Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02 (68 page)

 
          
One
last check around. Myers keyed his mike switch. “Fox two,” he called over the
command radio, then hit the weapon- release button on the control stick with
his right thumb. A streak of white roared off the left wing of Myers’ fighter;
the white finger extended itself directly to the MiG and touched it. A flash of
orange billowed out of the MiG’s tail, and the dark shape began arcing toward
the bright blue
Caribbean
Sea
far below.
Large dark shapes fell free of the doomed MiG; seconds later a dark green
parachute blossomed out of one of the shapes as the Russian pilot began his
descent to the waters below.

 
          
“Splash
one MiG,” Myers called out. “Your tail’s clear, Five- Six.”

 
          
“What the hell did you do?”
Coursey
screamed. “Dragon flight, disengage, clear, and extend immediately ...”

 
          
“Barrier,
this is Five-Six,”
Douglas
said. “I’ve got an I.D. on those birds
under the transport. There’s two more MiG-2gs and another aircraft—looks like
an X-29. Forward swept-wing job. Carrying two fuel tanks and two missiles.
Repeat, we’ve got another two MiGs and an X-29 underneath the Midas transport.
Over.”

 
          
A
few moments later Myers pulled up alongside
Douglas
’ right wingtip and flashed a thumbs-up.
“We’re clear, Five-Six,” Myers said on the command radio—the adrenaline
pumping. “We’re—”

 
          
Myers’
exhilaration was cut short by a thunderous pop, a flash of excruciating heat,
then darkness. The second MiG had instantly, silently, avenged its comrade’s
death. Myers had forgotten about the second MiG closing in behind him. The
Soviet infrared search-and-track system needed no radar or even a radar
data-link to attack a target—the MiG-2g’s infrared AA-11 dogfighting missile
was slaved to directions provided by the large infrared telescope mounted in
front of the MiG’s canopy. At close range the AA-11 missile did not miss. Now
it exploded directly underneath the F-i6’s engine compartment, turning the
Falcon’s turbofan engine into a one-ton dynamite stick. Myers never had a
chance to eject.

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
Aboard
the 767 AWACS Elliott hammered the console with his fist. “That’s
it,
that’s the XF-34. They’re trying to
fly it to
Cuba
.”

 
          
“General,”
Marsch called out, the warning words of Douglas in Dragon Five-Six still
echoing in his head, “what are you talking about? We’ve just lost one of our
planes. We’re suddenly up against three MiG-2gs with only two F-i6s for cover.
We’ve gotta get out of here.”

 
          
Elliott
ignored Marsch and keyed his microphone. “Comm, this is General Elliott.
Priority message to JCS. Give present position and heading. Report sighting
XF-34 in protective convoy with four MiG-2gs and one II-76
tanker-transport-AWACS aircraft. Send and repeat and get confirmation.”

 
          
“Yes,
sir.
”

 
          
“Colonel,
you had better take charge of this mission or I will,” Elliott warned the
spooked Reserve AWACS commander. “We’re not running anywhere, so get that out
of your head right now.”

 
          
“General,
I’ve got my procedures to follow,” Marsch said. “Three against two is superior
forces. The second F-16 flight won’t be here for ten minutes—by then we could
be at the bottom of the
Caribbean
.
My procedures say butt out—” “And my
orders
are from the White House, Colonel,” Elliott said. “I am to find the XF-34,
prevent it from leaving
Nicaragua
, force it to land in friendly territory ...
or destroy it. You’ll have one F-16 on us in one minute to protect this
aircraft. Our F-i6s are better than the MiG-29—they can handle it. We’re
not
facing superior forces, Colonel, and
we’re not retreating from this flight. Now take command of this engagement or I
will.”

 
          
“I
don’t have to take your orders when the safety of my crew and my aircraft are
concerned—”

 
          
“Then
it’s no longer your aircraft. You’re hereby relieved of command.” Elliott
seated himself in the commander’s seat behind the main radar console Control
One and the main defensive radar operator, Control Three; he had his own
screen, Control Two, but he didn’t know enough about the new system to use it.
He would have to divide his attention between three screens to stay on top of
this fight. Other radar operators, Controls Four through Eight, would scan the
sky around the AWACS at long range for aircraft and ships as well as focus in
on each friendly aircraft involved in the fight and warn him of enemy aircraft
around him.

 
          
He
hit the shipwide intercom button. “Crew, this is S-Five, General Elliott. I am
taking command of this aircraft. Crew, prepare for air-to-air engagement.” He
unplugged his headset cord from the intercom box and plugged it into the
commander’s net. “Control Three, put Five-Seven on a high CAP over this
aircraft. He’s responsible for a fifty-mile diameter around us. Control Four,
can Dragon Five-Eight and Five- Nine get a refueling before their ETA?”

 
          
A
pause while the radar operator took in the news about the sudden change of
command, then another few moments to get his mind back to the fight around
them. “Affirmative, sir, but they’d have to wait zero-three minutes for the
rendezvous.” “No good. Get Five-Eight and Nine in to relieve Six as fast as
they can—he’s gotta be low on fuel. Communications, contact Dragon Control in
Georgetown
and have them scramble a third flight
ASAP.”

 
          
“Roger.”

 
          
Elliott
glanced at Marsch, who stood behind him clenching and unclenching his
fists—obviously angry, but also surprised at how well this four-star walk-on
was deploying his fighters.

 
          
“I
understand you have command responsibility for this mission, General Elliott,”
Marsch said, phrasing his words for the running tape recorders on the control
deck.

 
          
Elliott
did not take his eyes off the main screen. “Colonel, I want you on Control Two.
I want you to watch that Russian Ilyushin and track any aircraft that try to
peel away from it. I want you to identify the XF-34 and track every move it
makes. If it gets away I’ll hang your ass.” Marsch shut up and went to do as he
was told.

 
          
“Dragon
Five-Six, bogey at your
six o’clock
, six miles, MiG- 29,” Control One reported.

 
          
“Two
fighters breaking off from the transport,” Marsch called out. “Looks like
they’re maneuvering to engage.”

 
          
Elliott
muttered to himself, “Now we
are
outnumbered. I hoped those two would stay with DreamStar and the Russian
AWACS.” Without ready help, Dragon Five-Four and Five- Six, he thought grimly,
we’re going to have to get out of this jam by ourselves.

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
Douglas
aboard Dragon Five-Six yanked his control
stick hard right as he heard the warning from his AWACS. Meanwhile Coursey had
rolled inverted and had pointed his nose down toward the transport, searching
for
Douglas
. He spotted him seconds later, the big
MiG-29 dead on his tail. But instead of following
Douglas
in his hard break, the MiG was in a dive.

 
          
“Five-Six,
this is Five-Four, your MiG’s going vertical. Punch your tank. Catch him on the
climb.”

 
          
But
by the time Douglas had jettisoned his fuel tank and completed his
ninety-degree break to get away from infrared missile firing range of the MiG,
his pursuer had built up enough speed in his dive to turn hard right and zoom
upward. With his nose high in the air,
Douglas
rolled out of his break directly in front
of the MiG.

 
          
“Reverse,
” Coursey yelled.

 
          
Douglas
heard the warning and banged the stick hard
left. It was the right decision—the MiG pilot was expecting another right break
to preserve his energy, was not expecting the left turn. He tried a fast cannon
burst as the F-16 crossed in front of him but had no time to line up.

 
          
“Extend
and get your speed up, Doug,” Coursey ordered.
Douglas
checked the airspeed readout on his
heads-up display—it was down nearly to three hundred knots. “He’s coming around
behind you again. He yo-yoed on you. Don’t dick with this guy—he seems to know
his shit.” Coursey pulled his nose down and aimed it at the MiG. “I’m on my
way, Doug, but you be smart, play in the vertical. Don’t let him drop down on
you.”

 
          
The
F-16 regained its speed quickly but the twin turbofans of the MiG-29 had three
times the power of the Falcon. In an instant the MiG was back on
Douglas
’ tail.

 
          
“Let’s
try to sandwich this guy,” Coursey said after he finally got into position
behind and above the MiG. “Break left.”

 
          
Douglas
pulled into a hard left turn but was forced
to release back pressure on the stick or risk stalling. The break was not as
quick or as clean as it would have been, and he offered an enticing target for
the MiG, which instead of dropping down into a low-speed yo-yo maneuver chose
to turn with
Douglas
.

 
          
Exactly
as Coursey had hoped. With the MiG in a left turn, Coursey used his
diving-speed advantage and pulled directly behind the MiG, then immediately
went to an AIM-132B short- range infrared missile—and fired. The missile
tracked perfectly, missing the fast-moving MiG by only a few feet, but the
explosion of the missile’s warhead damaged something vital. The MiG pilot nosed
his fighter over, trailing a thick black cloud of smoke.

 
          
“Splash
two MiGs,” Coursey called over the radio. “Coming up on your right side, Doug.”

 
          
“Dragon
Five-Four, two bogeys at your
four o’clock
, ten miles ...” The warning had barely been
received when Coursey’s radar-threat warning receiver bleeped.

 
          
“Five-Six,
break left.” Coursey could see chaff stream out of Five-Six’s right ejector,
and then the F-16 was gone in his hard defensive bank. Coursey broke right,
pumping out chaff and flares from his left ejectors, and straining against the
G-forces to scan out the top of his canopy for his attackers. He spotted one of
the MiGs just in time to see its cannon flashing and tracers stream toward
him—the missile had missed but the MiG had enough power to press the attack and
go in with his twenty-three-millimeter gun.

 
          
The
MASTER CAUTION
light snapped on and
the HUD displayed a
warning
message.
Checking the caution panel on the right side, Coursey found a half-dozen
cautions lights illuminated but nothing immediately serious—rudder, nozzle,
fuel leaks. No fire lights. The shells had ripped across his tail from the top
but missed the engine compartment. With the nozzle now stuck in the military
position, engine performance in afterburner would probably be degraded, and
with the rudder damaged, landing might be tricky or impossible—if he managed to
make it to dry land with his fuel leak.

 
          
Such
inflight emergencies ran through Coursey’s mind, but he was able to dismiss
them for now... his engine was running, his wings were still attached and
personally he was undamaged except for his pride. The one overriding thought
that stuck in his mind was that the Russians had gotten a shot off at him and
had hurt his Falcon. They’d pay for that.