Retribution

Hawk One was still thirty miles from the Sukhoi when the Indian pilot showed he wasn’t a pushover either — he fired two AMRAAMskis, not at the EB-52, but at the Flighthawks.

“Missiles in-bound for Flighthawks,” Rager warned from his station upstairs. His voice was so loud in Starship’s headset that he could have heard him without the interphone circuit.

“Yeah, roger that,” said Starship.

He guessed that the missiles had been launched in the equivalent of a boresight mode, with the hope that their onboard radars would pick up the Flighthawks as they drew close. But it was also possible that the Su-30 was hoping to simply clear the path in front of him: Once the Flighthawks began maneuvering to avoid the missiles, his path to the Bennett would be clear.

Starship pulled Hawk One up, discharged some chaff, then rode the robot straight upward increasing the ship’s radar signature to make it easier for the missiles to find him. At the same time, he continued Hawk Two on its course. The missiles saw Hawk One and began to follow — only to lose the slippery aircraft as Starship pumped more metal tinsel in the air and pushed down hard on his wing, spinning away as he reduced his radar signature to that of a pygmy grasshopper. The missiles exploded several miles behind Hawk One; the Flighthawk had gone a little farther south than he wanted, but it was still close enough to recover if Hawk Two slowed the Sukhoi down.

Hawk Two was seven miles from the Sukhoi. Starship’s gun sight began blinking black, the other plane lower than he expected; as the sight blinked red, the Sukhoi veered north.

“Lock and fire,” Starship told the computer, letting C³ shoot while he flew the plane.

Always optimistic, the computer wound the Vulcan cannon up and began spitting its bullets in the Sukhoi’s direction a few seconds before it was actually in range. Starship nudged his stick to follow the Sukhoi, trying to give the computer as much time on the target as possible without trading too much altitude or speed.

The Sukhoi rolled out and disappeared below him, heading almost straight down. Starship didn’t follow, knowing the Indian would only pull up abruptly and try to outmuscle him. Instead, he slid Hawk Two back in the direction of the Bennett.

Hawk One was now about eight miles to the east and two miles south of the Sukhoi, and at 30,000 feet, roughly 10,000 over the plunging Su-30. Starship pushed the aircraft toward an intercept, trading altitude for speed, but still staying east in case the Indian pilot decided to hit the gas in that direction.

“Launch warning! SA-3s,” said Sullivan, the copilot, over the interphone.

The Megafortress lurched beneath Starship. He tried to shut out the cockpit conversation and focus on the Sukhoi, pushing Hawk One closer. The Indian had to turn to stay on course for the Megafortress. His turn inadvertently closed the distance with Hawk One. His tail appeared at the bottom of the screen. The targeting piper boxed it in black — out of range.

Starship told the computer to pursue the Sukhoi and took over Hawk Two. As he did, the Sukhoi began a hard turn west. It was far too early to get behind the Megafortress, Starship thought; he checked the sitrep and realized what was going on — the Bennett had altered its course to avoid the SA-3s, and was now flying almost due south toward the Indian. The Sukhoi was lined up and ready to launch its missiles at the Megafortress’s nose.

“Flighthawk leader to Bennett—you’re closing the distance with the Sukhoi.”

“Take care of him.”

“It would help if you kept your distance,” muttered Starship.

“Just fly your own damn plane,” answered Englehardt.

Starship pushed Hawk Two at the Sukhoi from above, taking on the plane from the forward right quarter. He managed to get a short burst into the fuselage before passing. The Sukhoi didn’t even seem to notice.

A warning sounded; the Indian pilot had managed to fire his two remaining radar missiles, both AMRAAMskis.

* * *

“Missiles,” warned Sullivan.

“ECMs. Hang on.” Englehardt began pushing the Megafortress into a series of evasive maneuvers. He was tired, as tired as he’d ever been, yet so keyed on adrenaline his hands were shaking.

“Still on us,” said Sullivan.

“What’s with the SA-2 battery near the coast?”

“Tracking. No launch.”

“Sukhoi is breaking off, moving east,” said Rager.

“Sure. He’s out of missiles,” snapped Sullivan.

Englehardt’s neck was swimming in sweat. Even though the controls were electronic, pushing them felt like heavy work, and his arms and legs felt as if they were going to fall off.

“Missile two is gone. The first one is still coming,” warned Sullivan.

Englehardt slammed the airplane back to the north one more time, putting enough g’s on the air frame to get a warning from the computer. The AMRAAMski slipped by — but as it did, the guidance circuit in its tiny brain realized it had been fooled, and self-detonated out of spite.

Shrapnel spun through the air. A succession of light thuds peppered the right side of the plane.

The aircraft shuddered but responded to his controls, leveling herself off as Sullivan glanced at the sitrep to get his bearings. Warning lights began to blink on the dashboard, and before Englehardt could completely sort out what was going on, he heard a loud thud from somewhere behind him. The Megafortress seemed to move backward in the air. He knew he’d lost one of his engines, but his adrenaline-soaked brain couldn’t figure out which one at first.

“Copilot, status. Engines,” he said.

“Three is out. Problems with four. Temp high, moving to yellow. Shit. Red.”

“Bring it down. Trimming to compensate,” said Englehardt.

“SA-2 site has fired two missiles,” said Rager.

“Bastards,” muttered Sullivan.

* * *

The Sukhoi broke east after firing, either unaware that Hawk One was shadowing him or thinking he could simply slip by.

Or maybe his pass had damaged the Sukhoi, Starship thought. The Indian aircraft was trailing black smoke from one of its engines.

The aiming cue on Hawk One went solid red, and Starship pressed the trigger. The first two or three rounds sailed to the right, but the rest ripped a large hole in the enemy’s wing.

“Get out,” Starship said aloud, even as he continued to press the trigger. “Bail. Time to bail.”

The wing flew entirely off, and the Sukhoi disappeared in a steaming cloud of smoke and flames. Starship throttled back and pulled his nose camera out to wide angle, looking for a parachute. But it was too late for the Indian pilots to hit the silk, too late for them to do anything. He felt a twinge of regret, sadness for the men and their fate, despite the fact that they’d been trying to kill him.

It was only as he pulled Hawk One back toward the Bennett that he realized the Megafortress had been hit. The pilots were talking about the engines — they’d lost one and were about to lose another. The Indians had also just launched a pair of SA-2s at them, though from very long range.

Somewhere above the cacophony he heard a radio call, faint, indistinct, and yet familiar; very, very familiar.

“Zen Stockard to any American aircraft. You hear me?”

Zen? For real?

“Zen Stockard to any American aircraft.”

Starship punched into the emergency frequency.

“Zen! Zen! Where are you? Zen, give me a location.”

He waited for the answer. After ten or fifteen seconds passed, he tried again. Still nothing.