Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 06 Read online

  “Interrogate the bogey,” Mauer ordered.

  INTERROGATING . . . Sharon the computer replied; then, after a short pause: negative reply. Sharon had sent out an IFF (Identification Friend or Foe) signal, to which only friendly aircraft would reply. The white diamond in Mauer’s VD changed to red—it was no longer just a “bogey,” an unidentified aircraft. It was now a “bandit,” a hostile aircraft.

  Mauer was a ten-year Air Force fighter veteran and knew how to close in and kill a hostile aerial target from any direction, speed, or attitude, but the attack computer system was new and he wanted to put it through its paces. He keyed the intercom button: “Give me an intercept vector on the bandit.”

  SAY again, please, Sharon replied in a surprisingly seductive voice.

  Mauer took a deep breath, containing his frustration and forcing himself to relax. “Say again, please” was Sharon’s favorite phrase. The computer system did not need voice coaching for individual pilots, but if a pilot started to get excited or hurried, the computer would not understand his voice commands. Mauer touched the supercockpit screen to call up the weapons status display and moved it with his finger to the upper right corner of the supercockpit display—in case his voice commands wouldn’t take, he was ready to finish the intercept without it. “I said, display intercept vector on the bandit. ”

  She understood that time, and a twin-tiered 3-D ribbonlike path appeared in thin air. Naturally distrustful of computers to do their thinking for them, pilots called the computer’s attack recommendation the “primrose path.” Despite its name, however, it was not a bad recommendation, Mauer thought—high, left rear quarter, the westbound bandit’s pilot would be looking into the rising sun trying to find him—so he decided to follow it. Mauer maneuvered the F-22 so he was flying in between the two parallel ribbons, then ordered, “Engage the autopilot on the intercept course.”

  Autopilot engaged, Sharon verified. The autopilot would now automatically fly the entire intercept. Mauer was a good stick and he loved flying, but unlike most of his fighter-jock colleagues, he wasn’t afraid to let the ultrasophisticated computers relieve some of the workload. The “primrose path” pulled Mauer’s F-22 into a steep descent, and Mauer kept the throttles at just below mil power and let the airspeed build up toward the Mach. With all of its weapons and fuel stored internally, the F-22 had few speed restrictions—it could go to its max speed of Mach 1.5 at any time in clean configuration, and the Lightning liked to go fast. Its weapons bay doors opened inwardly as well, so there was no speed restriction on missile launch either.

  The intercept was working out perfectly. So far the bandit was cruising along fat, dumb, and happy, still subsonic and mostly traveling in a straight, uncomplicated course, flying low but not doing any real aggressive terrain masking. The radar lock was intermittent, but that was understandable, because Mauer’s F-22 was not tracking the bandit. One hundred miles away, an Air Force E-3C Sentry AWACS (Airborne Warning and Control System) radar plane had picked up the bandit and had datalinked the target information via the JTIDS (Joint Target Information Distribution System) to Mauer’s F-22, which processed and displayed the data as if the F-22’s own radar were tracking the target. The bandit’s threat radar warning receiver would pick up only the AWACS, not the F-22. Even better, Mauer could launch the F-22’s AIM-120 AM- RAAMs (Advanced Medium-Range Air To Air Missiles) using JTIDS information until the missile’s own active radar picked up the target—he didn’t even need the fighter’s radar to launch his radar-guided missiles.

  “Recommend a weapon for the attack,” Mauer asked on interphone. As before, he didn’t need Sharon to tell him which missile to fire, but it was fun and educational to play with the new system. Fie purposely did not ask only for missiles but for any weapon, just to see if the computer would select the correct one.

  Recommend aim-120, Sharon replied, and both of the F-22 s AM- RAAM missiles depicted on the weapon status page blinked green. Mauer’s Lightning was lightly loaded on this mission, and carried only two AIM-120s and two AIM-9P Sidewinder missiles in the weapons bay, plus five hundred rounds of ammunition for the 20-millimeter cannon. “Arm AIM-120.”

  ROGER, AIM-120 ARMED, warning, missile armed, Sharon responded, and the left AMEAAM missile changed from green to yellow, indicating it was powered up and receiving target and flight information from the attack computer.

  “Time to launch?”

  TEN SECONDS TO LAUNCH, Sharon responded, with only a hint of hesitation.

  They were still screaming earthward at 3,000 feet per minute, and the hills below were starting to become a factor. Mauer knew that he was getting a little target-fixated, so he expanded his look-down supercockpit display to a God’s-eye view of the surrounding area. Only one other plane within fifty miles, and that was a friendly, another F-22. The “primrose path” was steering him around some high terrain—the navigation computer had all of the terrain elevations programmed—but he was still flying close to those hills. The computer-generated flight path was too gentle and not aggressive enough for Mauer’s taste, so he laid his hands on the control stick and throttles and said, “Autopilot heading nav mode off, autopilot altitude nav mode off, fail-safe terrain avoidance mode on.”

  ROGER, HEADING NAV OFF, ALTITUDE NAV OFF, WARNING, CHECK AUTOPILOT MODES, ROGER, TERRAIN AVOIDANCE MODE ENGAGED, Sharon replied. The F-22 s terrain-avoidance mode would provide a last-second emergency fly-up in case he strayed too close to the ground or the hills.

  “Time to launch?”

  SAY again, please, Sharon replied. Mauer was getting excited again—his voice was getting clipped, more high-pitched, and therefore harder for Sharon to understand. No matter—he saw the time-to-launch countdown on his virtual display and didn’t ask again. Fie was breathing faster and shallower. Relax, dammit, relax! he told himself. You’ve got this intercept nailed. Even without Sharon’s help, he had it wired.

  Mauer now knew what the bandit’s target was: the industrial site, the fifty-acre military weapons and research facility. It was imperative that this plant be protected. The Air Force had assigned two F-22 Lightning fighters, their most modern and high-tech warplane, to the industrial site’s defense. A Patriot air defense missile site was active in the area, but with the F-22s operating in the area at the same time, the Patriot would be kept in reserve until the air defense fighters ran out of missiles.

  “Tell me when to shoot,” Mauer said.

  MAX RANGE IN FIVE SECONDS . . . MAX RANGE IN THREE SECONDS . . . TWO SECONDS . . . ONE SECOND . . . MAX IN RANGE . . . OPTIMAL IN RANGE, Sharon said.

  Mauer keyed the intercom button: “AIM-120 shoot,” he ordered.

  ROGER, AIM-120 SHOOT, AIM-120 SHOOT . . . WARNING, WEAPONS DOOR OPENING ... AIM-120 AWAY. Mauer felt the rumble of the weapons doors sliding inwardly, felt the slap! of the gas ejectors forcing the left AM- RAAM missile into the supersonic slipstream, then saw a streak of white smoke arc across the sky from the belly of his Lightning fighter. The VD display showed an estimated “time to die” countdown: nine seconds ... eight . . . seven ... six ... at five seconds, the AMRAAM’s own active radar seeker head activated, which would guide the missile in the last few seconds of its kill. . . .

  The bandit suddenly dipped from 1,000 feet above the terrain to fifty feet—literally in the blink of an eye!—then made an impossible left turn behind a tall butte. The AMRAAM, just seconds from impact, lost sight of its target. The missiles seeker head was only a ten-degree cone and its turn rate was about seven Gs—the bandit had turned ninety degrees and pulled fifteen, maybe twenty Gs. There was no way, no way, any bomber could turn like that. The AMRAAM missile was lost, smoothly and completely faked out by a move that would make Jerry Rice hang up his cleats.

  Mauer yanked the Lightning fighter left. “Radar on, lock on bandit ...” But before the ships radar could lock on and send new steering signals to the missile, it had plowed into the ground. Clean miss! That was the first time Mauer had ever seen an AMRAAM missile miss i
ts intended target. What kind of bomber was this? The F-15E Strike Eagle was not this fast or agile with weapons aboard . . . was it a foreign job, like the Japanese FS-X or a Messerschmidt X-31? Maybe an F-16XL cranked arrow . . . ?

  Just then, Mauer glanced off to his right and saw it—a cloud of black smoke over the industrial site. Mauer had been hoping to reacquire the bandit on this southbound jog before it turned westbound again toward the industrial site, but he was too late. The industrial site was hit. Dammit, looked like a direct fucking hit—wait, no, not quite. The bad guys intel was obviously poor—the hit was on the center of the big building, mostly crating and shipping stuff and empty space. The bandit got a hit, but it didn’t do much harm!

  Westbound again, radar on in wide-area look-down search—got him! BANDIT one o’clock low, twelve miles, Sharon advised.

  “Lock bandit, arm AIM-120, AIM-120 shoot,” Mauer ordered immediately.

  BANDIT LOCKED . . . ROGER, AIM-120 ARMED, WARNING, WEAPONS ARMED . . . AIM-120 SHOOT, AIM-120 SHOOT, WARNING, WEAPONS DOORS opening . . . aim-120 away, Sharon responded in rapid-fire succession, and his last AMRAAM missile was flying. But almost as soon as it launched, Mauer could see its white smoke trail wobbling, then breaking first hard to the left, then in a wide sharply arcing curve to the right, then again to the left in an even wider arc. He knew it was going to miss well before the “time to die” meter ran down to zero. That bandit had made two high-G jinks that again beat the hell out of the highly maneuverable AIM-120 missile.

  Another cloud of black smoke—another hit on the industrial site, and this time it was on the smaller building southeast of the large building, where a lot of finished munitions and products were stored awaiting transportation. That son of a bitch had actually gone all the way around and reattacked, with a fighter on his tail! He had balls, that’s for sure— any mud-mover worth his wings would hit, then get out of the defended area as fast as he could.

  Enough of this super-automated datalink shit, Mauer thought—time to call in some help. They were supposed to stay off the voice radios and use the datalink as much as possible, but he was in deep shit and his first priority was to defend his territory. He rocked the radio switch on the throttles up to the UHF position: “Saber One-Two, this is One-One on Red.”

  “One-Two,” replied his fellow hunter, Captain Andrea Mills. She had a slight twinge of sarcasm already in her voice, and Mauer almost regretted calling her—he knew she knew he was having trouble.

  “Come give me a hand with this bandit,” Mauer said.

  “Roger, I’m on my way,” Mills replied, the sarcasm gone. Mills looked for every opportunity to rub her fellow fighter jocks’ noses in the macho hunter-killer game they all relished, but when it came time to get down to business, she was serious, focused, and as deadly as any swinging dick.

  Mauer switched his heads-down supercockpit screen to a God’s-eye view and expanded it until Mills’s fighter symbol appeared—good, she was off to the north, racing southwestbound to cut off the bandit from the other major ground target in the area, the fighter base and Patriot missile emplacements. Mills was staying high, establishing a high patrol, so Mauer pushed his stick forward and zoomed down lower, closer to the bandit’s altitude. He had two missiles left, both heat-seekers with a max range of only seven miles, and he had to make them count. If the bomber got the airfield and the Patriot site, their forces would be left wide open to attack, the airborne fighters would have to find someplace else to land, and the fighters on the ground were sitting ducks and wouldn’t be able to depart.

  At 3,000 feet above the ground, the hills and buttes looked close enough to scrape the bottom of Mauer’s fighter. He kept the power up at full military power, speeding westbound at Mach 1.5, searching for the bomber . . . but Mills’s radar locked on first. The JTIDS datalink transferred the bandit’s position to Mauer’s attack computer, and he again locked onto the bomber and began his pursuit—twelve o’clock, nine miles . . . eight. . .

  HIGH TERRAIN, high terrain! Sharon cried into the intercom. Mauer yanked back on the stick to crest a sharply rising razorback ridgeline directly ahead. Jesus, this was nuts—trying to concentrate on the pursuit while dodging hills and ridges was going to get him killed. But as soon as he lowered the nose again, the bandit was dead in his sights, straight ahead.

  “Arm Sidewinder,” Mauer ordered. “Open weapon doors.”

  ROGER, AIM-9 ARMED, WARNING, MISSILE ARMED . . . WARNING, WEAPON doors opening. As soon as the door opened, the AIM-9 Sidewinder missile’s seeker head slaved to the attack computer’s steering signal, saw the hot dot from the bandit’s exhaust, and locked onto it, matching its seeker azimuth exactly with the attack computer’s target bearing, aim-9 locked on, Sharon reported.

  “AIM-9 shoot,” Mauer ordered.

  Aim-9 shoot, aim-9 shoot, aim-9 away. The smaller, faster Sidewinder fired from the weapons bay in a flash, wobbled a bit as it stabilized itself in the air, then homed straight and true. . . .

  Flares! Mauer saw them immediately—a line of white dots hanging in the sky, hot and very bright even over six miles away. The radar-lock square jutted sharply left as the bandit made its customary first left break, but the decoy flares hung in the sky straight ahead for several seconds before winking out. The Sidewinder wobbled as if it were trying to decide between locking onto the decoys or turning to chase the bomber. It decided on the decoys, then changed its mind as the decoys began to extinguish. But just as it made a sharp left turn to pursue, the bomber ejected more flares and jinked right, and the Sidewinder locked solidly on the new, brighter, closer decoys and would not let go. The Sidewinder exploded harmlessly a full five miles behind the bomber.

  One missile to go, Mauer reminded himself, as he turned to pursue. He had closed to within four miles of the bandit, and now he was straining hard to see what in hell it was. The virtual display made it easy to focus on where the target was, no matter which way it jinked. It was small, probably an F-16, judging by its size and its maneuverability, or maybe some experimental job. . . .

  A cruise missile! Mauer got a good look at it as it made another hard right turn, heading right for the airfield—a goddamn cruise missile! No wonder it was so maneuverable—there was no pilot on board to get knocked unconscious by hard G turns. It was the first cruise missile he had ever heard of that ejected decoy flares, could obviously detect enemy fighters’ and missiles’ radars, and could attack multiple targets and even reattack targets it missed the first time around! It was a little bit bigger than a Tomahawk or standard Air-Launched Cruise Missile, but it had no wings—it was almost like a big fat flying surfboard. When it was straight and level, it was almost impossible to see.

  “One-One, bogeydope,” Mills radioed.

  “One-One has a single cruise missile, and it’s haulin’ ass,” Mauer said, grunting against the G-forces as he turned hard left again to stay behind the missile. “I got one heater left. C’mon in and nail this bastard if my last shot misses.” The time for being macho was over, Mauer thought— this cruise missile had beat him pretty good, and it looked as if it was going to take both of the F-22s working together to nail it.

  “One-Two has a judy.”

  “Take the shot,” Mauer said. “I’ll try to nail it in the ass while you shoot it in the face.”

  Mills didn’t reply—she let her AMRAAMs do the talking. The JTIDS datalink showed Mills launching her first AIM-120, followed by her second AMRAAM five seconds later. The cruise missile made its usual left break—Mauer was close enough now to see that it was ejecting chaff decoys, trying to get the radar-guided missile to lock onto the tinsel-like chaff! But Mauer anticipated that left break, and at the exact right moment, Mauer launched his last Sidewinder, then began a right turning climb to clear the area. The Sidewinder would get a good, solid look at the missile’s entire profile, and it couldn’t miss.

  But as he turned, he looked to the west and saw three bright explosions and another cloud of smoke—the airfield was hi
t, this time with some kind of binary weapon, a fuel-air explosive or a chemical weapon. No one was going to be landing or taking off from that airfield for a long, long time.

  Mauer got visual contact on Mills’s F-22 high and heading in the opposite direction. Just as he began his climbing left turn to join up, he heard Mills report, “Splash one bandit—but I think he got the Patriot site and the airfield first.”

  Good job, Scottie, Mauer told himself angrily—the F-22 Lightning, the best fighter ever to leave the ground, beat out by a robot plane. Shit, shit, shit!

  He saw Mills wag her F-22’s tail back and forth, clearing him into right fingertip formation. Might as well let Andrea lead for a while until he got his composure back, he was too angry right now to make any decisions as flight lead.

  Just then, Mauer’s heads-down display blinked—another inbound bandit had been detected by the AWACS. Mills rocked her wings up and down, the signal to move out to combat spread formation to get set up for the intercept, then started a thirty-degree bank turn to the left toward the new bandit. She was the only one with missiles now, Mauer thought forlornly, so he slid out to wide-line-abreast formation and got ready to back up his leader on this intercept. He was backup now, he thought, just backup. The bad guys were three for fucking three. . . .