Armageddon

Mack held to his course to the last possible second, then pulled sharply on the stick, sending the EB-52 into a controlled skid across the sky in front of the two Sukhois.

“Where are we? Our territory or theirs?” he said as gravity slapped his head and chest back against the ejection seat.

“Ours!” managed Jalan.

“Stinger:’ Mack told the computer. “Track one.”

“Target tracked. Target locked,” replied the computer. A bracket had appeared on his HUD, boxing the lead Sukhoi.

“Fire.”

Six airmines flashed from the rear of the Megafortress. The airmines were essentially unaimed canisters of metal shards which exploded behind the rear of the Megafortress, producing a cloud of engine-killing shrapnel. The Malaysian jets, belatedly realizing they were in trouble, dove violently away, then escaped to the north. The computer recorded a minor hit on its target, but not enough to take it down.

“They dropped their bombs in the jungle:’ said Deci. “They definitely missed the border post—they may have landed on in their side of the border.”

“Great,’ said Mack, wrestling his wings level and preparing for the inevitable counterattack. “ECMs. Full suite—play every song in the jukebox.”

The Sukhois’ weapons radars tried desperately to poke through the electronic fuzz kicked out by the Megafortress’s countermeasures. The radar warning detector indicated that the planes were carrying R-27Rs, known to NATO as AA-I0 Alamo-As. These were radar-guided anti-air missiles, efficient killers but easily confused by the Megafortress. One of the Malaysian pilots fired anyway; the ECMs blew out its brain circuitry and sent it sailing off to the west.

Mack cut sharply east then back south, and found himself head-on toward the two jets, only two thousand feet above them and separated by roughly five miles. The position in theory favored the interceptors, who could easily turn and get behind him, where they would be in a good position to fire heat-seeking missiles.

It was what Mack wanted them to do; he intended on suckering one close enough to dish out the airmines as he used flares to knock out the heat-seekers. But they didn’t play along. Instead, one aircraft broke east and began to climb, possibly trying to position himself for a front-quarter attack from above. The other Sukhoi turned and dropped down on the deck.

If Mack wanted to escape, all he had to do was hold the stick steady. But instead he put his wing down, intending at first to tack back west; just as he started to turn he came up with a better idea and rolled the plane into a loop to change direction.

It would have been a great idea if he had been flying an F-22 or F-15, much smaller planes designed to challenge Newton’s laws with some regularity. The Megafortress reacted by pushing her nose sideways and drooping her Y-shaped  tail. The spine of the aircraft began to bend, and the computer belatedly screamed at its pilot for exceeding all reasonable bounds of stress and strain. Mack could feel the pressure himself—his head felt as if it were being pummeled from every direction. He managed to. get the aircraft upright and straighten her wings—just in time to narrowly miss getting clipped by the thoroughly confused Sukhoi pilot, who sailed over his wing.

“Stinger. Track one. Fire when locked.”

“Target tracked. Target locked,” replied the computer. “Firing.”

Mack had no time to check this barrage—the second Sukhoi was diving on his tail from four miles.

“Minister—”

“I see him, Jalan. Relax. Stinger. Track.” Mack pointed at the touchscreen where the plane was painted by the EB-52’s radar.

The computer replied that it was out of range.

“Stay with him, baby,” Mack said.

The computer complained that it did not understand the command.

“Range, three miles,” said Jalan. “He’s launching missiles.”

“Flares,” said Mack calmly.

“Target tracked. Target locked,” said the computer.

“Fire.”

As the airmines dished out behind them, Mack pushed hard on the stick, initiating a series of hard zigs to avoid the missile that had just been launched. It turned out to be u

“Enemy is accelerating north,” said Jalan.

“He’s going to run out of fuel,” said Mack. “Let’s encourage that.” He twisted around to follow.

THE HELICOPTERS WERE SA 330 F PUMAS, FRENCH-MADE military helicopters that could carry sixteen troops as well as weapons to support them. The helicopters were unloading men via ropes as McKe

They were also clearly in Brunei territory.

“Mine’s the one on the right,” she told her wingman. “Shouldn’t we consult with the minister before opening the engagement?” replied Captain Yayasan.

“He’s busy,” said McKe

The first wave of bullets spit downward and to the left of the helicopter. McKe

The helicopter shot upward, jinking back and forth as it tried to get away. McKe

“Dragon Two, how are you coming with that helicopter?” she asked her wingmate, climbing over Malaysian territory. She banked around for another run on the helicopter, figuring it would take one more pass to put it down; the 7.62-millimeter gun in the Dragonfly’s nose was a very light weapon by aircraft standards, and while being on the receiving end was no fun, its bullets did not have the sheer oomph of larger weapons like the twenty-millimeter and thirty-millimeter ca

“Two, what are we doing?” McKe

“Two? Two?” she snapped.

When her wingman still didn’t respond, McKe