Whiplash

In the space of ninety seconds the sky became intensely crowded and angry.

The cargo aircraft, however, remained at very low altitude, undetected by either the SAMs or the Iranian interceptors.

“I think we can sneak by all this,” Dominick told Brea

“Exactly.”

The word was no sooner out of her mouth than the AWACS a

Brea

The MC-17 was a sitting duck. Even a Megafortress would have had trouble against them, if it didn’t have its Flighthawks.

“They’ll see us as soon as they come further south,” Brea

As soon as the Eagle pilots hit their afterburners, the Iranians changed course and headed for them.

So far no one had fired at each other. The Iranians protested that the Americans were trespassing and would be shot down; the Americans replied that they were covering an operation on the Iraqi side of the border and would return as soon as they were confident that the Iranians would not interfere. The white lie led to considerable huffing and puffing, but no gunplay.

Not yet, anyway.

“We’re clear,” said Brea

But they didn’t stay clear. The second flight of Sukhois continued south, directly toward their path.

“We have thirteen minutes to the border,” Brea

But the Iranians had finally spotted them. The lead Sukhoi asked the MC-17 to identify itself.

“What should I say?” Frederick asked Brea

“Tell them we’re on a mercy mission,” she said. She remembered the list of injuries, all minor except for Tarid’s bullet wound, that her people had suffered. “We have a patient who requires burn treatment.”

“Maybe you ought to talk to them,” said the pilot, doubtfully. “Maybe they’ll believe a woman.”

They didn’t.

“Unidentified aircraft. We see that you are a U.S. warplane,” answered the Iranian. “You are ordered to turn to the north and fly to Tabriz airport.”

“Negative,” said Brea

Flattery got her nowhere. The pilot increased his speed. The two Sukhois were now less than thirty miles away, closing the distance between the two aircraft at a little over four miles a minute.

The border was just over twelve minutes away. More importantly, the closest American fighters, off to the south with the MiGs, were nearly fifteen minutes from firing range.

Depending on what missiles the Iranian interceptors were carrying, they might already be in range to fire. Even if they were under orders to obtain a visual identification before making an attack, they would get to the MC-17 well before the Eagles did.

Frederick tried to get more thrust from the engines, even though they were already at max.

“Maybe we should do what they want,” he suggested as the Sukhois continued to gain.

“I don’t see that as an option,” said Brea

“What I mean is, we make it look like we are,” explained the pilot. “We turn and head north very, very slowly. We give the F-15s a chance to catch up. When they’re here, no more problems. We turn around and go home.”

Draw the encounter out and stall for time, then run away. There didn’t seem to be another choice.

“Maybe you’re right,” said Brea

“Iranian flight, please state your intentions,” she said as the Sukhois closed in.

“We are going to shoot you down if you do not comply with our directions.”

“Have you checked with your commander? We are on a mission authorized by your president.” Brea

“You will change your heading immediately,” replied the pilot.

Nine minutes to the border. Eleven to the Eagles.

“They’re going to shoot us down,” said Frederick. His voice cracked, betraying the pressure he felt welling inside his chest. He’d never been in combat before. He was starting to gulp air, hyperventilating despite his efforts to stay calm.

“It’s all right,” said Brea

The Iranian jets lined themselves up on a course that would take them over the MC-17’s wings. They didn’t slow down as they approached, deciding that a close buzz of the aircraft might intimidate the pilot into doing what they wanted.

Or crashing. Which would be just as good.

Brea

Who now checked in with a warning of their own.

“Iranian aircraft approaching the Iraqi border, identify yourselves,” said the lead Eagle pilot.

The Iranians declined. Instead they circled back behind the MC-17 and fired a pair of warning shots over its wing.

“What do you want to do?” asked Frederick.

“I want to shoot the bastards down,” said Brea

“That’s not an option.”

“I know. But it’s what I want to do.”

If she’d been flying a Megafortress, even without missiles or Flighthawks, it would be an option. She’d sucker them in close, then open up with the Stinger air-mine ca

The MC-17 didn’t have that capability. But it did have the Ospreys.

“Greasy Hands, when you load the Ospreys into the bay, do they go in head first or tail first?” she asked, turning around to the chief.

“Tail first. Want to be able to take off right away. Truth of it, though, I don’t think it matters.”

“Do you think you could fire the ca

“Shit, I don’t know.”

“It’s either that or get used to Iranian food for quite a while.”

Greasy Hands unbuckled his seat belt. So did the loadmaster across from him.

Captain Frederick was breathing hard. His hand trembled on the yoke.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Brea

“Colonel, that’s fine,” said Frederick.

“You’re doing all right. Just hang with me.”

One of the Iranian jets came up close to the side. The other remained behind them.

“You will comply or be shot down,” said the lead Iranian.

Brea

“I need to know the heading and the airport data,” she told the Iranian. “And how long is the runway? Will I be able to land? How strong is the wind?”

“You will turn to ten degrees, northeast.”

“Which airport am I going to?”

“You will turn to ten degrees, northeast.”

“I have to tell my superiors where I am going,” she said. “I don’t want to get in trouble.”

The plane behind her fired a short burst. One of the bullets grazed the bottom of the fuselage.

“All right, I’m turning,” said Brea

GREASY HANDS WAS ALREADY OUT OF BREATH AS HE reached the bottom of the ladder from the flight deck. He pushed himself toward the Ospreys, which were secured close to the ramp.

Da

“Gotta get to the Osprey,” Greasy Hands told him, huffing toward the aircraft.