by Joe Nobody
Unless enemy ground forces approached the Texans on the ground, the major would keep his Strike Eagle out of the fray.
Occasionally, some lost civilian would approach friendly lines, or a group of enemy fighters would threaten the airborne brigades holding the dams. During those limited incidents, Hoffer’s comrades would streak overhead, ready to pounce on any attack.
So far, not a single bomb had been dropped. Not a single enemy had been engaged from the air.
So they patrolled, logging hours and trying to keep their skills and senses sharp. On every sortie, Hoffer would request permission for a low flyover along the Texas positions. Frightened, young men on foreign soil seemed to take a measure of pride when the “fast movers” roared over their lines.
A voice sounded in Hoffer’s ear, a tone he recognized immediately as the air traffic controller orbiting several miles away in a high-flying AWAC’s (Airborne Early Warning and Control) aircraft.
“Gunslinger-1, this is Alamo-3. We have two, repeat two bogies approximately 110 miles north of your position and moving south at 450 knots.”
Bogies? Odd, thought Hoffer. That would mean the approaching aircraft weren’t flashing friend or foe transponders. They have to be from the Turkish Air Force, but why would they be bogies?
The major keyed his mic, “Roger that, Alamo-3. Can you give me a vector?”
“Negative at this time, Gunslinger. They appear to be Turkish F16s, but they’re running low and hard through the mountains. Reduce altitude to angels (altitude) 12,000 and go to 0015 degrees for a proximity intercept.”
Again, Hoffer was puzzled by the situation. The flying radar in Alamo-3 had detected the activity on the other side of the border, but couldn’t follow the incoming planes well enough to guide Hoffer and his wingman to precisely the right point. That meant the unidentified aircraft were running through mountain passes and valleys, executing lots of turns, and moving very fast. Dangerous flying. So risky in fact, Hoffer doubted for a minute that the bogies were from the Turkish Air Force.
The major had trained with the Turks, as well as most other NATO forces. He’d probably met half of their pilots. They were a disciplined, risk-averse, professional organization. Valley flying at 450 knots would never be approved for a training exercise, no matter how high tensions were along the border. The fact that they were flying “dark,” without broadcasting a transponder code, made him seriously question their identity.
Were the Iranians getting frisky? Had a couple of Iraqi pilots gone off the reservation?
Before he could ponder those possibilities, everything changed. “Gunslinger-1, Alamo-3. Bogies have changed course and speed. Now bearing 185… 700 knots. Angels 8,000 and climbing rapidly.”
“Oh shit,” the major whispered, plotting imaginary flight paths in his head. “They’ve gone supersonic and are heading right for Alamo-3.”
It was a standard NATO tactic. The high altitude Alamo-3 was the eyes and ears of the Texas forces, at least as far as the air space over their deployments. Without the Navy AWACs orbiting above, they would be nearly blind.
The major was already executing a turn before the nervous voice of the controller sounded in his ear. “Bogies are lite. Repeat, bogies have illuminated.”
Now Hoffer was beginning to sweat. The unidentified aircraft was soaring toward the unarmed, slow-moving Alamo-3 and had just turned on radar – a move usually executed right before firing air-to-air missiles.
“Increasing speed to 1,100,” Hoffer said, more to the captain on his wing than the controller. “Alamo-3, I recommend you get the hell out of there.”
“We are,” came the controller’s voice. “Changing course to two nine zero, increasing speed to 310. That’s as fast as this two-fan trash can will rumble.”
They’re heading out to sea, Hoffer realized. Heading back to their carrier. It’s not going to be enough.
The F-15’s huge turbofans pushed the major back in his seat as the aircraft accelerated past Mach 1 and continued climbing. Hoffer kept calculating the vectors, relative speeds, and ranges in his head. The Gunslingers could get there, but just barely.
If these were Turkish F16s, then they could be carrying medium-range missiles. That meant an optimum firing distance of about 25 nautical miles. Large, lumbering, and unable to maneuver, the propeller-driven Alamo-3 wouldn’t have a chance.
“Gunslinger, be advised…. Regulators 4, 5, 6, and 7 are scrambling. Will vector our position.”
Hoffer managed a slight grin. The Ronald Regan, streaming 150 miles off the coast, was launching a flight of four F18E interceptors. They wouldn’t arrive in time to help with the current situation, but it was always good to know help was on the way.
A minute later, the controller sounded again, “Gunslinger, be advised Black Hats 2 and 3 are scrambling. On your station in 40.”
Were it not for the substantial oxygen mask covering his face, Hoffer would have whistled. The Black Hats were the Texas Air Force’s squadron of F-22 Raptors, the most advanced fighter aircraft in the world and a unit that the major hoped to join on his next cycle. Someone on the ground was taking the situation seriously.
But none of the reinforcements would arrive before the current encounter was over, one way or the other. “They’re just testing us,” Hoffer whispered. “They’re just seeing how we’ll react.”
“All stations, all stations, unidentified bogies just crossed into Syrian airspace. Profile unchanged.”
Damn it, Hoffer thought. If they’ve crossed into Syria, that means they’re in our no-fly zone. Not good. Somebody is playing one dangerous-ass game.
The Eagle driver wasn’t the only one who realized the significance of the crossing. This time a different voice sounded through his speakers. “Unidentified aircraft, unidentified aircraft, you have entered a declared, military no-fly zone, restricted by the Republic of Texas. Please leave the area immediately or you will be fired upon.”
The restricted airspace being cited by Alamo-3 was a controversial point of international aviation law. Technically, the air above Syrian belonged to that sovereign nation. In a declared war, an invading military often exercised the right to control the area above and around its forces – if they could.
Texas hadn’t declared war on Syria.
As if on cue, a new voice crossed the airwaves. “We do not recognize your restricted airspace,” a heavily accented, harsh responder announced. “Do not interfere with our operations, or you will be fired upon.”
And then things got worse. Much worse.
“All stations, all stations,” the controller’s voice rallied. “Be advised Alamo-3 is now tracking eight, repeat eight bogies 280 miles north of zone H, bearing 185, speed 410 knots, angels 6,000 and climbing.”
“Holy shit,” the major whispered. It was clear to all involved that somebody was playing some serious hardball this morning. Eight more planes, heading directly at the 7th Cav’s headquarters zone. Without the Gunslinger’s protection, the ground troops were at the mercy of the incoming aircraft. A formation that large could do a lot of damage.
The Texas commanders were now faced with a critical, hand-wringing decision. Did the two Eagles stay and protect Alamo-3, or change course and try to intervene against the flight now heading toward the ground troops?
Hoffer had to admit that whoever was controlling the harassing forces was good. Damned good. In reality, neither move by the Texas airmen was a no-brainer. Someone on the ground in Turkey had timed it all perfectly. Hoffer and his wingman were right between the devil and the deep blue sea. It was unlikely he could reach either position in time.
The equation of time, distance, and speed made up the Texas commander’s mind. “Gunslinger, remain current course and speed. Profile escort for Alamo-3.”
The Army wasn’t going to like being left unprotected, Hoffer realized. Not one bit. He hoped someone was warning the ground forces to take cover… deep cover.
But the decision was logical, based on the facts,
rather than any notion of the “fly boys” protecting their own and sacrificing the boots on the ground. Some computer had determined that the Gunslinger flight couldn’t make it back in time to help the troops. The major did have a small chance of protecting Alamo-3.
Hoffer began scanning the sky, looking for the incoming bogies. His radar was still off, an effort to avoid detection until the last possible moment.
And there they were, the morning sun glinting off of the incoming warbirds’ canopies. “On me,” the major ordered his wingman. “Breaking right.”
The F15 was the most successful interceptor ever created. Fast, maneuverable, and sporting an impressive array of offensive capabilities, its ratio of air-to-air kills versus losses was unmatched in aviation history.
Only the F22 Raptor was a threat to the 30-year old aircraft, and Hoffer was sure Turkey didn’t have any of those.
In they roared, the two Gunslinger Eagles coming up and from behind the pair of Turkish warplanes pursuing Alamo-3. Hoffer had a little surprise in store for his former NATO allies.
Just as the two Texas craft were closing, the Turks upped the ante. Warning receivers and lights flashed in Hoffer’s displays, the signals indicating the hostile F16s had gone hot on their air-to-air missiles, turning on the warhead’s seekers. Hoffer’s heart began to race.
It was a bold, unmistakable move, akin to one man drawing a pistol and pointing it at another. There was no taking it back if one of the missiles launched, just as there was no retrieving a bullet when it sped from a gun’s barrel. The crew of Alamo-3 would die.
The major found himself in what some instructors called “the bystander’s dilemma.” He was watching one man point a gun at another – did he shoot to save the victim? Did he kill the armed man, even though he hadn’t harmed anyone – yet?
Hoffer did what many policemen do when faced with the same decision. He warned the shooter.
“Going hot,” he cautioned as the two Eagles came up tight on the Turkish warplanes. With a flick of a switch, the major energized his radar as well as his own remarkable assortment of weapons. It was the equivalent of pointing his own gun and saying, “Drop your weapon, or I’ll shoot.”
It was easy for Hoffer to imagine the bedlam that bolted through the Turkish cockpits. Out of nowhere, there were two enemy aircraft on their tails, lighting up every warning indicator on their panels. Buzzers, klaxons, beepers, and all sorts of lights would be flashing.
One of the two NATO pilots panicked, pulling back on his stick while trying to turn away. It was a completely unexpected, rookie move that took the hard charging Hoffer by surprise.
He’d intended to fly past the two Turkish F16s. Close, but with enough distance to avoid a collision. When the NATO pilot panicked, the major’s windscreen was suddenly filled with the huge image of a turning fighter. Hoffer pulled hard, yanking his stick with cat-like reflexes, but their closing speed was too great, the gap too small.
The two warplanes clipped wings, large sections of the control surface, skin, and internal wiring shredded by the force of the impact.
Hoffer was jerked hard, his neck nearly broken by the weight of his helmet as he was pushed against his restraints by the G-force. Now it was his cockpit that was screaming for mercy, alarms sounding their warning for every system aboard the doomed aircraft.
The major’s first thought was to salvage his ride. He’d never lost a plane, wasn’t about to start. But it became apparent in seconds that his Eagle was going down. With a determined grunt, he pulled the ejection handle.
Under the pilot’s seat, several powerful rocket motors ignited just as explosive bolts blew the canopy free. Hoffer’s spine was condensed nearly a quarter-inch as he was jettisoned from the wounded bird.
His mind worked at the hypersonic speed demanded to survive. The blast of icy air penetrated his padded flight suit in moments. Everything was spinning, the rushing heavens roaring in his ears, his stomach threatening to fill his mask with acid and bile. For a brief second, the major thought his chute had failed as the horizon swirled around and around through his visor.
Then, a solid thud, another painful lurch, and the view outside of his visor righted itself. Now it was the dead calm of the desert morning that consumed the major’s thoughts as his brain worked to reset his tortured senses.
Movement drew Hoffer’s attention from the earth between his dangling feet. Turning his head, it was with genuine relief that he noted the Turkish pilot’s chute open just to the east.
On the ground below, an ISIS regional commander had been watching the ballet in the sky with keen interest. Through a pair of quality German binoculars captured from a Syrian officer, he’d been following the action above, wondering what in Allah’s name the Texas Air Force was doing.
When he spotted the two white parachutes falling toward his position, he turned to his men and screamed, “God is great! God is great! Get the rest of our brothers and the vehicles. Allah is delivering a grand prize from heaven.”
News of the incident in the Syrian sky spread like wildfire, every significant capital city on the globe turning its attention to the situation along the Turkish border. Two nuclear powers had just bumped heads, and neither appeared ready to back down.
The Turks screamed for NATO support. Texas had attacked her for the second time, and the madmen in Austin couldn’t be allowed to proceed unchecked.
Texas, on the other hand, claimed that her forces had been the victim of Turkish aggression. At a press conference in Austin, one of the commanding generals pointed out a long history of Turkey’s benevolence toward ISIS, and detailed several instances where the Muslin nation had rebuffed Western governments.
President Clifton rubbed her eyes before scanning the faces gathered around the White House’s situation room. She’d just retired for the evening when her chief of staff had barged into her quarters.
“Turkey is yammering for NATO to live up to the treaty and all members to come to her defense, Madam President,” began the general. “Technically, we must oblige, although the scope of our response isn’t as clearly defined.”
“I take it you don’t agree with our siding with Ankara, General?” the chief executive asked.
“No ma’am, I do not. It’s unclear at this time who provoked whom. I can say that there shouldn’t have been any Turkish planes in that area. If I had been commanding the Texas forces, I would have probably responded in exactly the same way.”
President Clifton considered her advisor’s words, weighing the situation against the long list of issues surrounding the Republic of Texas.
The Secretary of State used the pause to chime in. “Texas is causing all kinds of upheaval in the Middle East, Madam President. The Republic’s relationship with Israel has emboldened the Jewish state to the point that their ambassador instructed me to… and pardon the language… “Go fuck myself,” just two days ago. Egypt and Jordan are wondering who’s going to be peddling influence from here on out. The Saudis are thrilled to see someone other than them finally taking action against ISIS… even if it’s the wrong action.”
“We knew something like this would happen,” added the chief of staff. “The math was pretty straightforward. You don’t go rolling into the Middle East with 40,000 troops and not understand that there will be unexpected consequences.”
Mrs. Clifton let them all voice their opinions, but in reality, her thoughts were heading in a different direction.
The economic impact of the secession had rocked the United States. Revenue contributing to the treasury was down while the government’s spending was relatively unchanged. Large corporations from all over the globe had adopted a wait and see attitude when it came to investment, hiring, and finalizing where new office buildings, factories, and outlets were to be based. The tariff wars were taking a toll on both sides of the new border.
Her single payer healthcare bill was tied up in congress, not due to a lack of votes, but because some democrats were afraid of the projected cos
t. The same could be said of many of her initiatives.
Now, with a crisis brewing on the world stage, she realized the actual depth of the secession mistake. The U.S. needed Texas, and the new Republic obviously wasn’t mature enough for self-government. Texas needed to be a state.
Like a bolt of thought-lightning, it occurred to the Commander in Chief that the two nations needed to rejoin. It wasn’t the first time she’d experienced such reasoning, but what was different now involved the situation in Turkey. It opened a door, and she was determined to walk right through.
Turning to the general, she asked, “What are our options? What would satisfy the NATO allies, and at the same time scare our friends in Austin back to a position of reason and maturity?”
“I’m not sure what you mean, ma’am. Are you saying you want us to take direct military action against Texas?”
“No, of course not. But perhaps a little tit-for-tat isn’t beyond the realm of reality. Texas has deployed 40,000 troops along one of our ally’s borders. What if we were to do the same in kind? How would Austin react if we stationed a similar-sized force along the Oklahoma-Texas line?”
The room erupted, everyone trying to speak at once. Heidi let it go for almost two minutes before raising her hand to halt the debate. “I’ve seen reports of all kinds of cross-border activity, people illegally driving over the line and purchasing everything from tobacco to gasoline illegally. Why shouldn’t we do the same to protect our own border? Good for the goose, good for the gander.”
The room remained silent this time, all present understanding that the president had already made up her mind. Turning to the general, she demanded, “Make it happen. Put enough forces along Texas’s border to make Austin wonder if we’re going to invade in the defense of Turkey.”
Before anyone could react, she turned to the press secretary and directed, “Call the news outlets. I’m going to go before the American people and reaffirm our allegiance to NATO and the international community.”
