Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 09

by Warrior Class (v1. 1)

  "We gonna let him get shot down, too?” Rebecca asked sarcastically.

  "Let’s stick with the plan and see what happens,” Patrick said ruefully.

  But with a few more flashes of the laser radar, it was obvious the LTkrainian bomber wasn't quite up to the challenge. When the F-16s hit the Backfire with its radar, the second big Ukrainian bomber started a rapid yet normal descent—wings level, lots of negative g's to blur the pilot's vision, and no steep-bank or inverted maneuvers to increase the descent rate. Patrick even suspected the Backfire bomber’s pilot of pulling back on the throttles instead of pegging airspeed right at the max, as if he was afraid of overstressing his plane. The F-16 pilots had an easy attack run. and seconds later recorded a successful AIM-7 radar-guided missile kill.

  "I've seen airline captains make more aggressive maneuvers with three hundred paying passengers on their plane,” Rebecca observed. "Sheesh. does he want to get shot down? He have an urge to see an F-16 up close?” It certainly did look as if this new set of attacks on the Backfire bomber were going to be a walk in the park for the skilled Turkish pilots. "What more do you need to sec. General?” Rebecca added. "The Turks are going to die of boredom if we don't do something.”

  "Okay, okay, let's do it.” Patrick said finally. On the interplane frequency, he called out. "Sila Zero-Two, bandits are at your twelve to one o’clock, thirty miles and closing at five hundred eighty knots.”

  "Acknowledged, Vampire. We have them on threat receiver. Commencing attack.”

  "Show me something, boys,” Patrick radioed. To the attack computer, he ordered, "Ready Wolverine, attack route Alpha, sensor response, datalink active.”

  “Ready Wolverine, safe all, ” the computer responded, adding the recommended stop-attack order: then: "Attack route Alpha confirmed, all sensors active, sensor response active, datalink active. [Munch one Wolverine. ”

  “Launch one Wolverine,” Patrick ordered.

  “Warning, launch order received, stop launch . . . I Munch sequence commencing, midhay doors opening partial. . . missile aw ay... launcher ready. .. doors closed. ”

  Patrick waited fifteen seconds until after the last Wolverine cruise missile had launched and the bomb doors closed, then keyed the secure primary UHF radio mike switch and said. “Sila Zero-Two, this is Vampire Zero-One, you are clear to the target. Good hunting.”

  “Acknowledged. Vampire,” a thickly accented Slavic voice responded. “Prosteesiya haryachiy. We are target inbound and weapons are hot.”

  Both Rebecca and Patrick watched as their wingman took spacing and prepared for its descent. “What a monster that sucker is,” Patrick breathed.

  “It’s a piece of shit,” Rebecca murmured.

  “Maybe not,” Patrick added proudly. “Give me a budget and a couple months, and I think I can make that big mother sing.”

  “The million-dollar question is: u7iy?” Rebecca asked. “Ukraine can’t afford to outfit their Backfire bombers like a Megafortress—that’s at least thirty million dollars a copy, and those planes don’t look like they’re worth it. The crews will take years to train in advanced bomber strike tactics. Who’s going to pay for all this? Hell, our new president is downsizing our military like crazy, and he doesn’t believe in helping foreign countries—he’s not going to pay it.”

  “That’s not my concern. Rebecca,” Patrick said. “If they give me a budget to convert Backfires to Megafortresses, and train their crews on how to use them. I’ll do it. I’ll have the baddest-ass group of flyers in the neighborhood. I guarantee it.”

  Well, well, Erdal Sivarek thought, finally these Ukrainian pilots are showing him something. He had locked up the second Ukrainian bomber on radar with ease, and immediately the second target started a rapid descent, over ten thousand feet per minute and steadily increasing. Very impressive. Maybe the Ukrainians knew how to flv evasive maneuvers after all.

  The radar box quickly danced to the right side of Sivarek’s HUD. and he had to turn hard right to keep the target within the radar cone so the AIM-7 Sparrow missile could home in on it. That was odd—aircraft at this range normally did not move that quickly across the radarscope. The enemy aircraft was sending out jamming signals, but Sivarek’s F-16’s antijamming electronics were successful at hopping to another clear frequency and maintaining a lock . ..

  .. right up to the moment when the target suddenly junked left and skittered across the HUD in the other direction. Sivarek reversed his turn again, but it was too late—the target had jinked right off the scope. Somehow it had maneuvered hard enough to beat an F-16, probably the most maneuverable aircraft in the world, and completely disappear from sight!

  "Yyuz bir kor! Sivarek called out. “One-oh-one has lost contact!”

  “Lead, I’ve lost visual with you!” Sivarek’s wingman called out. It was understandable—it was bound to happen after all that hard maneuvering. ‘Tm at five thousand meters, climbing to high patrol altitude ”

  “Tabii,” Sivarek replied, consciously forcing himself to slowr his breathing to keep from hyperventilating. They had at least five hundred meters’ altitude separation—they weren’t going to collide ‘Tm trying to reacquire the target now.” He turned immediately to the target’s initial heading and swept the skies with his radar, trying to spot the target again. Obviously. the AIM-7 missile wouldn’t track without a radar lock, so he had wasted his last Sparrow missile. He felt foolish losing the target. But he quickly choked that thought away. No time to punish himself. Reacquire and kill the bastard, he ordered himself, then figure out why he lost him in the first place when he was back on the ground.

  Thankfully, it didn’t take long. The target had indeed returned to its original inbound track—predictable, but necessary for most bombers. Few bomber units taught their crews to plan multiple ingress tracks, in case the first one was compromised. If there was only one planned bomb run, the aircrew that survived an attack had no choice but to return to that very same track, and that made it easier for defenders to find them again. “One-oh-one has reacquired bandit one,” Sivarek reported. ‘Tied on and engaged.”

  “Don’t let him get away this time, Caveboy,” Sivarek’s wingman admonished him, with a touch of humor in his voice.

  “You will have your chance. Badger,” Hrdal radioed back irritably. “Now stay off the radio and join on me.”

  “I have contact on you, lead,” the wingman reported, obviously still enjoying twisting his squadron commander’s tail a little. “Your six is clear.”

  It was a tail chase this time, a piece of cake compared to the first head-to-head engagement. Sivarek locked up the target right away, maneuvered behind him, selected heat-seeking missiles, and fired another AIM-9 missile as soon as he got within range. Again, the bandit jinked right—same direction as last time. Sivarek took a chance and started a left turn, and sure enough the bandit jinked hard left. It was much easier to keep the bandit in radar lock once he anticipated the turn, and even though the target tried another hard turn, this time it was too late. He scored a direct hit.

  “Splash two heater,” Sivarek announced. “Do you have a visual on me?”

  “Affirmative, lead,” Sivarek’s wingman said. “Clear to the south. I’m above and north of you. I’m in hot.”

  Sivarek turned hard left, staying at his same altitude. Once his wingman announced he was clear, he started a climb back up to a cover position.

  He would have to be sure to quietly accept a good amount of ribbing once the mass and unit debriefs began, Erdal reminded himself. “Criticize in private, praise in public” was a good rule of thumb for the men, but the men always wanted to see if their commanding officer could take it as well as dish it out. He had to ...

  “Bombok!” Sivarek’s wingman shouted over the interplane frequency. “I have a visual on bandit two! It’s a decoy! An unmanned aircraft!”

  A decoy aircraft that moved as fast as a jet fighter, that was even more maneuverable than an F-16? Well, Sivarek thought, this was
Nellis. They were playing in the ranges near Dreamland, the top-secret American weapons research facility. The Americans probably Hew such exotic, high-tech aircraft every day, just for fun. He just didn't expect to be up against one. that's all.

  “Disengage. 102." Sivarek ordered. He quickly scanned the sky, silently cursing himself. The other bandit must be the carrier aircraft—the real target. He had assumed because the second target was smaller and up high that it was not a threat. He should've had his wingman go after the second bandit. Sivarek immediately shoved in afterburner power and began a steep climbing turn, heading back to where he guessed the second bandit would be “One-oh-two, I'm reversing course, heading back to where I first detected bandit two," Sivarek said. “Join on me."

  “Two."

  Sivarek immediately got a radar lock on the second aircraft. It was in a steep descent at about eight hundred knots, just over the speed of sound. The radar immediately broke lock, jammed with much heavier jamming signals than before. “Badger, I've got heavy music .. ." Just then, the F-16 radar indicated a sweep processor lock fault—the jamming was so intensive and the anti-jamming frequency hopping so rapid and intense that the radar finally gave up. “Gadget bent I’ve got a visual on bandit two at my twelve o'clock, five miles. He’s started a rapid descent, heading your way. I’m engaged. 1 think this is another bomber. Reverse course and cover me. Acknowledge!"

  “I copy, 101."

  The Turkish F-16's Sidewinder missile was fully capable of a nose-to-nose missile kill, especially with a target glowing nice and hot from a supersonic descent. Their closure rate put him in firing position in seconds. He double-checked that the master arm switch was off, selected AIM-9 on the weapons panel, got a flashing shoot indication in his heads-up display, then called out on interplane, “Badger, target in range, I am—"

  Suddenly his threat-warning receiver blared to life—an enemy fighter had him locked on radar, well within lethal range! He had gone right to missile guidance without using search radars.

  “One-oh-one, Control, pop-up target at your three o'clock, ten miles, low,” the ground radar controller reported. “Range telemetry flash records a missile kill. You have him in sight?”

  At first he was going to say that it was unlikely he'd see any fighter ten miles away, but sure enough he saw him—it looked like anotherTupolev-22M, only smaller. A B-l bomber? “I see another sweep-wing bomber, Control,” Sivarek said, “but no fighter.”

  “That's who recorded the kill, 101,” the ground radar controller said. “He has just now recorded a kill on your wingman.”

  “Kill? Kill with what? Sticks and stones?”

  “Range control referee confirms that aircraft has air-to-air capability,” the controller replied. “Report ready for counterair engagement.”

  Sivarek whipped off his oxygen mask in exasperation, but he choked back his anger with a loud laugh. “You bet we are ready for counterair engagement. Control!” Sivarek shouted. “Let that pig just try to come at us again.”

  “Roger, 101,” the controller said. “Proceed to waypoint Tango at patrol altitude and hold for range clearance. Advise when established in patrol orbit.”

  “Acknowledged,” Sivarek responded. “Badger, join on me.”

  “What happened, Caveboy?”

  “We got shot down.”

  “By who? I didn’t see anyone! I got one squeak on my warning receiver!”

  “They claim we got shot down by a B-l bomber,” Sivarek said. “Don’t worry, it’s our turn now. Join on me.”

  “Hey, Mack, the Turks say they’re pissed and they want a shot at you,” David Luger radioed, the humor obvious in his voice. “Let’s racetrack the Backfires back to destination D-3 and fly the ingress route again with two-minute spacing. Report reaching.”

  Like knights on their chargers galloping back to the start of the lists for another pass at their opponents, the two Tupolev- 22M bombers and the single EB-1C Vampire escort traveled back to the northeast comer of the range. McLanahan reported their position just before reaching the point, and moments later they were cleared inbound.

  “Looks like the Turks aren’t going to mess with the Backfires this time,” Patrick reported, as he studied the first laser radar image. The Turkish F-l6s were both staying high, practically ignoring the two Backfire bombers trying to fly in low under them. He touched the super-cockpit display on the righi side of the Vampire’s big instrument panel, then said to the attack computer, “Weapons safe, simulated, attack targets.”

  "Warning, weapons safe, attack command simulated re- ceived, stop attack, " the computer responded, “Scorpion missiles ready, launch two simulated."

  “Simulated launch two against each target at maximum range,” Patrick said. “Got you now, boys .,.”

  “Warning, launch command received. . .”

  “Patrick, this is Control, emergency! Knock it off, knock it off, knock it off!" Luger suddenly radioed with the emergency “stop attack” call “Abort the run. Abort the run. Return to base ASAP.”

  “Knock it off, knock it off knock it off!” Rebecca called out on the exercise channel. “Stop launch!” The warning was echoed by the range controllers to the Turkish Air Force and their air combat controllers, and the computer canceled the launch command just as the forward bomb bay doors were opening. “What the hell is going on, Luger?”

  “We’re going operational—right now,” David said breathlessly. “Get on the ground ASAP”

  “Seats,” Lieutenant-General Terrill Samson said in a booming voice as he trotted into the High-Technology Aerospace Weapons Center’s battle staff room, ordering everyone back into their seats from attention. McLanahan and Hal Briggs were already there, along with Colonel Furness and other members of the One-Eleventh Bomb Squadron and a few senior staff officers from HAWC. “All right, all right, someone tell me what in hell’s going on.”

  “We just received a warning order ten minutes ago, sir,” Patrick responded. “There’s an incident occurring in Russia, and we’ve been asked to get ready to provide support.”

  “That’s not entirely true, sir,” Rebecca interjected. “We don’t have a warning order. We haven’t been authorized to do anything yet.”

  “There exists an opportunity for the One-Eleventh to provide air support,” Patrick said. “I think we should get moving on this immediately. The warning order will be coming through at any moment.”

  Terrill Samson hadn't felt this kind of excitement since accepting this position at HAWC two years earlier. Although working at HAWC was certainly challenging and exciting, it never had the immediacy and vitality of a combat unit. They tested the world’s most advanced weapon systems, true, but in the end mostly what Samson did was write a report, submit engineering data, and give the hardware back to whoever had built it.

  Samson glanced at the raw eagerness on the face of Patrick McLanahan, HAWC’s deputy commander. He was a natural- bom leader, certainly deserving of his own command. But he had been with HAWC too long, seen too much, and did so much weird—and probably illegal—stuff with the high-tech gadgets that filled this place that there was no place for him in the real-world Air Force, How could he be asked to command a wing of B-2A Spirit stealth bombers, the most advanced warplanes known, when he knew that there existed in Dreamland planes and weapons that were a hundred times more advanced, a thousand times deadlier?

  Samson was concerned. Patrick McLanahan’s career had developed under the tutelage—most would use the term “curse”—of Lieutenant-General Brad Elliott, Samson’s predecessor and the man for whom their base had been named. To put it as politely as possible, Elliott had been a rogue officer, a completely loose cannon. He’d been killed on one of his infamous “operational test flights,” where he had flown an experimental B-52 bomber—stolen right out from under federal agents—over China during the recent China-Taiwan conflict. Although his efforts had helped avert a global thermonuclear exchange, perhaps for the sixth or seventh time in his career at HAWC, one c
ouldn’t help but notice that most officials in the White House and the Pentagon had breathed a sigh of relief after hearing that Elliott was dead. The only thing that still kept them up at night was the fact that Elliott’s body had never been recovered, so there was still a possibility that the bastard was still alive.

  Patrick McLanahan had learned from Brad Elliott that, when the shooting starts and it seems like the world is on the brink of destruction, sometimes in order to get results it was necessary to color outside the lines. Patrick was much more of a “team player” than Brad Elliott ever was—but he was no longer young, he had rank and certainly much higher status, and he was entering his second decade at the isolated supersecret desert research base. Like McLanahan, Terrill Samson was a prot£g£ of Brad Elliott—he knew him, knew what a little power and a “damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead” attitude could do to a man. Samson had chosen to follow his own path, and he’d earned his stars by playing by the rules. He was certainly worried that Patrick Mclanahan was following the ghost of Brad Elliott down the wrong path.

  “Time out, children, time out,” Samson said pointedly. “I got a call saying that we received a warning order. Whatever we received, who’s got it?”

  “Actually, sir, I do,” Lieutenant Colonel Hal Briggs said.

  “You do?” Samson knew that Hal Briggs was a highly trained and experienced commando and infantryman—serving as HAWC’s chief of security was only one of his areas of expertise. He also knew that Briggs had been an operative in some highly classified intelligence operations unit that he had not been privileged enough to have a need to know. Briggs handed him a telefax from the command post, sent from the Director of Central Intelligence, authorizing Hal Briggs as the point of contact for this operation. “Okay, I’m impressed,” Samson said truthfully. “Well, Colonel, we’re waiting. If you’re permitted to tell us, let’s hear it.”