“Vehicles were clean,” he told Breanna.
“Acknowledged,” she said.
“Got something else,” said O’Brien. “Jayhawk—airplanes on A-1.”
“Sitrep map,” Zen told the computer. “Identify A-1.”
A bird’s-eye view with Quicksilver and the Flighthawks highlighted as green blips materialized in the main screen. A red highlight and circle identified A-1
as a small airfield northeast of Baghdad, about 120 miles away.
“MiG-21 radars,” added O’Brien. “They must be getting ready to take off.”
“QUICKSILVER, BE ADVISED WE HAVE A PAIR OF BOGIES
coming off A-1 south of Eight-eight Bravo,” said the controller aboard Coyote, the AWACS plane. “Stick Flight is being vectored in. Please hold to your flight plan.”
“Quicksilver,” acknowledged Breanna. “We have radar indications from those planes. Looks like two MiG-21s.
Working on radio intercepts,” she added.
O’Brien and Habib started talking together behind her.
“One at a time,” scolded Ferris.
“Indications are MiG-21 or F-7 Spin Scan-style I band radars. Old soldiers, these boys,” said O’Brien.
“Tower has cleared four planes,” said Habib. “I have his transmission loud and clear.”
“Lost radars.”
“You’re sure about four planes?” Breanna asked.
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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
“Yes, Captain. No acknowledgments, though. I have some ground transmissions. Computer says it’s an HQ
code. I can put more resources on the descramble.”
“Concentrate on the planes,” Breanna told him.
“O’Brien—any sign of that laser?”
“Negative.”
“Coyote, be advised that we believe there are four planes, not two,” said Breanna.
“Tower remains silent,” said Habib. “No ground control radio that I can pick up. We’re doing a full spin,” he added, meaning that the snooping gear was now scanning or “spinning” through frequencies looking for hits at low power or wide distances.
“No radars,” said O’Brien.
“Thanks for the information, Quicksilver,” answered the AWACS. “We continue to have only two contacts, MiG-21s, in the bushes. Eagles are being scrambled.
Hold to your flight plan.”
High Top
0830
“I’VE RIDDEN MOTORCYCLES THAT GO FASTER.”
“Major, I’m telling you—two hours with these engines and you have twenty percent more power. Probably thirty.
Thieves, hungry for power.”
“That’s not another stinkin’ Dylan song, is it, Garcia?”
“Knockin’ on heaven’s door, Major,” said the techie, beaming as if he’d just hit Powerball.
A Pave Low heading in toward High Top began shaking the air, kicking off a sympathetic rattle in the Bronco’s props—and Mack’s teeth.
“If we were at Dreamland—five-bladed prop, variable RAZOR’S EDGE
171
pitch—reinforce the wings, maybe a rocket pack for that quick boost, sellin’ postcards at the hangin’,” continued Garcia. “This is a great platform, Major. A fantastic aircraft. See this?” Garcia ducked under the wing and slapped the rear fuselage. “Four guys in here—five if they don’t have B.O. This ain’t workin’ on Maggie’s Farm, I’ll tell you that.”
“So if it’s such a great plane, how come the Marines gave it up?” Mack asked.
“They didn’t want to,” said Garcia. “You ask—they went kicking and screaming. These are boots of Spanish leather.”
“You know, Garcia, you ought to lose that speech im-pediment.”
Dust whipped toward them as the helicopter pushed in.
Mack turned his back and covered the side of his face. As the rotors died down, he turned back to Garcia. “Let’s refuel and get back in the air.”
“Uh, Major, didn’t you hear what I said?”
“That’s another Dylan song?”
“What I’ve been trying to tell you is that I have to re-tune the engines to work with the Dreamland fuel,” said Garcia.
“What?”
“Well, it all started during the first oil scare. See, what the problem is—ten-shutt!”
Garcia snapped to attention so sharply a drill sergeant would have swooned. General Elliott, lugging his overnight and a serious frown, tossed off a salute.
“Mack—when the hell are we taking off?” asked Elliott.
“I don’t know, General. There’s some sort of fuel thing.”
“Few minor adjustments to the engines, General,” said 172
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
Garcia, who had served under Elliott at Dreamland. “As you recall, sir, it was under your command that JP-12B-2
was developed as a special blend for the Flighthawks, with the Megafortress engines tuned to accept it. The mix is just a little different from your JP-8 or JP-4, and over time or in extreme—”
“That’s quite all right, Garcia,” said Elliott. “Just make it work.”
“I just have to make a few adjustments. Not a big deal.
Now, if we were back home—”
“It’s okay,” said Elliott. He put out his hand as if he were a traffic cop. “Mack, I’m going back on the Pave Low. Get the plane back to Incirlik in one piece, all right?”
Aboard Quicksilver
0830
ZEN PUSHED FORWARD, HIS BODY LEANING TO THE RIGHT
as he whipped both Flighthawks in that direction, the U/MFs about five miles apart, parallel at a separation of three thousand feet. The radar detector screen in the middle of the lower visual band showed two large yellow clumps peeking upward at him; the transmissions were ID’d as I band and the yellow indicated that, while they were active, they did not yet pose a threat to the small, stealthy Flighthawks.
“Gun Dish,” said O’Brien, adding coordinates to his warning that a Zeus radar was looking for him.
The two MiG-21s were old and primitive aircraft, easy fodder for the Americans. Zen suspected that the Iraqis were using them as decoys for the other two planes Habib had heard—which he guessed would be MiG-29s using passive sensors. The planes were approaching RAZOR’S EDGE
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from the southeast, roughly eleven o’clock off HawkOne’s center line—they didn’t have a precise location, but they would have to be very low not to be detected by the AWACS.
If they’d been in Galatica, the gear would have them dotted by now.
“Connection loss in five seconds,” warned the computer.
“Bree!”
“Zen, you have to stay with me. The attack package isn’t clear. Let the Eagles get the MiGs.”
“I can nail them myself. There’s an RAF flight just south of them; if the MiGs divert, they’ll run right into them.”
“The AWACS is aware of that. It’s not our show. Let the Eagles do their job.”
“Connection loss in three, two—”
Zen yanked back on his sticks, pulling the robot planes back closer to the Megafortress. As he did, the radar in Hawk Two caught another plane flying from the south low enough to scrape a grasshopper’s belly.
“Contact, bearing 180—shit, I lost it,” he told Breanna.
“Nothing,” said O’Brien quickly.
“Blue Bandits!” shouted one of the Eagle pilots, his voice loud and excited at seeing the enemy MiG-21s.
“Nine o’clock.”
“Tally,” replied the other pilot, as calm as his wingman was excited. The two interceptors had run up from the south behind the two small planes at tremendous speed, closing to visual range to avoid the possibility—slim, but real—of locking onto friendlies in the tangled fray. With their limited radars and no ground controller to warn them, the two Iraqi jets probably didn’t even know they were in the crosshairs.
“I have the MiG on the left.”
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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
“Two,” acknowledged the wingman.
Zen could visualize it perfectly. The pilots would have their heaters—AIM-9 Sidewinders—selected as the enemy planes grew in their HUDs. The missiles would growl, indicating they could sniff the enemy tailpipes.