by Dale Brown
"I can do that myself after I get out-"
'There's no time, Jadallah! You can't use a cell phone to call the banks, and if the Americans take down all the communications facilities, we'll be stuck. If I get your account numbers and pass codes, I can transfer funds right now." Zuwayy hesitated. Another explosion shook the walls and sent dust sprinkling down on their heads. "For God's sake, Jadallah, we're running out of time! Their next action will be to cut off all communications!" Hijazi handed him a pen and a pad of paper. "Hurry, Jadallah! It could be our only chance."
To the two henchmen's immense relief, Zuwayy scribbled something down on the pad, then handed it back to Hijazi. Hijazi tried to read his writing-it was all numbers. "What is this, Jadallah?" he asked.
"The combination to my safe upstairs in my bedroom," Zuwayy replied. "Do you think I've memorized all those bank account numbers and passwords? The numbers are locked in the safe."
"And you didn't think of taking it with you before you ran off, Jadallah?" Hijazi asked incredulously. +
"Go get it," Fazani told him. "I'll call in the rocket attack. Jadallah, get going-we'll be right behind you." Zuwayy needed no more prompting to get out. Hijazi gulped fearfully but returned the way they had come.
There were only two words that could describe the performance of the Russian missiles that were loaded onto the lead EB-52 Megafortress-and those words were "dead weight."
"Another alignment failure message, dammit!" Kenneth "KK" Kowalski, the mission commander aboard the lead EB-52 Megafortress, cursed. "That's the fifth failure!" He was trying to fire one of the Kh-15 inertially guided missiles from the aft bomb bay; but like one of the Kh-27 antiradar missiles and three of the other Kh-15 missiles he tried to launch, this latest one failed as well. "I'll power it down and bring it back up and see if it'll realign."
"Good thing the Libyans can't seem to shoot straight," the aircraft commander, Randall "Fangs" Harper, commented. "Otherwise we'd be Swiss cheese by now." They had successfully fired two Kh-27 missiles at Libyan surface-to-air missile sites; one site was apparently destroyed, and the other shut down before the missile hit and never came back on the air again. Out of six attempts to launch Kh-15 attack missiles from the aft bomb bay, only two were successful, and of the four unsuccessful launches, they had to emergency-jettison two of them because their internal chemical batteries had overheated and threatened to blow the missiles-and the Megafortressup with them. They had to stay at high altitude, above thirty thousand feet, to stay out of range of antiaircraft artillery and short-range antiaircraft missiles-the Libyans even still used searchlights to try and find the bombers.
Their mission was pretty much a bust, thanks to the unreliable Russian standoff weapons-except for the FlightHawk unmanned combat aircraft. Although they were not armed, they still had enough gadgetry and magic in them to affect the outcome of this mission.
"Coming up on the release point, sixty seconds… now," Kowalski announced. "Both birds are in the green and ready."
"It's about time something we're carrying works," Harper mused.
At the planned launch point, Kowalski launched both FlightHawks within two minutes of each other. Their thirty-minute flights would take them on a zigzag track within ten miles either side of an ingress corridor they had planned for the second EB-52 Megafortress. The cruise missiles descended to fifteen thousand feet aboveground, powering up their turbofan engines and unfolding their wings as they fell from altitude.
The FlightHawks were small and stealthy enough that they were almost invisible to Libyan search radars. At irregular intervals along their flight, however, they would suddenly begin sending out bursts of radar and radio energy and deploying small radar reflectors that would instantly make them appear on radar as if they were the size of Boeing 747s. When the Libyan air defense radars popped on, the FlightHawks would instantly plot their position and type of system, transmit the enemy threat locations to the Megafortresses, then deactivate the reflectors and emissions to virtually disappear from radar. In just a few minutes, the FlightHawks had flushed out almost a dozen new antiaircraft threats. The tactic worked great…
… until both FlightHawks were shot down within seconds of each other, one by random, sweeping bursts of antiaircraft artillery fire, the other by a MiG-23 fighter with a radar-guided missile that had just showed up over the capital on air defense patrol.
"Zero, this is Fangs," Harper radioed. "Be advised, we've got bandits in the area." He stole a glance at Kowalski's supercockpit display, which showed the entire battlefield area, along with their wingman and the inbound infantrymen, in a "God's-eye" view. "Closest one is at your twelve o'clock, twenty miles, high. He got one of our 'Hawks." <
"Copy, Fangs," George "Zero" Tanaka, the aircraft commander of the second Megafortress battleship, replied. "We've got him. What's your status?"
"We've got a bellyful of duds now," Kowalski replied. "I'm going to try inflight-aligning them to see if we can't lob a few more in, but I have a feeling we're done for the day. We'll stand by at waypoint Lima in case you need any assistance."
"Roger," Tanaka said. To his mission commander, Greg "Gonzo" Wickland, he said, "Better check those Russian antiradar missiles-they're likely to dud on us too."
"They're looking pretty good right now," Wickland responded. He had reluctantly agreed to go with Tanaka on this mission-the possibility that his friend and mentor, Wendy Tork McLanahan, might still be alive down there in the heart of Libya changed his mind about being afraid of dying during a secret mission in the EB-52. "Our first launch point is a pop-up target at two o'clock, twenty-eight miles, an SA-10 SAM site. I'll start the-"
But as Wickland watched the supercockpit display, he saw the icon representing the Libyan MiG-23 fighter turn toward them, and the green cone that represented his radar beam sweep in their direction. "Shit, that MiG is heading our way," Wickland interrupted himself. "Step it down to five hundred feet and accelerate."
"Set clearance plane five hundred, hard ride, and set four-eight-zero knots true," Tanaka ordered the flight control computer. He carefully monitored the aircraft as the throttles advanced themselves and the terrain-following computer reset the height above ground the autopilot would continue to fly the bomber.
"He's still coming around," Wickland said. The radar cone had changed from green to yellow-now the fighter had an azimuth-only lock-on. "He's got us. Deploy towed array." Behind them, one of the tiny towed array antennas unreeled itself in the bomber's slipstream. "He's still up pretty high. Give me thirty left-let's see if he follows us." Sure enough, the fighter turned left with the Megafortress, but his range did not increase. Every now and then the radar cone depiction on the supercockpit display flashed red-that meant the fighter's radar switched into range mode, the last measurement needed before missile launch-but it never stayed on very long. "He's hanging out there at eleven miles, matching our airspeed, and just hitting us with his ranging radar long enough to keep up," Wickland said. "He's not letting our trackbreakers get a chance to wipe out his picture."
"Waiting for instructions?" Tanaka asked.
"Give me forty right, nice shallow bank," Wickland said. "Let's see how aggressive he is."
But I have a target! I have another unknown aircraft at my twelve o'clock, seventeen kilometers, very low!" the pilot of the Libyan MiG-23 shouted.
"Hibr flight, you are ordered to return to patrol altitude and proceed north to intercept inbound aircraft!" the ground radar controller shouted again. "And you do not have permission to open fire!"
The Libyan pilot whipped off his oxygen mask in frustration. "I tell you, Control, there are numerous enemy aircraft out here!" he shouted again. "I am tracking one now, and there were one, maybe two others up here as well. I think Tripoli is under attack from the south!"
"You are ordered to proceed immediately to point Amm and intercept and identify unknown aircraft inbound toward the capital!" the ground controller said. "Backup aircraft are being prepared now. Proceed
immediately!"
The MiG-23 pilot had no choice. No ground radars had picked up these low-flying bandits. Aircraft north of the city could mean anything-inbound passenger airliners, cargo planes, anything but an attacker. Low-flying unidentified aircraft weaving and jinking around south of the city could mean only one thing: enemy aircraft. But the controller was telling him to chase the target he could see. He was an idiot-but he had complete authority, too.
He angrily jammed his throttles forward and yanked the stick hard right, zooming northward. He didn't e?en think of his wingman, trailing to his right and slightly higher-
he hoped he was paying attention and didn't get fined as his leader cut right in front of him.
It took only four minutes for the pair of MiG-23s to reach the intercept anchor point. "Hibr flight, proceed on heading three-zero-zero. Your bogey will be at your twelve o'clock, range fifty K, descending through four thousand meters."
"Acknowledged, Control," the pilot said. "How about sending some fighters up to track down the bogeys I found near Kadra?" No response from the controller-he couldn't see any targets down south of the city, so he wasn't going to send any planes there.
"Hibr flight, bogey at your twelve o'clock, forty-five K, still descending, now through three point five K meters. Report when tied on."
The MiG-23 flight leader activated his intercept radar and found the aircraft almost instantly-it was a solid radar lock-on, not weak and intermittent like the other one. "Hibr flight has a bogey at my twelve o'clock, forty-two K meters range, three point zero K meters altitude." He keyed two switches on the instrument panel near the throttle that sent out coded interrogation signals. "Negative mode two, mode C, and mode four IFF."
"That's your bandit, Hibr flight."
The target was in a shallow descent, heading right for Tripoli at close to six hundred kilometers per hour. Every now and then it would make a sudden move-a sharper descent, a fast turn one direction or the other, and at one time it even appeared to be doing a one-eighty. Large bombers needed to transfer alignment maneuvers for inertially guided air-launched weapons-maybe that's what this aircraft was doing. But one thing was for sure: It was definitely heading for Tripoli, and it was unidentified.
The rules said shoot it down.
"Hibr two, take tactical spacing," the leader called to his wingman.
"Acknowledged."
The lead MiG-23 pilot flew above and past the target, then started a rapid left descending turn that quickly brought him right on the bandit's right rear quarter. The aircraft had no exterior lights whatsoever, and no lights were visible on the side of the fuselage either-definitely not an airliner. He moved in close enough so he could clearly see the outline of the plane against the growing brightness of the horizon as Tripoli came closer and closer; then he turned on his identification spotlight.
"Control, Hibr flight has visual identification," the leader radioed. "Bandit is a DC-10 aircraft. It has a U.S. registration number, N-three-oh-three Sierra Mike. I see no weapons or any unusual protrusions or devices. The aircraft is completely dark, and… Stand by, Control." The pilot slid forward, letting the searchlight shine in the copilot's side of the cockpit. "Control, it appears the bandit's right cockpit sliding window is open, and there appears to be smoke trailing out from the window, repeat, the bandit seems to be venting smoke from his cockpit. Smoke is also trailing from what appears to be an open cockpit escape hatch. There are only flashlight beams in the cockpit-no lights whatsoever. This aircraft may be having an inflight emergency. If he has shut off all aircraft power, that could be the reason why he has not responded to us and why he has no lights on."
"Hibr flight, be advised, Suf flight of four and Kheyma flight of two are joining on you, ETE three minutes."
"Control, I don't need any more fighters up here," the leader said perturbedly. "This is a commercial aircraft with what appears to be an inflight emergency. He's not a combat aircraft. I think I can get him turned away from the coast myself-I don't need six more fighters in the area. Have those extra planes go look for the bogeys I found south of Tripoli." But his suggestion went unheeded.
Within minutes there were three different kinds of jets buzzing around the stricken American-registered cargo plane: Hibr flight of two MiG-23s, Suf flight of four MiG-29s, and Kheyma flight of two MiG-25s. The problem was, no one could decide exactly what to do about this intruder. He was obviously a noncombatant, and he was obviously in trouble. They tried light signals, but it wasn't clear if their searchlights were penetrating the smoke in the cockpit. They couldn't see inside, and it was obvious no one in the cockpit could see out.
Finally the MiG-23 flight leader switched his number two radio to the international UHF emergency frequency: "Unidentified American cargo plane, this is Hibr flight of two of the United Kingdom of Libya Royal Air Force. You are in restricted airspace and in violation of Libyan law. You are ordered to reverse course immediately. I say again, reverse course immediately or you will be attacked."
There was no answer. The flight leader repeated the message on the VHF GUARD emergency frequency; still no response. He was about to switch back to his controller's frequency to request permission to open fire when he heard a scratchy, frightened voice say, "I hear you, Libyan fighters! I hear you! This is November three-ohthree Sierra Mike on VHF GUARD channel. I am on a handheld emergency radio. Mayday, mayday, mayday, can you hear me, Libyan air force?"
"I can hear you, Three Sierra Mike," the flight leader replied. "You must reverse course immediately! In ten kilometers you will enter restricted Libyan airspace, and we will attack. Reverse course immediately! Acknowledge!"
"This is Three Sierra Mike, we have a catastrophic fire in the cockpit and we were forced to evacuate the cockpit. The aircraft is on autopilot, and we are trying to put the fire out. As soon as we put the fire out we can retake control of the plane. Don't shoot! We are a cargo plane. We're carrying relief supplies bound for Khartoum, Sudan, on an international flight plan. We have twenty-two relief workers on board plus a crew of five. Give us time to get the fire out. Over."
"Three Sierra Mike, you are flying into restricted Libyan airspace during a time of severe emergency flight restrictions," the flight leader said. "This is a wartime situation. If you do not reverse course in two minutes, I will have no choice but to open fire. You must do everything you can to reverse course or at least stay out over the Gulf of Sidra. I will be forced to open fire if you do not comply."
"Please, for God's sake, don't shoot!" the pilot cried. "We'll have control of our plane in less than two minutes! Please, stand by!"
"Think he's for real, lead?" the wingman radioed.
"I know I'd have a tough time if my cockpit was filled with smoke like that," the flight leader said. "We'll wait until he crosses the twenty-kilometer mark, then open fire if he doesn't turn away."
It seemed to take forever-the big American plane was definitely slowing down. The other Libyan fighters circled, jockeyed around, and generally tried their best to fly nightstaggered formation with the crippled American plane. No one departed-all the pilots wanted to watch when Hibr lead fired his missile and brought the big plane down.
Tripoli Air Defense Control confirmed the orders moments later: shoot to kill if the plane crosses the twenty-kilometer ring.
"Three Sierra Mike, this is Hibr flight, you are ordered to turn away now," the flight leader radioed. "I am ordered to shoot you down if you do not comply. This is your last warning." He then angled upward, clearing the DC-10's powerful wake, and started to maneuver behind the big plane. The lights of Tripoli were brilliant, filling the horizon below-he was afraid that maybe he was too late, that twenty kilometers was still too close. Even if the plane was hit, could it still glide on fire and hit the city?
At that moment, the smoke stopped streaming out of the DC-10's cockpit, and the big plane started a slow ten-degree bank turn to the left. It took almost ninety seconds, but finally the big plane was heading away from Tripoli. It
was just thirty seconds-about three kilometers-away from the flight leader pressing the button on his control stick that would send the DC-10 crashing to earth.
"Too bad, Hibr flight," one of the other pilots radioed. "We thought you'd finally get a chance to hit something this time."
It wasn't funny, the lead pilot thought-he was sure that this was nothing but a feint for an attack from the south. This plane had managed to draw off nearly all of Libya's alert fighter patrols away from the capital. Something was not right here….
"I Kheyma flights, this is Hibr lead. I'm getting close to bingo fuel," the flight leader radioed. "Hibr flight is going to depart the formation and head to base. Escort this bastard out of our airspace."
"You got it," one of the other pilots said. "Suf flight has the lead. We'll stay in formation with the American until he's well away." The leader of the flight of two MiG-23s descended to five hundred meters below the American cargo plane, then turned south; a few moments later, his wingman was in loose fingertip formation.
"Hibr flight, this is Control. Understand you are declaring bingo fuel at this time."
"Negative, Control," the flight leader said. "We're twenty minutes from bingo. I want vectors to the last position of those unidentified radar contacts south of Tripoli."
Cut it kind of close, didn't you?" the DC-10's flight engineer asked as he removed his emergency firefighting mask. He collected the empty casings of the smoke signal flares he had been shooting out the window and put them in an empty canvas survival bag. "That fighter departed to get behind us to shoot our asses down, didn't he?"
The pilot of the DC-10 rechecked that the pressurization system was indeed pumping the cabin back up and that his side storm window was securely closed. "It wasn't enough time," he said. "Our guys needed another five minutes."
"Maybe we can turn back in-keep the fighters around for a little while longer?"
"I think we used up all our lucky charms on that last stunt," the pilot said. "Those Libyan bastards could've pulled the trigger just to see what color the fire would've been as we plummeted to earth-we're not going to risk twisting the tiger's tail again. It's the bomber's turn nowwe did our job." He switched to the command channel and spoke: "Headbangers, this is Three Sierra Mike, we've made our turn northbound. We kept eight bandits with us as long as we could. Good luck."
