Hack steadied his hand on the stick. At least three different transmissions overran each other on the radio. His RWR blared, and he could see a furious geyser of anti-aircraft artillery rising in the sky off his right wing.
He had the missiles beamed, riding away from their Doppler radar in a way that made his airplane invisible to their seeker. In any event, they didn’t seem to be looking for him.
It wasn’t clear from the cacophony in his headset whether the Weasel had launched at the battery or not. Nor was he sure where the Tornado was.
The SAM launcher seemed to be about eight miles to the northwest of his position, which would put it about two, maybe three from the target — damn close when they attacked, within its lethal range.
Depending on how well the Iraqis were trained, it could take them a while to reload the double launcher.
Or not.
Hack looked for the Tornado. It had swept north after its second recon run and should be coming back at him, overhead and to the left.
An English voice broke through the radio static, but Hack couldn’t decipher the words as another excited voice filled the frequency, an F-16 pilot screaming that he was being targeted in another encounter far from here. The voice burst loud, then cleared, as if it were a figment of his imagination.
“Splash One is zero-eight from Splashdown,” said the pilot of the lead helicopter, apparently unaware of what had happened. “Sister Sadie, what’s our sitrep?”
As if in answer, a large gray cloud blossomed in the northwest sky. An orange dot pricked through the gray, then disappeared.
“I’m hit,” said the RAF pilot a few seconds later. “Wing damage.”
“Splash One and Two, hold your positions,” ordered Hack. “Sister Sadie, give your position.”
Preston heard only the hard pull of his own breath. Hack glanced at his warning radar — clean. Nudging his stick gently to the right, he rode the Hog in the direction of the Tornado.
And the Rolands.
“Sister Sadie, repeat.”
A garbled tangle of words answered him; Hack deciphered “hit” but nothing else.
“I can see him,” said Doberman in Devil Three. He gave a heading and then his own position — Glenon was at least three miles further north than he should have been.
“Watch yourself,” answered Hack.
“I’m on you,” said Doberman, obviously in contact with the RAF plane, though Hack couldn’t pick up the British pilot’s response.
“You’re hit bad,” said Doberman. “Bail.”
Hack tried hailing Sister Sadie on the Emergency Guard frequency, but got no response.
“Missile away,” said a distant voice.
The Weasel, launching on the site.
“What are we doing?” asked A-Bomb. The last part of his transmission was overrun by the F-16 flight again.
“I need radio silence here,” barked Hack. “Devil Three, stay with him. Two, you’re on my back.”
Preston slid southward, trying to psych out where exactly the Tornado pilot would go out. The assault team was behind him and on his left; the Tornado, Doberman and his wingman ought to be crossing straight ahead.
“What’s going on?” asked Splash One.
“Hold your position,” Hack told him. “Repeat, all Splash aircraft, hold your positions.”
And shut the hell up, he wanted to add.
A brown and red stone shot into his windscreen, a meteor tossed down from space. Hack jerked back reflexively before realizing it was the Tornado, several miles off.
He’d never seen a plane on fire before. It didn’t seem to be a plane at all. It didn’t seem real.
Doberman and his wingman were lower, much lower, tracking southward behind the stricken plane.
What the hell had Doberman been doing so far north?
“Bail out, Sister Sadie! Bail out!” Hack said, pushing the mike button.
“Rolands are still hot. They’re gunning for you, Doberman!” said A-Bomb over the squadron frequency.
“Fuck them,” said Doberman.
Hack’s RWR lit up, warning of a fresh salvo of anti-aircraft missiles. Where the hell was that Weasel and his SAM killers?
CHAPTER 14
Doberman cursed as a fresh wave of turbulence buffeted his wings, shaking the Hog so hard, his head nearly hit the canopy despite his snugged restraints.
The Iraqis had launched two more missiles; maybe at the Tornado and maybe at him or his wingman.
“Chaff and go lower,” he told Gunny in Devil Four, hoping his wingman had the good sense to take evasive maneuvers and not hang on him as he continued to track the stricken RAF plane. “Sister Sadie, if you’re getting out, now’s the time to go.”
The British pilot said something in return, but static swallowed his words. The rear quarter of the plane was engulfed in flames, and yet it flew on seemingly untroubled by the massive damage, picking up speed as it flashed over Doberman.
“Don’t they have ejection seats in those fucking planes!” Doberman shouted.
The red flames were replaced by a large, hairy spider that grew in an instant and disappeared. Doberman cursed, then yanked his plane hard to left, pushing out electronic tinsel in case the Rolands were still behind him.
Which they were.
The Roland was designed as a medium-range surface-to-air system, intended to work as part of a more comprehensive antiair net, but nasty enough on its own. One of the things that made it particularly difficult to defeat was its ability to track very-low-flying objects; once the missile attached itself to your back, it could trail you even below fifty feet.
Glenon knew that, but hitting the deck was his only defense — the missile was several times faster than the Hog, hard to fool with tinsel, and couldn’t be defeated by the primitive ECM pod slung beneath the A-10’s wing. Doberman and his wingman had only one thing going for them: They were flying Hogs. They slashed across the terrain, throwing out electronic tinsel as they cut, hoping the missile would grab for the electronic ghosts or at least hesitate enough for the Hogs to get away.
Doberman pushed his nose into the dirt, braving the buffeting wind as he ran less than thirty feet from the desert floor. And he urged the missiles onto his back — no way could he live with himself if they took out Gunny.
The warning gear snapped clear. Either he’d ducked the missiles or they were about to crunch his tailfins.
Doberman pulled back on the stick, taking a half breath as he twisted his head, searching for his wingman. A tree of smoke filled the left quarter of his canopy — one of the Rolands had exploded on the ground. Glenon jerked his attention to the other side, and spotted a dark green hulk running off his right wing, almost behind him, flying so low he thought for a second it was a truck.
“You okay, Four?”
“They tell me I am,” said his wingman. “Six is clean. Rolands went off course and splashed in the grass.Weasel says he got ‘em, but I want pictures.”
“You’re starting to sound like A-Bomb.”
“Aw shucks. I’m blushing.”
“Three.” Doberman pushed the Hog’s nose up, trying to puzzle out where he was.
“Devil Three, acknowledge,” said Preston, his voice blurring into static as the rest of his transmission was lost.
“Three. Didn’t hear a word you said, Hack.”
“Are you okay?”
“We’re fine.” Doberman snapped his finger off the transmit button. What did the fuckhead think? Just because he wasn’t flying a fast-mover he couldn’t duck SAMs?