“Eagle flight, this is Tinsel,” the senior controller aboard the E-3B AWACS replied, “your orders are verified. Permission to cross into Mazatlan Fighter Intercept Region sector one with live weapons on board has not been received. You must comply with International Aeronautics Organization chapter one- thirteen until permission to cross has been received.”
Harrell was livid. He had watched one of his best fighter pilots auger into the desert not two minutes earlier, and here he was sitting by while their target was escaping—and there was nothing between them but a lousy line on a map. Harrell made a decision—that line was not going to stop him.
“Copy, Tinsel,” Harrell said. “Understand permission received to cross into Mazatlan FIR sector one. Blue Flight and
Red Two and Three, report back to Goalie for refueling. Red Flight is turning right in pursuit. Eagle leader out.”
“Blue Flight copies,” the leader of the second group of two F-15S replied before the controller aboard Tinsel could interject. As Harrell banked right, those two F-15S maintained their heading northeast toward Goalie, their waiting KC-10 aerialrefueling tanker. But the two F-15S accompanying Harrell stayed in fingertip formation on their leader.
“Eagle Leader, this is Tinsel,” the angry voice of the senior controller aboard the AWACS finally said over the command radio. “I repeat, you are not authorized to cross the ADIZ. Turn left heading zero-three-zero and climb to—”
Harrell shut off the radio. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the F-15 on his left wingtip raise and lower his airbrake to get Harrell’s attention. The pilot extended two fingers ahead of him, visible to both Harrell and the third F-15. Harrell nodded that he understood the signal and switched his second radio to the scrambled Squadron-only frequency.
“I thought I ordered you characters to hook up with the tanker,” Harrell radioed.
“If you’ve got radio or navigation problems, sir,” the pilot of the second F-15, Lieutenant Colonel Downs, replied, “we wouldn’t leave you. If you’re going after that stolen fighter, we’re sure as hell not leaving your wing.”
“We are going after that guy, aren’t we?” the third pilot, Major Chan, asked. “I’d hate to think we’re gonna lose our wings for nothing.”
“Tinsel sounds pretty pissed,” Downs said. “Sure you want to do this, sir?”
“We’re doing it, aren’t we?” Harrell checked his heads-up display, which had been slaved to provide AWACS-generated steering signals to the stolen fighter. He was pleased to find the data-link still active. “I’ve still got a steer on the XF-34. Lead’s coming right ten degrees, descending to two thousand feet. Two, take the mid-patrol at six thousand; three, take the high CAP at twelve. Let’s waste this guy.”
“Two.”
“Three.”
The two wingmen began slow climbs to their assigned altitudes. Harrell began a descent, following DreamStar’s flight path. Moments later he received a soft beep in his headset telling him that one of his Scorpion missiles had followed the
AWACS’ data-link instructions and had locked onto it’s target. Harrell made sure his wingmen were clear, then radioed “Fox two” once on the Squadron-only frequency, and pressed the launch trigger . . .
Over northwest Mexico
The green “sky” surrounding DreamStar was still present, meaning that the AWACS was still tracking him, but Maraklov allowed himself a moment to relax. They had turned back. He had overestimated these reservist weekend-warrior fighter- jocks. They had a reputation for tenacity, for an itchy trigger finger, for not following the rules. These guys had more to lose.
Maraklov commanded a thousand-foot climb to pad his safe terrain-clearance altitude and began to retrim his engine from best-speed to best-endurance mode. There was still a chance he could make it. In best-endurance mode the fuel computer and autopilot would work together to step-climb the aircraft to take advantage of better flying conditions and greater endurance at higher altitudes, without wasting fuel in the—
He was startled by a sudden MISSILE LAUNCH indication from the tail sensor. Momentarily stunned into indecision, he called on ANTARES to execute an evasive maneuver.
Instead of diving for the ground ANTARES pitched DreamStar up in a hard climb, lit the afterburner, leveled out, then activated the attack radar. Instantly the radar image of Harrell’s F-15 appeared, dead ahead at five miles. ANTARES’ radar locked on and launched the last remaining AIM-120 missile at the lone pursuer. At only five miles and slightly above the F-15, the Scorpion missile did not miss. DreamStar then flew directly toward the flaming remains of Harrell’s F-15, dodging away right at the last moment. The moves were executed so quickly that Harrell’s Scorpion missile, which had dutifully followed DreamStar in its wild Immelmann maneuver, now locked onto Harrell’s flaming F-15 fighter and added its own destructive fury to the already doomed plane.
* * *
“Sweet mother of God . . .”
Downs banked left away from the blossoming fireball that erupted just below and in front of him. There were only a few seconds between when he left Harrell’s wing and when that fireball appeared. One moment his squadron commander was lined up for a perfect missile shot, at the closest possible range without getting into an inner-range warhead arming inhabit, the target straight and level in front of him; the next moment, the target had leapt into the sky, evaded the missile, turned and launched a missile of his own. Immediately after, Harrell was part of a cloud of metal and exploding fuel.
“Eagle Three, this is Two. Lead’s been hit. He’s going down—no ‘chute, no ‘chute . . .”
“I see him, Two, I see him . . . Jesus Christ . . .”
Downs took a firm grip on his stick and throttles. “I’ve got the lead. Take the mid CAP and follow me in. This bastard’s not getting—”
“Eagle flight, this is TINSEL on malibu”—malibu, FM frequency 660, was the Squadron’s discrete scrambled channel. Great, Downs thought, they found our so-called secret channel. “Eagle flight of two, we copy that Eagle Lead is down. Search and rescue has been notified. You are to return across the ADIZ immediately or you will be considered a hostile intruder. Acknowledge and comply. Over.”
“TINSEL, this is Eagle Two. That son of a bitch just shot down Colonel Harrell. Are you ordering us to let him go? Over.”
“We don’t have any damned choice, Downs.” It was a new voice on the radio—obviously the AWACS mission commander cutting in over the senior controller. “We can’t start a major international incident by ignoring the rules. You’ll get another shot at him when we get permission to cross. Now get your asses back over the border before you have to fight off the damned Mexican Air Force—and then you and I get to tangle. That’s an order from Air Division. Over.”
* * *
DreamStar was only a dozen feet above a rocky dry-river bed snaking through the Pinacate Mountains. Occasional radar sweeps showed the skies above him were clear, but that last attack was so sudden and so close that Maraklov kept DreamStar in the dirt to avoid any more sneak attacks. He stayed in the rugged mountains and dry desert valleys until he reached the fringes of the AWACS coverage zone, then slowly step-climbed out of the rocky terrain, being careful to stay under detectable radar emissions in the area. After a few minutes, as he cruised down the Magdalena River valley at five hundred feet, he was finally out of range of all American surveillance radars. The military radar nets from Hermosillo seventy miles south of his position were searching for him as well, but they were high-altitude-only surveillance radars and not capable of finding low-altitude aircraft. As he approached the northern foothills of the Sierra Madre Occidental mountains he was finally able to climb above ten thousand feet for the first time and reestablish best-endurance power.
Not time to celebrate, though. Maraklov was starting to search for places to crash-land DreamStar, taking seriously the fuel-endurance figures he was receiving. He was three hundred miles from Laguna de Santiaguillo with five thousand pounds of fuel. His best en
durance speed was only fifty-five percent of full power—idle power, barely enough to maintain altitude and control. He was at slightly over eleven thousand feet, which put him right at the minimum safe altitude for the region—he could see Cerro Chorreras, one of the highest peaks of the Sierra Madre, looming off to his right and looking like an impenetrable wall, a fist ready to reach out and pull him out of the sky.
He didn’t have the fuel to climb any higher; in fact, the best routine would command a descent soon to prevent DreamStar from stalling at such slow airspeeds. The high terrain would then force him further eastward toward the Mexican fighter base at Torreon only two hundred miles away. After successfully evading four squadrons of high-tech American fighters, Maraklov thought ruefully, he might end up dropping himself right into the very appreciative laps of the Mexican government.
ANTARES needed to search its own database for landing sites within range. Not easy. DreamStar was well within the Sierra Madre mountains now. Below were hundreds of grass- and-dirt strips—every plantation owner, every mining town, every timber mill, every drug dealer had his own airstrip. Most were simply cleared sections of land or dirt roads. Many were on high plateaus far from any usable roads or towns—if Kramer and Moffitt, his two KGB contacts from Los Angeles, were bringing a fuel truck it would take days for them to arrive.
After a few moments Maraklov was presented with a chart of north-central Mexico with landing-site choices depicted. He quickly discarded the unimproved runways of San Pablo Bal- leza and Rancho Las Aojuntas. Likewise the paved airport of Parral—the computerized chart showed the airport had a rotating beacon and even runway lights, which meant it probably was used by the militia or local police. Too active to maintain any secrecy.
The last choice seemed the best, a paved sixty-four-hundred- foot-long runway named Ojito. Detail of the runway showed it to be like the valley road nearby, which meant it probably was the road, just widened and strengthened some to serve as a runway. Several of such quasi-runways dotted central Mexico, where air access was occasionally desired but there wasn’t enough room to build an airport. Ojito was a hundred miles northwest of the original landing site, and in these rugged foothills that meant at least a four-hour wait.
Once that decision had been made, Maraklov commanded radio two to a special UHF frequency. “Kramer, this is Maraklov. Come in. Over.”
The radio crackled, and the pilot filtered out the noise, careful not to decrease the radio’s effective range. No response. He was over two hundred miles from Laguna de Santiaguillo. Maybe they wouldn’t be able to hear him in the mountains
“Maraklov, this is Kramer. We read you. Welcome, you made it.”
For the first time, Maraklov allowed himself to feel the exhilaration he’d not thought possible. “Kramer, listen. Change of plans. New runway is at grid coordinates kilo-victor-five-one- five, lima-alpha one-three-seven. Situation critical. Over.”
“We understand. We have been monitoring your progress. We are airborne and will meet you at your designated landing point. You are almost home. Kramer out.”
* * *
The official blue sedan screeched to a halt not four feet in front of Cheetah’s nose gear. General Elliott jumped up from behind the wheel, threw the door open and stood behind it, drawing a thumb across his throat. He looked mad enough to hold down Cheetah even if they used full afterburner. At the same time Hal Briggs got out of the passenger’s side, wearing a set of ear protectors, and holding aloft his Uzi submachine gun in an obvious warning. Patrick could see him shrug and shake his head. He had no doubt that Briggs would use that SMG on Cheetah’s tires.
“Shut ’em down, J.C.,” Patrick said.
J.C. muttered to himself as he touched the voice-interface switch on the stick. “Engine shutdown, power on.’’
“Engine shutdown. Brakes set External power on. Clear to scavenge, ” the computer replied.
“Clear to scavenge,” J.C. said. One by one the engines revved up to eighty percent power for ten seconds, then shut themselves down. Patrick did not shut down any of his equipment but left it on standby to have it ready when—or, looking at Elliott’s angry face, if— they received takeoff clearance. Soon the only noise left was the sound of the external power cart. Briggs holstered his Uzi as Elliott walked over to the crew ladder being put up on Cheetah’s left side, pushed Sergeant Ray Butler out of the way and painfully hauled himself up the ladder.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going? Have you gone crazy?”
“You know where I’m going,” McLanahan said quietly.
“You ordered this?”
“Yes.”
Elliott stared at Patrick, then at the external power cart and the screaming its turbine engine was making. “Shut that damned thing off.”
“Leave it on, Sergeant,” Patrick told Butler.
Elliott jabbed a finger first at Powell, then at McLanahan. “You, I knew you were crazy, but Patrick, you’ve gone round the bend. James steals a jet so you guys want to steal one too? All even up—?”
“Don’t give me that, General. Don’t tell me you don’t understand what I’m trying to do.”
“DreamStar is long gone, Patrick,” Elliott said. “It’s up to Air Defense to force it down or shoot it down. There’s nothing we can do—”
“Like hell, Brad. We’re gonna bring down that sonofabitch.”
The change that came over McLanahan was startling but somehow familiar. This was the McLanahan, “Mac” not Patrick, that he remembered from Bomb Comp and from the Old Dog mission eight years earlier—cocky, headstrong, defiant. All part of what had attracted him to the young navigator from the very beginning. The guy was also a pro. He knew it and everyone else knew it—he didn’t sugarcoat with politics or bravado or fake expertise. Some of that in his role as a project commander had been kept under wraps, but the crash of the Old Dog and seeing Wendy Tork—or rather as Hal had told him just moments ago, Wendy Tork McLanahan—lying halfdead in the ruins of the Megafortress, had transformed him back to what he’d always been . . .
“At max endurance the whole way he only had enough fuel on board to go as far as Mexico City,” McLanahan was saying. “With that max alpha takeoff he made, plus all that combat maneuvering, his range has to be much less. I say he’s gotta be on the ground somewhere ...”
“So what can you do about it?” Elliott asked. “If he’s on the ground—”
“Why steal DreamStar, knowing that he can fly for only a few hundred miles before he has to abandon it? Unless he’s getting help, unless he planned to fly DreamStar somewhere where it can be refueled. And the nearest place obviously is Mexico, where he was chased.”
“You don’t know that. What if he’s just flipped out? What if he just wanted to steal DreamStar for a damned joy ride? He’s gotten to be so close to that plane, he thinks he owns it.” “He shoots down the Megafortress for a joy ride?” “ANTARES could have attacked the B-52,” Powell broke in. “It’s possible for ANTARES to press an attack right after an evasive maneuver—as part of an evasive maneuver. It could have happened without James ever knowing about it—” “Look, all this argument isn’t getting us any closer to DreamStar,” McLanahan snapped. “Old Dog got shot down—it happened. James has got DreamStar, that’s a fact. And Cheetah is the jet that has any chance of bringing him down. We’ve seen what’s happened to the others. The instruments on Cheetah can locate DreamStar, on the ground or in the air. If he’s on the ground I can direct our forces in on him. The Mexicans can yell but I don’t think they’d really try to stop us. If he’s airborne we can engage him. Either way we need to get our asses in the air. Right now.”
Elliott hesitated. McLanahan might be upset but he was also thinking pretty damn clearly. The question was: what would the Joint Chiefs believe? Would they agree to let Cheetah, with McLanahan on board, try to chase down DreamStar? Obviously they had several squadrons of fighters out after him already, and Cheetah was almost as unique and as classified as DreamStar—too
valuable to risk in a major fur-ball dogfight. Would they decide that everyone at Dreamland was nuts and close down the place?
“I need authorization first,” Elliott said. “I have to call Washington—”
“There isn’t time for that. Every minute we delay DreamStar slips further away from us.”
“You can authorize Cheetah to launch at any time, sir,” Powell suggested. “Let us get airborne and headed south. When you get authorization we’ll continue the pursuit. If we stay on the ground until you get the word we’ll never catch him.”
“This is an unauthorized mission. I don’t own these airframes—the Joint Chiefs and the Pentagon own them. They’re experimental aircraft, not operational interceptors. It’s illegal as hell for me to authorize you to take off and hunt down DreamStar or any other aircraft. Can’t you understand that?”
“Sure, and now let me try to make you understand, General. I’m just not going to let any of that stop me from bringing down DreamStar. James is a thief, a killer and either a spy or a traitor. I have the plane to bring him down. As far as I’m concerned all the rest is bureaucratic horseshit that can wait until after DreamStar has been destroyed or recaptured. Now, you can give me authorization to launch, and you can get permission for us to pursue DreamStar after we take off. You can play political games if you want. But we’re leaving, sir, with or without your blessing.”
Which brought matters to Hal Briggs. Would he support his commanding officer or his best friend?
“Don’t even think about it, Patrick,” he said. “I can’t let you go against the general’s orders. Not now ...” But then he turned to Elliott: “Sir, I’m a member of this organization, and I agree with Colonel McLanahan. Let him take off and chase down that sonofabitch. It’s the best plan we have.”
Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02 Page 26
