Michalak, a tall, thin, black-haired pilot, waited quietly, masking nervousness with inactivity. Because of Tad’s obvious skill and his own inexperience, he was more than willing to follow the lieutenant’s lead. They were going to be taking a definite risk.
The major quickly ran through the particulars. All eight aircraft carried simulators that mimicked an AIM-9M Sidewinder and an AMRAAM, as well as telemetry pods that transmitted its position and course. The equipment would allow the ground observers to follow the fight and score kills. Backed up by HUD videotapes from both sides, a few minutes of whirling air combat could be dissected and examined in embarrassing detail.
Sokolowicz’s English was accented but understandable. “This will be a tough one,” he said. “As long as we play by the book, and remember our lessons, we will win.”
Tad nodded to himself. The major gave almost the same speech at the start of every brief. He was right, of course, but there wasn’t a lot of fire in it.
Sokolowicz glanced over at Kendall, sitting quietly in a corner of the stage. Nodding toward the American officer, he said, “Our hosts have promised to present us with a real challenge, a test to see just how much we really have learned.”
An American-accented voice in the audience muttered, “Kobiyashi Maru,” and scattered laughter filled the air. Most of the Poles, except the major, looked a little puzzled, and only Tad laughed. He suspected that Sokolowicz didn’t know anything about Star Trek, either, but was too cool a customer to let his ignorance show.
Sokolowicz brushed past the remark and finished up. “Engine start in fifteen minutes.” The major finished what he was doing and strolled casually over to the end of the stage. Bending down on one knee, he spoke quietly, in Polish, with Wojcik.
“Are your aircraft ready?”
“Yes, sir. We inspected them both just before the brief.”
“Good. After we are cleared to taxi, fall into line in the first flight’s number three and four slots.”
“As you wish, sir.” Tad already knew all that, but if the major wanted to review it, that was fine with him. Sokolowicz was being pretty ballsy to even let them try this. If his scheme worked, though…
Ten minutes later, the Polish pilots and their ground crews streamed out to the ramp. Almost immediately the whine of turbines rose into the air.
Tad sprinted for his hangar, feeling his excitement grow. Michalak pounded after him, and the two entered through a side door guarded by a Polish staff sergeant. He saw the pilots coming, saluted, and wished them good luck.
The dimly lit hangar interior seemed even darker after the bright desert sun outside, already starting to climb high above the horizon. The sun heated the building, and in the warm, stuffy darkness two F-15s sat silent, all shadows and angles as they waited to fly.
Their appearance had been altered. Both planes had been painted from top to bottom in water-washable shades of tan and brown. Only the red and white eagle crest had been left uncovered.
Tad and his wingman split up, each to preflight his own aircraft. With a good ground crew, the walk-around was a formality, but a good aviator always double-checked. Even though this was a training flight, Tad was betting his life on his plane.
He carefully examined the ordnance under the wings. In addition to the two missile simulators and telemetry pod, a white shape hung from the port underwing pylon. It also looked like a missile, but one without fins or a rocket motor. Its nose was fitted with a clear glass circle, and Tad knelt down to inspect the infrared sensor underneath.
His plan, approved by Sokolowicz, was simple: hug the earth, keeping his radar off while he and his wingman searched the sky with the infrared sensors. With the rest of the squadron yanking and banking at high altitude, two Eagles wouldn’t be noticed until it was too late, until they’d popped up behind an oncoming adversary. It wasn’t standard doctrine, but in air combat it was wise to deviate from doctrine once in a while.
With everything in order, he climbed in and started his preflight checks. A few moments after hooking up his radio leads, he heard “Engines” in his earphones and pressed his starter button, simultaneously waving to the ground crew in the hangar. Even with ear protection, they deserved a little warning.
Four massive jet engines howled to life, raw sound and power reverberating off the hangar walls, and a vertical sliver of bright light widened as the front doors slid open.
“Blue and Green flights, you’re clear to taxi.” The ground controller’s voice sounded bored. Of course, he’d probably seen a thousand similar jets off on a hundred similar missions.
Releasing his brakes, Tad pushed his own throttles forward, just a little more than he normally used for taxiing. The F-15 leapt forward, and as the hangar’s sides fell away, he saw that he’d guessed right. The major was setting a fast pace, with the first two planes of Blue flight already a hundred meters down the taxiway and accelerating. They were cleared directly onto the runway, and they were in the air a minute later, roaring higher into a clear morning sky.
It would be a wonderful fight.
CHAPTER 9
Tidal Race
Outlined by blinking beacons, passenger jets orbited slowly through Berlin’s gray, overcast skies — conserving fuel while traffic controllers held Tegel’s main runway open for an unscheduled, priority departure. The planes circled low over a city gripped hard by winter.
Below them, a freezing north wind rippled across the white-capped Tegeler See and whined through trees planted between the lake and the airport. Driven by the wind, snow flurries whirled across concrete runways, spattering against passenger terminals and flat-roofed warehouses. Snowflakes carried far enough south vanished in the black, oily waters of the Hohenzollern Canal.
The wind tugged at camouflage netting rigged over the tanks, personnel carriers, and antiaircraft guns deployed at intervals around Tegel. Some were stationed on the tarmac itself. Other armored vehicles occupied the landscaped grounds of nearby Rehberge Park — their turrets and guns aimed at high-rise apartment buildings and shops lining the field’s eastern fringe.
The airport, like the rest of Germany, was still under martial law.
More white and gray camouflage netting covered military helicopters parked around a maintenance hangar far away from the main terminal building. Their rotors were tied down against the wind. Several were shark-nosed PAH-2 tank killers, a joint French and German design manufactured by the Eurocopter consortium. The rest were troop carriers, UH-1D Hueys built by Dornier for the German Army. The Hueys were starting to show their age, but the ultramodern Eurocopter tilt-rotor troop transports that were supposed to replace them had been delayed by production and budget problems. Despite their country’s professed desire for all-European manufactures, Germany’s airborne troops and commandos were stuck using antiquated, American-designed helicopters. Few of them appreciated the irony in that.
One other thing was certain. None of the soldiers waiting in ranks outside the hangar appreciated being kept out in the cold as an honor guard for dignitaries who were already late. Light gray service tunics, shirts and ties, black trousers, and red berets were no match for winter temperatures.
Three Mercedes sedans drove across the tarmac and pulled up next to the hangar. Weapons rattled as the soldiers presented arms.