Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 06 (48 page)

 
          
“Go
nose to nose with them, pilot! ” Atkins shouted. “Nose to nose! Pylon launch! ”
Atkins powered up two AIM-120 Scorpion missiles and uncaged their infrared
seekers instead of launching on radar guidance. Both missiles locked onto the
red-hot superheated fuselages of the enemy fighters immediately, and seconds
later, both missiles streaked out of the weapons pods on the wings right at
their quarries. But by the time the Scorpions launched, the two Foxbat fighters
had flown right over the Megafortress, missing it by just a few hundred yards.
The incredible blast of the supersonic shock wave passing over the
EB-52
felt like another nuclear
explosion. Elliott and Cheshire looked on with amazement as the front cockpit
windscreen buckled and wavered as if it was ready to implode again.

 
          
The
Scorpion missiles switched from infrared to radar guidance, picked up steering
signals from the side- and rear-looking radars, and streaked up and backward to
pursue the fighters. They almost did not have enough energy to tail-chase the
fighters—the Foxbats were flying three hundred miles per hour
faster
than the most sophisticated
air-to- air missile in the world!—until both Chinese superfighters came out of
full afterburner and began a hard turn back to the west to pursue the
Megafortress. The sharp turn quickly sapped the big fighters of all their
energy, enough for the Scorpion missiles to catch up to them, activate their
own onboard terminal homing radars, and lock onto the fighters. One Scorpion
missile failed to fuze properly and missed; the other made a direct hit,
shelling out one engine and causing a massive fire. The pilot ejected seconds
before his superfighter exploded in a terrific orange fireball.

 
          
“Attack
radar up—I’ve got a lock on the last fighter,” Bruno said. “Stand by for—”

 
          
“Better
save it,” Atkins interjected. “We’ve got only two Scorpions remaining, and it
looks like the last fighter is bugging out. They were both going full blower on
the attack, and if they do that they only have enough fuel for thirty minutes
of flying time. He’s on his way home. The closest of those fighter patrols are
at
eleven o’clock
,
forty miles and closing.”

           
“We’ve got to get out of here,
Brad,” McLanahan said. “Those Fox- bats got a pretty good fix on us, and
they’re probably vectoring in the other fighters. The U.S. frigates are at
three o’clock, eighteen miles. Right turn to heading zero-eight-zero should get
us back on coverage. We need some help from those frigates or from
Taiwan
air defense, if they’re up.”

           
“Sons of bitches!” Elliott cursed.
He got a good look at the speeding Foxbat fighters too, and that was the
closest he ever wanted to get to those big, deadly jets. His heart was
pounding, his forehead sweating like crazy—he had never felt so close to death
before in all his life. “They better be up here!” He switched to the secure
satellite channel:
"James Daniel,
this is Headbanger, what’s your status?”

 
          
“Vessel
calling
James Daniel,
keep this
channel clear and do not approach this task force,” the operator responded.

           
“What in hell are you talking
about?” Elliott retorted. “We’re up here on patrol with you, you squid idiot!
We saw the Chinese cruiser launch Stallion rocket torpedoes at you. What’s your
status?” There was no response. Furious, Elliott switched to the secondary
channel and keyed the mike: “Atlas, this is Headbanger. How do you copy?”

 
          
“Loud
and clear, Headbanger,” the operator responded. “What is your status? Over.”

 
          
“Our
goddamn status is that we were under attack by Foxbat fighters and we’ve got
four more formations of fighters closing on us,” Elliott replied hotly. “Both
frigates are also under torpedo attack. We need fighter coverage up here and we
want permission to attack the Chinese warship that is trying to blow your
frigates out of the water.”

 
          
“Headbanger,
this is Atlas,” Admiral William Allen responded himself seconds later. “We copy
you were under attack by Foxbats and have more fighters in the vicinity. The
ROC is vectoring fighters at this time, ETA zero-eight minutes, flight of two
F-16s. Second flight of four F-16s is scrambling from Makung, ETA one-five
minutes. We recommend you depart the area and head towards the Pescadores.” The
Pescadores was a group of Taiwanese islands, located forty miles west of
Formosa and sixty miles southeast of the EB-52’s present position, where
several Taiwanese air and naval bases were located.

 
          
“Heading
one-two-zero, direct Makung,” Denton immediately interjected.

 
          
“No,
we’re not leaving!” McLanahan shouted. “If we leave the frigates, they’ll be
defenseless—and we can use their help against those fighters. We’re staying
overhead the frigates until the Taiwan air force arrives. Nancy, get on the
horn and send in Carter in the other Megafortress.”

 
          
“You
got it, Mack.”

 
          
“Sounds
like a shit-hot plan to me,” Elliott responded. On the satellite channel, he
radioed: “Atlas, this is Headbanger, negative, we’re holding our position.
There’s a big ass ship, a cruiser or destroyer, about twenty miles northwest of
your frigates.” He could hardly believe he was having an argument with CINCPAC—
again.
“We’ve got it locked up, and we
saw it launch those torpedoes. They were rocket-powered torpedoes, and we
watched
that cruiser launch them.”

 
          
“The
frigates are conducting anti-torpedo countermeasures at this time,” Allen said,
“but they did not report contact with any Chinese war-ships or submarines. We
have had that entire region under surveillance for several days, and we noted
no large warship movements ... stand by.”

 
          
“Jesus,
there they go again—‘stand by/ ” Elliott said angrily. “Stand by and watch the
Chinese blast us to hell.”

 
          
“The
Duncan
has stopped dead in the
water,” Denton reported, as he zoomed in on the American frigate task force. He
called up more information, then added, “Something’s wrong—the ISAR’s not IDing
properly anymore.”

 
          
“That
might mean it’s hit and may be sinking,” McLanahan said. “If part of its
structure is underwater, the inverse synthetic aperture radar won’t scan it
completely.”

 
          
The
interphone got very quiet after that—but only for a few moments, until Brad
Elliott shouted, “Destroy that damned Chinese cruiser
now!
You’re clear on the bomb doors! Launch the Strikers, dammit!”

 
          
“Brad,
we wait until we get the word from CINCPAC,” McLanahan said. Here it comes
again, he thought—another long, drawn-out argument with Elliott on whether or
not they should . . .

 
          
McLanahan
stopped as he felt a familiar rumble and heard the sound of windblast, and the
words “Strikers away.” Jeff Denton, still in the offensive systems officer’s
seat, had obeyed Elliott’s command and launched two Striker missiles at the
still-unidentified vessel! He had quickly and efficiently designated the
unidentified vessel, using touch-screen commands, and prosecuted a double
Striker missile attack! Seconds after launch, the Striker missiles had ignited
their powerful first-stage motors and blasted out over the Formosa Strait
toward their target. They were supersonic just a few seconds later, climbing on
a ballistic flight path to almost forty thousand feet.

 
          
“Jesus,
Denton!” McLanahan exclaimed. “Steer those missiles clear!”

 
          
“Why?
We’re attacking, for Christ’s sake!” Denton shouted.

 
          
“We
don’t have
permission
to launch! ”
McLanahan said. “Steer those missiles away from that target! ”

 
          
Denton
looked confused, stunned, and horrified all at once. “But the AC said—”

 
          
McLanahan
didn’t blame Denton; he was doing as his aircraft commander ordered: destroy
the Chinese ship. Unfortunately, Elliott had jumped the gun. Again. McLanahan
frantically checked to be sure that Denton hadn’t locked up one of the Navy
frigates—he hadn’t. “Get manual control of the missiles, steer them towards the
southwest, away from land!”

 
          
“Stay
on the target, OSO,” Elliott said. “Continue the attack.”

 
          
From
his jump-seat position, McLanahan didn’t have voice command of the attack
computer. When he tried to reach across, push Denton out of the way, and
command the Striker missiles to steer away from the vessel, Denton pushed him
back. “Hey, Colonel McLanahan, the missiles are on the way,” Denton said. “That
was the ship that hit the
Duncan
with
torpedoes. The AC said to
attack,
dammit—why are you pushing me?”

 
          
“Because
I’m the mission commander, Denton, and I say we don’t attack until we get a
valid order from CINCPAC to attack!” McLanahan said. “Break the sensor lock,
Denton. Give me manual control! ”

 
          
But
it was too late. Just then, the TV image from the Striker missile’s imaging
infrared scanner appeared on Denton’s supercockpit display, just seconds from
impact. The first radar-only image was of a massive ship, very tall, riding
very high out of the water. McLanahan hit a touch-screen button to switch to
imaging infrared view—and then they saw it.

 
          
It
was not a cruiser, or a large destroyer, or even a warship of any kind—it was a
passenger and vehicle ferry. They caught a glimpse of some kind of barge or
service tender being towed on a very short hawser behind the larger ship, which
could have explained the ISAR’s confusion over the proper identification of the
target—but there was no doubt over the identification now! The ferry had a tall
vehicle access amidships and three decks above that, and it looked as if it was
choked with automobiles and delivery trucks. “Oh my God, it’s a passenger ship,
a ferry!” McLanahan shouted. “C’mon, Denton, break auto lock, steer those
missiles away!”

 
          
Denton
immediately deselected the
auto lock
touch-screen
button on the supercockpit monitor, which gave him manual control of the
missiles. McLanahan immediately reached over and rolled the trackball left. . .

 
          
.
. . but it was too late. McLanahan and Denton watched in horror as both Striker
missiles plowed into the port side amidships of the passenger ferry; they even
clearly saw passengers standing on the port rail near the bow just before the
missiles hit. Five seconds later, the second Striker missile registered a
direct hit as well.

 
          
“Oh,
my God,” Denton muttered. “What did I do? What in hell did I do?”

           
“Forget it, Jeff—Jeff, dammit, snap
out of it! ” McLanahan shouted. “Your responsibility now is with your crew and
your aircraft. Get on the radar and find out who we’re up against.” But it was
no use—Denton was frozen, stunned by confusion, fear, and a dozen other
emotions. McLanahan had no other choice. He reached across Denton’s shoulder,
unfastened his shoulder straps and seat belt, and one-handedly hauled Denton
out of the OSO’s seat. Denton did not resist this time. “Jeff, go downstairs,
strap into a seat and parachute, and monitor the flight instruments. Make sure
your seat is unpinned and ready. Go! ” Denton was lucid enough to offer a
silent apology to McLanahan before climbing down the ladder to the lower-deck
spare ejection seats. McLanahan activated the Megafortress’s attack radar,
which scanned the skies in all directions; he shut it down as soon as the
system had recorded all air, sea, and land targets.

 
          
In
the meantime, Bob Atkins had swapped seats with Bruno and was now in command of
the defensive weaponry. “Okay, crew, nearest fighter formation is now ten
o’clock, thirty-three miles and closing,” Atkins began. “I don’t think they
have a radar lock on us, but they got a good solid vector from the Foxbats, and
they’re headed this way. I’ve got a second formation low, twelve o’clock,
fifty-three miles and closing.”

 
          
“A
low CAP, Bob?”

 
          
He
studied his threat display for a moment; then: “Don’t think they’re fighters,
Colonel. I’m showing surface search radars only—no air search or
target-tracking radars. They’re looking for the frigates. I think we’ve got
anti-ship attack planes inbound. Colonel, call the
James Daniel,
see if they got the inbounds and find out if they can
coordinate with us.” “Rog,” McLanahan said. He switched his radio to the fleet
common frequency:
'James Daniel,
this
is Headbanger, how copy?”