Brown, Dale - Independent 02 (85 page)

 
          
The
computers didn’t remember which target was which anymore, but it wasn’t hard to
spot the intruder—he was heading south away from KEYSTONE at just over Mach
one. “Trap flight, this is Aladdin, vectors to your target, right turn heading
one-niner-zero, take two thousand feet. Altitude readout unavailable. His
airspeed is seven-niner-zero and accelerating, range twenty miles.”

 
          
Fields
was monitoring the chase over the
Straits of Florida
when another call came in over her command network: “Aladdin, this is
NAPALM. We have a situation. We’ve picked up two high-speed aircraft heading
north right toward us. We have one air defense F-16 on the way. We need some
help. What’s your situation?”

 
          
‘
Stand by, NAPALM,” Field replied over the net. “We’ve got two F-16s involved in
a pursuit. KEYSTONE is down.” If they got the Hammerhead Two platform, Fields
thought, it would be total disaster for the Hammerheads—there were over ninety
people on that platform. They hadn’t defended the other three major Border
Security Force aerostat units—she had to do everything she could to defend the
last one.

 
          
On
the fighter-interceptor’s frequency Fields said, “Trap Two flight, this is
Aladdin. We’ve received notice of another attack on the Hammerhead Two
platform. We anticipate another two-ship fighter attack. We’ve got Trap Four
responding solo. Can one of you assist?” The reply was immediate. “Affirmative,
Aladdin. Designate Trap Three heading north to assist. Trap Two will continue
the south intercept. Over.”

 
          
“Copy
that, Trap Two. Trap Three, fly heading three-three-eight, range one hundred
ten miles, vectors to intercept. Take angels fifteen. Trap Two, your target is
at
twelve o’clock
,
eighteen miles. Call Judy.”

 
          
But
Trap Two, the former lead F-16, was still having trouble with his attack radar
readjusting after an anti-jamming frequency shift. “Trap Two is still popeye,”
he reported. “Should lock on any minute

 
          
“Dammitall,”
Fjelmann muttered to Fields, “he might lose this guy. We’re not sure of the
target’s altitude and he could go out of range of
Key West
approach radar in a few minutes.”

 
          
“Then
use
Miami
Center
’s radar and vector him in the best you can.
These F-16 guys can find him if he’s pointed in the right direction. Just keep
feeding him—”

 
          
At
that instant they heard, “Trap Two, Judy.
Twelve o’clock
, fifteen miles. He’s at two hundred feet
and Mach one point two. Full burners and balls to the wall.”

 
          
Aboard the F-16 Fighter-Interceptor Trap Two

 
          
The
moment he locked onto the target on radar he looked up and was able to see the
bright yellow spot low on the horizon—the attacker was indeed in full
afterburner, heading south as fast as his jet could carry him, staying low to
the water in the hope that the radar- clutter from the sea would decoy a
radar-guided missile. But using afterburner made it easy to spot the guy, and
it was an invitation to destruction with a weapon like the Sidewinder—which was
a good thing, because except for 500 rounds of twenty-millimeter ammunition the
only weapons he had left were two heat-seeking Sidewinders on his wingtips. He
had launched both AIM-7 Sparrow missiles on his first pass over Key Cudjoe and
missed.

 
          
The
range was slowly running down—now less than twelve miles. The AIM-9L had a max
range of ten miles, but it was very accurate inside eight miles and deadly from
one to six. He had to wait. He decided to jettison his two external fuel tanks,
which would give him an extra boost of speed when he tried for the kill. After
that it was head back to the barn as fast as possible—he was already extended
pretty far and the situation was worsening with every mile he continued
southbound. The chase better be over very soon . . .

 
          
The
missile lock-on diamond appeared at nine-and-a-half miles, and the “SHOOT”
designation appeared just inside nine miles. The F-16 pilot waited, waited,
waited until just inside eight miles before calling, “Trap Two, fox two,” and
launching a missile from his left wingtip. The smaller Sidewinder missile
didn’t rumble the air or blind the pilot like the hefty AIM-7F Sparrow missile
did after launch—a smooth, silken
whoosh,
a sudden glare and the missile was gone. It had accelerated to Mach two before
reaching one mile, and it was tracking dead on target.

 
          
The
missile’s motor winked out well before hitting the escaping fighter, so the
F-16 pilot never saw exactly what happened. But he did see the afterburner on
the enemy fighter extinguish, saw a quick flash of light, and nothing else. But
a quick check of the radar told him the bad news—the enemy fighter was still
flying. It was slowing, decelerating below the Mach very quickly, but it soon
stabilized at about six hundred knots and stayed at low altitude. The
Sidewinder had either missed or exploded too far away from the target to
produce a lethal result.

 
          
This
guy sure had nine lives, the F-16 pilot thought. He used his attack radar to
get behind his target again and waited a few more seconds before launching his
last missile. He was going to wait until six miles to attack again. If the last
Sidewinder didn’t work, he would have enough gas for one, maybe two gun passes
before he’d be forced to turn around and head for home.

 
          
Aboard the Mirage F1C Fighter-Bomber

 
          
The
Cuchillo pilot peered at his instrument panel, trying to shake away the
blurriness and dimness. His oxygen supply had been cut off and he had no choice
but to drop his face mask. He felt shards of glass in his arms and shoulders,
and he was moving the throttle with his shoulder more than his left hand
because all feeling had drained from his left side. Even though the air outside
was pleasant and warm, the pilot shivered.

 
          
Just
before the Sidewinder missile exploded, the Cuchillo pilot had performed a
clearing turn—a sharp high-banked turn in both directions so the pilot could
see behind him for signs of pursuit—and it was the last-moment maneuver that
saved his life. The heat-seeking missile missed the Mirage’s hot exhaust, flew
over the fuselage and across the left wing and exploded beside the cockpit. The
canopy of his fighter had been all but blown away by the near-hit, sending
pieces of the canopy driven by the eight-hundred-mile-per-hour windblast right
into his upper body. The Mirage was still functioning, but the windblast and
the wounds he had sustained were driving him to the edge of unconsciousness and
he was forced to reduce speed to keep the windblast from snapping his neck.

 
          
Ejecting
from his stricken fighter was not an option for the young pilot. The plane was
still flying, he was still alive, and Colonel Salazar had told him he’d return
to a hero’s welcome if he accomplished his mission. Although he knew that the
Colonel spoke like that often, and he also suspected that eventually he would
have to eject, he would rather do it in Cuban or Haitian waters than in
international or American waters.

 
          
For
now, the only thing he thought about was how to protect himself from another
attack, and the answer was . . . turn and fight. He had six hundred pounds of
ammunition and two French Matra R-550 Magic heat-seeking missiles. It was time
to use them. But it had to be fast and unexpected—he knew the American pilots
and their F-16 fighters were nearly unstoppable in close-range dogfights.

 
          
In
spite of his wounds and the fact that he had no canopy or protection from
windblast except his helmet, the Mirage pilot pulled his nose skyward,
completing a half-loop in just five seconds and five thousand feet. While
inverted at the top of the loop, he set his radar to air-to-air mode, selected
a missile, and scanned the sky in his wake for any attackers. Without waiting
for the Matra Magic missile to signal a lock-on—unlike the AIM-9L Sidewinder it
was not able to lock onto a target in head-to-head engagements—the Cuchillo
pilot squeezed the trigger and launched the missile as soon as the radar picked
up an air target.

 
          
Aboard the F-16 Fighting Falcon, Trap Two

 
          
The
sudden maneuver that registered on the APG-66 attack radar was somewhat
unexpected—no fighter pilot was going to let another pilot shoot missiles at
him all night without fighting—but the sudden quick flash of light he saw
caught him by surprise. A head-to-head missile engagement was low percentage,
even with an advanced Sidewinder. But these guys weren’t playing percentages—they
were going for the kill, the missile had to be countered no matter how great
the odds were against that missile hitting.

 
          
There
was no “MISSILE LAUNCH” signal from the threat-warning receiver, so it had to
be either an unguided missile or a heat- seeker. The Falcon pilot rolled up
onto his right wing and made sure he was in full power without any afterburners
lighting up the sky behind him. Rolling up on one side presented the smallest
and coolest profile to the missile’s seeker-head. He watched as the missile’s
motor burned out, held the wing-high attitude for two seconds, rolled
wings-level, then began a sharp climb. The Falcon pilot had to put as much cool
metal between his hot tailpipe and the missile’s seeker-head, or the missile
might just track. He quickly lost sight of the missile as its solid-rocket
motor burned out, but the missile had obviously not been tracking because it
appeared to be passing well behind him, without any telltale wobbling in the
motor glare that would indicate that it was tracking him.

 
          
Now,
concentrate on the fighter itself. The enemy fighter was coming down right for
him, but now he had the speed advantage. The speed at which the fighter had
suddenly turned and the speed at which it was descending told the F-16 pilot that
his attacker might still be inverted. One thing to do—turn hard, reverse course
and avoid flying underneath the fighter, where his high position would give him
a speed-and-angles advantage.

 
          
The
F-16 quickly completed a 180-degree turn, and he found his threat-warning
receiver quiet—if the attacker had not been inverted he would have been able to
get behind the F-16 for another missile or gun attack. The American pilot used
some pent-up speed to extend for several seconds, waited for the first hint of
a search radar being aimed at him, then turned hard and reversed course again.
Following the indications on his heads-up display, he managed to use the
Falcon’s tight seven-G turn capability to line up with his adversary, who had
managed to get turned around himself and was starting to come for him.

 
          
Checking
to be sure he had selected his cannon, the F-16 pilot continued his hard right
turn to lead his target before opening fire. The fire-control radar and
attack-computer drew a line on the display, indicating the computer’s best
guess at the target’s flight path— the F-16 pilot used that lead-computing line
to position his aiming reticle before opening fire. The enemy plane—he still
had no idea who it was or what kind of plane he was about to shoot at—had
apparently realized that the F-16 had the angle and was turning into the F-16
and accelerating to decrease the time in the box, w’ithin the lethal cone of
fire. The F-16 pilot opened fire when the range decreased to below one mile,
keeping the aiming reticle of the display directly on the lead-computing
indicator and tracking it in toward the radar-target square. He had time for
five short squeezes of the trigger before the target zipped away and had to
turn hard to pursue.

 
          
Now
out the right side of his bubble canopy he saw small spurts of flame erupting
from the side of the enemy fighter. “Aladdin, this is Trap Two. My target is on
fire. I am closing again to pursue. Over.”

 
          
No
reply. The F-16 pilot checked his navigation display with his charts—he was
over sixty miles south of
Key West
. With the KEYSTONE radar down and the air-traffic mess in south Florida
he had probably drifted out of radio contact thirty miles ago. He wouldn’t be
able to pick up his Hammerhead controller unless he climbed back up to a higher
altitude. He took a quick fuel check: he was only minutes away from his return
point at this range and considering the traffic over south Florida he was
probably beyond it—if he had to divert to MacDill or Jacksonville he was going
to be running on fumes if he delayed any longer. He began a turn northward,
started a gradual climb and opened his checklist to the performance section to
look up the best range-speed for his aircraft weight and configuration.