by Robert Gandt
He tilted his head back and peered straight up through the Plexiglas.
Directly above him. The Fulcrum. It looked like a bat, wings swept back almost to the tail, inverted, diving on him like a predator.
Suddenly he understood. Passing through the eye of the needle, Al-Fasr had flicked the MiG’s wings level and pulled straight up into a loop. From six thousand feet, he was sweeping back down on the Hornet’s tail.
Maxwell hauled the nose of the F/A-18 up in a tight Immelmann, the upper half of a loop. As his nose passed through vertical, he saw the MiG-29 countering him.
The jets passed canopy to canopy, turning hard into each other. Maxwell pitched up, rolling hard around the axis of the MiG. Al-Fasr countered, executing the same pitch and roll.
Another rolling scissors. This time there would be no exit.
They crossed again, and Maxwell got a good look at the yellow helmet, the oxygen-masked figure staring at him. This is the guy who killed Josh Dunn. The guy who tried to sink the Reagan.
He nudged the stick back, coaxing the Hornet through a maximum-performance barrel roll. With each sweep of the scissors, he was gaining a tiny advantage on the MiG.
The scissors was depleting the energy of both fighters. By the third opposing pass, they were bottoming out only a few hundred feet above the terrain. In tiny increments, Maxwell was inching his way behind the MiG.
Another high-G roll. As Maxwell completed the roll, he brought the nose of the Hornet to bear on the Fulcrum. The Sidewinder’s acquisition tone warbled in his earphones. He squeezed the trigger.
The AIM-9 missile streaked toward its target.
Again the MiG pilot sensed imminent danger. He snapped the Fulcrum into a barrel roll to the left, spewing a trail of flares to decoy the missile.
Maxwell rolled with him, staying high and outside. Keeping his eye on the MiG, he rocked back his air-to-air weapons selector to A/A GUN. With grudging admiration he watched the MiG execute a roll, its nose coming down, pulling hard as the jet dived close to the earth.
The Sidewinder flew to the trail of flares, briefly wobbled as its guidance system sorted out the decoys, then went again for the big tailpipes of the Fulcrum. Too late, the missile overshot the hard-turning MiG and impacted the base of a ridge.
Maxwell watched the MiG, still in a knife edge bank, slanting toward the earth. The Fulcrum was close to the terrain, skimming the scrub brush along the ridgeline. Vapor puffs spilled off the wings as the pilot pulled the nose up.
The right wing clipped the top of the ridge. A geyser of dirt and debris erupted from the earth.
Maxwell skimmed low over the disintegrating MiG. As he pulled up in a climbing reversal, he glimpsed the hulk of the shattered fighter caroming across the desert, shedding pieces. Over his shoulder he saw what he had been praying for—an orange fireball.
When he swept back again over the blazing wreckage, he could see that nothing was left of the Fulcrum, just smoking fragments and debris. Fires were burning along the slope of the valley where hunks of the fighter had landed.
His eyes scanned the landscape, looking for a chute, any sign that the pilot had escaped.
Nothing.
The MiG pilot—he prayed that it was Al-Fasr—was dead.
This was the moment he had been waiting for since since the day in Dubai when they killed Josh Dunn. He had wanted revenge, and here it was.
He had expected that when this moment came, he would be feeling something—pride, relief, exultation. He should be hearing trumpets and choirs of avenging angels. Down in his gut he should be feeling a grim satisfaction.
No such emotion was rising up in him. Josh Dunn was gone. So were the sailors and marines and pilots killed by Jamal Al-Fasr and his terrorists. Nothing would change that.
Revenge wasn’t sweet, he thought. It was empty.
A glance at the EFD—Engine Fuel Display—returned him to the present. The totalizer indicated 900 pounds remaining. Less than ten minutes flying time.
He wouldn’t make it out of Yemen.
<>
Gritti listened to the reports on the VRC-90. On either side—east and west—of the complex he had landed two companies of marines. They were applying a pincers on the Sherji who were dug in outside the old BP compound. The Cobras were raking them with 2.75 rockets and rotary cannons.
He removed the steel-rimmed spectacles and took a look through his field glasses. A few scattered pockets of Sherji were still resisting. “What the hell are they fighting for?”
Hewlitt, who was given to philosophizing, offered a theory: “It’s a macho thing. These are mountain men, an ancient Islamic warrior clan. They may not feel like dying, but they have to prove that they’re not afraid to. Once that’s established, they’ll pack it in.”
“They’d better start packing,” grumbled Gritti. “They’re wasting my time and ordnance.”
The Sherji’s western flank defenders had already gotten a close-up look at the pair of LAV-25 light tanks rumbling toward their line and reached a pragmatic decision. A white flag was flying over their position. Slowly, each of the 150 fighters rose from cover and began stacking AK-47s and machine guns.
While a squad took charge of the prisoners, the tanks charged into the complex, followed by a company of riflemen. Under fire from three sides, the defenders on the eastern flank quickly reached the same conclusion as their western comrades. One by one, they laid down their arms, making a show of placing their hands on their heads.
In the command Hummer, Gritti and Hewlitt rolled into the compound on the heels of the advancing marines. After transmitting a situation update on the satellite UHF radio, Gritti climbed out and looked around.
A hard-surfaced gravel road ran between two rows of tin-roofed buildings. At the end of the road, on either side, swelled half a dozen earth-covered mounds, each large enough, Gritti supposed, to store vehicles and supplies.
Inside the complex, between two of the buildings over two hundred Sherji were kneeling in a cluster while Marine intelligence specialists and the linguist went through the group. Gritti could see the prisoners nodding agreeably and pointing to various features in the compound.
He turned to Hewlitt. “Anyone report seeing Al-Fasr?”
“They claim he’s flying one of the MiGs.”
Gritti watched the advance fire teams cautiously entering the complex of tin-roofed buildings. “What about mines and booby traps?”
“The clearing squad is working the area. The captured Sherji all swear that it’s clean. Nothing planted.”
Gritti nodded toward the kneeling prisoners. “Do they understand how extremely pissed off I’m going to be if any of my marines step on a mine?”
“I told them you will cut off their balls with a bayonet.”
At this, Gritti had to grin. “Tell ‘em that’s just for starters.”
<>
“Runner One-one is fuel critical. I need a tanker now.” Maxwell tried to suppress the urgency in his voice.
“Roger, Runner One-one,” answered the controller in the Hawkeye. “Texaco tanker is on Bravo station. Can you make it to him?”
“Negative. I’ve got six minutes left. Maybe less.” His totalizer was indicating seven hundred pounds. At such a low quantity, the indication could be off by several hundred pounds.
The controller didn’t answer for several seconds. Maxwell knew he was conferring with the tanker pilot and the Air Warfare Commander in the Reagan. Finally the controller came back. “We can’t join you with the tanker in time, Runner One-one. He’s too far from you.”
“Okay, then give me vectors to a runway. Any runway.”
Another long silence. After half a minute the controller said, “Sorry, Runner One-one. Closest suitable would be Sana’a. That’s more than ten minutes flying time.”
Maxwell didn’t argue. Whether or not he could make the Sana’a airport was irrelevant. He knew the United States Navy didn’t want one of its Super Hornets dropping into the capital of the
country they’d just finished attacking.
“Okay, give me a vector to a safe ejection area.”
“Copy, Runner. Take a heading of 110 and climb to ten thousand. We’re alerting the SAR helo now.”
Maxwell felt his stomach churning. Another damned ejection over Yemen. It had to be some kind of record. Using the ejection seat of a jet fighter was, by definition, a violent and dangerous way to exit an airplane. He’d gotten away with it once, and that was as much luck as he deserved.
He nudged the nose of the jet upward and started the turn to the southeast. He mentally reviewed the ejection procedures: SQUAWK EMERGENCY; CABIN PRESSURE RAM/DUMP; SHOULDER HARNESS LOCKED. . .
His thoughts were interrupted by a transmission. “Runner One-one, do you read Boomer?”
It was a new, croaky voice. Maxwell had to think for a second. “Is that you, Gus?”
“Affirmative. I hear that you’re gonna punch out of another government-issue airplane. That’s kind of wasteful, isn’t it?”
“I’m open to suggestions.”
“I’ve got one, Runner. How about a ten thousand foot runway?”
<>
As runways go, it was neither wide—only about seventy-five feet—nor straight. It had a few gentle twists, undulating across the high desert like the path of a snake. The British had constructed the road half a century ago. Al-Fasr had resurfaced it, added gravel, and turned it into a runway for fighters.
“If those MiG jockeys could fly off this road,” said Gritti on the tac frequency, “it should be a piece of cake for you squid tailhookers.”
Against the drab bleakness of the desert, the road was nearly invisible. Not until he was close—lower than two hundred feet above the ground, did he get a clear view of the surface.
It was rough.
Landing a forty million dollar fighter on a surface that you wouldn’t drive a new truck on was an unnatural act. He flared the jet—another unnatural act for a pilot accustomed to slamming down on a carrier—and eased the Hornet’s wheels onto the narrow road.
Scrunch. Scrunch. The landing gear bit into gravel. Maxwell held his breath as the full weight of the jet settled onto the road. For several seconds he remained tense, waiting to see if the road surface would support the twenty-ton F/A-18.
It did. He snatched both throttles to OFF.
Unlike the MiG-29, the F/A-18 was intended for the sterile runways and flight decks of the U. S. Navy. The Hornet’s F414 engines self-destructed at the first whiff of a foreign object in their intakes.
While the engine RPMs slowly wound down, Maxwell steered the Hornet along the gently twisting road. In the eerie quiet outside the cockpit, he could hear the tires crunching through the loose gravel.
Ahead, a Hummer was parked at the roadside. As he brought the fighter to a smooth stop, he opened the canopy.
The cool mountain air swept through the cockpit. His flight suit was soaked with perspiration. He removed his helmet and let the dry wind blow over him.
Before he shut off the switches, he glanced at his Engine/Fuel Display. The totalizer indicated two hundred pounds. Less than two minutes’ worth.
An officer with a dirt-streaked face and disheveled BDUs dismounted from the Hummer and strolled over to the side of the cockpit. “Welcome to Al-Fasr International Airport.”
“Hey, Gus, has anyone told you that you look like shit?”
<>
He followed Gritti into the tin building.
“Look at this,” said Gritti. He was standing in the middle of the large room. An array of electronic devices lined two entire walls. “Radios, scanners, monitors, SatComm—you name it. Enough gear in this room to run a country. The entire complex is networked with computers, all fed by that jumbo server over in the corner.” Gritti shook his head. “Incredible, when you consider that most of the peasants out here have never seen a television.”
He moved from rack to rack, peering at each device. He stopped in front of a black-paneled console. “This is pure gold. You know what it is?”
Maxwell leaned close. “Looks like some kind of disc player.”
“An optical data storage unit. A damn big one. I’ll bet this thing holds more secrets than the Kremlin.” He turned to Hewlitt. “Make sure that sucker leaves with us.”
Gritti checked his watch again. “We have to be airborne by dusk. Let’s check the rest of this joint out.”
They walked through each of the buildings, finding more communications equipment. In the last of the tin-roofed structures, they discovered a bank of file cabinets. “More goodies,” said Gritti. He called for a squad of marines to load the cabinets into one of the Super Stallions.
At the northern end of the complex, six earth-covered mounds rose twenty feet above the ground. A hard-surfaced ramp sloped downward to the entrance of each mound.
Gritti went down the ramp of the first mound and opened the sliding overhead door. A light came on automatically, illuminating a cavernous space beneath the ground. The space was empty.
They walked inside, peering around at the concrete-reinforced walls and ceiling. The interior of the mound was even larger than it appeared from the outside.
“Guess what they kept in here.” Gritti said.
Maxwell nodded. “So this is it.” He looked at the gray-painted tug vehicle in the back of the space, then he walked over to the wall where a collection of hoses and tools was hanging. “The mystery MiG base.”
“It didn’t show up in the TARPS photos you guys took,” said Gritti. “Even the recon satellite missed it.”
Maxwell was shaking his head. “Another intelligence breakdown. They kept telling us the MiGs came from Eritrea or Chad.”
“All Al-Fasr had to do was come roaring out these bunkers, take off on the road, and he was on you like a dirty shirt.”
Maxwell kept looking at the empty bunker. Something kept nagging at him. The MiG base should have been obvious, but it went undetected.
Why?
Chapter Twenty-Five
Spy Catcher
USS Ronald Reagan
Gulf of Aden
1815, Thursday, 20 June
Maxwell counted six destroyers weaving in a criss-cross pattern across the Gulf. A squadron of sub-hunting helicopters was working fore and aft of the Reagan as the carrier cruised eastward into the Arabian Sea. Several miles away, two P-3 Orion patrol planes were skimming the ocean ahead of the battle group.
At the far end of the conference table sat Admiral Fletcher. Next to him sat Captain Stickney, and on the opposite side Spook Morse and Guido Vitale. Colonel Gus Gritti, haggard and shaking from fatigue, had given his account of the campaign, then gone to bed, promising to rejoin them in the morning.
Fletcher looked directly at Maxwell. “What makes you so sure it was Al-Fasr?”
“I’m a fighter pilot. I saw the way he flew, the fact that he was in the lead, the tactics he used.”
“Was there any chance that he could have survived the crash?” asked Fletcher. “Could he have ejected?”
“Not likely,” said Maxwell. “It would have to have happened in a split second before the MiG exploded .”
“I haven’t sen the HUD tape yet,” said Boyce. The Hornet’s cockpit video recorder taped everything the pilot saw through the HUD. “Let’s have a look.”
Maxwell reached into the zippered leg pocket of his flight suit and pulled out a cassette. “It was running the whole time.” He handed the tape to Morse, who inserted in the VCR mounted behind the conference table.
The flickering, grainy image shot through the windscreen of Maxwell’s Hornet appeared on the wall-mounted screen. Morse fast-forwarded the picture until the shape of a MiG-29 flitted into the HUD’s field of view. “That was the first engagement,” said Maxwell. “I took an AIM-9 shot, but he beat it.”
They watched the view change to the narrow walls of the canyon. Maxwell was chasing the MiG through the narrow ravine.
“Jesus,” muttered Boyce. “It looks like
a video game.”
Suddenly the canyon bridge—the eye of the needle—appeared in the HUD. They saw the MiG roll up on its side and vanish through the hole.
The HUD view abruptly tilted sideways, and the eye of the needle zipped past the camera.
Several audible gasps came from around the table. “You’re either crazy as a bedbug,” said Boyce, “or you’re the world’s hottest fighter pilot.”
For the next several seconds, the MiG was gone from the HUD view. When it appeared again, it was in a high scissors, diving again toward the ground.
A SHOOT message appeared in the HUD. “That’s when I took the second AIM-9 shot,” said Maxwell.
The gray smoke trail of a missile could be seen aiming toward the rolling MiG. The missile exploded into the earth just behind the hard-turning MiG-29.
Again the MiG vanished from the screen. Not until several seconds later, after the Hornet had completed a reversal turn, did the terrain reappear. Scattered pockets of smoke and flame marked the crash site of the Fulcrum.
Morse pushed the STOP button. “The impact with the ground was out of the HUD’s field of view,” he said.
None of the officers at the table spoke.
Finally Fletcher rose. “Gentlemen, if the man flying that MiG was Al-Fasr, then this unholy war is over. The Marine unit has finished culling all the intelligence material from the terrorist base and the complex has been destroyed. I will to report to CNO and the Joint Chiefs that our campaign in Yemen is concluded and all our personnel have been extracted. The Reagan has suffered major battle damage and will be heading through the Straits of Hormuz to Bahrain.”
“What about the submarine threat, Admiral?” Boyce asked. “Do you have a fix on him?”
“I wish we did. SUBLANT has tagged the sub—a Project 636 boat named Ilia Mourmetz. The only Kilo class unaccounted for in this part of the world. It was sold to Iran, but it seems that it never arrived.”
“So who’s crewing it?” Boyce asked. “Who put the torpedoes into us?”
“Best guess is the Russian crew that was supposed to be delivering the boat to Iran and who most likely were bought out by Al-Fasr. The Russian government has been very forthcoming with data about the sub and the crew, mainly because they’re terrified that we’ll think they did it.”
