Patrick switched the large full-color supercockpit display on the right-side instrument panel to the telescope view. He was now looking right down the barrel of the laser, watching an optical presentation of what the laser attack computer was looking at. The SA-10 missile was clearly visible, tracked and illuminated by the laser radar arrays and focused to razor-sharp clarity by the deformable mirror. The crosshairs in the center of the display were dead on the rear one-third of the missile—the center of the SA- 10’s rocket motor. Patrick increased the magnification and was even able to read markings on the side of the missile.
As the missile flew higher and higher in the sky, its thermodynamic pressures were building as well—pressure from the force of the engines, pressure from the atmosphere, pressure from gravity, pressure from building speed, and pressure created by the guidance system acting through the rocket’s fins and gyros. Finally, the heat from the laser burned through the missile’s skin enough that the skin surrounding the motor section couldn’t contain the immense internal pressures or structurally hold the outside air pressures, and the missile ripped apart like a rotten banana and exploded.
“Missile destroyed!” Patrick shouted. “We got it!”
The attack computer immediately shifted to the second SA-10 missile, launched seconds after the first, and the result was just as successful and just as spectacular. “Missile two destroyed! Towed array in standby . .. laser’s ready to shoot again, all threats down. Hot damn!”
Sky Masters Inc. needed a realistic real-world test of its airborne laser technology, so Patrick McLanahan, overseeing the program, thought of the easiest and fastest way to test it out—fly over a country that liked to shoot missiles without warning and see if it worked. Libya filled the bill nicely. Libya had the best military hardware its oil money could buy, and they were notorious for firing on stray aircraft without warning. Plus, most of Libya south of Tripoli was open desert, so there was little risk of anyone being hurt by falling debris or misses—or, if the test didn’t work, falling pieces of the AL-52 Dragon.
“Have we had enough, boss?” Franken asked. “I sure have.”
“I don’t want to hang around here any more than I have to, Bud,” Patrick said. “But I’d sure like to wring the laser out a little more.” At that moment, both crew members received a warning message on their threat receiver, one of the multifunction displays in the center of the Dragon’s instrument panel. “Just got swept by fighter radar,” Patrick said. “I think it might be time to head home.”
“Good deal,” Franken said. He started a slow left turn to the north, mindful of the towed array still extended behind them—they could easily turn quickly enough to wrap themselves up in their own array’s cable. “Just keep those puppies off us.”
“LADAR coming on,” Patrick said. He activated the laser radar for only a few seconds, but the laser radar’s power and tight resolution drew an amazingly detailed picture of all air targets within a hundred miles. “We’ve got a flight of two MiG-29 interceptors, coming from Tripoli,” Patrick said. “When you roll out, they’ll be at your nine- thirty position, sixty-one miles, high. Heading zero-one- zero will put them at your nine o’clock.” The pulse-Doppler radar on the MiG-29, another Libyan purchase from the Russians, could not detect a target with a closure rate equal to the aircraft airspeed.
This was not looking good, Patrick noted immediately. “Warning,” the female-voiced threat computer reported, “MiG-29 nine o'clock five-zero miles, flight level three- three-zero, acquisition mode. Warning, trackbreakers are in standby”
“Either this guy is very lucky, or very good,” Patrick said. “The leader is coming right in on us. Something’s not right.” He hit the voice command stud: “System status.”
“All monitored systems are functioning normally,” the computer said after a slight pause. Then: “Warning, MiG- 29 at nine o'clock, forty miles, tracking”
“Oh, shit,” Patrick said. ‘Trackbreakers coming on.” But it was then that he found the problem: “The ECM system faulted—it shut itself down completely.” Patrick powered it back up.
“Warning, towed array not in coordinated flight,” the computer reported.
“That’s what happened,” Patrick said. “When we made the turn, it must’ve knocked the array out of whack and faulted the system. It’s been back there spinning away like a great big pinwheel. I’m cutting it loose.” But that didn’t work. “The array won’t jettison. It’s totally faulted. I’m going to try an ECM system reset. LADAR coming on. It’ll be the only threat warning we have now.”
“Warning, MiG-29 at seven o'clock, thirty miles...” But moments later, they heard, “Warning, missile launch detected on radar, nine o'clock, twenty-six miles. Time to intercept, fifty seconds”
“Break left!” Patrick shouted. Franken shoved the throttles to full military power and yanked the control stick full left, rolling the AL-52 up on its left wing in a tight ninety- degree bank turn—they had to risk flying into their own cable to try to defeat the incoming radar-guided missile. At full bank, he started to apply back pressure to tighten the turn even more, presenting the smallest possible radar cross-section on the MiG-29’s radar. He let up on the back pressure when the computer issued a stall warning and started to pull the control stick forward. Meanwhile, Patrick was frantically trying every countermeasures switch he could. “ECM is completely dead—chaff, flares, jammers, everything.”
Out the cockpit window, the sight was horrifying. They could clearly see a trail of fire arcing across the sky—the Libyan radar-guided missile, heading right for them. There was no time to turn, no time to try anything, no time to even speak. . ..
The missile dove right at them—then passed just behind them, making a direct hit on the spinning array, missing them by less than three hundred feet. To the two men in the cockpit of the AL-52, it looked as if the missile had been aiming right at the middle of their foreheads.
“Lost. .. lost contact with the towed array,” Patrick said, gasping for breath—he thought he had bought the farm that time. “The missile hit it dead-on.”
“Well, that’s one way to cut the array loose,” Franken said.
Patrick switched his supercockpit display to the tactical view. “These suckers aren’t going to get a chance to get another shot off at us,” he said.
“Are you going to try to hit the missiles as they come off the rails?”
“I’m not going to let them get off the rails,” Patrick said. To the attack computer, he said, “Commit Dragon.”
“No TBM targets,” the computer responded.
Patrick touched the MiG-29 icon on the supercockpit display and spoke, “Attack target.”
“Stinger airmines out of range,” the computer responded. The AL-52 Dragon kept the built-in defensive weapons of the EB-52 Megafortress, including the Stinger airmines—small guided missiles fired from a cannon in the tail that created clouds of shrapnel in the path of enemy fighters tail-chasing the bomber. But the airmines could only attack targets within two miles of the bomber in the rear quadrant.
“Designate airborne target as TBM target,” Patrick commanded. “Commit Dragon.”
“Stand by,” the computer responded. It was something never attempted—shooting down an aircraft with the airborne laser. Patrick didn’t even know if the programming existed for the attack computer to take a non-TBM, or tactical ballistic missile, target and process a laser attack against it. But he received his answer moments later: The supercockpit display was suddenly filled with the image of the southernmost MiG-29. The laser radar had locked onto the rear one-third of the aircraft, the same spot that it would normally lock onto a missile. “Caution, target velocity data not within limits ”
Patrick remembered that the laser attack computer was programmed to lock onto only fast-moving targets, like ballistic missiles—the MiG was flying much more slowly than a rocket. “Override velocity data.”
There was another long, nervous pause; then: “Caution, targ
et velocity parameters overridden. Laser ready” Patrick zoomed the image in until he was looking directly into the cockpit of the Libyan MiG; then he used his trackball and moved the crosshairs to the left side of the fighter, right on the nose of the largest missile he came across—he remembered that MiG-29s usually fired missiles off the right side first. He could see it clearly: a huge R-27 radar-guided on the number-three hardpoint. “Lock onto target and attack laser,” he commanded.
“Warning, laser attack, stop attack,” the computer said. The Megafortress’s antiaircraft attack logic had taken over for the Dragon’s anti-ballistic missile attack logic and successfully started treating the chlorine-oxygen-iodine laser as another air-launched weapon. Seconds later, the computer reported, “Laserfiring”
The results were spectacular. Less than three seconds after the “laser firing” warning, the R-27 missile on the MiG- 29’s hardpoint exploded in a blinding flash of light. The entire left wing of the lead MiG sheared off in the explosion. Patrick expanded the optronic view on the supercockpit display just in time to watch the Libyan pilot eject from his stricken fighter. The laser radar display showed the second MiG peel off sharply to the north.
“We got it!” Patrick crowed. He quickly locked up the second MiG-29. The supercockpit display now showed the diode laser locked onto the center top fuselage section of the second MiG. “Attack target laser,” he commanded.
“Attack target laser, stop attack” the computer warned. The second shot took several seconds longer, but soon Patrick could see a stream of smoke trailing from the MiG’s fuselage—and then suddenly the fuselage seemed to disintegrate from the inside, with ribbons of flames trailing from several cracks and tears in the upper-fuselage fuel tanks right above the number-one engine. The MiG-29 was into its second flat spin, its left engine burning hotly, before the pilot ejected.
“Wow, that was very cool,” Franken exclaimed. “A laser powerful enough to shoot down a MiG-29 fighter. Very cool.”
“Let’s try the last part of the test,” Patrick said. He quickly entered commands into the attack computer. It had stored information on the launch point of the SA-10 missile they had shot down, computed from tracking information by the laser radar arrays. Patrick slaved the laser telescope to die launch point coordinates, starting with a wide image. There, on the multifunction supercockpit display, he saw the entire SA-10 “Grumble” surface-to-air missile battery—the mobile engagement radar, the command post and low-altitude radar vehicle, a reload vehicle, and the four-round transporter- erector-launcher vehicle. Two rounds had obviously been fired from that vehicle. Patrick focused the telescope until the crosshairs were centered on one of the still-loaded launch tubes. The image was not as clear as the others were—the image was out of focus and wavered. Obviously it was harder for the adaptive optics to focus the image while shooting down through the atmosphere than it was to shoot across or up.
“C’mon, baby, let’s see what you can do,” Patrick said. He hit his voice command button: “Attack target,” he ordered.
“Attack command received, stop attack ” the computer responded.
“Commit Dragon.”
“Laser commit. . . laser engaging.”
But the results were not quite as pleasing this time. The crosshairs were dead on the target, and the diode laser was firing at full power, but the target remained. Patrick left it on for a full ten seconds before terminating. “Didn’t blow the launch tube. Not enough power to shoot down through the atmosphere at this range.”
“Please don’t suggest we get any closer.”
“Don’t worry—I think we’re close enough. But we’ve got to figure out a way to pump more power into the system.”
“You’re disappointed because your big laser couldn’t slice, dice, and julienne every target? Too bad, sir,” Franken joked. “Can we terminate the test and go home now before they empty those last two missiles on us?”
“You got it, AC. Test terminated,” Patrick said after a sigh of relief. He quickly punched up the initial point of the air refueling anchor into the navigation computer, then replotted the flight path to take them well clear of Libyan airspace. “Center up and let’s go home.”
AL-AZHAR MOSQUE, CAIRO, EGYPT
THAT SAME TIME
Al-Azhar Mosque and University was the oldest university in the world, a solemn and beautiful place in the Islamic section of Cairo. Muslim students from all over the world came here to study the Quran and listen to the world’s most noted authorities on Islam. All Egyptian clerics had to study here, some as long as fifteen years, in the traditional Socratic method—a tutor and his pupils, asking and answering questions until both were satisfied that it was time to progress to the next lesson.
The three-acre compound was a mixture of early Islamic, Mamluk, and Turkish architecture, representing the dynamic history of the place. Al-Azhar was also the focal point of international celebrations of the birth of the Prophet Muhammad in late June. Islamic scholars and leaders from all over the world assembled here to an all-night mulid, or prayer festival, to tell stories, make speeches, teach, and pray.
The guests were assembled in the Madrasa and Tomb of Amir Atbugha, a grand hall inside the Gates of the Barbers that housed the university’s collection of ancient manuscripts. Guest were served shai and ahwa—no alcohol at all, not even for foreigners—and a luscious assortment of mezze appetizers while they talked of politics, religion, and Muslim life, viewed the rare manuscripts, and waited for the festivities to begin.
The chief of the general staff of the United Kingdom of Libya, General Tahir Fazani, had waited a discreet distance apart from the heads of state. This was a time of worship and reflection, not state business, so he would not be permitted to address his president first. Fazani simply choked down his impatience, stayed in the shadows, appeared as if he was praying or simply observing a moment of silence, and waited for his president to come to him. Fazani came from a long line of career military officers, but he had spent most of the last twenty years in Russia, Syria, and China studying military technology and modem warfighting—and staying out of the grasp of the previous Libyan dictator, Colonel Muammar Qadhafi. He was an expert political survivor—he knew when to make his voice heard and when to blend into the shadows, like now.
The new president of the United Kingdom of Libya, Jadallah Salem Zuwayy, sauntered over to Fazani, barely acknowledging his presence, only casting enough of a glance in his direction to order him to follow. Zuwayy was a tall, light-skinned man in his late thirties, with dark eyes, a thin mustache, and a dark beard that grew to a satanic point to the base of his long, thin throat. He was a former army officer who reportedly engineered the military coup that overthrew Qadhafi. Like Qadhafi before him, Zuwayy liked to wear different outfits depending on the occasion and his audience: Today he wore traditional Bedouin garb, rich-looking silks and muslins, bordering on opulent. Most times, Zuwayy was in desert-style battle dress uniform, often wearing tanker’s boots and carrying a variety of weapons, from antique, ornate curved cavalry swords to live grenades.
“What is it, Fazani?” Zuwayy asked sternly.
“He wants an update on the deployment,” the chief of staff replied. He then held out a secure cellular telephone.
Zuwayy felt like telling Fazani to throw the phone into the garbage—but he dared not. The man on the other end of that secure connection had very long fingers—more like very long claws. “Everything is ready?” the tall, thin, ethereal cleric asked in a low, monotone, disembodied voice.
“Yes, Highness,” Fazani reported. “Just yesterday. All units are in full readiness.” He handed the cellular phone to Zuwayy and bowed.
Zuwayy smiled, then touched a preselected code on the phone’s keypad. “You’d better have some good news for me, Zuwayy,” a voice said angrily. “You’ve been dodging me long enough.”
“All is in readiness,” Zuwayy said. “My troops are in place, and the units are ready.”
“It took you long
enough, Zuwayy,” the voice on the other end of the phone warned. “They should have been in place days ago.”
“Come here and try dragging those things across the desert yourself, my friend,” Zuwayy said. “You will see how easy it is.”
“I gave you plenty of time and money to set those units up, Zuwayy,” the voice said. His foreign accent was thick, but his meaning was all too clear. “You had better not screw this up, or the first casualty in this war will be you.” And the call was abruptly terminated.
Zuwayy did not disguise a look of utter contempt on his face as he handed the phone back to Fazani. “I look forward to meeting him in person,” Zuwayy muttered. “I should like to see how black his heart really is.” He erased the scowl on his face, replacing it with a serene smile, as he noticed an entourage heading toward him. “Now I must suffer this lackey.”
“Peace be upon you, Mr. President,” the host of this celebration said warmly. President Kamal Ismail Salaam was the fourth elected Egyptian president since the Nasserite revolution in 1952. Tall, slender, and energetic, appearing more Italian than African, Salaam was the minister of finance under former president Muhammad Hosni Mubarak and leader of the National Democratic Party upon Mubarak’s retirement from politics. Like Mubarak, Salaam was a military veteran, serving as the commander in chief of the Egyptian Air Defense Force Command.
“Es salaem alekum! Peace upon you, brother!” Zuwayy said loudly so the whole room could hear, spreading his hands far apart as if to embrace his host even from across the room. He stepped quickly across the richly carpeted floor toward his host. Walking the requisite three paces behind him was the Libyan Secretary of Arab Unity—the closest Libya came to a foreign minister—Juma Mahmud Hijazi.
Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 10 Page 2
