SecondWorld (26 page)

For now.

He glanced back at Brodeur and Adler. “Get to a chair and strap in! Now!” He thought for a moment that both of them would object. But they turned and ran for the chairs lining the hallway just beyond the cockpit doors. Miller sat in the cockpit’s third chair, just behind the copilot.

Choom, choom, choom.

More chaff.

Chaff was a missile countermeasure that confused missile radar systems by dispersing a cloud of aluminium, plastic, or metallized glass. The sudden appearance of a secondary target, sometimes several, can wreak havoc with the guidance systems of radar-guided missiles. But the system was far from perfect. Modern missiles were often smart enough to stay on target.

The radio came alive with shouted reports from the KC-10. “Eagle One! Eagle One! Be advised, attacker is Eagle Three! Repeat, attacker is Eagle Three!”

A momentary silence filled the cockpit.

Eagle Three was the second F-22 Raptor that had been escorting them across the Atlantic. Its pilot had waited for Eagle Two to connect to the fuel boom, effectively making the plane defenseless, and then destroyed it. Now it had turned its deadly sights on the 747.

Miller did a quick calculation in his head. Time to live—five minutes. Tops. Make your peace with God and kiss your ass good-bye. The F-22 Raptor was a stealth fighter jet, which meant they had no way to track it. It could fly circles around them at Mach 1.82 (1,674 miles per hour) and while the 747 could fly far higher, the six AIM-120 AMRAAM missiles it carried weren’t called “beyond visual range” missiles for no reason. The fire-and-forget, active-guidance missiles could track them down at any altitude.

The only positive of the situation was that they were aboard the world’s toughest and most heavily defended aircraft. Of course, the escort comprised a large part of that defensive capability, but if any aircraft stood a chance against the Raptor, the president’s transport was it.

The last hope they had was that the mayday Wallman called out while Matherson communicated with the KC-10 would be responded to quickly. There were air bases all over Europe and he had no doubt that jets could reach them in minutes. But minutes was all they had.

The silence in the cockpit ended with Matherson stating, “Missile lock, off.”

The chaff had done its job for the moment.

“Hawk Ten, Hawk Ten,” Wallman said into the radio transmitter, speaking to the KC-10 refueling plane. “Can you confirm hostile as Eagle Three? Are you sure?”

“Hell yes!” the man on the other end shouted. “The boom operator saw it with his own eyes.”

“Eagle Three,” Wallman said into the transmitter. “Stand down!”

No reply.

“Listen, you son of a bitch,” Wallman said, seething with anger. “If you—”

And shrill alarm sounded.

“Missile lock!” Matherson shouted.

Wallman toggled the chaff switch again. “Deploying chaff.”

Choom, choom, choom.

“Missile away!”

An explosion shook the plane from behind, but the plane was intact.

“Doesn’t this thing have any offensive weapons?”

Wallman shook his head. “Even if it did, the Raptor’s invisible.”

Miller hated being helpless. He wanted to fight. To shoot back. But there was nothing he could do but watch, and hang on tight.

Matherson banked hard to the right. The plane rumbled. A warning blared along with a flashing light.

“An engine is on fire!” Adler shouted from the hallway.

“Shutting down engine four,” Wallman said. The alarm fell silent.

Choom, choom, choom.

The sky behind them filled with chaff.

An alarm blared.

Before Matherson could shout out a warning, a second explosion shook the plane.

And still, they flew.

Three missiles left,
Miller thought.
Just three more.

“Take us up,” Wallman said. He sounded calm now. In control.

The three remaining engines whined as the plane angled up and gained altitude. But Miller knew that all the altitude in the world couldn’t save them from the AMRAAM missiles. “Why up?”

“Because when—if we fall, we’ll have more time to jump.”

“Jump?”

“Parachutes, but odds are we won’t need them.” Wallman looked back at Miller. “We’re either flying away from this or going up in a big ball of flame. If one of those missiles connects with a fuel tank there won’t be much of a plane left to jump from.”

Choom, choom, choom.

The plane continued to climb. Miller watched as the altimeter reached thirty-five thousand feet, which was the Raptor’s ceiling.

“What the hell is he waiting for?” Miller asked.

Choom, choom
—

“That,” Wallman said. “We’re out of chaff.”

Miller’s respect for Wallman grew as the man reacted to the development as though they’d just flown through turbulence. He realized the pilot had another trick up his sleeve just before he spoke.

“Deploying ALE-50.”

Muffled clucks rang out. The ALE-50 countermeasure was a towed metal decoy that provided a large radar cross section and lured missiles toward it. The plane shook as the cables connecting the 747 to the ALE-50 snapped taut. The jolt felt stronger than Miller expected. “How many of them did you deploy?”

“Four.”

Four countermeasures against three missiles. Could be worse.

“Missile lo— Incoming!” Matherson shouted. “Two from behind.”

Was the enemy pilot hoping to sneak one of the two missiles past the countermeasure, or was he hoping the shock wave from the dual explosions would shake them apart? Miller didn’t think the latter was possible. The 747 was armored like a flying Abrams tank. It could take a beating. Of course, the engines were another matter. They were vulnerable to shrapnel. Hell, a gaggle of geese in the wrong place might be enough to foul the engines.

Twin explosions rocked the plane from behind. They pitched forward.

“Engine two is hit,” Matherson said as he shut the engine down. “Losing speed. Altitude.”

“Hold us,” Wallman said.

Matherson fought to retain their altitude.

Wallman scanned a line of warning lights. “We lost three of four ALEs.”

“Shit,” Matherson whispered.

“Just keep us steady,” Wallman said. “Wait for it.”

Miller realized that this was a pivotal moment in the battle. The Raptor held just one more missile. If it could be avoided without losing another engine, they might limp their way all the way to Warsaw. If not …

“Missile launch!”

“Take us down!” Wallman shouted. “Go, go, go!”

The plane’s nose dipped toward the earth as Matherson pushed the control column forward. The whiny pitch of the engines increased as, thanks to gravity, they gained speed. Behind them, the ALE-50 followed the plane’s arc, descending behind and above the plane.

A jolt shook the plane as the last of the six missiles struck the countermeasure. But there was no secondary impact. The missile had been traveling horizontally, and most of the shrapnel continued harmlessly in that direction.

Miller felt a rush of relief. “Now I know why you guys fly for the pres—”

A roar filled the cabin as the F-22 rocketed past beneath them.

Matherson leveled out the 747 at thirty thousand feet. They watched in silence as the fighter jet became a speck in the distance.

“Eagle One. Eagle One,” said the KC-10 pilot. “You guys okay?”

Miller looked out the window and saw the big KC-10 about a half mile ahead and just above them.

“We’re down two engines,” Wallman replied. “But we’re still—Holy shit!” He grabbed the controls and rolled the plane to the right.

Miller saw a flash of tracer fire zing past, followed by the roaring Raptor. The thing still had a M61A2 Vulcan 20mm rotary cannon hidden within its stealth body. The cannon was drastically harder to aim than a guided missile, but the 747 was a big target, and they couldn’t afford to lose another engine.

“I’m starting to think a missile or two might not be a bad idea,” Wallman said, his lips twisted in a deep frown.

The 747 couldn’t be maneuvered like a fighter jet. Avoiding a constant stream of fire from the Raptor would be impossible. Miller pictured the jet looping around for another run, this time from behind. Unseen. They didn’t stand a chance.

Or did they?

Miller unbuckled and stood between the two pilots, gripping their headrests to stay balanced. “Keep us steady,” he said.

Matherson started to protest, but Miller spoke over him. “Is there a way to contact the KC-10 without the Raptor hearing us?”

“KC-10,” Wallman said. “Initiate communication protocol Whisper Seven.” He changed the channel and waited. “It’s a predetermined emergency channel for all aircraft that come in contact with Air Force One. He’ll have to look up the right frequency.”

“Won’t the Raptor know it, too?”

“Escorts have a separate emergency channel,” Wallman said. “And it’s a single-pilot plane. He wouldn’t be able to look it up even if he had the option.”

The radio crackled. “We’re here,” the KC-10 pilot said.

Miller took the transmitter and spoke to the pilot of the KC-10. “KC-10, are you able to purge the fuel you’re carrying?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Position yourself just in front of and below us. When I tell you to, purge
all
the fuel.”

“What!” The KC-10 pilot sounded like he’d just been told he had a second head growing out of his ass. “Who is this?”

“Just do it! We don’t have much time.”

Miller could see Wallman nodding slightly as he understood the plan. The man lifted the protective plastic cover from a button labeled
FLARES
.

Wallman took the transmitter. “This is Colonel Keith Wallman. Do what he said.”

The KC-10 dropped down and flew in front of them for a moment. The 747 shook in the wake of the giant fuel plane. Then the KC-10 was below them.

“Get us closer,” Miller said.

Matherson throttled forward until they were just fifty feet back from and above the other plane. If they flew through a batch of rough turbulence, which could drop a plane one hundred feet in just seconds, a collision might be hard to avoid.

Miller’s gut told him the Raptor would be behind them now. Approaching fast. “Keep us steady … steady…” He took the transmitter. “Start dumping the fuel.”

A billowing cloud of fuel shot from the back of the KC-10. Thousands of gallons of highly combustible fuel.

A loud metallic ticking came from the back of the 747. They were taking fire.

The Raptor was right behind them.

“Now!” Miller shouted at Wallman, and then in the transmitter, “Stop the purge!”

Wallman pressed the flare button, unleashing twin cascades of super-hot flares designed to defend against heat-seeking missiles. Instead, they became a fuse.

The air behind the two planes exploded like napalm, enveloping the F-22 and its pilot.

Matherson veered the 747 away from the KC-10 as the shock wave hit both planes and shook them violently. A second explosion marked the destruction of the Raptor.

The 747 leveled out. The KC-10 flew ahead and to the right. Both planes had survived the explosion. All three men relaxed. Miller gave both pilots pats on their shoulders. “How’s that for a countermeasure?”

“We’ll call it the BAE,” Matherson said. Sweat covered his forehead, but he was all smiles.

Miller figured out the acronym—big ass explosion—and laughed. “Good flying, gentlemen,” he said before leaving the cockpit to check on Adler and Brodeur. He felt the same elation as the two pilots—they’d survived an impossible situation—but he doubted the two men would be smiling if they knew he was the one and only countermeasure standing in the way of the Fourth Reich.

His smile faded as soon as he left the cockpit.

37

The ground crew at Strachowice Airport had been nervous about receiving Air Force One. The small regional airport featured just one terminal and had little in terms of security. They were ill-prepared to handle the sudden arrival of the U.S. president, and voiced their concerns several times over the radio when Wallman requested permission to land. When he explained that they’d been attacked and had two engines out, leaving out the fact that the president wasn’t actually on board, permission came quickly. The runway was short for a 747, but Wallman and Matherson handled it with ease. Even with two engines out, they managed to land the plane more smoothly than the three passengers had experienced on a plane.

The forty-minute drive from the airport to Ludwikowice Kłodzkie felt like a roller-coaster ride in comparison. Miller, Brodeur, and Adler had squeezed into a small red Opel Corsa—a two-door hatchback with a whopping ninety horses under the hood. But the small size was only half the problem. Adler, feeling at home on the curvy European country roads, pushed the vehicle to ninety miles per hour every chance she got.