Turk didn’t bother acknowledging. The only thing that mattered now were these eight missiles.
A tone sounded in Turk’s headset and his screen’s pipper flashed black — the computer had calculated that the first target was “dead.” There was no time to linger over the kill, or even watch the missile explode; Turk immediately turned to the next course, following the line laid out in his virtual HUD.
By the time the computer reported “Target destroyed,” he was already firing at the nose of the second missile, pushing the plane down at the last instant to keep with the missile’s sudden lurch. The maneuver probably meant that the missile had been sucked off by one of the countermeasures, but Turk was too intent on his mission to break at that moment. Once again he got a kill tone; once again he came to a new course.
He saw Li’s plane out of the corner of his eye. Had she gotten away? Would she?
Tempted to make sure, he started to fire too soon. The computer tacitly scolded him, elevating the course icon and flashing its pipper yellow, indicating he was no longer on target. He willed himself back to course as he continued to fire, pressing the attack until the tone. Then he pushed hard right, looking for the last missile, looking for Li.
He saw her plane, then saw the missile closing.
God, why didn’t I save her instead of Ginella?
The computer set up solutions for the remaining missiles, but all Turk could see was Li’s plane. He turned hard, still with her, then saw something flashing next to her.
By the time he cringed, it had passed. The Hog went on its wing to the left; the missile exploded right.
She was OK. Her ECMs had managed to bluff the missile away.
Turk turned hard to the computer’s suggested course, aiming for the next missile.
27
As far as Danny Freah was concerned, Neil Kharon’s body wasn’t important enough to risk going back for.
It was a cold decision, but one he had no trouble making. There was still sporadic fire in the area, and he had Rubeo and the robots aboard.
“We’ll get him if things calm down,” Danny told Rubeo, kneeling on the deck of the Osprey as the aircraft sped northward. “Zen is working on it.”
“It doesn’t matter, really,” said Rubeo blankly. “It doesn’t really matter.”
“Antiair battery to the east activating radar,” warned the copilot. “Radar — we have a lot of radars. Everything they got.”
Danny got up and grabbed his phone. He was still dialed into Zen’s private line.
“Zen, are you there?”
“I’m here, Danny.”
“We could really use that cease-fire you promised,” he said as the aircraft tucked down toward the ground. They would attempt to bypass the radar by staying close to the earth, where it would have trouble seeing them.
“The defense minister is on the phone with the air force right now,” Zen told him.
“There’s an antiair battery north of us. It—”
“All right, hold on.” Zen said something Danny couldn’t hear, then came back on the line. “Give me a GPS reading.”
“Every goddamn radar in the country is lighting up,” said Danny. “Get them all.”
Zen didn’t answer. Danny could hear someone speaking sharply on the other side of the line but couldn’t make out what they were saying.
“Radars are turning off,” said the pilot.
Danny waited. Zen came on the line a few minutes later.
“Danny?”
“I’m here. The radars are off. Thanks.”
“Not a problem.”
“What’d you tell him?”
“I said we’d blow them up if they weren’t off in sixty seconds,” said Zen. “I wish every negotiation was that easy.”
28
Thoroughly confused by the electronic countermeasures and now at the far end of their range, the last two missiles blew themselves up several miles from their targets, destroying themselves in a futile hope that their shrapnel might take out something nearby.
Turk pulled the Tigershark higher as he got his bearings. The A–10s were forming up to the north, taking stock and preparing for the flight back home.
All except Shooter One, which was climbing to the east.
At first Turk assumed that Ginella was checking on the tanks, making sure they had been destroyed. He left her, and checked in with Danny, who said they had recovered Rubeo and his gear and were on their way back to Sicily. Then he talked to the air controller, who said frostily that there were no longer any Libyan aircraft in the skies.
“State your intentions,” added the controller, sounding as if he were challenging a potentially hostile aircraft.
“I’m going to escort Whiplash Osprey back to Sicily,” said Turk, setting up a course.
“Acknowledged.”
I bet you’ll be testifying at my court-martial, thought Turk.
He radioed the Osprey pilot. With the Libyan radars now silent, the aircraft was climbing, aiming to get high enough to escape any stray ground fire.
“Stay on your present course and I’ll be with you in zero-five,” said Turk.
The computer estimated he would catch up in two minutes. He checked his instruments, working systematically as he took stock.
The Tigershark had performed well, and according to her indicators was in prime condition, none the worse for having fired more slugs in anger in five minutes than in her entire life.
They could say or do what they wanted about Turk; the aircraft had passed every real-life test thrown at it. As for the Sabres — once whatever had screwed them up was fixed, they too were ready for front-line duty.
He’d proven himself. Whatever he had missed the other day with Grizzly — if he’d missed anything — it wasn’t because he was afraid to fire. He wasn’t a coward or a shirker or anything else.
He was sure he hadn’t missed the weapon. But one way or another, he was sure of his ability to fly and fight.
Turk felt himself start to relax. He tried to resist — it was dangerous to ease up before you landed.
He checked the sitrep map. The French Mirages had shot down one MiG and now, ironically, were helping guide an allied rescue helicopter in. The other government planes had fled south — not to their base, but to Chad.
The pilots were getting out while the getting out was good, Turk thought.
He zoomed the sitrep to check on the Hogs. They had separated. Shooter Two and Three were flying north, heading on a straight line back toward Sicily. Four, meanwhile, was flying west toward Shooter One, which was climbing to the east.
Which seemed odd to Turk.
Given his history with Ginella, he hesitated to ask what was going on. Still, her flight path was almost directly across the Osprey’s.
“Shooter One, this is Tigershark. Wondering if you’re setting up on a threat in Whiplash Osprey’s direction,” he said lightly.
There was no response. Turk tried again.
OK, he thought when she didn’t answer. Be that way. He checked his location; he was about a minute and a half behind the Osprey, catching up fast. Ginella was going to pass just to the north, but would clear the MV–22 by a good distance — she was at 30,000 feet and climbing.
Turk remembered an old joke about the Hogs, to the effect that the pilots climbing to altitude packed a lunch. The new engines took a lot of the punch out of the joke.
He told the Osprey he was coming up on his six. The Osprey pilot asked him what was up with the A–10; there had been no communication from Shooter One.
“I’m adjusting course to the west just to widen the distance,” said the pilot, giving himself an even wider margin for error. “Are you in contact?”