Cyclops One af-1

by Jim DeFelice

  He was a little late calling Blitz. He hoped his minder would leave him alone in the john so he could make the call.

  * * *

  Captain Jalil had made his decision as soon as the American stumbled from the helicopter. The colonel had left the option up to him, saying any contingency could be covered.

  The man’s ineptness, however, seemed too much an opportunity to let pass. The Americans would be sympathetic when they learned that one of their own men was killed during an inspection of the border area; it would prove to them finally where the danger really lay.

  The buzz of the helicopters approaching removed any doubts that Jalil might have had. The captain stopped in front of the empty barracks room and pushed the door open. “You will leave your bag here,” he told McIntyre.

  “Looks like a monastery,” said the American. No longer rubbing his eye, he sauntered inside, walking the way all Americans walked: as if he were a great prince visiting part of a far-flung empire. “No locks, huh?”

  “There are no need for locks here,” said Jalil. “Come.”

  “You know what, I think I’m going to take a nap before dinner, if that’s okay,” said McIntyre. “And I still have to hit the john.”

  “No,” said Jalil.

  “No?”

  Jalil smiled at the American’s surprise. They were not used to being contradicted.

  “I believe you’d like to see the helicopters that are arriving,” he told him.

  “Maybe later.”

  Jalil reached to his holster and pulled out his gun. “Now would be a much better time, Mr. McIntyre.”

  Chapter 8

  Timmy double-checked his position as they came over the border, accelerating to stay on the dotted line the computer provided. The flight indicators were all in the green; every system aboard the aircraft was working the way the manuals said it should. Timmy’s aircraft could have been used to benchmark the fleet.

  Which meant everything was boring as shit. Timmy had no doubt they’d nail those suckers if they came up, but he did seriously doubt they’d make their play. The intel people were always — always — overaggressive. They never saw one threat where they could imagine three or four.

  More than likely, they’d be orbiting up here for twelve hours straight, back and forth, twiddling their thumbs. He was already feeling a little tired.

  Wait until tomorrow, he thought. He kicked himself for not bringing the MP3 jukebox. He’d left it on the bench when Howe saw it and frowned. Mandatory flight equipment from now on.

  The colonel had always been the serious type. He was a good pilot, a good leader — a warfighter with scalps on his belt. But serious, very serious.

  Losing Cyclops One and Bird Two had hit him pretty hard. He’d been hung up on York; that was obvious.

  Pretty quiet about it. Timmy didn’t figure she was a traitor — they’d probably find her and the others smacked against a mountain any day now — but it still was a lot of shit to take.

  Keep him awake, though. The pilot clicked the computer to look at his fuel matrix, then put his eyes back on the synthetic view hologram, set at max magnification.

  * * *

  Howe was just reaching the end of the patrol area when the radar picked up two contacts coming hot out of the north, about 122 miles away. Relatively small and moving fast, the two aircraft were either F-16s or Super-7s. Built with Chinese help, the S-7s were multipurpose fighters roughly comparable to early-model F-16s.

  The computer placed the two contacts in the far end of the outer circle in the main tactical display, too far away to show on the HUD hologram. There were three circles, which represented a hierarchy of threats: Anything in the outer ring could be tracked by the F/A-22V, but was not yet close enough to be targeted; the middle ring represented aircraft that could be targeted without detection; the inner ring or bull’s-eye represented aircraft whose sensors were definitely capable of seeing the F/A-22V, though of course combat conditions (and active and passive jammers) might prevent the enemy from actually acquiring or locking on the plane.

  “Bogeys,” Howe told his wingman.

  “Yeah,” said Timmy. The contacts had been shared through the IFDL and appeared simultaneously on the displays of both aircraft. Nonetheless, standard procedure called for the pilots to alert each other to the new contacts, maintaining situation awareness.

  “Turning,” said Howe.

  “Two,” acknowledged Timmy.

  The Pakistani planes were still flying in a straight line south toward the border. It was possible they were intending to cross over and take out the Indian AEW plane, though much more likely they were meant either as an answer to its launch or were even oblivious to it and flying a training mission.

  The Velociraptor’s sensors sniffed out a burst of energy that matched the signature of a Phazotron radar from the airplanes. That allowed the system to positively ID the planes as S-7s and gave the artificial intelligence-based tactics section something to work with as it presented its pilot with a variety of options for attack.

  They were roughly fifteen minutes away from an intercept, unless they went to afterburners, and even then they probably wouldn’t be able to find the F/A-22Vs unless they had a way to home in on the radars.

  “They don’t see us,” said Timmy.

  “No, they don’t.”

  “What do we do if they find the helicopters?”

  “Let them shoot them down,” said Howe. His orders had been explicit on that point. It was far better for the Pakistanis to do the heavy lifting on their own, without U.S. help.

  “I’m getting a contact south,” said Timmy, “in grid alpha-alpha-two. Fighters. MiG-29s. Four of them.”

  “I see it,” said Howe.

  “Four more aircraft. This may be it.”

  “No, it’s a diversion,” said Howe. “It’s out of the target area. Stay on track.”

  “Looks real to me: Sukhoi-30s, four of them — eight! Attack package, and these motherfuckers are moving.”

  Chapter 9

  There was a bright side to all of this, McIntyre thought to himself as the helicopter hurled itself through the looming shadows of the mountains: He had done his job very, very well. He now knew exactly what the Indians were up to.

  Well, not exactly. He assumed they were going after a radar site, though there were any number of other possibilities. He guessed he’d find out fairly soon, however.

  Unless they decided to dump him out the door of the helicopter before they got to where they were going. That might not even be such a terrible option, since they weren’t all that high — maybe only six or seven feet over the ground. If they threw him out now, it would be more like falling from a train than an airplane.

  Assuming the train was moving at two hundred miles an hour.

  The captain had taken his phones, but what galled him was having to hand over his wallet. What the hell — did the bastard plan on stopping at an ATM along the way?

  The Russian-made Mil Mi-26 tilted on its axis. McIntyre slid on the bench, grabbing for the metal at the bottom of his seat to steady himself. The helicopter was relatively large. The two dozen troops inside it filled only about half of the bench seats. The other helicopter looked to have roughly the same number of men.

  McIntyre glanced sideways toward the captain who had forced him aboard. He’d strangle the bastard with his bare hands, then kick his face black and blue.

  Next lifetime, maybe.

  Chapter 10

  Howe put the HUD hologram to max mag to watch the Pakistani S-7s as they altered their course and began tracking toward the Indian MiGs. There was no way they could have seen the aircraft with their own radars; if they knew they were there, the planes must have been picked up by one of the ground-based early-warning units farther west.

  That told him this had to be a diversion.

  He was tempted, sorely tempted, to radio the Pakistani fighters and tell them what was going on.

  Two more fighters took off fr
om a base near Lahore, these ID’d by the AWACS as F-16s. Their flight path ran in a direct line toward Howe’s.

  Ground defense radars were spiking up all across Pakistan. The Indian MiGs, meanwhile, kept coming north, though they were still a good distance from the border.

  Howe reminded himself the helicopters were the real prize. This was a diversion: It was going to happen soon.

  “Indian MiGs are ten minutes from the border,” said Timmy.

  “They’re not the story.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Eyes, those Pakistani F-16s — do they have a target?” Howe asked the AWACS.

  “Negative as far as we can tell here.”

  “They don’t know about the MiGs?”

  “Not sure, Colonel,” answered the controller. “Uh, we’re — Hold on: fresh contacts.”

  The controller gave Howe fresh data: A pair of Mirage IIIs were taking off from a base farther north and coming south.

  “Hell of a picnic,” said Timmy. “Are they putting everything they have in the air, or what?”

  “Colonel, be advised, the Pakistani flights may be following routine patrol patterns,” said the AWACS supervisor, stepping in. “They tweak each other regularly.”

  Howe acknowledged.

  “What do we do if those MiGs don’t turn back?” asked Timmy.

  “You’re going to have to follow them while I concentrate on the helicopter,” said Howe. While the Indian planes were out of range to attack Cyclops Two, they could in theory get much closer by juicing their afterburners. There were four F-15s guarding the laser plane, but Howe wasn’t about to lose it.

  “PAF aircraft don’t seem to be going after the Indians,” said Timmy. “What’s up with that?”

  Howe guessed that the various aircraft were playing chicken. If the Indians went over the border and used their weapons, the Pakistani Air Force planes would as well.

  “Hold on: MiGs, all Indian planes, are turning,” said Timmy. “They were just looking for attention.”

  The S-7s remained on course for a minute longer, turning away just shy of the Indian border. So did the F-16s.

  This all fit, Howe realized. The Indians had launched a flight that was sure to be picked up. That would not only decoy the Pakistanis but get them used to the idea that the crazy Indians always did this if they happened to find the real attack package a little while later. At the same time they probably knew what the Pakistanis had as reserves: He guessed there would be a window of opportunity as these planes returned to base; the PAF simply wasn’t big enough to keep launching aircraft all night.

  If he was right, the helicopters ought to be closing in.

  So where were they?

  There, right there: 122 miles south, just coming north near the border area east of Gurais.

  “Bird One to Cyclops. I have your target approaching the southeast corner of box alpha-alpha-three. Advise me whether you can arrange a shot.”

  “Cyclops Two acknowledges contacts,” answered the pilot. “They’re about two minutes from our target area at their present course and speed.” There was a pause. “We’re moving in to set up a better shot.”

  Howe hesitated before acknowledging. The closer Cyclops got to the border area, the more vulnerable it became.

  The F-15s, not wanting to attract attention, were flying to the northwest but could close the gap in a heartbeat. So could he, for that matter.

  One SAM missile — one freak shot from a Pakistani aircraft that thought the lumbering American 767 was an attacker — and he’d have lost his third jet.

  Cyclops Two could fend for itself. Nothing could touch it. Nothing.

  “Go for it,” he said finally.

  * * *

  Timmy had just turned back east to close the gap between him and Howe when the audible warning on his radar alerted him to fresh contacts: four MiG-27s, much lower to the ground and flying out of the south. They were slewing into a combat trail; this must be the attack package the helicopter attack was going to prepare the way for.

  “Bird One, we have four — whoa, wait up, six, eight aircraft. Looks like they’re saddling up for an attack, probably going to follow that helo strike in,” Timmy told Howe.

  “One.”

  “I can take them down, boss,” Timmy added.

  “Negative,” replied Howe. “Keep track of them. If they get close to the border and it looks like they’ll make it through, then we’ll let Cyclops Two nail ’em.”

  “Two. Just saying I’m ready if things don’t go according to plan.” Timmy adjusted his course slightly, edging a little southward so that when they swung back to the west, he’d still have the MiGs close enough to take in a quick dash.

  It’d be over in about thirty seconds. The basic MiG-27 design dated to the 1960’s; it was essentially a ground-attack version of the MiG-23. The Indians had upgraded the design with avionics that allowed for night and all-weather attacks; they’d also improved the power plant. But it was still a relatively slow aircraft with limited radar — easy pickings for the Velociraptor.

  The radar continued to track the eight aircraft, watching them as they slipped into a mountain pass. The HUD hologram had them as small dots that shone through the hulking mountains, as if the plane had X-ray eyes and could see through the rocks. The helicopters, meanwhile, were hugging the valley, approaching the border, and just now entering range for the laser weapon nearly three hundred miles away.

  “Stand by for Cyclops firing,” warned Howe.

  As Timmy pressed the mike button to acknowledge, a new contact blipped onto the far edge of his tactical screen, a green-hued cluster of mismatched pixels. The computer tagged it as a large, unknown aircraft flying at 45,000 feet, identity unknown. Too slow for a bomber, the plane’s profile was similar to that of the AEW aircraft India had launched earlier — except that it seemed to be flying in from the coast.

  “Somebody’s coming to watch the show,” he told Howe. “That one of ours?”

  “Unknown,” said Howe. “Probably an airliner.”

  They’d briefed the scheduled airliners and routes, and Timmy knew without looking that it wasn’t on the sheet.

  “Eyes on the prize,” added Howe before he could point that out. “Cyclops is thirty seconds to target point.”

  * * *

  Howe checked his position, waiting now for the crew on the laser plane to confirm they were ready to fire. It was exactly like the war game exercise they’d run a year ago — except that time was with Megan.

  The bitch. He’d strangle her.

  Unless she was already dead. Then he’d simply mourn her forever.

  “Cyclops Two to Mission Leader,” said the laser plane’s pilot, contacting Howe. “Permission to engage.”

  “Engage,” said Howe.

  Chapter 11

  Captain Jalil checked his watch. They were within five seconds of their schedule — nearly perfect. The operation was moving along as easily as any of the practice runs.

  Ideally, he’d find a Pakistani weapon to kill the American with, then take the body back. The story would be easily concocted: They were on a routine patrol, showing the American the dangers, when firing began.

  The man would end up being a hero to his people. The irony brought a smile to Jalil’s lips.

  Would he feel good when he shot the first Muslim?

  Yes. It would feel very, very good.

  * * *

  McIntyre coughed, then worked his tongue toward the back of his mouth. It felt as if something were lodged there, or as if the junction of his throat and mouth had been lined with cardboard — disintegrating cardboard. He coughed again, shook his head.

  “Could I have some water?” he asked, looking toward the Indian captain.

  He coughed again. The captain hadn’t heard him over the whine of the engines.

  “Water?” asked McIntyre, getting up. He had to put his tied hands up against the racks at the top of the cabin area to keep his balance in the helicopter, w
hich danced left and right as it moved through the rugged terrain.

  “Water?” he said to Jalil. He tried to clear his throat, holding his Adam’s apple with his fingers.

  Jalil looked up at him as if he didn’t understand.

  “Water,” said McIntyre. As he let go of the rack to gesture with his hands, he felt his anger building up suddenly. He fought an urge to start pummeling the bastard.

  Then he thought to himself: Why not? He’s going to kill me anyway.

  “Water,” he said.

  Something cracked at the top of the helicopter. McIntyre was thrown sideways as something long and hard smacked the side of his right calf. There was an explosion and a shout behind him, and in the next instant he felt himself tumbling into purgatory.

  * * *

  For one bewildering second, Captain Jalil thought he was six years old again, a child in his village, back on the day when his mother was killed.

  Except that this time he was in the house, and the flames were grabbing for his clothes. He tried to beat them back with his hands, fight them off, but they were too fierce.

  Escape!he screamed at himself.Escape!

  Then he realized he was not six years old. Anger sprang from the center of his chest. He would avenge himself against the Muslim bastards. He would have the full revenge he was entitled to.

  “Yes,” whispered a voice in his ear. He recognized it as his mother’s.

  Jalil turned to see her but found only blackness.

  Chapter 12

  “They’ve fired,” the weapons operator reported. “Two targets down.”

  “Are they still tracking?” Megan asked.

  “The radars are all active.”

  She pushed her eyes across the instrument panel, forcing her thoughts away from Tom. He’d be out there, thinking about her.

  That should have been her, firing the weapon.