by Dale Brown
“Negative, negative, Flighthawk—we’re ordered to disengage.”
“What do you mean? Run away!”
“Yeah, well, those are my orders. Stay with me. Do not attack.”
Mack jerked the control stick to the right so hard the aircraft took almost eight g’s, skidding through the sky as it tried to follow his instructions.
BREANNA CONTINUED TO STEW AS SHE HELD THE MEGAFORTRESS on the course north, tracking toward the Pakistani coast. To allow a civilian ship to be fired on was unconscionable.
But so was disobeying a lawful order from a superior.
Zen would say screw it. Zen would say you do what you gotta do, and deal with fallout later.
And her father?
He wouldn’t have handed her off to Storm if he didn’t think she should do what he said. They were under Captain Gale’s command.
“We’re going back south,” she told her copilot. “Open the bay doors. Maybe we can bluff them.”
“But—”
“We’re not firing,” added Breanna. She punched up the weapons panel, activating the AMRAAM-plus Scorpion missiles’ radar herself. “I have the weapons screen on my station. Hawk Three—we’re changing course. Keep an eye on those Sukhois.”
“Now you’re talking, Breanna.”
“Hang on,” she said, pulling the Megafortress south.
THE SUKHOIS HAD TURNED BACK WEST WHEN THE MEGAFORTRESS went north, and were slow to react as it swung back. By the time they turned to meet the Megafortress, Mack already had Hawk Three on a dead run at the leader’s nose.
As he closed to within a mile, the Sukhoi’s radar finally found him. But that was far too late. The Indian pilot threw flares and electronic chaff in the air, probably mistaking the radar indication or the blur speeding toward him for a missile. He also inexplicably jerked his plane in Mack’s direction, perhaps panicking in his sudden haste to get away. The move would have been fatal had Mack been allowed to fire his cannon; the Sukhoi presented a fat target, and even a quick burst would have riddled the fuselage with bullets.
Instead, Mack went after the second Sukhoi, five thousand feet below and a mile southwest of his leader. Jamming his stick in that direction, he managed to skid through a turn and point the U/MF’s nose at the bogey. Here was one advantage of flying a robot plane: The aircraft took somewhere over nine g’s in the maneuver, which would have scrambled the brain of anyone sitting inside, even Mack’s. C3 used the entire airfoil as a brake, pitching the airplane’s tail up and then spinning onto the course like a knuckleball floating toward the plate.
And here was one disadvantage of flying a robot plane: Mack got a disconnect warning from the computer. He was eighteen miles away from the Megafortress, and would disconnect in five seconds if he didn’t get closer.
“Twenty, twenty, I’m supposed to have twenty miles,” he grumbled. Hoping the computer was just being conservative, he stayed on his course toward the Indian aircraft.
“Disconnect in three seconds,” said the computer.
Cursing, Mack pushed the stick in the direction of the Megafortress to the east, but it was too late; the main screen went white and black letters appeared at the center: CONNECTION LOST.
TO JAN STEWART, IT SEEMED AS IF SOMEONE HAD HIT THE fast-forward switch on the world. Icons on her configurable screens popped up in rapid succession. She no sooner interpreted one and began to act on it when two more flashed on the other side of the dashboard. The radar operators were jabbering in her ears, and she was also trying to listen to the radio channel used by the Indian pilots as well.
“Flighthawk is no longer under direct control,” she told Breanna. “Uh—on course to return.”
“Roger that.”
“You want to launch the second one?” asked Stewart.
“No time. It’ll be back inside a minute anyway if we’re still on this course. Hail the Indians again and tell them not to attack.”
“I’ve tried. They’re not acknowledging us at all.”
“Where are the helos?”
Stewart looked at the sitrep screen but couldn’t find them. She start to change the zoom but her brain froze; she couldn’t remember how to do it, even though it was something she did maybe ten times an hour on a normal flight.
“Shit!” said Breanna.
“Don’t yell at me,” snapped Stewart, but as she raised her eyes from the screens to the windscreen, she realized Breanna hadn’t been cursing at her at all—a black-rimmed fireball rose from the oil tanker ahead.
They were too late.
Aboard the Shiva,
northern Arabian Sea
0436
WHEN MEMON REACHED THE BRIDGE, HE FOUND ADMIRAL Kala receiving a report from the air commander. Two of the jets patrolling above the tanker they were stopping had encountered an American aircraft, probably a B-52. They believed they had been fired upon without warning.
Memon was shocked by the report. While the United States was not technically a military ally, the two countries had many economic and diplomatic ties. This was a betrayal of the worst sort.
“The aircraft is now flying back in the direction of our helicopters,” added the air commander. “It is acting in a hostile manner.”
“What happened to the plane that was fired on?”
“The missile flew close to one of our aircraft but he was able to avoid it. There were no radar guidance indications—the situation is unclear to me.”
“Shoot them down,” said Memon. “They’ve provoked it.”
The air commander turned to him. “Shoot down an American plane?”
“We were fired at first, Admiral,” he said, making his plea directly to Kala. “We have a right defend ourselves.”
“Warn them to leave,” said the admiral. “If they do not, shoot them down. They are a danger to the Shiva, as well as the boarding force.”
Aboard the Levitow,
over the northern Arabian Sea
0436
MACK SMACKED THE BUTTON TO CHANGE THE SCREEN CONFIGURATION. The view from the Megafortress’s forward television camera snapped onto his main screen. A red tongue of fire filled the lower left-hand corner.
“They hit the oil tanker,” said Ensign English next to him.
“Looks like it.”
“The Flighthawk disconnected?”
Mack turned to her, ready to tell her to mind her own business. But the puzzled look on her face stopped him.
“Yeah, the intercept took me too far away after the Megafortress changed course.”
“Sucks.”
“Yeah.”
“It’ll come back, though, right? It’s programmed to fall back into trail?”
“Yuppers.” The Megafortress’s latest maneuvers had increased the distance between it and the Flighthawk; C3 predicted it would be another four minutes before it could catch up if the EB-52 stayed on its present course and speed.
“The Indian aircraft carrier is preparing to launch more aircraft,” English added. “I’ll bet they’re going to launch another set of fighters and send the ones providing air cover over the ship to intercept us. The ones you chased away were equipped for surface combat, not air-to-air. They only had two short-range missiles.”
“How do you know they’re going to launch?” asked Mack.
“They’re maneuvering to get into the wind. They don’t know what they’re doing yet,” added English. “Their procedures are awkward. The ship is still brand new and they’re learning. They also may not be as well-equipped as we are. Things we take for granted, they’re working through.”
“Yeah, I can understand that,” said Mack, tapping his fingers against the still useless control stick.
BREANNA BANKED INTO A TURN TO THE WEST, ANGRY WITH herself for flying north and then taking so long to change her mind. She’d accomplished absolutely nothing.
The tanker was on fire and the crew was abandoning ship. The Sukhois that had chased them earlier were about thirty-five miles to the northeast, at t
he border of Pakistani territory. One of the two planes patrolling over the Indian carrier was moving northward in their direction.
“ID weapons on that Su-33 coming for us,” she told Stewart.
“Uh—”
“Heat-seekers only or AMRAAMskis?”
“No weapons radar for—”
“Go to weapon query mode,” said Breanna. “The W3 button at the left side of the screen. Box the target, then tap the button.”
“Heat-seekers,” said Stewart. “Four AA-11s. That’s it.”
“Levitow, this is Flighthawk leader. Bree, we have to launch the second Flighthawk.”
“Negative, Mack. Colonel Bastian said you’re only supposed to fly one at a time.”
“Hawk Three is not under my control. It’ll be four minutes before it’ll catch up to us. The Indian aircraft carrier is getting ready to launch more planes; I say we launch Hawk Four.”
“If we launch it now, it’ll stay up for the entire flight.”
“We need to launch,” insisted Mack. “I’ll let the computer fly it,” he added in a calmer voice. “Come on.”
“Stand by.”
Breanna looked at the sitrep plot. At their present course and speed, Hawk Three would catch up with them three and a half minutes from now; by then the Sukhoi would be all over them. Any maneuvering she did would delay the Flighthawk even longer, unless she went back in the direction of the other Indian airplanes.
No brainer.
“Jan, we’re going to launch the second Flighthawk,” she told her copilot. “Emergency launch.”
“OK,” said Stewart. “Single aircraft taking off from the Indian carrier.”
MACK LET THE COMPUTER RUN THROUGH THE ABBREVIATED takeoff checklist, watching the screens flash by. The Megafortress tilted and swung upward, the Flighthawk powering away.
A single Flanker was accelerating from the southeast, pedal to the metal. What Mack wanted to do was swing back and intercept him before he launched his missiles. If everyone else had been standing still this would be a difficult task, but with all three planes moving well over 500 knots, the calculus was tortuous. And Mack didn’t want to chance losing another aircraft.
The tactics section of C3 studied its library of similar situations and suggested a basic intercept scheme. With no time to argue, Mack tapped the screen, accepting the computer’s suggestion as a template for his plan.
“Flighthawk leader to Levitow—Bree, I’m going to shoot this sucker down.”
“Orders are still no.”
“Bullshit. He’ll fire those heat-seekers as soon as he’s in range.”
“Mack—”
“I don’t feel like walking home.”
“We’ll take him with the Stinger air mines.”
“He can fire from five miles out, long before the Stinger can target him.”
Breanna hesitated.
“If he doesn’t break off in sixty seconds, take him,” she said abruptly. “As you attack, we’ll cut north.”
“Roger that.”
Aboard the Wisconsin,
near Somalia
0436
THE WISCONSIN WAS MORE THAN A THOUSAND MILES AWAY from the Levitow, so there was no possibility of seeing it, even with the powerful array of radars in the aircraft. But Dog sensed things weren’t going well—Breanna hadn’t checked back with him since their earlier communication.
“Dreamland Wisconsin to Dreamland Levitow,” he said, using the Dreamland communications channel. “Breanna, what’s your situation?”
“We’re being pursued by a hostile Indian aircraft,” she said. Her helmeted face appeared on the com screen. “We’re going to shoot him down if he doesn’t break off.”
“I thought you were ordered to get out of there.”
“We’re trying, Daddy. But at this point I don’t think we have any other options.”
The word Daddy caught him off guard; he felt a flash of emotion he couldn’t afford in a combat situation.
“Do what you think best,” Dog told her.
“I am.”
Her image lingered on the screen. Dog stared at it for a moment, then hit one of the presets to contact Storm.
Aboard the Levitow,
over the northern Arabian Sea
0440
STEWART TRIED THE HAIL AGAIN, THIS TIME SIMULTANEOUSLY broadcasting on all radio frequencies the Indians were known to use.
“Dreamland Levitow to Indian flight pursuing us. We will consider you hostile if you continue on your present course. This is your last warning.”
She waited for thirty seconds. Something blipped on the right screen—a fresh radar contact.
“Nothing, Captain,” she told Breanna. “Another aircraft is taking off from the carrier.”
MACK DIPPED HIS WING AT THE EXACT MOMENT HE GOT THE cue from the computer. The Flighthawk peeled down and away from the Megafortress, arcing back toward the approaching Sukhoi. The Indian was seven miles away, technically within range to fire the Russian-made air-to-air missiles; the closer he got, the better his odds of a hit. Mack activated the weapon screen; a gray bar across the center of his main view told him he had no shot.
“Flighthawk leader, this is Levitow,” said Breanna.
“Don’t try and talk me out of this, Bree. You know I’m right.”
“Flighthawk leader, you are ordered to engage the plane pursuing us and take it down. It has refused to answer hails. It poses an imminent threat to my plane and crew.”
About time you got religion, Mack thought.
“Flighthawk leader, please acknowledge for the record,” she added.
“Trying to get me off the hook later on, huh?”
“Please acknowledge for the record.”
“We’re all in this together, hon. Now watch me write my name in this asshole’s front end.”
Mack pushed his stick forward. The targeting bar began blinking yellow, even though the enemy aircraft was not yet in sight. The triangular aim cue at the center of the bar began blinking red, and Mack pressed the trigger. As he did, the Sukhoi flew in from the right side of the screen. His first few shots missed, but the next dozen or so blew through the nose and then the cobraesque cowl that led to the forward edge of the wing.
In an instant Mack was beyond the Sukhoi. He turned back to the west, trying to find both the Megafortress and the aircraft he’d just shot at.
He saw the Sukhoi first, its outline synthesized at the left of his screen. It was moving away, but still moving—he hadn’t taken it down.
How the hell could that be?
The Megafortress, which was supposed to have turned north after he made his attack so he could sweep in behind her, was still moving west. Before he could ask her about it, Stewart gave him a direction to cut to a western course. Breanna followed with an explanation.
“Hawk Four, the plane that took off from the aircraft carrier has activated radar indicating AA-12 AMRAAMskis. We want to get as much air between us as we can. Catch up to me.”
“All right, yeah,” said Mack, pushing the throttle slide to max.
THE FLANKER THAT HAD TAKEN OFF FROM THE CARRIER HAD AT least two Russian-made Vympell R-77 air-to-air missiles, better known in the West as the AA-12 Adder, or, more colloquially, an “AMRAAMski.” The weapon was the best non-American-made air-to-air missile in the world at medium range. Very similar to the American AMRAAM for which it had been nicknamed, it could strike another airplane at about forty nautical miles in a head-on confrontation; from the rear its effective range was roughly a third of that, depending on the speed and ability of the plane it was chasing.
Breanna had about forty nautical miles between her and the aircraft, but her advantage was quickly diminishing. And she had to worry not only about the Su-33 that Mack had just tangled with—the plane was moving southwest, its status unclear—but the two jets that had gone north earlier. They’d changed course again and were now headed in her direction.
“Broadcast another warning to the Indian
s,” Breanna told her copilot. “Tell them that if they take any more aggressive action, we will shoot them down.”
“Working on it.”
Breanna glanced at the sitrep. “Mack, you have to catch up to me.”
“I’m at max power.”
“Bogey Four is forty miles and gaining,” said Stewart. “That’s the one with the AMRAAMskis.”
“ECMs.”
“Countermeasures,” said Stewart, confirming that she had begun filling the air with fuzz and fake signals. Though state of the art, the electronic countermeasures employed by the Megafortress did not make it invulnerable to radar-guided missiles, which had a number of techniques of their own to see through the haze. Breanna’s basic strategy at the moment was to make it more difficult for the Indian aircraft to lock onto her and fire, essentially playing for time. In the best-case scenario, her pursuer would give up or receive orders from the aircraft carrier to return.
It didn’t look like that was going to happen.
Bogey Four was closing the gap at roughly five miles a minute; Breanna decided her best defense was an aggressive offense.
“Mack, I’m going to swing south and try for a nose-to-nose attack.”
“You’re going to take on the fighter?”
“I’m going to get into a position to fire the Scorpions. You cut east as I make the turn and catch those two bozos coming down from the north.”
Mack didn’t answer right away. Breanna guessed that he was having trouble translating what she wanted to do into a plan; the Flighthawk’s twenty-mile tether complicated everything.
“Yeah, roger. I got it,” he said finally.
“Hawk Three will come under your control about the time I’m going to fire the AMRAAMs. Stay with Hawk Four—the computer will bring her close to me and we’ll be all right.”
“Yeah, yeah, OK.”
“No, Mack—do as I’m telling you.”
“Jeez, relax, will you? I got it.”
“Stewart, you got that?” said Breanna, turning to her copilot.
“It’s ‘In Your Face,’” said the copilot, using the slang for a simulation exercise that followed the same attack pattern on a long-range pursuer.
