by Dan Stratman
She pulled the helicopter up into a steep climb. Just as the craft stalled out, she stomped on the right anti-torque pedal. The AH-6M performed an acrobatic pirouette in the sky, spinning 180 degrees. With the nose now pointed straight down, it rapidly gained airspeed. Cyndi smoothly pulled out of the dive and set up for another pass. She tapped the picture on the screen and smiled. “Put the crosshairs right here.”
Chapter Forty-Two
“That should definitely do the trick,” Lance replied, with an equally big smile.
He slewed the crosshairs over a large metal cylinder behind the building. Two thousand gallons of diesel fuel was stored in the tank. The fuel was used to power generators on site in the event the local electric grid went down.
The destructive power of the high-explosive warhead on the Hellfire missile would be multiplied a hundred times by the exploding fuel.
Now it was up to the laws of physics to determine if that would be enough to cut off both paths to the warheads.
As Lance adjusted the crosshairs on the screen, he could see the glowing outline of Major Pierce huddled against the fence. His warm body stood out like a beacon against the snowy terrain. Bright white flashes were seen coming from his outstretched hand. In a last-ditch attempt to get revenge, he was firing his Glock at the helicopter as it set up for its run. The small bullets went harmlessly wide or bounced off the solidly built attack helicopter.
Lance placed the crosshairs over the center of the fuel tank.
“Missile armed, waiting for your command.”
Cyndi shut out every distraction around her. She concentrated on flying a glidepath as perfectly focused as the laser that illuminated the fuel tank.
“Fire!”
The Hellfire missile streaked toward the tank at over one thousand miles per hour. Halfway to its target, the missile suddenly lurched upward. Its guidance system computer had mistaken the thick-walled fuel tank for a T-90 Russian tank.
As the missile crossed over the fence it pitched sharply down and struck the fuel tank from directly overhead—the same way it would attack the relatively vulnerable turret on the top of a tank.
Alpha One erupted.
A huge mushroom cloud of boiling fire shot into the air.
Cyndi banked hard right to avoid being consumed by the fireball. The shock wave punched the small helicopter like it had been hit by the hand of God.
“Jesus Christ!” Lance bellowed.
The fact that he was still in one piece—and able to shout out such an apropos exclamation—told him the warheads had not detonated.
Wood, steel, dirt, and concrete were hurled hundreds of feet into the air. It rained down on the open silo, burying the missile.
Where the building had once stood, a smoldering twenty-foot-deep crater was all that was left. As ravaged as the scene was, Cyndi couldn’t help but think how it would have looked if the warheads had exploded.
“Nice shootin’, Tex,” Cyndi said with a twinkle in her eye. “Let’s go find General McNeil.”
Using her best guess, she steered the helicopter on a westerly heading and hoped that it would be sufficient to get them safely back to the base. She climbed to five thousand feet to make it easier to spot Cheyenne.
The Little Bird helicopter flew serenely along in the smooth air. Cyndi found the controls for the heater and cranked it up to its maximum setting.
Now that she was able to warm up a little, her thoughts shifted to how they could possibly explain everything that had happened at Alpha One to her boss. Odds were low that he’d be thrilled to hear their story. McNeil would immediately order a team to Alpha One to secure the site and the missile. Then a reckoning would be coming.
“Since we have time, we need to talk about how we’re going to break the bad news to the general,” Cyndi said.
“We?” Lance said with mock surprise. “You’re the crew commander. I’m just a lowly deputy. You didn’t actually think I was serious back there when I said we’re in this together.” The goofy smirk on his face told Cyndi he was attempting to be humorous.
“If you’re that worried about McNeil’s reaction, feel free to get out at any time,” Cyndi replied, pointing at the open door next to Lance.
“No thanks. I’ll stay and take my chances,” he said.
Cyndi searched the horizon for any sign of the city. All she saw was an endless expanse of featureless white prairie. She leaned forward and squinted, looking for any recognizable landmarks. Off to her eleven o’clock something caught her eye. A long ribbon of concrete stretched from horizon to horizon. Interstate 80 ran parallel to their flight path. The highway would serve as their guide, leading them directly into Cheyenne.
Pioneers making their way west in covered wagons could never have imagined such a smooth, effortless path to follow on their journey to a new life.
Cyndi turned on the autopilot and sat back in her seat. The tension in her body began to recede. Her shoulders relaxed.
Suddenly, the large plexiglass bubble canopy surrounding the cockpit shattered.
Chapter Forty-Three
The canopy splintered into a spiderweb of cracks. Luckily, it was designed to take battle damage but stay intact.
Cyndi immediately slowed the helicopter to lessen the force of the wind on the windscreen, hoping to prevent it from caving in on them. She scanned the outside of the canopy for the guts of a bird, assuming a bird strike. It was clean. She looked closer. There was one small hole in the center of the glass.
Cyndi stuck her head out the side door and looked back. A thousand yards behind, the second AH-6M was bearing down on them. Muzzle flashes coming from the Gatling gun looked like a strobe light.
“Pierce!” Cyndi screamed.
She slammed the stick to the right. The copter snapped into a violent turn. It dropped out of the sky like a very expensive rock. Airspeed quickly jumped past redline. The damaged canopy began to flex inward.
Pierce mimicked Cyndi’s maneuver, staying right on her tail.
Tracers whizzed by the cockpit.
A shrill tone suddenly went off in their headsets. The missile warning system was telling them they’d been locked on to by a heat seeking missile.
“Flares!”
Lance frantically searched the instrument panel for the switch to deploy the flares to break the missile’s lock before it was too late. He found it.
A staccato of white-hot flares spewed out of each side of the rear fuselage until the flare canisters were empty. They arced across the sky then looped downward.
The seeker head on the missile broke its lock. The warning tone stopped.
Cyndi put the helicopter into a dive then leveled off a few feet above the ground, hoping to prevent another lock-on. Cottonwood trees and sagebrush rushed by in a blur. A rooster tail of snowflakes shot up into the air behind the helicopter.
Bullets from Pierce’s Gatling gun stitched a line across the snow off to their left.
“Do something!”
“I can’t outrun him; the windscreen might collapse on us,” Cyndi warned.
She looked back. Pierce was closing in.
The turboshaft engine suddenly went from a roar to a purr.
“What are you doing?” Lance gasped.
Cyndi had chopped the power to idle.
She was far too busy trying to avoid being shot out of the sky to spell out her plan. Cyndi put the helicopter into a series of S turns over the highway, making it impossible for Pierce to get off a clear shot at his distance. The gap between the two aircraft quickly closed. Pierce was now only one football field length behind them.
He slewed the Gatling gun straight ahead and waited for his prey to cross in front of him.
Lance looked back and yelled, “He’s going to fire!”
“Wait…wait…” Cyndi said calmly.
When Lance turned around, he jolted back in his seat. “Holy shit!”
A highway overpass loomed directly in front of them. Cyndi kept the helicopter inches abo
ve Interstate 80. Showers of sparks trailed behind them as the skids occasionally skipped off the concrete.
Barreling toward the reinforced concrete overpass at over ninety miles per hour, the bright yellow sign mounted on it was clearly visible: 16’ CLEARANCE.
When he saw what she was doing, Pierce’s eyes bulged out. He debated following Cyndi on her suicidal maneuver. Uncharacteristic doubt shoved aside his normal approach of reckless abandon. Pierce hesitated for a moment then yanked back on the cyclic. His helicopter zoomed up into a steep climbing right turn away from the overpass. He did a full circle, looping back around to the highway. Pierce slowed to a hover and searched the road for the wreckage. The charred bodies of Cyndi and Lance were nowhere to be found. Pierce climbed up five hundred feet to get a better view.
Off in the distance, clouds of snow were being kicked up by semi-trucks swerving off the highway onto the shoulder.
Lance’s face was ashen. He looked like he was going to throw up. The crazy maneuver had shaken him up so badly he couldn’t think of a joke to mask his fear. “You know I wasn’t being literal about flying like you stole it, right?”
“Relax; we lost him, didn’t we?” Cyndi said with a wry grin. “Congratulations, Ice Man, you just earned your copilot wings.” She gave him a playful punch on the arm.
Cyndi kept the helicopter skimming along right above the highway. Trucks and cars swerved off the road and into the ditch after seeing a menacing attack helicopter roaring up behind them in their rearview mirrors.
Cyndi decided to take pity on the startled motorists and climbed to a more reasonable altitude. Slowly, the bustling metropolis of Cheyenne, Wyoming, came into view. Built from Wyoming sandstone, the Renaissance revival-style state capitol building stood out from the surrounding structures. The afternoon sun reflected off its 24-karat gold leaf dome, acting like a beacon welcoming them home.
“We need clearance from Cheyenne tower to enter their airspace and land at Warren,” Cyndi informed Lance. She tapped on a piece of equipment in the center pedestal. “This is the radio. I have no idea what the tower frequency is. Dial in one two one point five, the universal emergency frequency. All air traffic control facilities are required to monitor it.”
Lance set up the frequency.
Cyndi pressed the mic button on her stick. “Cheyenne tower, this is…uh…” It suddenly occurred to her that she didn’t know the call sign of the helicopter. “This is Capt. Cyndi Stafford. I am about ten miles east, requesting permission to land at F. E. Warren.”
“Say your call sign,” the controller replied, annoyance evident in his voice.
“I don’t know my call sign.”
“Say your aircraft type, then.”
“Helicopter.”
“Care to elaborate?” the controller said sarcastically.
“I think it’s called a Little Bird,” Cyndi replied, guessing. “Let’s just say my callsign is Alpha One. Requesting permission to enter your airspace and get vectors directly to Warren Air Force Base.”
“So, you don’t know your call sign, and you don’t know what aircraft you’re sitting in. I’m going to go out on a limb here, but I’m guessing you don’t have a flight plan either,” he rudely replied.
Cyndi felt like unloading on the snarky controller but bit her tongue. “Look, we’ve had a really rough day. All I want to do is get this over with. I know you have your rules, but if you’d just clear us into your airspace, I’d appreciate it.”
“And I’d appreciate it if you followed the federal aviation regulations,” he shot back. “Only aircraft that have filed a flight plan and are on official business are authorized to land at the base.”
Cyndi played her aviation ace in the hole. “Alpha One declaring an emergency. I need a heading direct to Warren right now.”
The veteran controller mashed the mic button. “Nice try, little birdie, clearance denied. Call back after you’ve filed a flight plan. The same goes for your wingman. Over and out.”
Cyndi turned toward Lance. Her brow furrowed. “My wingman?”
The missile warning system let out a shrill, pulsating tone.
Cyndi instinctively jinked left, then right. Precious seconds ticked by as the helicopter darted through the sky performing defensive maneuvers. Cyndi looked over her shoulder, searching for the telltale white smoke trail of an air-to-air missile. She spied a black dot at the same altitude in the distance. “Pierce just locked on to us, but he must be outside firing range.” Cyndi pushed the helicopter up to its maximum speed. The shattered canopy began to vibrate. “Cheyenne Tower, Alpha One is coming through your airspace whether you like it or not. Clear all traffic.”
“Permission denied!” the startled controller yelled into his microphone. “I have aircraft about to take off. You are not cleared into my airspace. Acknowledge, Alpha One!”
Cyndi ignored him.
“Alpha One, landing at Warren Air Force Base is restricted. Acknowledge my transmission. Now!”
Two F-16s on their way back to Hill AFB were taxiing to the runway.
The controller decided to enlist their help. “Viper One-Six flight, I’ve got two unidentified helicopters inbound to Warren Air Force Base without authorization. You are cleared for takeoff. Request that you intercept them and force them to turn away from the base.”
The F-16 lead pilot knew of Warren and its nuclear mission. “Happy to help, tower. Whoever these jokers are, they have no business getting anywhere near that base. After we scare them a little, I’m sure they’ll have a change of heart.”
Cyndi bounced up and down in her seat with excitement as she keyed her mic. “Yes, yes, that’s perfect. This is the lead helicopter. Come and intercept us. My wingman is trying to kill us. We need you fighter jocks to protect us and escort us to the base.”
The F-16s screeched to a stop just as they began their takeoff roll. The formation leader jumped on the radio. “Tower, what the hell is going on here?”
“Stand by,” the controller responded. “Alpha One, repeat your last transmission.”
Cyndi could see the field through the cracked canopy. “A psycho is on our tail. He’s trying to murder us. If we don’t get to the headquarters building on base, an armed nuclear missile could detonate at any moment. Launch the F-16s!”
The leader looked over at his wingman and spun his fingertip in circles next to his head. Over the radio he announced, “Tower, that chick sounds like she’s nuts. We’re going to sit this one out until I find out what is going on.”
The missile warning system activated again. Sharp pulsating tones meant that the Stinger missile on Pierce’s left pylon was searching for its victim.
“No, you can’t do that! He’s going to shoot. Take off, dammit!”
“Viper One-Six flight will be taxiing back to the ramp,” the leader calmly said.
Branded a rule follower all her life—as if that were a bad thing—Cyndi decided it was time to make her own rules. “Sorry, guys, that’s not going to happen.” She armed the Gatling gun and squeezed off fifty rounds.
Chapter Forty-Four
Bullets traced a line across the runway, five feet in front of the formation.
Cyndi knew the fighter pilot personality well. Her provocation had the exact desired effect.
“Lead has the first helicopter; you take the second one! Viper One-Six flight, release breaks. Go to full afterburner. Shoot to kill!”
The F-16s leaped forward with a thunderous roar.
Cyndi put her helicopter into a dive and aimed it at the end of the runway. The missile warning tone stopped pulsating and went solid. She held her heading.
The fighters rapidly gained speed as they rolled down the runway.
A suicidal game of chicken was about to take place.
The Fighting Falcons broke ground and scooped their landing gear up into their bellies. The leader kept the planes on the deck to maximize acceleration.
Cyndi caught site of them at her twelve o’clock and closing
fast. She held her heading.
The wingman spread out into tactical position, thirty feet to the leader’s right side. The pilots flipped on their AN/APG-68 fire control radars. Antennas in their nose cones swept back and forth sending out radar pulses.
The antennas stopped searching and pointed straight at Cyndi’s helicopter.
“Game over, crazy lady.” The leader took one last look up from his radar screen before firing. The AH-6M Little Bird attack helicopter flew right between the two fighters.
The stunned pilots instinctively jerked their planes away from each other.
The lead pilot put his jet into a bone-crushing nine G climb to start a half loop and then double back on Cyndi from above after executing an Immelmann maneuver.
The wingman turned his attention to Pierce’s helicopter. Unfortunately, he had failed to notice the missile warning tone in his own headset during all the chaos.
The Stinger missile that Pierce had fired had broken lock with Cyndi’s helicopter and latched on to his plane.
Traveling at Mach 2.2, it rapidly closed the gap on the unsuspecting wingman—who was almost supersonic himself—at a combined closure rate of 2,300 miles per hour.
The pilot never had a chance to get off a shot. He yanked back on the stationary fly-by-wire control stick with one hundred pounds of brute force. The missile struck just as he pulled up. The right wing of the Fighting Falcon was blown off by the detonation. Black smoke and bright red flames trailed the plane as it corkscrewed up into the sunny Wyoming sky.
“I’m hit! I’m hit!” the wingman screamed over the radio.
The leader was inverted and just about to roll out of the Immelmann. He looked back over his shoulder and yelled, “Eject! Ej—”
Before he could finish his transmission, his wingman’s plane disintegrated. Blazing pieces of fighter aircraft spread gracefully across the sky like a spectacular firework display.
