But, when trouble arrived, it was different from what Cat expected. “We have two tangos at ten thousand,” Samsonite said. “They’re helos rather than planes, and Mr. Computer says that they’re a 96 percent match with MD 500 Defenders.”
MD 500s were observation choppers armed with TOW anti-tank missiles, 7.62 mm miniguns, or Stinger air-to-air missiles.
The Reaper was at fifteen thousand. And judging from what Cat could see on the monitors, the helo jockeys were blissfully unaware of the drone’s presence as they began to close on the convoy. If they were armed with TOWs the Australians would be toast.
“They made us,” Samsonite said. “Or, some radar operator did. Here they come.”
The helicopters were climbing. What to do? Reapers weren’t designed for dog fights. But newer units were armed with AIM-92 Stinger missiles, and Cat was “riding” one of them. That was the good news. The bad news was that Cat had zero experience with the missiles.
Oh, she’d been through the virtual training course all right, but nothing more. Still, what else could she do? Try to drop a 500-pound bomb on a moving target?
“I’m arming a Sidewinder,” Cat said, as she pushed the drone’s nose down.
“Sidewinder armed.”
A grid appeared over the target. “Firing.”
“Missile away, tracking, tracking, shit!”
It appeared that the MD 500 pilot was firing flares as a precaution and it paid off. Cat’s Sidewinder swerved, homed on a flare, and blew up.
Cat saw flashes of light as the helicopter’s machine gun fired. However the Reaper was in a tight turn by then, and the stream of tracer missed.
The Reaper could climb and run. But if Cat did that, the convoy would be easy meat for the helos. At that point she had one air-to-air missile left, with two targets on the loose. I need to get closer before I fire, Cat decided. So the Sidewinder will choose the chopper instead of a flare.
The second helo was closer by then. Cat banked, advanced the throttle, and watched the distance close. Tracer rounds stuttered her way, bent, and seemed to veer away when she applied some left stick.
The second MD 500 was firing flares just like the first one had. But Cat was closer by then. Much closer. And the moment she pickled the missile off, the UAV operator knew it was on the money.
Cat was turning as an explosion strobed the night and Samsonite made the call. “Tango down. One A-hole left. Whatcha going to do?”
That was a good question. With no air-to-air missiles left to fight with, Cat was out of options. Or was she? The thought put a grin on her face. “We’re gonna ram the bastard, Sammy. So, stand by for that.”
Samsonite stared at her. “A Reaper costs 64 million buckaroos!”
“That’s true,” the pilot admitted. “But we don’t have enough fuel to make it back, do we? And if we bag another helo, the brass will celebrate.”
“You’re smarter than you look,” Samsonite said admiringly.
“And you’re a pain in the ass,” Cat said, as she aimed the Reaper’s nose at the helo.
The MD 500 pilot didn’t know how many Stingers the American drone was carrying. And, after having seen his wingman vanish in a ball of flame, he decided to run for it.
That was a serious mistake. The helo could travel at 160 mph full out. The Reaper had a max speed of 300 mph.
It appeared that the helo pilot knew the drone was closing on his six. He began to fire flares, and jink from side-to-side. And that made sense. Or would have if Cat was going to fire a Stinger. But she wasn’t.
The collision alarm sounded as the Reaper slammed into the helicopter at 293 mph. Their screens registered a flash of light before cutting to black.
“Okay, then,” Sam said. “That’s one way to get off work early.”
After checking out with Seadog-Six and Seadog-Three, Cat wrote her after-action report, hit “send,” and left. She arrived home forty minutes later.
Then it was time to make a gin and tonic, and watch a Scooby Doo episode titled: “The Glowing Bug Man.” The tears were waiting. But Cat refused to let them flow.
***
Off the coast of Luzon, the Philippines
The surviving Armindales wallowed offshore as long, lazy rollers swept in from the west, passed under the boats, and made for the beach. Ryson’s nerves were on edge. All the RIB boats had been sent ashore to retrieve the shore party and the POWs. That left his force vulnerable to a Filipino or Chinese surface attack. One or more patrol boats would be bad. A destroyer or a frigate would sink his flotilla in seconds.
Meanwhile the air cover that Ryson had been counting on, which was to say the Reaper drone, had been destroyed. F-18s had a range of 1,253 miles. They couldn’t make it from the carrier group that was cruising east of Luzon, or from Indonesia, and make the return trip as well.
Normally a KC-46 Pegasus aerial refueler, or a venerable 396 KC-135 Stratotanker, would have been the app for that. But 46s had been grounded for another round of retro-fixes, and the so-called “Stratobladders” were like gold. Everyone wanted to get more of them and keep what they had. The situation would improve once the Armindales entered Indonesian waters, but that moment was in the future.
As an angry looking sun began to rise in the east as Ryson eyed the shoreline through a pair of binoculars. Everything was riding on how quickly the Aussie sailors could collect Dancy’s people and get off the beach. Fortunately, they were doing a good job of it.
The RIBs had landed and been loaded. Now came the tricky task of pushing the boats stern first into the surf, where the coxswains could start their engines, and back out through the low-lying surf. Then, once it was safe to do so, they would turn and head full-speed out
