Drone Strike: A Dreamland Thriller (Dale Brown's Dreamland) (37 page)

The other missile had exploded behind him.

19

CIA campus, Virginia

B
REANNA WATCHED
AS THE SIGNAL INDICA
TING
T
URK’S
position jerked back northward.

“What the hell is he doing?” Reid asked.

“I don’t know. Assuming he’s in a plane, they may be ducking a missile.” They could only guess what was going on; there’d been no word from Turk, or Stoner for that matter. It was clear from the intercepted Iranian radio transmissions that the Iranians had not captured them. The Iranian air force was scrambling after a Phantom that had left Manzariyeh without authorization; Breanna guessed that must be Turk, trying to fly to safety.

“Try to contact Stoner again,” Reid told the communications aide. “Get him.”

“Sir, I just tried. There’s been no answer.”

“Try again.”

“He’s heading north,” said Breanna. “I bet he’s going to Baku.”

“Can he make it?”

“I don’t know.” She looked at the screen. The maneuvers indicated he was under attack. Off the top of her head she wasn’t sure what the Phantom’s range might be, and there was no way of knowing how much fuel it had. “We need to talk to the Azerbaijan air force,” she told Reid. “He’s going north—he’ll be heading toward their air space.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely. They have MiGs—can we scramble them?”

“I don’t know if that will be doable, Breanna.”

“Try.”

20

Iran

V
AHID
CURSED HIMSELF.
H
E’D FIRED TOO SOON, S
URE
that the F-4 pilot wasn’t much of a flier. Now he saw that was a mistake; the man was smarter than he’d thought, and at least knew the basics of dodging radar missiles.

No matter. He’d drive up close and put a heat-seeker in his fantail.

Once he found him. The radar was having trouble locating the Phantom in the ground clutter.

Maybe he crashed after all.

No. There he was—twenty kilometers away. Running north toward the Caspian.

Vahid juiced his throttle, opening the gates on the afterburners. The sudden burst of speed slammed him back into his seat.

He’d close on the F-4, get tight, then fire. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice.

S
TONER SAT IN T
HE REAR SEAT OF THE
AIRCRAFT,
watching with detachment as the plane bucked and turned, jerking sharply in the sky.

They weren’t particularly high. He could see the ground clearly out the side of the windscreen.

If we crash, he thought, Turk Mako will die, and my mission will be accomplished.

T
URK STRUGGLED WITH THE
CONTROLS, TRYING TO
muscle the Phantom back level after the shock of the missile explosion behind them. If he’d been higher, he could have simply sorted things out in a long, sweeping dive, but he was far too low for that. He pulled the stick, straining as the plane skidded in the air. His airspeed had bled off precipitously; the Phantom was very close to a stall.

Get me out of here, Old Girl, he thought. Let’s dance.

He pressed again on the throttle and jerked the stick back. He was dangerously close to one of the Phantom’s peculiarities—the aircraft had a tendency to fall into a spin when the stick was muscled too hard at a high angle of attack. But the F-4 wasn’t ready to call it a day; she managed to keep herself in the air and moving forward despite the pilot’s nightmares. There was damage to the tail—he could feel the rudder lagging—but the old iron hung together.

The plane began gaining altitude. There was no question now of doing anything fancy; he would have to get away, straight line, balls out.

Water, then find the coast.

One thing he had going for him—the MiG pilot probably thought he’d splashed him with the missiles.

There were mountains ahead. Turk nudged the F-4 skyward, aiming to skim over them so close he’d chip paint.

V
AHID’S RADAR FOUND
THE
P
HANTOM AHEAD TO THE
east, roughly a hundred kilometers from the Caspian if it kept on its present heading. He was over the Elburz Mountains and using them to good effect, tucking well below the peaks and hoping the irregular topography would make it hard to track him.

He was right, but Vahid realized he didn’t have to stick too closely to his prey. It seemed obvious that the pilot was going north to the Caspian. He would simply beat him there.

Other fighters were scrambling now. The radio was alive with traffic and orders: shoot the enemy down.

Vahid blocked everything out, concentrating on his plane and the pursuit. The Phantom was fast, but his MiG was faster. He was also higher. He titled his nose back and climbed some more, planning how he would take the Phantom in their final encounter.

T
HE MOUNTAINS SEEMED
ENDLESS.
T
URK HAD B
ACKED
off the throttle, worried about his fuel supply, but he was still moving at over 650 knots, yet there seemed no end to the damn things. They were green, greener than anything he’d seen in Iran. The sun glowed overhead, the sky clear. He imagined there were vacationers somewhere below, enjoying the day and the sea.

Wherever the hell it was.

Hang in there, Turk told himself. Just hang in there.

He examined the dials in the cockpit. He still had a decent amount of fuel. The damage to the tail was light, if the controls were to be believed: the plane seemed ever so slightly slow as it responded to the rudder, but not so much that it wouldn’t go where he wanted.

Come on, come on. Let’s get there.

Nothing but green and brown below.

Damn!

And then there was sea, a green-blue sheet spread in front of him.

Free, he was free.

Except: there was the damn MiG, three o’clock in his windscreen, heading due west but pushing onto his wing in what Turk recognized was the start of a sweep that would end with the Phantom in the fat heart of his targeting pipper.

V
AHID FEL
T A RUSH OF GRAVITY AS HE PULLED THE
M
I
G
hard to complete the sweeping intercept. The Phantom, riding straight and true, rose into his screen as he put his nose down. He had the MiG dead on its enemy’s tail. He had his gun selected; he was close to the other plane and wanted the satisfaction of perforating it.

The distinctive tail of the American built plane seemed to droop; Vahid edged his finger onto the trigger as it filled out his target.

Even as he fired, the other plane disappeared. Vahid started to pull up, then realized what the other pilot was doing.

It was almost too late.

Using its control surfaces like speed brakes while it throttled back, the F-4 had dropped below and behind the MiG in an instant. The hunter was now the hunted—Vahid tweaked left and right as a stream of tracers exploded over his right wing. He began a turn, then changed course, hoping to catch the Phantom overshooting him. But whoever was flying the F-4 was very, very good—he not only didn’t bite on the fake turn, but managed to stay behind him long enough to put a few bullets across his right wing. Vahid rolled, trying to loop away, but that was nearly fatal—the F-4 danced downward, drilling two or three more bullets into his left wing and fuselage before passing by.

You underestimated him,
One Eye would have said.
I didn’t teach you that.

Vahid pulled up, selecting his IR missiles. But the panel indicated they wouldn’t arm. Some of the bullets that struck the plane earlier had disabled the controls or the missiles, or both.

So it was down to guns, one on one.

Vahid leveled off, looking for his opponent.

T
URK FELT HIS THROA
T CLOSE WITH THE SHARP TURN.
His head pressed in and his heart clutched. It was as if a huge hand had grabbed hold of him and squeezed with all its might.

Don’t do that again. You’ll pass out and crash.

He’d gotten bullets into the other plane. Enough to splash the damn thing, he was sure.

Had he? Where was it?

Head clearing, Turk began a climb. After only a few seconds a tiny shadow passed to his right—cannon fire from the MiG.

He steepened the climb and rolled, surprised to find the MiG practically alongside him.

Within seconds Turk realized they had managed to put themselves into a classically difficult position. They were two fighters locked in a deadly embrace. Neither could afford to accelerate or drop away; doing so would allow the other to slide behind him.

How long could they keep this up? Turk nudged his rudder gently, edging the plane right in hopes that he might be able to let the MiG spurt ahead. But the MiG pilot was too sharp for that—he came with him, rolling his wing around about a quarter turn just as Turk did.

Turk thought of various ways to break off. The best seemed to be to mash the gas, turn tight and get his nose facing the other plane. The MiG would have to turn outside to keep from being thrown in front; Turk would be risking a quick missile shot but he was confident he could get his own shot in first.

The trouble was, he doubted he could stand the roller-coaster force needed to pull that maneuver. Nor could he afford to stay in the climb much longer; the thin oxygen would kill him.

The man flying the other plane had good instincts. Maybe he could use those against him.

Both planes were flying almost straight up, canopy-to-canopy, turning a tight, ascending scissors pattern in the sky. Neither could afford to stray.

Turk had an idea. As he turned his wing to start a twist, he pushed the Phantom closer to the MiG. In an instant, he jerked the nose forward and at the same time fired the gun.

His idea was that it would look to the other pilot as if the Phantom was trying to crash into him. Whether it did or not was impossible to tell, but the maneuver had the desired effect: the MiG spun off to the right.

Turk’s own instincts were to follow. Everything he knew told him that he had the other plane where he wanted him. And certainly he would have if he’d had a flight suit and oxygen.

But he told himself his job now wasn’t to shoot down the MiG. It was to get himself and Stoner home. And so instead he pushed the Phantom back around to the north and accelerated again, sure he was home free.

He’d barely caught his breath when a fresh set of tracers exploded ahead of his right wing. The Iranian didn’t want to quit.

21

CIA campus, Virginia

R
EID RAISED HIS HAND AND GAVE
B
REANNA A THUMBS-UP
, indicating that the American military consul in Baku had convinced the Azerbaijan air force to scramble its forces. The SEAL command had already released the MC-130 in Baku; it was preparing to take off and fly over the Caspian.

She told herself that Turk was going to make it. Against all odds, he was going to make it. She hadn’t sent him to his death.

22

Over the Caspian Sea

T
URK FELT THE PLANE
SHUDDER SEVERELY AS
HE JINKED
left and right, barely ducking the fire from the MiG. Between the old metal and whatever damage the Iranian had done to him earlier, the plane was starting to strain.

The MiG and the F-4 were still locked in a death dance, neither able to get an advantage. The MiG slid behind him, but Turk managed to push the Phantom just enough to stay away from his bullets.

Their speed dropped, moving through 220 knots. While the MiG was a nimbler airframe, Turk thought he must have done some damage to it, at least enough to keep it from trying anything too fancy. But its pilot was tenacious, clinging tightly.

Even if the MiG didn’t nail him, the more maneuvers he did, the better the odds that he’d run out of fuel before reaching a safe airport. And parachuting wasn’t an option. He needed to get away quickly.

Turk racked his brain for a way to get the MiG off his back. The only thing he could think of was a low altitude spin and a crash—not a particularly pleasant solution, even if the plane could take the g’s.

Unless it didn’t actually happen.

As another burst of rounds flashed over the canopy, Turk jerked the Phantom’s stick, trying to make the plane look as if it had been hit. He backed off as his plane began to yaw, then pushed in on his left, tipping his wing down and holding his breath.

By now the MiG had stopped firing. He was still back there somewhere, though.

When the blue sea filled his windscreen, Turk held the Phantom’s nose down for a three count. Then he pulled up on the stick, muscling it back as hard as he could while giving the plane throttle.

His head floated in the sudden rush of blood. The Phantom didn’t like the maneuver either, threatening to fall backward in the sky. The control surfaces, confused by the contradictory forces working on them, bit furiously at the air, trying to follow the pilot’s crazed instructions. The engines, suddenly goosed with fuel, roared desperately, pushing to hold the plane in the air despite the heavy hand of gravity.

And there was the MiG, right in front of him.

Turk fired, lying on the trigger even as he fought to get the Phantom stable. He got off a burst and a half, then the goosed engines pushed the Phantom ahead, whipping over the MiG close enough to scorch the paint.

He’d put a dozen bullets into the MiG’s airframe, and this time there was no way they wouldn’t have an effect: Turk saw a bolt of flame in the cockpit mirror.

If he’d been more confident of his fuel, he might have turned around to watch his enemy burn.

V
AHID FELT THE B
LOOD DRAINING FROM H
IS HEAD AS
the MiG began to disintegrate around him. Victory had been snatched from his hand in an instant. Not just victory—the tables had been completely turned, the pilot in front suddenly behind, the predator now the victim.

He needed to pull the ejection handle. He needed to get out of the plane.

Why? He’d been defeated. He was not the best, and would never be. He couldn’t stand the humiliation.

Could he go home to his father, the war hero, and look him in the eye?

Get out of the aircraft,
he heard his old instructor say.

One Eye’s voice screamed at him.

Save yourself. Fly and fight another day.

Vahid’s hand wavered over the handle as his mind battled. He thought of his mother, who would love him no matter what. He saw his father again, as he had known him as a young man, before the injury.

And then it was too late: a fireball erupted, consuming the MiG-29 and Iran’s finest pilot.

S
TON
ER FOLDED HIS ARMS, WATCHING OUT THE SIDE
of the cockpit as the Phantom leveled off and continued north over the sea. The plane flew steady; bullets no longer coursed over the wings or exploded in the distance. Whatever had been chasing them was gone.

So they were getting out. That was all right, wasn’t it? He didn’t have to kill Turk if he got him home.

The memories poking Stoner earlier had receded. They were like booby-traps in the jungle, waiting to swallow him if he stepped wrong. But he didn’t know how to excise them.

Maybe one of the shrinks back home would.

The mission had been a good one. He liked it tremendously. Everything about it, the sensation of adrenaline in his body, the feeling in his stomach when he ran, the crush of his fist against an enemy.

He hated the enemy. He hated people who wanted to hurt him, or hurt his people.

That was who he was. Whatever else they had done to him, whatever the drugs and biomechanical devices they’d put into him, that part was definitely his.

C
LEAR OF THE ENEMY P
LANE,
T
URK TOOK OUT THE SAT
phone. He pushed the power button. Nothing happened. The damn thing was dead.

He reached into his pants pocket for Grease’s. He remembered taking it from Grease’s ruck. But he found the GPS, not the sat phone.

He reached into his other pocket, feeling a little desperate. The phone was there.

But it was a cell phone. Grease had the sat phone in his pocket or somewhere else, and he had missed it.

Have to do something else. Don’t fall apart now.

Turk held his course due north for another five minutes before turning westward. He had only the vaguest notion where he was. While he still had a reasonable amount of fuel, he began to prepare a mental checklist of what he would do if Baku didn’t turn up very soon. He would hunt for another airstrip. If he didn’t see one, he could land on a highway—supposedly the Russians had built them long, straight, and wide for just such a contingency.

Better to find Baku. Much, much better.

A small fishing boat bobbed in the distance. The coast was just beyond it.

Another plane was coming down from the north. It looked like a civilian aircraft, an airliner. As it came closer, he saw that it had four engines—an MC-130.

Oh baby, he thought, changing course to meet it.