Armageddon d-6

by Dale Brown

  The sultan had strapped a gun on his side and was with the army commander inside.

  McKenna started back toward the compound. The guerillas were clumped at one end of the water beyond the highway, but did not yet control the roadway.

  “Get a helicopter over here on the double and get the sultan the hell out,” McKenna told her controller back at the airport. “We’ll cover the approach.”

  “Helicopter is forty minutes away.”

  “Forty minutes!”

  “It’s coming up from Tutong,” said the controller.

  Smoke began pouring out of the side of the ministry building. “Can you get some sort of boat in to make a rescue?” McKenna asked.

  “The navy is working on that.”

  That wasn’t going to do. White-pajamas were swarming all over the place. McKenna tipped downward and spit shells at them, but she barely made a dent. The Dragonfly rocked as it took a few bullets in the right wing.

  “Yo, ground FAC, what’s your situation?” she asked as she recovered on the city side of the compound.

  “Under fire.”

  “The sultan there?”

  “Yes. We’re going to retreat to the south.”

  “Negative! Negative!” she said, catching sight of three pickup trucks filled with white-pajamas. “No, listen, can you get out to the highway near the main entrance?”

  “Maybe”

  “Get the sultan there” She spun back around, sizing up the roadway. It was straight, relatively flat, and unobstructed — if you didn’t count the two burning cars about thirty yards from the palace gate. “Push the cars off to the side and wait,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “Just get those cars out of the way.”

  Chapter 41

  South of the Philippines

  0653

  Mack turned the helm over to his copilot and undid his restraints, stretching as he got out of the pilot’s seat. One advantage the Megafortress had over an F-15 — a working galley at the rear of the flightdeck.

  Not to mention a microwave and a convenience area, otherwise known as a john. All the amenities of modern life.

  The Sparrow had worked well enough for Mack to set the arms dealer down in one piece — and to order another dozen, as well as some heavier arms for his ground soldiers. The first variants of the Sparrow had seen action in Vietnam, where they had proved rather disappointing. The latter versions, however, were considerably more successful.

  Unfortunately, the ones they had just bought were early models. Mack knew that some of the failures were due to pilot training — Naval aviators had been behind the triggers, ‘nuf said in his book. But even an air force jock with an oversized ego like Mack Smith had to admit that the hardware wasn’t quite on par with the AMRAAM, let alone Dreamland’s improved version of the AMRAAM, the AMRAAM-plus, also known as the Scorpion.

  On the other hand, they were better than no arrows at all.

  Mack had a drink of water and went and checked with his men downstairs, giving them all a thumbs-up for a job well done.

  “How we looking, Jalan?” he asked his copilot when he returned to the flightdeck.

  “On course, sir. Estimated time of arrival is now two hours and three minutes.”

  Mack brought up the course screen on the configurable display at the left side of his dash. The wall of instruments that constituted his “office” was infinitely configurable, constructed from a thick layer of touch-sensitive chips. Nearly every Megafortress pilot found it easiest to use a preset one, which divided the dash into large panels of multi-use and devoted displays. Mack had a little trouble with the course module, and it took a minute to get the large-area map he wanted, showing the large island of Borneo and the surrounding water. He then double tapped the compass icon with his finger, and drew the course he wanted.

  “Compute,” he told the computer, and a window opened in the screen showing what it would take to patrol the eastern portion of the island where the Sukhois were.

  It was a detour, but a strategic detour. He’d have plenty of fuel — as long as he cut over Malaysian territory to get home. “Jalan, we have a new course,” said Mack.

  “Yes, sir,” said the copilot, who brought it up on his own screen. He studied it for a moment. “Minister, should I alert Ground to the changes?”

  “I don’t believe we’re in range to notify Ground,” said Mack.

  “Sir?”

  “Let’s stay silent com for a while,” said Mack. “We’re only going to add about an hour to our flight plan, maybe even a little less,” he added, putting his hand to the throttle bar.

  Chapter 42

  Brunei

  0654

  The men who had put pencil to paper and designed the Cessna Dragonfly some forty years before had set out to accomplish some deceptively modest goals. They wanted to create a sturdy, predictable aircraft that didn’t cost all that much to operate, and yet could provide a novice pilot with a suitable learning environment, one that would help him transition to the hot jets at the time. They surely did not envision that their aircraft — beefed up, to be sure, but still the same basic design — would not only be flying as the century came to a close but would be doing so in combat situations.

  And surely they never envisioned doing what McKenna intended as she dropped low toward the highway that spanned the waterfront outside the palace.

  The A-37B’s wings were just a hair under thirty-six feet wide — short maybe for an airplane, but a bit wide for this roadway. But McKenna judged that she could make it as long as she stuck to the left side of the road as she came in.

  Problem was, that was where they were pushing the wrecked cars.

  Something flashed at the right side of the aircraft as she approached. The explosion was a good distance away but McKenna realized she couldn’t afford the luxury of a second approach; she might make it down only to be swarmed by the guerillas.

  “FAC, where’s the sultan?” she asked.

  “Ready! Ready!”

  “Push that other car out of there, way off the road!” she said. “And get down. I’m coming in.”

  McKenna gave the throttle a light tap for luck then pushed in for her landing. She touched down slightly right of where she wanted to, but still had enough clearance to get by the light poles. The men pushing the car ahead saw her coming and gave the vehicle one last shove before throwing themselves out of the way; her wing cleared the fender by perhaps three feet, which as far as she was concerned was a country mile.

  As the Dragonfly rolled to a stop, McKenna popped the top; she pushed her feet up and saw three men in suits running toward her. The sultan, a trim man in his early sixties, athletic and with a movie star’s face, appeared at the side of the aircraft. He said something, but although the A-37 had many assets, quiet engines were not one of them. McKenna shouted at him to get in; he pulled himself over the side and practically fell into place as she got the plane moving again. Bullets were exploding against the concrete nearby; she saw the shadow of her wingman pass overhead, suppressing some of the ground fire from the seawall on the left. The ground began to shake with explosions; McKenna reasoned that they were either very large or very close, or both.

  There was no question of turning around to take off into the wind. The way in front of her was clear, though short.

  Could she make it?

  The Dragonfly was made for short field operations and this one was light on fuel, with hardly much of a load. More importantly, McKenna was desperate. She gunned the engines, revving the J85s to the red line.

  “Yee-haw!” she shouted as they cleared the wall at the edge of the highway by a good two inches. “Brunei Dragon One is off the ground and looking for permission to land,” she told her controller.

  “Negative, negative — we’re under attack!” said the controller. “Airport is not secure! Airport is not secure!”

  McKenna turned toward the sultan. He didn’t have a headset.

  “We can’t
land at the airport,” she shouted to him. “But I’ll take care of you, Your Majesty. Don’t fret”

  Whether he understood what she said or even heard it all, he gave her a thumbs-up.

  Chapter 43

  Aboard Brunei Air Force EB-52 1 (Jersey), over the Sulu Sea (northeast of Borneo)

  0720

  Mack studied the radar warning screen, which showed the range of the radar covering the northeast tip of Malaysian territory. The Megafortress was well out of range of the radar, but what was interesting to Mack was the type of radars that had been detected — a large-band system identified as a Russian P-37 Bar Lock, and a shorter-range P-15 Flat Face. Malaysia was not known to possess either, and Mack hadn’t encountered them on Borneo before. The P-15 Flat Face was especially troubling, since it was designed to work with surface-to-air missiles — SA-3s or more capable SA-6s and SA-8s. Any of those missiles could splash an A-37B without breaking a sweat, and even a Megafortress couldn’t afford to completely ignore SA-6s or SA-8s.

  “We’re abreast of Sandakan,” reported Jalan, as they reached one of the waypoints programmed for a course change.

  They brought the Megafortress onto the new course heading, still skirting Malaysian territory. Mack checked with his radar operators; with the exception of a commercial flight far to the south, they were the only plane in the air.

  “Sixty seconds to Darvel Bay,” noted Jalan.

  “All right, boys, this is for keeps now,” said Mack. “I need everybody on their game. We’re going to be over hostile territory for thirty minutes. Ready?”

  He spoke to each crew member, more in hopes of giving them a boost than making sure they were ready.

  Did it work? Did telling Jalan he was going to “kick butt” make the copilot handle his instrument screens any faster, or make his hand more assured on the stick? Did the radar operators click through their panels quicker?

  There was no way of knowing; Mack realized he was going to have to take it on faith that it did help somehow. They took the Megafortress to three thousand feet, enough to see … and be seen.

  “Patrol ship is trying to lock on us with his radar,” reported Jalan as they crossed over land. “He’s — we’re out of range.”

  Mack concentrated on his course, nudging the stick slightly at their next waypoint, flying on a diagonal toward the mountains at the center of the island. The air in front of him gave no clue of the danger; a few wispy clouds hugged the far side of the mountains but the rest of the sky was clear and bright.

  “Anti-aircraft radar operating?’ said Jalan, noting a ZSU-23-4 emplacement off their left wing. This low they were easy targets, but Mack had the element of surprise on his side, and was beyond the flak dealer’s range before it could fire. In the meantime, they mapped the small army base protected by the weapons, finding six helicopters out in the open and possibly more in a hangar. The helicopters, identified as American Hueys or similar civilian models by the computer system, did not appear on any of the force estimates of the Malaysian army. The computer recorded all of the data they collected, allowing it to be analyzed later.

  “P-15 Flat Face,” said Jalan, repeating an alert just now flashing onto Mack’s warning screen, accompanied by an audible buzz. “Should I go to ECMs?”

  “Hang off a second,” said Mack. “We got a location?”

  The radar unit was near Kalabakon, a small city a few miles from the coast.

  “Airfield, Mr. Minister!” said one of the operators. “I have it on the video.”

  As Mack reached to bring the image onto his screen, the RWR barked out a warning that they were now fat in the target pipper of the missile system connected to the Flat Face radar. A J-band radar had begun tracking them, indicating that the system was ready to fire.

  “ECMs,” said Mack.

  Before Jalan could even punch the buttons the Malaysians launched two SA-8 missiles. The missiles had an effective range of roughly sixteen miles, but they had been launched near the edge of that envelope and within seconds the Megafortress had disrupted the ground link, obliterating the I-band guidance radar and persuading the missiles to veer off course.

  “Good,” said Mack as the missiles detonated several miles to the south. “Hang on, now — let’s get some close-ups of that airfield, shall we?”

  He wheeled the big plane over in the sky and put her nose on a line to the airfield they’d seen, pulling upwards of eight Gs briefly as he twisted in the sky. He felt himself being pushed and pulled by gravity as the plane whipped toward the earth, its momentum shifting abruptly. The Megafortress wasn’t a fighter jet, but damn, she could get out of her own way when she had to.

  “ECMs — give ‘em the whole symphony,” said Mack as the warnings sounded again.

  There were more SA-8s, as well as anti-aircraft cannons and a battery of very short-range IR seekers, ID’d by the computer after analyzing the video feed. Mack had the airstrip fat in the left part of his windscreen — it had been shaded to make it look like a pair of different roads, and to the naked eye there looked like there was a hill about midway down and a ditch at the western end. The camouflage had undoubtedly been meant to fool satellites or high-altitude spy planes. Mack saw a missile battery on the right side — it was an SA-8 launcher, a large amphibious vehicle with what looked like a tray of missiles on top. The back of the tray exploded; one of the missiles took off, fired pointblank toward the Megafortress.

  Mack threw the plane left, firing off defensive chaff and flares while Jalan stayed on the ECMs. The SA-8 had been launched “blind,” its radar guidance completely blitzed by the Megafortress’s ECMs. The missile sailed high over the right wing, climbing to forty thousand feet before imploding.

  More dangerous were the two missiles with infrared guidance launched just as the Megafortress passed. These were M48A1 Chaparrals — very short-range heat-seekers that were essentially ground-launched versions of the AIM-9D Sidewinder. Mack’s maneuvers had cost him some speed, and one of the missiles ignited less than a hundred yards from his right wing sending a spray of shrapnel into the back of the fuselage. But the damage was minor, and they climbed through the neighboring mountain valley without a problem.

  “Did you locate the Su-27s?” Mack asked the radar operator. “Negative,” said the man. “No hangars visible.”

  “Well they have to be there somewhere,” said Mack. “All right, one more pass”

  This time, Mack went low — very low, as in twenty feet from the ground, covering his approach with a salvo of flares and chaff as well as the active electronic countermeasures. The ground defenders were either confused, out of arrows, or both, and the Megafortress passed unscathed.

  They found the hangar, a dug-in bunker on the south side of a hill facing away from the runway, reached by a short dirt road.

  “Got to give them points for ingenuity,” he told Jalan. “We’ll work up some sort of attack on the base when we get home. We can drop some of those five-hundred-pound bombs and put a big crater about midway down that runway, and keep them quiet for a while, but we’re going to need air-to-ground missiles to do anything about the hangar.”

  “Striking the defenses would also be a good idea,” said the copilot.

  “They were pretty inept.”

  “They were caught off guard,” said Jalan. “They won’t be next time.”

  As they climbed over the mountains in the direction of home, the ops detected a number of Malaysian helicopters flying near the Brunei border to the west, flitting in and out of radar coverage as they skimmed through the mountains. They were undoubtedly supporting guerillas, Mack thought, though he suspected the Malaysians would claim they were fighting them.

  The sultan better put the bastards on notice that allies were supposed to help legitimate governments, not homicidal maniacs, Mack thought. He had the computer calculate a flight path to the area where the helicopters were operating, toying with the idea of unleashing one or two of the Sparrows at them; there were five left on the rotatin
g dispenser in the rear bay. Before he could decide, Jalan relayed a warning that one of the Sukhois was taking off from the airfield they’d buzzed.

  “That was fast,” said Mack.

  “They must’ve been standing by in the hangar,” said Jalan. “Or they have a better hide near the field we didn’t spot.”

  There was no doubt in Mack’s mind that he was taking on the Sukhois; the only question was where.

  He decided he’d lead them out to sea before turning to tango. That way he’d avoid any nasty surprises like Malaysian ground-to-air defenses that he hadn’t spotted. He’d also have a quicker route home; his fuel gauges were trending toward empty.

  “What it’ll look like to them is a big sitting ducking trying to foolishly outrun them,” Mack explained to Jalan as he laid in the course to the computer. “They’ll figure they have us nailed. We’ll fire two Sparrows at each plane once we have them flatfooted.”

  “What if they’re carrying radar-guided missiles as they were the other day?”

  “Oh, they definitely will be. You’ll just confuse the hell out of them with your ECMs,” Mack said. “I’ll handle the Sparrows.”

  They had about a five minute lead on the two Malaysian planes as they reached the coast. Mack used some of it to climb to thirty-five thousand feet, then told Jalan to open the bomb bay door, preparing the Sparrows for firing. As their air speed dropped, the Sukhois came charging at them. The interceptors were spread nearly three miles apart, much more wary than they had been the other day; they’d thought about their encounter and tried to learn from it.

  Which he was counting on.

  “We’re going to make it look like we want to get them with the Stinger, turn, and then turn again,” he told his crew. “If you have to puke, do it now.”

  One of the ops laughed and Mack smiled to himself — he was finally getting through to these guys.