Armageddon

They brought the Megafortress onto the new course heading, still skirting Malaysian territory. Mack checked with his radar operators; with the exception of a commercial flight far to the south, they were the only plane in the air.

“Sixty seconds to Darvel Bay,” noted Jalan.

“All right, boys, this is for keeps now,” said Mack. “I need everybody on their game. We’re going to be over hostile territory for thirty minutes. Ready?”

He spoke to each crew member, more in hopes of giving them a boost than making sure they were ready.

Did it work? Did telling Jalan he was going to “kick butt” make the copilot handle his instrument screens any faster, or make his hand more assured on the stick? Did the radar operators click through their panels quicker?

There was no way of knowing; Mack realized he was going to have to take it on faith that it did help somehow. They took the Megafortress to three thousand feet, enough to see … and be seen.

“Patrol ship is trying to lock on us with his radar,” reported Jalan as they crossed over land. “He’s—we’re out of range.”

Mack concentrated on his course, nudging the stick slightly at their next waypoint, flying on a diagonal toward the mountains at the center of the island. The air in front of him gave no clue of the danger; a few wispy clouds hugged the far side of the mountains but the rest of the sky was clear and bright.

“Anti-aircraft radar operating?’ said Jalan, noting a ZSU-23-4 emplacement off their left wing. This low they were easy targets, but Mack had the element of surprise on his side, and was beyond the flak dealer’s range before it could fire. In the meantime, they mapped the small army base protected by the weapons, finding six helicopters out in the open and possibly more in a hangar. The helicopters, identified as American Hueys or similar civilian models by the computer system, did not appear on any of the force estimates of the Malaysian army. The computer recorded all of the data they collected, allowing it to be analyzed later.

“P-15 Flat Face,” said Jalan, repeating an alert just now flashing onto Mack’s warning screen, accompanied by an audible buzz. “Should I go to ECMs?”

“Hang off a second,” said Mack. “We got a location?”

The radar unit was near Kalabakon, a small city a few miles from the coast.

“Airfield, Mr. Minister!” said one of the operators. “I have it on the video.”

As Mack reached to bring the image onto his screen, the RWR barked out a warning that they were now fat in the target pipper of the missile system co

“ECMs,” said Mack.

Before Jalan could even punch the buttons the Malaysians launched two SA-8 missiles. The missiles had an effective range of roughly sixteen miles, but they had been launched near the edge of that envelope and within seconds the Megafortress had disrupted the ground link, obliterating the I-band guidance radar and persuading the missiles to veer off course.

“Good,” said Mack as the missiles detonated several miles to the south. “Hang on, now—let’s get some close-ups of that airfield, shall we?”

He wheeled the big plane over in the sky and put her nose on a line to the airfield they’d seen, pulling upwards of eight Gs briefly as he twisted in the sky. He felt himself being pushed and pulled by gravity as the plane whipped toward the earth, its momentum shifting abruptly. The Megafortress wasn’t a fighter jet, but damn, she could get out of her own way when she had to.

“ECMs—give ‘em the whole symphony,” said Mack as the warnings sounded again.

There were more SA-8s, as well as anti-aircraft ca

Mack threw the plane left, firing off defensive chaff and flares while Jalan stayed on the ECMs. The SA-8 had been launched “blind,” its radar guidance completely blitzed by the Megafortress’s ECMs. The missile sailed high over the right wing, climbing to forty thousand feet before imploding.

More dangerous were the two missiles with infrared guidance launched just as the Megafortress passed. These were M48A1 Chaparrals—very short-range heat-seekers that were essentially ground-launched versions of the AIM-9D Sidewinder. Mack’s maneuvers had cost him some speed, and one of the missiles ignited less than a hundred yards from his right wing sending a spray of shrapnel into the back of the fuselage. But the damage was minor, and they climbed through the neighboring mountain valley without a problem.

“Did you locate the Su-27s?” Mack asked the radar operator. “Negative,” said the man. “No hangars visible.”

“Well they have to be there somewhere,” said Mack. “All right, one more pass”

This time, Mack went low—very low, as in twenty feet from the ground, covering his approach with a salvo of flares and chaff as well as the active electronic countermeasures. The ground defenders were either confused, out of arrows, or both, and the Megafortress passed unscathed.

They found the hangar, a dug-in bunker on the south side of a hill facing away from the runway, reached by a short dirt road.

“Got to give them points for ingenuity,” he told Jalan. “We’ll work up some sort of attack on the base when we get home. We can drop some of those five-hundred-pound bombs and put a big crater about midway down that runway, and keep them quiet for a while, but we’re going to need air-to-ground missiles to do anything about the hangar.”

“Striking the defenses would also be a good idea,” said the copilot.

“They were pretty inept.”

“They were caught off guard,” said Jalan. “They won’t be next time.”

As they climbed over the mountains in the direction of home, the ops detected a number of Malaysian helicopters flying near the Brunei border to the west, flitting in and out of radar coverage as they skimmed through the mountains. They were undoubtedly supporting guerillas, Mack thought, though he suspected the Malaysians would claim they were fighting them.

The sultan better put the bastards on notice that allies were supposed to help legitimate governments, not homicidal maniacs, Mack thought. He had the computer calculate a flight path to the area where the helicopters were operating, toying with the idea of unleashing one or two of the Sparrows at them; there were five left on the rotating dispenser in the rear bay. Before he could decide, Jalan relayed a warning that one of the Sukhois was taking off from the airfield they’d buzzed.

“That was fast,” said Mack.

“They must’ve been standing by in the hangar,” said Jalan. “Or they have a better hide near the field we didn’t spot.”

There was no doubt in Mack’s mind that he was taking on the Sukhois; the only question was where.

He decided he’d lead them out to sea before turning to tango. That way he’d avoid any nasty surprises like Malaysian ground-to-air defenses that he hadn’t spotted. He’d also have a quicker route home; his fuel gauges were trending toward empty.

“What it’ll look like to them is a big sitting ducking trying to foolishly outrun them,” Mack explained to Jalan as he laid in the course to the computer. “They’ll figure they have us nailed. We’ll fire two Sparrows at each plane once we have them flatfooted.”