Drone Strike

“Try to contact Stoner again,” Reid told the communications aide. “Get him.”

“Sir, I just tried. There’s been no answer.”

“Try again.”

“He’s heading north,” said Brea

“Can he make it?”

“I don’t know.” She looked at the screen. The maneuvers indicated he was under attack. Off the top of her head she wasn’t sure what the Phantom’s range might be, and there was no way of knowing how much fuel it had. “We need to talk to the Azerbaijan air force,” she told Reid. “He’s going north—he’ll be heading toward their air space.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely. They have MiGs—can we scramble them?”

“I don’t know if that will be doable, Brea

“Try.”

20

Iran

VAHID CURSED HIMSELF. HE’D FIRED TOO SOON, SURE that the F-4 pilot wasn’t much of a flier. Now he saw that was a mistake; the man was smarter than he’d thought, and at least knew the basics of dodging radar missiles.

No matter. He’d drive up close and put a heat-seeker in his fantail.

Once he found him. The radar was having trouble locating the Phantom in the ground clutter.

Maybe he crashed after all.

No. There he was—twenty kilometers away. Ru

Vahid juiced his throttle, opening the gates on the afterburners. The sudden burst of speed slammed him back into his seat.

He’d close on the F-4, get tight, then fire. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice.

STONER SAT IN THE REAR SEAT OF THE AIRCRAFT, watching with detachment as the plane bucked and turned, jerking sharply in the sky.

They weren’t particularly high. He could see the ground clearly out the side of the windscreen.

If we crash, he thought, Turk Mako will die, and my mission will be accomplished.

TURK STRUGGLED WITH THE CONTROLS, TRYING TO muscle the Phantom back level after the shock of the missile explosion behind them. If he’d been higher, he could have simply sorted things out in a long, sweeping dive, but he was far too low for that. He pulled the stick, straining as the plane skidded in the air. His airspeed had bled off precipitously; the Phantom was very close to a stall.

Get me out of here, Old Girl, he thought. Let’s dance.

He pressed again on the throttle and jerked the stick back. He was dangerously close to one of the Phantom’s peculiarities—the aircraft had a tendency to fall into a spin when the stick was muscled too hard at a high angle of attack. But the F-4 wasn’t ready to call it a day; she managed to keep herself in the air and moving forward despite the pilot’s nightmares. There was damage to the tail—he could feel the rudder lagging—but the old iron hung together.

The plane began gaining altitude. There was no question now of doing anything fancy; he would have to get away, straight line, balls out.

Water, then find the coast.

One thing he had going for him—the MiG pilot probably thought he’d splashed him with the missiles.

There were mountains ahead. Turk nudged the F-4 skyward, aiming to skim over them so close he’d chip paint.

VAHID’S RADAR FOUND THE PHANTOM AHEAD TO THE east, roughly a hundred kilometers from the Caspian if it kept on its present heading. He was over the Elburz Mountains and using them to good effect, tucking well below the peaks and hoping the irregular topography would make it hard to track him.

He was right, but Vahid realized he didn’t have to stick too closely to his prey. It seemed obvious that the pilot was going north to the Caspian. He would simply beat him there.

Other fighters were scrambling now. The radio was alive with traffic and orders: shoot the enemy down.

Vahid blocked everything out, concentrating on his plane and the pursuit. The Phantom was fast, but his MiG was faster. He was also higher. He titled his nose back and climbed some more, pla

THE MOUNTAINS SEEMED ENDLESS. TURK HAD BACKED off the throttle, worried about his fuel supply, but he was still moving at over 650 knots, yet there seemed no end to the damn things. They were green, greener than anything he’d seen in Iran. The sun glowed overhead, the sky clear. He imagined there were vacationers somewhere below, enjoying the day and the sea.

Wherever the hell it was.

Hang in there, Turk told himself. Just hang in there.

He examined the dials in the cockpit. He still had a decent amount of fuel. The damage to the tail was light, if the controls were to be believed: the plane seemed ever so slightly slow as it responded to the rudder, but not so much that it wouldn’t go where he wanted.

Come on, come on. Let’s get there.

Nothing but green and brown below.

Damn!

And then there was sea, a green-blue sheet spread in front of him.

Free, he was free.

Except: there was the damn MiG, three o’clock in his windscreen, heading due west but pushing onto his wing in what Turk recognized was the start of a sweep that would end with the Phantom in the fat heart of his targeting pipper.

VAHID FELT A RUSH OF GRAVITY AS HE PULLED THE MIG hard to complete the sweeping intercept. The Phantom, riding straight and true, rose into his screen as he put his nose down. He had the MiG dead on its enemy’s tail. He had his gun selected; he was close to the other plane and wanted the satisfaction of perforating it.

The distinctive tail of the American built plane seemed to droop; Vahid edged his finger onto the trigger as it filled out his target.

Even as he fired, the other plane disappeared. Vahid started to pull up, then realized what the other pilot was doing.

It was almost too late.

Using its control surfaces like speed brakes while it throttled back, the F-4 had dropped below and behind the MiG in an instant. The hunter was now the hunted—Vahid tweaked left and right as a stream of tracers exploded over his right wing. He began a turn, then changed course, hoping to catch the Phantom overshooting him. But whoever was flying the F-4 was very, very good—he not only didn’t bite on the fake turn, but managed to stay behind him long enough to put a few bullets across his right wing. Vahid rolled, trying to loop away, but that was nearly fatal—the F-4 danced downward, drilling two or three more bullets into his left wing and fuselage before passing by.

You underestimated him, One Eye would have said. I didn’t teach you that.

Vahid pulled up, selecting his IR missiles. But the panel indicated they wouldn’t arm. Some of the bullets that struck the plane earlier had disabled the controls or the missiles, or both.

So it was down to guns, one on one.

Vahid leveled off, looking for his opponent.

TURK FELT HIS THROAT CLOSE WITH THE SHARP TURN. His head pressed in and his heart clutched. It was as if a huge hand had grabbed hold of him and squeezed with all its might.

Don’t do that again. You’ll pass out and crash.

He’d gotten bullets into the other plane. Enough to splash the damn thing, he was sure.

Had he? Where was it?

Head clearing, Turk began a climb. After only a few seconds a tiny shadow passed to his right—ca

He steepened the climb and rolled, surprised to find the MiG practically alongside him.

Within seconds Turk realized they had managed to put themselves into a classically difficult position. They were two fighters locked in a deadly embrace. Neither could afford to accelerate or drop away; doing so would allow the other to slide behind him.