“Already working on it, Captain.”
Sparks thought they had things pretty well covered. The Anacondas were about sixty seconds from hitting the Chinese J-8s, and the SA-2 radar had turned itself off.
Then a mobile SA-3 battery turned on its radar and began directing it at the Marine Osprey.
“Get
“SA-3 toast coming up.”
“More aircraft. No IDs,” said Cheech at the airborne radar. “Three, maybe four planes. Two hundred fifty miles, bearing—”
“What do you mean, ‘maybe four’?” snapped Sparks.
“Make it three. Things are getting a little hot here, Sparks,” added the sergeant. For the first time since Sparks had worked with him, Cheech’s voice contained a note of stress.
“What are they?”
“Working on it. Tentatively, Sukhois. Su-27s.”
“Find out for sure and keep an eye on them.”
“Missile one has hit lead J-8,” said the copilot.
“I can do without the sound effects, Micelli.”
The crew’s banter level continued to edge up over the next few minutes, even as the threat board reddened with fighters and ground radars. No sooner had the Flighthawk taken out the radar for the SA-3s than a small dish radar for an ancient ZSU-23 lit up a few miles down the road. The ZSU-23 was a four-barreled cannon. Though old, it was hell on low-flying aircraft like the Osprey. While Cowboy got after it, Spark urged the pilot in the Osprey to get the hell out to sea.
“I’m moving,” said the Marine.
“Move faster,” said Sparks.
“You want to go like a bronco with a firecracker in its papoose,” cut in Cowboy.
Micelli and Cheech heard the communication and started roaring.
“I’m glad you guys are having fun,” said Sparks. “Keep at it.”
“Tracking Indian Sukhois,” responded Cheech, his voice somewhat more serious. “Two hundred miles. Losing them.”
The Sukhois turned off, but two Chinese planes joined the fray, flying over Pakistan. These were MiG-31s, similar to the aircraft Colonel Bastian had encountered some days before. Sparks decided he would target them with Anacondas right away — and wasn’t surprised when they fired their own missiles, apparently radar homers, just as the first Anaconda left the bay.
“Launch the Quail,” he told Sparks, referring to the radar decoy.
“Still trying to get a lock on the second MiG,” replied the copilot.
“Well, lock the motherfucker and let’s go.”
“I’m working on it, Sparks. Relax.”
The pilot brought up the decoy screen and handled the Quail II himself. Similar in many respects to its Cold War era forebear, the Quail II had an artificial radar profile and could broadcast radio and radar signals similar to the Megafortress’s own. With the decoy launched, Sparks took a sharp turn away, making sure the bait was between him and the missiles.
“Foxfire One,” said Micelli finally. “Anaconda away.”
The missile ripped out from under the
“Why are you having so much trouble?” Sparks asked. “You were one-two-three on the test range.”
“We ain’t on the freakin’ test range,” said Micelli. “The radar isn’t interfacing right. It’s getting hung up in the ident routine. I don’t know. Where’s Jen Gleason when you need her?”
“She’s in that Osprey we’re trying to protect,” said Sparks. “So we better do a good job.”
What was that sound? Zen wondered. An airplane?
If so, it was very far away — beyond his imagination. Beyond everything. He only existed on this tiny collection of rocks; he could not think beyond it.
An airplane.
He picked the radio up mechanically, made sure it was set to broadcast, made sure the voice option was selected.
He should broadcast, shouldn’t he? That was his job, even though his life was here.
“Zen Stockard—” His voice broke. He stopped speaking for a few seconds. Could he imagine himself beyond these rocks? Was there another place to go?
“Zen Stockard to any aircraft. Any aircraft,” he repeated. “Mayday. Mayday. Airman down…Pilot down… Mayday. Zen Stockard.”
He listened for the inevitable silence. But instead words came.
“Give me your location, Zen.”
Had he heard the voice yesterday, the day before, he would have laughed and answered with glee. He would have made a joke or said something grateful, or done one of a dozen other things.
Now he simply replied, “Colonel Bastian, I’m on a treeless atoll somewhere off the coast of India. I don’t have a GPS.”
“Roger that Zen. Jeff — Breanna? Is she with you?”
Zen glanced toward her, unsure what to say.
“Yes,” he managed finally.
“Thank God. Keep talking to me. Just keep talking. We’re going to find you. Keep talking so we can home in your signal.”
Was there anything to say?
Anything?
“Zen?”
“I guess I’m a little thirsty,” he said finally. “And hungry. But mostly thirsty.”
“Angry Bear, cut ninety degrees,” said Micelli, warning the Osprey of yet another ground battery. “Cut and stop. Shit. You got a zsu-zsu dead ahead.”
“Get ’em, Cowboy,” said Sparks.
“Yeah, I’m on it,” said the Flighthawk pilot. “Take me two minutes.”
“Splash Chinese
Sparks didn’t have time to celebrate with his copilot. He checked the radar warning indicator at the bottom of his dashboard. Another Spoon Rest radar — SA-2—was operating to the south, but they were well out of range.
“What’s the status of those Chinese missiles?” Sparks asked Micelli. “They still following us?”
“Sucking on the Hound Dog’s signal. Going east. Both of them,” said the copilot. “No threat. Anaconda missile has missed
“Must’ve been the trouble locking. Both MiGs turned as soon as they launched. They’re not a threat.”
“No SA-3 battery here,” said Cowboy, guiding the Flighthawks. “What’s the story, dude?”
“You need to go two miles south,” said the ground radar operator.
“Oh yeah, yeah, yeah, my bad.”
“I need that refuel,” said the Marine pilot in
“We’re going to get you there,” said Sparks. “You’re ten minutes away. Relax.”
