As soon as the Eagle pilots hit their afterburners, the Iranians changed course and headed for them.
So far no one had fired at each other. The Iranians protested that the Americans were trespassing and would be shot down; the Americans replied that they were covering an operation on the Iraqi side of the border and would return as soon as they were confident that the Iranians would not interfere. The white lie led to considerable huffing and puffing, but no gunplay.
Not yet, anyway.
“We’re clear,” said Breanna, following what was going on via the AWACS link.
But they didn’t stay clear. The second flight of Sukhois continued south, directly toward their path.
“We have thirteen minutes to the border,” Breanna told Frederick. “Just keep on keepin’ on.”
But the Iranians had finally spotted them. The lead Sukhoi asked the MC-17 to identify itself.
“What should I say?” Frederick asked Breanna.
“Tell them we’re on a mercy mission,” she said. She remembered the list of injuries, all minor except for Tarid’s bullet wound, that her people had suffered. “We have a patient who requires burn treatment.”
“Maybe you ought to talk to them,” said the pilot, doubtfully. “Maybe they’ll believe a woman.”
They didn’t.
“Unidentified aircraft. We see that you are a U.S. warplane,” answered the Iranian. “You are ordered to turn to the north and fly to Tabriz airport.”
“Negative,” said Breanna. “We have a very sick patient we’ve evacked from one of your facilities. You better check in with your superiors. Your English, by the way, is very good. Where did you learn it?”
Flattery got her nowhere. The pilot increased his speed. The two Sukhois were now less than thirty miles away, closing the distance between the two aircraft at a little over four miles a minute.
The border was just over twelve minutes away. More importantly, the closest American fighters, off to the south with the MiGs, were nearly fifteen minutes from firing range.
Depending on what missiles the Iranian interceptors were carrying, they might already be in range to fire. Even if they were under orders to obtain a visual identification before making an attack, they would get to the MC- 17 well before the Eagles did.
Frederick tried to get more thrust from the engines, even though they were already at max.
“Maybe we should do what they want,” he suggested as the Sukhois continued to gain.
“I don’t see that as an option,” said Breanna coldly.
“What I mean is, we make it look like we are,” explained the pilot. “We turn and head north very, very slowly. We give the F-15s a chance to catch up. When they’re here, no more problems. We turn around and go home.”
Draw the encounter out and stall for time, then run away. There didn’t seem to be another choice.
“Maybe you’re right,” said Breanna. “Let’s play it by ear.”
“Iranian flight, please state your intentions,” she said as the Sukhois closed in.
“We are going to shoot you down if you do not comply with our directions.”
“Have you checked with your commander? We are on a mission authorized by your president.” Breanna could almost feel her nose growing.
“You will change your heading immediately,” replied the pilot.
Nine minutes to the border. Eleven to the Eagles.
“They’re going to shoot us down,” said Frederick. His voice cracked, betraying the pressure he felt welling inside his chest. He’d never been in combat before. He was starting to gulp air, hyperventilating despite his efforts to stay calm.
“It’s all right,” said Breanna. “They’re under orders to see what they’re firing at first. We have more time. Just play it out slow.”
The Iranian jets lined themselves up on a course that would take them over the MC-17’s wings. They didn’t slow down as they approached, deciding that a close buzz of the aircraft might intimidate the pilot into doing what they wanted.
Or crashing. Which would be just as good.
Breanna saw it as one more minute in her favor. That gave her seven to the Eagles.
Who now checked in with a warning of their own.
“Iranian aircraft approaching the Iraqi border, identify yourselves,” said the lead Eagle pilot.
The Iranians declined. Instead they circled back behind the MC-17 and fired a pair of warning shots over its wing.
“What do you want to do?” asked Frederick.
“I want to shoot the bastards down,” said Breanna.
“That’s not an option.”
“I know. But it’s what I want to do.”
If she’d been flying a Megafortress, even without missiles or Flighthawks, it would be an option. She’d sucker them in close, then open up with the Stinger air-mine cannon in the tail.
The MC-17 didn’t have that capability. But it did have the Ospreys.
“Greasy Hands, when you load the Ospreys into the bay, do they go in head first or tail first?” she asked, turning around to the chief.
“Tail first. Want to be able to take off right away. Truth of it, though, I don’t think it matters.”
“Do you think you could fire the cannon from inside the cargo hold?”
“Shit, I don’t know.”
“It’s either that or get used to Iranian food for quite a while.”
Greasy Hands unbuckled his seat belt. So did the loadmaster across from him.
Captain Frederick was breathing hard. His hand trembled on the yoke.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Breanna told him. “But maybe I should fly the plane through this. OK?”
“Colonel, that’s fine,” said Frederick.
“You’re doing all right. Just hang with me.”
One of the Iranian jets came up close to the side. The other remained behind them.
“You will comply or be shot down,” said the lead Iranian.
Breanna flipped on the cockpit lights, making sure he could see. Then she gave the Iranian a thumbs-up.
“I need to know the heading and the airport data,” she told the Iranian. “And how long is the runway? Will I be able to land? How strong is the wind?”
“You will turn to ten degrees, northeast.”
“Which airport am I going to?”
“You will turn to ten degrees, northeast.”
“I have to tell my superiors where I am going,” she said. “I don’t want to get in trouble.”
The plane behind her fired a short burst. One of the bullets grazed the bottom of the fuselage.
“All right, I’m turning,” said Breanna, slowing down.
Greasy Hands was already out of breath as he reached the bottom of the ladder from the flight deck. He pushed himself toward the Ospreys, which were secured close to the ramp.
Danny Freah jumped up from his seat.
“Gotta get to the Osprey,” Greasy Hands told him, huffing toward the aircraft.
“What’s going on?” asked Danny, following.
“Iranians. Bree’s got something up her sleeve. Help me.”
Parsons slipped as the C-17 dipped. Danny caught him, holding him upright against the second Osprey.
“We need to get into number two,” said Greasy Hands. He pushed upright and ran to the aircraft nearest the tail. The chief twisted past the retaining strap and squeezed into the cockpit, pushing down into the pilot’s seat.
There were two problems with Breanna’s idea. The Ospreys were transported with their wings folded up over the body, extending toward and over the front of the aircraft. That made it difficult to see through the windscreen. But they wouldn’t have much room to aim anyway; the best strategy would be to fire straight back, hoping to catch the Iranian plane by surprise.
The second problem was more formidable. The computer initiated a systems lockdown when the aircraft was in transport mode. There was a software override, but Greasy Hands had no time to initiate it. Instead, he ducked
