Rogue Forces

“Ready, guys?”

“As ready as we’ll ever be,” the pilot said.

“Good. Descend right now to eleven thousand feet and fly heading one-five-zero.”

The pilot pushed his control wheel forward to begin the descent, but the copilot held out his hand to stop him. “The minimum descent altitude in this area is thirteen-four.”

“The high terrain in your sector is twelve o’clock, twenty-two miles. You’ll be above everything else…well, most everything else. I’ll steer you around the high stuff until your moving-map terrain readout starts showing you the terrain.” The pilot gulped again but pushed the controls forward to start the descent. The moment they descended through fourteen thousand feet, the computerized female voice in the Terrain Advisory and Warning System blared, “High terrain, pull up, pull up!” and the GPS moving-map display in the cockpit started flashing yellow, first ahead of them and then to their left side, where the terrain was the highest.

“Good going, guys,” Luger radioed. “On your moving map you should see a valley at your one o’clock position. The floor is nine-seven. Take that valley. Stay at eleven thousand for now.” The pilots saw a very narrow strip of dark surrounded by flashing yellow and now red boxes, the red indicating terrain that was above their altitude.

“What’s the width, sir?”

“It’s plenty wide for you. Just watch the turbulence.” At that exact moment the crew was bounced against their harnesses by wave after wave of turbulence. The pilot was struggling to maintain heading and altitude. “It’s…getting…worse,” the pilot grunted. “I don’t know if I can hold it.”

“That valley should be good until you reach the border in about eighteen minutes,” Luger radioed.

“Eighteen minutes! I can’t hold it for—”

“Climb!” Luger interrupted. “Full power, hard climb to thirteen, heading two-three- zero, now!”

The pilot shoved the throttles to full power and hauled back on the controls with all his might. “I can’t turn! The terrain—”

“Turn now! Hurry!” The pilots could do nothing else but turn, pull on the controls until the plane hung on the very edge of a stall…and pray. The flashing red blocks on the terrain warning display were touching the very tip of the plane’s icon…they were seconds from a crash…

…and then at that moment the red turned to yellow, signifying that they were within five hundred feet of the ground. “Oh Jesus, oh God, we made it…”

And at that instant a flash of fire streaked past the cockpit windows, less than a hundred yards in front of them. The cockpit was filled with an eerie yellow burst of light like the world’s largest flashbulb had just gone off right in front of them, and the pilots could even feel a burst of heat and pressure. “What was that?” the copilot screamed.

“Heading two-three-zero, eleven thousand feet,” Luger said. “Everyone okay? Acknowledge.”

“What was that?”

“Sorry, guys, but I had to do it,” Luger said.

“Do what?”

“I flew you into the engagement envelope of a Patriot missile battery.”

“What?”

“It’s the only way I could get the datalink frequency for the Patriot and between the Patriot and the F-16s,” Luger said.

“Holy crap…we almost got nailed by a Patriot missile… ?”

“Yeah, but only one—they must be trying to conserve missiles,” Dave said. “They may have just launched it as a warning, or it might have been a decoy missile.”

“How about a little warning next time you put us in the gun sights, sir?” Macomber snapped.

“No time for chitchat, Whack. I’ve got the Patriot’s datalink frequency locked in, and I’m waiting for them to start talking to the F-16. As soon as they do, I can shut both of them down. But I need to keep you high, right on the edge of the Patriot’s engagement envelope. If I keep you too low, the F-16 might switch to his infrared sensor and not use the Patriot radar. That means I’m going to have to give him another good look at you. Fly heading one-nine-zero and climb to twelve thousand. You’re fifteen minutes to the Iraq border.”

“This is loco,” the 767 pilot murmured, flexing knots out of his hands and fingers. He began a shallow climb and a turn to—

“Okay, guys, the Patriot’s back up, and he’s got you, seven o’clock, twenty-nine miles,” Dave said a few moments later. “Still in sector scan mode…now he’s in target-tracking mode…c’mon, boys, what are you waiting for…?”

“If he’s verbally vectoring in the F-16, he can get him within range of his IR sensor without using the datalink, right?” the freighter pilot asked.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t think about that,” Luger said. “Fortunately most Patriot radar techs aren’t air traffic controllers; their job is to get the system to do its job. Okay, descend to eleven thousand, and let’s hope as you go down they’ll…” An instant later: “Got it! Datalink is active. Couple more seconds…c’mon, baby, c’mon…got it. Quick turn to heading one-six- five, keep going to eleven thousand. The F-16 is at your six o’clock, fifteen miles and closing, but he should be turning off to your right. The Iraqi border is at your eleven o’clock, about thirteen minutes.”

The picture was looking better and better. “Okay, guys, the F-16s closed to six miles but he’s way off to your right,” Luger said a few minutes later. “He’s chasing a target being sent to him by the Patriot battery. Descend to ten thousand.”

“What happens when he gets within his IR sensor range and we’re not there?” the freighter pilot asked.

“Hopefully he’ll think his sensor malfunctioned.”

“Scion Seven-Seven, this is Yukari One-One-Three flight of two, Republic of Turkey Air Force air defense fighter interceptors,” they heard on the UHF emergency GUARD frequency. “We are at your six o’clock position and have you in radar contact. You are ordered to climb to seventeen thousand feet, lower your landing gear, and turn right to a heading of two-nine-zero, direct to Diyarbakir.”

“Go ahead and answer him,” Dave said. “Maintain this heading. Your radar blip is going to comply with his orders.”

“Yukari, this is Scion Seven-Seven, we are turning and in a climb,” the freighter pilot radioed. “Safe your weapons. We’re unarmed.”

“Scion flight, Yukari One-One-Three leader will join on your left side,” the F-16 pilot radioed. “My wingman will remain at your six o’clock position. You will see our inspection light. Do not be alarmed. Continue your turn and your climb as ordered.”

“He’s within six miles of the ghost target,” Dave said. “Hang in there, guys. You’re eight minutes to the border.”

Another sixty seconds passed without any radio chatter until: “Scion flight, what is your altitude?”

“One-four thousand,” Dave Luger said.

“Scion Seven-Seven is passing one-four thousand for one-seven thousand,” the freighter pilot responded.

“Activate all of your exterior lights immediately!” the Turkish fighter pilot ordered. “All lights on!”

“Our lights are on, Yukari flight.”

“He’s within two miles of the false target,” Dave Luger said. “He’s probably got his inspection light on and is looking at nothing but…”

The freighter pilots waited, but heard nothing. “Scion base, this is Seven-Seven, how copy?” No response. “Scion base, Seven-Seven, how do you hear?”

The copilot’s mouth dropped open in shock. “Oh, shit, we lost the downlink with headquarters,” he breathed. “We’re dead meat.”

“Great. Perfect time for all this high-tech gear to go tits-up,” Whack complained. “Get us out of here, Gus!”

“We’re going direct Nahla,” the pilot said, shoving the throttles forward. “Hopefully those guys won’t shoot us down if we’re across the border.”