Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02 (35 page)

 
          
Speed
and stealth meant survival more than fancy flying or superior weaponry. The
first time he had decided to steal DreamStar he’d imagined himself taking on
the air might of the whole southeastern United States, flying rings around the
best fighters and the best pilots in the world, winning out over a billion
dollars’ worth of hardware. Well, it wasn’t going to happen that way. He was
going to sneak out, hiding behind every shadow, measuring every quart of fuel.

 
          
Whatever
it took . . .

 
          
For
the first time he really allowed his body to relax. He had stolen DreamStar
right out from under the noses of the people who wanted to give up on his baby.
And now he even dared to think that he might actually make it all the way.

           
He was allowed that heady thought
for precisely forty seconds. From out of nowhere, a green triangle of energy
appeared in front of him. There was no time to evade. The green triangle
enveloped him, and instantly turned to yellow . . .

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
This
thing was truly amazing, Major Edward Frost, the radar navigator aboard the
B-52 Megafortress Plus, marveled. A goddamned B-52 bomber with more gadgets and
modes and functions and bells and whistles than L.A. Air Traffic Control.

 
          
Frost
was studying a fourteen-inch by ten-inch rectangular video display terminal set
on one-hundred-mile range. A circle cursor, automatically laid on a radar return
that matched the preprogrammed parameters set by Frost, was tracking a
high-altitude, high-speed target dead ahead. You told the system what you
wanted to find and it did the searching. It was a hell of a lot different from
only a few years ago when radar navs on B-52 bombers concentrated on terrain
and cultural returns—mountains, buildings, towns. This B-52 was different.

 
          
Major
Frost hit the mike button near his right foot. “Pilot, radar. Radar contact
aircraft, one o’clock, eighty-five miles.” He punched a function key on his
keyboard. “Altitude six thousand five hundred, airspeed . . . hey, he’s moving
out. Airspeed one thousand one hundred knots.”

 
          
He
hit another function key, and the display changed to a maze of arcs, lines,
grids. The computer had presented a series of options for approaching the
target.

 
          
Frost
shook his head. Here I am, sitting in a B-52 bomber planning to
attack
a high-speed fighter!

 
          
“Turn
right heading zero-five two to IR intercept in six-two nautical miles.
Automatic intercept is available.” Then to Angelina Pereira: “I’m aligned for
guidance-mode transfer at any time—”

 
          
“Belay
that,” General John Ormack said over interphone. “Weapons stay on safe—that’s
our
damned plane out there, Frost.”

 
          
“Sorry,
got carried away.”

 
          
“Auto-intercept
coming on, crew.” Ormack connected the digital autopilot to the intercept
computer and monitored the Old Dog’s turn, pushing the throttles up to ninety
five percent power to keep the angle of attack low. The autopilot made several
small corrections farther to the right as the distance between the two aircraft
rapidly decreased.

 
          
“Exactly
what are we trying to accomplish here, General?” George Wendelstat, the safety
observer asked. Wendelstat was firmly strapped into the instructor-pilot’s seat,
wearing a backpack-style parachute on his beefy shoulders. His face was cherry
red and he was sweating in spite of the B-52’s cool interior temperature. “Do
you mean to
attack
that aircraft?”
“What I mean to do is everything I possibly can to turn that aircraft back,”
Ormack said. “If I can’t get him to turn around I mean to delay him long enough
for help to arrive.”

 
          
“But
this is suicide,” Wendelstat protested. “A B-52 against this DreamStar? That’s
a fighter plane, isn’t it?”

 
          
“It’s
also a stolen aircraft from my research center,” Ormack said. “I’m not going to
let this guy go without trying to do something—”

 
          
“Including
getting us all killed?”

 
          
“I
know the limits of this crew and aircraft,” Ormack said. “We have the
capability to engage DreamStar and hopefully detain him long enough for help to
arrive. I won’t go beyond the limits of my responsibility or common sense—”

 
          
“You
already
have.
He can launch a missile
against us at any second—”

 
          
“Seventy
miles and closing fast, General.”

 
          
“Wendelstat,
sit back and shut up,” Colonel Jeff Khan, the copilot, broke in. “The general
knows what he’s doing.” Ormack reached up to the overhead communications
console and switched his command radio to channel eleven.
“CATTLECAR,
this is Dog Zero Two. We have the hostile at our twelve
o’clock, seventy miles. Closing on an intercept course. Requesting instructions
from HAWC Alpha as soon as possible.”

 
          
“Break.
Zero Two, this is HAWC Alpha. You can’t do anything up there, John. We’re
vectoring in the F-i6s now. Get out of the area as fast as you can. Over.”

 
          
“I’ve
got a lock-on and I’m turning for an I.D. intercept, Alpha,” Ormack answered
back. “I can turn it into a radar pass at any time. Just say the word.”

 
          
“Sixty
miles.”

 
          
“He’s
got two Scorpion missiles, John,” Elliott said. “Repeat—he’s armed with two
live Scorpions. You won’t have a chance. Disengage and leave the area—”

 
          
“I’ve
got two Scorpions too, General.
Plus I’ve got jammers that can counter the Scorpion’s active radar. He
doesn’t.”

           
“He can fly circles around your
Scorpions—”

           
Ormack interrupted again. “I can
engage him, maybe force him to turn back, maybe knock the sonofabitch down. Or
I can let him fly our plane to Central America or wherever the hell he’s going.
Which is it going to be?”

 
          
No
immediate reply. Ormack nodded—he’d gotten his answer. “Radar, change to
Scorpion-attack profile. Crew, prepare to engage hostile air target.”

 
          
Frost
had his finger on the function key and hit it even before Ormack finished
giving the order. Immediately the Old Dog heeled over into forty degrees of
bank, then abruptly rolled out. It was now aiming for a spot several miles
along DreamStar’s flight path, projecting out to intersect the fighter’s path
at the AIM-i2oC’s optimum flight range. Ormack pushed his throttles up to full
power, then reached over to his left-side panel and flipped a gang-barred
four-way switch. “Guns, you have Scorpion missile launch consent.” “Confirmed,”
Angelina Pereira replied. “Left pylon on automatic launch, missile counting
down . . . twenty seconds to launch.”

 
          
On
the UHF radio Ormack said,
“CATTLECAR,
this
is Dog Zero Two. Clear airspace for red fox engagement. Be advised, red buzzer
activity on all frequencies. Dog Zero Two out.” On interphone Ormack said,
“Defense, clear for electronic countermeasures. Crew, prepare for air combat
engagement.”

           
“Fifteen seconds ...”

           
Suddenly a metallic,
computer-modified voice cut in on the frequency: “Dog Zero Two, disengage. I’m
warning you.” Khan looked puzzled. “Who the hell was . . . ?”

           
“ANTARES. The master computer on
DreamStar.” Ormack flipped to the channel. “This is Dog Zero Two. Who’s this?”

           
“This is Colonel Andrei
Ivanschichin Maraklov, General Ormack.” Maraklov thought before continuing: should
he give his American name? But he was never going to return to America—the KGB
or the CIA would see to that—and they would find out anyway. “You know me as
Captain Kenneth Francis James,
sir.
”

           
Ormack swore through his oxygen
mask. “God
damn
—Ken James stole
DreamStar.” He switched his command radio to channel eleven. “Alpha, monitor
GUARD
channel. Urgent.” He
then quickly switched his radio to the
universal emergency frequency, guard.

           
“James—Ken—Mara ... whatever the
hell it is ...
land that plane immediately.
I have orders to attack.” On interphone he told Angelina Pereira to get ready
to cancel the auto attack. “Yes, sir . . . ten seconds.”

           
“Turn off your attack radar
immediately, General Ormack,” the computerized voice of Maraklov on the
emergency channel said, “or I will have no choice but to defend myself.”

           
“Damn it, James, you’re about ten
seconds from getting your ass blown out of the sky. Decrease speed and lower
your landing gear or I’ll engage.”

           
No reply.

           
“Five seconds . . . four . . . three
...”

           
“Any change in his airspeed or
heading?”

           
“Negative,” from Frost. “Still goin’
full blast . . .”

           
“Launch commit,” Angelina said.

           
There was a muffled screech of
rocket exhaust from the left wing, as the first Scorpion missile raced out of
its streamlined cannister. It ran on course toward its quarry. Unlike previous
air-to-air missiles, the C-version of the Scorpion did not glide or cruise to
its target; even though it was still considered a medium-range missile it
stayed powered throughout its flight.

 
          
“Uplink
tracking . . . missile now tracking . . . dead on course ...”

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
The
bands of yellow, signifying the B-52’s tracking radar illuminating his
aircraft, suddenly changed to red. Maraklov caught a chill. This was
real
, Ormack wasn’t bluffing. This Dog
Zero Two had live missiles on board, and he was under attack.
By a B-52 bomber
. . .

 
          
He
activated his attack radar. The radar image of the B-52, still over fifty miles
away, seemed the size of a flying mountain. His radar wasn’t picking it up but
he knew the missile was only seconds from impact. His reactions were executed
at the speed of thought . . .

 
          
He
turned right toward the B-52, exposing only the minimum radar cross-section of
his aircraft possible. He then began a series of high-speed reversals using the
canards in their high- maneuverability mode, not rolling into each turn but
sidestepping, darting back and forth, keeping only DreamStar’s

 
          
front
cross-section aimed toward the B-52. The B-52 would be carrying AIM-120C, same
as DreamStar. The AIM-120 was a fabulous weapon, with big fins to steer it
toward its target. But its developers ten years earlier had never envisaged an
aircraft that could move
sideways
like DreamStar.

 
          
Maraklov
continued to shoot back and forth for another two seconds, completing two full
horizontal S-slides, making each dodge wider than the other, using his
high-maneuverability canards to keep DreamStar’s nose pointed at where he
thought the missile would be. It was a gamble. With each turn, he hoped, the
Scorpion missile would have to make bigger and bigger turns to maintain
lock-on. As DreamStar’s side-steps got bigger, the missile’s turn rates had to
increase even faster to keep up—not fast enough, he hoped, for the missile to
track its target at close range.

 
          
He
was at the top of a right ninety-degree bank and about to execute another hard
left break when he heard and felt a sharp
bang
to his left. He had been very lucky this time. Forced farther and farther out
of phase, the missile was opposite his canopy when its proximity warhead
detected it was within lethal range. Maraklov waited for the concussion and
flak to hit, but nothing happened and all systems reported with a good status
check when queried by an instantaneous mental command. Then Maraklov realized
the Megafortress must have been on a test flight and so would not have live
warheads in its missiles. Which diminished but hardly eliminated their threat.