“Understood.”
It seemed the game was up. The Americans weren’t likely to send in another jet with a camera over Sebaco. Next time they’d send in bombers. One aircraft carrier loaded with F/A-18 fighter-bombers, or one B-52 like the Old Dog he destroyed in Nevada, could devastate Nicaragua’s whole defense network and waste Sebaco. Should he fly his plane back to Sebaco — or to Nicaragua for that matter?
Maraklov initiated a computer database search for all available runways within DreamStar’s current safe-endurance range. Possibilities — Belize, Costa Rica, offshore islands belonging to Colombia. All had isolated runways along with possible nearby sources of fuel.
The Americans, it now seemed, were out to destroy DreamStar if that was the only way to keep it from escaping, and the Russians seemed incapable of stopping them. Why shouldn’t he take charge of defending his aircraft? Besides, maybe if no one knew where DreamStar was he’d have a better chance of getting it to Russia …
… or anywhere else. He tried to be practical, not sentimental. DreamStar was a commodity, wasn’t it? A bargaining chip. If he was so worried about what would happen to him in the Soviet Union, maybe the Soviet Union wasn’t where he should be. The Americans, Elliott and the rest, would pay a stiff price to have DreamStar back, enough for Maraklov to live like a … like an American—
The warnings carne in rapid succession. Aware that he hadn’t scanned the skies for a few minutes, Maraklov commanded a two-second spherical sweep of the skies, and instantly an aircraft was detected directly beneath them, climbing right toward them at terrific speed.
“Warning, target beneath us …” But at that same moment the MISSILE LAUNCH warning sounded — a radar-guided missile was in the air. “Escort Four, break away; bogey at your five o’clock low—”
Escort Four ejected chaff, rolled inverted and began a steep dive toward the ocean, but with the combat damage he had taken in the dogfight he could not maneuver fast enough. The Scorpion missile plowed directly into the center of the canopy, and the last MiG-29 fighter exploded and crashed into the sea.
DreamStar had no chaff or electronic countermeasures, but it had maneuverability that equaled the Scorpion missile. Maraklov turned DreamStar as hard as he could directly for the F-16 that had appeared out of nowhere. He found himself eyeball-to-eyeball with the Scorpion missile itself, seconds before impact.
The plan had worked, nearly to perfection, Berry had said to himself. It was obvious why the XF-34 could defeat them so easy — if he had access to the AWACS’s data he could see the attack coming and plan against it. So Berry had decided to disappear from the AWACS scope — shut off the IFF and the data transceivers and drop down low enough to the ocean that his radar blip would be surrounded by clutter from the ocean. It was easy for him to approach the Russian aircraft unseen from sea level, climb directly underneath them, designate both fighters on his attack computer and launch his two AIM-120 Scorpion missiles at the Russians.
The first fighter went down with near-textbook precision, but something must have gone wrong with the second AMRAAM. It was running hot and true right on target, but the missile’s plume passed by the XF-34 without even a proximity explosion. Berry flipped on his IFF and data-link transceiver.
“Barrier, this is Five-Nine; splash one MiG.”
“Five-Nine, this is Barrier Control … Roger …” came the confused voice of the surprised AWACS controller. “Do you need a vector?”
“Berry, where the hell are you?” Duncan called out, interrupting the controller.
“Head to head with that stolen fighter,” Berry said. “He’s mine.” The data-link image of the last fighter seemed to hover in front of him — his velocity had decreased to less than three hundred knots. Berry selected an AIM-132 missile and centered the line-of-sight infrared aiming-reticle on the target. This was easy. The reticle eased into place, and the missile’s computer reported a lock-on—
But Berry did not notice the range rapidly decreasing until it was much too late. DreamStar bad heeled sharply downward to avoid the Scorpion missile attack; the maneuver had been so fast that it appeared that the fighter had stopped all forward motion. The only warning Berry had was the rapidly growing black spot under the reticle and the sudden SHOOT indication on the heads-up display, but by the time his right thumb had pressed the weapon-release button, DreamStar had cut loose with its cannon in a Mach-one gun-pass. The twenty-millimeter shells missed the cockpit but tore into the fuselage and engine compartment. FIRE and EJECT lights snapped on as the cockpit filled with smoke. Berry clawed for the ejection handle just as the first rolling waves of fire hit the fuel tanks.
“Emergency locator-beacon coming from Five-Nine’s last plotted position,” the controller reported. Elliott could hear the faint clicks of the intercom as the controller relayed position-data to Communications, which would relay them to the tilt-rotor CV-22 Osprey search-and-rescue aircraft out of Guantanamo Naval Base and Puerto Rico.
“Dragon Five-Seven looks like he’ll make it, sir,” the controller reported. “He’s approaching the initial approach-fix for landing at Georgetown.”
“Dragon Six-Zero flight of three will be on station in ten minutes,” a third controller reported. “Do you want them on a high CAP?”
Elliott had kept silent ever since the third F-16 got hit. He could do nothing but watch DreamStar head south with the stricken Ilyushin transport.
“Soviet aircraft moving out of range,” Marsch, the AWACS commander, reported from his console. “Shall I reposition to maintain contact?” No reply — Elliott closed his eyes as the computer data block that read “XF-34 USSR” froze on the edge of the screen while it cruised out of range. “Sir?”
“I heard you, Colonel,” Elliott said. “I heard you. We will stay on station over Five-Nine’s locator beacon until the Osprey picks him up. Bring the tanker south and arrange a refueling for us if we need it. Arrange a refueling with Dragon Six-Zero flight, and have them stay with us until we withdraw from the area.”
“Are you going to pursue the XF-34 any further, sir?” Marsch pressed, his own anger rising. “We’ve got three more fighters on the way, plus three more on the ground — maybe you can waste the entire squadron this morning. Like the commercials used to say—’we do more by nine A.M. than most people do all day…”
“Knock it off, Colonel,” Elliott said, too tired to react to Marsch’s heavy sarcasm. “If you’re looking to get yourself busted … oh hell, we’ve got a pilot in the water — I want you to make sure he gets picked up ASAP. Okay?”
“May I remind the general, we’ve got pilots in little pieces in the water,” Marsch said. “We got three pilots killed, sent up against known superior forces. For what? One lousy fighter already in Soviet hands?”
“You just worry about getting that pilot out of the water, Colonel.”
Marsch glared at Elliott, but turned to his interphone to give the orders. Elliott slumped in his high-backed seat overlooking the master consoles. Any other thoughts except the images of five out of six F-16s damaged or destroyed and three out of six pilots dead was all but impossible. True, they had exposed the true intentions of the Soviets, but at a shocking cost. Now the decision had to be made — what were they going to do about it? DreamStar may have been headed back for Nicaragua, but it was certainly not going to stay there for long. It might just refuel, arrange for another escort and try again — with the U.S. air task-force decimated by fifty percent it now had a much better chance of making it.