but—due to the level of local technology—probably isn’t quite as sophisticated.

  “It looks like the main collecting dish is a spherical array about 300 meters across, so it’s similar in scale to Arecibo. The receiver and transmitter complex is on a platform suspended above the dish by four cables anchored in the mountains surrounding it. There is also a control building about a hundred meters off to the side. Based on the latest pictures, they’re almost done building it, although it’s impossible to know whether their electronics and control systems are installed, let alone online.” He shrugged. “If I was going to hit it, I wouldn’t wait for it all to get set up; it may go operational as soon as everything’s built and in place.”

  Murphy nodded. “That’s the plan.”

  “Okay, so in order to take out the target, we either need to drop the antenna arm by cutting the lines holding it in place, destroy the control building, or, better yet, both.”

  “Why both?”

  “The control building is an obvious and easy target,” Bowden said. “However, it’s also more easily replaceable than a giant antenna arm suspended 150 meters above the dish. We also don’t know if they have other, hidden control stations the system may tie into.”

  “Their tech level is pretty low. The fact that they have one is pretty surprising.”

  “And yet they do.” Bowden smiled. “Do you want to bet our continued existence on the fact that they don’t have another control station?”

  “Not if I don’t have to.”

  “Me either, which is why we also drop the antenna into the dish, making a big-ass mess of both, and setting the project back several years.”

  “Why don’t we just go with that, then? Focus all our efforts into dropping the antenna?”

  “Because that’s pretty much a pinpoint target. You’d have to have your bombs—or whatever you’re using—hit close enough to where these cables are anchored to
snap the wire or cause the retention mechanism to fail. It’d be easy if your guys were flying Hornets with a bunch of precision-guided munitions; they could easily drop the antenna. But with the interface craft and weapons you’ll be using? Good luck. You’re better off pounding the control station and taking a swing at the antenna. You may get lucky, but if you don’t, you’ve at least covered your ass to some extent.”

  “And bombing the dish? It’s huge. That would seem to be a pretty easy target.”

  “It would. You could poke a bunch of holes into it pretty easily, and then next week you’d have to do it all again, as the panels are probably fairly easy to replace. And the next week, and the next week…”

  “So that’s not an option.”

  “Well, at some point, they may run out of replacement panels, but it really isn’t a viable solution. It’s like bombing a runway. You put craters into it making it unusable, but then they come out with a dump truck of dirt and a bulldozer, and they make the runway operational again in a few hours. Better to bomb the airplanes on the ramp, instead; go for the stuff that can’t be easily replaced, rather than hitting what can.”

  “Leaving us with the control room and cables.” Murphy shrugged. “Okay, I get it, the target’s hard.”

  “No, the target is damn hard, based on the placement.” Bowden pulled out a new image that showed the dish and the area in which it was located. “The antenna is located here, in this valley, surrounded on three sides by what appears to be pretty impassable mountains.”

  Murphy nodded. “I’ve talked with the locals. Aside from some goat paths the local indigs may know about, there aren’t many ways into the area that we’ve been able to find.”

  Bowden sighed. “Figured as much, which is why we’re looking at doing it with the interface craft.” He sighed again. “Okay, so the target is surrounded by mountains on three sides, making bombing runs difficult, and on the fourth side by this town, which pretty much blocks off anyone trying to get to it on the ground. It would be easy if you had an airwing from back home. They could just orbit way overhead and plink away with some Walleyes or Mavericks…hell, even generic LGBs would work.”

  “None of which we have.”

  Bowden smiled and realized that viewing the attack clinically—as a problem-solving exercise—made it easier for him to not dwell on his last flight. “No, we don’t,” he said with a sigh. “And your guys can’t orbit overhead and do high-performance dives on it; the three craft we have for the mission aren’t able to support those kinds of maneuvers. You could get them to augur into the target if you’ve got any kamikazes in your group of Lost Soldiers…”

  “I won’t order, and we can’t afford, that kind of mission. Also, the SpinDogs would be annoyed if we didn’t return their craft when we were done with them. They’re old and crappy, sure, but they don’t have a lot of them and can’t throw away three of them without a really good reason.”

  “I figured as much. So the easy way is out.” Bowden shrugged. “I guess the next option is a Skipper attack.”

  “A Skipper attack? Is that a Navy thing for killing their commanding officer?”

  Bowden chuckled. “You really are a funny guy. Being around you is good for my morale.”

  “Glad to hear it. But still, I don’t get it.”

  “No, an Army ground-pounder probably wouldn’t,” Bowden said with a smile. “A Skipper is a kind of bomb the Intruder guys used to use. It was good for blowing up targets that had serious close-in defenses, like all of the soldiers defending the building and antenna.”

  “They’re just guys with guns and—maybe—handheld missiles. Are they really as big of a threat as that, once you get past any SAMs?”

  Bowden looked at him intensely. “More planes have been brought down by guns than missiles. And whoever you find to fly this may not be your stereotypical fighter jock. There are a lot of people with guns near the target. You can subscribe to the ‘Big Sky, Little Airplane’ theory all you want, but with that many troops, someone’s going to get lucky and hit those big-ass interface craft of yours. And ‘get past any SAMs’ is a lot easier to say than it is to do. If they’ve got IR-guided missiles, your guys will be lucky to get out of there alive. Even first-generation SAMs can hit a slow, non-maneuvering target.”

  “So what’s a Skipper, and how’s it going to help us?”

  “It’s a laser-guided, rocket-propelled bomb. The rocket on the back gives it some standoff distance, while the laser receiver on the front makes it into a precision weapon. Back home, they had a range of about fifteen klicks. It’ll be interesting to see what we can do here.”

  “Interesting? ‘We?’ Sounds like you’re ‘in’ for this mission.”

  “It’s an interesting problem,” Bowden said, “and I’m happy to put my experience into solving it. It helps me not think of…other things.” Please, God, don’t try to make me do it. I can’t. I won’t. He shook his head. “I’m not flying it.” He looked suspiciously at Murphy. “Who are the people flying this mission? You never did say.”

  “No, I didn’t.” Murphy gave him a sharp nod, with perhaps a hint of regret in his eyes, as if he knew something Bowden didn’t. “It looks like the crews will end up having SpinDogs as pilots and Lost Soldiers as weapons officers. They refused to let me have three interface craft to operate on my own. Although the SpinDogs haven’t wanted to participate in the planetside action, they are going to pilot the three craft. All of the weapons, however, will be operated by Lost Soldiers.”

  “And which Lost Soldiers are these?” Bowden asked with the same suspicious look. “I don’t see a lot of Hornet, Intruder, or even Viking pilots running around here. In fact, I only see one—me—and I’m not doing it.”

  Murphy frowned. “I’m not telling you what to do at the moment, Lieutenant. But you sure as hell aren’t telling me what I won’t do, either. We’re walking this forward, and we’ll see where it takes us.”

  Bowden didn’t like that open-ended statement, but Murphy’s tone was at least as much one of regret as firmness. Which made it acceptable—barely—to not get into a show-down. Not yet, anyway. Murphy stared at Bowden for a minute as if challenging him to dispute it further.

  When Bowden finally looked down, Murphy added in a grudging tone, “I’ve got a Phantom pilot, a Phantom radar intercept officer, and a Thud driver.”

  Bowden shrugged. They’d do. Even if they weren’t the best candidates for the job, they were still better than having him fly the mission. “Well, the RIO probably had some experience operating weapons and systems similar to the ones the SpinDogs will have to piece together for this mission,” Bowden said, trying to upsell his experience, “and the others will have done bombing runs before. They’re also going to be used to the concepts of how to perform a multi-plane strike, flying in formation, and anti-aircraft fire avoidance.” He nodded. “I’m sure they’ll be able to complete the mission.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 3

  Bowden looked at the imagery for a long time after Murphy left, trying to determine the optimal attack plan for three craft performing the mission he’d been given. Three aircraft. Two targets to be destroyed. By equipment that had never been field-tested. Deployed on craft that hadn’t been built to carry them, much less release them. Probably while taking ground fire, which definitely included guns and might include missiles, as well.

  He sighed, and his face fell forward into his hands. It didn’t seem possible, and it certainly wasn’t probable they’d get both targets. Even if all three went after the control station—and only the control station—the odds they’d hit it were far less than he’d have liked. And even if they destroyed it, that didn’t ensure success, because the locals might have another station. But hitting the cables and dropping the antenna complex—which would ensure success—was every bit as hard as he’d told Murphy it would be.

  “What’s wrong?” a deep voice asked.

  Bowden looked up to find one of the other survivors of
the UH-60 Black Hawk crash he’d been in. Although Bowden didn’t know the man, he had the look of a SEAL—immense shoulders and solid torso. Bowden had seen him around since he’d been pulled out of cold sleep; the Black Hawk survivors had all been defrosted early on, ostensibly because they were all ranking officers and had the best preparation for dealing with the advanced electronics of this new century. But, despite participating in a lot of the same initial training, Bowden hadn’t let himself get close to the SEAL. Or any of the other Lost Soldiers, for that matter.

  The SEAL also had the penetrating gaze that everyone in his trade had, but at the moment, it had softened.

  “I’m sorry?” Bowden asked.

  “I asked what was wrong,” the big man said. He nodded to the imagery. “Something I can help with?”

  “Working on a target for an airstrike,” Bowden said. “Unfortunately, I’m just not sure I can pull it off with what I have available.”

  The man chuckled. “I know exactly what you mean.” He shrugged. “Anything I can help with?”

  “You’re a SEAL, right?”

  “Yeah, Lieutenant Harold Tapper, Navy SEAL, at your service.” He held out his hand, which Bowden took.

  “Lieutenant Kevin Bowden, Hornet pilot and strike planner for the most idiotic attack ever attempted.”

  “I don’t know about that. I’ve been on some pretty stupid ones in my time, both back home and now the one I’ve been planning here. In a few days, I go dirtside to link up with some indigs and convince them to work with us. Then, along with them and a few other Lost Soldiers, we’re going to seize a modern mechanized column using nothing but infantry.” He smiled. “Want to trade?”

  Bowden swallowed. “Uh, no. I’m not sure, but your mission may be even more fucked up than mine. Good luck with that.”

  “I’ve got a few minutes, and I could use something else to think about for a bit. What have you got?”