Wraith (26 page)

Nick watched the four Warthogs turn eastward toward his ridge, with Sandy Three turning slightly south and Oso leading Sandy Two slightly north. Sandy Four headed straight for the convoy. Nick felt a surge of adrenaline as the A-10 crossed the ridge right above him in a knife-edge pass, so low that he instinctively ducked. He stood in time to see the Hog pull up in a maneuver known as a whifferdill, bringing the nose of the A-10 skyward and then turning it on its edge to slice back toward the sand. Sandy Four was still outside the effective range of the missiles, but Nick could see that the pilot had gotten the Iraqis' attention. He smiled broadly as both launchers stopped moving forward and turned their missiles west to point at the Hog.

Confusion set in at the convoy. Forward movement stopped and the troops poured out of the vehicles in preparation for an attack. “The targets are taking the bait,” Nick transmitted. Sandy Four settled back into low-altitude flight and disappeared to the south. Now it was Three's turn. The Hog pilot drove in from the southwest. As he approached the road, he pulled up and rolled in toward the convoy, lobbing a hundred rounds of combat mix at the southern SA-6. At that distance, the armor-piercing rounds had little effect, but Nick watched with satisfaction as the incendiary rounds landed on the twenty-three-millimeter artillery piece with the force of thirty or forty grenades. The vehicle burst into flames and the driver leapt out, fleeing for his life.

Nick was once again encouraged to see the lead SA-6 swivel its missiles, this time southward, toward Three's perceived threat. Then he moved his gaze to the north and his stomach turned. The trailing SAM had not taken the bait. It was swiveling northward, looking for another threat.

“Sandy One,
abort, abort, abort!
” Nick shouted into his radio, but he was too late. He looked on in horror as Oso's A-10 came into view, bearing down from the north. The lead SAM had been caught unaware but the second one was ready. Nick watched helplessly as a cloud of white smoke obscured the northern SA-6. A moment later, a missile emerged from the cloud with a spike of yellow flame propelling it toward his friend.

He raised his radio to make another call, but Oso's wingman was already on top of it. “Sandy One, break right! Two is in!” called the wingman. The second A-10 turned toward the threat, letting loose with a hundred depleted uranium rounds. He was too far away to penetrate the SAM's armor, but Nick was thankful to see that he scared the Iraqis enough to foil a second launch.

*   *   *

Oso heard both radio calls warning him of the imminent danger and he was able to turn his A-10 forty-five degrees away from the threat before the launch. Now he pressed hard on the throttle and hugged the desert floor, focusing his eyes on the approaching missile.

From its rapid approach, it was clear the missile had retained its lock, and Oso prepared for the worst. He jettisoned all his stores, feeling a sickening thump as six Mavericks, four cluster bombs, and two pods of rockets fell uselessly to the desert floor. Then, spouting a shower of metal chaff from his wings, he climbed and turned hard into the approaching missile. He strained with every muscle, squeezing every G out of his body and his aircraft as the huge missile filled his windscreen. His eyes narrowed, his subconscious prepared for death, and then the missile was gone.

Oso continued to pull with all his might, even though there was nothing but dusty desert horizon in his windscreen. He knew what was coming.

A monstrous explosion shattered the illusion of peace.

The weapon had shot past his jet and locked onto the cloud of chaff, but Oso could not escape its wrath entirely. It exploded just past his aircraft and he felt as if every filling were jarred from his teeth. Several shards of hot metal penetrated the A-10's hull. Most embedded themselves harmlessly in the base of the titanium tub that surrounded the cockpit, but a few ripped through the hydraulic lines in his right wing.

“Sandy Flight, abort and return to Tango.” Oso turned his jet back toward the ridge and watched his left hydraulic gauge plummet to zero. Acting quickly, he flipped a toggle to isolate the system and allow his other hydraulic lines to power the flight controls. Then he surveyed the rest of the damage. To his surprise, he found that he could fly normally. The A-10 was beautifully designed to take a beating. He could still lead the battle, but most of his weapons were gone. All he had left was his gun. “Wraith, I'm all right. Tell me what you see,” he ordered.

“The convoy has stopped,” said Nick. “It looks like Three's attack took out the antiaircraft gun as well as the vehicle next to it. They're burning out of control now and blocking the road. The two SAMs are still operational, though. The trailing piece expended one missile, but I'm sure you're well aware of that. Any chance we can just bring the choppers up to your side of the ridge while the bad guys regroup?”

“Sorry, no can do. They won't take a long shot at our jets, but they'd be happy to lob a few missiles at the helicopters. It'd be a shame if Jolly One got shot out of the sky right after picking you up.”

“Point taken. Okay, then, what's the plan?”

“Give me a sec, I'm working on it.”

“Sandy One, this is Two,” said Sidearm. “I've got something that might help.”

Oso glanced back at the wingman, who was just settling into a wide trail position. “Go ahead, Two.”

“When I took my shot at the northern launcher, I grabbed his coordinates.”

Oso smiled. Sidearm had done something that even he hadn't thought of. He'd used a feature that linked the HUD to his GPS. The integrated GPS system was still a relatively new technology for the A-10 and the older pilots were not accustomed to it, but the young pilots had been raised on it. The new system constantly calculated the set of coordinates under the gun sight, and Sidearm had wisely thought to mark the SAM's exact position while he was peppering it with bullets.

“Hey, that kid's good,” said Nick. “Who trained him?”

“I did,” Oso responded dryly.

“Nevertheless . . .”

“Could someone fill me in on the history between you two?” asked Tank.

“Enough,” said Oso. “We have a serious problem. I need something to take out at least one of those SAMs before we can take this any further. Sandy Three, tell me what you know about airborne assets outside our rescue force.”

“What airborne assets? The combat schedule was clean. We're on our own, boss.”

“Actually, Three,” interrupted Nick, “that's not entirely true.”

“How'm I doing?” asked Drake.

Danny checked the fuel gauges. “The fuel is still rising. You're almost there.”

The B-2 had been attached to the tanker's boom continuously for the last twenty minutes. In another few seconds, they would reach their planned fuel load, ready to turn toward the island. The rescue force was on its way to pick up Nick, and Walker had ordered Drake to return to base.

The SATCOM beeped, alerting Danny that there was a new message, but he did not move to retrieve it. His eyes were glued to the tanker. He had been at the rear station during the last refueling, preparing to launch Dream Catcher, and so he had been too busy to see how close the two aircraft flew during the process. For a ground dweller, the sight was unnerving.

“Haven Zero One, you have reached your assigned off-load; disconnect at your . . .” The boom operator stopped before completing his sentence.

Drake took his finger off the disconnect trigger, waiting for him to finish the command.

“Stand by, Haven. I'm being told to keep you in position.”

“Figures,” said Drake. “My shoulders are killing me. I'm used to having another pilot in here to take half of the loading time.”

Danny glanced over at the B-2 pilot and then back to the enormous tanker less than thirty feet above his head. “Sorry. Can't help you.”

A few seconds later, the boom operator spoke again. “Haven, I have a radio patch from Kuwait. Sandy Three is on the line with an urgent request.”

Danny dropped his mask. “I thought Sandy wasn't told about our presence,” he shouted to Drake. They couldn't have a private conversation over the intercom because the boomer would hear.

Drake took his hand off the throttle long enough to drop his own mask. “Let's find out,” he shouted back. He pressed the intercom key and spoke to the boom operator again. “Okay, go ahead with the voice patch.”

A low crackle sounded over the boom's connection. Amid the static, a voice came through, muted but readable. “Haven Zero One, this is Sandy Three.”

“Go ahead, Sandy Three,” Drake prompted. “We read you.”

“We've got a bit of a situation down here. We're facing down two mobile SAMs that are escorting a battalion of Republican Guard. The whole gaggle is threatening our survivor. We've been unable to penetrate their defenses. One of our birds was damaged in the first attempt. Somehow, the survivor knew that there was an armed stealth bomber in the air. As much as I'd like a really good explanation for all of this, right now I just need to know if you can help us take out one of those SAMs.”

Drake keyed the intercom. “We—” he started to say, but Danny waved him off.

“We can't do it,” shouted the intelligence officer. “With that barn door hanging open back there, we'll be sitting ducks. There has to be someone else who can help.”

Drake said nothing.

“Haven, do you copy? Can you help us?” The A-10 driver sounded impatient.

Drake put his mask up. “Sandy Three, tell your lead that we'll be inbound in five minutes, right after we top off our tanks.”

“What?” Danny shouted again.

“Relax,” Drake shouted back, “I have a plan.”

“Oh, good, you have a plan. That makes me feel much better.”

Drake smiled at him and spoke into the intercom again. “Sandy, we're on our way and we'll take care of one of those SAMs for you. Just keep them off the survivor until we get there.”

“Sandy Three copies all. Stand by for the control point and target coordinates.”

Danny furiously wrote down the information read off by the Warthog pilot and then held his clipboard in front of Drake's face, who read the data back over the connection to make sure it was correct.

“That's right,” said the A-10 pilot. “I'll see you guys in a few. Sandy Three out.” The crackle faded.

“We're going to need another ten thousand pounds,” Drake told the boomer. “Have you got it?”

“We've got plenty of gas to spare,” the young airman replied. “I'm starting the transfer now.”

“Thanks. And give me all the pressure you can muster; we're in a hurry.”

“Already on it.”

“You want to clue me in on the plan, fearless leader?” asked Danny, his eyes frozen to the tanker again.

Drake glanced down to check the gauges. “That'll do it, boomer,” he said. “We'll take that disconnect now.”

“The fuel transfer has stopped,” the boomer replied. “You are cleared to disconnect. Delay your turn until you're well clear. Good luck, Haven.”

Drake triggered the release from the boom. When its shadow moved away from the cockpit, he pulled the throttles back and gently pushed the nose down, creating space between the two aircraft. As the B-2 backed away, the airman who'd been flying the boom gave them a smart salute, which Danny hesitantly returned. The SATCOM beeped again, reminding him that there was a message waiting. He glanced at the screen.

“What's going on?” asked Drake, still focused on flying the aircraft.

“Walker wants to know what we're doing,” said Danny. “So, what
are
we doing?”

“All in due time,” said Drake. He settled on a course back toward Iraq, flipped on the autopilot, and then bent down and began typing away on the SATCOM. Danny strained and shifted in his seat, but he could not see the message around the pilot's shoulder.

A few moments later, the system chimed again. With Drake sitting up again, Danny got a clear view of Walker's response.

CLEARED HOT

Nick slowly panned his binoculars along the enemy column. The Iraqi soldiers were containing the fire at the front of the convoy too quickly, and before long they would be able to push the burned vehicles aside and continue their pursuit. They would move slowly for fear of another attack by the A-10s, but they would move nonetheless. The performance of their missile systems had given them confidence.

The sound of engines spooling up caught Nick's ear, and he looked south in time to see two of the Hogs come around the ridge and turn toward the enemy. His rescuers had come up with a plan to keep the Iraqis in check. “Go get 'em, Oso,” he said out loud.

Oso had recognized the need to keep the enemy troops off balance and contrived a rocket attack to keep them pinned down until the B-2's arrival. M156 white phosphorus rockets—affectionately called Willy Petes by the pilots—were designed to mark targets rather than destroy them. Their incendiary capabilities were negligible compared to other phosphorus weapons, but their impact could still be a frightening experience for the enemy. They were incredibly loud, sent out a blast of heat, and filled the air with a horrid white smoke that burned the eyes and throat. Oso had decided to harass the Iraqis by having his wingman loft a few of these at the Iraqi column from just outside the SAMs' effective range.

Nick monitored the attack on his radio. “Sandy Two is turning inbound,” said the wingman.

“You're cleared hot, Two,” Oso acknowledged. “I have you covered. Please try to put the rockets somewhere near the target.”

“Trust me. I've gotten much better since my first rocket shot at the schoolhouse.”

“I hope so.”

Nick watched as the young wingman pointed his Hog directly at the convoy. He pulled his nose skyward, launched a salvo of rockets, and then dove back to the safety of the desert floor. With no guidance systems to keep them heading toward a fixed point, the seven rockets slowly fanned out. They climbed steadily until their motors ran out of fuel and then they turned back toward the earth in a graceful arc, each heading for a different part of the convoy.

Nick turned his binoculars back to the troops, noting grimly that the Iraqis seemed blissfully unaware of the thin silhouettes bearing down on them. Suddenly, the hatch of one of the radar vehicles popped open and the driver gestured wildly at the others. It was too late. The dry desert air erupted in a cacophony of explosions. Sand and asphalt burned where the rockets had hit and white smoke spread through the convoy like an evil fog. Troops ran in every direction. Many crawled under the transport trucks, fearful of another attack.

“That ought to slow you down,” said Nick. Then he held his radio to his lips. “Sandy, this is Wraith. Nice work. It's pandemonium over there. They probably think you just hit them with chemical weapons.”

“Thanks for the report,” said Oso. “At the very least, this will buy us some time while we wait for your friends.”

*   *   *

Danny watched the choppy surface of the Persian Gulf through the bomber's panoramic windscreen as the water whipped by less than a hundred feet below him. The gulf took on a blue-gray hue in the early morning light and the mist and dust combined to form a thick haze.

The poor visibility was a mixed blessing. It obscured the B-2 from onlookers on the shore but it also prevented Drake from seeing obstacles like oil rigs until the last second, and there had been several of those. Danny clenched his teeth. Forward visibility was less than a mile, and the stealth was covering that distance every eight seconds.

“I think I've been patient long enough,” Danny complained. “Don't you think it's time you let me in on how you plan for us to survive?” He ducked in his seat as Drake jerked the plane left and another tower flashed by. “You
are
planning for us to survive, right?”

“Of course I am,” said Drake with unsettling calm. “Here's the deal. We have what amounts to a gaping hole on our underside. There's no way to tell what impact that has on our stealth, but I'm guessing it's not a good thing. I'm not about to waltz into enemy airspace with my fly down.”

“Yet the navigation computer says that's exactly what you're doing,” said Danny.

“You didn't let me finish. That's what would happen if we went in at high altitude—”

“But we're practically on the surface,” Danny finished, starting to see where his comrade was going.

“That's right. We'll use the surface interference to mask our problem. There's nothing wrong with the top of the plane, so, with any luck, we'll just disappear into the sand.”

“That's all well and good for getting us there,” said Danny, “but we can't drop a five-thousand-pound bomb from a hundred feet. We'd be obliterated.”

“You're right. We'll have to climb up to deliver the weapon. That's why you're not just along for the ride. I need your help.”

Danny continued to stare through the windscreen. “I'll do whatever you want if it keeps me from getting obliterated.”

“Good. I have a math problem for you. Working back from the target coordinates, I need you to calculate a speed, climb angle, and altitude that will allow me to loft the bomb from a few miles back.” Drake turned his head to look at the intelligence officer. “Get the iron in the ballpark and the GPS will take care of the fine points. Can you do that?”

Another rig appeared ahead of them and Danny pointed frantically, unable to speak. Drake slammed the stick left and the tower disappeared down Danny's side of the plane. It couldn't have missed the wingtip by more than a few feet. Danny glared at the pilot. “I can do the math. You just watch the road.”