Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 10 (3 page)

           
This
was not looking good, Patrick noted immediately. “Warning,” the female-voiced
threat computer reported, “MiG-29
nine
o'clock
five-zero miles, flight level three-
three-zero, acquisition mode. Warning, trackbreakers are in standby”

           
“Either this guy is very lucky, or
very good,” Patrick said. “The leader is coming right in on us. Something’s not
right.” He hit the voice command stud: “System status.”

 
          
“All monitored systems are functioning
normally,” the computer said after a slight pause. Then: “Warning, MiG- 29 at
nine o'clock
,
forty miles, tracking”

           
“Oh, shit,” Patrick said.
‘Trackbreakers coming on.” But it was then that he found the problem: “The ECM
system faulted—it shut itself down completely.” Patrick powered it back up.

 
          
“Warning, towed array not in coordinated
flight,” the computer reported.

           
“That’s what happened,” Patrick
said. “When we made the turn, it must’ve knocked the array out of whack and
faulted the system. It’s been back there spinning away like a great big
pinwheel. I’m cutting it loose.” But that didn’t work. “The array won’t
jettison. It’s totally faulted. I’m going to try an ECM system reset. LADAR
coming on. It’ll be the only threat warning we have now.”

 
          
“Warning, MiG-29 at
seven o'clock
,
thirty miles...” But moments later, they heard, “Warning, missile launch
detected on radar,
nine
o'clock
, twenty-six miles. Time to intercept, fifty
seconds”

           
“Break
left!”
Patrick shouted. Franken shoved the throttles to full military power
and yanked the control stick full left, rolling the AL-52 up on its left wing
in a tight ninety- degree bank turn—they had to risk flying into their own
cable to try to defeat the incoming radar-guided missile. At full bank, he
started to apply back pressure to tighten the turn even more, presenting the
smallest possible radar cross-section on the MiG-29’s radar. He let up on the
back pressure when the computer issued a stall warning and started to pull the
control stick forward. Meanwhile, Patrick was frantically trying every
countermeasures switch he could. “ECM is completely dead—chaff, flares,
jammers, everything.”

           
Out the cockpit window, the sight
was horrifying. They could clearly see a trail of fire arcing across the
sky—the Libyan radar-guided missile, heading right for them. There was no time
to turn, no time to try anything, no time to even speak. . ..

 
          
The
missile dove right at them—then passed just behind them, making a direct hit on
the spinning array, missing them by less than three hundred feet. To the two
men in the cockpit of the AL-52, it looked as if the missile had been aiming
right at the middle of their foreheads.

 
          
“Lost.
.. lost contact with the towed array,” Patrick said, gasping for breath—he
thought he had bought the farm that time. “The missile hit it dead-on.”

 
          
“Well,
that’s one way to cut the array loose,” Franken said.

 
          
Patrick
switched his supercockpit display to the tactical view. “These suckers aren’t
going to get a chance to get another shot off at us,” he said.

 
          
“Are
you going to try to hit the missiles as they come off the rails?”

 
          
“I’m
not going to let them get off the rails,” Patrick said. To the attack computer,
he said, “Commit Dragon.”

 
          
“No TBM targets,”
the computer
responded.

 
          
Patrick
touched the MiG-29 icon on the supercockpit display and spoke, “Attack target.”

 
          
“Stinger airmines out of range,”
the
computer responded. The AL-52 Dragon kept the built-in defensive weapons of the
EB-52 Megafortress, including the Stinger airmines—small guided missiles fired
from a cannon in the tail that created clouds of shrapnel in the path of enemy
fighters tail-chasing the bomber. But the airmines could only attack targets
within two miles of the bomber in the rear quadrant.

 
          
“Designate
airborne target as TBM target,” Patrick commanded. “Commit Dragon.”

 
          
“Stand by,”
the computer responded. It
was something never attempted—shooting down an aircraft with the airborne
laser. Patrick didn’t even know if the programming existed for the attack
computer to take a non-TBM, or tactical ballistic missile, target and process a
laser attack against it. But he received his answer moments later: The
supercockpit display was suddenly filled with the image of the southernmost
MiG-29. The laser radar had locked onto the rear one-third of the aircraft, the
same spot that it would normally lock onto a missile.
“Caution, target velocity data not within limits ”

 
          
Patrick
remembered that the laser attack computer was programmed to lock onto only
fast-moving targets, like ballistic missiles—the MiG was flying much more
slowly than a rocket. “Override velocity data.”

 
          
There
was another long, nervous pause; then:
“Caution,
target velocity parameters overridden. Laser ready”
Patrick zoomed the image
in until he was looking directly into the cockpit of the Libyan MiG; then he
used his trackball and moved the crosshairs to the left side of the fighter,
right on the nose of the largest missile he came across—he remembered that
MiG-29s usually fired missiles off the right side first. He could see it
clearly: a huge R-27 radar-guided on the number-three hardpoint. “Lock onto
target and attack laser,” he commanded.

 
          
“Warning, laser attack, stop attack,”
the computer said. The Megafortress’s antiaircraft attack logic had taken over
for the Dragon’s anti-ballistic missile attack logic and successfully started
treating the chlorine-oxygen-iodine laser as another air-launched weapon.
Seconds later, the computer reported,
“Laserfiring”

 
          
The
results were spectacular. Less than three seconds after the “laser firing”
warning, the R-27 missile on the MiG- 29’s hardpoint exploded in a blinding
flash of light. The entire left wing of the lead MiG sheared off in the
explosion. Patrick expanded the optronic view on the supercockpit display just
in time to watch the Libyan pilot eject from his stricken fighter. The laser
radar display showed the second MiG peel off sharply to the north.

 
          
“We
got it!” Patrick crowed. He quickly locked up the second MiG-29. The supercockpit
display now showed the diode laser locked onto the center top fuselage section
of the second MiG. “Attack target laser,” he commanded.

           
“Attack
target laser, stop attack”
the computer warned. The second shot took
several seconds longer, but soon Patrick could see a stream of smoke trailing
from the MiG’s fuselage—and then suddenly the fuselage seemed to disintegrate
from the inside, with ribbons of flames trailing from several cracks and tears
in the upper-fuselage fuel tanks right above the number-one engine. The MiG-29
was into its second flat spin, its left engine burning hotly, before the pilot
ejected.

 
          
“Wow,
that was very cool,” Franken exclaimed. “A laser powerful enough to shoot down
a MiG-29 fighter. Very cool.”

 
          
“Let’s
try the last part of the test,” Patrick said. He quickly entered commands into
the attack computer. It had stored information on the launch point of the SA-10
missile they had shot down, computed from tracking information by the laser
radar arrays. Patrick slaved the laser telescope to die launch point
coordinates, starting with a wide image. There, on the multifunction
supercockpit display, he saw the entire SA-10 “Grumble” surface-to-air missile
battery—the mobile engagement radar, the command post and low-altitude radar vehicle,
a reload vehicle, and the four-round transporter- erector-launcher vehicle. Two
rounds had obviously been fired from that vehicle. Patrick focused the
telescope until the crosshairs were centered on one of the still-loaded launch
tubes. The image was not as clear as the others were—the image was out of focus
and wavered. Obviously it was harder for the adaptive optics to focus the image
while shooting down through the atmosphere than it was to shoot across or up.

 
          
“C’mon,
baby, let’s see what you can do,” Patrick said. He hit his voice command
button: “Attack target,” he ordered.

 
          
“Attack command received, stop attack ” the
computer responded.

           
“Commit Dragon.”

 
          
“Laser commit. . . laser engaging.”

 
 
         
But the results were not quite as
pleasing this time. The crosshairs were dead on the target, and the diode laser
was firing at full power, but the target remained. Patrick left it on for a
full ten seconds before terminating. “Didn’t blow the launch tube. Not enough
power to shoot down through the atmosphere at this range.”

 
          
“Please
don’t suggest we get any closer.”

 
          
“Don’t
worry—I think we’re close enough. But we’ve got to figure out a way to pump
more power into the system.”

 
          
“You’re
disappointed because your big laser couldn’t slice, dice, and julienne every
target? Too bad, sir,” Franken joked. “Can we terminate the test and go home
now before they empty those last two missiles on us?”

           
“You got it, AC. Test terminated,”
Patrick said after a sigh of relief. He quickly punched up the initial point of
the air refueling anchor into the navigation computer, then replotted the
flight path to take them well clear of Libyan airspace. “Center up and let’s go
home.”

 
          
AL-AZHAR
MOSQUE,
CAIRO
,
EGYPT
 
THAT SAME TIME

           
Al-Azhar Mosque and University was
the oldest university in the world, a solemn and beautiful place in the Islamic
section of
Cairo
. Muslim students from all over the world
came here to study the Quran and listen to the world’s most noted authorities
on Islam. All Egyptian clerics had to study here, some as long as fifteen
years, in the traditional Socratic method—a tutor and his pupils, asking and
answering questions until both were satisfied that it was time to progress to
the next lesson.

 
          
The
three-acre compound was a mixture of early Islamic, Mamluk, and Turkish
architecture, representing the dynamic history of the place. Al-Azhar was also
the focal point of international celebrations of the birth of the Prophet
Muhammad in late June. Islamic scholars and leaders from all over the world
assembled here to an all-night
mulid,
or prayer festival, to tell stories, make speeches, teach, and pray.

           
The guests were assembled in the
Madrasa and Tomb of Amir Atbugha, a grand hall inside the Gates of the Barbers
that housed the university’s collection of ancient manuscripts. Guest were
served
shai
and
ahwa
—no alcohol at all, not even for foreigners—and a luscious
assortment of
mezze
appetizers while
they talked of politics, religion, and Muslim life, viewed the rare
manuscripts, and waited for the festivities to begin.

 
          
The
chief of the general staff of the United Kingdom of Libya, General Tahir
Fazani, had waited a discreet distance apart from the heads of state. This was
a time of worship and reflection, not state business, so he would not be permitted
to address his president first. Fazani simply choked down his impatience,
stayed in the shadows, appeared as if he was praying or simply observing a
moment of silence, and waited for his president to come to him. Fazani came
from a long line of career military officers, but he had spent most of the last
twenty years in Russia, Syria, and China studying military technology and modem
warfighting—and staying out of the grasp of the previous Libyan dictator,
Colonel Muammar Qadhafi. He was an expert political survivor—he knew when to
make his voice heard and when to blend into the shadows, like now.