Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02 (70 page)

 
          
“Bogeys
at
twelve o’clock
low, twenty-five miles to nearest target, fifteen thousand feet,” the
controller said. “Showing only two targets now. Second target at
eleven o’clock
low, thirteen thousand feet.”

 
          
“Gold
Flight copies all, Barrier,”
Duncan
replied. Both targets were displayed on his
heads-up display as a data-link between the E-5 AWACS and the F-16.
Duncan
immediately selected an AIM-120C Scorpion
missile and designated the leftmost target. The missile immediately received
its steering information and relayed
IN
RANGE
and
ARM
messages to
Duncan
’s heads-up display.

 
          
“Let’s
get the ball rolling. Gold Flight, fox two,”
Duncan
said, and squeezed off the first missile.

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
“They’re
twenty-five miles behind us,” Maraklov warned. “Escort Three and Four, stay
with the transport and keep the F-i6s away from it. If the Americans get any
closer I’ll engage and try to keep them busy while you get away. The Nicaraguan
MiG-23s should be able to help as we get closer.”

 
          
“Shouldn’t
we counter the Americans now?” the pilot of Escort Four asked. “The transport
will be sure to get away . . .” Just then ANTARES transmitted a radar-threat
warning to Maraklov’s brain louder than any audio signal. He reacted instantly.
“All aircraft, chaff and jink,
now!”

           
The MiG pilots reacted quickly, but
the AIM-120 missile was detected only seconds from impact, when its internal
active radar steered it into its target. A huge black cloud erupted from Escort
Three’s right wing, which seemed to push the fighter to the left, then hard
over right into a spin. The pilot was able to eject and was even accorded the
rare indignity of watching his aircraft spin into the
Caribbean Sea
.

 
          
Maraklov
rolled upright after his own rapid left turn. A quick radar-scan showed the
F-i6s still just over twenty miles away—they had launched from long range,
nearly the outer limit of the Scorpion. The sky should be filled with Scorpion
missiles, but he and the other two aircraft of his convoy to
Cuba
had survived.

 
          
“Escort
Four, stay as low as you can over the water,” Maraklov radioed to the last
remaining MiG-29. “Stay with the transport and protect it as best you can.”

 
          
Maraklov
issued a mental command and punched off his two Lluyka fuel tanks. With the
added drag of the tanks gone, DreamStar suddenly seemed to wake up. The
offensive and defensive options suggested by the ANTARES computer automatically
jumped from a scant few to hundreds of options. Maraklov initiated a ten-G
Immelmann, which got him turned around heading north toward the three F-16
attackers.

 
          
Maraklov
carried five-hundred rounds of twenty-millimeter ammunition and two AA-13 Axe
radar-guided air-to-air missiles. The AA-13 was inferior to the American
Scorpion—it was a fast and powerful missile, capable at ranges out to forty
miles, but it weighed twice as much as the Scorpion and required continuous
radar illumination by the launch aircraft to home in on its target—carrying no
missiles at all would almost have been better. If he was lucky the missiles
might actually hit something—but their primary use would be to break up this
well-organized combat patrol of F-i6s.

 
          
Maraklov
picked out the high F-16. He was the spotter, the one who was supposed to
detect the enemy first and draw fire until his wingmen could get into position
to press the attack. He was also the most dangerous, since in his high and fast
position he could defend himself easily yet turn quickly and bring guns or
missiles to bear if his wingmen were attacked. Maraklov quickly designated the
high F-16 with his attack radar, and at a range of ten miles, launched his
first AA-13 missile.

*
 
*
 
*
 

 
          
“Missile launch
, ”
Duncan
called out as his radar-warning receiver
blared to life. “Check your trackbreakers, clear to maneuver, pick it up . . .”

 
          
“Tally
on the missile,” John “Cock” Corcoran, the pilot aboard Dragon Five-Eight
shouted. “On me at my twelve. Going vertical ...”

 
          
Corcoran
pumped out chaff to decoy the missile, activated his F-i6’s trackbreakers to
jam the steering signals from DreamStar to the missile, and zoomed upward to
force the missile to lose some of its energy. The AA-13 locked onto the chaff
and almost flew right into the cloud, but finally reacquired its true target
and veered upward toward the F-16 when the chaff cloud dissipated. By then the
fast-burning solid- fuel propellent had burned out, and the missile was
coasting toward its target, losing speed every second. The F-16 pumped out more
chaff, rolled inverted and dived straight down. The AA-13 promptly locked onto
the chaff once again, flew through the chaff cloud, and exploded.

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
It
had taken the F-16 pilot only a few seconds to defeat the missile, but in that
short span of time the distance between DreamStar and the F-16 had decreased
from ten miles to two. Maraklov knew that the F-16 could maneuver fast enough
to evade the Soviet missile, but that same violent maneuvering consumed every
ounce of the pilot’s concentration and took a massive physical toll—in
extremely hard maneuvering in an F-16 pilots often blacked out for seconds at a
time. Maraklov was hoping that the harder the F-16 pilot worked at defeating
the missile—he would fall all the easier under a follow-on attack.

 
          
And
it was working. The F-16 was in a headlong dive after coming over the top in a
tight hairpin turn, pulling at least three negative G’s. Unlike positive G’s,
which forced blood out of the head and produced tunnel vision or blackouts,
negative G’s drew blood toward the brain, creating redouts, which were much
more serious. It took, he knew, at least six or seven positive G’s to
incapacitate a pilot, but only two or three negative G’s. This guy had allowed
himself to go right out on the edge.

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
“Dragon
Five-Eight, bogey at your
one o’clock
low, two miles,” the controller called.

 
          
Duncan
heard the warning and scanned the sky for
the attacker. He spotted both his wingman and the XF-34. The forward-swept-wing
jet was making an unbelievable gun pass—instead of raising its nose to
intercept Corcoran, the plane was climbing like ... like a helicopter, flying
horizontally but moving vertically. As Corcoran got closer the XF-34 raised its
nose and slowed its ascent, seemed to hang in mid-air, slowly raising its nose
at the oncoming F-16, tracking it perfectly.

 
          
“Bandit,
twelve
o’clock
, Cock,
get out of there,
”
Duncan
shouted. Too late. Corcoran barely had time
to recover from the disorientation and fuzzy vision caused by the negative
G-forces in the wild dive when he saw the XF-34 DreamStar angling up for him
dead ahead. He tried to roll away but DreamStar kept on coming. Now in
high-maneuverability mode, with its canards angled downward, DreamStar’s gun
port easily tracked the F-16 through each turn and jink—the cannon muzzle never
strayed from the F-16 even during the most violent maneuvers. At one mile
Maraklov opened fire, spraying the F-16 with fifty rounds of twenty-millimeter
shells before dodging clear. The shells ripped across the F-16 from canopy to
tail, killing the pilot in a fireball of exploding fuel.

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
“Five-Eight’s
been hit,”
Duncan
called out. “No ‘chute.”

 
          
The
full significance of Barrier Command’s warning was obvious now. The
forward-swept wing aircraft, the XF-34, appeared to hover, virtually suspended
in mid-air as it cut down Corcoran. No aircraft except a subsonic Harrier
Jump-jet or a helicopter could do that.

 
          
But
now it was the prey, not the hunter. It had slowed itself down to practically
nothing, which made it, he thought, an almost laughingly easy target.
Duncan
selected an AIM-132 missile, lined up on
the XF-34 and waited until the missile had locked—

 
          
In
the blink of an eye the XF-34 had flat-turned, faced
Duncan
and began firing its cannon. Astonished,
Duncan
rolled hard left and dived, trying to put
as much distance between his F-16 and those cannon shells as he could. He dived
five thousand feet, ejected one chaff and one flare bundle to decoy any missile
the Russian might have fired, then pulled hard on the stick and zoomed skyward.

 
          
The
XF-34 was waiting for him. As
Duncan
brought his F-i6’s nose up to reacquire his
target he saw that the Russian had positioned himself to take a shot as he flew
above the horizon.
Duncan
hit the afterburner and snapped his Falcon into tight aileron rolls to
spoil the Russian’s aim . . .

 
          
“Extend,
Dunk,” he heard a voice call out. It was Lee Berry in Dragon Five-Nine. “Break
right and
extend
...”

 
          
Duncan
could hear cannon shells buzzing, pinging
around him. A warning horn sounded but he didn’t stop to check the malfunction.
He halted his wild last-ditch roll, banked hard right, rolled upright and
scanned the sky for his attacker as he waited for his airspeed to build.

 
          
The
XF-34 was nowhere to be seen.

 
          
Duncan
forced his attention back inside the
cockpit to check his instruments and the warning panel. The
OIL PRESS
light was lit—he had taken a
hit in the engine. No smoke in the cockpit or fire lights, so he still had time
to head back to
Georgetown
, but in a single engine aircraft an oil pressure problem was a
land-as-soon-as-possible inflight emergency. “Barrier, this is Five-Seven. I’ve
got an oil pressure light,”
Duncan
reported on the command channel as he headed north. “I need a vector to
Georgetown
.”

 
          
“Copy,
Five-Seven. Heading zero-three-five, vectors to
Georgetown
Airport
, one-one-five nautical miles. Climb as required.
Emergency channel Bravo. Search and rescue has been notified.”

 
          
Duncan
angrily clicked his mike in response. They
were already preparing to fish him out of the
Caribbean
. Thanks a bunch.

 
          
He
keyed his mike. “Gold Flight, check in.” No answer. “
Berry
, where are you?” Still no reply.

 
          
“Barrier,
where’s Five-Nine?”

 
          
“No
contact with him, Five-Seven,” the controller replied. “No IFF, no primary
target.”