Ten miles due south of Thai — Myanmar border, 35 000 feet
The navigator reconfirmed the airway’s clearance with the flight deck. Lieutenant Pete Crawford wondered if the Thais would be so happy to wave them through if they knew that this little BUFF was not a commercial flight as indicated by the flight plan and transponder emissions.
The B-52 was in position, just inside the maximum range of the joint stand-off weapons cradled under the bomber’s wing. ‘Fly present heading,’ said the navigator sitting on the lower deck. The colonel gave Crawford the nod.
Down on the lower flight deck, the radar navigator confirmed that the azimuth, elevation and coordinates downloaded into the missiles’ systems prior to takeoff tallied with those held on her computers. She keyed in the appropriate strokes and saw that the information was a match. No further advice had been received amending or aborting the mission from either Diego Garcia or a man-in-the-loop down on the ground. A quick scan of the system’s defensive avionics told her that no missile tracking radars had locked on to their aircraft and that electronic countermeasures were therefore unnecessary. The radar navigator knew this would be the case but it paid to stay sharp. She armed the missile, informed the flight deck that a ten-second countdown was in progress, and the JSOW designated number one on her offensive avionics display dropped from its pylon. ‘Fox one,’ she said in a flat, matter-of-fact tone.
As the AGM-154D dropped away from the B-52, its wings flipped out and locked in position, the small turbofan catching as the airflow through its fan blades turned over the compressor unit like a vehicle jumpstarting down a hill. The missile verified its position in relation to the general target area through an onboard GPS integrated with an inertial navigation system. The INS altered the JSOW’s course four degrees to the left, allowing for wind drift, and the aircraft accelerated into a shallow dive.
Sixty seconds later the radar nav announced the departure of the second AGM-154D, ‘Fox one,’ and another sixty seconds after that, a third: ‘Fox one.’
Lieutenant Pete Crawford was intrigued. Here they were up in northern Thailand cruising towards Myanmar and three live JSOWs had just been released. Where were the missiles going? What was their target? All the information fed into the missile systems was coded so not even the radar nav had any real idea. Guesses, yes, but nothing certain. The rumour was that they were in support of a covert Special Forces op aimed at toppling the military regime there. Crawford doubted that. What difference would three little missiles make? He shrugged and let the thought go. ‘We’re just the pizza delivery boy,’ he’d heard the colonel say once. ‘The only difference is, we always deliver hot.’
‘Okay, the sows have been taken to market, so let’s get this little piggy home,’ said Colonel Zeke Chapman. ‘By the way, Pete, you’re doing a fine job. Wake me up on final.’
‘Wilco, sir.’ The whole thing had been too easy, thought Crawford as he watched his commander sit back in his chair and place a fishing magazine over his face. All temps and pressures normal. A walk in the park.
Nam Sa River, Myanmar
‘I must apologise for the rough treatment, but we’re not used to the CIA dropping in,’ said General Trip.
Tadzic, Wilkes and Monroe were lifted off the ground and restrained by more than a dozen heavily armed soldiers. A couple of the men were rummaging through Wilkes’s backpack. They lifted out the satellite vone and the tactical radio beacon, examined them cursorily, then returned them to the pack and passed it to the general.
‘We have a proposition we’d like to discuss with you,’said Monroe, not wanting to delay proceedings unnecessarily.
‘Certainly,’ said the general, his horse now chewing on its bridle. ‘Always happy to thrash out an agreement with the United States of America. Indeed, I’m flattered. Perhaps you’d like to come to my pad? We can sit on the veranda out of the sun and sip something cool.’
‘Thank you, General,’ said Monroe.
‘Please,’ said the general, gesturing at one of the Humvees. He climbed down from his horse, handed the reins to a soldier, and then took a seat in the vehicle — his customary one, up behind the mounted machine gun.
‘First of all, General, we’d like to thank you for agreeing to this meeting,’ said Monroe as the vehicle headed towards the villa barely fifty metres away.
‘Yes, well, I have to admit I was intrigued,’the general said.
‘Do you think I could have my backpack returned?’ asked Wilkes.
‘No need to be impatient, Mr…?’
‘Warrant Officer Wilkes.’
‘Ah, a military man. And by the accent, I’d say Australian. Special Forces, no doubt.’
‘No doubt,’ Wilkes said.
‘I see,’ he said, eyeing Wilkes warily. ‘And you, madam?’
‘AFP.’
‘So, let me get this straight,’ said the general as they pulled up to the sweeping stairs of the absurd villa. ‘CIA, SAS and Australian Federal Police. An interesting cocktail.’
Soldiers, all of whom appeared tense and nervous, surrounded the general’s Humvee. A guard of six escorted Tadzic, Monroe and Wilkes into the house. The general led the way, his fat legs taking small, effeminate steps. Monroe eyed his watch and glanced at Wilkes, who gave a barely perceptible nod.
‘Please sit,’ he said to his guests when they arrived at a balcony overlooking the ornate garden. The guards withdrew when the general gave them a staccato order. ‘Well now, what’s this about?’ he asked, leaning back in his seat.
‘Well, I could say world peace, but I’ll break it down for you further so there’s no misunderstanding,’ said Monroe. ‘Let’s talk about your continued survival.’
‘Ah, I see,’ said the general, frowning. ‘Brave words indeed from a man deep inside — what do you Americans call it? Injun country?’
‘General, you surprise me. You should know we Americans never go anywhere without a big stick.’
The first of the JSOWs arrived in the target area and switched to imaging infrared seeker, comparing the chosen target with the photo stored in its preset memory. The target successfully confirmed by the IIR, it banked steeply left. Four seconds later, half a dozen of the general’s soldiers on patrol gawked as the missile flew past them up the valley floor. Loaded with a BLU-11/B variant of the Mk 82 five hundred pound general-purpose bomb, it slammed into the general’s land-based Phalanx system and turned it instantly into scrap metal.
The sudden massive explosion shook the villa and a fireball rolled skywards from the wall that ringed it. The Phalanx’s munitions then began to cook off, a battery of smaller explosions within the firestorm banging away like lethal popcorn. The general leapt to his feet and shouted something at the soldiers, who rushed pointlessly from other buildings in the compound like ants from a nest poked with a stick.
Wilkes smiled and quietly said, ‘…five, four, three, two…’
Tadzic, better prepared this time, squeezed her hands against her ears.
The second JSOW made its presence known. It was loaded with four anti-armour BLU-108/B sub-munitions that released six projectiles each. With nothing other than the heat signature of the first missile’s hit to zero in on, their impact was concentrated at the fire raging at the base of the thick perimeter wall. Clustered in this small area, their explosively formed shaped charges easily defeated the general’s prized reactive armour and, with a series of earshattering eruptions, created a gaping breach.