Phoenix Sub Zero mp-3

by Michael Dimercurio

  The numbers on the screen slowly counted down until they reached zero, and with scarcely a sound the EW pod detached from the Firestar’s nose and plummeted to the sea below. Ahmed took one last look at the instrument console and tightened his grip on the control stick.

  * * *

  Joe Galvin glanced over at the Firestar fighter, a nagging feeling that this had been too easy, that the pilot of the UIF jet should be fighting back. A photograph flashed in his mind, the old Newsweek glossy of the Iraqis lined up by the dozens, surrendering to the U.S. Army three days into the Persian Gulf’s ground war. It seemed the propaganda about the Muslims fighting to the death was often rhetoric. In any case the pilot in the Firestar was like the Iraqis, no doubt a scared second lieutenant flying a piece of machinery he could not really understand. When the Firestar landed at the Nicosia airfield, air force technicians would take it apart to the last bolt, analyze every printed circuit, every line of code written in the hard drive of the computer. The pilots would be detained and questioned, then shipped to a POW compound in Sardinia for the rest of the war. For these Muslim pilots the war was about to end — all they had to do was lower the landing gear, put out the flaps, and touch down on the Coalition airfield.

  Galvin’s mind was already envisioning the day of liberty in Nicosia, wondering what the women were like there.

  He looked down into the cockpit to check his altitude for the approach vector to Nicosia, and so did not see the pod dropping from the nose of the Firestar.

  The pod fell away from the Firestar and counted seconds. It had been fed the initial altitude by the Firestar’s computer and was careful not to fall so far that it hit the surface of the ocean before doing its work. Once the Firestar above and ahead was outside the present minimum distance, the relay contacts closed in the controller of the pod. The contacts completed a circuit that engaged the high-voltage output-breaker, an oil-enclosed heavy-duty casing with two contact hammers, each the size of a human fist. The hammers, loaded by high-tension springs, slammed into the bus bars of the high-voltage direct-current circuit, linking the dormant energy of the helium-cooled superconducting coil to the oscillators and the transmitter antennae. The current flowed from the ultrahigh-voltage coil, changed from a DC current to AC in the heavy-duty oscillators, and cascaded to the transmitters, which broadcast the resulting electromagnetic energy out into space.

  The arrangement was simple, the only new element the coil and the ability to store such a huge amount of energy in so small a package, and then to release it all at once to components strong enough to accept it. The pod was no more complicated than a radio transmitter, in fact sharing many of the same submodules, and so similar in function that it could be considered a radio transmitter of a sort. The difference was in its construction — there were no electronics. The workings of the pod were either fiber optics, as in the wiring of the Firestar, or were done with pre-vacuum-tube technology using magamps, large iron cores with copper wire wrapped around primary and secondary transformer ends.

  There were no transistors, no semiconductors, no integrated circuits, no microprocessors, not even any magnetic-tape drives. The pod had no conventional electronics because it was designed as an electronics killer.

  The transmissions emanating into the atmosphere from the overworked transmitters had been seen by people decades before, but until the Yokashiba Company in Japan had manufactured the pod, the effects could have been produced only by a nuclear warhead. The American military called the transmissions EMP for electromagnetic pulse, the sudden wave of E-M power emitted immediately after a violent nuclear explosion. EMP had long been the fear of electronics designers, and for good reason — after an EMP anything using electronics would fail to function. Defenses were considered, research done, equipment given shields said to “harden” the electronics, to protect them from EMP, but in the end nothing could defend the Pentagon’s machinery against an enemy employing several dozen nuclear warheads in high-altitude air bursts. The final defense against EMP had been the Strategic Defense Initiative — Star Wars. SDI’s multibillion price tag had been sold (and bought) as a civilian missile defense, but its true purpose was to guard trillions in Pentagon war machinery from EMP warheads detonated over the skies of the United States, destroying computers, radars, missiles, aircraft, communications, the vital but vulnerable network that linked and moved and protected the country, all the network’s nodes and connections built with silicon electronics.

  The pod’s transmissions continued until the superconducting coil drained its electrical energy, the voltage dropping precipitously until exhausted. The unit shut down and fell into the sea.

  The electromagnetic transmissions left the unit in a spherical wave pattern, traveling at the speed of light, taking the merest fractions of a millisecond to reach the three jets flying above.

  * * *

  Lt. Joe Galvin’s stick trembled for a moment. He looked down at his panel and watched every light and indicator wink out, every needle fall to its powered-down position, some failing at the high peg, some at the low peg, some failing in the position at time of failure. Both jet engines flamed out at the same time. The intercom ceased working, which was why he never heard Giraffe’s exclamation of anger when the radar screen winked out as well as the missile status panel.

  The latest model of the F-14 was built with hightech electronics and there had been attempts to harden the circuitry against EMP pulses, but the designers had, in effect shrugged, knowing hardening circuits meant adding weight.

  The shielding had been penetrated in the first microsecond of the Firestar’s pod’s transmission. As had every electronic module in the jet. Every radar, weapon-control circuit, avionic instrument, radio, and computer. All fried to a crisp after five seconds of the electromagnetic onslaught. The engines, controlled by an onboard computer, their fuel injection regulated by powerful microprocessors, no longer had fuel injection, the chips destroyed. Both spun down, leaving the jet without electrical power — the voltage controllers on the generators gone anyway — and without thrust. The designers had never approved of fly-by-wire technology — the Tomcat’s control surfaces were moved by hydraulics, and the hydraulics were controlled by aircraft-grade cables linked to the hydraulic control valves. So for the first five seconds after the pod transmission, the F-14 Tomcat inhabited by Lt. Joe “Tailback” Galvin and Lt. (jg) Bugene “Giraffe” Fredericks continued to fly, flying deaf and dumb and blind, but flying just the same.

  In the sixth second after the pulse transmission, the jet — now a thirty-five-ton glider — began to oscillate in roll, pitch and yaw. The control surfaces, although actuated by the powerful man-controlled hydraulics, were computer stabilized.

  Without computer intervention in the control surfaces, the F-14 would crash into the sea seconds after catapult launch. True, the computer’s input was minor, but crucial.

  Without it, Galvin’s flying machine began to vibrate, even as he aimed the jet for the sea in a desperate attempt to keep air flowing over the wings now that there was no longer any power.

  Galvin attempted to correct the oscillation, reversing the stick to the right as the jet banked left, then as the overcorrection registered he tried to reverse the bank to the left again. At the same time the nose kept trying to rise and Galvin fought it with steady downforce on the stick. The nose put in its request for attention, the jet swinging to the left, requiring right rudder, then swinging to the right.

  Galvin was tasting a magnum dose of adrenaline; he was young, in shape, highly trained, and the recipient of millions of dollars of flight time. The simulators at Pensacola had flown a simulation of loss of all electronics, not as hairy as this, but even so it was only done so that the students could see how hopeless it would be to stay in the aircraft. Which brought up the so-called Womb Concept in the background of his mind. Just as some televisions could flash up a small box in the corner of the screen, enabling the viewer to watch two television shows at once, Galvin’s mind played
its own sideshow separate from the main track attempting to control the aircraft.

  What the hell had happened to cause such a gross failure of the jet — some kind of missile hit? Couldn’t be, the wings and control surfaces still functioned. And what kind of missile flamed out the engines and turned off the power to the avionics? What to do next? The jet had no power, and no attempt at engine restart would work, not without electrical power or electronics. Besides, an attempt to restart the engines would require Galvin to dive for the deck for maximum velocity to windmill the compressors, and that would just kill them sooner. The standard operating procedure for this casualty was to punch out. The plane was obviously uncontrollable. No recovery was possible, and to try to do a water landing with this oscillating control would be suicidal.

  So what could he be waiting for? Which was when he thought of the Womb Concept, as described by an appropriate lately grizzled Marine Corps flight instructor who had bailed out of three jets and consequently would never be promoted above the rank of major. Boy, the major had drawled, there’s gonna come a time when you’re gonna know your plane’s a goner, and when it comes you’re gonna cling to that stick like a newborn to his mamma’s tit, and do you know why? That aircraft can be falling apart all around you and you’re gonna want to stay in the bitch because inside, no matter how bad it gets, you feel comfortable and safe there. You control things there. Outside, you’re just a passenger, and more likely some shark’s dinner. Inside you’re used to being in charge, out there you’re a victim. And let me tell you, son, more aviators have died because of the Womb Concept than any other reason. The god damned fools know they’ve gotta punch out, the airplane’s a total, but what do they do? They stay in the cockpit because it’s warm and safe, the womb, and outside it’s cold and hard and dangerous. More pilots die from staying in the womb than any other reason, so when your time comes, and it will, just remember: Get the fuck out.

  The major’s lecture seemed to reach something inside. It was either that or he remembered that the hydraulic-control system would be losing pressure any second. Without power to recharge the hydraulic accumulators the hydraulic pressure would eventually decay until Galvin had no control over the aircraft at all and no pushing or pulling on the stick would matter. And with no control, the aircraft would go sideways in the airstream and disintegrate faster than the space shuttle Challenger. As fast as he could, Galvin let go of the stick and pulled the D-ring at his crotch up to his waist and tried to count to twenty — —at this level of adrenaline-induced excitement, counting to twenty might take only two seconds, maybe three, and it would take a full two seconds for the canopy to blow off and the ejection seat to kick in.

  As Galvin waited he wondered whether the ejection mechanism could be knocked out by whatever had paralyzed the jet. Not that it would matter, because if the mechanism stalled or failed, the F-14 would disintegrate within another few seconds anyway.

  A ring of explosive bolts blew the jet’s canopy off, the cockpit suddenly roaring with turbulence. A few heartbeats later Galvin’s seat kicked him in the ass, pushing his seat up the rails to the airflow above. A lanyard attached to the seat bottom pulled a pin in a rocket motor, launching the seat into the slipstream. Galvin’s eyes were shut tight, but if they had been open he would have seen his F-14 dive toward the sea, tumble out of control, her wings shearing off, the cloud of fuel vapor exploding in a puff, the debris from the jet raining down on the sea.

  Galvin tumbled for a moment, his body parting company with the ejection seat. A few moments later his parachute bloomed overhead, the harness tightening over his crotch as the chute inflated. When he opened his eyes, he saw Giraffe’s parachute open a few hundred feet below. Off toward the horizon he saw, then heard the explosion as the second F-14 lost control and crashed into the sea — from the absence of parachutes, Vinny and Sully had obviously succumbed to the Womb Concept. And then he heard something that at first confused, then enraged him. Jet engines. High overhead, a Firestar fighter, the same bastard they’d been escorting to Cyprus, turned and flew off to the west, as if nothing had happened.

  Galvin cursed as the water came up and splashed into his nose as he landed. As he released his parachute, he began to hope he wasn’t bleeding and inviting a shark attack.

  * * *

  Ahmed felt the pod detach; he counted off the seconds waiting for it to release its energy, one eye on his central console.

  For a moment he wondered if the pulse would send the Firestar in a spin to crash into the sea. At that thought the central console blinked out, the display shrinking to the size of a pencil dot, then fading altogether, the dying panel evidence of the death of the onboard computer. Ahmed waited for his aircraft to shut down but the engines purred on, their control circuits still functional. He pulled up slightly on the stick, to see if the control surfaces were still working, and the Firestar began to climb. It was only then that he noticed the Tomcats were no longer with him. He continued climbing, aware that colliding with one of the F-14s would kill him as swiftly as a missile would, and saw the jet that had been his port wingman spiral in a dive toward the sea, vibrating and oscillating as it descended. As he watched, the canopy blew off and two ejection seats flew out. The F-14 banked violently and went broadside into the airflow. The slipstream blew the wings off, broke the plane in half and ignited the fuel in an orange ball of fire that rapidly dispersed in a black cloud. Two parachutes bloomed. Ahmed leveled the jet and flew a circle, trying to find the other F-14. He searched for it, finally seeing it only as a splash and a brief explosion as it crashed into the sea. There was no sign of the pilots of the second jet.

  Ahmed glanced at the sun and turned the aircraft to the west and flew on toward the rendezvous point, hoping the submarine captain had waited for them. He had lost perhaps only five minutes, but sea captains were an impatient lot, an independent lot, and sometimes resented or even ignored their orders.

  The computer systems were no longer functional, now that the console screen had died — —that had remained electronic, and so had perished, but the navigation backup system remained up. It was an old-fashioned set of numbers engraved on plastic wheels and rotated by the nav backup system’s calculator from inputs from the geosynchronous navigation satellite over the Mediterranean. By the display readout on the console there was not much more to go to get to the rendezvous point.

  Soon he could see the tall fin of the submarine Hegira, the ship stopped, waiting for them. Ahmed circled the ship, now at only a few hundred meters altitude, then climbed into the sky in preparation to abandon the Firestar.

  “Khalib? Are you awake?”

  “I am …” Sihoud sounded drugged, barely conscious.

  Perhaps that was better, Ahmed thought. He had worried that the trauma of ejecting from the Firestar would be too much for the general, but there was nothing else to do.

  Ahmed climbed, uncertain of his altitude, flying the aircraft by the seat of his pants now that the computer was gone. He throttled the jet down, losing his forward speed. He had to get the aircraft to be just at stall-point before ejection to lessen the force of the slipstream.

  “General, in a few moments we will be ejecting. If you can, try to keep your elbows tucked in tight to your chest and your feet on the footrest. I’ll be ejecting the seat for you. All you have to do is ride the parachute down.”

  There was no answer. Ahmed’s mouth felt coppery and his flightsuit felt wet with his sweat. He could not help thinking again that this was a bad idea … the ejection could easily kill the general. He needed immediate medical attention and floating for an hour in the Mediterranean was not a way to get it. Ahmed knew he was out of options— — then pulled the stick steadily back while reaching for the canopy manual-release handle. He rotated the red handle to the arm position, then all the way to the release position. Thirty explosive bolts fired and the canopy vanished, the cold air of the slipstream blasting into the cockpit, threatening to knock off their oxygen masks and flight helmets.
The violence of it smashed Ahmed’s helmet against the headrest several times, reminding him to get on with the eject sequence before they were both beaten into comas. Ahmed throttled the engines down to idle and pulled the stick all the way back to his crotch. The jet inclined upward, the forward airspeed decaying. The stick trembled as the jet protested the lack of lift on the wings. At the moment of complete wing-stall, the jet’s kinetic energy at a minimum, Ahmed lifted the protective cover off the switch marked rear seat eject and popped the toggle switch past its detent, then inward at a right angle.

  Behind him Sihoud’s ejection-seat rocket motor ignited, spraying Ahmed with heat and flames as the general flew out into the atmosphere. The jet then stalled completely, its nose diving for the sea. Ahmed held on long enough to get the aircraft out of the way of Sihoud’s descent, then armed the switch between his legs for his own ejection seat. Just before hitting the switch he keyed the jet’s turbines to full thrust and felt the acceleration for a moment, then released the stick and snapped the ejection switch.

  It happened so fast that Ahmed’s senses were overwhelmed. His spine shuddered as the ejection seat blasted into his posterior, the downward g-forces threatening to black him out. The airflow smashed into him, carrying away his oxygen mask and ripping his thigh pad off his flightsuit.

  The world tumbled around him in a vicious spiral, leaving Ahmed feeling like he was being bounced down a blue tunnel. Finally the turbulence ended, leaving only the wind of free fall. The seat parachute deployed, jerking Ahmed upward. He looked for Sihoud’s parachute but couldn’t find it.

  He floated down toward the water.

  The end of the ride came, the inviting blue water soaking him. He cut away the seat and found the parcel strapped into the seat cushion and pulled it free, then released the pin. The parcel blew up into an inflated raft, big enough for two men, a small compartment of rations and water tucked into one section of it. When the raft steadied, Ahmed climbed into it and began his search for General Sihoud and the submarine.