Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 09

by Warrior Class (v1. 1)

  After its first taste of action, the Mt-179 was in almost perfect condition. The pilot. Ion Stoica, was examining the aircraft with the maintenance chief during an early-morning status briefing, "That’s the worst of it, Mr. Stoica,’’ the maintenance superv isor said. He pointed to the leading edge of the wing near the muzzles where the air-to-air missiles were fired, "The missiles are ejected from the launch tubes by a slug of compressed nitrogen gas. The gas slug is supposed to push the missile thirty to forty meters from the wing before the missile’s motor fires, to avoid any exhaust damage to the wing. For some reason, the missiles are only being pushed ten to fifteen meters away before the motor ignites. The tube’s shutter, which is titanium. protects the inside of the wing from exhaust damage, but the exhaust is badly corroding the surface of the leading edge, and it appears that the shutter is partially open when the motor fires, because we are seeing some heat damage inside the launch tube itself."

  "What do you recommend?’’ Stoica asked.

  "Several things: a larger and higher-pressure nitrogen bottle, bigger feed lines to the launch tube, redesigned replacement seals inside the launch tube, perhaps a faster-acting shutter to protect the tube, and perhaps some extra titanium sheathing around the muzzles to protect the wing,” the maintenance chief said.

  “How soon can we get these things?”

  “Not long at all—-if we were at Zhukovsky,” the maintenance chief said. “Out here in the middle of Transylvania, there’s probably not a piece of titanium anywhere for three hundred kilometers. It will take time to obtain and fabricate these parts. And if Mr. Kazakov moves us again, it will only delay repairs even longer.”

  “Can we still use the interior launchers?” Gennadi Yegorov, the Mt-l79’s weapons officer, asked.

  “You see how much damage was done after one launch, Mr. Yegorov,” the maintenance chief said. “One more launch could severely damage the composite wing, and then we’re looking at a long and complicated repair job. If it damages the structure around the launch tube, we could be looking at replacing the entire inboard wing section—that could take weeks, even months,”

  Yegorov looked at Stoica, then shrugged. “We can keep the tubes loaded in case of emergencies,” he suggested, “and depending on our mission, we can load missiles on wing pylons.”

  “How much do loaded wing pylons increase our radar cross-section?”

  “Ya nee znayoo, ” Yegorov replied. “I would guess about ten to fifteen percent—more if we had air-to-ground missiles. But if we needed the stealth capability more than the missiles, we could always jettison the pylons and we would regain our stealth cross-section, and we’d still have air-to-air weapons on board in case of emergency.”

  “The internal launch tubes that you did not use on your last flight are loaded with R-60s and they’re ready to go,” the maintenance chief said. “We need to clear the damage from the other launch tubes before we can load missiles in there. We can get the shutters to retract, but we need to find out if there’s any internal damage.”

  “You’d better get started, then,” Stoica said. “I don’t know what the boss has in store for us, but I’d like to be ready to fly as soon as—”

  Just then, one of the planning officers ran up to them. “Did you guys hear? There’s some kind of air defense emergency declared on the Russia-Ukraine border. The Russian Air Force is scrambling dozens of jets. Sounds like a war going on!”

  They all hurried over to the operations office, where they monitored several UHF. HF, and satellite channels belonging to the Russian Air Force and other Russian military agencies, courtesy of Colonel-General Zhurbenko. It did indeed sound as if a full-scale air war was in progress. Several Russian aircraft and air defense sites had already been destroyed. The entire southeast military district was under an air defense emergency.

  “Vi shooteetye!" Yegorov exclaimed. “I wish we were up there! We could show them all what a real fighter jet can do!”

  Stoica shrugged, then looked at the maintenance chief. “Well, let's go. Load those missile pylons on board, give us a full load of missiles, and let's see what happens.”

  “You're crazy!”

  “We need to test what our detection threshold is for pylon- mounted weapons,” Stoica said. “We still have some darkness left—we'll be back over the Carpathians well before daylight. Let's do it.”

  Everyone had the same thought—what will Pavel Kazakov do when he finds out we launched his stealth fighter without permission?—but everyone was game if Ion Stoica was willing to okay the flight. If he was going to take the heat, that left everyone else off the hook.

  The maintenance crews already had pylons ready to upload—they just had to transfer weapons from the weapon storage area: several steel and concrete containers flown in by transport plane—to the maintenance hangar Stoica selected two R-60 heat-seeking air-to-air missiles on each pylon, plus One R-27 radar-homing missile mounted on the bottom of the pylon. The R-27 missile, developed at Metyor Aerospace, was designed to attack airborne radar aircraft and electronic warfare aircraft from long range—the missile could home in on enemy radio, radar, or jamming transmissions, as well as be guided by the Mt-179's fire control radar.

  Although the Tyenee with its long forward-swept wings, seemed to completely engulf the mounted weapon pylons, the externally mounted weapons also obviously spoiled the stealth fighter's smooth, sleek lines. “It’s certain our stealth characteristics are going to suffer,” Stoica said. “But we need to find out by how much. If we can penetrate Belgorod airspace and cruise around undetected, we know we have a good system.”

  “And maybe we'll bag ourselves a Ukrainian or Turkish fighter,” Yegorov said happily. He waved a sheet of paper. “I've got the latest radar plots and fixes on the unidentified aircraft—we can be there in twenty minutes.”

  Aboard the Ukrainian Mi-8 helicopter

  Just as the first rays of light were peeping over the horizon, the Ukrainian helicopter crossed the Russian border. “Dave, how are we doing?” Briggs asked via the satellite transceiver.

  “Five degrees right, then straight ahead, thirty-one miles,” Luger replied. “Belgorod early-warning radar is forty miles south, but I think you're below their coverage. Continue terrain masking. Dewey and Deverill are on the move. Looks like they’re in a vehicle, heading southeast toward Belgorod. They might be on the highway, judging by how fast they’re moving. They’re about twenty miles north of the town of Jakovlevo. We’re trying to get a good satellite image of the area to see if we can identify the vehicle, but I don’t think there’s time. I’ll vector you in as close as I can, and then you’ll have to take it from there.”

  The chase took only a few more minutes. The highway they were following was growing quickly—it was the main highway between Moscow and Sevastopol, running almost the entire width of western Russia. Traffic was increasing rapidly as the workday began. “This is going to be like finding a needle in a haystack,” Briggs said grimly. “We can see several dozen vehicles out here.”

  “Twelve o’clock, five miles,” Luger said. “Speed forty- eight knots ... four miles, straight ahead ... three miles ... speed forty-five knots ...”

  Briggs used his electronic visor to scan every vehicle. Traffic was starting to get busy as they got closer to town, so everyone was slowing down together. There were no militarylooking vehicles apparent.

  “Annie, this is Hal secure,” Briggs radioed. “Don’t answer. I can’t see your vehicle. I need you to do something to distract the driver and make him swerve or slow down or pull off the road. Scream, throw a tantrum, swear, anything. We’re just a few seconds out.”

  “Two miles. You got them yet. Hal?”

  “Nothing. Every vehicle was in line. No one pulled off the road, no one swerved, no one sped up or slowed down.”

  “One mile,” Luger reported. “Distance and speed are getting more unreliable, guys. The system just isn’t precise enough to give you an exact bead on them. See anything?”
r />   “Nothing. Nothing that looks like a prisoner transport, or a military vehicle, or anything unusual at all. A few buses, a bunch of station wagons, a bunch of minivans.”

  “Then we’ll have to do it the hard way,” Chris Wohl said. “Rotate left, translate sideways.” As the pilot turned the big chopper so it was flying sideways down the highway, Wohl leaned out the starboard side cargo door, raised his rail gun, aimed, and fired. Both dual left rear tires of a large passenger bus exploded. The bus swerved left, blocking the highway and stopping traffic. “Make a low pass over the stopped cars, and keep an eye out for a response.”

  It did not lake long at all. From a large but otherwise plain black sedan, very much like dozens of others on the highway, Briggs saw a soldier in camouflaged battle-dress uniform emerge with an AK-74 assault ritle in his hands, staring at the low-flying helicopter. “Tally-ho!” Briggs shouted. “There’s suspect number one! You got him covered. Sarge? Don’t let him get a shot off at our ride.”

  “Roger,” Wohl responded. He already had the gunman in his sights, and Briggs hoped he wouldn’t pull the trigger—a human body shot with a blunt one-pound projectile traveling over three thousand feet per second would burst apart like an overripe melon.

  Briggs didn’t wait for the helicopter to hover or position itself near the suspect vehicle—he simply ran to the open port- side cargo door and leaped out, with the helicopter still over a hundred feet in the air and flying about thirty miles an hour. A fraction of a second before his feet hit the pavement, a burst of jet propellant from his boots softened his fall. Another blast of propellant flung Briggs through the air, and he landed right beside the flabbergasted gunman. A lightning burst of electrical energy from an electrode dropped the startled gunman before he could even think about leveling his rifle.

  The windows in the sedan were inch-thick bulletproof glass, but they were no match for the electronically controlled armor that turned Briggs’s fists into battering rams. He cracked open the left rear window first and peered inside. The moment he saw two passengers wearing HAWC black flight suits inside, he raced into action. He shot another burst of high-voltage disabling energy into the second armed guard sitting in the aft- facing passenger seat. At the same moment, another shot from Wohl’s rail gun disabled the sedan’s engine with a tremendous KA-BANG! and flying pieces of engine block before the driver could speed away through traffic. One pull through the broken window, and the thick bulletproof door popped free of its frame.

  Briggs immediately found out why Annie couldn’t respond—she and Deverill were handcuffed to the floor, their mouths taped shut, and a hood pulled over their eyes. One quick yank, and the handcuffs popped off their floor bolts, and he hustled the two fliers out of the disabled sedan.

  “Stand by, sir, we’re coming down,” Wohl radioed.

  “Hurry it up,” Briggs radioed back. But as he watched the sky while the Ukrainian chopper came in for a landing, he saw something else that made his blood turn to slush: four Russian Mi-24 gunships, armed to the teeth. At the same instant, two Russian fighter planes screamed overhead, providing air cover for the gunships.

  The game was up. The rescue mission was over. The gunships were bearing down on them quickly, two staying high opposing the Ukrainian chopper, the other two swinging wide apart, swooping in low to cover Briggs and the others on the ground. The only thing they could do now was surrender. There was no way they could—

  Suddenly, the two high Mi-24 gunships lining up on the Ukrainian helicopter swerved, ratcheted back and forth across the sky unsteadily, then dove for the earth, trailing a thick cloud of smoke. The two low Mi-24s swerved left and right, popping bright decoy flares and ejecting bundles of chaff. The two heavily armored Mi-24s were able to autorotate to hard but survivable landings several hundred yards away. They heard loud BOOOMs across the sky as the MiG fighters sped away, either running from or looking for a fight.

  “Tin Man, this is Terminator Two,” Briggs heard General Patrick McLanahan announce on his personal satellite transceiver. “Splash two Hinds. We’re defensive with two MiGs coming around after us. Get off the ground as fast as you can. We’ll try to put these MiGs down and keep the other Hinds off your six.”

  “Sweet lord, someone’s looking out for us!” Briggs crowed. “C’mon, Sarge, get that beast on the ground and pick us up now before our luck runs out.”

  The White House Situation Room, Washington, D.C.

  That same time

  “I’m afraid. Mr. President,” Robert G. Goff, the U.S. secretary of defense, said solemnly, “that this might be the worst peacetime military incident since the Francis Gary Powers U-2 spy plane affair.”

  Secretary of Defense Goff was giving a late-night report to President Thomas Thom in the White House Situation Room, which was very much like most conference rooms anywhere except for the sophisticated communications capabilities—the President could pick up the phone in front of him and talk to virtually anyone on the planet, even those aloft or afloat. Arrayed around Thom were Edward Kercheval, the Secretary of State; Air Force General Richard W. Venti, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff: and Robert R. Morgan. Director of Central Intelligence. Vice President Lester R. Busick was seated beside the President.

  “I’m sure it’s not that bad, Robert,” the President said in a soft voice. “As far as we can detect, the world has not stopped spinning on its axis. Run it down for us.”

  For most folks, the President’s quiet tone and demeanor, his soft-spoken attitude, and his almost constant level of energy were a calming influence. But with these men, in this situation, it was beginning to get annoying. For Robert Goff, his friend the President’s constant lack of... alacrity, for lack of a better term, was beginning to get infuriating.

  “Yes, sir,” Goff began, after taking a deep breath. “The rescue mission for Siren was a success. Unfortunately, just before exiting Russian airspace, the EB-1C Vampire bomber used for air cover was shot down by Russian air defense forces.”

  “Maybe this Vampire wasn’t as survivable as we were led to believe,” the Vice President scoffed.

  “The best-laid plans, Les, the best-laid plans,” the President said, gently admonishing his vice president. “The only real failure is the failure to try.”

  Busick hid a scowl and fell silent. It was obvious to most of the nation that Thomas Thom and Lester Busick were definitely two different men; if given a choice, most folks in the know would never pick these two men to work together in the White House. Thom was a complete Washington novice; Busick was the archetypical Washington insider. Busick worked best when operating in crisis mode; Thom treated every incident, from the lowliest political flap to the most serious world crisis, with the same quiet, understated coolness. He had a sort of Jimmy Carter innocence about him and a seemingly Ronald Reagan-type detachment from the seriousness of a particular incident, but at the same time his finely tuned mind kept his staff and advisors well coordinated and moving generally in unison.

  For many years, Lester Busick had seen himself as the ultimate Washington puppetmaster, the man in the wings pulling the strings of power—but with the advent of Thomas Nathaniel Thom on the political scene, he could tell right away that he was being outclassed. The difference was that Thom pulled the strings without seemingly lifting a hand.

  “What about the Vampire’s crew?” the President asked.

  “Sir, Air Force Lieutenant-General Terrill Samson was in charge of the cover mission—he’s with us on a secure videophone link. I’d like to bring him in on our discussion.” Thom nodded, and an aide activated the link. Samson was seated in his battle staff area at Dreamland, along with Major John Long. “General Samson, this is Secretary Goff. I’m here with the President and the National Security Council in the Situation Room. Who’s with you. General?”

  “This is Major John Long, operations officer of the 111th Bombardment Squadron, the unit that the aircrew and aircraft were assigned; he is the acting commander. The unit commander, Co
lonel Furness, is the aircraft commander of the backup aircraft and is en route back here.”

  “Very well, General. What’s the latest on the crew?”

  “Both crew members are alive,” Samson said. “One crew member is still unconscious. The crew was captured by local Russian militiamen and transferred to the Border Police, who are taking them to an unknown location, presumably a Border Police regional headquarters, possibly Belgorod.”

  “The plane was destroyed in the crash, General Samson?” the President asked.

  “Our telemetry indicates that the plane was completely destroyed, sir,” Samson replied.

  ‘Telemetry?”

  “We monitor hundreds of different parameters of every weapon system involved in our missions by satellite, sir.”

  “Too bad you can’t monitor your human ‘weapon systems’ the same way, General,” Busick quipped.

  “In fact, sir, we can,” Samson said. “We’re in constant voice contact with all of our personnel, and we monitor a range of readings on each one constantly by satellite.”

  “You do?” the President asked incredulously. “You know where they are, what they say, whether their hearts are beating or not?”

  “Exactly, Mr. President,” Samson said. “My staff has been monitoring them continuously during this mission. We are not currently in voice contact, but we are monitoring life signs and they are alive. We can also plot their positions w'ith some degree of accuracy, and we’ve determined that they are indeed on the move.” Thom’s eyebrows arched in amazement. “Their situation appears to be quite desperate I’m afraid they’ve been captured and will be in the Russian military prisoner system shortly.”

  “Amazing,” Busick gasped. “So you know exactly where they are right now? Why don’t we just go in and get them, then?”