“Rainbow two showing impact,” Atkins reported. The green search radar indication on Carter’s laser-projection cockpit display had disappeared — the Tacit Rainbow missile had destroyed the Cuyali radar site, the last large-scale search radar system before Sebaco.
“Coming up on the initial point, crew,” Alicia Kellerman announced. They were deep within the Rio Tuma river valley, which snaked out of the Cordillera Dariense mountains north of Managua and fed Managua Lake. Their initial point was, of all places, the town of Los Angeles thirty miles upriver from Sebaco.
“Bomb run briefing, crew,” Paul Scott, the radar navigator, began, “we’ll be approaching Sebaco from the northeast on the military crest of the river valley. There’s one SA-10 site on the top of Iinotega Mountain at our one o’clock position, but according to Powell and McLanahan in Cheetah it’s a mobile site.”
“The system can use infrared to acquire its targets,” Atkins chimed in. “Even though it needs radar for guidance they can launch on IR azimuth commands and then go to guidance uplink once the missile is in flight. We could see a snap-launch profile, where all we get on the threat-warning receivers is a MISSILE LAUNCH warning — we won’t get a symbol or MISSILE WARNING.” Carter was relieved to hear Atkins back on top of his game — he was pretty shook after their first encounter with the SA-15.
“Our last hazard on the run is the town of Matagalpa, where some Soviet troops could be garrisoned. Watch out for triple-A radars. SA-14 or SA-7 shoulder-fired missiles may also be a factor but if we stay low and fast we should be able to beat an SA-14.
“We’ll approach Sebaco from the southeast side of the base. Powell and McLanahan saw one antiaircraft artillery battery on each end of the runway — it’ll be worth lobbing a HARM or even a Striker in there if it engages us. They also saw helicopter gunships on the base. These can carry air-to-air heat-seeking missiles too. Our targets are the three hangars on the southwest side of the base and the underground headquarters building three hundred yards southeast from the hangars. The hangars are primary. We’ll also drop the CBU cluster-bomb units on the runway and the taxiway-parking ramp area, with emphasis on destroying any aircraft. If the defenses are minimal, we can make a circle to the north or northeast and come around for another pass. After the attack, we beat feet to the northeast, terrain-follow in the Cordillera Isabella mountains, and exit along the Honduran border. If we’re drowned and each module crew gets separated, evade north or northwest toward Honduras and get a ride to Tegucigalpa. We’ve all been briefed on the pick-up points in Nicaragua where we can maybe get assistance from Contadora sympathizers. We’re using channel Charlie on the survival radios.”
They had time to prebrief the details of the mission and talk about their recommended actions in case they were shot down or somehow separated, but it was much different this time — they were actually over hostile territory, surrounded by the military forces of two nations. It had suddenly all become very real.
“J-band search radar at six o’clock,” Atkins called out. “Batwing symbol — there’s a fighter up there looking for us.”
“I. P. inbound, crew,” Kellerman said. The Megafortress made a slight left turn, hugging the side of the rugged, tree-covered mountains.
Suddenly a green mushroom-shaped dome appeared briefly on Carter’s windscreen. “Warning; search radar, twelve o’clock.” “We’ve got something out ahead of us,” Carter called out.
“Looks like triple-A,” Atkins said, studying his threat receiver. The computer confirmed it seconds later by drawing a tiny gun-icon underneath the green mushroom. “I’ve got a HARM aligning against it.” Just then, the mushroom turned yellow.
“Warning; threat radar tracking, twelve o ‘clock.”
“Should we go around it?” Carter asked.
“No room,” Cheshire said. “We’d have to climb five thousand feet to clear these mountains.”
“Descend and accelerate,” Atkins said. “Stand by for missile launch … now.”
The yellow BAY DOORS OPEN light came on. “Caution; bomb doors open. warning; HARM missile launch command …; missile launch …; bomb doors closed.”
“Missile away.” The one-thousand-pound HARM missile was a yellow streak as it roared away into the darkness. Seconds later there was a splash of fire on the horizon and the glow of flames. The yellow mushroom was gone.
“Warning; airborne threat radar, six o’clock.”
Karbayjal activated his fire-control radar and slaved it to the threat receiver so the beam from the tail-mounted tracking radar would look in the exact direction of the threat. The readout he got made him yell into his oxygen visor. “Fighter at six o’clock, five miles, descending rapidly.” He hit the voice-command button on his armrest. “Radar lock. Airmine launch one. Launch two. Launch three.”
A warning tone sounded on interphone, followed by the hard, short thuds of the Stinger airmine rockets being shot away. “Radar lock automatic … warning; launch command issued … airmine launch … launch two … launch three.”
But moments later the fighter was still coming — all three air-mine rockets had missed. “He’s still coming. Prepare for infrared missile attack,” Karbayjal called out. “Two miles … one mile … — break left now.”
Carter yanked the Megafortress into a hard left turn. The terrain-following computer immediately commanded a climb to allow for terrain clearance. At the same time Karbayjal punched two flares and chaff out the right side ejectors.
“One mile … half mile … he’s still coming.” Nothing was decoying this guy — chaff, flares, jammers, even airmine rockets …
The fire-control radar tracked the fighter as it flew closer and closer, but a few seconds later the reason for its daringly close pass became obvious as Karbayjal watched the fighter’s altitude wind down lower and lower until it finally read zero.
“He crashed,” Karbayjal called out. “He—”
Suddenly they heard on the scrambled discrete strike frequency, “Dog Two, this is Storm Two. Your tail’s clear.”
“Powell. McLanahan.” Cheshire shouted the names. “Way to go.”
Carter let out his breath. He tasted blood and found he had bit his lower lip almost all the way through. As he steered the Megafortress back on course he opened the radio channel. “Thanks, guys.”
J.C. raised Cheetah’s nose until he was level with the tops of the tree-covered mountains, making several tight turns left and right to clear behind them, searching for a second fighter. McLanahan, his night-vision visor lowered, searched the sky behind the F-15. “Clear visually, clear on the threat receiver,” he said.
“That MiG pilot had balls,” J.C. said. “Diving down from twenty-thousand feet like that, it could have paid off for him.”
“But where’s his buddies?” McLanahan asked.
J.C. climbed another five-thousand feet, well above the mountains, and continued his clearing turns. He used the radar sparingly, relying more on the infrared-laser scanner to avoid telltale electronic emissions that could give away their location. “Nothing. One MiG working alone? Unusual.”
“They’re not up here,” McLanahan said. “That means they’ve got to be on the deck, flying down that same river valley as the Old Dog. We either use the radar to look for them …”
“Or we go down into the valley ourselves and dig ‘em out,” J.C. said. “I was afraid you’d say that.” Powell lowered the nose once more, plunging Cheetah back into the jungle abyss below.