Mack threw the plane left, firing off defensive chaff and flares while Jalan stayed on the ECMs. The SA-8 had been launched “blind,” its radar guidance completely blitzed by the Megafortress’s ECMs. The missile sailed high over the right wing, climbing to forty thousand feet before imploding.
More dangerous were the two missiles with infrared guidance launched just as the Megafortress passed. These were M48A1 Chaparrals—very short-range heat-seekers that were essentially ground-launched versions of the AIM-9D Sidewinder. Mack’s maneuvers had cost him some speed, and one of the missiles ignited less than a hundred yards from his right wing sending a spray of shrapnel into the back of the fuselage. But the damage was minor, and they climbed through the neighboring mountain valley without a problem.
“Did you locate the Su-27s?” Mack asked the radar operator. “Negative,” said the man. “No hangars visible.”
“Well they have to be there somewhere,” said Mack. “All right, one more pass”
This time, Mack went low—very low, as in twenty feet from the ground, covering his approach with a salvo of flares and chaff as well as the active electronic countermeasures. The ground defenders were either confused, out of arrows, or both, and the Megafortress passed unscathed.
They found the hangar, a dug-in bunker on the south side of a hill facing away from the runway, reached by a short dirt road.
“Got to give them points for ingenuity,” he told Jalan. “We’ll work up some sort of attack on the base when we get home. We can drop some of those five-hundred-pound bombs and put a big crater about midway down that runway, and keep them quiet for a while, but we’re going to need air-to-ground missiles to do anything about the hangar.”
“Striking the defenses would also be a good idea,” said the copilot.
“They were pretty inept.”
“They were caught off guard,” said Jalan. “They won’t be next time.”
As they climbed over the mountains in the direction of home, the ops detected a number of Malaysian helicopters flying near the Brunei border to the west, flitting in and out of radar coverage as they skimmed through the mountains. They were undoubtedly supporting guerillas, Mack thought, though he suspected the Malaysians would claim they were fighting them.
The sultan better put the bastards on notice that allies were supposed to help legitimate governments, not homicidal maniacs, Mack thought. He had the computer calculate a flight path to the area where the helicopters were operating, toying with the idea of unleashing one or two of the Sparrows at them; there were five left on the rotating dispenser in the rear bay. Before he could decide, Jalan relayed a warning that one of the Sukhois was taking off from the airfield they’d buzzed.
“That was fast,” said Mack.
“They must’ve been standing by in the hangar,” said Jalan. “Or they have a better hide near the field we didn’t spot.”
There was no doubt in Mack’s mind that he was taking on the Sukhois; the only question was where.
He decided he’d lead them out to sea before turning to tango. That way he’d avoid any nasty surprises like Malaysian ground-to-air defenses that he hadn’t spotted. He’d also have a quicker route home; his fuel gauges were trending toward empty.
“What it’ll look like to them is a big sitting ducking trying to foolishly outrun them,” Mack explained to Jalan as he laid in the course to the computer. “They’ll figure they have us nailed. We’ll fire two Sparrows at each plane once we have them flatfooted.”
“What if they’re carrying radar-guided missiles as they were the other day?”
“Oh, they definitely will be. You’ll just confuse the hell out of them with your ECMs,” Mack said. “I’ll handle the Sparrows.”
They had about a five minute lead on the two Malaysian planes as they reached the coast. Mack used some of it to climb to thirty-five thousand feet, then told Jalan to open the bomb bay door, preparing the Sparrows for firing. As their air speed dropped, the Sukhois came charging at them. The interceptors were spread nearly three miles apart, much more wary than they had been the other day; they’d thought about their encounter and tried to learn from it.
Which he was counting on.
“We’re going to make it look like we want to get them with the Stinger, turn, and then turn again,” he told his crew. “If you have to puke, do it now.”
One of the ops laughed and Mack smiled to himself—he was finally getting through to these guys.
“We’re spiked,” said Jalan, meaning that the targeting radar in the lead Su-27 had locked onto them.
That was the signal Mack had been waiting for.
“Break it,” he said calmly. Then he put
Jersey
into a wide turn to the north.
The lead Su-27 started to turn as well, planning to parallel his course while his partner came around and cut him off. As the Sukhoi tried to get close enough for heat-seekers or maybe a cannon shot, Mack pushed his stick harder and tucked the plane due south. The plane seemed to skid in midair as if she were a massive motorcycle pulling a one-eighty. It took a few seconds to get the wings back level; by that time the Su-27 pilot had tightened his own turn as well. Mack now twisted south and then back, snaking through the sky in a series of feints until the Sukhoi finally bit on one of his fakes. The enemy pilot shot off to Mack’s right, realized it had been fooled, and tried to dive
away.
“Locked,”
said the computer.
“Range five miles.”
“Fire Sparrow One,” said Mack.
“Missile is launched”
“Fire Sparrow Two,” said Mack, seeing the diamond in the targeting screen close around the target.
“Target is locked Launching.”
With the missile away, Mack immediately turned back to the east, looking for the second Sukhoi. He expected the first to take a head-on approach, but found him flying parallel five miles ahead, and actually moving more than fifty knots slower than the Megafortress.
“Computer, lock target two.”
“Locked. Range five miles.”
“Fire Sparrow Three.”
“Missile is launched.”
Mack was about to launch another Sparrow when Jalan warned that a radar had locked on them. Mack, surprised, fired off chaff and took two quick cuts in the air. He had no idea which radar could be tracking them.
“Score one Sparrow!” said Jalan excitedly.
“What about that radar?”
“Still tracking us.”
Paranoia surged through Mack as he continued to have trouble picking up the opposing fighter. Just as he felt convinced—absolutely convinced—that the Su-27 was locked on his butt, he finally spotted the red dagger at the right corner of his screen. He started to pull the Megafortress around but Jalan yelled a warning over the interphone.
“Missiles! Missiles!”
Mack flailed back east, unable to sort the situation out in his head. He had one Sukhoi down, but must have missed the second one somehow. He blew a hard breath into his oxygen mask, trying to concentrate on what he needed to do, not on what he’d missed. Jalan and the computer ID’d the missile as a radar-guided R-27R. Mack flailed desperately in the air, zigging and zagging and dispensing the last of his chaff. The missile avoided the tinsel and hung with the Megafortress until it was about three hundred yards away; finally, the ECMs managed to shake it off. Desperate, a little angry at being jilted, the missile immolated itself as soon as it realized its date wasn’t showing up. Part of the warhead flew through the Megafortress’s number four engine, outboard on the right wing. The engine instantly lost power; Mack felt the wing tug downward before the computer helped him trim the plane to compensate.
“Jalan, we’ve lost engine four,” said Mack calmly.
“Yes. Mr. Minister,” said the copilot, already double-checking the computer’s automated safety programs.
Meanwhile, Mack spotted the remaining Sukhoi beginning a turn toward him from ten miles away; the computer announced that it had once more locked on the target.
“Fire Sparrow Four,” said Mack.
The missile clunked off the rotating launcher in the rear. Mack once more changed direction, but this time the Sukhoi pilot didn’t have a chance to target him.
“Score Sukhoi number two!” said Jalan.
They could see this explosion, a black puff in the distance at just about their altitude. Mack felt his shoulders sag; he’d been flying for hours without much sleep, and however good it felt to nail two enemy planes there was no way to put off fatigue forever.
“All right,” he told the crew. “Let’s take a deep breath.”
He and the copilot ran through the computer’s screens, double-checking the damage. Besides the engine, there had been some light damage to the control surfaces on the right wing. But it wasn’t too severe; the plane remained eminently controllable and they were climbing at a decent pace.
“Time to head back for the barn,” Mack told his tired crew. But as he brought up the screen to plot a course home, they reported an odd contact on the surface of the water, heading at high speed toward the Brunei oil derricks.
“Range, twenty miles, almost directly ahead,” said Jalan. “Computer can’t identify it, but it’s doing at least fifty knots” It was almost directly ahead.
“Let’s have a look,” said Mack.
Off the coast of Brunei
0844
Dazhou Ti folded his arms as they approached the oil platforms. He planned on drawing to within a mile before firing. The target was unarmed, and destroying it would be child’s play. The fact that the shells from the
Barracuda’s
gun were only twenty-five millimeters meant that they would have slightly more time to practice their marksmanship.
“Sixty seconds to firing point,” announced the weapons officer. “Steady,” said Dazhou Ti.
“Captain, the aircraft we noted earlier is tracking us,” said the radar operator.
“How can that be?” Dazhou moved over to the radar station, where the indicator showed that they were indeed visible on the airplane’s radar. It was the American Megafortress that had been given to the enemy.
General Udara had promised that their spies and radar would keep track of the aircraft, and that if necessary the Malaysian air force’s two Sukhoi Su-27s would distract it—or. if the opportunity presented itself, shoot it down. But obviously the Megafortress had managed to slip by them.
Imbeciles.
“Prepare the anti-aircraft missiles,” said Dazhou Ti. “Stay on the course but lower our speed. If they come close enough, we will make them very sorry.”
Aboard
Jersey,
off the coast of Brunei
0848
The ship—if that’s what it was—looked like a black triangle with wings on the surface of the ocean ahead, a metal loon that was aimed like an arrow at the Brunei oil field. And it moved incredibly fast—around a hundred knots.
“I’ll bet that’s what sunk the merchant ship the other day,” Mack told Jalan. “Probably hit the oil tank as well.”
“I can alert the navy,” said Jala. .
“Yeah,” said Mack, looking at the image in the enhanced video. He wasn’t much of an expert on naval architecture, but the craft looked as if it used something similar to wing-inground effect, skimming over the surface of the water like an airplane at very high speed. The sharp, odd angles would also make it hard to spot for most radars, even the EB-52s. except at close range. The black paint made it hard to see.
During the nighttime, that is. They must be feeling their oats to operate during the day.
The nearest oil platform was only a few miles away. It’d be easy pickings for a missile or even a gun attack.
“Not getting an acknowledgment from the navy,” said Jalan.
“Get our ground control and give them the coordinates,” said Mack. “See who’s on alert—Dragonflies could probably take out that piece of tin with a couple of 250-pound bombs.”
“Minister—the vessel is targeting us with its radar,” said Jalan. “Its roof is opening”
Mack cursed as he realized what the strange craft was up to. By the time he leaned on the throttle the ship had launched two missiles at them. Mack fired off the last of his flares and poured on the dinosaurs, his heart pounding as the flat-footed Mega-fortress tried to pick up momentum against the SA-14s, small Russian heat-seekers similar to the American Stinger shoulder-launched anti-air missile. The weapons had a very limited range and small warheads; even so, the Megafortress’s tail caught some shrapnel as one of the warheads exploded.
Which
really
pissed Mack off.
As he banked back, he told Jalan to open up the bomb bay. “Minister?”
“Do it, Jalan.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Give me the air-to-ground attack mode, standard bomb program one.”
The Megafortress’s computer hadn’t complained about firing the Sparrow missiles; while it had been designed to operate with the more advanced weapons, the system’s designers had realized there might be an emergency in the field and made sure the system was backward-compatible with earlier weapons. But now the computer refused to recognize that the missile was on its sling, even as Jalan and Brown tried the different air-to-ground attack modes.
“What about as a JDAM?” Mack asked, suggesting that the copilot tell the computer the missile was actually a guided bomb known as a JDAM or Joint Direct Attack Munition. The weapon was a modern version of an iron bomb, with a guidance system that could use either GPS coordinates or an internal guidance system to hit a precise point from relatively close range, usually no more than ten kilometers.
“Negative.”
And then Mack realized he was being far too clever.
“Reset the program back to the Sparrow parameters.”
Once the computer was ready, he brought up the targeting panel and told the weapons system that he had a bogey at low altitude.
Very, very low altitude.
The computer didn’t even hesitate.
“Target locked.”
“Fire at the motherfucker?’
“Unknown command”