by Dale Brown
“I don’t see any nacelles—it’s not a passenger aircraft,” Patrick said. As it got closer he could make out more detail: a small twin-engine bizjet, but with three pods underneath each wing and a pod under the belly. “Definitely not civilian,” he said. “Lock onto anything you can, Jon, and fire as soon as you’re…”
Before he could finish, suddenly the Turkish aircraft turned hard left and started a fast climb—and its turn rate was not that of a large passenger-size aircraft like a Gulfstream. At this close range, with its full profile showing on the laser radar image, its identity was unmistakable: “Oh, crap, it’s an F-4 Phantom fighter!” Boomer shouted. “An F-4 with jamming capability? No wonder they didn’t bring escorts—he can probably escort himself.”
“Hit it, Jon,” Patrick shouted, “and get the Loser out of there! The Phantom’s bound to have defensive armament!”
“Hit it, Boomer!” Jon said, typing commands furiously to recall the XC-57.
“Slingshot active!” Boomer said. “Full power. Range six miles…it won’t be enough.”
“Don’t worry—he’ll be closing that distance real quick,” Patrick said ominously. “Start a fast descent, Jon—maybe the F-4 won’t want to go low. Put him on the deck.”
“Going down!” Jon Masters said. Using the XC-57’s mission-adaptive wing technology, which allowed almost every surface of the aircraft to be made into a lift or drag device, the XC-57 descended at over ten thousand feet per minute, its composite construction the only thing keeping it from ripping itself apart.
“Comms are back,” a technician reported. “All jamming and interference down.”
“He’s slowing down,” Boomer said. “Three miles…he should be feelin’ the heat right about—” And at that instant the laser radar image showed two missiles leave each wing of the Turkish F-4E. “Sidewinders!” he shouted. But seconds into their flight, the Sidewinder missiles exploded. “Slingshot got ’em both,” Boomer said. “The laser is redirecting on the Phantom. He’s still slowing down even though he’s in a descent.”
“I think we hit something vital,” Jon said. The magnified laser radar image clearly showed smoke trailing from the fighter’s right engine. “He’s got to break it off. He’s down to five thousand feet aboveground—fighter guys don’t like flying near the mud.”
“Two miles and still closing,” Boomer said. “C’mon, aptal, game’s over.”
“Aptal?”
“Turkish for ‘idiot,’” Boomer said. “I figured if we’re going to be facing off against the Turks, I’d better learn some Turkish.”
“Leave it to you to learn the bad words first,” Jon said. He turned back to the chase unfolding on his laptop. “C’mon, buddy, it’s over, it’s—” Just then, numerous warning messages appeared on Jon’s laptop. “Crap, number one and two engines shutting down…hydraulics and electrical system in emergency! What happened?”
“He closed in to gun range,” Patrick said. In daylight, with clear skies…the XC-57 was a goner, and everyone knew it.
“C’mon, baby,” Jon urged his creation, “you’ll be okay, just keep going…”
And as they watched, they saw a puff of smoke from the forward part of the Turkish F-4 Phantom, the canopy peeled away, and the rear ejection seat flew skyward. They waited for the front seat to go…but as they watched, the altitude numbers continued to decrease, finally reading zero seconds later. “Got him,” Boomer said quietly, with no trace of joy or triumph—watching any aviator die, even an adversary, was never a cause for celebration. “He must’ve been really hurting, with Slingshot in his face at full power, but he wasn’t going to let the Loser get away.”
“Can you bring her back, Jon?” Patrick asked.
“I don’t know,” Jon said. “The lower laser radar array’s not retracting—that’s a lot of drag, and we’re down to one engine. We’re losing gas, too. Just thirty miles to go—it’ll be close.”
There were a lot of crossed fingers, but the XC-57 did make it back. “Good job, Jon,” Patrick said from his Humvee, parked near the approach end of the runway, as he peered at the aircraft through binoculars. He and Jon watched as the Loser set up for a straight-in approach. The crippled bird was trailing a long, dark line of smoke, but its flight path was fairly steady. “Didn’t think she would make it.”
“Neither did I,” Jon admitted. “This landing is not going to be pretty. Make sure everyone is clear—I don’t know what kind of braking or directional control we have left, and it could…”
“Scion, this is Three!” Boomer shouted on the command channel radio. “Incoming aircraft from the south, extreme low altitude!” Patrick swung around and searched the sky…
…and at that instant Jon yelled, “Holy shit!” Two massive clouds of fire erupted on the front of the XC-57. The plane seemed to simply hang in midair for several moments; then another explosion, and the plane nosed over and dove straight into the ground. There was not enough fuel in the tanks to start a large blaze.
Jon Masters’s eyes were practically bugging out of their sockets in confusion. “What happened to my—”
“Get down, Jon!” Patrick shouted, pulling him down to the ground. Two American-made F-15E Eagle fighter-bombers streaked overhead at low altitude, heading north toward Turkey.
Jon tried to struggle to his feet. “Did those bastards shoot down my—”
“I said, get down!” Patrick screamed. An instant later, a string of eight massive explosions rippled directly down the center of the runway, the closest just a few hundred yards away. Both men felt as if their Humvee had rolled over on top of them. They were showered with debris and smoke, and they screamed and pressed their hands to their ears as the tremendous concussions shoved the air out of their lungs. Pieces of concrete zinged past them like bullets, then began to rain down on them. “Get inside the Humvee, Jon! Hurry!” Both men scrambled inside just as bigger and bigger pieces of concrete peppered them from above. They could do nothing else but crawl as far as they could on the floor and hope the roof held. Windows shattered, and the big Humvee rocked on its wheels before they, too, exploded.
Several minutes later, Jon was still writhing on the floor of the Humvee, covering his ears and swearing loudly. Patrick could see a small trickle of blood oozing from between the fingers covering Jon’s left ear. Patrick got on his portable radio to ask for help, but he couldn’t hear a thing and could only hope his message got out. He crawled up onto the roof of the Humvee to inspect the damage.
Pretty good bombing, he thought. He saw eight blast marks, probably thousand-pounders, each no more than five yards from the runway centerline. Fortunately they hadn’t used runway-cratering penetrating bombs, just general-purpose high-explosive ones, and the damage wasn’t too bad—the detonations made holes but didn’t heave large pieces of the steel reinforcement up to the surface. This was relatively easy to repair.
“Muck?” Jon was struggling out of the Humvee. “What happened?” He was shouting because his head was ringing so badly he couldn’t hear himself speak.
“A little payback,” Patrick said. He climbed down from the Humvee and helped Jon to sit down while he inspected his head for any other injuries. “Looks like you burst an eardrum, and you got some pretty good cuts.”
“What in hell did they hit us with?”
“F-15E Strike Eagles dropping high-explosive GPs—more war surplus stuff purchased from the good ’ol U.S. of A.,” Patrick said. Even though it was one of the world’s premier fighter-bombers, capable of both bombing and air superiority roles on the same mission, the F-15E couldn’t land on an aircraft carrier, and so they had been mothballed or sold as surplus to American-allied countries. “They tagged the runway pretty good, but it’s repairable. Doesn’t look like they hit the Triple-C, the hangars, or any other buildings.”
“What’s Turkish for ‘damned pricks’?” Jon Masters asked, slamming a hand against the Humvee in sheer anger. “I think I’ll borrow Boomer’s phrase book and learn me some choi
ce Turkish swear words.”
A few minutes later Hunter Noble drove up in a Humvee ambulance. “Are you guys okay?” he asked as the paramedics attended to Patrick and Jon. “I thought you were goners.”
“Good thing those crews were good,” Patrick said. “A quarter second longer and a quarter-degree heading error and we would’ve been right under that last one.”
“I don’t think it’s over,” Boomer said. “We’re tracking several slow movers throughout the area; the closest one is twenty miles to the east, heading this way.”
“Let’s get back to the hangar and see what we have left,” Patrick said morosely. “We’ll have to get an update on the third Loser and what mission modules we can use.” They all piled into their Humvees and sped off to the flight line.
By the time they stopped at the infirmary to drop off Jon and then reached the hangar, the ringing in Patrick’s ears had subsided enough so he could function fairly normally. With the jamming stopped, they were again in full reconnaissance and communications relay mode with the first XC-57, which had moved back up to a new patrol orbit southeast of Allied Air Base Nahla, within laser radar range of the three major northern Iraqi cities of Mosul, Irbil, and Kirkuk that were under attack.
Patrick ran a visibly shaking hand across his face as he studied the reconnaissance display. The adrenaline rushing through his veins was starting to subside, leaving him weary and jittery. “Are you okay, sir?” Hunter Noble asked.
“I’m a little worried about Jon. He looked pretty bad.”
“You look pretty beat up, too, sir.”
“I’ll be okay.” He smiled at the concerned expression on Boomer’s face. “I forgot what it’s like to be under a bombardment like that. It really rattles you.”
“Maybe you ought to get some rest.”
“I’ll be okay, Boomer,” Patrick repeated. He nodded at the young pilot and astronaut. “Thanks for being so concerned.”
“I know about your heart thing, sir,” Boomer said. “The only thing worse than reentry from space might be almost being clobbered by a string of thousand-pound bombs. Maybe you shouldn’t push your luck.”
“Let’s get the vice president down safely and get a clear picture of what’s going on, and then I’ll go take a little nap.” This didn’t ease Boomer’s concern one bit, and it showed on his face, but Patrick ignored it. “Any jets bothering the Loser?”
No use arguing with the guy, Boomer thought—he was going to work until he dropped, plain and simple. “Nope,” he replied. “Every fighter within fifty miles has lit it up, but nobody has attacked. They’re not bothering our UAVs either.”
“They know most of the planes flying up here are unarmed reconnaissance planes, and they’re not going to waste ammo,” Patrick guessed. “Pretty damned disciplined. They know there’s very little resistance to what they’re doing right now.”
“Lots of slow movers coming in, and several columns of vehicles headed our way,” Boomer said. They were intently watching several dozen slower-moving planes, mostly buzzing near Kirkuk and Irbil. One plane, however, was heading westbound directly for Nahla. “Any modes and codes on that one?” Patrick asked.
“Nope,” Boomer replied. “He’s very low and fast. No communications yet. The laser radar image shows it as a C-130-size twin turboprop, but he changes speed every now and then, slower than a tactical airlift plane should go. He might be having mechanical problems.”
“Do we have contact with the Avengers?”
“I think they’re all talking to Colonel Wilhelm in the Tank again.”
Patrick opened the command channel: “Scion One to Warhammer.”
“Good to see you’re still with us, Scion,” Wilhelm said from his command console in the Tank. “You’re still yelling into the mic. Get your bell rung out there?”
“Advise you get your Avengers to ensure positive visual ID before engaging, Warhammer.”
“The Turks just bombed the crap out of my runway, Scion, and they’ve got vehicles heading this way. We’ve received reports of three separate columns of armored vehicles. I’m not going to let them just traipse onto this base without taking a few down first.”
“That inbound to the east might not be a Turk.”
“Then who do you think it is?”
“Not on an open channel, Warhammer.”
Wilhelm fell silent for a few moments; then: “Roger, Scion.” He didn’t know who or what McLanahan was thinking of, but the guy was on a roll; better help him keep his streak alive. “Break. All Warhammer units, this is Alpha, be advised, we have no aircraft authorized to approach the base, and we couldn’t land them here if there were, but I want positive visual IDs of all inbound aircraft. Repeat, I want positive EO or direct visual ID. IR and no modes, and codes are not, repeat, not good enough.” He paused for a moment, re-thinking his next order, then continued: “If you don’t have positive ID, report direction, speed, altitude, and type, but let it go. If you are unclear, sing out, but keep weapons tight unless you have positive ID it’s a bandit. Warhammer out.”
It did not take long for the first report to come in: “Warhammer, this is Piney One-Two,” the easternmost Avenger unit called. “I have visual contact on single-ship bogey, one-five-zero degrees bullseye, heading west, one hundred and eighty knots, altitude base minus one-eight, negative modes and codes.” The “base” altitude was two thousand feet, meaning that the aircraft was two hundred feet aboveground. “Looks like a Victor Two-Two.”
“Oh, thank you, Lord,” Wilhelm muttered to himself. How the hell many drinks and dinners am I going to have to owe McLanahan after this is all over…? “Roger, One-Two. Continue patrol, weapons tight. All Warhammer units, this is Alpha, inbound aircraft approaching, weapons tight until it touches down, then back to FPCON Delta. Weatherly, take charge here. I’m headed out to the flight line. Thompson, get your guys out there to recover this inbound, and I want security as tight as a gnat’s bunghole. Air traffic, let this guy in, and make sure there are no tails. Thompson, park him in Alpha security.” He threw off his headset and sprinted for the door.
He found McLanahan and Kris Thompson at the secure aircraft parking area, a section of the aircraft apron surrounded by exhaust blast fences in front of the large hangar. Thompson had deployed his security forces along the south taxiway and the ramp leading from the taxiway to the apron. Wilhelm’s eyes narrowed as he saw McLanahan. The retired general’s head and the backs of his hands were covered in wounds from flying debris. “You should be in the infirmary, General,” he said.
McLanahan was wiping his face, head, and hands with a large white moistened towel, which was already dirty from his ministrations. “That can wait,” he said.
“How long? Until you pass out?”
“I dropped Jon off at the medic and had them take a look at me.”
Bullshit, Wilhelm thought, but he didn’t say it aloud. He shook his head ruefully, not wanting to argue with the guy, then nodded off to the east. “Why is he coming here?”
“I don’t know.”
“Not too smart, if you ask me.” Wilhelm pulled out his radio. “Two, this is Alpha. Where’s that closest column of vehicles?”
“Twenty klicks north, still approaching.”
“Roger. Continue to monitor, let me know when they’re within ten klicks.” Not yet in shoulder-fired missile range, but the inbound aircraft was in deadly danger if it was spotted by Turkish warplanes.
A few minutes later they heard the distinctive heavy high-speed whupwhupwhup of a large rotorcraft. A CV-22 Osprey tilt-rotor aircraft zoomed in low and fast over the base, made a tight left turn while transitioning to vertical flight, then hover-taxied along the line of security vehicles up the ramp to the apron and touched down. It was directed inside the secure parking area, where it shut down.
Thompson’s security forces redeployed all around the entire aircraft parking area while Wilhelm, McLanahan, and Thompson approached the Osprey. The rear cargo ramp opened up, and three U.
S. Secret Service agents, wearing body armor and carrying submachine guns, stepped out, followed by Vice President Kenneth Phoenix.
The vice president wore a Kevlar helmet, goggles, gloves, and body armor. Wilhelm approached him but did not salute him—he was already highlighted enough. Phoenix started to pull off his protective gear, but Wilhelm waved for him to stop. “Keep that stuff on for now just in case, sir,” he shouted over the roar of the twin rotors overhead. He escorted the vice president to a waiting up-armored Humvee, and they all piled in and sped off toward the upstairs conference room in the Tank.
Once they were safely inside and secured, the Secret Service agents helped Phoenix remove his protective gear. “What happened?” Phoenix asked. He looked at Wilhelm’s grim face, then at McLanahan’s. “Don’t tell me, let me guess: Turkey.”
“We detected the air assault, but they sent in a jamming aircraft that took out our eyes and ears,” Wilhelm said. “Damn good coordination; they were obviously poised to strike and just waited for the right opportunity.”
“Which was me, wanting to meet with everyone in Irbil,” Phoenix said. “Didn’t think I’d be their cover for their invasion.”
“If not you, sir, it would’ve been someone else—or they might have staged something, like I believe they staged that attack in Van,” Patrick said.
“You think that was staged?” Kris Thompson asked. “Why? It was classic PKK.”
“It was classic PKK—too classic,” Patrick said. “What got me was the timing. Why a daytime attack, in the morning no less, with the entire staff and security detail awake and alerted? Why not a nighttime attack? They would’ve had better chances of success and higher casualty counts.”
“I thought they were pretty successful.”
“I believe it was staged so few students would be in the barracks,” Patrick said. “They made sure the actual casualty count was low, and just inflated the figure for the media—enough for the president to declare a state of emergency.”
