Phoenix missiles.
“Contact — I have — a launch — two launches,” said Rosen suddenly. “Shit — tracking — we have a cruise missile — two cruise missiles, breaking the surface. Fifty miles, bearing on nine-zero, exactly nine-zero.”
There was no time to consider whether the missiles were aimed at the Chinese carrier or the Australian ships; both were in range.
“Target Scorpions,” said Dog.
“Need you to cut, uh, need you at two-seventy,” said Rosen, giving Dog the turn they needed to launch their missiles. “Tracking One. Tracking Two. Okay, okay. No locks. Come on, baby.”
Dog pushed his stick to the left, riding the big plane hard. He nosed the plane down at the same time his hand reached for the throttle bar, picking up speed for the launch. The AMRAAM-pluses sat in their launchers near the wingtips, their brains seething for the targeting data.
“Okay — locked on Two!” said Rosen.
“Fire.”
“Launching. Launching. Two missiles away. Good read. Still looking for One. Still looking — can you cut twenty north — north, I need you north.”
Dog pushed the jet hard, following his copilot’s directions. Rosen gave another correction — they were almost out of time, the missile hunkering low against the waves, accelerating. Dog slid the stick back, his body practically jumping in the ejection seat to slap the Megafortress onto the proper bearing.
“Locked on One! Locked!”
“Fire,” said Dog softly.
The first Scorpion came off the wing with a thud so loud, Dog first thought there had been a malfunction, but it burst ahead a second later when the main rocket ignited, its nose rising briefly before settling down.
The Sukhois had rolled downward and were now five miles behind the Megafortress, closing fast.
The RWR blared.
“Flares,” Dog told Rosen calmly. “Hang on everyone.”
He threw the big plane onto its wing as the Chinese interceptors launched a volley of missiles. After seeing the Megafortress launch, they had incorrectly concluded it had fired on their ship.
“Two more Sukhois,” said Rosen as Dog whipped them into a seven-G turn. “Bearrrrrrrrring—”
Gravity slurred Rosen’s words as Dog whipped the plane back and then pushed the wing down, not merely changing direction, but dropping altitude dramatically. The Megafortress temporarily became more brick than aircraft, whipping toward the waves just barely under control. The two Russian-made heat-seekers sailed well over them; by the time they realized they’d missed their target and lit their proximity fuses, Dog had already wrestled Iowa level in the opposite direction. He was nose-on to one of the Sukhois and had he harbored any hostile intent — or a cannon in his nose — he could have waxed the Chinese pilot in a heartbeat. Instead, he merely pushed the throttle glide for more giddyyap. The Sukhoi shot below as Dog upward toward a stray bank of clouds, looking for temporary respite.
He hadn’t quite reached cover when the RWR announced there were radar missiles in the air. Rosen cranked the ECMs. They fired off chaff, and once more began jucking and jiving in the sky. The easily confused radar missiles sailed away harmlessly.
“Two is cooked! Splash cruise missile two,” said Rosen, somehow managed to keep track of his missile shots despite working the countermeasures.
“Where are the Sukhois?” asked Dog.
“Two are heading back to the carrier. Ditto the one that just launched the homers,” said Rosen, meaning the radar missiles. “Tomcats are sixty seconds away.”
Dog hit the radio. “Dreamland Iowa to Tomcat Top Flight — do not take hostile action. Stand off.”
“Missile three is terminal — missed, shit.” said Rosen.
Dog ran out of clouds and tucked toward the ocean, his altitude dropping through five thousand feet. A geyser shot up in the distance.
“Four is-is,” stuttered Rosen, eyes fixed on his targeting radar screen. “Four — yes! Grand slam! Grand slam! Got both those suckers!”
“Relax, Captain.” Dog swung his eyes around his instruments, getting his bearings quickly. The sitrep map showed the Tomcats are within twenty-five miles. There were two Sukhois directly over the Chinese carrier
“They’re looking for us,” said Rosen.
“ECMs.”
“I’m singing every tune I can think of,” said Rosen. The computer was jamming the Sukhois’ “Slotback” Phazotron N001 Zhuck radars, making it impossible for them to lock on the Megafortress, or anything else nearby, including the much more obvious Orion to the south.
As Dog banked, he turned his head toward the side windscreen, looking at the sea where the missiles had originated. “Tell our Chinese friend we just saved their butts.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Delaford, you have a line on the Indian submarine?”
“Not a specific location, but they’re definitely in range for Piranha. We’ll have tons of data on Kali now,” he added. “Very interesting.”
“No response from the Chinese,” said Rosen. “Helos launching — looks like one of the destroyers changing course.”
“I don’t see much sense launching Piranha now,” Dog told Delaford. “The Chinese will be throwing depth chares left and right.”
“By the time they get near the sub, it’ll be long gone,” said Delaford. “But I concur, Colonel. At this point I’d suggest we stand off and watch.”
Dog gave the lead Tomcat pilot a quick brief after being asked for a rundown.
“I’d prefer we didn’t have to shoot them down,” he added.
The Navy pilots didn’t respond.
“You got that, commander?” Dog added.
“Lightning Flight acknowledges transmission,” said the pilot. “With due respect, Colonel, it’s my call.”
“Listen, Captain, at this point, we do not need to escalate. Hold your fire unless the Chinese get aggressive.”
“Just because you have a fancy ol’ plane, doesn’t mean you’re king of the hill,” said the Tomcat jock.
“Set the ECMs to break their missiles if they fire,” Dog told Rosen over the interphone.
“The Chinese?”
“The Tomcats.”
“Yes, sir. Four helos now, coming out from the task force. Hold on here. Got some transmission.” Rosen listened a moment more, then laughed. “The Chinese are demanding we tell them were the Indian sub is.”
“Tell ’em damned if we know. Just like that.”
“Just like that?”
“Verbatim.” Dog switched his radio to the shared frequency again. This time talking to the Orion pilot. They decided to hold off dropping more buoys — no sense helping the Chinese any more than they already had.
In the background, Dog heard a transmission from one of the Tomcats pilots to another group of Navy fighters coming from the south: “Watch out for the cranky AF transport driver.”
Dog didn’t mind being called cranky. The slur on the Megafortress was hard to take, though.
“They’re damned lucky we’re out of Scorpions,” said Rosen, who’d flipped into the circuit just in time to hear the crack. “Show ’em cranky.”
Dog looked to the west at the slowly approaching storm. All things considered, it was probably better they hadn’t launched Piranha; tracking it through the storm would have been difficult.
“Can you get me a weather update?” he asked the copilot.
“Worse and worser,” replied Rosen before proceeding to retrieve the more official version — which used a few more words to say the same thing.
“Plot a course back for the Philippines,” Dog told him. “We’ll let the Navy guys take if from here.”
