by Robert Gandt
Rittmann depressed the firing button. Whoom! The AA-11 Archer missile rocketed ahead of the MiG, flying a curved track toward the hard-turning Hornet.
He saw what appeared to be—Was ist das?—balls of fire? No, he realized, flares. He had never seen them this close before. The Hornet pilot was ejecting flares to throw off the heatseeking missile.
Too late.
Moving at three times the speed of sound, the Archer closed the distance between the fighters. For a second the missile veered toward the trail of flares. Then like a trained hunting dog, the missile sensed the deception and swerved back to the real target.
The Hornet was in a vertical bank, making a maximum-G turn. With its tiny guidance fins, the stubby air-to-air missile was unable to match the tight turning radius. The Archer overshot, missing the Hornet’s tail by twenty feet.
It was close enough.
Bloom! The missile’s proximity fuse detonated. The metal-shredding shrapnel in the Archer’s warhead ripped through the tail section of the Hornet.
Fascinated, Rittmann watched the Hornet go into a skid, then straighten itself, coming out of the hard turn. Part of the right vertical stabilizer was gone. Pieces were spitting out of the right engine, and flames licked around the outside of the fuselage. For a second Rittmann considered finishing the job with the 30 mm. gun in the MiG’s left wing. Before the pilot could escape, Rittmann would convert him to chopped meat.
In the next instant, the Hornet erupted in a ball of fire. Instinctively, Rittmann threw the stick to the right and yanked hard, barely missing the fireball.
In clear sky, he took a deep breath. He had just killed his first real enemy. But the battle wasn’t over. There were many more out there waiting to—
The Sirena. The urgent, warbling noise of his radar warning receiver filled his cockpit. He was targeted.
<>
It would be a max angle off-boresight shot, but Maxwell didn’t care. The MiG—this particular MiG—wasn’t getting away. He would take this guy out any way he could. He’d use the nose-mounted Gatling gun if necessary.
Never in his career had Maxwell felt so frustrated. It had happened so suddenly. Just as he was reaching the apex of his defensive turn, he glanced over his shoulder in time to witness the disintegration of B.J. Johnson’s Hornet.
That was when the MiG pilot made his mistake. He tarried too long behind the target after taking his shot. He was forced to make an evasive turn to the right, which gave Maxwell the opening he needed. Pirouetting his Hornet at the top of the arcing turn, he sliced the nose back downhill—toward the oncoming MiG.
Flash Gordon’s voice came over the frequency: “Yankee three and four engaged. Bandit locked twelve o’clock low.”
That explained what happened to his second section, Gordon and Jones. Coming off the target, they had made a hard break to the right to counter another low-flying MiG. That made two. Hadn’t AWACS reported three bandits?
“B.J. is down,” Maxwell said. “Anybody see a chute?”
“Yankee three, negative,” said Gordon. “We saw a fireball, Brick. No chute.”
Maxwell struggled to control his emotions. You lost your wingman. If he had reacted quicker to the AWACS pop up call. . . if he had made an immediate break into the threat sector. . .
He pushed the thoughts from his mind. Focus. Kill this guy.
The MiG was directly in front of him. The Sidewinder seeker circle in the HUD was superimposed on the sleek shape of the Fulcrum. The low growl of the missile’s seeker unit swelled in his earphones, telling him it was tracking.
Without his second section and now missing his wingman, he knew he was vulnerable to attack by the third bandit. He should get the hell out of there and stay defensive.
No. Take this sonofabitch out.
The MiG was in a hard left turn into him. Maxwell could see the mottled paint scheme, the twin torches of flame from the afterburners.
He squeezed the trigger. From the right wingtip a Sidewinder air-to-air missile streaked out in front of the Hornet.
“Fox two!” he called, signaling the launch of an AIM-9 heat-seeking missile.
He watched the missile go into an arcing left turn, pursuing the MiG like a wolf chasing an antelope. He kept the MiG centered in his HUD. He rocked his air-to-air armament selector back to GUN. If the Sidewinder missed, he would do it the old-fashioned way.
It took exactly four and one-half seconds.
The tail section of the Fulcrum disintegrated in a shower of fragments. The fighter slewed into a rolling, yawing tumble to the right.
Maxwell saw something—the ejection seat?—separate from the cloud of wreckage. Behind the object trailed a stream of material, which then blossomed into the tan-colored canopy of a parachute.
“Splash one!” Maxwell called.
A few seconds later he heard Flash Gordon’s exultant voice: “Splash one!”
Another MiG down.
He took his eyes off the tumbling wreckage of the MiG and scanned the sky around him. Two MiGs were out of the fight. That left one still alive.
Where?
<>
No radar, no radio transmissions. Give them nothing with which they could track him.
His Sirena radar warning receiver told him they were searching. With the sophisticated equipment aboard their AWACS ship, they probably detected him. But by staying low, skimming the ground on the north slope of the massif that stretched to the Red Sea, his chances were decent. They improved with every kilometer he put between him and the enemy fighters.
Al-Fasr kept the MiG in full afterburner. It meant that he would be fuel critical within minutes. So be it. The only fighters that could threaten his escape were the Tomcats, and he was opening up enough lead to put him beyond their pursuit range. Within ten minutes he would be across the narrow Red Sea. Then he would put the fighter down on the strip in Eritrea.
The fight had gone as well as he could have expected. According to the reports from his battle observation monitors, stationed in a hundred-kilometer belt around the complex, at least two American fighters were down. He had lost two MiGs.
Two for two. It was a fair exchange, considering the odds.
Novotny was dead. He was sure of it. The block-headed Czech had bored straight into a section of Hornets just as they were coming off their target. They had executed a nose-on attack before Novotny had even gotten a missile in the air.
So it went. Fools like Novotny were expendable.
Rittmann had remained in character. True to his word, he had not been afraid. He had thrust himself at the attacking Hornets like a fearless—and stupid—German attack dog. Kill and be killed. That was Rittmann’s style. Now he was either dead or lost in the vastness of the Yemeni highlands. It didn’t matter. Rittmann was more trouble than he was worth.
His Sirena was chirping in the same mode it had been since he left the battle. It meant their radars were scanning, possibly even picking up a return from his low-flying jet. From the display he could see that no threats were coming his way. No missiles in the air, no fighters targeting him from behind.
Ahead, the high ridge of the massif sloped toward the horizon. He kept the MiG-29 low, skimming the boulders and the scrub brush. Occasionally the blur of a terraced field passed beneath him. He glimpsed huts, outbuildings, thin wisps of wood smoke.
The brown landscape dropped away beneath him, and the rocky shoreline came into view. Beyond lay the milky blue haze of the Red Sea. He had been informed that the Reagan’s pilots, by their rules of engagement, were forbidden to pursue targets beyond the coastal boundaries of Yemen.
The coastline flashed under the MiG’s belly. Across the narrow passage lay the shore of Eritrea.
Safety.
In the cockpit of the MiG-29, Al-Fasr let himself relax for the first time since he’d left the revetment. He had survived the first battle. The next was about to begin.
<>
The red phone next to Boyce’s chair rang. It was the direct
line from the captain’s station on the bridge.
“I’m afraid so,” said Boyce. “Two down, a Tomcat from the TARCAP, and a Hornet from Yankee flight.”
Boyce held the phone two inches away from his ear. Stickney wanted to know where the MiGs had come from and how come nobody saw them coming and why did this whole goddamn caper look like fucking amateur hour?
Boyce felt the eyes of Admiral Fletcher and Babcock on him while the Reagan’s captain roared over the phone. “I don’t have the answers yet, Sticks, but I assure you we’re gonna find out. My first priority is getting the RESCAP in place and snatching our people out of there.”
He hung up and saw Claire Phillips standing beside him. Her face looked somber.
“It’s not good, is it?” she asked in a low voice.
“I’ve seen better.”
“Some of our pilots have been shot down. Who are they?”
“You know I can’t tell you that. Not yet.”
“One of them is the woman pilot. The one they call B.J.?”
Boyce looked around the CIC compartment. Controllers were hunched over their consoles, coordinating the elements of the strike group. Fletcher and Babcock were staring at him again. “Look, Claire. This is a pretty volatile situation, and the media shouldn’t be this close. I’m going to ask you to leave while we deal with this.”
“Red, please, I won’t interfere with—”
He took her elbow and steered her toward the door. “Listen to me, Claire. Not a word, not a hint of what you saw or heard in here will be reported without clearing it through me. Is that understood?”
Claire’s eyes flashed. “Of course it’s understood. Do you think I’m the enemy, Red?”
“No. Sorry, but you know what I mean.”
On her way out the door she paused. “Just tell me. Is Sam okay?”
He glanced back at his tactical display. None of the symbols on the screen had changed in the past half minute. “Yeah. Sam’s okay.”
Chapter Seven
Indian Country
USS Ronald Reagan
1045, Monday, 17 June
Stealth jogging.
Yes, she thought, that was it. It had a nice ring to it. Maybe she could use it someday in a paper or a lecture. It described what she was doing this very moment—hightailing it through the Yemeni hills like a hunted fugitive.
Which, of course, she was.
She wished she had her running shoes, the ones with the air soles that weighed eight ounces each. She’d be flying over the rocks instead of clumping along in these clod-hopping boots.
B.J. jogged along the shaded slope of the ridgeline, stopping every minute or so to listen. She needed to put distance between her and the valley where the Tomcat crew was caught. Keep moving, stop and listen for the bad guys, keep moving. Stay out of sight.
If she got out of this place, she thought— and then instantly corrected herself. Forget if. No more ifs. When you get out. You are getting out of this place, she told herself. And after you do you will sit down and write one hell of an authoritative paper about escape and evasion. Maybe get it published in “Naval Institute Proceedings” or some such journal. Why not? Who else would know more about being on the lam in a garden spot like Yemen?
It was luck that she hadn’t been injured in the ejection. She’d punched out at high speed—something over 400 knots, she guessed—barely beating the fireball when the Hornet blew up. She’d been in the chute only seconds, just long enough to smack down onto a rocky hillside, landing with an ungraceful thud, rolling twenty feet down the slope before she could disentangle herself from the shrouds.
She was okay, just some bruises and cuts from the rocks. She could run, which was the most important item in her set of skills. Run like hell. The stuff she didn’t want to carry—chute, helmet, raft, torso harness—she stashed beneath rocks and brush. She gathered the essential items into the survival rucksack and moved out.
Not until she’d gone a mile did she stop and try the radio. The emergency UHF transceiver was her ticket home. She could communicate with friendly aircraft, give her location, call in the SAR helo.
Overhead she could hear—and sometimes see—the multi-plane furball that was still going on. At least one more fighter—she couldn’t tell whose—had been shot down. A spiraling trail of black smoke marked its death dive.
Crouching beneath a shrub, she tried the transmit button on the transceiver. Nothing happened.
She turned the power button off, then on again. Still nothing.
The radio didn’t work.
She couldn’t believe it. No little red power light, no static, nothing. She wanted to scream. The goddamned emergency radio didn’t work! Had it been damaged in the ejection? It looked okay, no dings or dents. Maybe the battery was kaput. For a long moment she stared at the black piece of inert hardware, suddenly hating it. All this goddamn useless technology. How could this happen? The most essential piece of survival gear in her kit didn’t work. B.J. Johnson felt herself overwhelmed with a sense of hopelessness. She sank to the ground and wept.
After a minute, she began talking to herself. Move it, girl. You’re going to get out of here even if you have to walk. Go on, move your butt.
She moved.
<>
Maxwell couldn’t believe it.
He put both hands on the conference table and leaned forward. “Excuse me, Admiral, did I hear correctly? We’re not sending in a search and rescue team?”
CAG Boyce, Admiral Fletcher, Whitney Babcock, and Spook Morse sat facing him at the long table. Half an hour ago Maxwell had landed back aboard the Reagan. He was still wearing his flight suit and torso harness, sweat-stained from the three-hour combat sortie.
“You heard the intel debrief,” said Admiral Fletcher. “The RESCAP jets lost communications with the F-14 crew on the ground just before the SAR helos showed up. They came under fire and had to withdraw. Since then, nothing has been heard from any of the downed pilots. We have reasonable evidence that the F-14 pilot and RIO were captured.”
“What about my downed pilot?” Maxwell said. “Are we giving up on her too?”
Fletcher gave him a baleful glare. “I’ll overlook your choice of words, Commander. I know you’ve been under strain. For your information, we’re not giving up on anybody. All the evidence we have indicates that the Hornet pilot was killed in action. As the Battle Group Commander, it’s my responsibility not to sacrifice any more pilots and airplanes trying to rescue people who are already dead or captured.”
Maxwell felt his temper flaring out of control. Before he could speak, Boyce cut him off. “Admiral, what Commander Maxwell and I don’t understand is why we’re letting this ragtag bunch of terrorists get away with this. Why don’t we just go in there with an assault force—Marines and plenty of air power—and take out the whole mess? Get our people back and exterminate those murderers.”
Fletcher blinked, then looked to the end of the table. Whitney Babcock spoke up. “We can understand your sentiments, Captain Boyce, but you have to understand that more is at stake here than you probably understand. This is a national security consideration, not a simple tactical exercise.”
It was Boyce’s turn to seethe. He glared at Babcock. “If you mean decisions like that are above my pay grade, fine, I understand. But damn it, this is Yemen we’re talking about, not North Korea or China. We could occupy that joint in half a day if we had the balls to do it.”
Babcock gave him a patronizing smile. “I’m afraid that’s out of the question. As the world’s only super power, we have a responsibility to demonstrate our restraint.”
“So we’re not going to do anything more? Just let them keep their MiGs and missiles and our captured pilots and wait for them to hit us again?”
“You can rest assured that it’s being negotiated at the very highest levels. If any of our pilots are alive, they’ll be returned. As for letting them keep their weapons, we’ve already made our point. Their complex, as you saw in
the intel photos, has been destroyed.”
Boyce had a retort, but he caught himself. He clamped his cigar in his jaw and turned to Spook Morse, sitting across the table. “Okay, intel officer. Where the hell did those MiGs come from? Why didn’t you guys bother giving us that little morsel in our briefing?”
Morse shrugged. “Take it up with the CIA. Or the National Security Agency. They provide our intel data, and I just give you what they give us. Al-Fasr’s group apparently managed to sneak the MiGs in between the flyover envelopes of our recon satellites. Nobody knew they were there. They have them concealed underground somewhere in the northwest quarter. They seem to be equipped with low-observable paint schemes and electronic countermeasures gear.”
“Beautiful. Where’d they get them and who’s flying them?”
“The MiGs came from Libya, according to our sources. The pilots were recruited from Russia’s clients, probably Libya or the former East Germany. Al-Fasr himself may be one of the pilots.”
“We nailed two of them, and one hightailed it. How many more are there?”
Morse shrugged again. “Very few, maybe none. If they have satellite tracking technology, which we suspect they do, then they know when we’re not looking. It’s going to be difficult to spot them.”
Boyce looked disgusted. “Until they show up to bite us in the ass again.” He fumed for a moment, then said, “Hard to believe, with all our advanced technology, those guys can catch us in the open like that. Almost like they knew we were coming.”
“They did know,” said Morse.
A heavy silence fell over the room. Boyce stared at Morse, not sure that he heard correctly. He removed his cigar. “Would you mind explaining that?”
“It’s very obvious,” Morse said, studying his fingernail. He looked up at all the expectant faces around the table. He let several seconds pass, the silence hanging heavy in the room. “They have an informer aboard the Reagan.”
