Air Battle Force (52 page)

“I believe he has shifted his forces farther north and west, near Yagtyyol,” Zarazi said. “Turabi surmised that the Russians used the Chärjew pipeline to navigate to their infiltration point and that they will not make the same mistake again—they'll stay far away from roads and pipelines.”

“I have to give him credit. Colonel Turabi is a very clever and resourceful fighter.”

“It takes more than being clever to win favor in the eyes of God, Major,” Zarazi said. “The colonel is a capable fighter, but he needs to learn the relationship between being a good soldier and being a true servant of God. Fighting just for the sake of earthly goals is a waste of spirit and not a true calling at all.”

“Oh, really?” Orazov said bitterly.

“You yourself are a true and loyal servant of God, Major—you know this very well,” Zarazi said. “Fighting for other than the glory of God is the definition of evil.”

Orazov took another puff, then painfully shifted himself in his chair so he could look at Zarazi out of the corner of his eye. Zarazi, as usual, was off in some transcendental fog. “Well, I think Turabi should be running out of fuel and water soon,” Orazov said. “He'll be expecting a resupply mission today. I shall fly out and meet him. But first there is an important matter I must attend to.”

“You will go out and see to the redeployment of our air defenses and then organize burial and rebuilding parties,” Zarazi said. “We must be prepared for when the Russians strike again.”

No response.

“Did you hear what I said, Major? Carry out my orders immediately.”

Still no response.

Zarazi glanced back—and saw Orazov aiming a pistol directly at his head. “What in God's name is this, Major?” he barked, thunderstruck. “Put that weapon away immediately! Are you insane?”

“Not insane—just smart,” Orazov said. “Smart enough to realize that you are no longer in command here.”

“No longer in command? Of course I am in command here! This is my operation, my mission!”

“Not any longer,” Orazov said. “From now on
I
am in charge.”

Zarazi looked at Orazov, his eyes bulging in outrage. “How dare you point that weapon at me, Major,” he breathed. “I am the leader here. You will obey my orders or you will be eliminated.”

“You are no longer in control here, you old fool,” Orazov said. “You are nothing but a religious fanatic who was fortunate enough to score a few meaningless victories against incompetent Turkmen soldiers. Your victories were just dumb luck. Now that the Russians are coming, you are nothing but a walking corpse. I was a fool to follow you. I think if I deliver you, Turabi, and a good number of your Taliban fighters to the Russians—alive or dead, it probably won't matter—they'll let me live. They may even make me an officer in their occupation army.”

“I have been appointed by God to carry out His plan for a safe haven and training ground for all true believers!” Zarazi cried. “Do you think that God will look as favorably on you?”

“God doesn't give a shit if you or I believe in Him or not,” Orazov said. “The plans have changed, and you are not included in my new plans.”

“God will strike you down for blaspheming His name—”

“But
I
shall strike
you
down
now,
” Orazov said, grinning as he pulled the trigger.

The entire back of Zarazi's head splattered on the door to Orazov's office, and the nearly headless corpse of the Taliban chief dropped to the ground like a puppet whose strings had suddenly been cut.

That job done, there was only one mission left to accomplish before getting the hell out of here and making contact with the Russians: eliminate Jalaluddin Turabi and his men. Until Zarazi's body was found, Orazov had plenty of authority to organize an attack mission. Once Zarazi was found dead, these quasi-Neanderthal Taliban fighters would search every square centimeter of the desert for him. But for now they would obey him, even to the point of executing an assault on their own patrol camp. Orazov had fooled Wakil Zarazi well enough that he was able to get almost as much authority as Turabi himself.

Finally, Jalaluddin Turabi was going to die.

That same time

“Kazoo, Devil flight up, base plus zero,” the lead F/A-18 Hornet pilot reported to the E-2C Hawkeye radar aircraft. The pair of Hornets from VMFA-232 “Red Devils,” Marine Air Group Twenty-four, Kaneohe Bay, Hawaii, had been on a predeployment workup at Fallon NAS in Nevada when they were given a great opportunity: chase some Air Force bombers around the training ranges. That was a deal no American fighter pilot would ever pass up.

“Roger, Devil flight,” the air-control officer aboard the Hawkeye replied. At the same time he was electronically passing the latest target information to both Hornets' strike computers—the Hornets were still running radar-silent. One fast-moving target was to the southwest at about fifty miles, very low—less than a thousand feet above the high desert, trying to sneak past the Hornets by flying in fast between and parallel to the steep, rocky ridges that crisscrossed the Fallon ranges. By selecting the bogey with his target cursor, the lead Hornet pilot acknowledged the datalink and the vectors being received in the Hornets' Data Display Indicators. The two Hornets remained in combat-spread formation, wingtip to wingtip, separated by about a mile so they could watch each other's six.

It was definitely an unfair fight, especially with a Hawkeye in the mix, the Hornet pilots thought—the Air Force pukes didn't have a chance.

At the right moment the lead Hornet pilot pushed his nose over to accelerate, waited until the range to the target decreased to about thirty miles, then flicked on his APG-73 attack radar. Immediately afterward the pilot got the last datalinked target-deconfliction message: That's your bandit, cleared in hot. At the same time the pilot selected his AIM-120 AMRAAM radar-guided air-to-air missiles—making certain that the weapons themselves were safe—and watched as the fire-control system presented his missile-engagement envelopes and attack-solution vectors.

The target started a turn to the north—obviously his threat-warning receivers had picked up the Hornet's radar impulses and the crew had finally reacted. The turn was not very sharp. The bomber decreased altitude, now flying about four hundred feet off the deck. No doubt they're using terrain-following radar, the Hornet pilot surmised, but having all that granite right in front of their faces must still create big-time pucker factor. The bomber reversed direction—again it was a good healthy turn, but not a very aggressive one. Now the surrounding terrain made it difficult for the APG-73 to stay locked on, but after lining up again on the bandit and dialing in a little antenna-scan correction, the radar quickly reacquired, the target-indicator box locked on again, and an in range indication appeared on the heads-up display.

One last correction, just a slight one using a little rudder, and the flashing shoot indication appeared. Gotcha, fat boy, the Hornet pilot breathed. He checked one more time to be sure his master arm switch was safe—didn't want to fire the real thing at the good guys—then placed his finger on the pistol trigger. “Devil Zero-one, Fox—”

“Bandit! Bandit! Pop-up target, one o'clock, four miles!” the air-intercept officer on the Hawkeye radar plane shouted on the frequency. Another aircraft had appeared out of nowhere and was right in front of him.

“Devil Zero-two engaging! Hard left break and dive, Woolly!” the pilot of the second Hornet called out. The leader had absolutely no choice. Before he could pull the trigger, he was forced to break off the attack. As he turned, he hoped the newcomer would follow him, which should put him right in his wingman's gun sights. Where in hell did he come from?

But instead of turning hard right to pursue the leader, the bandit switched tactics—it rolled left, waited a few seconds, then turned right in a spectacular high-G climbing, twisting maneuver that placed the second Hornet right off his nose. There was no radio transmission. There didn't need to be. He could see a tiny dark shape off his right wingtip, low, with a bright blinking strobe light on it—the newcomer “shooting” at him. He was in front of the guy for only less than two seconds, but in the dogfighting game that was an eternity.

“Devil leader, Devil Zero-two got waxed,” he radioed.

“No shit?” the leader replied incredulously. “What is it? The Air Farts didn't say anything about fighter escorts.”

The second Hornet pilot tried to get a visual ID, but he couldn't see it. “It must be small as hell. I can't get a visual on it. I'm proceeding to the high CAP.”

“Rog. Kazoo, bogey dope.”

“Your bandit is at your two o'clock, twenty-two miles, low,” the air-intercept officer reported. “Your tail is clear. Negative radar on any other bogeys.”

The rest of the intercept was a piece of cake. Another lock-on, and this time he couldn't miss. The bomber made a few more steep turns during the attack, but again nothing overly aggressive. Maybe a student crew?

Both sides went back to opposite sides of the range and tried the engagement again, this time with the second F/A-18 Hornet in the lead. The strange little bandit didn't make another appearance, and the second Hornet claimed a kill just a few minutes later.

“Hey, Bobcat,” the lead Hornet pilot radioed after the exercise concluded, “how about a photo op?”

“Sure,” the bomber pilot replied. “You're cleared in to close formation.” The Hawkeye air intercept officer gave the pilots a vector, and the two Hornets joined up on their quarry. It was an Air Force B-1 bomber, long and sleek, with its wings almost completely swept back along its fuselage.

“We're going to tuck in tight and get some close shots, Bobcat.”

“Stand by,” the pilot said. “We've got our little friend rejoining us. He's directly below us.”

“Say again?” But moments later they could see what he was talking about: A tiny aircraft, resembling a fat surfboard, suddenly appeared out of nowhere. It rose until it was directly underneath the bomber. The bomber's bomb-bay doors opened, and a long basket thing appeared. The little aircraft scooted up inside the basket, which closed around it, and moments later it was gone—snatched up into the bomb bay. “That was
very
cool!” the lead Hornet pilot exclaimed. “Was that the thing that tagged my wingman?”

“Affirmative.”

“Shit, I was shot down by a robot,” the wingman said disgustedly. “That's gonna cost me big time at the bar.”

“Stop by the Owl Club in Battle Mountain Friday nights at nine, and the first round's on the Bobcats,” the pilot said. “Okay, Devils, you're cleared in.”

“Devil flight moving in.”

As surprised as the Marine Corps pilots were about seeing a drone being recovered by a B-1 bomber, that was nothing compared to their next discovery. The Hornets moved in close enough to get a picture of the bomber's pilots looking back at them . . .

Until they realized
there were no pilots visible in the bomber's cockpit!
“Uhhh . . . Bobcat, can you guys maybe move forward a little?”

“Move forward?”

“Yeah . . . so we can see your faces out the windscreen?”

“Sorry, Devils, but you're not going to see any faces through our windscreen,” the voice responded, “because there is no one inside the cockpit.”

“You're shitting me!” the Hornet pilot exclaimed. He inched closer. It was no lie—there was no one sitting in either pilot's seat. “Where's the damned crew?”

“Back at Battle Mountain,” the voice replied. “You've been playing with two unmanned jets the whole time.”

“You're flying a B-1 bomber—
from the ground?
”

“Yep. And I was just about to turn it over to my mission commander, go outside, and take a piss,” the voice said. “Have a nice day.”

What else they didn't know was, had this been an actual engagement, neither of the Marine Corps F/A-18 Hornets would ever have gotten a shot off at the B-1 bomber, because, orbiting in an adjacent range over 150 miles away, an AL-52 Dragon airborne-laser aircraft had been “shooting” at both F/A-18 Hornets during their simulated missile attacks.

Captain William “Wonka” Weathers, the wing munitions chief, sat in the jump seat between the aircraft commander and mission commander in the cockpit of the AL-52, watching in utter fascination. The mission commander, Major Frankie “Zipper” Tarantino, had locked up each Hornet at least a dozen times with the Dragon's adaptive-optics telescope that magnified the visual image in incredible detail. Tarantino was able to precisely place the crosshairs on any part of the Hornet, no matter how hard it maneuvered.

“What do you think, Wonka?” asked Colonel Nancy Cheshire, the Fifty-second Squadron's commander and the aircraft commander on today's mission.

“It's unbelievable,” Weathers said. “Simply unbelievable. And how many times can you fire the laser?”

“About two hundred times,” Tarantino said proudly, “depending on the targets we attack. Shooting through the atmosphere or hitting hard targets like tanks requires more power, which requires more fuel, which decreases the number of shots we can take. Check this out.” He punched in commands, and the image on his supercockpit display changed. Now he was locked on to a pickup truck speeding across the desert. “I found this guy a few minutes ago, off-roading in the restricted Fallon bombing range. With a press of a button, I can update his position to the Navy military police who are out after him.” He indicated another software button on his supercockpit display. “And if I pressed
that,
he'd be a smoking hole in the desert, even at this range. We can even punch a hole in a tank, but we'd have to be pretty close—maybe thirty or forty miles.”