SA-12 was lobotomized. Now, without the surveillance radar, it lost its long-range vision.
The StealthHawks continued their attack by orbiting the two SA-12 batteries, searching for targets for their second weapon — two canisters, each filled with thirty BLU-97 Combined Effects Munitions bomblets that were scattered in a wide oval pattern above a target cluster. Each bomblet was a two-pound high-explosive fragmenting case with an inflatable Ballute parachute tail and a tiny radio altimeter that measured how far aboveground the canister was and set off the explosive at precisely the correct instant. When detonated, each canister shot several thousand steel fragments in all directions out to fifty to sixty feet, strong enough to penetrate automotive steel and light armor. At the same time, a mixture of zirconium in the Cyclotol explosive ignited, creating a fireball hot enough to set off unprotected fuel tanks, detonate ammunition — or kill a human being — for thirty to forty feet away.
The two StealthHawks could not hope to destroy all of the over 180 remaining SA-12 missiles in the brigade, but their final attacks were still devastating. Each StealthHawk automatically adjusted its altitude and track so as to maximize the kill pattern of its Combined Effects canisters, dropping the canisters so that the scatter pattern of the BLU-97 bomblets hit as many targets as possible. Each run managed to hit at least two SA-12 transporter-erector- launchers or reload-launcher trailers, which created spectacular secondary explosions as the shrapnel ripped open missile casings and fuel tanks and the incendiary fireballs ignited the fuel or explosives within.
As the StealthHawks continued to orbit the area, they sent back images and radar maps of their handiwork. “Command vehicle, surveillance radar, and most of two entire SA-12 batteries destroyed or heavily damaged, sir,” the StealthHawk flight-control officer reported. “No radar or datalink transmissions detected.”
“Over thirty missiles destroyed and several more damaged,” Daren said. “Friggin’ unbelievable. We pretty much pulled the plug on this entire brigade.” Left unsaid was the casualty count — each SA-12 battery was manned by almost fifty soldiers, and the command vehicle alone had twelve officers and technicians on board.
But even after all of their weapons were expended, the StealthHawks were not finished. Because they knew that their Vampire mother ship had been destroyed and they did not have enough fuel to reach friendly territory or rendezvous with another mother ship, they located one last target — both of the UCAVs selected a surviving launcher filled with SA-12 missiles — and dove in on it. Their small, thirty-pound “suicide” warheads ensured that both the target and the UCAVs themselves were destroyed in their final kamikaze attack runs.
“Direct impacts on two more transporter-erector-launchers,” Daren reported. Patrick was still listening for word from Eighth Air Force headquarters. “Almost two entire SA-12 batteries destroyed, including their command- and-surveillance center.”
“Pass along to your Bobcat crews, ‘Well done, good shooting,’ Daren,” Patrick said. It was over in less than ten minutes — one QB-1C Vampire bomber and two StealthHawk UCAVs destroyed with no casualties, versus half of a Russian SA-12 brigade with possibly dozens of casualties. Even Patrick was astounded by the power and efficiency of his unmanned aerial-combat warplanes. “Let’s get another Vampire airborne and on patrol, and let’s pinpoint the rest of that SA-12 brigade.”
“Roger that, sir,” Daren responded eagerly. He left his station beside Patrick to go up the theaterlike Battle Management Center to the Bobcat flight-control center to pass along the general’s congratulations. At the same time, Patrick heard a chime in his headset. He entered his passcode and waited for the secure linkup. “Fortress, Avenger is up and secure.”
“What’s your report, General?” Patrick recognized the groggy, gruff voice as Major General Charles Zoltrane, the deputy commander of Eighth Air Force. Well, he thought ruefully, the brass was awake now. He was probably speaking from a secure phone in his quarters, and he definitely did not sound happy about being awakened at this hour.
“One of my unmanned Vampire bombers was shot down by a Russian SA-12 surface-to-air missile battery just outside Mary, sir,” Patrick replied. Patrick had known Zoltrane for many years, and they were of equal rank. But when Zoltrane used “General” instead of “Patrick,” McLanahan knew to keep this conversation formal and carefully observe their chain of command.
“Shit,” Zoltrane murmured. “How in hell did you manage that, General?”
“We were investigating some unidentified ground returns just twenty miles outside Mary, well within the prohibited area, when it popped on and nailed us. We detected two SA-12 batteries and their command-and-control units.”
“Transmit the site’s coordinates and electromagnetic signals to headquarters, and let’s have a look.” But Zoltrane detected the hesitation in Patrick’s response and said, “What else do you have to report, McLanahan?”
“The SA-12 batteries have been neutralized, sir,” Patrick said. “The command-and-control unit, surveillance radar, and a total of ten transporter-erector-launchers have been destroyed.”
“
“StealthHawk UCAVs, sir, launched from our Vampire just before it was shot down.”
“StealthHawks?
“Two.”
“Where are they now?”
“They were both completely destroyed when they kamikazied into SA-12 transporter-erector-launchers.”
“Who gave the order to attack those SA-12 batteries, General?”
“I did, sir, as soon as my Vampire bomber was attacked and destroyed by hostile ground fire from within the prohibited area around Mary.”
“You received no guidance from General Samson or from CENT-COM?” Zoltrane asked. Lieutenant General Terrill Samson was the commander of Eighth Air Force and the immediate task-force commander. Although anyone up the chain of command could have issued attack orders to Patrick — even the president of the United States himself — most if not all commands would have gone through General Samson at Eighth Air Force except in the direst of emergencies.
“No, sir.”
“I see.” There was silence for several long moments, during which Patrick could tell that Zoltrane was still on the line. Then, abruptly, he said, “Stand by,” and the connection was broken. That was not a good sign, Patrick thought.
Daren Mace returned a few minutes later. “Bobcat Zero-four is inbound inside the ingress corridor over western Pakistan and should be on station in less than an hour,” he reported. “He does not have any StealthHawks on board. Bobcat Zero-two will be ready to launch from Diego Garcia in about thirty minutes, and he’s loaded with two UCAVs. We can only load fifty percent of our Vampires with UCAVs for now, but we expect to get a few more ready to upload within twenty-four hours. Within forty-eight hours, all Vampires will have UCAVs on board.”
“Very good,” Patrick said. “Get Zero-two airborne as soon as possible, with StealthHawks and full defensive armament. All Vampires that launch from now on will have StealthHawks on board unless further advised. The Russians might have many more SA-12s waiting for us out there.”
“Yes, sir.”
Patrick glanced up and saw Brigadier General David Luger, his second in command, trotting down the stairs toward the command console, apparently in a very big hurry, looking worriedly at Patrick. “Put Zero-four on patrol, and have him identify each and every laser-radar return within fifty miles of Mary,” he went on. “If the Russians have a portable latrine out there, I want to know about it.”
“You got it, sir,” Daren said enthusiastically. He started to put on his headset to talk with the flight-control crew in the BATMAN and his ground crews on Diego Garcia, but David Luger came over to him, bent down, and whispered something to him. Daren Mace looked quizzically at Luger and shook his head, but Luger grasped Mace by his right upper arm, and Mace stood up and retreated up the stairs toward the flight-control crews.
Patrick watched this interchange with a slight feeling of dread that he tried not to make evident in his voice as he asked, “What’s going on, Dave?”
“I received a call from Eighth Air Force headquarters, Patrick,” Luger replied. Patrick noticed that David was in a flight suit but was un-shaven and had barely taken the time to lace up his flying boots. At that moment a tech from the communications center trotted down the steps carrying a message. He handed it to Luger, who read it quickly. Patrick saw his face turn ashen. “Oh, shit…”
“What in hell’s going on, Texas?” Patrick asked.
“You…you’ve been relieved of duty, Patrick,” Luger responded, his voice shaking with disbelief and shock. He
