The Backup Asset (13 page)

Zane Pemberton was always first on the flight deck, and always mad at his wingman, who made a habit of being late. Not by a whole lot, not enough to get them in trouble with the commander. Just by a minute or two, enough to fuel Zane’s irritation and get them both a preflight jogging session to avoid getting canned.

Zane paced the empty briefing room, watching the antiquated wall clock’s hand move, second after second. Voodoo was pushing it this time, that reckless asshole. Zane had left his helmet— printed with his call sign, Zombie, in gold lettering over colorful flames—on a table nearby, so he could repeatedly slam his right fist into his open left palm.

“He’s doing it again?” the controller asked with mischievous eyes barely showing from behind one of the largest cups of coffee known to man.

“Yup,” Zombie replied grumpily.

“What is it this time? His zipper won’t close, or something? Did he get stuck with his dick hanging out?”

Zombie chuckled. “Nah . . . just a combat dump taking too long, I guess.”

Just as Voodoo trotted in, making more noise than an elephant and not even bothering to apologize, the speakers above their heads crackled and came alive.

“Scramble! Scramble! Cub One, Cub Two, cleared for takeoff. Cub Three, Cub Four, line up on the ready. Incoming bogeys approaching ADIZ, no transponder, possible hostile, not a drill. Vector 115, inbound from Russian mainland. NORAD tracking. Move to intercept. Scramble! Scramble!”

“Ahh . . . fuck it!” Zombie snapped. “This time we’ll get busted. We should acknowledge from the fucking cockpit, engines roaring.”

“Then what are you waiting for?” Voodoo asked, already ahead of Zombie, trotting hastily on the flight deck toward his plane.

Before running out to catch up with him, Zombie caught a glimpse of the controller laughing out loud.

“Glad to provide entertainment,” Zombie muttered, running as fast as he could toward his Raptor, his suit and helmet clattering like a truckload of loosely packaged household items.

Zombie climbed up, hopped in the Raptor, and connected his helmet just in time to hear Voodoo’s communication with Control, calm, professional, not even panting.

“Grizzly One, this is Cub Two, ready for takeoff.”

“Grizzly, this is Cub One, ready for takeoff,” Zombie added, painfully aware his voice gave him up. He was still panting from the run, and very annoyed with being late again, compliments of Voodoo.

Zombie needed method in his day; he was calculated and rigorous in nature and liked well-planned, well-executed things. Voodoo was a risk taker, always cutting it close, always one step behind in planning, but two steps ahead when results were measured, driving Zombie crazy. Zombie did everything by the book and always ended up second. His wingman, on the other hand, had adrenaline instead of blood coursing through his veins, and everything he touched, everything he did, ended up on the fucking merit board. Well, annoying or not, Voodoo was his wingman, and that meant something, including that Zombie would never leave Voodoo behind—not in the briefing room, on the flight deck, or in the air.

They took off in tight formation, throttle to the max. Zombie enjoyed the soaring of the F22 Raptor’s takeoff maneuver more than any other part of flying those jets. It made him feel all-powerful and unstoppable and fueled his spirit every time.

“Grizzly One, we’re airborne,” Zombie called in. “Moving to intercept bogey. I have bogey on radar, vector 265 to intercept.”

“Cub One, Cub Two, this is Grizzly. Unidentified aircraft unresponsive. Attempt redirect.”

“Grizzly, Cub Two. I have four bogeys onscreen, repeat four bogeys.”

“Grizzly, Cub One. Confirm four bogeys.”

“Cub Three, Cub Four, cleared for takeoff. Move to intercept bogeys.”

“Excellent, that’s more like it,” Zombie added. “I love a fair fight.”

“Zombie, Voodoo, put eyes on that bogey and confirm, stat!” The commander’s voice thundered in his helmet.

“Yes, sir!”

“I have bogey at 500 miles and closing fast. I have the sun in my eyes; the bastards knew when to come calling.”

“Grizzly, Cub One. I have six bogeys on screen, six bogeys. This could be a major Charlie Foxtrot,” Zombie said, a little tension seeping in his voice. “Motherfuckers,” he muttered to himself.

“Copy that, Cub One. Ready, Cub Five, Six, and Seven aircraft. Ready tanker. Hang tight, help’s on the way.” Grizzly’s voice remained unperturbed; their commander had stones the size of tanks.

“Here they are, dead ahead,” Voodoo yelled.

“Where? Goddamned sun’s in my eyes!” Zombie blinked a few times, then said, “I see them! I see them! I’ll break left, go check them out.”

He turned and slowed a little, preparing to observe the incoming aircraft.

“I see two Backfires, and two Fulcrums,” Zombie said, identifying the aircraft by NATO’s designated reporting names.
Backfire
stood for the Russian Tupolev TU-22M supersonic, variable-sweep wing, strategic long-range bomber, and missile platform, able to fly almost 4,000 miles without refueling. The Backfires were capable of launching long-range nuclear missiles that could reach San Francisco from right where they were.
Fulcrum
stood for the dreaded, highly maneuverable MiG 29. The MiG could fly Mach 2.25, but had a very limited range.

“Two more bogeys farther out,” Zombie added, “I’m guessing refuelers. Driving by to put eyes on them,” he said, pushing ahead.

A few seconds later, he had eyes on the tankers and was able to confirm.

“I have two Candids here, two Candids,” he said, then started maneuvering to return near Voodoo.

Candid
was NATO’s designated reporting name for Ilyushin-Il76 strategic airlifter and airborne refueling tanker. The Candid could also serve as an airborne command center.

A familiar alert started beeping.

“I have missile lock on me,” Zombie said, “Grizzly One, advise!”

He checked the radar, then turned to look behind him and saw one of the MiGs approaching fast, while the alarm continued to make the beeping sound that all pilots dreaded the most. He felt sweat beads form on his forehead and at the roots of his hair.

“Cub One, do not engage unless fired on. Acknowledge!”

“Acknowledged,” Zombie said. It was standard protocol. Rules of engagement stipulated that under no circumstances was an American pilot allowed to open fire, if not fired on first.

He understood the value of the rule; it was meant to avoid starting a war. But it also meant he could become the first victim in that future war, even if his country wasn’t the one that started it.

Sweat pooled and formed a drop that started rolling down his nose. He took his oxygen mask off and wiped it with a quick swipe of his sleeve. “Damn, if I’m gonna die here today,” he muttered.

Every time he got up in the air, he knew he was risking his life. Yet situations like these were prone to end in disaster. Nerves taut and decisions made in split seconds as they flew through the air at Mach 2 were bound to cause disaster at some point. He just hoped it wasn’t going to be today.

He started evasive maneuvers, and Voodoo caught up with him shortly.

“Eagle, Lance, how far behind are you?” Voodoo asked.

“Under two minutes,” Lance answered. “Hang in there, guys.”

“In two minutes World War III could be over,” Zombie commented.

The beeping persisted, and the second MiG was on their tail, as they swerved and turned through the air, trying to keep their distance from the relentless MiGs.

“They’ve got missile lock on me,” Voodoo said. “Readying ECM.”

“Where the hell are those Backfires?” Zombie asked. “Breaking left and low to follow the Backfires.”

He turned abruptly, the MiG on his tail. Voodoo came right after him, with his own MiG in tow.

“The bastards are keeping us busy here, while their Backfires have other plans. They’re under sixty seconds from being within missile range distance from Seattle.”

“Cub One, Cub Two, keep your eyes on those Backfires. Cub Three and Four, how much longer?”

“Sixty seconds,” Eagle said.

“I wanna lock a missile on a MiG, partner,” Zombie said.

“Godspeed,” Voodoo replied. “But they’re behind us, and we’re targeted.”

“Watch this and learn,” Zombie added cryptically.

He suddenly and abruptly reduced his air speed and pulled up at the same time, executing the flying equivalent of slamming on the brakes, lifting his Raptor in the air like a cobra. The MiG flew right under him continuing its original flight path. Then Zombie dropped back to the same altitude with the MiG and cranked up his speed again, falling right on the MiG’s six. He locked guidance on the MiG and yelled, “Yeah, baby, and that’s the way it’s done!”

“Yeah! Tables are turning!” Voodoo cheered.

They had the Backfire bombers in their sights now, and Voodoo locked a missile on one of them, while continuing to fly an evasive pattern, listening to the obnoxious alarm noises from his missile lock warning system.

They were deep into the Alaskan ADIZ, the air defense identification zone, when unexpectedly the two bombers broke formation and separated their flight paths. One of them turned southeast, while the other remained on course, heading straight for the Aleutian Islands.

“Uh-oh,” Voodoo said.

“Grizzly, this is Cub One. Backfire One changing course, new vector 135 to San Francisco. Backfire Two staying the course, vector 115. Advise.”

“Split up and keep eyes on those bombers. Cubs Three and Four should reach you in fifteen seconds.”

They waved and gave each other a thumbs-up, then they split. With their attention refocused on the bombers, the MiGs took advantage and repositioned to reacquire and target them. They flew evasively while remaining near their assigned Backfires.

A few endless seconds later, Lance’s voice came to life in the speakers.

“Cub One, I have you in my sight.”

“Cub Two, I have eyes on you,” Eagle added.

“This is Grizzly. Thirty seconds more and you’ll have Five, Six, and Seven. Do not let those bombers proceed on their paths, do you copy?”

“Loud and clear, Grizzly,” Zombie said, his fingers tensing on the stick.

“Crystal,” Voodoo added.

Zombie pushed his throttle and flew above the bomber, then fell in front of it and turned around, getting in its path in a zigzag pattern. The MiG was still on his tail, his alarm was still beeping, but Lance had missile lock on the MiG, and he had his on the Backfire. As soon as the remaining three Cubs approached the area, the bomber turned widely, changing its vector to 310 degrees.

“Grizzly, Backfire One is bugging out.”

“Backfire Two is bugging out, new vector 355.”

“Bravo Zulu, all call signs. Clean up the area and come home.”

While Grizzly spoke, they could hear background cheering coming from the people in ground control operations.

“Copy that, Grizzly,” Zombie said, “taking the garbage out and then coming home for dinner.”

The doorbell made Quentin jump from his armchair, rubbing his palms together in excited anticipation. His free pizza was here.

He opened the door, took the box, and tipped the delivery boy generously. The boy smiled widely and left with a spring in his step.

He took the pizza box with both hands, almost subconsciously noticing it wasn’t as hot as he’d expected it to be. He set it on the table, grabbed a plate and a napkin, and turned on the TV. Then he lifted the lid to get a slice, but froze mid-gesture, speechless, his jaw dropped.

Several hundred-dollar bill packets, all used currency, lay neatly arranged in the pizza box. Judging by the label on one of the packets, there were eighty-thousand dollars in total. A disposable cell phone was in there too, and a folded sheet of paper, which Quentin grabbed with trembling hands.

It read, “If you wanted a change in your life, well, this is opportunity knocking. I’m offering you a way out of your desperate rat race. Call the number stored in this phone’s memory to talk.”

His knees felt weak and he sat down at the table, unable to take his eyes off the disposable phone. What did that mean—a way out of the rat race?

He knew he had to call . . . there was no other option. People don’t just send eighty grand and expect nothing in return. He played with the idea of calling the cops for a few seconds, then quickly discarded it.
That would really make me deserve my rat race, now, wouldn’t it?

With ice-cold, sweaty fingers, he grabbed the cell phone and retrieved the stored number. He stared at the displayed number for a few seconds, then took a deep breath and pressed the
Call
button.