“PAF aircraft don’t seem to be going after the Indians,” said Timmy. “What’s up with that?”
Howe guessed that the various aircraft were playing chicken. If the Indians went over the border and used their weapons, the Pakistani Air Force planes would as well.
“Hold on: MiGs, all Indian planes, are turning,” said Timmy. “They were just looking for attention.”
The S-7s remained on course for a minute longer, turning away just shy of the Indian border. So did the F-16s.
This all fit, Howe realized. The Indians had launched a flight that was sure to be picked up. That would not only decoy the Pakistanis but get them used to the idea that the crazy Indians always did this if they happened to find the real attack package a little while later. At the same time they probably knew what the Pakistanis had as reserves: He guessed there would be a window of opportunity as these planes returned to base; the PAF simply wasn’t big enough to keep launching aircraft all night.
If he was right, the helicopters ought to be closing in.
So where were they?
There, right there: 122 miles south, just coming north near the border area east of Gurais.
“Bird One to Cyclops. I have your target approaching the southeast corner of box alpha-alpha-three. Advise me whether you can arrange a shot.”
“Cyclops Two acknowledges contacts,” answered the pilot. “They’re about two minutes from our target area at their present course and speed.” There was a pause. “We’re moving in to set up a better shot.”
Howe hesitated before acknowledging. The closer Cyclops got to the border area, the more vulnerable it became.
The F-15s, not wanting to attract attention, were flying to the northwest but could close the gap in a heartbeat. So could he, for that matter.
One SAM missile — one freak shot from a Pakistani aircraft that thought the lumbering American 767 was an attacker — and he’d have lost his third jet.
Cyclops Two could fend for itself. Nothing could touch it. Nothing.
“Go for it,” he said finally.
Timmy had just turned back east to close the gap between him and Howe when the audible warning on his radar alerted him to fresh contacts: four MiG-27s, much lower to the ground and flying out of the south. They were slewing into a combat trail; this must be the attack package the helicopter attack was going to prepare the way for.
“Bird One, we have four — whoa, wait up, six, eight aircraft. Looks like they’re saddling up for an attack, probably going to follow that helo strike in,” Timmy told Howe.
“One.”
“I can take them down, boss,” Timmy added.
“Negative,” replied Howe. “Keep track of them. If they get close to the border and it looks like they’ll make it through, then we’ll let Cyclops Two nail ’em.”
“Two. Just saying I’m ready if things don’t go according to plan.” Timmy adjusted his course slightly, edging a little southward so that when they swung back to the west, he’d still have the MiGs close enough to take in a quick dash.
It’d be over in about thirty seconds. The basic MiG-27 design dated to the 1960’s; it was essentially a ground-attack version of the MiG-23. The Indians had upgraded the design with avionics that allowed for night and all-weather attacks; they’d also improved the power plant. But it was still a relatively slow aircraft with limited radar — easy pickings for the Velociraptor.
The radar continued to track the eight aircraft, watching them as they slipped into a mountain pass. The HUD hologram had them as small dots that shone through the hulking mountains, as if the plane had X-ray eyes and could see through the rocks. The helicopters, meanwhile, were hugging the valley, approaching the border, and just now entering range for the laser weapon nearly three hundred miles away.
“Stand by for Cyclops firing,” warned Howe.
As Timmy pressed the mike button to acknowledge, a new contact blipped onto the far edge of his tactical screen, a green-hued cluster of mismatched pixels. The computer tagged it as a large, unknown aircraft flying at 45,000 feet, identity unknown. Too slow for a bomber, the plane’s profile was similar to that of the AEW aircraft India had launched earlier — except that it seemed to be flying in from the coast.
“Somebody’s coming to watch the show,” he told Howe. “That one of ours?”
“Unknown,” said Howe. “Probably an airliner.”
They’d briefed the scheduled airliners and routes, and Timmy knew without looking that it wasn’t on the sheet.
“Eyes on the prize,” added Howe before he could point that out. “Cyclops is thirty seconds to target point.”
Howe checked his position, waiting now for the crew on the laser plane to confirm they were ready to fire. It was exactly like the war game exercise they’d run a year ago — except that time was with Megan.
The bitch. He’d strangle her.
Unless she was already dead. Then he’d simply mourn her forever.
“Cyclops Two to Mission Leader,” said the laser plane’s pilot, contacting Howe. “Permission to engage.”
“Engage,” said Howe.
Chapter 11
Captain Jalil checked his watch. They were within five seconds of their schedule — nearly perfect. The operation was moving along as easily as any of the practice runs.
Ideally, he’d find a Pakistani weapon to kill the American with, then take the body back. The story would be easily concocted: They were on a routine patrol, showing the American the dangers, when firing began.
The man would end up being a hero to his people. The irony brought a smile to Jalil’s lips.
Would he feel good when he shot the first Muslim?
Yes. It would feel very, very good.
McIntyre coughed, then worked his tongue toward the back of his mouth. It felt as if something were lodged there, or as if the junction of his throat and mouth had been lined with cardboard — disintegrating cardboard. He coughed again, shook his head.
“Could I have some water?” he asked, looking toward the Indian captain.
He coughed again. The captain hadn’t heard him over the whine of the engines.
“Water?” asked McIntyre, getting up. He had to put his tied hands up against the racks at the top of the cabin area to keep his balance in the helicopter, which danced left and right as it moved through the rugged terrain.
“Water?” he said to Jalil. He tried to clear his throat, holding his Adam’s apple with his fingers.
Jalil looked up at him as if he didn’t understand.
“Water,” said McIntyre. As he let go of the rack to gesture with his hands, he felt his anger building up suddenly. He fought an urge to start pummeling the bastard.
Then he thought to himself: Why not? He’s going to kill me anyway.
“Water,” he said.
Something cracked at the top of the helicopter. McIntyre was thrown sideways as something long and hard smacked the side of his right calf. There was an explosion and a shout behind him, and in the next instant he felt himself tumbling into purgatory.
For one bewildering second, Captain Jalil thought he was six years old again, a child in his village, back on the day when his mother was killed.
Except that this time he was in the house, and the flames were grabbing for his clothes. He tried to beat them back with his hands, fight them off, but they were too fierce.
Escape!he screamed at himself.Escape!