Final Flight jg-2

by Stephen Coonts

  Jake reset the radio switches so he could transmit on the second radio. “Buckshot, Red Ace. Get your watch officer and put him on the horn.”

  The Tomcat was in burner, accelerating through Mach 1.4 when the watch officer came on the radio.

  “Buckshot, this is Captain Jake Grafton. Please notify Sixth Fleet ASAP that Colonel Qazi and the weapons are probably in the Red Cross flight your controller has tracked. We are on course to intercept now. Got it?”

  “Yessir. But what—”

  “Just send the message. Red Ace out.”

  * * *

  Someone was there. Qazi opened his eyes. It was El Hakim, livid, trembling with fury. “679 93 62. That is the telephone number of the Israeli embassy in Rome. Tripoli confirms it. That was the number! How did you know it?”

  “I called it.”

  “Traitor!” The dictator’s lips drew back in a sneer and he threw back his head, his favorite gesture. “You are lying. Hypocrite!”

  “You have the weapons,” Qazi said carefully. “Fly to Benghazi. The fighters are late. It’s suicidal to continue to remain out here over the ocean with the Americans soon to be swarming and the Israelis on the alert. Madness. Go to Benghazi and announce your triumph. The Arabs will come to you like iron to a magnet.”

  “I am the Messenger, returned to lead my people from the godless ways, to purify them—”

  A member of the flight crew stuck his head through the door. “Excellency, the fighters are joining us with their tanker. We have them in sight.”

  “East. Now!” He turned back to Qazi, nostrils flaring. “My mission has just begun. The unbelievers shall fall before our swords—”

  “Inshallah,” Qazi said softly, fiercely. “If Allah wills it.” El Hakim was mad, of course. The ruler was a small, foolish, hollow man whose ambition and appetite had long ago won control of his soul. Ashes. Qazi’s plan was ashes. He had wanted so much to give these people hope and a future, and yet this vainglorious petty tyrant was the man who ruled them. “If the Israelis don’t shoot you down,” Qazi muttered, suddenly laden with fatigue. “If the Americans don’t strike you down. If Allah doesn’t destroy you as an abomination.”

  El Hakim seized the Uzi of the bodyguard who stood on his right, but the weapon was on a strap over the man’s right shoulder. The ruler pulled at it, trying to rip it from the strap.

  “Excellency, American fighters! The ECM! They are here!”

  The ruler struggled with the gun as the bodyguard tried to pull the strap from his shoulder so he could pass the weapon.

  “No!” It was Noora. She leaned across El Hakim and grabbed for the gun. “No! We are pressurized. The pressure—”

  Qazi was so tired. He raised the pistol from his lap and pointed it at the window beside him and pulled the trigger. The report was loud. A hole appeared in the crazed glass, then cracks as the scream of the escaping air dropped in pitch. Then the glass exploded outward.

  * * *

  The sun was well above the horizon now, an hour and ten minutes after launch. High above was a thin cirrus layer, but it would not soften the strength of the sun for at least an hour. The air was clear, visibility perfect, and Jake and Toad sat in the middle of it under their bubble canopy. The wings were swept full aft, sixty-eight degrees. The two men rode on the tip of this flat arrowhead.

  Toad was busy with the radar and computer. He gave Jake a running commentary. “Six targets, two large and four small…. We can shoot anytime.” They were well within range of the two Phoenix missiles slung under the belly, million-dollar super-missiles with a maximum head-on range of over a hundred miles. Yet Jake had to be sure; he would not shoot until fired upon. “I figure,” Toad said, “that we have no more than another minute in burner before we have to bug out for Sigonella on a max-range profile.” Jake eyed the fuel. Maybe not even that.

  Forty miles out Jake pushed the throttles forward to the stops. His speed crept up to Mach 1.9. He lowered the nose and selected the two Phoenix missiles on his armament panel.

  “The little guys are turning our way. Fighters, most likely. Nice rate of turn. They’re accelerating toward us.”

  The ECM beeped. Jake eyed it. A J-band warning from straight ahead. MiG-23s? If so, they were armed with guns and short-range missiles.

  He checked the TCS. Toad had it locked on a fighter; a small dot with lines for wings. A head-on picture.

  “Twenty-six miles. They’re over Mach 1, forming a line abreast.” The Tomcat was in a slight descent, passing 32,000 feet, speed Mach 2.1. The planes were closing at over 2,000 knots, a mile every two seconds. They would come together in less than a minute.

  “Where are the big planes?” Jake asked.

  “Proceeding east, range fifty-four now.”

  “Don’t lose them.”

  The tone from the ECM gear rose in pitch. One or more of the enemy fighters had switched to a higher pulse repetition frequency, trying to track him. These guys are gonna shoot!

  “Mother of God,” Toad breathed. “Fifteen miles. Phoenix is fire and forget.” It would go with an active radar, illuminating its own target and steering itself to it.

  The display in front of Jake had the targets numbered in the order of priority, one through four. Even as he glanced at it, Toad shouted, “Missiles inbound. Two.”

  Jake squeezed the trigger on the stick. The first Phoenix left in a blaze of fire. It would go after the target with the highest priority.

  He punched the chaff button on the right throttle four times in quick succession with his left thumb and looked outside. A thin smoke trail on a downward vector slightly left marked the Phoenix’ path.

  The defensive countermeasures system was on automatic repeat; it should defeat the incoming missiles. He squeezed off more chaff while looking outside, trying to catch a glimpse of the oncoming machines and missiles in this age of superspeed war in the sky.

  “Incoming’s gonna miss us … Phoenix tracking … Bull’seye!”

  The large planes were shown on the display as targets five and six, now separating. Jake turned fifteen degrees left to intercept.

  Out of the corner of his eye he caught a planform view of a sweptwing fighter turning hard, vapor pouring off the wingtips as the pilot pulled maximum G. Even as the sight registered on Jake’s brain, he was by and gone, through the formation and hurling onward, nose still down a couple of degrees, Mach 2.2 on the airspeed indicator.

  When the MiGs completed their turn they would fire more missiles, since it would be impossible to overtake him in a tail chase.

  “Quick, the second Phoenix on that guy ahead turning south.” There was no time to spare. The nuclear weapons had to be in one of those two airplanes, and a missile from the MiGs might come up their tailpipe any second.

  “Locked on,” Toad reported. “You can shoot!”

  Jake squeezed off the last Phoenix. It, too, departed in a blaze of fire and was gone in a few heartbeats, accelerating to Mach 4 and climbing as it sought its target forty miles away.

  “We’re at bingo fuel,” Toad said.

  * * *

  When the window blew out, Qazi was blinded by the dirt and trash that filled the air. His seat belt and handcuffs saved him. Eyes shut, he fought the hurricane that tried to rip him from the seat and hurl him bodily through the window.

  And then the hurricane subsided, although the noise level remained unbelievably high. He opened his eyes and looked around. El Hakim was gone, as was the guard. Noora was lying on the floor at his feet, her head at an odd angle and her skirt up around her waist.

  He became aware of a painful ache in his ears. And the plane was descending, its left wing down steeply. The wind coming in the empty window socket was very cold.

  His hands were numb and blood oozed around the handcuffs where they had cut his wrists. He fumbled with the seat belt and got the buckle unfastened and used the pistol on the chain of the cuffs that held him to the arm of the seat. When he stood he swayed uncertainly, the pain in h
is ears still severe. He stepped carefully over Noora’s naked legs.

  Jarvis was still in his seat. Apparently he had had his seat belt fastened. He looked at Qazi terror-stricken as the aircraft continued its downward plunge. The pain in Qazi’s ears was lessening, but he was beginning to feel light-headed. How high had the plane been?

  El Hakim’s second bodyguard, who had been in the rear cargo bay with the weapons, came staggering through the door. Qazi shot him. He stumbled before he reached the fallen man and had to crawl toward him. The man was still alive. Qazi shot him in the head this time and seized the Uzi.

  He lay there by the body gasping. His vision was coming back. And the wing of the plane seemed to be rising. He could feel the Gs pressing him toward the floor as the pilots fought to pull out of their uncontrolled descent.

  When the Gs subsided, he pulled himself erect and went forward toward the cockpit, steadying himself with the seat backs as he proceeded. Jarvis was cowering in his seat, still gasping for air.

  He still had a chance. He would make the pilots fly to Benghazi. Once there he could put together a coalition of colonels to take over the government. It could be done. The professional soldiers had loathed and feared El Hakim and would not be sorry to see him gone. Nor would they spurn the opportunity to rule. Then all of this would not have been in vain.

  * * *

  The radar in the nose of the last Phoenix missile went active when the missile was still fifteen miles from the Il-76 at which it had been fired. This was the aerial tanker which had accompanied the MiGs from Benghazi and whose pilot had decided to return there forthwith when informed that the MiGs’ electronic countermeasures equipment had detected the emissions of an F-14’s radar. The Phoenix’ small radar transmitted its signal and picked up the returning echo, and the computer sent digital signals to the canards, positioning them. This process was repeated several thousand times a second as the missile closed its target.

  The missile smashed though the Ilyushin’s fuselage just under the starboard wing root, at the point where the returning echo had been strongest, and was halfway through the port side of the fuselage when the warhead detonated. The shrapnel from the exploding 132-pound warhead severed the main spar of the port wing, among other things, and the wing immediately separated from the aircraft. The large plane began to roll violently as the nose fell through to the vertical. Then the starboard wing tore off under the tremendous stress. Seconds later the tail ripped away. Rolling slowly now and streaming fire, the remainder of the fuselage continued its four-mile plunge toward the sunlit, glistening sea.

  Jake Grafton went for the remaining Il-76, now only twentytwo miles away, but low, only 8,000 feet or so. It was turning southward, toward the land. Great, he would be there that much sooner. He lowered the right wing and altered course to intercept.

  He had used chaff to help the DECM foil the three missiles hurled after him by the MiG-23 Floggers behind. Not even a near miss. They were hopelessly behind now and would be out of the play if he could drop this Ilyushin on the first pass. Then he would turn north and fight his way toward Greece. He wouldn’t make it, of course; he didn’t have enough fuel. But he could get away from Africa and out over the main shipping lanes before he and Toad punched out. Maybe they could even find a freighter or oil tanker to eject alongside. But that was in the future. First he had to drop this transport. And fast. Only 5,000 pounds of fuel remaining. He eased the throttles back out of burner.

  He would come in from the rear stern-quarter and pour shells in at the Vulcan cannon’s maximum rate of fire, over a hundred shells a second. That should do it and then some. Automatically he fingered the switches and checked the display on the Air-Combat Maneuvering panel immediately under the heads-up display. Guns selected!

  “More MiGs. Two. They were masked in the transport’s return. Dead ahead. Now turning, one left and one right.” Toad swore.

  The symbols were on the scope and the heads-up display. But Jake had no more missiles. The tanker was moving from left to right, and one fighter was turning left away hard, probably intending a 270 degree turn. God, he was turning tightly; he must have the burner plugged in and the nose up, using the vertical plane. The other MiG had turned right and was already head-on to Jake. The ECM was beeping.

  Jake altered course to the right to approach him head-on. Down to 1.5 Mach. He looked through the heads-up display. The symbol was on him. There. Coming faster than thought. A flash. Missile!

  Chaff. The missile didn’t track. Going under.

  Jake put the pipper just short. He was aware of the fireballs from the MiG just as he pulled the trigger and eased the pipper up. A streak like lightning shot forward as the Vulcan cannon wound up to maximum rate-of-fire and the Tomcat vibrated. The MiG exploded. Jake jerked the stick aft as he released the trigger. He felt a thump. Something had hit the F-14.

  “Where’s the other guy?” he asked Toad as the Gs tore at him and he scanned the engine instruments and warning light panel. All okay.

  “High. Ten o’clock.” Right! Symbol on the heads-up display was there.

  Jake kept the stick back and the Tomcat’s nose climbing. He smoothly advanced the throttles and the burners kicked him in the back. There, he saw the high man.

  Jake was going up with the burners wide open, closing the gap on the MiG. He rolled, trying to pull his nose toward his opponent. The enemy pilot dumped his nose, twisting away, his burner lit and his energy level still high. Jake neutralized the stick and pulled the throttles aft, out of burner. He still had a speed advantage and was closing, but he was closing too fast to get the nose around. He opened the speed brakes, the big slabs that came out from the top and bottom of the fuselage between the twin vertical tails. The MiG was going out the left side. Boards in, burners lit, roll and pull hard, get that nose around….

  “We gotta get this guy quick, CAG,” Toad prompted, straining against the G to get his words out. As if Jake needed a reminder. The fighter pilot’s imperative was never more urgent — go in fast and kill fast. He was running out of gas and there were three more MiGs coming this way supersonic and the Ilyushin was escaping. This MiG pilot would win if he could just stay alive for a few more turns, a few more seconds.

  Now, he was behind the MiG, in its stern quadrant. Burners full open. The MiG’s nose was down, below the horizon, his tail white-hot. Oh for a Sidewinder … The MiG rolled hard right with G on. Jake slammed the stick over and followed, narrowing the distance, but the MiG was still above the plane of his gun. There, his left spoiler coming up and a max-rate roll left. Jake slammed the stick back left. Five Gs on, corkscrewing. The Tomcat had a better roll rate than the MiG, but the Mig pilot knew when he was going to roll.

  “This guy’s pretty fucking good, CAG,” Toad said. “But we ain’t got time to dance.”

  The Flogger’s nose was too high, so now the MiG pilot slammed the stick forward and he snapped below the plane of Jake’s gun. Too late Jake squeezed off a burst. Jake used forward stick to follow and the negative G threw him upward against his harness restraints. He was tempted to roll, but the instant he did the MiG would pull positive Gs and scissor away and the fight would be back to neutral.

  He jammed the stick full left and squeezed the trigger on the stick. The Tomcat spun 180 degrees about its longitudinal axis vomiting shells, and as it completed its roll Jake neutralized the stick with the trigger still down. The MiG tried to fly through the river of lead. It exploded.

  Stick back to avoid the expanding fireball. Roll toward Ilyushin, six Gs, get the nose up. Ten miles away. 2,500 pounds of fuel remaining. We can still get this guy!

  The ECM was chattering. The other MiGs were coming back.

  * * *

  Qazi stood in the cockpit of the Ilyushin behind the pilots. He felt a great calm. They would either make it or they wouldn’t. The pilots were nervous enough for everybody. They talked incessantly and craned their heads, trying to see behind them, and the copilot kept trying to bend the throttles
over the forward stop. They were headed southwest, toward Benghazi.

  He could hear the chatter of the MiG pilots over the loudspeaker. One lone American F-14. Qazi smiled wryly. It was probably Captain Grafton. I should have killed him and done a better job of destruction of the planes on the flight deck of the United States. Ah well, it went as Allah willed it. For all his professed piety and bombast, El Hakim had never understood that basic fact. A man must accept his fate; though he can use every ounce of brains and cunning he has in the interim, he must in the end submit.

  Qazi squatted and looked aft, through the door to the passenger module and beyond. Hard to believe this flying leviathan could be torn to shreds …

  He straightened and leaned against the bulkhead, listening. The MiGs had the American fighter on radar and were almost within range. Perhaps, just perhaps …

  * * *

  Jake put the pipper on the Il-76 and pulled the trigger. This would be a stern quartering deflection shot, from the starboard side. The gun spit a few shells, then went dead. Fuck! And it’s not empty! Over a hundred rounds remaining on the counter. Sonofabitch has jammed!

  He lifted the nose and flashed across the top of the transport.

  “The gun’s jammed,” he told Toad. “Pull your harness as tight as you can stand it.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?”

  “It means we’re going to ram the bastard.”

  “Like fucking shit we are. I’ll eject first. I’m not—”

  “Oh yes you fucking are, Tarkington, you asshole. We’re not blowing the canopy off until we’ve killed this guy. There ain’t no other way.”

  Jake was craning back over his right shoulder. He popped some more chaff. He was about three miles ahead now. He lowered the right wing and racked the plane into a six-G turn.

  “Jesus! You really mean it.”

  “Yep.”

  Toad struggled to talk above the G. “You’re one crazy son of a bitch, Grafton.”