by Dale Brown
“How close is the Cheli?”
“Their nearest Flighthawk is still ten minutes off.”
Ten more minutes. Englehardt worked his tongue around his mouth, trying to generate a little more moisture for his throat.
“They’re dropping off,” said Sullivan.
For a moment Englehardt felt relieved. The Indians must be low on fuel by now, he thought, and were backing off and going home.
Then he realized that wasn’t the case at all.
“Evasive maneuvers. Give me flares!” he shouted, a second before the missile-launch warning buzzed on the cockpit dash.
STARSHIP WAS JUST ZEROING IN ON A CLUSTER OF SMALL arms f lashes at the landing zone when the Megafortress seemed to plunge beneath him. He kept his hand steady, staying with his target and ignoring the urge to jump back into Hawk Two and battle the MiGs.
The key thing to remember when you’re flying two planes, Zen always said, is to finish one thing at a time.
Zen.
Starship lit the Flighthawk’s cannon. The ground in front of the aircraft began to percolate, dirt and rocks erupting from the landscape as the bullets hit. He gently wagged the stick back and forth, stirring the mixture of lead and rock into a veritable tornado.
He let off on the trigger and pulled up. He didn’t see any more tracers from the ground. If there were more guerrillas there, they’d taken cover.
“Hawk One orbit at 15,000 after targets are destroyed,” he told the computer. “Danny, landing zone is as clean as it’s going to get.”
ENGLEHARDT PUSHED HARD ON THE STICK, THROWING HIS whole body against it. The Megafortress twisted herself hard to comply, jerking to the right and pulling her nose up.
Between the sharp maneuvers and the cascading decoys exploding behind the plane, the heat-seeking missiles the MiGs had fired flew by harmlessly, exploding more than two miles away.
Now it was his turn.
His turn. His brain stuttered, as if it were an electrical switch with contacts that weren’t quite clicking.
“Stinger air mines,” he said. “Sullivan?”
“Targets out of range.”
“Fuck.”
Everyone on the circuit seemed to be hyperventilating. Englehardt turned his eyes toward the sitrep screen on the lower left portion of his dash. His position was marked out in the center—where were the Flighthawks and the MiGs?
A tremendous fireball flared in the corner of the windscreen—a partial answer to his question.
STARSHIP BROUGHT UP THE MAIN SCREEN OF HAWK TWO just in time to see the robot turn away from the MiG it had destroyed.
“Good work, dude,” he told the computer. “I’ll take it from here.”
The second MiG had turned to the east after firing its missiles. Now about twenty miles from the Megafortress, it was banking through a turn that would leave it in position to launch its AMRAAMskis.
“Bandit Two is getting into position to attack,” said Starship over the interphone. “I’m not going to be able to close the gap before he fires.”
“Bennett,” acknowledged Englehardt. Even with the one-word reply, his voice had a tremble to it.
“You want me to get him or are you going to use the Anacondas?” prompted Starship.
“He’s ours,” said Sullivan, the copilot.
“Yeah, we got him,” said Englehardt. “Anacondas. Take him, Kevin.”
Near the Chinese-Pakistani border
2350
JENNIFER GLEASON SNUGGED HER BULLETPROOF VEST tighter as Danny and the Marines fanned out from the Osprey. Automatic rifle fire rattled over the loud hush of the rotating propellers. She had a 9mm Beretta handgun in her belt, and certainly knew how to use it. But she also knew that it wasn’t likely to be very effective except as a last resort.
She wasn’t scared, but standing in the bay of the aircraft with no way of making a real contribution made her feel almost helpless. A single Marine corporal had stayed behind with her, guarding the defused warhead; everyone else was taking on the guerrillas outside.
A bullet or maybe a rock splinter tinged against the side of the Osprey. Jennifer jumped involuntarily, then put her hand on the pistol.
Two or three minutes passed without anything else happening. No longer hearing any gunfire, she took a step toward the door.
The Marine caught her shirt. “Excuse me, miss. The captain said you are to stay inside until he gives the OK.”
“It’s safe.”
The corporal frowned. “Sorry, ma’am. His orders.”
“Would you go outside?”
“Not the question.”
“Well what the fuck is the question?”
The Marine frowned but didn’t let go. He swung his other hand up and pushed the boom mike for his radio closer to his mouth. Jennifer folded her arms, waiting while the corporal called for permission.
“Captain says proceed with caution.”
“Caution is my middle name,” said Jennifer. She rushed down the ramp and curled behind the aircraft, staying low. She could see clusters of Marines on both the left and right; they were standing upright.
Jennifer trotted across the rock-strewn field of scrub and dirt, heading toward a jagged piece of metal that stood straight up from what looked like a dented garbage can. She knelt near the damaged missile part; it looked as if it were part of one of the oxidizer tanks located at the top of the weapon just under the warhead section.
“Where’s Captain Freah?” she asked a nearby Marine.
“That way.” He pointed across the field in the direction of the two trucks destroyed by the Flighthawk. “Careful, ma’am. We’re still mopping up. Those suckers were hiding in the rocks and grass.”
“I’ll be careful.”
Jennifer began walking across the moon-lit field, the grass and weeds gray in the light. There were pieces of metal strewn on the ground. Bits of wire and paper and plastic were bunched like fistfuls of confetti dumped by bystanders grown tired of waiting for the parade to pass. She caught a whiff of burnt metal and vinyl from one of the trucks that was still smoldering up ahead.
She found Danny near one of the trucks.
“Where’s the warhead?”
“That way. Hang on a second—one of the Marines thinks he saw some movement up near those rocks. We’re checking it out.”
A guerrilla lay perhaps twelve feet away, his torso riddled with bullets. Jennifer stared at it, waiting while Danny talked to other members of the team.
“All right,” he said finally. “But you stay next to me.”
“I intend to.”
“By the way—the corporal’s mike was open in the Osprey,” added Danny. “Anybody ever tell you you curse like a Marine?”
“Most people say worse.”
Aboard Dreamland Bennett,
over the Chinese-Indian border
2355
THIRTY SECONDS AFTER THE ANACONDAS LEFT THE BENNETT’S belly, the MiG launched its own missiles. Englehardt had anticipated this and turned the plane away, hoping to “beam” the radar guiding the missiles.
“ECMs,” he told Sullivan.
“They’re on. Missiles are tracking.”
“Chaff. Stand by for evasive maneuvers.”
He put the Megafortress on her wingtip, swooping and sliding and dropping away, just barely in control. He pushed back in the opposite direction and got a high g warning from the computer, which complained that the aircraft was being pushed beyond its design limits. Englehardt didn’t let off, however, and the airplane came hard right.
There was a loud boom behind him. A caution light popped on the dash. For a moment he thought they’d been hit. Then he realized that engine one had experienced a compressor surge or stall because of the change in the air flow rushing through it.
The compressor banged, then surged a second time. Easing off on the stick, he reached to the throttle, prepared to drop his power if the engine didn’t restart and settle down on its own.
“Missile one is by us,” said Sulli
van.
Englehardt concentrated on his power plant. The exhaust gas temperatures jolted up, but the power came back. He babied the throttle, moving his power down and steadying the aircraft.
“Splash the MiG!” said Sullivan as their Anaconda hit home. “Splash that mother!”
Englehardt felt his pulse starting to return to normal. He slid the throttle glide for engine one up cautiously, keeping his eye on the readouts. The engine’s temperatures and pressures were back in line with its sisters’; it seemed no worse for wear.
“What happened to that second missile the MiG fired?” he asked Sullivan.
“Off the scope near the mountains,” said the copilot. “No threat.”
“Rager, what’s near us?” Englehardt asked. His voice squeaked, but it didn’t seem as bad as earlier.
“Sky is clear south,” answered the airborne radar operator.
“Starship, what’s your situation?” Englehardt asked.
“Hawk Two is a mile off your tail. Hawk One is orbiting the recovery area. Both aircraft could use some more fuel.”
So could the Megafortress, Englehardt realized.
“Cheli, this is Bennett. What’s your position?”
“Our Flighthawks are just reaching the recovery area,” said the Cheli’s captain, Brad Sparks. “We’re right behind the little guys.”
“All right. I have to tank. We’re heading out.”
“Roger that. Word to the wise—the Indians have been powering up their radars all night. We ducked one on the way to the Marine site. I wouldn’t be surprised if their missiles are back on line.”
An atoll off the Indian coast
Time and date unknown
THE NIGHT DRIFTED ON, MELTING AWAY EVERYTHING BUT Zen’s stoic shell. His thirst, his anger, all feeling and emotion vanished as the hours twisted. He woke, and yet still seemed to be sleeping. As if in a dream, he pushed himself up on his arms and crawled from the tent, cold, an animal seeking only to survive.
He’d strapped his gun to his belt before going to sleep. It dragged and clung against the rocks as he moved, part of him now. He reached the remains of the driftwood where he’d made the fire the other night and pushed up, sitting and staring at the darkness.
There was a plane in the distance.
Zen took a slow, measured breath.
The aircraft was very far away.
He took another breath, yogalike, then leaned back and took the radio from the tent.
“Major Stockard to any aircraft. Dreamland Levitow crew broadcasting to any aircraft.”
He stopped, pushed the earphone into his ear mechanically. All he heard was static.
Why even bother?
Zen set the radio down. He pulled himself farther down the beach, staring at the edge of the ocean and the way the reflected moonlight on the tip of the waves seemed to grab at the air, as if trying to climb upward.
It was a vain attempt, a waste, but they kept trying.
If only I had that strength, he thought, continuing to stare.
Aboard Dreamland Bennett,
over India
0015, 19 January 1998
STARSHIP WAS JUST ABOUT TO TURN HAWK TWO OVER TO the computer for the refuel when the Bennett’s radar officer warned of a new flight of Indian jets, this one coming at them from east.
“MiG-21s. Four of them. Coming from Hindan,” said Sergeant Rager.
The MiG-21s were somewhat outdated, and certainly less capable than the planes they’d just dealt with. But they couldn’t be ignored either.
“What do you want to do, Bennett?” Starship asked.
“Continue the refuel,” said Englehardt. “I think we can tank one of the U/MFs before we need to deal with them.”
“Roger that,” said Starship, surprised that the pilot sounded confident, or at least more assured than he had earlier.
Starship set up the refuel, then turned the aircraft over to the computer. He swung Hawk One toward Bennett’s left wing, then began pushing in so it could sip from the rear fuel boom as soon as its brother was done.
“Radar warning,” said Sullivan. “We have a SAM site up—SA-2s, dead ahead.”
Now things are going to get interesting, thought Starship, checking on Hawk Two’s status.
ENGLEHARDT FELT THE BLACK COWL SLIP BACK OVER THE edges of his vision. The Bennett was about three minutes from the antiaircraft missile battery.
Three minutes to decide what to do.
Plenty of time not to panic, though his heart was pounding again and his stomach punching him from inside.
The MiGs behind him complicated his options. He didn’t want to go in their direction anyway—he wanted to get to the coast. But turning south to avoid the SAMs might make it easier for them to catch up.
So? Use the Anacondas on them.
Hell, he could use the Anacondas against the SAMs.
His orders were to attempt to avoid conflict. But he’d already been fired on. Did that give him carte blanche? Or was the fact that he was no longer protecting the ground units rule, meaning he should do what he could to get away.
The first. Definitely.
God, he was thinking too much. What was he going to do?
“All right, let’s skirt the SAM site,” Englehardt said. “Turn to bearing one-eight—”
“If we go south, not only will we go closer to the MiGs but we’ll have more batteries to deal with,” said Sullivan, cutting him off. “There are a dozen south of that SA-2 site.”
“I know that,” said Englehardt sharply. “Just do what I say.”
In the silent moments that followed, he wished he’d been a little calmer when he responded. But it was out there, and apologizing wasn’t going to help anything. They set a new course; he moved to it, staying just on the edge of the SA-2s’ effective range.
What if they fire anyway? he wondered. What do I do then?
And as the thought formed in his brain, he got a launch warning on his control panel—the SAMs had been fired.
Near the Chinese-Pakistani border
0015
THE FIRST THING JENNIFER THOUGHT WAS THAT THE WARHEAD section had broken into pieces when it landed, and that the bomb had somehow managed to bounce away from the conical nose and the metal superstructure that held it above the propellant section. But as she stared at the wreckage, she realized that couldn’t be the case—there were cut screws on the ground, and the pieces of metal had been torched and hacked away.
She looked back for Danny Freah and waved to him.
“Somebody took the warhead,” she told him when he ran up. “It’s gone.”
“You’re sure?”
“They hacked it out. Look. See?”
“All right, look—the Cheli says there are Chinese helicopters headed in our direction. We have to get out of here, quick.”
“I want to take some of the electronic controls from the engines,” said Jennifer. “There’s some circuitry that they left behind. And pictures of the missile and damage. It’ll only take a minute.”
“You have only until the Marines start pulling back. Keep your head down.”
“Will do.”
Aboard Dreamland Bennett,
over India
0019
“COUNTERMEASURES,” ENGLEHARDT TOLD HIS COPILOT AS the SA-2s climbed toward the Bennett.
“Already on it.”
“OK, OK.” Englehardt pushed his stick left, instinctively widening the distance between his aircraft and the missiles coming for him.
“MiGs are going to afterburners,” said Rager, monitoring the airplanes that were chasing them at the airborne radar station.
The MiGs had pulled to seventy-five miles from the Megafortress. Englehardt realized that they probably intended on firing medium-range radar missiles as soon as possible—in roughly two minutes, he calculated.
Huge amounts of time, if he kept his head. He’d be by the SA-2s by then and could cut back east as he planned.
God, did this never e
nd? It was twenty, thirty times worse than a simulation. His brain felt as if it were frying.
“Stay on course,” he said aloud, though he was actually speaking to himself.
“You want me to target those MiGs with the Anacondas?” asked Sullivan.
“I have a feeling we’re going to need them when we get toward the coast,” Englehardt said. “Better warn the Cheli and Danny Freah that we’re attracting a lot of attention. They may get the same treatment.”
“Mobile missile site up! Akash missiles,” said Sullivan.
Unlike the SA-2, the Akash was a modern missile system guided by a difficult-to-defeat multifunctional radar. Developed as both a ground and air-launched missile, it could strike targets at two meters and 18,000 meters, and everything in between. But because its range was limited to about thirty kilometers, or roughly nineteen miles, Englehardt knew he could get away from it simply by turning to the west.
But that would bring him closer to the MiG-21s.
Which would be easier to deal with, the planes or the missiles?
The MiGs, he decided, starting the turn.
“Mike, what are we doing?” asked Sullivan.
“We’re going to avoid the Akash battery.”
“They haven’t launched.”
“Neither have the MiGs.”
“Sooner or later we’re going to have to deal with some of these bastards,” said Sullivan. “And we’re getting farther from where we want to go. We have to get out over the water.”
“I am dealing with them,” snapped Englehardt.
He pulled back on the stick, aiming to take the Megafortress high enough so he wouldn’t have to worry about any more Akash sites.
“Starship—Flighthawk leader. Set up an intercept on those MiGs,” said Englehardt. He was angry now; he felt his ears getting hot.
“I still have to tank Hawk One,” said Starship. “They’ll be in range to launch before I can get to them.”
“Do it now, then tank.”
STARSHIP CURLED HAWK ONE AWAY FROM THE MEGAFORTRESS, then unhooked Hawk Two from the refueling probe, its tanks about seven-eighths full. The EB-52’s maneuvers to avoid the radar were becoming so severe that he couldn’t have continued with the refuel anyway.
