Drone Strike

How long could they keep this up? Turk nudged his rudder gently, edging the plane right in hopes that he might be able to let the MiG spurt ahead. But the MiG pilot was too sharp for that—he came with him, rolling his wing around about a quarter turn just as Turk did.

Turk thought of various ways to break off. The best seemed to be to mash the gas, turn tight and get his nose facing the other plane. The MiG would have to turn outside to keep from being thrown in front; Turk would be risking a quick missile shot but he was confident he could get his own shot in first.

The trouble was, he doubted he could stand the roller-coaster force needed to pull that maneuver. Nor could he afford to stay in the climb much longer; the thin oxygen would kill him.

The man flying the other plane had good instincts. Maybe he could use those against him.

Both planes were flying almost straight up, canopy-to-canopy, turning a tight, ascending scissors pattern in the sky. Neither could afford to stray.

Turk had an idea. As he turned his wing to start a twist, he pushed the Phantom closer to the MiG. In an instant, he jerked the nose forward and at the same time fired the gun.

His idea was that it would look to the other pilot as if the Phantom was trying to crash into him. Whether it did or not was impossible to tell, but the maneuver had the desired effect: the MiG spun off to the right.

Turk’s own instincts were to follow. Everything he knew told him that he had the other plane where he wanted him. And certainly he would have if he’d had a flight suit and oxygen.

But he told himself his job now wasn’t to shoot down the MiG. It was to get himself and Stoner home. And so instead he pushed the Phantom back around to the north and accelerated again, sure he was home free.

He’d barely caught his breath when a fresh set of tracers exploded ahead of his right wing. The Iranian didn’t want to quit.

21

CIA campus, Virginia

REID RAISED HIS HAND AND GAVE BREANNA A THUMBS-UP, indicating that the American military consul in Baku had convinced the Azerbaijan air force to scramble its forces. The SEAL command had already released the MC-130 in Baku; it was preparing to take off and fly over the Caspian.

She told herself that Turk was going to make it. Against all odds, he was going to make it. She hadn’t sent him to his death.

22

Over the Caspian Sea

TURK FELT THE PLANE SHUDDER SEVERELY AS HE JINKED left and right, barely ducking the fire from the MiG. Between the old metal and whatever damage the Iranian had done to him earlier, the plane was starting to strain.

The MiG and the F-4 were still locked in a death dance, neither able to get an advantage. The MiG slid behind him, but Turk managed to push the Phantom just enough to stay away from his bullets.

Their speed dropped, moving through 220 knots. While the MiG was a nimbler airframe, Turk thought he must have done some damage to it, at least enough to keep it from trying anything too fancy. But its pilot was tenacious, clinging tightly.

Even if the MiG didn’t nail him, the more maneuvers he did, the better the odds that he’d run out of fuel before reaching a safe airport. And parachuting wasn’t an option. He needed to get away quickly.

Turk racked his brain for a way to get the MiG off his back. The only thing he could think of was a low altitude spin and a crash—not a particularly pleasant solution, even if the plane could take the g’s.

Unless it didn’t actually happen.

As another burst of rounds flashed over the canopy, Turk jerked the Phantom’s stick, trying to make the plane look as if it had been hit. He backed off as his plane began to yaw, then pushed in on his left, tipping his wing down and holding his breath.

By now the MiG had stopped firing. He was still back there somewhere, though.

When the blue sea filled his windscreen, Turk held the Phantom’s nose down for a three count. Then he pulled up on the stick, muscling it back as hard as he could while giving the plane throttle.

His head floated in the sudden rush of blood. The Phantom didn’t like the maneuver either, threatening to fall backward in the sky. The control surfaces, confused by the contradictory forces working on them, bit furiously at the air, trying to follow the pilot’s crazed instructions. The engines, suddenly goosed with fuel, roared desperately, pushing to hold the plane in the air despite the heavy hand of gravity.

And there was the MiG, right in front of him.

Turk fired, lying on the trigger even as he fought to get the Phantom stable. He got off a burst and a half, then the goosed engines pushed the Phantom ahead, whipping over the MiG close enough to scorch the paint.

He’d put a dozen bullets into the MiG’s airframe, and this time there was no way they wouldn’t have an effect: Turk saw a bolt of flame in the cockpit mirror.

If he’d been more confident of his fuel, he might have turned around to watch his enemy burn.

VAHID FELT THE BLOOD DRAINING FROM HIS HEAD AS the MiG began to disintegrate around him. Victory had been snatched from his hand in an instant. Not just victory—the tables had been completely turned, the pilot in front suddenly behind, the predator now the victim.

He needed to pull the ejection handle. He needed to get out of the plane.

Why? He’d been defeated. He was not the best, and would never be. He couldn’t stand the humiliation.

Could he go home to his father, the war hero, and look him in the eye?

Get out of the aircraft, he heard his old instructor say.

One Eye’s voice screamed at him.

Save yourself. Fly and fight another day.

Vahid’s hand wavered over the handle as his mind battled. He thought of his mother, who would love him no matter what. He saw his father again, as he had known him as a young man, before the injury.

And then it was too late: a fireball erupted, consuming the MiG-29 and Iran’s finest pilot.

STONER FOLDED HIS ARMS, WATCHING OUT THE SIDE of the cockpit as the Phantom leveled off and continued north over the sea. The plane flew steady; bullets no longer coursed over the wings or exploded in the distance. Whatever had been chasing them was gone.

So they were getting out. That was all right, wasn’t it? He didn’t have to kill Turk if he got him home.

The memories poking Stoner earlier had receded. They were like booby-traps in the jungle, waiting to swallow him if he stepped wrong. But he didn’t know how to excise them.

Maybe one of the shrinks back home would.

The mission had been a good one. He liked it tremendously. Everything about it, the sensation of adrenaline in his body, the feeling in his stomach when he ran, the crush of his fist against an enemy.

He hated the enemy. He hated people who wanted to hurt him, or hurt his people.

That was who he was. Whatever else they had done to him, whatever the drugs and biomechanical devices they’d put into him, that part was definitely his.

CLEAR OF THE ENEMY PLANE, TURK TOOK OUT THE SAT phone. He pushed the power button. Nothing happened. The damn thing was dead.

He reached into his pants pocket for Grease’s. He remembered taking it from Grease’s ruck. But he found the GPS, not the sat phone.

He reached into his other pocket, feeling a little desperate. The phone was there.

But it was a cell phone. Grease had the sat phone in his pocket or somewhere else, and he had missed it.

Have to do something else. Don’t fall apart now.