Rogue Forces

what’s happened to my board?”

“Lost contact with the Loser,” Patrick said. He began to enter instructions into the keyboard. “Boomer…!”

“I’m switching now, boss, but the datalink is almost completely shut down, and I’m down to one-sixty-K uplink speed,” Boomer said.

“Will it switch over automatically?”

“If it detects a datalink dropout it will, but if the jamming has locked up the signal processors, it might not.”

“What in hell is going on, McLanahan?” Wilhelm shouted, shooting to his feet. “What happened to my picture?”

“We’re being jammed on all frequencies—UHF, VHF, LF, X, Ku-and Ka-band, and microwave,” Patrick said. “Extremely powerful, too. We’re trying to—” He stopped, then looked at the regimental commander. “The Turkish Gulfstream. It’s not a VIP aircraft—it’s gotta be a jamming aircraft.”

“What?”

“An electronic jammer—and he’s taken down the entire network,” Patrick said. “We let him fly right on top of us, and he’s powerful, so we can’t burn through the jamming. Frequency-hopping’s not helping—he’s burning through all frequencies.”

“Je-sus—we’re blind down here.” Wilhelm switched to the regiment’s command channel: “All Warhammer units, all Warhammer units, this is…!” But his voice was drowned out by an impossibly loud squeal coming from everyone’s headsets that couldn’t be turned down. Wilhelm threw his headset off before the sound burst his eardrums, and everyone else in the Tank was forced to do the same. “Damn, I can’t get through to the Avengers.”

Patrick activated his secure cellular phone. “Boomer…” But he quickly had to take the earpiece out of his ear because of the noise. “Stand by, Colonel,” Patrick said. “Noble will be shutting down the reconnaissance system.”

“Shutting it down? Why?”

“The jamming is powerful enough that the datalink between us and the XC-57s has completely crashed,” Patrick said. “The only way we can get it going again is to shut down.”

“What good will that do?”

“The fail-safe mode for all the Losers is to switch to secure laser communications mode, and as far as we know no one has the ability to jam our laser comms,” Patrick said. “Once we power back up, the system will immediately default to a clear and more secure link. The laser is line of sight, not satellite-relayed, so we’ll lose a lot of capability, but at least we’ll get the picture back…at least, we should.”

It only took less than ten minutes to reboot the system, but it was an agonizingly long wait. When the picture finally returned, they saw only a small slice of what they were accustomed to seeing—but it was horrific enough all the same: “I’ve got three clusters of aircraft inbound—one each heading in the direction of Mosul, Irbil, and the third I’m assuming is heading for Kirkuk,” Hunter Noble reported. “Many high-speed aircraft in the lead, followed by lots of slow movers.”

“It’s an air assault,” Patrick said. “SEAD aircraft to take out the radars and communications, followed by tactical bombers to take out the airfields and command posts, close air support to stand watch, and then paratroopers and cargo planes for a ground assault.”

“What about Nahla?” Weatherly asked.

“The westerly cluster is passing to the west of us—I’m guessing they’ll target Mosul instead of us.”

“Negative—assume we’re next,” Wilhelm said. “Weatherly, organize a team and have them get the word out for everyone to take shelter. Do it any way you can—bullhorns, car horns, or yell like crazy, but get the regiment into shelters. Radio the Avengers to—”

“Can’t, sir. The Scion recon plane is back on the air, but our comms are still being jammed.”

“Damn,” Wilhelm swore. “All right, let’s hope the Avengers find good spots to hide, because we can’t warn them. Get moving.” Weatherly hurried off. “McLanahan, what about the veep?”

“We have no way of contacting his aircraft while we’re being jammed,” Patrick said. “Hopefully, once he switches to our freq, he’ll hear the jamming and decide to turn back to Baghdad.”

“Is there any way you can knock down that Gulfstream or whatever it is up there?” Wilhelm asked.

Patrick thought for a moment, then headed for the exit. “I’m headed for the flight line,” he said, adding, “I’ll get your comms back.” Patrick hurried outside, hopped into one of the Humvees assigned to his team, and sped off.

He found the flight line in utter chaos. Soldiers were standing on Humvees shouting warnings; some had loudspeakers; others just beeped the horn. Half of the Scion Aviation International technicians were standing around, unsure of whether or not to leave.

“Get into shelters, now!” Patrick shouted after screeching to a halt outside the hangar, leaping out, and running for the command center. He found Jon Masters and Hunter Noble still at their consoles, trying without hope to counter the fierce jamming. “Are you guys nuts?” Patrick said as he started grabbing laptops. “Get the hell out of here!”

“They’re not going to bomb us, Muck,” Jon said. “We’re Americans, and this is an Iraqi air base, not a rebel stronghold. They’re going after—”

At that moment he was interrupted by triple sonic booms that rolled directly overhead. It felt as if the hangar was a giant balloon that had been shot full of air in the blink of an eye. Computer monitors, lamps, and shelving flew from desks and walls, bulbs shattered, walls cracked, and the air suddenly fogged over because every speck of dust in the entire place was blasted free by the overpressure. “Hol-ee jeez…!”

“I’m hoping that was a warning. Don’t try to launch any aircraft, or the next pass will be a bomb run,” Patrick said. Under the desk with one of the laptops displaying the laser radar image from the XC-57, he studied it for a few moments, then said, “Jon, I want that Turkish plane knocked out.”

“With what? Spitballs? We don’t have any antiair weapons.”

“The Loser does. Slingshot.”

“Slingshot?” Jon’s eyes narrowed in confusion, then understanding, followed by calculation, and finally by agreement. “We gotta get close, maybe within three miles.”

“And if the Turks catch the Loser, they’ll shoot it down for sure…and then they’ll come after us.”

“I’m hoping they don’t want to tangle with us—they’re after Kurdish rebels,” Patrick said. “If they wanted to bomb us, they’d have done it by now.” He didn’t sound too convincing, even to himself; but after another moment’s reconsideration, he nodded. “Do it.”

Jon cracked his knuckles and began to issue instructions, changing the XC-57’s programmed flight path to take it inside the Turkish aircraft’s loiter area, then having it steer itself to fly behind and below it, using its laser radars for precise station keeping. “I don’t see any escorts,” Boomer said, studying the ultradetailed laser radar image of the area around the Turkish aircraft as the XC-57 closed in. “It’s a single-ship. Pretty confident, aren’t they?”

“What kind of aircraft is it?” Patrick asked.

“Can’t see it yet—it’s smaller than a Gulfstream, though.”

“Smaller?” That feeling of impending doom was back, crawling up and down Patrick’s spine. “It packs a lot of power for an aircraft smaller than a Gulfstream.”

“Inside ten miles,” Jon said. “I’ll hit it at five miles. Still trying to make out the engine nacelles.” The XC-57 closed the distance quickly.

“I don’t see any nacelles—it’s not a passenger aircraft,” Patrick said. As it got closer he could make out more detail: a small twin-engine bizjet, but with three pods underneath each wing and a pod under the belly. “Definitely not civilian,” he said. “Lock onto anything you can, Jon, and fire as soon as you’re…”

Before he could finish, suddenly the Turkish aircraft turned hard left and started a fast climb—and its turn rate was not that of a large passenger-size aircraft like a Gulfstream. At this close range, with its full profile showing on the laser radar image, its identity was unmistakable: “Oh, crap, it’s an F-4 Phantom fighter!” Boomer shouted. “An F-4 with jamming capability? No wonder they didn’t bring escorts—he can probably escort himself.”