by Dale Brown
“You did your best,” said Storm. “Come on now. Let’s get ready for the next.”
Aboard Baker-Baker Two,
over the Gulf of Aden
2245
“FOUR AIRCRAFT NOW, AND THEY ARE ON AFTERBURNERS,” said Spiderman. “Computer has them ID’d as MF-type, upgraded radar of Elta type. They are within twenty miles. Inside visual range within sixty seconds.” Breanna needed eighty seconds to get to the next drop point.
“Our friends are going to get fairly close,” she told Delaford. “I’d prefer to hold off releasing the next buoy until they’re past.”
“There’s no hurry, Captain,” answered Delaford. “What are they up to?”
“Probably more intimidation,” said Breanna. “These are Russian-made MiG-21s with updated avionics. No indication yet if these aircraft have air-to-air missiles, but in theory these are slightly more potent. We’ll keep you advised.”
“Still coming,” said Spiderman.
“Wisconsin, this is Baker-Baker Two,” Breanna said over the Dreamland radio circuit. “We have four aircraft approaching from Somalian territory. We peg them for Ethiopians.”
“Copy that, Baker-Baker,” Dog replied. “We see them.”
“How do you want us to handle them? Should we hail them?”
“Negative. Maintain radio silence. We’re changing course.”
“Thought you were assisting Xray Pop.”
“They don’t want our help. We’ll be in your neighborhood in about twelve minutes.”
“MiGs have activated their weapons radars!” shouted Spiderman before Breanna could acknowledge.
Dreamland
1145
MACK LEANED BACK IN THE WHEELCHAIR, EXASPERATED. MAJOR Natalie Catsman, Dreamland’s second-in-command, shrugged.
“I can’t help you, Major. The Werewolves are not your program. And even if they were your program, we don’t have resources for that work. Or the funding.”
“What funding do you need?” said Mack. “You just heard Gleason say that the computer program is exactly the same.
You could use the Werewolf to deploy Piranha.”
“I didn’t say that exactly,” said Jennifer. “I said—”
“That’s not the point,” said Catsman, raising her hand.
“The point is, it’s not your program. And even if it were, the units we have are already allocated. Two Werewolves are joining Captain Freah in Saudi Arabia for base security as well as additional testing. They’re gone, as are their technical teams. That eliminates any possibility of testing the naval components this week, or next. Sorry.”
“So we send the Navy modules over to Saudi Arabia, with me, and we test them there,” said Mack. “Jennifer can come—she’s the only decent pilot anyway.”
“Sandy Culver is the lead pilot,” said Jennifer.
“If you’re angling to go to the Middle East, Major, it’s not going to work,” said Catsman. “Colonel Bastian wanted you here. That’s good enough for me.”
“He didn’t say that specifically.”
“Yes, he did. Don’t you have a rehab or something to go to?”
Exasperated, Mack pushed his wheels and attempted to sweep out of the office. His off-balance attempt nearly sent him into the doorjamb. He recovered at the last second, swiveling to the left and just barely clearing. He swore he heard snickering, but wouldn’t give Catsman the satisfaction of turning around.
He was waiting at the elevator a minute or two later when Jennifer Gleason appeared.
“I made a shot to get you along, Jen,” said Mack.
“Thanks.”
“Catsman’s a pain. I could do a better job than she could.” Gleason didn’t say anything.
Women always stuck together, Mack thought. But it was true—he was more qualified than Catsman to run the base.
Not that he wanted to run the base. He would, if it didn’t mean sitting behind a desk in a chair all day.
Which, come to think of it, was what he was doing these days. God, he hated the wheelchair.
Aboard Baker-Baker Two,
over the Gulf of Aden
2250
THE ETHIOPIAN PILOT REPEATED HIS WARNING: THE AIRCRAFT must identify itself or be considered hostile and be shot down.
Breanna bristled. Baker-Baker Two‘s belly was loaded with Piranha guidance buoys; she had no offensive weapons. If the Ethiopian MiG fired, all she would be able to do was duck.
“Computer has weapons ID’d as AA-12 Adders,” said Spiderman, referring to the NATO designation of the antiair missiles the lead aircraft was packing. Known in Russia as the R-77, the missile was commonly referred to as the “AMRAAMski.” It had an effective range of perhaps one hundred kilometers; when it came within twenty kilometers of its target, it turned on an active radar guidance system that was difficult to break. The aircraft probably also carried R-73s, known in the West as AA-11s. These were shorter range heat-seeking weapons, mean suckers in a knife fight.
“Radar is locked,” warned the copilot. “They’re firing at us!”
“Countermeasures. Hold on everyone—this may get ugly.”
Aboard the Wisconsin,
over the Gulf of Aden
2252
“THEY’RE FIRING AT THEM!” WARNED MCNAMARA.
Dog already had the throttle at the last stop, but leaned on the slider anyway.
“They’re taking evasive action,” said McNamara, monitoring the radar at the copilot station. “ECMs, ducking away.
The Ethiopians split into twos, Colonel—looks like they’re trying to get them from both sides.”
“Prepare our Scorpions,” he told him. “Zen, the Ethiopians have opened fire. Two AA-12 Adders have been launched.”
“Flighthawk leader,” said Zen. “Still zero-five from intercept on the southernmost group.”
Aboard Baker-Baker Two,
over the Gulf of Aden
2253
THE MEGAFORTRESS ROLLED ON HER LEFT WING, PIROUETTING in the air as a cloud of metal chaff blossomed above her, an enticing target for the Russian-made air-to-air missile. Between the decoy and the electronic fuzz broadcast by Baker-Baker Two‘s electronic countermeasures, Breanna had no doubt she would avoid the enemy missile. She was concerned about the follow-up attack. The lead MiG had swung sharply east and then cut north, undoubtedly hoping to swing back around while her attention was on his wing-man’s missiles. At the same time, he dove closer to the waves, hoping to go so low that her radar couldn’t find him.
If his maneuvers succeeded, he’d end up behind her, in perfect position to fire his closer-range heat seekers. Meanwhile, the second element of MiGs would close from the south, preventing her from running away.
The tactics would have been effective against another aircraft, but the Megafortress’s radar had no trouble keeping track of the enemy plane’s position, and unlike other aircraft, it had a stinger in its tail—literally.
As the first AMRAAMski sucked the decoy and exploded a mile and a half away, the MiG began accelerating, trying to close the gap between them.
“Stinger air mines,” Breanna told her copilot.
“Stinger is up,” said Spiderman.
“He’s closing. Firing two heat seekers!”
“Relax, Spiderman, I’ve done this before,” said Breanna.
The Russian-made missiles had been fired from roughly five miles away, too far to guarantee a hit against any aircraft, let alone the Megafortress. Breanna waited a beat, then tossed flares out as decoys and tucked hard right. But rather than cutting into a sharp zigzag and losing her pursuer, she stayed with the turn, inviting the MiG to close and take another shot. A cue in her heads-up display warned her that he had switched to his gun radar, but he was not yet in range. Breanna started a cut back, again just enough to keep her quarry thinking that he was the hunter.
“Firing,” warned Spiderman.
“Boy, he is a slow learner,” said Breanna. The MiG was roughly three and a half miles off, t
oo far for his bullets to strike the Megafortress.
“Two more contacts closing,” warned Spiderman.
“Hang in there,” said Breanna. She nudged left, lining her adversary up. “Stinger ready?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Now!” she told the copilot, slamming the throttles and using the Megafortress’s control surfaces as air brakes to dramatically lower her airspeed. The Stinger air mines exploded practically in the face of the following MiG pilot. By the time he realized what was going on, his Tumansky turbojet had sucked in enough tungsten to open a salvage yard—which was about all his jet was useful for.
“He’s down! He’s ejecting!” shouted Spiderman. “Way to go, Captain!”
Breanna’s answer was to sleek her wings and mash the throttle back to military power, then tuck the Megafortress into a roll—two more radar-guided missiles were headed their way.
Aboard the Wisconsin,
over the Gulf of Aden
2255
ZEN CURSED AS THE MISSILE FLARED BENEATH THE WING OF the MiG-21 closest to the Flighthawk—he hadn’t quite made it in time.
“Weapon is an AA-12,” said the computer. “Target is Baker-Baker Two. Hawk One remains undetected. Time to target engagement, thirty seconds.” Zen leaned forward as he flew, keeping an even pressure on the joystick controlling the Flighthawk, referred to as Hawk One by the computer. He couldn’t worry about the missile now, even though it had been aimed at an aircraft flown by his wife; he had to concentrate on the MiG, three miles dead ahead of him.
Or rather, dead ahead of the Flighthawk. He was nearly twenty miles to the southeast. But when he flew the robot, it was as if he were sitting in its nose, rushing toward the enemy plane.
The rectangular aiming cue in his main screen began blinking yellow, indicating that he was approaching firing range. He nudged left slightly, putting the MiG’s tailpipe in the middle of the screen, which was actually a holographic projection in the visor of his helmet. The aiming cue turned solid red; Zen waited another second, then pressed the trigger. A dotted black line appeared in front of the Flighthawk.
Zen nudged the stick left, pushing the line through the rear tail plane and then up through the wing of his target. The MiG’s right wing flipped upward, then pushed hard down.
Black smoke appeared at the center of the Ethiopian plane, and then the aircraft veered right.
Zen didn’t bother to follow. He tucked left, hunting for a second target.
Aboard Baker-Baker Two,
over the Gulf of Aden
2256
BREANNA HAD NO TROUBLE DUCKING THE FIRST AIR-TO-AIR missile; she could actually see it in the enhanced view screen. But the second AA-12 managed to get almost under the Megafortress’s wings and exploded close enough for her to feel the rumble. The emergency light panel lit immediately; even without checking, she could tell she’d taken a hit in engine three.
“Three’s losing oil!” said Spiderman.
“Roger that. Let’s shut her down. Compensate.” Breanna checked her position as the copilot took the engine offline. They were seventy-five miles north of the Somalian coast, at only three thousand feet. The closest MiG was five miles to the south, running away.
“Trimming,” said Spiderman.
The two pilots worked together for several minutes, adjusting the power settings in the remaining engines and fine-tuning the flight-control surfaces to compensate for the loss of the engine. The computer actually did most of the work, computing the complex forces acting on the airplane and suggesting solutions that would allow it to function nearly as well as if it had all four power plants—or as the flight control computer calculated, “eighty-five percent efficiency.”
“MiGs have broken off and are heading back toward their base,” said the radar operator.
“Acknowledged,” said Breanna. “Commander Delaford?”
“We’re here.”
“How’s Piranha?”
“On course and on schedule.”
“We’ll drop the second control buoy in zero-five minutes,” said Breanna. “Everybody catch your breath.”
Aboard the Wisconsin,
over the Gulf of Aden
2256
ZEN PRESSED THE THROTTLE SLIDER TO MAXIMUM POWER, closing on the Ethiopian MiG. The other aircraft had fired its last missile and cut south toward home, inadvertently turning in the direction of the Flighthawk, which apparently had not been picked up by its radar.
Zen’s screen flashed yellow.
“Flighthawk leader, the MiGs have broken off contact and are returning to base,” said Dog. “They’re no longer a threat.”
Zen’s finger jammed against the throttle, urging the robot plane closer. His screen went to red, but he knew he didn’t have a perfect shot yet, despite what the computer said. He nudged slightly to the right, willing the enemy tailpipe into the cue.
“Flighthawk leader, break contact,” said Dog.
He could squeeze the trigger now and splash the bastard.
Zen wanted to—there was no reason, in his opinion, to let any of the Ethiopians escape.
“Zen?”
“Flighthawk leader,” said Zen, pulling off.
DOG NUDGED WISCONSIN CLOSER TO THE OTHER megafortress. The starlight video camera—it worked by magnifying the available light, which in this case was primarily from the moon rather than the stars—showed some nicks in the rear housing of engine three. The wing, however, looked un-damaged, which jibed with what Breanna had said.
“I think your damage is confined to that wing,” he told her. “What’s your assessment?”
“I continue with my mission as directed. I have another buoy ready to go. I’ve already talked to Greasy Hands back at Dreamland. They’ll have a replacement engine tuned and waiting at Khamis Mushait when we land.”
“Where did the chief steal that?” asked Dog. Greasy Hands was the top NCO and unofficial godfather of the Dreamland technical crew, or “maintainers,” the men and women who kept the aircraft aloft. He knew more about the planes than the people who designed them.
“He had two shipped in from Dreamland with the ground crew,” said Breanna. “Depending on the damage to the skin, he claims the plane will be ready for its next flight. I tend to agree with him. We’ve flown with much worse. I can deal with it.”
“All right,” said Dog. “Launch the control buoy. We’ll continue to monitor. Did you track the Ethiopian pilots who bailed out?”
“We have global positioning coordinates on one, and an approximate location on the other chute,” said Breanna.
“What do you want to do?”
If the MV-22 had been in Saudi Arabia, Dog would have ordered Danny Freah to recover them so they could be questioned. Since that wasn’t possible, his options were limited.
He could alert Xray Pop, but the squadron already had its hands full and was unlikely to be in a position to mount a rescue much before dawn, if then. As a humanitarian gesture, Dog probably ought to alert the authorities in Djibouti, which was about fifty miles from the crash site.
Should he show mercy to a man who had tried to kill his people?
“Give me the location,” said Dog. “We’ll see if we can reach someone to pick them up.”
IV
My Way or No Way
Aboard the Abner Read,
Gulf of Aden
7 November 1997
0800
STORM WATCHED THE RIGID HULL INFLATABLE BOAT PULL INTO the landing area at the stern of Abner Read. Two more bodies had been recovered from the destroyed freighter, which had sunk during the night. Three men had not yet been recovered.
He would get the bastards for this. He would get them and he would see personally that they paid.
As for Bastian …
“Captain?”
Storm ignored the seaman who had approached him, snapping to attention and bringing his hand up in a stiff salute as one of his dead sailors was lifted from the boat. A light rain made the work all the
more grim; several members of the party helping recover the remains slipped on the wet deck as they carried their fallen comrades about the destroyer. They struggled to hold the dead bodies up off the deck until they reached the litters that had been laid out for them, determined to spare them one final indignity. Only when the last body was laid down did Storm turn and give the seaman his attention.
“Sorry, sir,” said the sailor.
Storm noted that the man’s eyes were welled with tears.
“They’ll be avenged,” Storm told him. “We’ll have justice.” The young man nodded.
“What did you want to tell me?”
“Commander Eisenberg sent me to tell you that Communications has that transmission you needed,” said the young man. “He also said to mention that your communications unit has given out, sir. He can hear you but apparently you can’t hear him.”
Storm looked down at his belt. Somewhere during the long night he had pulled the wires of the unit out and broken part of the connection. The sailor was holding a replacement unit.
“Thanks,” said Storm. “I’ll take the transmission in my cabin.”
As he walked to his quarters, he pulled the old com unit off his head. Some of his blood had scabbed under the unit, and he winced as he pulled it off. Not much pain, he thought; just enough to remind him he was alive.
Admiral Johnson’s face filled the screen when he flipped on the secure communications line. Storm told him what had happened; for once the admiral listened without comment.
“There were three patrol boats that fled the scene,” Storm told him. “The Dreamland team tracked them to a harbor in Somalia, then lost them when a group of Ethiopians showed up. They had time to shoot down two planes, but they couldn’t lift a finger to help us.”
“Did the Dreamland people understand what was at stake here?” asked Johnson.
“Admiral, I can’t begin to understand or speak for what was going on in their minds. I requested that they engage the boats and they refused. As for the Ethiopians—I think if we don’t put our foot down, things are going to get a lot worse over here.”
“Bastian thinks he’s the Lone Ranger,” said Johnson.
“He’s not used to being part of a team.” Finally, thought Storm, he and Admiral Johnson actually agreed on something.
