Maxwell forced himself to relax. For the moment, there was nothing he could do except sit back and watch the show. He and his fighters would maintain their CAP station until the Chameleon UAV had flown its first leg, paralleling the coastline. When it reversed course and turned inland, Maxwell’s fighters would close in behind it. flying cover.
Would the deception work?
Maxwell could only guess how the Chameleon’s electronic masking worked. Ship-based UAVs were something new, and the ability to emulate other aircraft was even newer. If the Chameleon’s disguise was successful, Chinese air defense commanders would see what appeared to be an EA-6B Prowler entering their air space. The Prowler — the real Prowler — was a derivative of the ancient A-6 Intruder attack aircraft. Crewed by a pilot and three ECMOs — Electronic Counter-measures Officers — the twin-jet Prowler was the strike group’s prime vehicle for radar and sensor jamming, targeting, and gathering of electronic intelligence.
Prowlers were the advance units of a deep air strike. Observing such a threat, the Chinese would have to react.
Or so Maxwell hoped.
“Ironclaw is checking in as fragged,” said a voice on the radio.
“Sea Lord copies,” replied the controller in the Hawkeye. “Picture clear.”
More bogus dialogue. The controller was informing Ironclaw that no threat was showing on the display. Maxwell wondered if anyone was listening.
Boyce’s voice came over the frequency. “Runner One-one, Alpha Whiskey. Ironclaw is on first base. Five minutes to second.”
“Runner One-one, roger.” Boyce was informing him that the decoy had completed its outbound leg and was flying back toward the Hornets’ CAP station. Five more minutes. When the decoy was directly beneath the Hornets, it would turn again and point its nose toward China.
Maxwell tried to visualize the effects it would have on the mainland. Telephones would ring. Missile sites would be activated. Questions would fly like missiles through the ether. Why was a Prowler invading our space? Were the Americans in the war?
Fighters would be scrambled.
Maxwell punched a five minute count-down into his elapsed timer. It was vital that he fly the CAP orbit precisely so that his Hornets were on a northwesterly course when Ironclaw passed under them.
He glimpsed it, two thousand feet below. It looked nothing like a Prowler, which had a bulbous nose, spacious cockpit, and wide, swept wings. The Chameleon was a stubby-winged craft with a long nose unmarred by a crew enclosure. Its only protuberance was a pair of ECM pods attached to its under fuselage. The decoy had a V tail and, despite its ungainly appearance, was moving at a respectable 350 knots.
“Runner One-one tallies Ironclaw,” Maxwell called, reporting that had a visual on the decoy.
“Alpha Whiskey, roger. You’re cleared to second base.”
The go ahead. He rolled out of his turn above and behind the Chameleon. Right on schedule, the pilotless aircraft banked to the right and slid its nose toward the looming coastline of Asia.
Fifty miles to the coastline. The game was on.
The Chinese had always insisted that their territorial boundary extended further offshore than the twelve mile limit recognized by the United States. Over the years the disagreement over sovereign air space had caused some classic incidents, including a collision between a Navy EP-3 surveillance plane and a reckless Chinese F-8 pilot.
That was then, Maxwell reflected. A time of relative peace. This was now. China was at war.
Forty miles.
“Ironclaw, you have multiple contacts near point alpha, one-hundred miles from you, ”
“Ironclaw, roger. ” No surprise. Maxwell saw the same thing on his situation display. Over the mainland, near their bases. None was yet a threat.
Fifty miles. Only three minutes from the territorial boundary. If the Chinese were going to do something—
“Ironclaw, this is Sea Lord. Single group twenty miles southeast Alpha, hot on you.”
“Ironclaw.”
Maxwell saw them too. High and fast, and feet wet. “Hot” meant that their noses — and weapons — were pointed this way. Judging by their profile, they were Flankers — Russian-built SU-27s.
Damn! That wasn’t part of the game plan. He wasn’t here to get into a furball with conventional Chinese fighters. Especially Flankers, which were fifth-generation, sophisticated interceptors.
Apparently Boyce had reached the same conclusion. “Ironclaw, Alpha Whiskey. Hotdog, hotdog. Scram east.”
“Ironclaw, roger, hotdog.”
“Hotdog” was the alert that they were approaching the international boundary. Maxwell saw the decoy turn to the east, on a course roughly perpendicular to the incoming bandits. He swung his flight of Hornets into position a few miles behind the decoy.
It was an old tactic. By turning perpendicular to the threat radars — beaming, it was called — you minimized the amount of Doppler shift the Flanker pilots could see, possibly denying them a radar lock. Sometimes it worked, especially if the fighters you were up against didn’t have GCI or AWACS. Maxwell knew that multiple radars on the mainland were tracking them. In fact, he was counting on it. Either way, it displayed a non-threatening posture to the Flanker pilots.
Forty miles to the merge. The Flankers were inside factor bandit range — the distance at which Maxwell had to regard them as a threat. He was paralleling the coastline. Did the Flankers have orders to attack American aircraft in international air space? If so, it meant China had just extended their war to include the United States.
“Ironclaw, lean right twenty degrees,” Maxwell ordered. He was buying time. The slight offset would extend the Flankers’ time to intercept. These were not the trophies that he wanted.
The Flankers were nose hot on the decoy. Maxwell tensed, wondering if the Flankers had committed. Would they attack the decoy or the Hornets? With their speed advantage — they were moving at about 1.8 Mach — the Flankers would be in missile range within—
“Sea Lord shows all red fighters turning cold. They’re bugging out.”
So they were. On his datalink situation display, Maxwell saw the two blips moving back toward the mainland.
Why? They hadn’t come close enough to the Chameleon to get a visual ID. Were the two Flankers waiting for reinforcements before engaging four Hornets?
A new uneasiness passed over Maxwell. Something was happening. He didn’t believe in extra-sensory perception, but in twenty years of flying he had learned to trust his gut feelings. His gut was sending a persistent signal. Something was happening. What?
In the next instant he knew.
B.J. Johnson’s voice crackled on the radio. “Missile in the air! Runner One-one, six o’clock low, hot on the Ironclaw.”
A jolt of adrenaline surged through him. His RWR was silent. “One’s naked.” Meaning he wasn’t targeted by radar.
“Two’s naked.” No warning either.
Maxwell saw it. A tiny plume, ahead and below, between him and the Chameleon. Against the dull blue of the sea, it looked like a distant ember.
It’s targeting the decoy.
With morbid fascination, Maxwell watched the plume close the distance to the Chameleon.
Where did it come from? His eyes scanned the piece of sky where the plume had been when he first saw it. Then he scanned further back to where it must have been when B.J. called it.
He did a rough calculation. If it was an AA-11 Archer, which moved at something better than Mach two, it would cover about — he scratched for an answer, then came up with it—1,500 feet every second. More or less.