Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02 (57 page)

 
          
“Nav
computer set on initial point,” McLanahan reported. On J.C.’s laser-projection
heads-up display a tiny
“nav”
indicator
flashed on the screen, indicating that the computer was directing a turn. J.C.
hit the voice-command switch on his control stick.

 
          
“Autopilot
on, heading nav.”

 
          
“Autopilot on,”
the computer-generated
voice replied.
“Heading nav mode.
Caution, select altitude function. ”
The computer reminded J.C. that no
autopilot function had been selected for holding altitude. Cheetah started a
right turn, heading southwest.

 
          
In
the aft cockpit McLanahan was completing his checklist items for drone release.
“Release circuits safety switch to consent,” he told Powell. J.C. flipped a
switch far down on his left instrument panel.

 
          
“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.
muttered.

 
          
“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?”