Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 09

by Warrior Class (v1. 1)

  There was a long pause, then: “Help is on the way right now,” Samson said in a tunnel-deep monotone that signaled how angry he was. “An MC-130P is en route to top off the MV-22 and lead him home. Stay with him until the P arrives.”

  “Thanks, boss,” Annie said. There was no reply. She knew she was going to catch hell for disregarding his orders. “He sounded pissed,” she said to Duane.

  “You did real good. Heels,” Deverill said. He reached over and patted her shoulder, then gave it a friendly rub. “Let the big guy be pissed—that’s his job. I’m your MC, and I think you did all right.” His touch was electric—it sent a current of warmth through her body. She dared take an eye off the MV-22 to glance at him, and he smiled at her across the dark cockpit.

  An hour later, over the Sredneruskaja plains of southwestern Russia near the Ukraine border, the MC-130P special operations aerial refueling aircraft finally rendezvoused with the pair. Visibility had increased to just under a mile as the storm front began to move through the region, so there was little trouble during the rejoin. Just before the MC-130P got into visual range, Annie backed the EB-1C Vampire bomber away, out of visual range, while keeping a close watch on the damaged Pave Hammer aircraft. The stricken MV-22 made visual contact with the MC-130P less than a minute after the Vampire bomber moved away, and another minute later it was happily sipping fuel from the MC-BOP’s hose and drogue refueling system, using position lights on the MC-BOP’s wings and fuselage to stay straight and level.

  “Thanks, you guys,” Hal Briggs radioed. “A big thank-you from Trash Man and his guys, too. You saved the day. You guys going to be okay?”

  “We’ll find out right now, Hal.” Annie started to push the throttles forward to get some better controllability, but the faster she flew, the worse the vibrations got. She could manage only another fifty knots without threatening to tear the EB-1C apart. “Crap. We’ll be up here all night,” she cursed.

  “If we’re lucky,” Duane said.

  For the third time, Annie had to reapply the autopilot after it kicked itself off-line. “Autopilot can’t hold it anymore.”

  “I think the vibration is getting worse. Fve noticed you keep on pulling back on the power. We’re down to two hundred and twenty knots now. I think we got major structural problems happening.”

  “I know, I know,” Annie said. She paused, trying to think of options, but she was fast running out of them. Annie felt a loud, swift roanng in her ears as she realized she might have only one option left. “I want you in your cold-weather survival gear. Now.”

  “You go first,” Deverill said, his voice remarkably calm. “I can hold it.”

  “I said, get in your cold-weather gear and check your survival kit is secure. Now.” She watched with half-angry, half-sorrowful eyes as Deverill nodded, then safetied his ejection seat and began to unstrap. Annie spoke: “Genesis, this is Terminator.”

  “Go ahead, Annie,” General Samson responded.

  “The vibration is getting worse,” she reported. “I think we might be getting ready to lose part of our left wing. I’ve ordered Dev into his cold-weather survival gear.”

  “It’s that bad?”

  “Affirmative. Sorry, sir. I think I’m about to break one of your planes.”

  "‘Hey, it’s your plane, Captain—you signed for it,” Samson quipped, his voice still eerily deep and dark. “The Ukrainian border is just sixty miles ahead. Jump out as close to the border as you can. See any populated areas at all?”

  “I can’t see squat outside,” Annie said. “I’ve been in the soup since forever. Visual display to cultural.” The voice command switched her electronic visor to display cultural features such as cities, towns, roads, and bridges. Just a handful of small cities were close by; the largest, Kursk, a town of fifteen thousand citizens, was right off their right wing. The eastern Ukrainian provincial capital of Char’kov was seventy miles straight ahead.

  “We’ve alerted the Ukrainian Army and Border Patrols in eastern Ukraine, and they’re mobilizing search-and-rescue forces,” Samson said. “The Ukrainian Third Army headquarters is in Char’kov, and they have a regional airport that we can secure if you can make it there. But the Russians have a major Troops of Air Defense base at Belgorod at your eleven o’clock, forty miles. The U.S. Special Operations Command detachment at Batman Air Base has been alerted, and they’ll forward-deploy to Ukraine to help out in case you drop into Russia.”

  Annie could see the computerized depiction of the Russia-Ukraine border region. The Ukrainian city of Char’kov vas beyond the horizon with an electronic arrow pointing to it, ind she aimed right for it. “I’m going direct to Char’kov at this time,” she said. “If things get too rough, or if we get any company, I’ll deviate further east around Belgorod.” She paused, then added, “Sorry I screwed things up. General.”

  “Well, you'll be happy to hear that the MV-22 and the MC- 130P are doing okay,” Samson said. “The MV-22 is still upright. They’ve refueled and they’re on their way through Ukrainian airspace. They’re reporting breaks in the weather farther west, so they’re going to divert to Kiev. The crew sends their thanks. You saved all of them. Feel any better?”

  “I’ll let you know when I’m back home sipping a cold one, sir,” Annie said.

  Suddenly, an electronic warning tone went off. Annie looked up. In her electronic visor, she saw a bat-wing symbol of an enemy aircraft. “Enemy aircraft, five o’clock, thirty miles, heading south,” she announced,

  “Sukhoi-27 Flanker,” another voice cut in. That was Major Nancy Cheshire, also manning the “virtual cockpit” back at Elliott Air Force Base, helping advise Annie as her “virtual pilot.”

  “Looks like single ship so far ... no, wait.” At that instant, a second enemy aircraft appeared, several thousand feet higher and slightly behind the first. “He’s got a wingman in high combat air patrol. Another Flanker. We got any help on the way, General?”

  “The Ukrainian Air Force has scrambled some fighters from Kiev,” Samson replied. “ETA sixteen minutes. Hang tight.” By then, Duane Deverill was climbing back into his seat He now wore a pair of insulated mukluks with leg gaiters reaching all the way to his knees instead of flying boots; a short winter-weight flight jacket; a pair of thick insulated mittens over glove inserts with a finger opening so he could work the controls; a watch cap under his flying helmet; and his survival vest and parachute harness over his parka. It took him an extra minute to readjust all his straps for the added bulk.

  As soon as he was all strapped and plugged in, he announced the threat also. “Go get in your survival gear, Annie, he said urgently. “I'll keep an eye on this bastard.”

  “No. He’s flying away from us.”

  “Even better reason to clear off and get in your cold weather gear,” he said. “I’ve got the aircraft. Get going.” Annie nodded and began to safe her ejection seat when suddenly they heard a fast-pitched DEEDLEDEEDLEDEEDLE tone in their headsets. Annie looked up. A yellow triangle wa now emanating from the pointed top of the bat-wing enemy air craft signal, the computer’s estimate of the enemy aircraft’s radar range and sweep—and it was completely surrounding the aircraft symbols of the MC-130P tanker and the MV-22 Pave Hammer transport. The yellow color meant that the radar had locked onto them.

  “That Flanker just locked up the -130s!” Deverill shouted.

  “We gotta do something!” Annie shouted. “We're well within Anaconda range. Let’s get ’em warmed up!” The AIM 152 Anaconda missile was the Air Force’s newest air-to-air missile—so new that it was still several years from deployment. The AIM- 152s, carried in a rotary launcher in the for ward bomb bay, was unique because it was the first air-to-ain missile that did not need to be guided by its launch aircraft — it could be launched against a target designated by another aircraft or ground radar station. It used a scramjet propulsion system that gave it extremely long range, in excess of eighty; miles, and a top speed of over five times the speed of sound, making it capabl
e even against incoming ballistic missiles or reentry ballistic missile warheads. Once in the predetermined vicinity of the enemy aircraft, the Anaconda activated its onboard radar and infrared sensors to locate its target, or it could continue to home in on sensor signals passed from other aircraft.

  “We can’t launch missiles—the bomb bay doors are inhibited from opening when we’re in takeoff or land mode,” Deverill reminded her.

  “Then override it!” Annie shouted.

  “We still can’t do it,” Nancy Cheshire radioed to the crew from the “virtual cockpit.” “We never tested a missile launch from this high angle of attack or this configuration. We don’t know how the missile will fly if we launch it in your present configuration or airspeed. It could fail to stabilize, the wingtip cortices or uneven flow patterns from the flaps and slats could disrupt it during the rocket pulse, the missile could accidentally arm—dozens of things. It just hasn’t been tested!”

  “Dammit, I don't care! Override the lockouts and launch those suckers!”

  “Stand by,” Cheshire finally said, after a momentary pause. A few moments later: “Try to prearm the weapons, Dev.”

  Deverill spoke “Ready Anaconda missiles” into the voice-command computer.

  “AIM 152 ready, ” the computer responded, and it presented a target reticle in his electronic visor. Deverill looked at the attacking enemy aircraft, centering the bat wing symbol in the center-aiming reticle, and spoke: “Attack.”

  “Warning, aircraft configuration error,'' the attack computer responded, then added the computer's next recommended command: “No attack. Ready. ”

  “Override configuration error and attack,” Duane said.

  “Warning, configuration error override, aircraft still out of launch parameters, ” the computer responded. “AIM 152 in range. Recommend launch two. Ready. ”

  “Launch two,” Deverill ordered.

  “Warning, launch command received, stop launch. . . hay doors opening partial... missile one away, seven remaining... launcher rotating .. . missile two away, six remaining ... bay doors closed, ” the computer responded. When the bomb bay doors opened, it felt as if the entire bottom of the EB-1C Vampire was ready to shake off. But seconds later, both AIM-152 Anaconda missiles could be seen for a brief instant flying off into the murky sky, trailing a wobbly line of fire through the storm-filled sky. Moments later, as the missiles accelerated through Mach 2, they heard two distinct BOOMs as the missiles’ scramjet motors ignited.

  Just then, the triangle from the bat-wing symbol turned from yellow to red. “Oh, shit, missile launch!” Annie exclaimed. “You bastards ... c’mon, Anaconda baby, nail that sucker!” A few seconds later, the triangle changed from red to yellow, then to green again. “What happened?”

  “Jammers,” Deverill said. “The MC-130P has almost as many electronic jammers as a bomber. They might have just saved their lives.”

  It did. Exactly thirty-seven seconds after launch, the computer reported, “Splash one target, ” along with the next recommended command: “Attack target two. ”

  The second Su-27 Flanker made several heading and altitude changes, as if uncertain what had happened or what to do. He made a complete one-eighty, scanning the skies around him—and then the triangle disappeared and a green, then yellow circle appeared around the bat wing. “He’s got us locked up!” Annie shouted. “Get that SOB!”

  Deverill centered the target reticle on the second Flanker. “Attack,” he ordered. The computer gave him the same warnings as before, and as before, Deverill overrode them and ordered, “Launch two.”

  “ Warning, launch command received, stop launch . .. bay doors opening. . . missile three away, five remaining... launcher rotating...”

  But the first missile did not appear from under the belly. The EB-1C hit a patch of turbulence right at the instant the missile was ejected from its rotary launcher. The ejector’s push was canceled out. so the missile failed to push free of the bomb bay doors. Instead of a smooth SWOOOSH! of a successful launch, they felt a tremendous BANG! as the missile struck one of the bomb bay doors. Instead of falling free, the missile clattered underneath the partially open bomb doors, caught in the disturbed air swirling under the bomber caused by the deployed flaps and slats and the bomber’s high nose-up flight attitude.

  “Missile four...”

  “Stop launch!” Deverill screamed into the voice-command system.

  But it was too late. “... away, four remaining, ” the computer spoke. The second missile shot off the launcher—smack into the first missile, still caught under the bomb bay. The first missile went spinning out of control, thumping hard against the bottom of the Vampire’s fuselage until it reached the number- two engine’s intake. It bounced hard off the mouth of the intake, nearly cracking the entire nacelle off the wing. The disruption of airflow caused the number-one and -two engine to do a double compressor stall—the fire was still on inside the ngines, but now there was no smooth airflow directing air nd hot gases out through them. The overtemp automatically aused the power-plant control computer to shut both engines down.

  The sudden yaw created by the loss of both engines momentarily sent the EB-1C bomber into a wild left skid. This sent the second Anaconda missile back bumping across the belly until it reached the hot exhaust of the number-two engine—where it exploded. Luckily, the computer had already shut the engines down, or else the explosion of the Anaconda missile’s sixty-pound fragmentation warhead, added to the white-hot jet fuel from the engines, would have destroyed the aircraft instantly.

  Even with full right stick and full right rudder, Annie Dewey :ould not keep the plane flying straight—it was in a severe left yaw no matter how hard she struggled and trimmed. Duane grabbed his control stick to help, and he couldn’t believe what he felt—a deep, heavy, relentless vibration. “Annie ... ?”

  “I’ve got it, Dev, I’ve got it,” she responded. The strain and the vibration rattling in her throat disguised her voice so much that she seemed like a completely different person sitting across from him. “Check the warnings and cautions and let me know what we got left.”

  “Computer has shut down number one and two,” Deverill said. “Fire extinguishers popped on both of them, so they’re done for the day. Hydraulic system is in isolate. Three generators are off-line—wait, we got two, so we got the emergency and primary bus energized. Forward bomb bay doors are still partially open—it feels like they’re dragging in the slipstream and might be leaking hydraulic fluid. The navigation, weapons, and ECM systems are in reset. Heading system is spinning up again. Navigation is by satellite only until our ring-laser gyros come back up. We’re a mess, Heels, but we still got two good blowers.”

  “Except we’re going nowhere fast,” Annie said. “I’m going to pull a little power off number four and see if we can straighten out.” She pulled a notch of power off on number four, then made a tiny forward adjustment when the Vampire felt sloppy and uneasy. But she was able to regain some directional control. Their airspeed was down to one-fifty—just thirty knots above landing speed, right at the edge of a stall in straight-and-levcl flight—but they were still flying. “All right, all I need now is a heading out of no-man's-land and a runw'ay big enough to set this mother down.”

  “Annie, the Ukrainian fighters are five minutes out, crossing the border and heading right for you,” Nancy Cheshire radioed. “Hold present heading, squawk modes one, two. and four. The cavalry's coming. Hold on.”

  “Your heading is one-seven-zero, Annie, direct Char’kov,” Duane said. “We lost about a thousand feet—let’s try to gain a little altitude.”

  Annie started a very slow climb. Normally the FB- 1C Vampire could climb at over ten thousand feet per minute at gross weight—now she was lucky to get five hundred feet per minute w ithout feeling the sloshing, muddy, unsteady wobbliness of an impending stall. A stall with two engines on one side out meant a spin, and the B-l bomber did not tolerate spins well. Annie had done them only in the sim
ulator, and she liked at least twenty thousand feet above ground level before attempting spin recovery.

  “Looks like I really screwed up, didn't I?” she asked.

  “Don’t see how,” Duane said. “Our mission was to make sure ISA got the spy out of Russia safely. You saved their asses three times today. That's a pretty good night’s work.”

  “I think I’m going to be screwed, blued, and tattooed when I get home.”

  “You’re a hero, Annie,” Deverill said. “You should be proud of what you've done You should ... Oh, shit.”

  Duane stopped, and Annie glanced over to him to see what was the matter. She saw him staring out his right cockpit window. She looked—and saw why. The second Sukhoi-27 Flanker fighter was perched right beside them, less than a hundred feet away. Without the threat detection gear, the Flanker had been able to sneak right in and get a good look at them.

  “Oh, hell,” Annie murmured. “Busted.”

  “You gotta admit, that's some pretty good flying,” Deverill said.

  “Pretty good for a bastard who tried to blow two unarmed cargo planes out of the sky,” Annie added. Now that the fighter pilot saw that the crew members of the bomber had him in sight, he turned on all of his exterior lights. The brightest light lit up his twin vertical stabilizers, which featured the red star of the Russian Air Force. “A Russian air defense interceptor,” she breathed. “Perfect.”

  “I’ll bet he’s not too pleased we blew away his leader.”

  “How far are we from the Ukrainian border?”

  ‘Thirty-nine miles.”

  “My God,” Annie said. “Where the hell are those Ukrainian fighters? They should’ve rendezvoused by now.”

  “Sixty seconds out ” Cheshire replied. “They’ve got you and the Flanker in radar contact.”

  “This bastard’s right next to us, on our right side,” Annie said excitedly. “If anyone farts, we’re going to trade paint. Get ’em down here and help us!”