He pulled the Hornet into a hard turn, held it for two seconds, then cut back in the opposite direction and slammed the afterburners in. The Hornet cut hard arcs in the sky, dancing through the SAM site airspace like a running back. A low hill off to his left — he remembered it from the briefing. A quick visual told him what he needed to know, that it was probably large enough to shield him from the site if he could get behind it.
But where was the IP? Could he maneuver that far off the ingress route and still get ordnance on target?
Like he had any choice. If he didn’t find some cover from the SAM site, his ordnance would still be on his wings when he hit the ground nose first.
He porpoised up two hundred feet, then back down, cutting back and forth as he changed altitudes, careful not to fall into a rhythm with it. Two more seconds — if he could just get a few more knots of speed, he might just…
The ESM warning system screamed that he was out of time. Missile launch… and Thor was the closest target.
Thor dove for the deck, pulling up just fifty feet above the ground. He’d traded his altitude for speed and distance, but the ground now posed almost as much of a threat as the missile. He kept his eyes glued to the earth racing by below him. At least this far out from civilization there weren’t any telephone wires or gondola cables to run into.
Wait for it, wait for it — now! Thor toggled off two chaff canisters and three flares, hoping to sucker the missile in. If it were IR or dumb homing radar, it might go for it.
Another second. He pulled up, trying to avoid the missile’s path but desperate for some altitude. He needed another fifty feet to clear the hill unless he wanted to go around, and he didn’t think he had time for the scenic route. Whoever was at the controls at the SAM site already had one Hornet to his credit — Thor wasn’t going to let him make it two. Besides, there was a little matter of payback for Murphy.
The missile symbol was sprinting across his heads-up display, homing in on the hard metallic target that his aircraft represented to most targeting systems. Just as it reached the point at which he’d ejected the chaff and flares, Thor cut hard to the right, rolling the Hornet into right angles with the ground. He circled back around now heading one hundred and eighty degrees off his previous course.
He could see it now, the real missile instead of just the radar paint on his HUD. It was coming for him at an impossible speed, too fast and too hard to evade. There was no time, no more at all. He jerked the Hornet up and away from the chaff and flares and waited.
A hard buffet rocked the Hornet as the missile took the decoys, the noise drowned out by the scream of his engines.
Bingo. Fire and black smoke scarred the sky, and a few small pieces of flaming chaff shot out from the main fireball. Thor turned hard back to his base course heading to avoid FODing his engine and headed for the hill.
Two seconds later, he topped the summit of the low, rounded him and dove down. The ESM warning cut out as the earth shielded him from the radar waves saturating the air.
How far off course and time was he? He made a hasty mental calculation, popping up briefly from behind the hill to take a visual on the rest of the strike. Forewarned by the destruction of Buddy’s Hornet, a Prowler had toggled off a HARM missile at the radar. The HARM sucked down radar waves, following them back to their sources before detonating, and was the weapon of choice against a radar or SAM site.
The rest of the strike was scattered along the ingress route, still maintaining their precision spacing but dispersed along the straight-line course they’d planned on. They were regrouping quickly, though. Part of every standard navy preflight briefing was to expect the unexpected.
The hill that housed the disguised SAM site exploded into an inferno of smoke, flames and shattered foliage. The fire spread down from the crest, pumping heavy black smoke into the air and degrading visibility.
“Strike leader, Devil Dog 220,” Thor said over the common circuit. In a few words, he outlined his position. “I saw a chute, repeat, had visual on a chute. Request permission to rejoin in tail position on third wave.”
“Negative, Devil Dog 220,” the accented voice of the Greek Tomcat strike leader came back. “RTB at this time.”
RTB? Now why the hell should I turn tail and return to base when I’ve still got weapons on the wings? If anything, he ought to order me to orbit overhead Buddy until SAR gets in. But I’m not hearing anything on his PRC and I saw the chute streaming. This is fucked, totally fucked.
“Strike leader, nothing heard. Out.” Thor clicked the mike off, hoping that the American leading the third wave had heard him and got the message. He wasn’t landing wings heavy, no way. And if the Greeks didn’t like it, they could kiss his scarlet and gold ass.
Thor pulled out from behind the hill and vectored in on the last incoming wave. He maintained separation, but caught a wave of welcome from the third wave leader. He gained altitude to maintain separate then turned back in behind the last Tomcat, easing into station as though it were part of the briefed strike plan.
The ground thundered past below, mostly clumps of trees and fields. There was no sign of human structures past a few shacks clearly intended for occasional use. He debated turning back on the radio, but decided that he might as well continue to experience “radio difficulties” until after he’d made a few Macedonians rue the day they’d ever even thought about such things as SAM sites. For Buddy — this one was going in hot and sweet for his wingman. And if he couldn’t hear anyone ordering him back to base, well, then how could he be accused of disobeying an order? It was always better to ask forgiveness rather than permission.
Pamela watched the second Hornet spoof the missile shot then dart behind a hill. There was no sign that he was bugging out — another wave, then, and maybe — yes, there it was. The missile shot hard and true through the air and found its target. Seconds later, another strike wave loomed on the horizon.
The pilot, the one that had ejected. Where the hell’s the SAR? They never fly a mission without it. Someone will be coming.
But when?
She started scrambling down the slope, ignoring the inbound strike aircraft and Xerxes’s protests. Maybe if she got to him in time… he could bleed out before a rescue helo could get to him, even with the SAM site destroyed. It might make a difference — maybe just enough of a difference for the man to survive.
Or the woman. The Marines were now letting women fly close air support in their Hornets.
Where had she seen him? Over to the left a little, right near that taller clump of trees. She remembered seeing a shack — goatherder or something — nearby. She got her bearings, changed course slightly and headed into the hills.
Xerxes caught up with her easily and snagged her by the elbow. She tried to jerk away, but it was as though he were planted in the ground on which he stood. “You’re not going there,” he said, stating it as a fact. “It is too dangerous.”
“There’s a man hurt over there. Maybe dead.”
He pulled her back toward their earlier location. “Perhaps. We’ll find him eventually.”
“Listen, you can’t do this. What if we can do something to save him? We’ve got to try — we can’t just leave him there.” She was panting now, twisting and pulling and trying to break the iron grip on her elbow. “Let me go, dammit.”
“This isn’t your fight.”
“He’s an American, you ass. If he were one of yours, would you leave him there? And if you would, what makes you any better than the Greeks?”