Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 06

by Fatal Terrain (v1. 1)

  “Negative ... wait, I got them! ” Cheshire shouted. “They’re headed right for us! Twelve o’clock, about five miles, coming down fast! Ready to break!”

  “Go nose to nose with them, pilot! ” Atkins shouted. “Nose to nose! Pylon launch! ” Atkins powered up two AIM-120 Scorpion missiles and uncaged their infrared seekers instead of launching on radar guidance. Both missiles locked onto the red-hot superheated fuselages of the enemy fighters immediately, and seconds later, both missiles streaked out of the weapons pods on the wings right at their quarries. But by the time the Scorpions launched, the two Foxbat fighters had flown right over the Megafortress, missing it by just a few hundred yards. The incredible blast of the supersonic shock wave passing over the EB-52 felt like another nuclear explosion. Elliott and Cheshire looked on with amazement as the front cockpit windscreen buckled and wavered as if it was ready to implode again.

  The Scorpion missiles switched from infrared to radar guidance, picked up steering signals from the side- and rear-looking radars, and streaked up and backward to pursue the fighters. They almost did not have enough energy to tail-chase the fighters—the Foxbats were flying three hundred miles per hour faster than the most sophisticated air-to- air missile in the world!—until both Chinese superfighters came out of full afterburner and began a hard turn back to the west to pursue the Megafortress. The sharp turn quickly sapped the big fighters of all their energy, enough for the Scorpion missiles to catch up to them, activate their own onboard terminal homing radars, and lock onto the fighters. One Scorpion missile failed to fuze properly and missed; the other made a direct hit, shelling out one engine and causing a massive fire. The pilot ejected seconds before his superfighter exploded in a terrific orange fireball.

  “Attack radar up—I’ve got a lock on the last fighter,” Bruno said. “Stand by for—”

  “Better save it,” Atkins interjected. “We’ve got only two Scorpions remaining, and it looks like the last fighter is bugging out. They were both going full blower on the attack, and if they do that they only have enough fuel for thirty minutes of flying time. He’s on his way home. The closest of those fighter patrols are at eleven o’clock, forty miles and closing.”

  “We’ve got to get out of here, Brad,” McLanahan said. “Those Fox- bats got a pretty good fix on us, and they’re probably vectoring in the other fighters. The U.S. frigates are at three o’clock, eighteen miles. Right turn to heading zero-eight-zero should get us back on coverage. We need some help from those frigates or from Taiwan air defense, if they’re up.”

  “Sons of bitches!” Elliott cursed. He got a good look at the speeding Foxbat fighters too, and that was the closest he ever wanted to get to those big, deadly jets. His heart was pounding, his forehead sweating like crazy—he had never felt so close to death before in all his life. “They better be up here!” He switched to the secure satellite channel: "James Daniel, this is Headbanger, what’s your status?”

  “Vessel calling James Daniel, keep this channel clear and do not approach this task force,” the operator responded.

  “What in hell are you talking about?” Elliott retorted. “We’re up here on patrol with you, you squid idiot! We saw the Chinese cruiser launch Stallion rocket torpedoes at you. What’s your status?” There was no response. Furious, Elliott switched to the secondary channel and keyed the mike: “Atlas, this is Headbanger. How do you copy?”

  “Loud and clear, Headbanger,” the operator responded. “What is your status? Over.”

  “Our goddamn status is that we were under attack by Foxbat fighters and we’ve got four more formations of fighters closing on us,” Elliott replied hotly. “Both frigates are also under torpedo attack. We need fighter coverage up here and we want permission to attack the Chinese warship that is trying to blow your frigates out of the water.”

  “Headbanger, this is Atlas,” Admiral William Allen responded himself seconds later. “We copy you were under attack by Foxbats and have more fighters in the vicinity. The ROC is vectoring fighters at this time, ETA zero-eight minutes, flight of two F-16s. Second flight of four F-16s is scrambling from Makung, ETA one-five minutes. We recommend you depart the area and head towards the Pescadores.” The Pescadores was a group of Taiwanese islands, located forty miles west of Formosa and sixty miles southeast of the EB-52’s present position, where several Taiwanese air and naval bases were located.

  “Heading one-two-zero, direct Makung,” Denton immediately interjected.

  “No, we’re not leaving!” McLanahan shouted. “If we leave the frigates, they’ll be defenseless—and we can use their help against those fighters. We’re staying overhead the frigates until the Taiwan air force arrives. Nancy, get on the horn and send in Carter in the other Megafortress.”

  “You got it, Mack.”

  “Sounds like a shit-hot plan to me,” Elliott responded. On the satellite channel, he radioed: “Atlas, this is Headbanger, negative, we’re holding our position. There’s a big ass ship, a cruiser or destroyer, about twenty miles northwest of your frigates.” He could hardly believe he was having an argument with CINCPAC—again. “We’ve got it locked up, and we saw it launch those torpedoes. They were rocket-powered torpedoes, and we watched that cruiser launch them.”

  “The frigates are conducting anti-torpedo countermeasures at this time,” Allen said, “but they did not report contact with any Chinese war-ships or submarines. We have had that entire region under surveillance for several days, and we noted no large warship movements ... stand by.”

  “Jesus, there they go again—‘stand by/ ” Elliott said angrily. “Stand by and watch the Chinese blast us to hell.”

  “The Duncan has stopped dead in the water,” Denton reported, as he zoomed in on the American frigate task force. He called up more information, then added, “Something’s wrong—the ISAR’s not IDing properly anymore.”

  “That might mean it’s hit and may be sinking,” McLanahan said. “If part of its structure is underwater, the inverse synthetic aperture radar won’t scan it completely.”

  The interphone got very quiet after that—but only for a few moments, until Brad Elliott shouted, “Destroy that damned Chinese cruiser now! You’re clear on the bomb doors! Launch the Strikers, dammit!”

  “Brad, we wait until we get the word from CINCPAC,” McLanahan said. Here it comes again, he thought—another long, drawn-out argument with Elliott on whether or not they should . . .

  McLanahan stopped as he felt a familiar rumble and heard the sound of windblast, and the words “Strikers away.” Jeff Denton, still in the offensive systems officer’s seat, had obeyed Elliott’s command and launched two Striker missiles at the still-unidentified vessel! He had quickly and efficiently designated the unidentified vessel, using touch-screen commands, and prosecuted a double Striker missile attack! Seconds after launch, the Striker missiles had ignited their powerful first-stage motors and blasted out over the Formosa Strait toward their target. They were supersonic just a few seconds later, climbing on a ballistic flight path to almost forty thousand feet.

  “Jesus, Denton!” McLanahan exclaimed. “Steer those missiles clear!”

  “Why? We’re attacking, for Christ’s sake!” Denton shouted.

  “We don’t have permission to launch! ” McLanahan said. “Steer those missiles away from that target! ”

  Denton looked confused, stunned, and horrified all at once. “But the AC said—”

  McLanahan didn’t blame Denton; he was doing as his aircraft commander ordered: destroy the Chinese ship. Unfortunately, Elliott had jumped the gun. Again. McLanahan frantically checked to be sure that Denton hadn’t locked up one of the Navy frigates—he hadn’t. “Get manual control of the missiles, steer them towards the southwest, away from land!”

  “Stay on the target, OSO,” Elliott said. “Continue the attack.”

  From his jump-seat position, McLanahan didn’t have voice command of the attack computer. When he tried to reach across, push Denton out of the way, and
command the Striker missiles to steer away from the vessel, Denton pushed him back. “Hey, Colonel McLanahan, the missiles are on the way,” Denton said. “That was the ship that hit the Duncan with torpedoes. The AC said to attack, dammit—why are you pushing me?”

  “Because I’m the mission commander, Denton, and I say we don’t attack until we get a valid order from CINCPAC to attack!” McLanahan said. “Break the sensor lock, Denton. Give me manual control! ”

  But it was too late. Just then, the TV image from the Striker missile’s imaging infrared scanner appeared on Denton’s supercockpit display, just seconds from impact. The first radar-only image was of a massive ship, very tall, riding very high out of the water. McLanahan hit a touch-screen button to switch to imaging infrared view—and then they saw it.

  It was not a cruiser, or a large destroyer, or even a warship of any kind—it was a passenger and vehicle ferry. They caught a glimpse of some kind of barge or service tender being towed on a very short hawser behind the larger ship, which could have explained the ISAR’s confusion over the proper identification of the target—but there was no doubt over the identification now! The ferry had a tall vehicle access amidships and three decks above that, and it looked as if it was choked with automobiles and delivery trucks. “Oh my God, it’s a passenger ship, a ferry!” McLanahan shouted. “C’mon, Denton, break auto lock, steer those missiles away!”

  Denton immediately deselected the auto lock touch-screen button on the supercockpit monitor, which gave him manual control of the missiles. McLanahan immediately reached over and rolled the trackball left. . .

  . . . but it was too late. McLanahan and Denton watched in horror as both Striker missiles plowed into the port side amidships of the passenger ferry; they even clearly saw passengers standing on the port rail near the bow just before the missiles hit. Five seconds later, the second Striker missile registered a direct hit as well.

  “Oh, my God,” Denton muttered. “What did I do? What in hell did I do?”

  “Forget it, Jeff—Jeff, dammit, snap out of it! ” McLanahan shouted. “Your responsibility now is with your crew and your aircraft. Get on the radar and find out who we’re up against.” But it was no use—Denton was frozen, stunned by confusion, fear, and a dozen other emotions. McLanahan had no other choice. He reached across Denton’s shoulder, unfastened his shoulder straps and seat belt, and one-handedly hauled Denton out of the OSO’s seat. Denton did not resist this time. “Jeff, go downstairs, strap into a seat and parachute, and monitor the flight instruments. Make sure your seat is unpinned and ready. Go! ” Denton was lucid enough to offer a silent apology to McLanahan before climbing down the ladder to the lower-deck spare ejection seats. McLanahan activated the Megafortress’s attack radar, which scanned the skies in all directions; he shut it down as soon as the system had recorded all air, sea, and land targets.

  In the meantime, Bob Atkins had swapped seats with Bruno and was now in command of the defensive weaponry. “Okay, crew, nearest fighter formation is now ten o’clock, thirty-three miles and closing,” Atkins began. “I don’t think they have a radar lock on us, but they got a good solid vector from the Foxbats, and they’re headed this way. I’ve got a second formation low, twelve o’clock, fifty-three miles and closing.”

  “A low CAP, Bob?”

  He studied his threat display for a moment; then: “Don’t think they’re fighters, Colonel. I’m showing surface search radars only—no air search or target-tracking radars. They’re looking for the frigates. I think we’ve got anti-ship attack planes inbound. Colonel, call the James Daniel, see if they got the inbounds and find out if they can coordinate with us.” “Rog,” McLanahan said. He switched his radio to the fleet common frequency: 'James Daniel, this is Headbanger, how copy?”

  “Headbanger, this is James Daniel on fleet common tactical one. Suggest you clear the area and head east. Stay out of this area. We are responding to inbound bandits at this time. Clear this frequency.”

  “Second flight of bandits, low altitude, eleven o’clock, forty-eight miles,” Atkins reported. “I’ve counted eight inbounds so far in two formations. There’s probably more. I need another radar sweep.”

  “JD, this is Headbanger. You have at least eight inbounds on an antiship missile attack profile, and we’ve got more than twice that number after us,” McLanahan said. “Let’s make a deal—you get the fighters, we’ll take the attack planes. Deal?”

  There was an excruciatingly long pause; then a different voice responded: “Okay, Headbanger, it’s a deal. This is the TAO on the JD. Stay north of us, and we’ll keep your tail clear.”

  “Copy that, JD,” McLanahan said with relief. “Give us your search and track bands to avoid.”

  “Stop buzzer on India-three through Juliet-ten to keep our scopes clear,” the tactical action officer on the James Daniel replied. “You’re clear to jam all other freqs—and I hope you’re not a bad guy, or else we’ve just screwed ourselves. You got a wingman?”

  “Affirm,” McLanahan said. “He’ll be coming in from the north.” “Keep him north. Good hunting.”

  “Center up on the heading bug, heading three-zero-five to intercept,” Atkins called out.

  In the meantime, Nancy Cheshire was on the secure satellite frequency to Headbanger Two: “Two, this is lead, how copy?”

  “Loud and clear, Nance,” Colonel Kelvin Carter responded from the second EB-52 Megafortress.

  “Authenticate echo-echo.”

  “Poppa.”

  “Loud and clear,” Cheshire said. “Stand by.”

  “I got ’em,” McLanahan said. He centered his cursor on the trailing formation of Chinese fighters, the ones closest to Carter. As he did so, the information from his attack computers was being shared with the second Megafortress, which meant Carter’s crew did not even have to activate its attack radar. “Two, this lead, there’s your bandits.”

  “Tied on radar,” Major Alicia Kellerman, the OSO on Headbanger Two, replied. “I show you’ve only got two Scorpions remaining, lead. Maybe you better bug out.”

  “Let’s see what kind of havoc we can cause first,” McLanahan replied.

  “Have fun. Two’s in hot.”

  It took only the last two of Atkins’s Scorpion missiles to break up the first formation. The formation consisted of eight Q-5 Nanchang fighter- bombers, copies of the Soviet Sukhoi-17 fighter-bomber, armed with four AS-10 electro-optical attack missiles each. The fighters broke up into four groups of two, spread apart and in trail by several miles—Atkins merely locked up the two lead formations. The Q-5 fighter, with variable- geometry wings, was fast and agile, but the AS-10 missile had a maximum range of only six miles and required the pilot to acquire the target using the TV sensor on the missile itself. Atkins jammed the Q-5’s mapping radar, which meant the Chinese pilots had to climb so they could visually acquire the two Navy frigates—and that made them sitting ducks for Atkins and his Scorpion missiles. Both missiles hit dead on target, destroying two Q-5s, and their wingmen promptly did a one-eighty and headed for home.

  “Pilot, mil power, heading two-zero-zero,” Atkins ordered. “I’ve got two formations of two still inbound. They split up, but we know who they’re going after—they gotta converge soon. We gotta be there ahead of them.” The Megafortress banked hard in response, speeding southward toward the two Navy frigates. “Okay, I’ve got the closest bandits at our seven o’clock, ten miles—they’re only a few miles from their launch points. Stand by for Stinger launch. Give me a hard turn to one-five- zero.”

  As Elliott threw the Megafortress into a hard left turn, Atkins activated the tail-mounted Stinger self-defense rockets, locked up the formation of Q-5 bombers to the west, and began laying down a string of Stinger airmines in the path of the Q-5 fighters. The airmines exploded far ahead of the fighter-bombers, probably too far to be seen, but Atkins was hoping that he might catch one or both of the fighters with the large cloud of flak pellets generated by the exploding rockets. When the Megafortre
ss was just a few miles from the northernmost formation, Atkins shouted, “Hard right, heading two-five-oh!” and as the bomber turned, Atkins started pumping out rockets in front of the second formation.

  This time, they were closer to the Chinese fighters—one direct hit. The pilot of the single-engine Q-5 fighter, his engine shelled out by hundreds of steel pellets from the Stinger rockets, bailed out seconds before his Q-5 fighter exploded when the engine tore itself apart. His wingman stayed on the attack run and launched all four of his AS-10 missiles, copies of the American-made Maverick attack missiles, at the James Daniel. The Chinese pilot locked all four missiles on target, then started a hard right turn away from the frigate—directly into the lethal attack cone of the Megafortress’s Stinger tail cannon. At least six of the Megafortress’s Stinger rockets hit home, shredding the Q-5’s canopy, engine, forward fuselage—and pilot.

  “JD, this is Headbanger One, one fighter launched on you!”

  McLanahan shouted on the satellite fleet common frequency. “We show four inbounds!” But the warning came too late. The frigates Phalanx close-in weapon system, a 30-millimeter radar-guided Gatling gun, destroyed two of the AS-10 missiles that had auto-locked onto the frigate, but the other two hit home. Their forty-pound high-explosive warheads struck the helicopter hangar and the forecastle. The nearly one-inch-thick Kevlar armor around the command spaces protected the bridge and forecastle, but the other missile destroyed the ]ames Daniel's starboard- side helicopter hangar, the 15-millimeter gun, and the amidships Mk 92 fire-control radar antenna, and an explosion in one of the starboard Mk 32 anti-submarine torpedo tubes created a fire and extensive damage.