Cyclops One - Страница 32

I’m surplus war material,he thought to himself.Washed up at twenty-five.

* * *

Howe steadied the Velociraptor at 35,000 feet, quickly reviewing everyone’s position as Cyclops finished off the Indian attack force. It had been easier than any of the tests they’d conducted over the past several months.

There wasn’t time to gloat, much less analyze it all: Both the Indians and the Pakistanis were filling the air with attack planes. Lucy — an American Compass Call electronic jammer that was also controlling a number of remote jamming drones — came south from Afghanistan to fill the air with electronic fuzz, making it difficult for the combatants’ radios and radars to work; they’d thought it a necessary precaution if things started to get out of hand, since it helped shield the easily seen Cyclops Two. But there was a definite downside, as both the Indian and Pakistani air forces interpreted the jamming as hostile acts by the other side. The jammers, meanwhile, degraded Howe’s ability to communicate with some of the far-flung members of his task force, though he had full secure communications with Timmy and Cyclops.

The question now was: What next?

His orders covered this contingency: If both sides went crazy, he was supposed to stand back and let them go at each other.

“Missiles in the air!” warned the AWACS operator. The Indians had detected and were targeting one of the ECM drones as it flew south over their border.

Losing the UAV was no big deal, but sooner or later his real aircraft were going to be in danger. At least two dozen Indian aircraft were now headed north; the Pakistanis had almost as many coming south.

They’d been so damn close. One radar blip, one general’s decision to rush ahead, one chance move somewhere, too subtle to be tracked down, had turned the MiGs around and started World War III.

There was still a chance. If he took out the Indians’ radar plane, the Indians would be blind. They’d have to pull back.

Hitting the plane would be exceeding his orders.

“Bird Two, you have EW1?” he asked Timmy, using the computer’s reference for the Indian radar plane.

“Roger that. I have him at about a hundred and fifty miles, coming north. He’s trying to vector their fighters. For escorts, Su-27s.”

“We’re going to take him out.”

“Now you’re talking.”

Howe told Cyclops Two what was going on, telling them to remain in their patrol pattern over Afghanistan and to let the two sides go at it. As they were talking, the Indian SAM struck the drone, destroying it.

“Should we take out Unk-2?” asked Timmy, referring to the unidentified contact.

The plane was now in a two-mile orbit over the Himalayas. Still unidentified, it seemed to be hugging the Chinese border, which to Howe meant that’s who was probably operating it.

“Negative,” he said. “They’re not a factor.”

“I think that’s what the Paks were reacting to.”

“If so, that’s because they’re clueless,” said Howe. He laid out his course and plan of attack to take the Indian AWACS. There was no need to be fancy; he and Timmy could take it straight at the Indian plane, which, despite its high-tech gear, probably wouldn’t detect them until they were about fifty miles away. At that point it would be within AMRAAM range, though he’d want to launch from inside forty miles to guarantee a hit.

“You want fat boy or the guard dogs?” Timmy asked.

“I’ll take the radar plane,” said Howe. “Target the closest interceptors, but don’t take them out unless they get hostile.”

“Guard dogs are mine.” Timmy’s tone guaranteed the planes would end up being considered hostile.

At their present course and speed, they’d be in range to fire in just under five minutes. The two American fighters streaked through the sky, their dagger-shaped wings cutting through the thin, icy air. Far below, millions of people slept through the night, completely unaware that their fates were being decided while they dreamed. Pakistan had twelve nuclear-tipped missiles and a single airdropped bomb; India had twice as many. The analysts who had briefed Howe had made a point of noting that it was very possible not all of the weapons would work if used. Both sides had had problems constructing and testing their weapons, and J.D. Powers wasn’t around to help improve quality control. But even if only half the weapons worked half as well as advertised, several million people would still die.

When he closed within seventy-five miles of EW1, the radar receiver caught the power spikes from the Sukhoi radars and painted them in the outer circle on Howe’s tactical scope, confident of their location. The radar in the big plane, meanwhile, continued to grope the sky unsuccessfully, its long fingers not quite sticky enough to grab him.

At sixty seconds to firing range, the computer had the attack completely mapped out for him; all he had to do was choose the option and push the button.

“I have something,” warned Timmy. “Shit — I’m spiked.”

“ECMs,” said Howe.

A ground unit had just come on to the west. It wasn’t an ordinary radar: Working with a microwave transmitter, it had managed to find Timmy’s stealthy profile. The electronic countermeasures quickly snapped the invisible chain that was trying to latch on to his wingman’s plane, but the damage had been done; the Indians knew they were under attack.

Not that it would do any good. He was thirty seconds from firing range.

“Guard dogs are coming for us,” warned his wingman.

“Yours,” said Howe. “Fire at will.”

* * *

Timmy tucked his wing down, angling toward the Sukhois as they separated from their mothership. They were roughly seventy miles away, each plane a mile right and left from his wings. He figured they’d go for some sort of bracket once he made it clear which plane he was going to attack; that pilot would move to engage while the wingman swung out, ready to pounce when the other broke. If Timmy kept coming down the middle — something they’d have to figure he might try, given the juicy target behind them — they could simply turn and have at him as he came past, confident that their Lyulka AL-31F turbofans would allow them to catch up in the unlikely event that they misjudged his speed; the Russian-built jets had an awesome capability to accelerate, matched by only one or two airplanes in the world, and exceeded by only one.

Which happened to be the plane they were going against. The fact that the Indian pilots apparently thought they were facing a lone Pakistani F-16 gave Timmy a tremendous advantage, as did their likely weapons set: The Indians were not known to have the most advanced Russian R-77 or AA-12 missiles, and while their R-27 Alamos were very potent, all of the radar versions were well known and could be knocked off by the Velociraptor’s ECMs. IR missiles, of course, were a different story — even the most obsolete heat-seeker could be a pesky PIA under the right circumstances — but Timmy didn’t intend to get close enough for the Sukhois to launch any.

He made a cut south, purposely taking the fighters away from his flight leader. That put him temporarily on the nose of the plane on his right, which didn’t react. The radar locked both bandits tight and the Velociraptor prompted him to fire. Timmy waited a few more seconds, riding in so he’d be positioned better to hunt the other planes.

“Fire one, fire two,” he said finally. The interceptor seemed to grunt its approval: The AMRAAM vertical ejector launcher spit the missiles from the ventral bay with a force of roughly 40 g’s. Timmy didn’t make the traditional radio call warning that he had fired; the shared radar and weapons system took care of that for him, giving Howe an audible tone as well as designating the targets and showing the missile tracks on his screen.

As soon as the missiles were away, Timmy hit the throttle and accelerated, his focus now on the two Sukhois that had hung back with the AEW plane. He knew they’d be somewhere between the 767 and him, but he wasn’t exactly sure where: ECMs, apparently aboard the big plane, had managed to significantly degrade his sensors.

Something for the tech guys to work on.

The radar plane was about ten degrees to the southeast with its gas pedal to the floor and descending. He guessed the other Sukhois would be near its tail. He checked Howe’s position — running in from the east, no more than ten seconds from firing — then decided that he would just hold his course for a bit until his targets turned up.

The Velociraptor gave him a buzz. His first missile had hit home. Target one was history.

Something had gone wrong with the second shot, however. The Sukhoi was turning and accelerating, trying to solve the mathematical equation that would give it a shot on his tail. Timmy’s RWR went ape shit: The Sukhoi fired a pair of Alamos from twenty miles. Timmy threw the Velociraptor into a set of hard zigs, chaff exploding behind him to confuse the radars in the missiles’ noses. He lost one almost immediately, but the second was working with super glue: It hung on his back even though he was taking nearly 8 g’s with his evasive maneuver.

Timmy felt his heart smack against his ribs: This was what he liked about flying. He jabbed at the ECM controls, even though the fuzzbuster was already singing songs in fifty different languages at once. A hard turn west, more chaff, a flick on the stick and he came clear, the missile detonating itself about two and a half miles from his right wingtip.