Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02 (81 page)

 
          
A
warning tone sounded on interphone, followed by the hard, short thuds of the
Stinger airmine rockets being shot away. “
Radar
lock automatic
. . .
warning, launch
command issued
.
.
.
airmine launch
. . .
launch two
. . .
launch three.
”

 
          
But
moments later the fighter was still coming—all three airmine rockets had
missed. “He’s still coming. Prepare for infrared missile attack,” Karbayjal
called out. “Two miles . . . one mile . . .—break left now.”

 
          
Carter
yanked the Megafortress into a hard left turn. The terrain-following computer
immediately commanded a climb to allow for terrain clearance. At the same time
Karbayjal punched two flares and chaflF out the right side ejectors.

 
          
“One
mile . . . half mile . . . he’s still coming.” Nothing was decoying this
guy—chaflF, flares, jammers, even airmine rockets .. .

 
          
The
fire-control radar tracked the fighter as it flew closer and closer, but a few
seconds later the reason for its daringly close pass became obvious as
Karbayjal watched the fighter’s altitude wind down lower and lower until it
finally read zero.

 
          
“He
crashed,
” Karbayjal called out.
“He—”

 
          
Suddenly
they heard on the scrambled discrete strike frequency, “Dog Two, this is Storm
Two. Your tail’s clear.”

 
          
“Powell.
McLanahan.”
Cheshire
shouted the names. “Way to go.”

 
          
Carter
let out his breath. He tasted blood and found he had bit his lower lip almost
all the way through. As he steered the Megafortress back on course he opened
the radio channel. “Thanks, guys.”

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
J.C.
raised Cheetah’s nose until he was level with the tops of the tree-covered
mountains, making several tight turns left and right to clear behind them,
searching for a second fighter. McLanahan, his night-vision visor lowered,
searched the sky behind the F-15. “Clear visually, clear on the threat
receiver,” he said.

 
          
“That
MiG pilot had balls,” J.C. said. “Diving down from twenty-thousand feet like
that, it could have paid off for him.”

 
          
“But
where’s his buddies?” McLanahan asked.

 
          
J.C.
climbed another five-thousand feet, well above the mountains, and continued his
clearing turns. He used the radar sparingly, relying more on the infrared-laser
scanner to avoid telltale electronic emissions that could give away their
location. “Nothing. One MiG working alone? Unusual.”

 
          
“They’re
not up here,” McLanahan said. “That means they’ve got to be on the deck, flying
down that same river valley as the Old Dog. We either use the radar to look for
them . .

 
          
“Or
we go down into the valley ourselves and dig ’em out,” J.C. said. “I was afraid
you’d say that.” Powell lowered the nose once more, plunging Cheetah back into
the jungle abyss below.

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
They
had to dodge far south of course, around sprinkles of ore mines and tiny
villages to avoid the spot where the antiaircraft artillery gun had been
destroyed by one of the Old Dog’s HARM missiles. Carter set five hundred feet
in the clearance plane to allow more leeway in terrain clearance as they roared
through a high valley and across a ridge-line south of the town of
Matagalpa
.

 
          
“We
should have met up with that SA-io site by now,” Atkins said nervously. The
calm that he had restored in himself after the strike against the SA-15 site
had come back full force after the MiG encounter. He was reproaching himself
loud enough to trigger the voice-activated interphone, and Karbayjal had to
reach across the aisle beside him and touch his shoulder, trying to calm him
down. The navigators were quiet. Kellerman had to be prompted to activate the
ground-mapping radar to check terrain. Scott was quiet too. He had activated
his laser-scanner in preparation for the strike, but the scanner was not moving
in any sort of search pattern.

 
          
“Nav,
brief us on this axis of attack,” Carter said, trying to bring his crew back
together any way he could think of. “You said we’re five miles south of
course—how will this affect our attack plan?”

 
          
“What?”

 
          
“Alicia,
get with it,” Carter said. “Brief the crew on the attack profile.”

 
          
A
strained pause, then: “We . . . we’ll be heading more directly down the runway
instead of perpendicular to it,” she replied in a ragged voice. “The triple-A
will be at our
twelve o’clock
.
It might be harder to pick out from this direction.”

           
“You hear that, Paul?”

 
          
“Y
. . . yes.”

 
          
“What
else, Alicia?”

 
          
“The
CBUs,” Kellerman said. “We should launch the first pod down the runway after we
defeat the triple-A site.”

 
          
“I
can designate the hangars on that pass,” Scott put in. He could lock the
gyro-stabilized laser-scanner on up to five different images, and no matter how
the B-52 turned, the designated targets could be recalled and attacked at any
time once they were back within range.

 
          
“And
the smoke and fire should cover our turn when we line up on the target,”
Cheshire
added.

 
          
Carter
smiled behind his oxygen visor. “All
right,
” he said. “We’re starting to sound like a combat crew again. Now let’s do it
and get out of here.”

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
General
Tret’yak stood in the control tower of his small airfield, presiding over
preparations for the defense of Sebaco like a modern-day Nicholas I, with his
almost medieval forces, defending the battlements of Sevastopol in the Crimea
against the then-high-tech forces of the upstart Napoleon III and the unstoppable
if inept British. He fancied the defense of Sebaco as a symbol of Soviet power
in the western hemisphere, and he was going to repel the invaders of his
twenty-five-square- kilometer airfield.

 
          
His
forces were at the ready, poised for battle as soon as the message from Puerto
Cabezas had been received. An exact number of attackers could not be
determined—Tret’yak had been bracing for an entire carrier air wing of bombers,
but no reports of an American fleet within striking range of Sebaco had been
reported. That meant it was a smaller, less formidable strike force on the way,
perhaps only a few aircraft. Good— his forces could handle that.

 
          
To
counter the American attackers, four MiG-23s were idling at the northwest end
of the runway, each loaded with four AA-8 missiles on fuselage stations and two
infrared-guided close-range AA-11 missiles on underwing pylons, plus a twin-
barreled GSh-23 gun and a centerline fuel tank. Two more were in reserve,
cannibalized for parts earlier but quickly being repaired and readied for
combat.

 
          
In
addition to the fighters Tret’yak had an SA-8 surface-to-air missile-battery
brought up from
Managua
situated near the center of the runway on a small hill about a
kilometer north of the field. The SA-8 was a small, fast missile, capable of
destroying the American navy’s F/A-18 Hornet fighter-bomber even during a
supersonic bomb run. The SA-10 missile site had been moved once again, down
from the hills above Sebaco into the Rio Tuma river valley, and it appeared
they had positioned it perfectly—any aircraft flying toward Sebaco from Puerto
Cabezas had to fly down that valley, right into the jaws of the SA-10 system.
The SA-10 was a longer-range missile, capable of defeating attackers from
treetop level up to eighty thousand feet. For close-in defense, they still had
the
two fifty-seven-
millimeter guns on each end of the runway, which could create a virtual
wall of lead around Sebaco for two miles.

 
          
They
had other defenses, including Nicaraguan anti-air artillery units deployed in
three areas around Sebaco. One of them was located in the Rio Tuma valley,
again in perfect position to engage the American attackers.

 
          
Tret’yak’s
forces were in excellent position.

 
          
“Message
from People’s Militia Group seven, sir,” an aide reported.

 
          
“Who?”

 
          
“The
Nicaraguan militia force northeast of the base, in Mata- galpa,” the aide
replied. “They report they are under attack. One ZSU-23 anti-aircraft artillery
unit destroyed, nine casualties, ten wounded by rocket attack.”

 
          
“I
need details, Lieutenant,” Tret’yak said. “What kind of rockets? What kind of
aircraft? Speed? Direction?”

 
          
As
the aide turned to the radio operator, Tret’yak checked his chart of the area,
then looked to the tower controller. “Clear the flight for launch, Sergeant.
Send them down the Rio Tuma valley and engage the intruders at low altitude.”

 
          
The
controller nodded, picked up his microphone and said in Spanish, “Sebaco flight
of four, target at heading zero-nine- five, range twenty miles, cleared—”

 
          
Suddenly
they saw a flash of light north of the runway, followed by a streak of fire.
One of the SA-8 missiles leaped off it’s launch rail and roared toward the
southeast, the missile so low and flying in such a flat trajectory that it
looked as if it would hit one of the hangars. The first group of two MiG-23s,
which had already gone into afterburner and had begun their takeoff roll,
abruptly pulled their engines out of afterburner and stopped as the SA-8
missile roared across the departure end of the runway.

           
“Missile site two engaging
low-altitude targets,” the radio operator reported, “bearing one-six-zero true,
range twenty kilometers.”

 
          
“I
can
see
that,” Tret’yak shouted. “Get
those fighters airborne.”

 
          
“Missile-site
two reports multiple targets, sir. They recommend holding the launch until they
engage again—”

 
          
“No.”
Then to be on the safe side Tret’yak said, “Tell missile site two to hold fire
to let two aircraft depart. Launch aircraft one and two. Tell three and four to
hold position. Get five and six ready for takeofiF.”

 
          
The
controller called out the new orders, and soon the first two MiG-23s were in
afterburner once again and roaring down the runway.

 
          
“Afterburner
blowout on fighter two,” Tretyak’s aide called out. Only one glowing engine was
visible in the nighttime sky. Tret’yak sucked in his breath as he watched the
fighter skim the trees to the southeast to build up enough speed for the
climb-out. But soon both birds were climbing and turning northeast to find the
attackers.

 
          
“Have
missile site two reengage,” Tret’yak ordered. “If they are still picking up
targets we’ll have three and four head south to—”

 
          
His
words were drowned out by the roar of another SA-8 missile leaving its rails,
following the first missile’s flight path except on an even flatter trajectory.
The smoke had barely cleared from the second missile launch when Tret’yak saw a
brief flash of gunfire from the southern fifty-seven-millimeter triple-A
emplacement.