“No weapons radar for—”
“Go to weapon query mode,” said Breanna. “The W3
button at the left side of the screen. Box the target, then tap the button.”
“Heat-seekers,” said Stewart. “Four AA-11s. That’s it.”
“Levitow, this is Flighthawk leader. Bree, we have to launch the second Flighthawk.”
“Negative, Mack. Colonel Bastian said you’re only supposed to fly one at a time.”
“Hawk Three is not under my control. It’ll be four minutes END GAME
131
before it’ll catch up to us. The Indian aircraft carrier is getting ready to launch more planes; I say we launch HawkFour.”
“If we launch it now, it’ll stay up for the entire flight.”
“We need to launch,” insisted Mack. “I’ll let the computer fly it,” he added in a calmer voice. “Come on.”
“Stand by.”
Breanna looked at the sitrep plot. At their present course and speed, Hawk Three would catch up with them three and a half minutes from now; by then the Sukhoi would be all over them. Any maneuvering she did would delay the Flighthawk even longer, unless she went back in the direction of the other Indian airplanes.
No brainer.
“Jan, we’re going to launch the second Flighthawk,” she told her copilot. “Emergency launch.”
“OK,” said Stewart. “Single aircraft taking off from the Indian carrier.”
MACK LET THE COMPUTER RUN THROUGH THE ABBREVIATED
takeoff checklist, watching the screens flash by. The Megafortress tilted and swung upward, the Flighthawk powering away.
A single Flanker was accelerating from the southeast, pedal to the metal. What Mack wanted to do was swing back and intercept him before he launched his missiles. If everyone else had been standing still this would be a difficult task, but with all three planes moving well over 500
knots, the calculus was tortuous. And Mack didn’t want to chance losing another aircraft.
The tactics section of C3 studied its library of similar situations and suggested a basic intercept scheme. With no time to argue, Mack tapped the screen, accepting the computer’s suggestion as a template for his plan.
“Flighthawk leader to Levitow—Bree, I’m going to shoot this sucker down.”
132
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
“Orders are still no. ”
“Bullshit. He’ll fire those heat-seekers as soon as he’s in range.”
“Mack—”
“I don’t feel like walking home.”
“We’ll take him with the Stinger air mines.”
“He can fire from five miles out, long before the Stinger can target him.”
Breanna hesitated.
“If he doesn’t break off in sixty seconds, take him,” she said abruptly. “As you attack, we’ll cut north.”
“Roger that.”
Aboard the Wisconsin , near Somalia
0436
THE WISCONSIN WAS MORE THAN A THOUSAND MILES AWAY
from the Levitow, so there was no possibility of seeing it, even with the powerful array of radars in the aircraft. But Dog sensed things weren’t going well—Breanna hadn’t checked back with him since their earlier communication.
“Dreamland Wisconsin to Dreamland Levitow, ” he said, using the Dreamland communications channel. “Breanna, what’s your situation?”
“We’re being pursued by a hostile Indian aircraft,” she said. Her helmeted face appeared on the com screen.
“We’re going to shoot him down if he doesn’t break off.”
“I thought you were ordered to get out of there.”
“We’re trying, Daddy. But at this point I don’t think we have any other options.”
The word Daddy caught him off guard; he felt a flash of emotion he couldn’t afford in a combat situation.
“Do what you think best,” Dog told her.
“I am.”
END GAME
133
Her image lingered on the screen. Dog stared at it for a moment, then hit one of the presets to contact Storm.
Aboard the Levitow,
over the northern Arabian Sea
0440
STEWART TRIED THE HAIL AGAIN, THIS TIME SIMULTANEOUSLY
broadcasting on all radio frequencies the Indians were known to use.
“Dreamland Levitow to Indian flight pursuing us. We will consider you hostile if you continue on your present course.
This is your last warning.”
She waited for thirty seconds. Something blipped on the right screen—a fresh radar contact.
“Nothing, Captain,” she told Breanna. “Another aircraft is taking off from the carrier.”
MACK DIPPED HIS WING AT THE EXACT MOMENT HE GOT THE
cue from the computer. The Flighthawk peeled down and away from the Megafortress, arcing back toward the approaching Sukhoi. The Indian was seven miles away, technically within range to fire the Russian-made air-to-air missiles; the closer he got, the better his odds of a hit. Mack activated the weapon screen; a gray bar across the center of his main view told him he had no shot.
“Flighthawk leader, this is Levitow, ” said Breanna.
“Don’t try and talk me out of this, Bree. You know I’m right.”
“Flighthawk leader, you are ordered to engage the plane pursuing us and take it down. It has refused to answer hails.
It poses an imminent threat to my plane and crew.”
About time you got religion, Mack thought.
“Flighthawk leader, please acknowledge for the record,”
she added.
134
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
“Trying to get me off the hook later on, huh?”
“Please acknowledge for the record.”
“We’re all in this together, hon. Now watch me write my name in this asshole’s front end.”
Mack pushed his stick forward. The targeting bar began blinking yellow, even though the enemy aircraft was not yet in sight. The triangular aim cue at the center of the bar began blinking red, and Mack pressed the trigger. As he did, the Sukhoi flew in from the right side of the screen. His first few shots missed, but the next dozen or so blew through the nose and then the cobraesque cowl that led to the forward edge of the wing.
In an instant Mack was beyond the Sukhoi. He turned back to the west, trying to find both the Megafortress and the aircraft he’d just shot at.
He saw the Sukhoi first, its outline synthesized at the left of his screen. It was moving away, but still moving—he hadn’t taken it down.
How the hell could that be?
The Megafortress, which was supposed to have turned north after he made his attack so he could sweep in behind her, was still moving west. Before he could ask her about it, Stewart gave him a direction to cut to a western course. Breanna followed with an explanation.
“Hawk Four, the plane that took off from the aircraft carrier has activated radar indicating AA-12 AMRAAMskis.
We want to get as much air between us as we can. Catch up to me.”
“All right, yeah,” said Mack, pushing the throttle slide to max.
THE FLANKER THAT HAD TAKEN OFF FROM THE CARRIER HAD AT
least two Russian-made Vympell R-77 air-to-air missiles, better known in the West as the AA-12 Adder, or, more col-loquially, an “AMRAAMski.” The weapon was the best non-American-made air-to-air missile in the world at medium range. Very similar to the American AMRAAM
END GAME
135
for which it had been nicknamed, it could strike another airplane at about forty nautical miles in a head-on confrontation; from the rear its effective range was roughly a third of that, depending on the speed and ability of the plane it was chasing.
Breanna had about forty nautical miles between her and the aircraft, but her advantage was quickly diminishing. And she had to worry not only about the Su-33 that Mack had just tangled with—the plane was moving southwest, its status unclear—but the two jets that had gone north earlier. They’d changed course again and were now headed in her direction.