“I know, I tried to talk him out of it,” he said, shaking his head, “but you know you fighter pilot types, there’s no middle ground.”
“I hope he gets out of there quick,” Elvis said as he banked the helicopter low over the sugar cane fields toward the ocean. “If the Cuban Army gets to him first, it won’t matter.”
As the helicopter rolled out, Carpenter rushed to hold down Marcus, who was having a seizure.
“He’s seizing! He’s going into shock!” Carpenter yelled.
“We’ll be in Key West in forty five minutes,” Browning said from the left seat. “Let’s hope they can both hang on long enough to make it.”
* * *
Spectre stood facing the reason he was in Cuba in the first place. The man had taken his fiancée from him, convinced her to steal an F-16, and nearly had him killed by Muslim terrorists. Spectre wanted nothing more than to crush the life out of him slowly and painfully.
But Spectre didn’t have time. He knew the Cuban Army was rapidly approaching his position, and the thought of spending the rest of his life in a filthy Cuban jail was not worth extracting revenge on the knife-wielding piece of human excrement.
Victor shifted his weight as he prepared to attack. He rotated the blade around in his hand as he advanced, switching from a blade-up grip to a blade-down grip. Time seemed to slow down for Spectre as Victor lunged forward at him, trying to swing the blade across his body in a slicing motion. He was clearly aiming for Spectre’s neck with the goal of slashing his throat first and then following up with a fatal stab to the back of the neck.
After years of Krav Maga training, Spectre’s reaction was instinctive. His body moved instantly, blocking Victor with his left hand to stop the knife. He quickly closed the distance between them as his open right hand shot up to strike Victor in the face, sending fingers in both eyes to blind him. It was part of the mantra his Sensei had always drilled home to him in training – attack your attacker, and always hit the face. A finger in the eye is nearly always effective.
As Victor sent his left hand up to his eyes in response to the eye gouge, Spectre side stepped toward Victor’s extended arm. He kicked low through Victor’s right knee, tearing the tendons and ligaments as the man’s fully extended knee buckled.
Using his right hand, Spectre grabbed Victor’s right hand and swept it over his head, stepping behind the falling Victor and forcing Victor to stab himself in the side with his own knife. As he forced the knife as far as it would go, Spectre stepped back, allowing Victor to collapse as he gasped for air amidst his screams of pain.
“Who are you?” Victor said as he choked on his own blood.
“I was her fiancé, motherfucker,” Spectre replied, kicking Victor in the head before turning toward the F-16.
Spectre grabbed the harness and his rifle and headed toward the jet. With no room inside for the rifle, Spectre unchambered the round and ejected the magazine, putting it back in his vest. He tossed the rifle next to Ling’s lifeless body and attempted to put on the harness.
It was a snug fit even after significant adjustments, but it would do for the hour flight back to Homestead. Spectre raced up the ladder and climbed into the jet. He stood on the seat and turned, tossing the ladder to the side before shimmying down into the seat.
He grabbed Chloe’s helmet and oxygen mask off the canopy rail and put it on. It was also a snug fit, but it was much better than the harness. He wasn’t sure why he let Carpenter talk him into wearing it. He didn’t plan on ejecting.
Spectre flipped on the battery switch on his left side as he finished strapping in. The Electronic Engine Management LCD powered on, giving him a digital read out for the engine on a display above his right knee. He found the Jet Fuel Starter switch and flipped it to JFS START 2. So far, so good, Spectre thought. All the switches were exactly as they were five years ago, even if the displays were completely new. The newer block F-16 hadn’t changed the basics.
As the JFS whirred to life, Spectre watched the electronic readout of Engine RPM as it climbed through eighteen percent and up to twenty. He couldn’t quite remember the operating limits, but guessed that twenty percent would be enough and rotated the throttle around the idle-cutoff position to initiate the main turbine start. He was just relieved the JFS accumulators were charged.
As the main engine RPM rose, Spectre lowered the canopy. As it reached idle, the main generator came online and Spectre lowered the seat and flipped the Fire Control Computer and Stores Management Computer switches to the ON position.
The screens flashed ZEROIZED across the screen as they booted up. Spectre cursed under his breath as he cleared the display. He at least had gun symbology if he needed it, but the jet would give him no indications if he were being locked onto by another aircraft and the radar would only work in its basic modes. He hoped he wouldn’t need any of it.
Spectre turned on the Embedded GPS/Inertial Navigation System and moments later, the Head Up Display and navigation systems were online. He was ready to taxi. He had no idea how to set up any of the new weapons systems, but everything looked pretty familiar. The engineers had managed to keep the same interfaces while giving the jet enhanced capabilities.
His heart raced as he advanced the throttle and the jet rolled forward. He clicked on the nose wheel steering on the side stick with his right index finger and taxied the jet out of the hangar. He looked back. He could see Victor lying in his own blood as a group of soldiers flooded into the hangar. He advanced the throttle past eighty percent, knocking a few of them down with the big General Electric engine as they tried to take cover from the exhaust.
As Spectre taxied out of the hangar, he made a right on the ramp toward the taxiway. As Spectre passed the parallel taxiway, he saw the men running out toward his position, firing small arms in his direction. He advanced the throttle as he turned onto south-facing runway and selected the afterburner.
The familiar kick in the pants of the afterburner lighting gave Spectre goose bumps. It had been so long, but he felt right at home. It was like being back with an old friend. As the jet lifted off the runway, Spectre raised the gear and made a hard turn to the north.
Despite all that he had been through in the last couple of weeks, he felt strangely at peace with the world. He was back where he belonged. He was home again.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Five Miles Off the Coast of Cuba
“Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! We’re being engaged by two MiGs!” the voice said on the emergency frequency of 243.0. It was the only frequency Spectre could monitor since all of the channelized frequencies had been erased by the MASTER ZEROIZE function.
Spectre was still climbing through ten thousand feet when he heard the call. His stomach turned as he recognized the voice. It was Elvis. The Cuban Air Force must have launched two fighters to intercept them when the Army showed up at the airfield.
“Elvis, it’s Spectre, what’s your posit?” Spectre said, keying the radio to ask Elvis his position.
“Spectre! Jesus Christ! You made it!” Elvis screamed over the radio. “We’re being attacked by a flight of two Fulcrums. I’m not sure how much longer we can evade. We’re about 20 miles off the coast right over the water.”
Spectre pulled up his radar on his attack displays. Limited to the basic modes, he wasn’t sure how much help it would be. He hoped it would be enough to get a lock. He put his cursors over the position in front of him and leveled off. He picked up two bricks on the radar screen and locked them. He wasn’t sure which was which, but he was certain, based on the radar’s reported airspeed of the targets, that he had found the location.
“I’m radar contact. I’m on my way,” Spectre said. He checked his fuel. He was down to 6500 pounds. He had enough gas to get to the fight, but a prolonged fight would run him out of fuel pretty quickly. Right now it didn’t matter, though. His friends were in trouble and, to Spectre, saving them was all that mattered.
Spectre reached forward with his left hand and
pressed the emergency jettison button. The jet rocked as the two 370 gallon fuel tanks were jettisoned from the aircraft. They were empty anyway and would only hinder the maneuverability for the coming fight.
Spectre kept the throttle at military power as the jet rocketed through 500 knots. Without the tanks, it was relatively clean and accelerated effortlessly. As he neared the fight, he tried to find the aircraft through the Heads Up Display. Chloe’s helmet had been just big enough to fit, but the Helmet Mounted Cueing System was completely unusable. It was better that way anyway. He had no idea how to even get the thing to turn on or align.
“Tally two,” Spectre said as he picked up the two MiG-29 Fulcrums. At ten thousand feet, he was still five thousand feet above their altitude as they set up a racetrack pattern around the slow helicopter and were attempting to strafe it with their guns as Elvis banked and maneuvered to avoid their shots.
“We can’t keep this up, Spectre!” Elvis screamed. “They almost hit us the last pass, and we’ve got to get to a hospital for Marcus and Chloe!”
“Copy that,” Spectre replied as he rolled the jet on its back. As he pulled to point at the circling MiG-29, the realization hit him that he would have no G-force protection without the G-suit. The 9-G capable F-16 would be limited to whatever his body could withstand before he blacked out as the G-forces caused his blood to pool in his feet. His veins were pumping with adrenaline. He hoped it would be enough.
Spectre flipped the thumb switch on the throttle up to select the Dogfight mode and then moved the MASTER ARM switch to ARM with his left hand. He was glad he armed the gun on the ground. It was the only thing between the MiG-29 and his buddies.
As the lead MiG-29 rolled in on the helicopter, Spectre rolled in behind his wingman who was a few miles in trail. The second MiG noticed him and broke from the formation as the lead MiG made another unsuccessful attempt to strafe the maneuvering helicopter.
Spectre followed the second MiG through the hard left hand turn, using every muscle in his lower body to strain as the G-forces increased. His vision grayed slightly, but he was able to maintain sight of the MiG as it executed the left hand break turn and ejected self-protection flares.
With the MiG in a level turn, Spectre selected full afterburner and climbed. The MiG continued his level turn as Spectre gained vertical turning room in his climb. It was enough to give Spectre the angles to turn back in and end up in the MiG’s control zone- a few thousand feet behind him with no ability to maneuver out of Spectre’s sights.
Spectre lined up the jet’s computed gun reticle on the massive twin engine, twin tail fighter as it continued its turn. Once he was in range, he squeezed the trigger for a second, sending one hundred rounds through the center of the jet’s fuselage, creating a fireball as the jet broke apart, and the unspent jet fuel ignited.
Spectre broke away from the fireball to avoid ingesting the debris into the F-16’s massive intake. He started searching for the other MiG. He had gotten so fixated on shooting the second MiG that he had neglected to keep sight of the first.
“Spectre, lead MiG is on you!” Elvis warned. “We’re bugging out.”
Spectre snapped his head back to look over his shoulder. He picked up the massive MiG-29 behind him maneuvering into a weapons employment zone.
Spectre executed a loaded barrel roll as he ripped the throttle to idle and extended the speed brakes. His goal was to get out of plane and defeat the impending gunshot while trying to force the MiG pilot to overshoot. Bullets flew by as the jink successfully defeated the first volley of shots.
As the MiG pilot pitched his nose up, Spectre recovered from the roll just three thousand feet above the water. It was much lower than he had ever performed such a maneuver in training. They had always practiced using a five thousand foot training floor. Today, the water would be the floor.
With the MiG struggling to maintain his position behind him, Spectre reversed his turn hard into the MiG causing him to collapse the range even further. They were now inside a few hundred feet of each other. The MiG-29 dwarfed the tiny F-16 as they jockeyed for position.
The MiG pilot overshot, allowing Spectre to retract the speed brakes and select full afterburner. He had managed to go from defensive to neutral.
The two pilots entered a flat scissors as they swapped flight paths, each trying to maneuver behind the other. Each time they passed each other, they reversed the direction of their turn into each other. It was a game of who could out power and outmaneuver the other. For the moment, they were staying relatively neutral.
As Spectre continued, the thrust of the Block 70 was enough to gain him a slight advantage, putting him behind the MiG-29 as they both climbed to try to stop their forward track across the ground. Once satisfied he had enough room, Spectre extended his speed brakes and deselected afterburner to descend without losing the ability to control the nose.
As his nose sliced through the MiG-29, he tried to get a fleeting gunshot, only to have the symbology in the Heads Up Display disappear as he ran out of bullets. His only option was to fight the MiG pilot until one of them ran out of gas, or hope he could cause him to run into the water.
Spectre checked his fuel momentarily as the MiG continued to squirm its way out of his sights. He had enough fuel left to fight for another minute before he wouldn’t have enough to make it back home. He just hoped it was enough time for Elvis and the Blackhawk to get away.
As the two jets climbed through five thousand feet, the MiG pilot surprised Spectre when he rolled inverted and pulled into a split-S. Spectre started to follow, but as he saw the rapidly approaching water, shallowed out into a sliceback instead of a pure vertical split-s, allowing the brave MiG-29 pilot to go from defensive to neutral just feet off the churning Atlantic below.
As the MiG turned back for a head-to-head pass, Spectre saw a white plume of smoke as the pilot launched an air-to-air missile at his F-16.
Spectre ripped the throttle to idle and attempted to roll the jet around the missile’s flight path to cause an overshoot as it screamed by. With such a short range, the missile had been unable to guide or fuse on his jet, but it had been enough to cause him to lose valuable energy at low altitude. The MiG was now offensive again, and Spectre had less than thirty seconds of fighting fuel left before he wouldn’t have enough to make it to American soil.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Alert Facility
Homestead ARB, FL
Major Scott “Batman” Bane was on his fourth hour of Computer Based Training when the Klaxon sounded. He had just finished his Air Force mandated Sexual Assault Prevention training and was moving on to Cultural Sensitivity training when they got the call in the fifth hour of their twenty-four hour alert shift.
“Scramble, Scramble, Scramble,” the voice on the loudspeaker said.
Batman grabbed his Common Access Card ID from the computer and headed for the door of the large recreation room as his wingman, Captain George “Tuna” Turner, put down his turkey sandwich and followed suit.
The two ran to their respective F-15 Eagles as their crew chiefs hustled to prepare the jets. Within minutes, they were both started and taxiing out onto the alert ramp located on the north end of the thirteen thousand foot runway.
Batman keyed the radio, checked in his wingman, and pushed the flight to the secure frequency for the Southeastern Air Defense Sector responsible for their tasking. After authenticating, the controller gave them their instructions.
“Sentry One-One, investigate Unknown Rider 180/95, possible Fulcrum,” the female controller said, indicating an unknown aircraft was approaching the Air Defense Identification Zone without the appropriate flight plan, communications, or transponder codes.
“Confirm Fulcrum?” Batman asked as he scribbled the information onto his kneeboard data card.
“Sentry One-One, affirm, we’ve also received a distress call from the vicinity,” the controller replied.
Batman switched the flight to the tower frequency and was
cleared for an immediate takeoff. Once the two F-15s were rejoined and on the way, they were handed off to the tactical controller.
“Hunter, Sentry One-One checking in passing one five thousand,” Batman said as they sped south toward the targeted area.
“Hunter copies, furball BRAA 190/80, 5000, four contacts, bogey,” the male controller replied indicating that there was a group of unknown aircraft fighting eighty miles south of their position.
“Sentry One-One,” Batman responded on their primary radio.
As they continued toward the last known location of the aircraft, Batman used his radar to search for the contacts. When they were within forty miles, he started to make out four radar contacts on his screen.
“Sentry One-One, radar contact 180/38, 5000, Hunter, declare,” he said, attempting to get an identification of the group.
“Hunter unable, group 180/38 bogey,” the controller replied.
“Confirm strength?” Batman replied. He could make out four aircraft in a tight orbit over the point. They were maneuvering within a few miles of each other.
“Strength four,” the controller replied, indicating there were four contacts in the group.
Batman shook his head. If there were really four Fulcrums headed toward the US Mainland, he and his wingman were in for a bigger fight than they had prepared for, especially if they had to get in close and get visual identifications.
“One contact appears to be low and slow, possible helicopter,” the controller added.
That made sense to Batman, given that they had been informed of a possible mayday call on guard earlier.
“Ok, Two, we’ll bracket the group at ten miles for the ID,” Batman said on the auxiliary radio.
“Two,” Tuna responded as he flew a mile line abreast from Batman.
At fifteen miles, Batman descended to ten thousand feet. He could see one of the contacts separating at low altitude as the other three orbited on his radar screen. He looked out the canopy below to visually pick up the fight through his Joint Helmet Mounted Cueing System visor. He could see three dots maneuvering over the water as the sun was rising, but couldn’t make out a type.
Spectre Rising Page 26
