Armageddon

0516

Dog instinctively threw the Megafortress into a hard zag as soon as the missile warning sounded.

“Tracking us,” said McNamara.

“ECMs. Break it.”

“Trying.”

The HAWK MIM-23 was an excellent anti-aircraft missile, but it was an American weapon and in theory it should be easy for the electronic counter measure system to confuse. Theory and practice weren’t quite the same thing, however. McNamara reported that one of the missiles was continuing toward them, its speed closing in on Mach 2.5.

“Hang on,” shouted Dog, and he put the Megafortress onto her wing, just barely ducking thé missile. The computer complained that he had exceeded flight parameters and tried balancing the different forces, working hard because of the second Flighthawk that was still attached to the right wing. The Hawk exploded off the right wing and the Megafortress slipped into a spin, her momentum corkscrewing around, and the aircraft’s wings lost her grip on the sky. A second missile exploded nearly a half-mile away, but now gravity and momentum were much more worrisome enemies.

Dog had learned to recover from spins very early in his training as a pilot, but the sharp smack of gravity multiplied by the harsh twist of surprise made his hand slow to respond. His head felt as if it were being forced to the left; he fought it at first, concentrating on his skull rather than the aircraft. It was only a moment’s hesitation, but had they been much lower, it might have been fatal. Finally Dog’s instincts and training came through; he stopped worrying about his head and was able to move with the plane, willing it under control and pulling up as the altimeter dipped down just below a thousand feet.

“Shit,” managed McNamara as they started to climb. Dog looked right; his copilot was holding his left arm, which he’d smacked up during the plummet. “I think I broke my arm.”

“Target the HAWK control van,” Dog told him.

“There’s a backup”

“Both of them”

“If we do that, we won’t have any bombs left for the plane on this run,” said McNamara.

“Target the HAWK vans”

“Yes, sir.” The copilot groaned.

“You okay, McNamara?” asked Dog, ready to bring up the targeting screen himself.

“No:’ he said. “But I’ll nail those mothers with my toes if I have to.”

AS THE MEGAFORTRESS SLAPPED DOWNWARD, ZEN struggled to keep his Flighthawk straight and level. He had to fight against his instincts to do this; his stomach told his head they were in a spin, and his head wanted to move his hand and legs to get them out of it.

His legs.

The idea taunted him, a devil just out of reach as he held the stick steady. A black cloud began to rise around him; Zen felt himself choke, and waited to hear the Megafortress’s alarm indicate that they were on fire.

He coughed again. The cloud started to recede.

The Flighthawk was nearly head-on for the HAWK missile battery.

“Targeting screen,” Zen told the computer. A pipper appeared in a shaded area before his eyes. “Dish,” he said, telling the computer what he was aiming at. The pipper immediately turned from gray to yellow, indicating that he was close but not quite on target.

Zen moved his hand slowly toward the screen. The pipper began to blink yellow, then changed to red.

He pushed down on the trigger and bullets streamed from the front of the robot plane. He moved the stick very gently left and right, cutting an oval pattern through the metal before pulling off.

“Zen, we’re taking out the HAWK batteries with our bombs:’ said Dog.

“Hawk leader,” he acknowledged, pulling the Flighthawk up and away from the airport.

Brunei International Airport

0520

Mack crouched on the cement, watching as the black shadow of the Flighthawk darted across the empty field to the south, going after the radar dish that guided the anti-air missiles. The front of the tiny aircraft blossomed red; a moment later he heard the quick stutter of the plane’s ca

“Out of here,” Mack yelled. “Away from the military side of the airport:’ He got up, saw Sahurah still on the ground near the Megafortress, then reached back and grabbed the back of his shirt, pulling him to his feet.

They’d gotten about thirty yards when the first bomb exploded. The target was a good distance away, but the shock of the five-hundred-pound warhead threw Mack abruptly toward the pavement. He got his left arm out, skidding across the concrete. Cursing, he stumbled back to his feet just as another bomb hit. He saw a geyser of smoke rising over the area near the HAWK trailers.

Something grabbed at Mack; he turned and found Sahurah clutching him. Blood ran down his hands. Mack instinctively picked him up, hauling him over his back and starting to run toward the terminal building. After a few steps his pace slowed to a walk.

He heard the whine of an approaching Flighthawk and threw himself down as it passed. Sahurah’s weight pressed against his upper body and made him slam his chin against the concrete. Mack cursed, rolled over to his back, and edged up on his elbows, dazed and unsure now where the hell he was.

Off the coast of Brunei

0526

Da

“Freah to Quick Bird One. Jack, you guys better head back,” he told the pilot. “We’ll do an assessment on that roof. In the meantime, come up with a plan to shore it up. Worst case, you can fly the grid in overnight.”

The grid was a portable landing area that could be set up over either the deck or the housing area.

“I was thinking we could land on derrick two,” replied the pilot. “The backup platform.”

“Negative,” said Da

“You got it. We’ll be back.”

The helicopters banked low, saying good-bye before heading off. The Whiplash team would be on its own for the next several hours.

Da