Authors: Tom Young
Silent Enemy (29 page)
Just then, a strange sight appeared directly outside the cockpit windows. Parson blinked his eyes to make sure he wasn’t dreaming or hallucinating.
A jet fighter joined up on his left side, then pulled slightly ahead of the C-5. At first, Parson couldn’t place the model of the aircraft. An identical fighter, presumably the wingman, streaked over the top of Parson’s plane and banked into a hard turn.
“What the hell is that?” Colman asked. With his lips parted, he leaned forward in his seat and stared at the aircraft.
Parson had to think for a moment. The two-seat fighter had twin engines with rectangular intakes, twin vertical stabilizers, and a set of small winglets just aft of the canopy. Subdued gray-blue camouflage paint, and a flag painted on the side that consisted of three bars: yellow, blue, and red. Semicircle of stars across the blue section. Missiles under its wings—Russian-built Vympels.
“That’s an Su-30 Flanker,” Parson said. “Venezuelan.” The Venezuelans probably called it something else, but Parson knew it by its NATO designation. Russian-built fighters always carried a name that began with an
F
—supposedly random but always something unintimidating: Flanker, Frogfoot, Fishbed.
F
—supposedly random but always something unintimidating: Flanker, Frogfoot, Fishbed.
The Flanker flew so close that Parson could have seen the crewmen’s eyes had they not worn smoked visors on their helmets. It rocked its wings and flashed its navigation lights. When Parson made no response, the Flanker rocked its wings harder, flashed the lights with greater frequency.
That indicated something, Parson knew. But it lay someplace in his mind where he stored knowledge he never expected to use. Something from
way
back in his training—international rules of the air, standard signals.
way
back in his training—international rules of the air, standard signals.
Then he remembered. This one meant: YOU HAVE BEEN INTERCEPTED. FOLLOW ME.
AS GOLD GLANCED FORWARD INTO THE COCKPIT,
she sensed something wrong, or at least different. Maybe it was the crew’s body language, the way they looked at one another. As she reached for her headset at the nav console, she saw the fighter jet filling the left side of the windscreen. So close it make her gasp.
she sensed something wrong, or at least different. Maybe it was the crew’s body language, the way they looked at one another. As she reached for her headset at the nav console, she saw the fighter jet filling the left side of the windscreen. So close it make her gasp.
She had no idea what kind of fighter it was, but she recognized the Venezuelan flag. So this wasn’t one of the friendly aircraft that so annoyed Parson. Something worse, then. Gold put on her headset to listen in.
“Why didn’t they show up on TCAS?” Colman asked.
“Because the bastards turned off their transponders,” Parson said. “I think you
did
have them on TCAS for a minute.”
did
have them on TCAS for a minute.”
“Oh, yeah.”
Gold noticed Parson and Colman were using the plural. Was there another one somewhere?
Then an unfamiliar voice came over the radio: “American aircraft, Bolivar One-One on guard. You are violating Venezuelan airspace. Please come with us. We will land in Caracas.”
“Bullshit,” Parson said on interphone. Then he keyed his mike and said, “Bolivar, this is Air Evac Eight-Four. We are a medevac aircraft, with a declared emergency, in international airspace. Check your navigation, sir.” When Parson released his mike switch, he added, “And you can take those Russian missiles off your wings and shove them up your ass.”
“Negative, sir. We have extended our air defense zone because of Colombia’s hostile actions. Our intelligence facilities have monitored you in communication with a Colombian aircraft. You must come with us, sir.”
The Venezuelan pilot spoke English with confidence, Gold noted. He was so fluent he was probably
thinking
in English. He sounded older, too. Maybe a full bird colonel or their equivalent. You wouldn’t send a new lieutenant to threaten an American airplane, she guessed.
thinking
in English. He sounded older, too. Maybe a full bird colonel or their equivalent. You wouldn’t send a new lieutenant to threaten an American airplane, she guessed.
“Bolivar One-One,” Parson said, “I am an emergency aircraft with multiple malfunctions. I cannot descend now. And you are violating international law.”
“You, sir, are violating international law if you are bringing weapons to Colombia. And why else would you coordinate with a Colombian aircraft?”
Parson looked around at his crew and said, “Are you believing this shit?” Then he transmitted, “That was an Airbus, you dumbass. He gave me a radio relay because my HFs are inoperative. If you’re going to eavesdrop, at least pay attention.”
Still not much of a diplomat, Gold thought.
A long moment of silence passed, and the fighter turned hard to the left. It banked so steeply Gold could see clusters of ordnance under its wings. Where the wings met the fuselage, puffs of mist formed as the jet powered away. Gold wondered what aerodynamic phenomenon created that effect; she’d never seen it before.
“Are they gone?” Dunne asked. He craned his neck to look.
“I hope so,” Parson said. “That’s the craziest thing I ever heard.”
“I don’t think the Venezuelans really want to tangle with the U.S.,” Colman said.
“Me, neither,” Parson said. But then he added, “Hell, maybe they do. Get us and Cuba and Russia involved in their little dustup with Colombia.”
“We have enough trouble as it is,” Dunne said.
“You got that right,” Parson said. He checked his watch. “Our tanker ought to be here soon. Colman, are you too tired to do another plug or do you want me to take it?”
“I can fly it, sir. Thank you.”
The crew flew in silence for several minutes. After a time, Gold saw two specks in the distance. At first, she thought they were imperfections on the windscreen; they showed no relative motion from the C-5. But then they grew larger. They were coming head-on.
The specks widened, took the form of fighter jets. They separated from each other at an altitude just above the C-5. The two aircraft swung out wide and flashed by either side with incomprehensible speed. For an instant, Gold could see the bubble canopies and the helmeted pilots.
“What the hell was that?” Dunne asked.
“The Flankers just came back,” Parson said.
“What are they doing?” Colman asked.
“They’re setting up for a stern conversion, that’s what they’re doing,” Parson said. “Pincer maneuver.”
Gold had no idea what that meant, but it sounded like tactics.
Combat
tactics.
Combat
tactics.
“What can we do?” Colman said. He turned in his seat and scanned the sky, but the fighters had disappeared behind the C-5.
“Not a fucking thing,” Parson said. “Maybe they’re bluffing.”
No one spoke for a moment. Was it over? Just a high-speed middle finger from the Venezuelans, perhaps.
An intermittent, staccato beep sounded in Gold’s headset. Then it became a steady tone.
“Son of a bitch,” Parson said. “Missile lock.” He pointed to his instrument panel. A winglike symbol illuminated on a small screen labeled RADAR WARNING RECEIVER.
“American aircraft, Bolivar One-One,” called a voice on the radio. “Please accompany us to Caracas. I really must insist.”
“Bolivar One-One,” Parson called, “
Air Evac
Eight-Four. I have a terrorist bomb on board. Maybe your intel people should try watching the news. Go ahead and fire, asshole. With these winds, it’ll probably blow anthrax all over your third-rate banana republic, Cuba-wannabe country.”
Air Evac
Eight-Four. I have a terrorist bomb on board. Maybe your intel people should try watching the news. Go ahead and fire, asshole. With these winds, it’ll probably blow anthrax all over your third-rate banana republic, Cuba-wannabe country.”
The radios remained silent for almost a full minute. Gold tried to imagine what the Venezuelans were thinking. Of all the responses they might have anticipated, they probably didn’t expect Parson to dare them to shoot.
Finally, the squelch broke on the frequency. Gold heard a sigh, and then the Venezuelan flight leader said, “You give me no other choice.”
Gold closed her eyes in unspoken prayer. She braced for the explosion, clawed her armrests.
Seconds passed. Nothing happened.
“What are you doing?” the Flanker pilot asked.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Parson transmitted.
“I’m talking about your fire control radar.”
“I don’t
have
that kind of radar, you dumb shit.”
have
that kind of radar, you dumb shit.”
“But—” The Venezuelan released his PUSH TO TALK.
“Look at that,” Parson said on interphone. He pointed to the radar warning receiver. It showed another symbol, one farther away judging from its orientation on the screen. Something other than the Flankers was getting ready to fire. And it seemed to be moving closer. Rapidly.
“Switch your radar from weather to skin paint,” Parson told Colman.
Colman turned some knobs, and his radar screen flickered. But it remained blank.
“Hah,” Parson said. “No cross section. You can’t see it.” Then he pressed his TRANSMIT button. “Do you know what that is, jackass?”
“Perhaps.”
“It’s an F-22 Raptor, motherfucker. Why don’t you roll in on him?”
No answer.
“You better disarm weapons right now,” Parson said, “or that thing’s gonna scatter your commie ass all over the Caribbean.”
The missile tone went silent.
“No need for such rough language,” the Flanker pilot said. “We can conclude this matter as gentlemen.”
“Go home, bitch,” Parson said.
22
T
he Flankers broke off from Parson’s six o’clock and turned for land. He watched them join up in tight formation, lead and wingman, as they fled. The two jets cut a diagonal path downward and away, and vanished as dust motes in the haze. Probably went supersonic, Parson thought. I’d light the afterburners, too, if a Raptor drew a bead on me.
he Flankers broke off from Parson’s six o’clock and turned for land. He watched them join up in tight formation, lead and wingman, as they fled. The two jets cut a diagonal path downward and away, and vanished as dust motes in the haze. Probably went supersonic, Parson thought. I’d light the afterburners, too, if a Raptor drew a bead on me.
Two Raptors, actually. The pair of American fighters appeared at one o’clock high, gray ghosts spiriting along against a sky of blued steel.
“Air Evac Eight-Four, Shadow Flight,” the lead called. “You doing okay?”
“We’re all right at the moment, thanks to you guys,” Parson said. All right for a flying IED.
The F-22s soared across the top of the C-5 and disappeared.
“Tanker’s not far behind us,” the lead fighter said. “We’ll fly detached escort with you until you’re out of range for those bandits.”
Parson had always considered fighter pilots overrated prima donnas, but he had to admit he felt safer now. Of all the dangers he’d faced in Afghanistan and Iraq—shoulder-fired missiles, small-arms fire, RPGs—he’d never expected to need air cover to get Flankers off his tail.
“What’s detached escort?” Colman asked.
“They won’t always be in sight,” Parson said, “but they’ll stay within firing distance for their missiles.”
“Good.”
“Where’d you guys come from?” Parson asked.
“Tyndall,” the Shadow leader answered.
All the way from Florida? They must have taken a wide detour around the storm.
“Long flight,” Parson transmitted.
“Yeah, we tanked on the way, but we saved some gas for you.”
Parson checked the radar screen and the TCAS. Both showed a return now, getting closer by the second. He looked out the cockpit windows, strained to see the dot that would become a KC-135. The air was getting clearer, making the ocean visible below and turning it into an expanse of sapphire. Surface winds must have been rough; Parson noted how the wind whitened the swells with streaks of foam. He still didn’t have visual contact with the tanker, but he saw its electronic signature moving nearer to him.
While he waited, he decided to make conversation with the only fighter jocks for whom he’d ever had any use. “I’d like to have seen you guys dogfight those Flankers,” he said.
“Wouldn’t have been much of a fight,” the Shadow flight leader said. “We had ’em dead to rights before they knew we were there.”
“Sounded like it,” Parson said.
“No kidding. I was about to shoot when they turned off their radar.”
And it would have been justified, too, Parson thought. Targeting another aircraft with fire control radar was itself a hostile act. He wondered if the Flanker pilots knew how close they’d come to incineration. Now they were safe, but he and his crew and passengers remained at risk for a fiery death.
“I got the plane for a while,” Parson told Colman. “I’ll give it back to you for the refuel.”
“Yes, sir,” Colman said. “My radios.”
Parson liked the way Colman verbalized the change in duties. Normally, one pilot flew the plane while the other pilot handled everything else, such as communication. If you traded jobs, you said so out loud to make sure there was no mix-up. Some guys neglected little details like that, but Colman flew by the book. Parson approved, as far that went. You flew by the book until conditions gave you a good reason not to.
At the moment, he wanted to fly the plane just to stay awake. Parson punched off the autopilot and steered by hand. The use of fine motor skills gave him something to focus on other than his fatigue. No matter how much he tweaked the trim switches, he still had to keep some hand pressure on the yoke to hold the C-5 on a heading and altitude. The airplane had been a little bent to start with, but now it was worse. The turbulence and hailstones had done more than break off antennas. Apparently, the storms had torn up some control surfaces and maybe twisted the entire fuselage.
Other books
The Corrupt Comte by Edie Harris
Blurring the Lines (Men of the Zodiac) by Marisa Cleveland
Mine to Bear: Icy Cap Den #2 (Alaskan Den Men) by Jennifer Hilt
Sick City by Tony O'Neill
Bonita Avenue by Peter Buwalda
Essential Facts on the Go: Internal Medicine by Lauren Stern, Vijay Lapsia
Edgar Allan's Official Crime Investigation Notebook by Mary Amato
Smothered by Christa Wick
Lucas Ryan Versus: The Hive (The Lucas Ryan Versus Series) by Madison Daniel
The Abduction of Julia by Karen Hawkins
