Final Storm (8 page)

Only by this air route would the vital cargo of men, machines, and material reach the already-struggling NATO forces in time.

Hunter had caught a cargo plane up from Florida just before midnight and, on arrival, was immediately ordered by one of the Langley base doctors to get at least four hours sleep. He took the physician’s advice—even he needed sleep every once in a while. But now, with the dawn, he was up and anxious to fulfill his own orders. And they were to get the hell over to Europe.

Oddly though, there was very little news from the front. Other than the initial terrifying report, very little could be determined about the present situation. Communications in and around the battle area were either nonexistent or at the breaking point. All that
was
known was that the Soviets were about to advance into the areas devastated by the chemical attack and NATO was doing everything it could to stop them.

But most important, neither side had detonated a nuclear bomb … yet.

Now, as Hunter was being transported by jeep across the vast field to take his place in the massive air convoy, he noted its main players.

At one end of the base, supported on ramps and aprons of poured concrete many feet thick, towered the giant Lockheed C-5A Galaxy super-transports of the Air Force’s Military Airlift Command. With their huge nose sections yawning open to reveal the cavernous cargo bays within, and their tail ramps descended to provide access, they looked like giant dragon being stuffed with the machines of war.

Here one was being loaded with sixteen heavy trucks, being driven into the gaping maw formed by the up-tilted nose. There another was taking on a half-dozen Apache attack helicopters. Another would carry two M-1 Abrams main battle tanks, creaking on their platforms as the grinding winches reluctantly drew their 60-ton masses into the belly of the beast.

In all, the huge transports would each be loaded with more than 260,000 pounds of cargo. And when the flight was ready to begin, each one would roll ponderously to the flight line, its four giant engines ready to defy the gravity that hugged it to the earth.

Farther on were the newer, smaller but sleeker C-17 transports. These too swallowed up vast quantities of the cargo that was being fed by the steady stream of trucks. Beyond the looming, swept-back flat tails of the C-17s were the mainstays of the air bridge, the C-141 Starlifters. Hunter counted at least four dozen of them.

Beyond were the camouflage-painted C-130H Hercules, the workhorses of the Tactical Airlift Command. Their squat bodies trundled down the runways on sturdy tires and thick landing gear struts, designed to absorb the shock of short, bumpy, improvised airstrips, many of which would be close to the front. Their four big turboprop engines, supported by long, tapering wings studded with big flaps and spoilers, were designed to bring the seventy tons of plane and payload down and to a full stop in less than 3,000 feet.

And then came the KC-135 Stratotankers, and the big KC-10A Extenders, the airborne gas stations of the sky. These flying tankers would each carry tens of thousands of pounds of the precious fuel that all the airplanes in the convoy would hungrily consume—via in-flight refuelings—on their journey over the broad expanse of ocean.

On the opposite side of the flightline, Hunter saw dozens of civilian transport planes and airliners. Every major airline and air transport company’s aircraft markings were evident on the crowded runways. All around him were big overseas airliners—757s, 747s, DC-10s, and L-1011s that were also preparing for the takeoff.

He knew that the private commercial jets had all been commandeered “for the duration” by executive order. Everywhere he looked there were uniformed men milling about on runways, pouring into the airliners. These were the reservists boarding the big jets, waiting to join their comrades already in Europe.

Hunter’s driver expertly cut their jeep through the sea of men and machines that spilled out across the runways, dodging fuel trucks and airplanes alike, to reach the hangar far across the field where the fighters were being fueled and armed for the escort mission across the Atlantic.

Passing the last group of civilian transports, they approached one hangar where six planes of the 16th Tactical Fighter Wing sat poised on the runway, ground crews loading ordnance under wings and pumping JP-8 into fuel tanks. As the first few rays of sunlight broke through the cold Christmas morning mist, the F-16s appeared to be sparkling like deadly, silver daggers.

Hunter saw the F-16 that would, for an indeterminate amount of time, be his own. Unlike his Thunderbird version, this F-16 was “armed and dangerous”—a supersonic killing machine that was designed for the split-second kill-or-be-killed environment that the skies over the battlefields had become. His practiced eye ran over the lines of the beautiful airplane, its big air intake slung under the long tapered nose giving it the look of a hungry shark racing for its prey.

The F-16 was a relatively small airplane—this was one of its many advantages. The smaller the airplane, the smaller the blip on the enemy’s radar screen. To further reduce the plane’s already-small “signature,” radar absorbent materials lined the leading edge flaps of the wing, making the F-16 that much less a target for the enemy planes and missile crews who would be searching the skies above the battlefield with their electronic SAM dragnets, hoping to lock their deadly firepower on to the speeding fighter.

The F-16 would be a difficult target for them indeed. Screaming through the sky at more than twice the speed of sound, if the luckless enemy fighter or anti-aircraft battery failed to shoot it down in the first attempt, they would face a hail of firepower from their angry target.

Hunter jumped out of the jeep, thanked the driver and immediately began inspecting his new aircraft. Four AIM-9L Sidewinder missiles protruded from under the F-16’s wings, and two more capped the wingtips. These advanced air intercept missiles were tied into the F-16’s fire-control radar. When an enemy airplane was trapped in its electronic web, its pilot was as good as dead. A “fire-and-forget” heat-seeking missile, the reliable Sidewinder would take its target from the on-board “track-while-scan” computer, and leap off the F-16’s wing to close on the enemy at speeds in excess of 1,500 mph. As it neared the target aircraft, its own infra-red guidance system would lock on to the most intense heat source—usually the flaming jet engine exhaust—and the enemy plane would disintegrate in a fireball as the missile did its deadly work.

For closer-range engagements, the F-16 had a multi-barrel, 20-mm rapid-fire cannon and as Hunter watched, the ground crews carefully loaded the 20mm rounds into the big gun’s ammo chamber. Guaranteed to blast holes in any type of airborne armor, the cannon shells would pump out of the six barrels to form a lethal hailstorm of screaming lead that would slice the designated target to ribbons.

A multi-role tactical aircraft, the F-16 also possessed an excellent ground-attack capability. The ‘hard points’ on each wing and under the fuselage were designed to carry heavier ordnance—Rockeye cluster bombs, Mark 82 500-pounders, napalm, or incendiaries—enough for a respectable bomb load.

Bigger air-to-ground missiles—AGMs—could also be suspended under the wing. AGM-65 TV-guided Maverick missiles, their cold camera eyes relentlessly focusing on the target, could be counted to seek out and destroy fortified ground targets. AGM-88 HARMs—High-speed Anti-Radar Missiles—could home in on enemy radar signals to wipe out the SAM sites with pinpoint accuracy. Even if the launchers switched off their gun-control radars, the HARM’S onboard microelectronics processor would enable the missile to still find its mark.

And, while one set of sophisticated electronic systems sought out enemy targets and guided the weapon systems, another set was designed to protect the plane from becoming a target itself. The new AN/ALQ-165 system was installed—a defensive avionics system that was more often called the Airborne Self-Protection Jammer, or the ASPJ.

Designed to identify the frequencies of incoming threats, warn the pilot, and take electronic countermeasures, the ASPJ was just one of the hundreds of acronym-labeled offensive and defensive systems in the technological arsenal of the F-16’s array. IFF, TFR, LANTIRN, FLIR, TACAN, MIMIC, VHSIC, ASPJ, GPS, APG, PSP, AVLSI, ADF, AFCE, and so on. Each one was a complex, multi-unit sophisticated electronic subsystem that formed the innards of the F-16 war bird, connected by an equally complex nerve network of electronic cables, wires, and trunks that wove between the ribs and struts of the airplane’s steel and aluminum skeleton.

They were all silent now, lifeless, waiting for the spark that would bring them to consciousness once the big GE F-110 turbofan engine, the very heart of the airplane, began to throb once again.

Hunter climbed into the cockpit, reviewing the flight and weapon control systems that were now second nature to his experienced eye. He strapped the wide harnesses across his middle and over his shoulders, the belts that would keep him in his reclined seat even when the fighter was streaking across the sea at Mach 2. To other pilots they were chains that held them down, trapping them in the tiny cramped space that was separated from the world outside only by a thin canopy. To Hunter they were bonds of faith, part of his special union with the aircraft around him.

A few minutes of preparation passed, then finally, he got the signal from the ground crew chief.

“Fire it up!” the man yelled to him.

Hunter answered with an OK hand gesture and pushed the required buttons.

The engine exploded in a wail of power and fury. Then the F-16’s other systems quickly rose to full power. This was a very special time for him—it was as if another part of him was coming to life. Hawk Hunter the man was receding, held in suspended animation as Hawk Hunter the pilot—“the best ever”—took over. His very essence surged into the airplane’s flight systems and washed back to him again. It was as if the little fighter jet was also undergoing a metamorphosis—becoming a living, breathing thing instead of an inanimate piece of steel, rubber, and plastic.

Suddenly the man seated in the cockpit became secondary—Hunter’s inner being had entered into a higher state of consciousness as it continually flowed from him into the F-16’s controls and back again. The onboard computer didn’t need manual inputs—Hunter’s brain provided the instant data it required. The rudder and stabilizers and wing surfaces didn’t have to depend on their electronic controls—they moved as Hunter’s limbs moved. And when the radar and radio systems crackled with life, it was as if they were Hunter’s eyes and ears and voice.

Once again that very special
feeling
entered him—the sensation that set him apart from common stick jockeys. He couldn’t describe the feeling to anyone—it would have been useless to try. It flowed through him every time he was in the cockpit of an airplane—any airplane.

But it was especially acute in the F-16 that he had grown to love.

Hunter took the next few minutes to go through the pre-flight checklist and to review his flight plan.

His immediate orders called for him to take the other five F-16s and fall in with the rest of the great air armada that would transit to the NATO airbase in Rota, Spain—ironically the same place where his friends Jones, Toomey, and Wa were stationed.

Soon enough, he would know their fate, and what would have been his, had he been with them….

His orders told him that the air convoy was forming up in three groups: The first was composed of the big boys, the C-5A Galaxies and the C-17s, laden with tons of heavy cargo. They would be guarded by two squadrons of F-15C Eagles, the kick-ass air-superiority fighters that, with its two powerful engines, were the fastest strike planes in the NATO inventory.

This first flight would be led by an E-3A Sentry Airborne Warning And Control System aircraft, commonly known as AWACS. Its 30-foot rotating radar dish would scan the skies ahead and below to warn of any hostile forces within striking distance.

In the second group would follow most of the slower C-130s and C-141s, along with all the civilian air transport planes. Their escort would be provided by a flight of reactivated A-10A ground attack planes. Officially nicknamed “Thunderbolts,” the men who flew these squat twin-engine airplanes had quickly dubbed them “Warthogs” because of their ungainly appearance.

Ugly or not, under the right conditions, the A-10s could chew up columns of tanks with the forward-pointing, seven-barrel, 30mm GUA-8 GE Gatling guns mounted in their noses. Plus, these particular A-10s had a deadly mixture of Standard ARMs (Anti Radar Missiles) and Rockeye cluster bombs slung under their wings.

The problem with the Thunderbolts was that they were slow—
very
slow. The lack of speed made them chop-licking targets for any Soviet grunt armed with a portable SAM. What’s more, the sub-sonic ’Bolts were true attack airplanes. In other words, they were definitely
not
dog-fighting aircraft.

Without a trace of smugness, Hunter couldn’t imagine what help the A-10s could be, should the convoy run into trouble somewhere over the two thousand miles of ocean between Langley and Rota.

Bringing up the tail-end of the convoy was the third group, the KC-135s and the KC-10 airborne tankers, which would be refueling any stragglers as well as the fighters, whose fuel consumption would be higher at the relatively slow speeds they’d be traveling to stay with the big cargo planes.

Also assigned to the third group was a squadron of AC-130U gunships. The attack version of the Hercules transport, these planes were the latest incarnation of the “Puff the Magic Dragon” AC-47 gunships that served in Vietnam. Flying out of Hurlburt Field near Fort Walton Beach, Florida, the AC-130s were on their way to support Special Forces Operations in Europe and the Med. They carried an awesome amount of firepower—a 25-mm Gatling gun capable of a sustained fire rate of 6,000 rounds per minute, a 40-mm cannon, and a 105-mm howitzer on special mounts by the left rear cargo door.

And they were all wired in to a AN/APG-70 digital fire-control radar system. With their Forward-Looking InfraRed (FLIR) and Low Light-level TV (LLTV) sensors, they could pinpoint an enemy position with devastating accuracy, day or night.