Air Battle Force

machine out there. We should—” Just then he noticed a flashing message on a computer screen. “We got a fault in the primary datalink computer,” Masters said.

“What happened?” Patrick asked.

“Master computer fault. It automatically shifted control to the secondary computer,” Jon replied. “We got an automatic reboot of the primary computer. It’ll take a couple minutes to come up.”

“How about we put this thing on the ground now, boys?” Rebecca asked. “We’ll let the wingman take over.”

“We’ve got four redundant, independent operating computers driving the datalink and aircraft controls, plus an emergency system that will force the aircraft to execute a direct return to base, no matter what systems are damaged,” Masters said. “The system did exactly what it was supposed to do — hand off control to another good computer, restart itself, and then, if it checks out, wait in line for a handoff.”

“Another handoff? You mean we could lose more computers?”

“We plan on the worst and hope for the best, General,” Masters said. “Aha… the first computer came back up, so we’ve got four good computers again. We’re back in business.”

“Doctor, you’re not exactly filling me with confidence,” Rebecca said. “Everyone remember: This is my wing’s bird. I signed for it, and I decide when this test mission ends.”

“Roger, ma’am,” Zane said. “Now, just sit back and relax and enjoy the ride.”

KARA KUM DESERT, EASTERN TURKMENISTAN

That evening

Only his tracked vehicles had the capability to go across the open desert, so Jalaluddin Turabi had no choice but to split up his force. He divided his group into three: Two would encamp along the Kizyl-Tabadkan highway, divided by fifteen kilometers, ready to move toward each other if trouble appeared; the third force, led by Turabi himself, would trek across the desert to the crash site. Because of weather and their upcoming battle at Gaurdak, helicopter support would not be available until dawn — Turabi was effectively on his own. He had some working night-vision goggles, and the weather was improving, so he decided to start out in the relative coolness and cover of night and head toward the crash site, using only a compass and prayers to guide him.

It took an hour to travel the first twenty kilometers, driving an old Soviet-era MT-LB multipurpose tracked vehicle they’d captured in Kerki. He deployed an even older GSh-575 tracked vehicle — actually a ZSU-23/4 self- propelled antiaircraft-gun system, with the antiaircraft guns unusable and deactivated long ago — out three hundred meters ahead of the MT-LB as a scout; this vehicle managed to throw a track every five to ten kilometers, which made for even slower going. Several times Turabi ordered his men to abandon the vehicle and hide when his scout heard jet aircraft nearby, but they were never able to pinpoint its location after the echo of the roar of their own engines faded away. Nerves were on edge.

About three hours before dawn, they reached the place where Turabi thought the smoke had come from, but there was no sign of a crash. There was nothing else to do but start a search pattern. Using both tracked vehicles, they set up a search grid and moved out, crisscrossing the desert with soldiers on foot continually moving the grid in different directions, overlapping slightly at the ends.

After an hour they still hadn’t come across the wreckage. “This is insane,” Turabi muttered after he received the last report. “I swear to God I saw a crash out here. I have traveled the deserts for most of my life — I do not imagine such things.” He turned to his senior sergeant, Abdul Dendara. “What am I missing here, Abdul?”

“If you saw smoke, sir, there has to be surface wreckage. Aircraft or weapons that bury themselves in the sand don’t release enough smoke to spot from a distance,” Dendara said. “I checked to be sure the men were probing underneath the sand. There was a short but pretty strong storm that came through here yesterday — the wreckage could be lying just under the surface.” He looked around. Of course, in the darkness, there was little to see. “No landmarks, no exact position — maybe we’re not at the right spot, sir.”

Turabi swore under his breath, pulled out his map, and examined it in the subdued red beam of his flashlight. “All right. Let’s shift five kilometers to the south and do another grid search. We search for one more hour, then we pack up and head back to join up with the rest of the battalion.”

Turabi radioed for the MT-LB, which picked him up a few minutes later. Following his compass, he steered the driver south, then started to set up another grid-pattern search. It would take several minutes for the other members of his detail to move to the new position, so he decided he would need to get out there and start searching himself if he ever wanted to finish this grid and get back to Kerki by dawn. He fixed a bayonet onto his AK-47 assault rifle and started probing the sand with his red-lensed flashlight, looking for evidence of debris.

He soon realized how difficult this search really was. He knew he could step within centimeters of a critical piece of evidence and never see it, or he could step on a land mine and be legless in an instant. He knew he had to use every sense he possessed, and maybe even some kind of extrasensory perception, to accomplish this task. He waved the MT-LB away from him so he wouldn’t be distracted by its engine noise, diesel exhaust, and the occasional shouts of the men on board.

Finally it was relatively quiet. Turabi’s night vision improved, and soon he could start seeing objects on the ground that were not directly in the flashlight’s beam. He could still smell the armored personnel carrier’s exhaust smoke, and he picked up his radio to order the MT-LB farther away.

But he stopped, the radio a few centimeters from his lips, his finger on the push-to-talk switch. Yes, he could still smell engine exhaust — but he was upwind of the MT-LB now. He shouldn’t be able to smell it. It had to be something else. He used his nose like an automatic direction finder triangulating on a radio beacon, steering himself to the source of the smell.

Minutes later he saw it: a mass of metal, blackened and lumpish but definitely an aircraft engine. It was a cruise missile turbojet engine, not more than forty or fifty kilos, about the size of a bedroll. He’d found it! He swept the flashlight beam around excitedly. There were other pieces of debris nearby, too — including a large fuselage piece. It was here! He slung his AK-47 onto his shoulder, put the walkie-talkie up to his lips, and keyed the mike button. “Dahab Two, this is One. I found some wreckage of a small aircraft or cruise missile. I’m a half klick south of the new grid locus. Join on me and—”

At that instant he heard a faint fwoooosh! sound. He dropped to one knee, the flashlight replacing the radio in his left hand, held far out to his side, and his Tokarev TT-33 in his right hand. The muzzle of the Tokarev followed the flashlight beam turned in the direction of the sound. Nothing. No sounds of footsteps running on desert sand, no vehicle sounds. He quickly extinguished the flashlight and picked up the radio: “Dahab, Dahab, alert! Someone else is out here!”

Suddenly a brilliant curtain of stars obscured his vision, and he was unable to tell up from down. The harder he struggled to stay on his feet, the faster he found himself sprawled in the sand. He still felt as if he were upright, crouching low, but he felt the hard-baked sand in his face and knew he was on the ground. He was wide awake and still breathing, but he couldn’t make any of his limbs respond — and he heard voices. Voices, machinelike but definitely human. Voices in English!

“One down, all clear,” Colonel Hal Briggs reported. “He found the StealthHawk. He may have gotten off a report.” He quickly changed the scene in his electronic visor to the imaging infrared sensor aboard the number-one StealthHawk unmanned combat aerial vehicle that was orbiting overhead. “We’ve got company. That armored personnel carrier is headed this way. Give me control of Hawk One.”

“Roger that,” responded Daren Mace, back in the virtual command trailer at Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base. He pressed a button on his console and spoke, “Hawk One, transfer control to Tin Man One.”

“StealthHawk flight-control transfer to Tin Man One, stop transfer,” the computer responded. Seconds later: “StealthHawk flight-control transfer to Tin Man One complete, awaiting commands.”

“Hawk One, sitrep,” Briggs ordered.

The response took only moments: “Warning, unidentified moving armored vehicle, bearing zero- six-two degrees, range one point three miles, heading two-seven-three degrees, speed twenty-one knots, designate Tango One. Warning, unidentified stationary armored vehicle, bearing zero-one-four degrees, three point one miles, designate Tango Two. Tango Two now turning south, accelerating, speed now one-five knots. Warning, numerous infantry targets approaching at slow speed, range three miles, bearing zero-one-six.”

Briggs used his eye-pointing system to place a target cursor over the image of the nearest vehicle in the StealthHawk’s scan — the MT-LB — then pointed to the menu selection for voice commands and spoke, “Hawk One,