Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02

by Day of the Cheetah (v1. 1)

  “Release switch to CONSENT.”

  “Checklist complete. Stand by for drone release.”

  “Ready up here.”

  “Clear for zero-alpha maneuver,” McLanahan said.

  J.C. pushed forward on the stick and throttles. As the speed increased and pitch decreased, the angle of attack, the difference between the wing chord and relative wind, moved to zero—this was zero alpha; the wings were knifing through the air with minimum disturbance or deflection, giving the cleanest airflow for the two drones to separate from Cheetah and begin their flight.

  “Zero alpha . . . now.”

  At that moment McLanahan hit the release button. Remote- controlled clips on the drone’s carrying racks opened, and the drones began flying in formation with Cheetah.

  “Showing two good releases, clear to maneuver,” McLanahan announced.

  “Here we go.” Powell gently, carefully pulled back on his control stick, and the drones dropped away from sight. J.C. did not yank Cheetah away; the sudden turbulence could throw the drones out of control. He eased back on the stick, allowing the distance between mothership and drones to increase slowly.

  “Showing good autopilot program-startup on both drones,” McLanahan reported. A few moments later they saw both drones banking away to their right as they began their computer-controlled flights.

  “Drones are clear to the right.”

  “Got ’em.” J.C. verified. He watched the drones for a moment to make sure they were far enough away, then said, “We’re goin’ down.” He hit the voice-command stud on his stick. “Autopilot attitude hold.”

  “Attitude hold mode on,” the computer acknowledged.

  J.C. pressed the pitch-select switch on the control stick and pushed. Cheetah started a twenty-degree descent. When he released the select switch, the autopilot held the pitch angle.

  “Overspeed warning, ” the computer announced. J.C. pulled the throttles back to seventy percent to avoid overstressing the recon pod and external fuel tanks as Cheetah approached the speed of sound in the steep descent.

  “Autopilot altitude select two hundred feet,” J.C. commanded.

  “Autopilot altitude command two hundred feet.”

  “We should be entering early-warning radar coverage in a few minutes. We need to be down below two thousand feet by then.”

  “No sweat,” J.C. said. “We’re descending fifteen thousand feet per minute. This baby feels like a real jet with those two loads gone.”

  Suddenly a tiny indicator blinked on a newly installed panel in Cheetah’s aft cockpit. “Radar-warning indicator from one of the drones. Some radar’s got them. He’ll start jamming any minute.”

  “We’ve got five thousand feet to level-off at two hundred feet,” J.C. said. “We should be ready.”

  And Cheetah did level off as planned. By the time it reached the San Andres y Providencia Atoll east of Nicaragua, they were at two-hundred feet above the Caribbean, traveling five hundred miles an hour. The Nicaraguan early-warning radar site at Islas del Maiz, fifty miles off the coast of Nicaragua, never had a chance to see the sea-skimming aircraft. Cheetah’s automatic jammers activated once when the radar site was only a few miles away, but the Russian-built radar did not lock on or reacquire the aircraft. Fifteen minutes after passing the island radar site Cheetah was over the marshy lowlands of the east coast of Nicaragua.

  “Where’s all this Russian hardware the Nicaraguans are supposed to have?” J.C. said.

  “We haven’t hit the worst part yet.” They were riding the military crest,—the point on a hill where observation was the most difficult—of the lush, green Cordillera Chontalena mountain range in southern Nicaragua, heading northwest at five hundred fifty miles an hour. “We should be safe from Managua SAM sites, but Sebaco is supposed to be loaded for bear—we could be within range of their SA-io missile sites in five minutes. Once we bust their radar cordon we’ll be assholes and elbows trying to get out of here—”

  Just then, they saw two dark shapes streaking across the hills in front of them. The shapes trailed long fingers of flame that were visible even in daylight.

  “Oh, God.” J.C. broke out. “They look like MiG-2gs, heading north.”

  “The drones are right on time,” Patrick said, realizing the MiGs had gone for the diversionary drone targets. A few moments later two more jets screamed northward behind the first two, now less than ten miles from where Cheetah was hugging the green forested mountains. One of the MiGs appeared to start a right turn toward Cheetah, but he was really maneuvering away from his leader as they raced away. They were close enough to see the MiGs’ external fuel tanks and feel their jet-wash as they passed.

  “If they flushed their whole alert force to chase down the drones we just may be able to go in without visitors.”

  “When those guys find out they’ve been suckered by a couple of drones they’ll be back in a hot minute and after us, ” J.C. said.

  “Ten miles from the first SAM ring,” McLanahan said, checking his chart and the GPS satellite navigation system. “Punch off those external tanks any time.”

  J.C. hit his voice-command button. “Station select two and seven.”

  “Stations two and seven select, ” the computer verified. The right multi-function display showed a graphic depiction of Cheetah, with the icons of the two external fuel tanks highlighted. J.C. aimed Cheetah for a deep, thicketed stream.

  There was little danger of dropping the tanks on any villages or people below—they had seen no signs of habitation since crossing the coastline. The tanks might not be found for years—maybe never. They hoped.

  “Ready jettison command.”

  “Warning, jettison command issued, select ‘cancel’ to cancel, ” the computer intoned. The highlighted icons on the right MFD began to flash.

  Powell hit the voice-command button. “Jettison . . . now.”

  “Jettison two and seven. ” McLanahan watched as Cheetah’s two external fuel tanks disappeared from view. “Clean separation,” he said.

  “Safe all stations,” J.C. told the computer. The display screen acknowledged the command, accomplishing a release-circuits check and reporting a “normal” and “safe” indication. “All right,” J.C. said. “Throttles coming up. Time to do some flyin’,” and he slowly began moving both throttles up until he had full power.

  “Point-nine-eight Mach,” McLanahan said. “Speed limit for the camera pod.”

  “I’ll hold it here for now,” J.C. said, nudging the throttles back a bit, “but we’re not going over a Soviet military base below the Mach. I’m not getting our butts shot off just to protect a lousy camera.”

  “Five minutes out. Camera’s activated... good data-transfer signal from the satellite. We’re on-line ...” And then the first warble from the radar-warning receiver could be heard through the interphone. “Search radar, twelve o’clock.” McLanahan punched buttons on his forward console. “All automatic jammers active.” He reached up and clicked in commands to the radar altimeter, which measured distance from Cheetah’s belly to the ground. “Radar altimeter bug set to one hundred feet.”

  “Mine’s set for ten,” J.C. said.

  “Ten feet?”

  “If we’re supposed to look inside buildings, a hundred’s too high.”

  “Well. . . we don’t have a terrain-following radar on this—” He was interrupted by a high-pitched warble and a blinking “10” on his threat-receiver scope.

  “Warning, radar search,” the computer reported.

  “SA-io in search mode, twelve o’clock.”

  “Let’s hope that pod can take a pounding,” J.C. said, pushing the throttles to min afterburner. “Here we go.”

  “Warning, external store overspeed, ” the computer intoned. J.C. ignored it.

  “Mach one,” McLanahan said almost immediately. “Three minutes to target.”

  “Warning, radar tracking, the computer said.

  “The SA-10’s got us already,” J.C. mutter
ed.

  “Impossible, unless—”

  “Warning, missile launch, missile launch. ”

  “Signal moved to one o’clock,” McLanahan called out. “They moved the SAM site.” He hit the chaff button on the left-side ejector. “Jink right . . .”

  J.C. threw Cheetah into a hard right-turn. They saw the missile immediately, or rather they saw the smoke trail left by the SA-io as it streaked by, missing them by scarcely a few dozen yards—one or two seconds slower reaction time and the missile would not have missed. “Goddamn, they put an SA-io on that hilltop overlooking their base. That was too close ...”

  Powell started a hard left-turn away from the site and let the autopilot center back on the target. “Well, they took their best shot and missed,” he said. “If they want to shoot now they’ll be shooting toward their own base.” Cheetah rolled out on the autopilot’s command. “I’ve got the target,” Powell said. “I’ll find your precious damn jet for you, Patrick. Hang on . . .”

  * * *

  Andrei Maraklov was watching Musi Zaykov get dressed when the siren pierced the silence of her bungalow. By reaction learned after four years in the Strategic Air Command, Maraklov got to his feet and began pulling on his flight suit. “What’s that?”

  “Opasno pavarota, ” Zaykov said, and hurriedly put on her boots and buttoned her uniform blouse. “Bistra. ” Maraklov never had a chance to understand what she said, but the urgency in her voice was clear. He ran out of the bungalow behind her.

  Workers were running toward the flight line, some pointing toward the sky to the south. Maraklov started toward the flight line but Zaykov grabbed his arm. “No. If it is an attack you should not go there.” Maraklov shrugged out of her grasp and headed for the flight line, crossed the access road and leaped over the low gate—none of the security forces stationed around the flight line moved to stop him, apparently confused by the sirens. He ran into the clear, into an unused part of the aircraft parking ramp and scanned the skies.

  He did not see it until it was halfway down the runway— apparently neither did the anti-aircraft battery located at the south end of the runway. The aircraft slid silently down the west side of the runway, straight and level—it was so low that it looked as if it was going to try to land. Then Maraklov realized that he didn’t hear the aircraft coming—it had made no noise as it passed. That meant ... he instinctively cupped his hands over his ears and opened his mouth so the overpressure wouldn’t rupture his eardrums . . .

  . . . Just in time. The sonic boom rolled across the parking ramp, knocking unsuspecting workers and soldiers off their feet. The shock wave felt like a wall of wind shoving him in the face, squeezing his head and chest in an unseen grip. Men were yelling all around him, as much from shock and surprise as pain. When he opened his eyes he caught a glimpse of the aircraft as it banked hard right and climbed a few meters. The sight turned his blood cold.

  Cheetah . . .

  * * *

  “I saw it, I saw it,” McLanahan sang out.

  “Me too, third hangar from the right, open doors. Hot damn, there it is, they couldn’t have positioned it any better for us.”

  “You gotta get back over there before they close those hangar doors.”

  But J.C. was already pulling on the control stick. “Check, boss. Hang on.”

  McLanahan caught his handlebars just as J.C. yanked Cheetah into a hard right turn. He twisted in his seat so he could search in the direction of the turn for interceptors or obstructions. “Clear right,” he called out. “I can see a circular barricade at the south end of the runway . . . looks like it might be a triple-A gun emplacement.”

  “I saw it," J.C. said, “but we’re a good two miles out of range. I’m goin’ for the hangar.” J.C. completed his turn and leveled off barely a dozen feet above the east side of the runway. A Soviet helicopter and a small high-wing airplane blocked their path, but J.C. kept Cheetah coming down and flew between the two parked aircraft on the ramp. The hangar was the only thing in front of them now, with the cavernous doors looking like huge gaping jaws ready to devour them.

  * * *

  Cheetah. There was no mistaking it—the huge F-15 fighter with the big unmistakable foreplanes, the thundering twin engines, twin tails to match, broad wings. It was continuing its tight turn at an impossibly low altitude, barely above treetop level. In a few seconds it would turn perpendicular to the runway heading right for the main part of the base . . .

  Maraklov looked down the flight line toward the hangars. What he saw made him break out in a run. Men and equipment were pouring out of the hangar where DreamStar was parked—and they were leaving the hangar doors wide open.

  * * *

  “How bad do you want DreamStar, Colonel?”

  McLanahan took his eyes off the recon pod control panel and glanced at the forward cockpit in surprise. “What?”

  Cheetah was aimed directly for the center of the open doors, md they were skimming the runway and parking ramp with ess than two thousand feet to go to the hangar. J.C. said, “I got Cheetah on hard autopilot, Patrick. You punch us out, and Dye-bye DreamStar.”

  “You mean crash Cheetah into that hangar?”

  One thousand feet to go. “Now’s the chance, friend. You ;tart evening up for Wendy, Old Dog right here, right now. [t’ll look like an accident during an authorized mission ...”

  Five hundred feet to go. The hangar doors towered above :hem. They could see men lying on the ramp, soldiers shooting n their direction, trucks and service vehicles taking off in all directions. They could see access doors open on DreamStar, :ools lying on the hangar floor, even puddles of fluid. The :amera pod was whirring away, broadcasting its information to TAWC headquarters.

  Their immediate mission was finished. The Russians had DreamStar, no question about it—they apparently were in :he process of dismantling it, in preparation for sending it Dack to Russia. Cheetah was a preproduction aircraft—the ir Force was in the process of building thousands of them. fhey would not be sacrificing anything important, and would be keeping one-of-a-kind DreamStar out of the hands of the Russians . . .

  * * *

  Maraklov yelled at the guards to close the doors but it was too late. Cheetah was on top of him before he could run twenty steps, and the quiet, deadly hiss of the shock wave approaching him made him dive for the tarmac . . .

  Incredible . . . Cheetah was going to hit. DreamStar was going to be destroyed . . .

  * * *

  “Standing by for ejection ...” Powell told his commander. It was now or never . . .

  “No. ”

  Less than one hundred feet from the hangar door J. C. Powell yanked Cheetah on its tail and threw in full afterburner. It cleared the hangar roof by only a few feet—Powell and McLanahan could feel the unearthly rumble of metal beneath their feet as the sonic wave pounded the tin roof. J.C. kept the climb in for a few more seconds, then rolled inverted, pulled the nose to the horizon, rolled upright and leveled off.

  “Get us out of here, sir, ” J.C. said.

  “Right turn heading zero-one-zero,” McLanahan said evenly. “Keep it on the deck. Ten minutes to the Honduras border.”

  They flew on in silence until McLanahan reported that they were crossing the border. There were some MiG-29 pursuers detected, but they were far behind them by the time they had reported in to Tegucigalpa Air Defense Control, and an entire flight of six Honduran F-16 fighters was scrambled to turn them away. J.C. ordered the voice-recognition computer to activate the IFF identification radios, then started a shallow climb at best-range power and turned northward toward home.

  * * *

  The roar of Cheetah’s twin engines didn’t subside in Maraklov’s head for several minutes, until it was gradually replaced by the sound of sirens wailing up and down the flight line. Slowly he rose to his feet and surveyed the scene around him.

  To his surprise, everything seemed relatively intact—Cheetah had not been carrying a bomb on its centerline station, as
Maraklov had thought, or else some major malfunction had kept it from releasing. But from the quick glimse he got, it looked more like a camera pod than a bomb. Cheetah, it seemed, had come to take pictures. Well, they definitely got what they wanted. They had caught everyone off guard, with DreamStar unprotected and vulnerable.

  It had to be J.C. Powell flying Cheetah. Several pilots at Dreamland were checked out on Cheetah, but only Powell would be crazy enough to fly it so close to the ground and so close to the hangar. Any other pilot would have been happy with a hundred, even fifty feet above ground. Not Powell.

  For a moment it appeared that whoever was flying Cheetah was going to kamikaze himself right into DreamStar’s hangar. Cheetah and DreamStar gone together? Maybe not such a bad ending. But how different was his situation as it was? With DreamStar gone and out of his control, his career was surely at an end. There was no good future for him in the Soviet Union—he would be like a tiger, caged for the rest of his life, hunted by the U.S. and distrusted or worse at “home.” He would never be closer to Brazil or Paraguay than he was right now.

  And DreamStar was still safe—though for how long, now that the Americans knew where it was? No choice but to play out this hand and see how the cards fell. Somehow the photographic attack on Sebaco gave him some hope—maybe, just maybe, DreamStar would fly again. And with the right man at the controls.

  * * *

  It wasn’t until they had completed their final air-refueling over the Gulf that J.C. felt confident enough to approach the subject:

  “We could have had them, boss,” he said. “You could have done it.”

  McLanahan had said nothing the entire flight, except the curt, monotone checklist of responses required of him. But this time he spoke up. “I know that.”

  “The ACES seat would have blown us clear of the impact. We could have made it out.”