“All right, Ghost Hawk, two minutes now,” she reported. “Let’s hit the gas and ascend before they spot us.”
“Roger that.”
“Igloo Base, this is Siren, we’re climbing to fourteen thousand to hover and observe contact, over.”
“Roger that, Siren. Igloo Base standing by.”
She and Boyd climbed to fourteen thousand, then, with the targets about to pass below in thirty seconds, they prepared to hover.
Instead of utilizing lift engines or rotating nozzles on the engine fan and exhaust like the old Harriers, Halverson’s F-35B employed a shift-driven lift fan, patented by Lockheed Martin and developed by Rolls-Royce.
The contra-rotating fan was like a turboprop set into the fuselage, just behind the cockpit. Engine shaft power could be sent forward to it while bypass air from the cruise engine was sent to nozzles in the wings as the cruise nozzle at the tail vectored downward.
Thus, under her command, panels opened over the lift fan behind her, and a column of cool air providing 20,000 pounds of lifting power vented from the bottom of the aircraft, holding her steady, a fighter plane seemingly locked in the air by an invisible tractor beam.
Boyd was at Halverson’s wing, hovering as well.
“Siren, this is Igloo Base.”
“Go ahead, Igloo.”
“We’ve received no response from your contact. You have authorization to fly by those helos, attempt once more to make contact yourselves. Instruct them to turn around — but do not engage unless fired upon, over.”
“Roger that, Igloo Base. If they fail to comply, we’d like authorization to engage, over.”
“Understood, Siren. Just let ’em know we’re here first.”
“Roger that, Igloo Base, descending to intercept those helos. Ghost Hawk, you ready?”
“Oh, yeah, Siren.”
“Just follow me. This’ll be… interesting.”
With that, she broke from her hover, jamming the stick forward and diving, the Pratt & Whitney engine thundering behind her with a force that crept into her gut, energized her, made her feel powerful beyond measure.
There was no darkness. Infrared peeled back the night to reveal the helicopters, flying in two clusters about three choppers abreast, spread far enough apart to be engaged individually.
Halverson took her bird straight down toward the lead three helos, diving directly in front of them, just fifty meters ahead.
She could only imagine the looks on those Russian pilots’ faces as their radars went wild, their canopies lit up, and they were suddenly buffeted by her jet wash—
Only to be hit again two seconds later by Boyd’s exhaust.
Screaming toward the mottled carpet of snow and trees below, Halverson pulled up and banked right, while instructing Boyd to bank left. They both came up, then suddenly went back to hover mode, floating there at one thousand feet, on either side of the column of Ka-29s as they advanced.
“Russian helos, this is Joint Strike Force Fighter Siren, do you copy, over?
Halverson’s pulse raced.
“Here they come,” said Boyd.
Tactical data links transmitted every reading from the instruments onboard their fighters back to Igloo Base and to every JSF tactical and strategic command post on the planet via the satellite links. At any time, any operations XO could tap in to her cockpit to see what she was doing.
That Mr. Network-Centric Big Brother was always watching did unnerve Halverson, and there had been lots of talk among pilots of deliberately switching off certain systems at certain times. Since the war had broken out, the concept of network-centric operations (NCO) had proven a first step at dissipating some instances of the “fog of war,” in which communication breakdowns and poor information handling resulted in heavy losses. However, when misinformation
For now, though, the information coming at Halverson was pretty damned obvious and accurate. The Russians had no intentions of stopping.
“Russian helos, this is Joint Strike Force Fighter Siren. You have crossed into Canadian airspace and are instructed to turn back, over.”
Halverson waited a moment, then repeated the same instructions in Russian. Her language skills weren’t great, but her pronunciation was clear enough for them to understand — if they were willing to listen.
She also wondered about the Canadian response. They had adamantly maintained their neutrality in the war, though it wasn’t beyond imagination that they might court the Russians for some “diplomatic” purpose.
For all Halverson knew, these helos could be en route to a southern location at the invitation of the Canadian government; if that were the case, it would have been nice to inform the JSF of their little visit.
But what kind of drinking party were the Canadians throwing that required the Russians to come in forty helos? If crates of vodka and droves of loose women weren’t on the list, Halverson doubted they would attend.
“Igloo Base, this is Siren, over.”
“Go ahead, Siren.”
“We buzzed the helos and are hovering at one thousand as they approach. No response to our requests, over.”
“Roger that, Siren. Just maintain—”
“Siren!” cried Boyd. “Rockets incoming. Jesus—”
Out of the corner of her eye, Halverson caught the flash of a bright light, and just as she throttled up—
More unguided rockets fired from the lead choppers tore through her wake.
“Siren, this is Ghost Hawk! Jesus, damn it, I’m hit! I’m hit! Got a fire. Electrical failures. Damage to left wing. I saw the radar warning, and I just didn’t believe it! Losing control!”
“Eject! Eject!”
Halverson climbed over the swarm of choppers to look down upon the scene, spotting Boyd’s fighter beginning to drop like a rock, nose tipping down.
“Boyd, get out of there!”
He was at about one hundred and fifty knots when a tiny flash erupted, and the canopy tumbled away. Then the ejection seat fired, and out came Boyd, with approximately eight hundred feet between himself and the ground below.
Halverson wished she had time to see if he was okay, but the rage inside — awakened by the audacity of these Russians — launched her into action. She wheeled around, brought the jet into another hover, pivoted toward the helos.
She had missile lock. There was no thinking it over or calling to base for authorization. And there were no second thoughts.
The two wingtip-mounted AIM-9X Sidewinder missiles exploded away from her jet, using a passive IR target acquisition system to home in on infrared emissions. They each raced toward a chopper in the lead group, leaving glowing white tendrils of smoke in their wake.
“Igloo Base, this is Siren. Ghost Hawk has ejected! Can’t see if he’s on the ground yet! I’ve engaged the helos, over!”
“Roger that, Siren.”
Twin booms shone in her display, the fireballs expanding then plummeting toward the icy deck.
Two Ka-29s down.
Thirty-five? Thirty-six to go?
She’d exhaust everything she had, she didn’t care.
But first she had to find Boyd, see if he made it, and if he did, be sure those bastards weren’t trying to finish the job.
His beacon shone in one of her displays, as the choppers below scattered like bees being swatted, spreading out, gaining altitude, while a few pilots descended even lower.
