shoot, but there, a blip in a little box in the center of the head-up display. Time for a check. He activated his missile illumination systems. The F-22 had an LPI radar, meaning that there was a low probability of interception at the other end. That proved optimistic.
'We just took a hit,' the countermeasures officer said. 'We just look a high-frequency hit, bearing unknown,' he went on, looking at his instruments for additional data.
'Probably a scatter from us,' the senior controller said, busy now with vectoring his fighters onto the still- inbound contacts.
'No, no, frequency wasn't right for that.' The officer ran another instrument check, but there was nothing else to support the bad feeling that had just turned his arms cold.
'Engine-heat warning. Engine-heat warning,' the voice was telling him because he'd ignored the visual display rather blatantly, the onboard computer thought.
'I know, honey,' Richter replied.
Over the Nevada desert, he'd managed a zoom-climb to twenty-one thousand feet, so far beyond the normal flight envelope of a helicopter that it had actually frightened him, Richter remembered, but that had been in relatively warm air, and it was colder here. He blazed through twenty thousand feet, still with a respectable climb rate, just as the target changed course, turning away from him. It seemed to be orbiting at about three hundred knots, probably using one engine for propulsion and the other to generate power for its radar. He hadn't been briefed on it, but it seemed reasonable enough. What mattered was that he had seconds to get within range, but the huge turbofan engines on the converted airliner were inviting targets for his Stingers.
'Just in range, Sandy.'
'Roger.' His left hand selected missiles from his weapons panel. The side doors on the aircraft snapped open. Attached to each of them were three Stinger missiles. With his last vestige of control, he slued the aircraft around, flipped the cover off the trigger switch, and squeezed six times. All of the missiles blazed off their rails, arcing upwards toward the aircraft two miles away. With that, Richter eased way back on the throttles and nosed over, diving and cooling his abused engines, watching the ground while his backseater followed the progress of the missiles.
The first Stinger burned out and fell short. The remaining five did better, and though two of them lost power before reaching the target, four of them found it, three to the right engine and one to the left.
'Hits, multiple hits.'
The E-767, at low speed, didn't have much of a chance. The Stingers had small warheads, hut the civilian- spec engines on the aircraft were poorly designed to deal with damage. Both immediately lost power, and the one that had actually been powering the aircraft came apart first. Fragments of turbine blades exploded through the safety casing and ripped into the right wing, severing the flight controls and destroying aerodynamic performance.
The converted airliner rolled immediately right, and did not recover, its flight crew surprised at the unannounced disaster and quite unable to deal with it. Half of the starboard wing separated from the aircraft almost at once, and on the ground, radar operators saw the alpha-numeric display marking the position of Kami-Two flip to the emergency setting of 7711 and then simply disappear.
'That's a hard kill, Sandy.'
'Roger.' The Comanche was falling rapidly now, heading toward the clutter of the coast. Engine temps were back to normal, and Richter hoped he hadn't done them permanent harm. As for the rest, he'd killed people before.
'Kami-Two just dropped off the air,' the communications officer reported.
'What?' the senior controller asked, distracted by his intercept mission.
'Garbled call, explosion, something like that, then the data links just dropped off.'
'Stand by, I have to vector my Eagles in.'
It had to be getting twitchy for the 15-Echoes, the Colonel knew. Their job for the moment was to be bait, to draw the Japanese Eagles out farther over the water while the Lightnings went in behind them to chop down their AEW support and spring the trap. The good news for the moment was that the third E-767 had just gone off the air. So the other side of the mission had happened as planned. That was nice for a change. And so, for the rest…
'Two, this is lead, executing, now!' The Colonel flipped his illumination radars on, twenty miles from the orbiting AEW aircraft. Next he opened the weapons-bay doors to give the AMRAAM missiles a chance to see their quarry. Both One and Two had acquisition, and he triggered both off. 'Fox-Two, Fox-Two on the North Guy with two Slammers!'
The opening of the weapons bay instantly made the Lightnings about as stealthy as a tall building. Blips appeared on five different screens, along with additional warnings as to the speed and heading of the newly discovered aircraft. The additional word from the countermeasures officer was the final voice of doom.
'We're being illuminated at very close range, bearing zero-two-seven!'
'What? Who is that?' He had problems of his own, with his Eagles about to launch missiles at the incoming Americans. Kami-Six had just switched to fire-control mode, to allow the interceptors to fire in the blind-launch mode, as they'd done with the B-1 bombers. He couldn't stop that now, the senior officer told himself.
The last warning was far too late for counteraction. Just five miles out, the two missiles switched on their own homing radars. They were coming in at Mach-3+, driven by solid-fuel rocket motors toward a huge radar target, and the AIM-120 AMRAAM, known to its users as the Slammer, was one of the new generation of brilliant weapons. The pilot finally got the word, listening in to the countermeasures channel. He rolled his aircraft left, attempting a nearly impossible split-S dive that he knew was a waste of effort because at the last second he saw the yellow glow of rocket exhaust.
'Kill,' Lightning Lead whispered to himself. 'Lightning Flight, this is Lead. North Guy is down.'
'Lead, this is Three, South Guy is down,' he heard next.
And now, the Colonel thought, using a particularly cruel Air Force euphemism, it was time to kill some baby seals. The four Lightnings were between the Japanese coast and eight F-15J Eagle interceptors. To seaward of them, the F-15C Strike Eagles would be turning back in, lighting off their own radars and loosing their own AMRAAMs. Some would make kills, and the Japanese fighters that survived them would run for home, right into his flight of F-22's.
The ground control radars couldn't see the aerial combat taking place. It was too far out and below the radar horizon. They did see one aircraft racing for their coast, one of theirs by the transponder code. Then it stopped cold in the air, and the transponder went off. In the air-defense headquarters, data downloaded from the three dead AEW aircraft gave no clues, except for one fact—the war their country had started was now very real and had taken an unexpected turn.
43—Dancing to the Tune
'I know you're not Russians,' Koga said, sitting in the back of the car with Chavez while Clark did the driving.
'Why would you think that?' John asked innocently.
'Because Yamata thinks that I have been in contact with Americans. You two are the only
'Sir, what is going on right now is that we rescued you from people who wanted you dead.'
'Yamata would not be so foolish as that,' Koga retorted, not yet recovered from the shock of seeing violence uncontained by the borders of a TV cabinet.
'He has started a war, Koga-san. What is your death against that?' the man in the driver's seat inquired delicately.
'So you are Americans,' he persisted.
'Spies?'
'Intelligence officers,' Chavez preferred. 'The man who was in the room with you—'
