Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02 (66 page)

 
          
“Five-Four’s
outta here.”

 
          
Elliott
glanced at the master radar display. Another aircraft had just appeared on the
scope at two hundred miles range. The operator had drawn an electronic line on
the screen, depicting the airway A321, and the new target was dead on that
line. This airway ran all the way from
Rio de Janeiro
to
Goose
Bay
, passing near
Colombia
,
Panama
,
Nicaragua
,
Cuba
,
Miami
and
New York
—A321 was the most widely used airway in
South and
Central
America
. Every
aircraft they had intercepted had been dead on this airway, and each had been
transmitting the proper identification codes. When they were intercepted by
Coursey and his wingmen they had turned out to be just what their I.D. codes
said they were.

 
          
The
exercise was beginning to wear on Coursey and his pilots, so they had been
swapping leads on each intercept. For the first time, the least inexperienced
pilot, Myers on Five- Five, was going to be in the lead for an intercept.

 
          
“What’s
the inside pitch on Myers, Ed?” Elliott asked the 767 AWACS commander.

 
          
“A
hard-charger, from what I hear,” Marsch replied, checking his duty roster for
this mission. “Top in his class at Nellis. One of the first pilots to go
directly from an Air National Guard commission to F-16 ADF training. He’s
low-time but he’s good.”

 
          
Elliott
nodded. A good opportunity for Myers to get some training—he hoped that was all
he’d get. He checked the data readouts on the newcomer. “Relatively low
altitude,” Elliott remarked. The new aircraft was at fifteen thousand feet and
climbing. “Got an origin?”

 
          
“Negative,
sir,” the console operator said. “I should be getting his IFF data in a
minute.”

 
          
“Five-Four’s
on the high CAP,” Coursey reported.

 
          
“Slow
down your turn rate for me, Five-Five,” Elliott heard on the radio—obviously
Dragon Five-Six was having trouble keeping up with Five-Five. In many ways
being a formation leader was more stressful than staying on a guy’s wing—you
had to think ahead all the time. On the wing all you had to worry about was
staying on the wing. As lead you had to consider your wingmen’s reactions to
each of your moves and radio call—every throttle movement, hesitation, control
input or decision had a ripple effect on everyone else.

 
          
“That’s
better, Bob,”
Douglas
on Dragon Five-Six said.

 
          
Just
then Ed Marsch handed General Elliott a messageform.

 
          
“Message
from SAC headquarters via JCS, sir,” he said. Elliott read the note, lips
tightening; then nodded and flipped the note onto the console.

 
          
“It
seems the Russians have agreed to the President’s terms. They’ve promised not
to move the XF-34 out of
Nicaragua
. They’re negotiating on terms for the
removal of the aircraft— they say the aircraft is damaged and unflyable. The
pilot will not be returned until the investigation is completed. We’ve been
ordered to stand down. The fighters have been granted a two-night stay in
Georgetown
but are ordered back to
Panama
by Monday.”

 
          
Marsch
let out his breath, trying to restrain his relief at being ordered to get out
of this duty. His E-5A AWACS radar plane was vulnerable out here, with no ready
fighter protection and only a few minutes flying time from
Cuba
. “I’ll order the fighters from
Georgetown
to RTB,” he said. Elliott nodded. To the
senior controller, Marsch ordered, “Tell Dragon Five-Four flight to recover to
Georgetown ASAP. Set up a refueling for them if they need it—they must be down
close to an hour’s duration.” The senior controller nodded.

 
          
“If
they can properly secure your plane, Colonel,” Elliott said, “request
permission for you and your crew to spend the weekend in
Georgetown
. It beats flying all the way back to
Oklahoma
. I can find my own way back to Nellis.”
Back to Dreamland. Back to forced retirement. Back to disgrace . . . ?

 
          
“Excellent
suggestion, sir,” Marsch said excitedly. One weekend in the
Caribbean
beat a year in
Oklahoma City
. “I’ll work on it
immediately.
”

 
          
“We’ve
got an I.D. code on the newcomer, sir,” the radar operator at the main console
called out. “Checking his flight plan with
Georgetown
air traffic control now.”

 
          
Marsch
had gone over to the communications section, so Elliott said, “Let’s have it,
Sergeant.”

 
          
“Flight
plan from
Georgetown
says it’s a flight of three—a Soviet
Ilyushin-76 Midas tanker-transport plane and two MiG- 29 Fulcrum fighters. One
four-zero-nine-six code and one mode C.” Standard civilian air-traffic beacon
codes; the first transmitted aircraft-identification data, the second transmitted
altitude.

 
          
“What’s
their origin?”

 
          
“Origin
code is MMNP, sir,” the operator replied. “
Augusto
Cesar
Sandino
International
Airport
,
Managua
,
Nicaragua
.”

 
          
Elliott
slipped on his headphones and keyed the mike switch. “S-One, this is S-Five.
Have the fighters from
Georgetown
turned back yet?”

 
          
Marsch’s
head poked up from behind a communications console as he punched his mike
button. “Affirmative, sir.”

 
          
“Tell
them to turn around and rendezvous with us,” Elliott said.

 
          
“Excuse
me, sir,” Marsch said and exited the communications console and began to walk
toward Elliott, “we’ve been ordered to stand down—”

 
          
“We
got two fighters and a Soviet transport heading our way,” Elliott said. “I want
to run an intercept on them. And I want cover for us until they pass.”

 
          
Marsch
returned to the master radar-console and checked the readouts. “An II-76 and a
couple of MiGs. Have they got a flight plan?” The operator nodded. “They’re
squawking the proper codes, General. They’re on the airway. I don’t see what
the problem is—”

 
          
“There’s
no problem, Colonel,” Elliott said. “I just want an intercept on them and I
want air cover for us until they leave.”

 
          
“Sir,
the mission is over,” Marsch said, “we’ve been ordered to return to base.
Besides, it’s crazy running an intercept on Russian aircraft. If something goes
wrong we could be in serious trouble—”

 
          
“I
know what we’ve been ordered to do, Colonel. I also know what my responsibility
is and I know what your responsibility is. Do what I tell you, goddamn it.”
Marsch nodded, eyes on Elliott. No question, Marsch thought, that the old man
meant what he said. He turned back to the communications cabin.

 
          
“Have
the mid-CAP run an intercept on the transport,” Elliott told the senior
controller. “But I want no hostile moves out there. Have the mid-CAP flank the
fighters, but no radar and no tail-attack aspect. I just want them close enough
for a visual on the transport.”

 
          
“Yes,
sir.”

 
          
Marsch
came back to the radar cabin and stood behind Elliott. “Dragon Five-Seven
flight is on its way,” the radar-console operator reported. “ETA twenty
minutes.”

 
          
“What’s
the ETA on the MiGs?”

 
          
“Fifteen.”

 
          
“I
want one of the fighters in the Dragon Five-Seven flight joined on us in twelve
minutes,” Elliott said. “How’s the intercept running?” Elliott didn’t expect an
answer; he could hear the strained interchange of the pilots as they closed in
on their first hostile bogeys.

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
“Dragon
Five-Five on heading two-zero-five, level flight level two-zero-zero,” Myers
replied. The transition from flight lead to eventual
Caribbean
beach bum and back to flight lead was
jarring.

 
          
“Roger,
Dragon,” the controller said. “Your target is
one o’clock
, one hundred and fifty miles, flight plan
reports two MiG-29 fighters and one II-76 transport. Radar showing one primary
target only—” Only one of the possible three aircraft was positively being
tracked.

 
          
“What
the hell are we doing, Barrier?” Coursey said. He was still on the high combat
air patrol, electing not to take over the lead from Myers. The kid needed the
experience, and what better experience than intercepting some real Russians?
But the sudden switch from stand-down to I.D.’ing some Russians was weird. “Say
again our ROE. Over.”

 
          
“Roger,
Dragon. You are to visually I.D. and inspect the transport. Avoid
hostile-attack aspects. Do
not
fire
unless fired upon. Over.”

 
          
“You
guys got that?” Coursey said.

 
          
“Two.”
That was Myers—his voice was shakier, tenser than ever.

 
          
“Three.”
Even
Douglas
sounded nervous. These guys were wound
pretty tight.

 
          
“Listen
up, Dragon,” Coursey said, “run it like all other intercepts. Take it nice and
easy. As long as you don’t hit ’em with an attack profile the MiGs should leave
you alone— they’re on a cruise to the Copacabana, that’s all. They got as much
right to be here as we do. Follow the ROE and the normal air-traffic rules and
we’ll be on the beach sipping cubra libras before you know it. Head’s up.”

 
          
“Two.”

 
          
“Three.”
Douglas
sounded better, but Myers sounded like
someone had a vise-grip on his balls.

 
          
“One
hundred miles,” the controller said. “Rate of closure nine hundred sixty knots.
Bogeys moving to
one o’clock
. . . radar now showing three primary targets, Dragon, repeat, three primary
targets—”

 
          
The
radar-warning receivers on the F-i6s lit up. On the displays of the three
Falcons was a diamond symbol. On the left display the computer identified the
radar source as search- radar.

 
          
“Dragon’s
got music,” Myers reported.

 
          
“Barrier
copies,” the controller said. “Transport target may be an airborne-radar
aircraft, Dragon.” The warning hung on the frequency; then the controller
added: “Use caution.”