He wanted to execute the same plan, but Hawk Four was having trouble with the MiG it was assigned to nail. The Yemen pilot turned toward the Flighthawk’s path before Hawk Four was in range to fire, and the computer changed its attack pattern. It managed a few shots as the two planes passed, the MiG heading farther west. By the time Hawk Four came around and got on the Yemeni plane’s tail, it had launched a pair of R-27R radar missiles—not at the Flighthawk, but at the Megafortress guiding her.
Starship blocked out the sounds of the crew responding in his headset, taking control of Hawk Four himself to press 348
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the attack. Anticipating that the MiG would try to run home, he cut back north, slamming the throttle—and sure enough, the MiG swept back, accelerating so fast that even though he’d expected it, Starship nearly missed the shot.
Nearly wasn’t good enough for the MiG driver, though—Starship punched two dozen slugs through the rear engine housing, crippling the aircraft as surely as a knife slicing a horse’s knee tendons. The pilot bailed a few seconds later.
Starship turned back north, trying to get into position to take the run on the second element of Yemen aircraft. But Hawk Three was now too far ahead to pull the same maneuver; he had to settle for what they called Train Attack One—one ship in a deep trail, reacting to whatever was left after the lead aircraft made its attack. He jumped into Hawk Three just as the computer closed in for the kill; he got a red in the target screen and pressed the trigger. The computer was too optimistic—his bullets trailed downward, and the MiG
jinked hard to Starship’s right. This element of aircraft was flying parallel, and Starship flew through without another shot. He banked to get behind the flight, turning as sharply as he could, the small plane recording more than eight g’s on her air frame.
Flown by the computer, Hawk Four lined up for a head-on shot at the easternmost MiG, which hadn’t changed course. Starship let the computer hold onto the Flighthawk and angled toward the other plane, which had begun to dive to the west.
“Hawk Three, we’re going to take those MiGs out with missiles,” said Breanna. “We have another group of four MiGs taking off from Yemen. Meet them.”
“Hawk Four is engaging,” said Starship.
“Pull off,” said Breanna.
“Roger that,” he said reluctantly, overriding the computer.
BREANNA WAITED UNTIL SPIDERMAN GOT A LOCK ON THE SECond aircraft to give the order to fire. The AMRAAM-pluses SATAN’S TAIL
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clunked off the launcher, whipping forward from beneath the Megafortress’s belly.
“Close it up,” she told her copilot.
“They’re locking—launching the Alamos.”
“ECMs.”
“Jesus, Captain, they’re scrambling their whole air force,”
said Telly. “I have that group of four MiG-29s, and now two MiG-21s, four MiG-21s coming out of the north. They’re going for broke.”
“So are we.”
STARSHIP HAD HIS PICK OF TARGETS—FOUR MIG-29S AND
six MiG-21s had joined the playing field. The MiG-29s were more serious threats to the Megafortress, and closer besides—he set the two Flighthawks up for a run at their front quarters from the east. This time the attack was a no-brainer, with the enemy planes spread out at easy intervals.
Despite the two earlier encounters, they were unaware of the Flighthawks and took no evasive maneuvers as Starship approached.
The cockpit of one of the MiGs materialized in the center of his firing screen, the image complete with the bobbing head of the pilot. Starship hesitated—it seemed inhumane for some reason to target the man flying the plane rather than the metal itself—but then squeezed the trigger. The rain of lead flowed across the aircraft for perhaps two whole seconds, twice as long as the Flighthawk’s cannon needed to obliterate the Russian-built machine.
A second aircraft appeared almost immediately. Starting to ride the adrenaline high of the encounter, Starship fired even though the gear showed he didn’t have a shot. He scolded himself and turned right, just in time to witness the computer’s first score of the night with Hawk Four—a screaming attack from above that tore off the right wing of one of the MiGs.
As Starship hunted for his own target, he got a warning from the radar warning receiver—one of the MiGs had man-
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aged to turn and was on his tail. He pulled the MiG with him in a dive and then a tuck to the right, weaving back to the left and then pulling up with a twist to the left. The MiG hung with the smaller plane, very close to its tail but not quite lined up for a shot. Sweat rode down Starship’s back as he ducked left then right, then left again. The Flighthawk flicked in the sky, changing course so sharply that a live pilot would have been knocked senseless by the heavy g’s. Finally the MiG shot past. Starship waited a second for his wings to steady, then zeroed out his opponent with a steady burst.
As the plane exploded, a second fighter came into view; Starship immediately turned to close for an attack. But he’d lost so much airspeed already that he got a stall warning—it was a wonder, between his maneuvers and the effect of the cannon, that he wasn’t moving backward. Feeling cocky, he slammed his wing down and circled in the direction he figured the MiG would take. The Flighthawk moved sideways and down, more brick than anything approaching a controllable aircraft. Part of it was luck, but Starship managed to put the Flighthawk on the tail of the MiG and begin firing.
He was too flatfooted to get more than a few bullets into the other aircraft, and when the MiG pulled away, he had to let it go.
He turned to check the sitrep screen to reorient himself when he got a warning buzzer from C3—he was low on fuel.
Very low—ten minutes.
“MiG-21s are moving to engage us,” Spiderman told him.
“Eight of them. They’re five minutes from missile range.”
“I need to gas up,” Starship said. “Both planes.”
“This isn’t a good time,” Breanna told him.
“It’s a lousy time,” said Starship. “But I’m almost bone dry.”
“We’re being tracked by a surface radar,” added Spiderman. “SAMs—we’re spiked! They’re firing!”
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Aboard the Abner Read
0030
“HIT ON SONAR CONTACT ONE!” SAID WEAPONS, RELAYING
the news that one of their torpedoes had struck the Libyan submarine.
“It’s about time,” said Storm. “Eyes—status of that submarine?”
“Still trying to determine, sir.”
“Weapons—torpedoes five and six?”
“En route and true.”
Hallelujah, thought Storm.
“The submarine is dead in the water,” said Eyes.
“Time to impact on torpedo five is three minutes,” said Peanut. “Six is right behind.”
“Stay on him.”
“I’m trying, Storm,” said the executive officer. Storm detected some of his pique at being bypassed creeping into his voice but didn’t comment on it; he’d take care of the man later on, reward him for his patience.
He’d reward all the crew members—best damn crew in the Navy, bar none.
Storm turned his attention to the rest of the battle. All of the vessels coming from the targeted base area had been struck, but there were other ships in the vicinity, which he guessed must be part of the pirate fleet. They would have to neutralize as many as they could.
His move against the submarine had taken him in the direction of three ships identified as small patrol boats by the Megafortress; these were heading out from the coastline to his west about eight miles away. Shark Boat Two had engaged a similar-sized craft three miles beyond them. Storm decided that since the Abner Read was already headed in that direction and the land objective had been secured, they would cut off the three patrol craft and stand by to render assistance to the Shark Boat. He told Bastian to remain over at the pirate camp, supporting the landing team and Shark Boat One.