Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 09 (32 page)

 
          
“Roger,”
the wingman said. He briefly activated his attack radar. Sure enough, the big
Ukrainian bomber sped up slightly and made a steep banked turn to the south,
pumping out chaff cartridges from its dorsal ejectors as he detected the F~16’s
radar sweep. The F-16’s radar was effectively decoyed away from the bomber with
the combination of chaff and electronic jammers, so the F-16 pilot merely shut
off the radar. The Ukrainian bomber rolled right and headed back to his
original course, speed, and altitude, as if the threat had suddenly
disappeared. “Level-one evasive maneuvers. Good jamming and chaff, but small altitude
and airspeed deviations. He’s back on original course and speed. No problem
reacquiring.”

 
          
“Then
take the kill and come join on me and we’ll get the second bandit,” Sivarek
said.

 
          
“Roger,”
the wingman said. He immediately switched to Sidewinder missiles, got a
locked-on tone seconds later—the Backfire’s two big Kuznetov turbofans,
developing almost fifty-six thousand pounds of thrust each in afterburner, were
pumping out plenty of heat—and “fired.” “Missile away, two miles,” the wingman
said. No need to start a stopwatch—missile flight time would be mere seconds at
this range. “Good kill.”

 
          
“Give
him a flyby, then come join on me, zero-four-five at sixty-two bull’s-eye,
angels minus ten.”

 
          
“My
pleasure, boss,” the wingman said. He cobbed the throttle to zone three
afterburner, flew less than two hundred feet above the Tupolev-22M bomber,
waited until he was clear, did two barrel rolls right in front of the
Backfire’s cockpit windscreen, then started a fast climb. Easy kill against
what was once the most feared air-breathing weapon in the Soviet arsenal.

 
          
The
wingman let his speed build until he went supersonic, sending a crashing sonic
shock wave washing over the bomber. That should wake him up. He then did a
victory roll right in front of him, then pitched up and climbed out back to
patrol altitude.

 
          
One
down, one to go.

 
          
The
threat warning receiver bleeped, displaying a bat-wing enemy-aircraft symbol on
the God’s-eye display with range, heading, altitude, and airspeed information.
"We got company," Patrick announced to Rebecca. He reactivated the
laser radar and took another "snapshot” of the skies around them.
"They’re both after the second Sila.”

 
          
"We
gonna let him get shot down, too?” Rebecca asked sarcastically.

 
          
"Let’s
stick with the plan and see what happens,” Patrick said ruefully.

           
But with a few more flashes of the
laser radar, it was obvious the L
^T
krainian bomber wasn't quite up to
the challenge. When the F-16s hit the Backfire with its radar, the second big
Ukrainian bomber started a rapid yet normal descent—wings level, lots of
negative g's to blur the pilot's vision, and no steep-bank or inverted
maneuvers to increase the descent rate. Patrick even suspected the Backfire
bomber’s pilot of pulling back on the throttles instead of pegging airspeed
right at the max, as if he was afraid of overstressing his plane. The F-16
pilots had an easy attack run. and seconds later recorded a successful AIM-7
radar-guided missile kill.

 
          
"I've
seen airline captains make more aggressive maneuvers with three hundred paying
passengers on their plane,” Rebecca observed. "Sheesh. does he
want
to get shot down? He have an urge to see an F-16 up close?” It certainly did
look as if this new set of attacks on the Backfire bomber were going to be a
walk in the park for the skilled Turkish pilots. "What more do you need to
sec. General?” Rebecca added. "The Turks are going to die of boredom if we
don't do something.”

 
          
"Okay,
okay, let's do it.” Patrick said finally. On the interplane frequency, he
called out. "Sila Zero-Two, bandits are at your twelve to one o’clock,
thirty miles and closing at five hundred eighty knots.”

 
          
"Acknowledged,
Vampire. We have them on threat receiver. Commencing attack.”

 
          
"Show
me something, boys,” Patrick radioed. To the attack computer, he ordered,
"Ready Wolverine, attack route Alpha, sensor response, datalink active.”

 
          
“Ready
Wolverine, safe all,
” the computer responded, adding the recommended
stop-attack order: then:
"Attack route
Alpha confirmed, all
sensors active, sensor response active, datalink active. [Munch one Wolverine.
”

           
“Launch one Wolverine,” Patrick
ordered.

 
          
“Warning,
launch order received, stop launch . . . I Munch sequence commencing, midhay
doors opening partial. . . missile aw ay... launcher ready. .. doors closed. ”

           
Patrick waited fifteen seconds until
after the last Wolverine cruise missile had launched and the bomb doors closed,
then keyed the secure primary UHF radio mike switch and said. “Sila Zero-Two,
this is Vampire Zero-One, you are clear to the target. Good hunting.”

 
          
“Acknowledged.
Vampire,” a thickly accented Slavic voice responded. “
Prosteesiya haryachiy.
We are target inbound and weapons are hot.”

 
          
Both
Rebecca and Patrick watched as their wingman took spacing and prepared for its
descent. “What a monster that sucker is,” Patrick breathed.

 
          
“It’s
a piece of shit,” Rebecca murmured.

 
          
“Maybe
not,” Patrick added proudly. “Give me a budget and a couple months, and I think
I can make that big mother sing.”

 
          
“The
million-dollar question is: u7iy?” Rebecca asked. “
Ukraine
can’t afford to outfit their Backfire
bombers like a Megafortress—that’s at least thirty million dollars a copy, and
those planes don’t look like they’re worth it. The crews will take years to
train in advanced bomber strike tactics. Who’s going to pay for all this? Hell,
our new president is downsizing our military like crazy, and he doesn’t believe
in helping foreign countries—he’s not going to pay it.”

 
          
“That’s
not my concern. Rebecca,” Patrick said. “If they give me a budget to convert
Backfires to Megafortresses, and train their crews on how to use them. I’ll do
it. I’ll have the baddest-ass group of flyers in the neighborhood. I guarantee
it.”

 
          
Well,
well, Erdal Sivarek thought, finally these Ukrainian pilots are showing him
something. He had locked up the second Ukrainian bomber on radar with ease, and
immediately the second target started a rapid descent, over ten thousand feet
per minute and steadily increasing. Very impressive. Maybe the Ukrainians knew
how to flv evasive maneuvers after all.

 
          
The
radar box quickly danced to the right side of Sivarek’s HUD. and he had to turn
hard right to keep the target within the radar cone so the AIM-7 Sparrow
missile could home in on it. That was odd—aircraft at this range normally did
not move that quickly across the radarscope. The enemy aircraft was sending out
jamming signals, but Sivarek’s F-16’s antijamming electronics were successful
at hopping to another clear frequency and maintaining a lock . ..

 
          
..
right up to the moment when the target suddenly junked left and skittered
across the HUD in the other direction. Sivarek reversed his turn again, but it
was too late—the target had jinked right off the scope. Somehow it had
maneuvered hard enough to beat an F-16, probably the most maneuverable aircraft
in the world, and completely disappear from sight!

 
          
"
Yyuz
bir kor!
Sivarek called out. “One-oh-one has lost contact!”

 
          
“Lead,
I’ve lost visual with you!” Sivarek’s wingman called out. It was
understandable—it was bound to happen after all that hard maneuvering. ‘Tm at
five thousand meters, climbing to high patrol altitude ”

 
          
“Tabii,”
Sivarek replied, consciously forcing himself to slow
^r
his breathing
to keep from hyperventilating. They had at least five hundred meters’ altitude separation—they
weren’t going to collide ‘Tm trying to reacquire the target now.” He turned
immediately to the target’s initial heading and swept the skies with his radar,
trying to spot the target again. Obviously. the AIM-7 missile wouldn’t track
without a radar lock, so he had wasted his last Sparrow missile. He felt
foolish losing the target. But he quickly choked that thought away. No time to
punish himself. Reacquire and kill the bastard, he ordered himself, then figure
out why he lost him in the first place when he was back on the ground.

 
          
Thankfully,
it didn’t take long. The target had indeed returned to its original inbound
track—predictable, but necessary for most bombers. Few bomber units taught
their crews to plan multiple ingress tracks, in case the first one was
compromised. If there was only one planned bomb run, the aircrew that survived
an attack had no choice but to return to that very same track, and that made it
easier for defenders to find them again. “One-oh-one has reacquired bandit one,”
Sivarek reported. ‘Tied on and engaged.”

 
          
“Don’t
let him get away this time, Caveboy,” Sivarek’s wingman admonished him, with a
touch of humor in his voice.

 
          
“You
will have your chance. Badger,” Hrdal radioed back irritably. “Now stay off the
radio and join on me.”

 
          
“I
have contact on
you,
lead,” the wingman reported, obviously still
enjoying twisting his squadron commander’s tail a little. “Your six is clear.”

 
          
It
was a tail chase this time, a piece of cake compared to the first head-to-head
engagement. Sivarek locked up the target right away, maneuvered behind him,
selected heat-seeking missiles, and fired another AIM-9 missile as soon as he
got within range. Again, the bandit jinked right—same direction as last time.
Sivarek took a chance and started a left turn, and sure enough the bandit
jinked hard left. It was much easier to keep the bandit in radar lock once he
anticipated the turn, and even though the target tried another hard turn, this
time it was too late. He scored a direct hit.

 
          
“Splash
two heater,” Sivarek announced. “Do you have a visual on me?”

 
          
“Affirmative,
lead,” Sivarek’s wingman said. “Clear to the south. I’m above and north of you.
I’m in hot.”

 
          
Sivarek
turned hard left, staying at his same altitude. Once his wingman announced he
was clear, he started a climb back up to a cover position.

 
          
He
would have to be sure to quietly accept a good amount of ribbing once the mass
and unit debriefs began, Erdal reminded himself. “Criticize in private, praise
in public” was a good rule of thumb for the men, but the men always wanted to
see if their commanding officer could take it as well as dish it out. He had to
...

 
          
“Bombok!”
Sivarek’s wingman shouted over the interplane frequency. “I have a visual on
bandit two! It’s a decoy! An unmanned aircraft!”

           
A decoy aircraft that moved as fast
as a jet fighter, that was even more maneuverable than an F-16? Well, Sivarek
thought, this was Nellis. They were playing in the ranges near Dreamland, the
top-secret American weapons research facility. The Americans probably Hew such
exotic, high-tech aircraft every day, just for fun. He just didn't expect to be
up against one. that's all.

 
          
“Disengage.
102." Sivarek ordered. He quickly scanned the sky, silently cursing
himself. The other bandit must be the carrier aircraft—the real target. He had
assumed because the second target was smaller and up high that it was not a
threat. He should've had his wingman go after the second bandit. Sivarek
immediately shoved in afterburner power and began a steep climbing turn,
heading back to where he guessed the second bandit would be “One-oh-two, I'm
reversing course, heading back to where I first detected bandit two,"
Sivarek said. “Join on me."