Chapter 11
Howe finally got a plane on the radar, landing at the third site, sixty-three miles south of him. The AI circuits in the tactical radar targeting system focused their beams and scratched their silicone heads, tentatively I Ding the contact as a Blackjack bomber.
“I have it,” said Howe.
“I copy,” said Timmy. “More contacts: Su-35s.”
The planes appeared on his tactical screen, their approximate speed and altitude computed for him. The Russian planes had not yet found the American jets, but if they stayed on their present course, they would beat them to the island.
A combat escort? Or something else?
Another pair of contacts rose near the atoll: helicopters.
Howe tried but couldn’t reach Gorman’s command plane, or any of the other aircraft in her task force. He gave it another try; when he came up blank he told Timmy they’d shoot over the atoll where the Blackjack had landed and have a look.
“What do you want to do about the Russians?” asked his wingman.
“Tell them to stand off, that we’re conducting a test mission.”
“Yeah, and when they laugh at us, then what?”
“Splash them if they get in our way.”
“What I’m talking about.”
Chapter 12
Megan trundled through the dust at the far end of the camouflaged strip, heading back over the area she’d just landed on. The explosives were rigged in a grid at the edge of the narrow ramp that led to the hangar elevator; they could not be detonated unless the plane was sitting on one of the large metal plates at the mouth of the elevator. As she approached, a whirlwind kicked across her path. Rocks flew into her nose and smacked hard against the thick glass of her windscreen.
Not rocks: bullets.
The whirlwind turned back. It was a helicopter gunship, a cannon at its chin. The dark green and brown fuselage of an Mi-28 Havoc materialized out of the maelstrom, continuing to fire at her as she rolled. Megan ducked involuntarily as bullets crashed into the right side of the fuselage and wing. She had trouble finding the turnoff but stayed on the hardened ground, pushing the nose around at the last minute but still managing to get in the middle of the plate.
“Out!” she shouted. “Out! Out!”
She fumbled with the lock on her restraints, finally snapping it off as the topside hatchway hissed open. Megan curled over the side, throwing her legs over and then down, releasing herself to the ground. She rolled as she landed, getting up to her feet as one of the helicopters streaked overhead.
Chapter 13
Howe saw the helicopters fluttering over the plane as it stopped. They were Russian choppers, Mi-28s or something similar, gunships that might support assault troops. He was moving too fast to target anybody; he began a turn south, hoping to use the time to sort out what was going on down there.
“Bird One, this is Cyclops Control,” said Gorman. “Be advised: Several Russian interceptors are approaching you.”
“The laser plane is down,” Howe told her. Words rattled from his mouth like bullets from the Gatling in the F/A-22V’s starboard wing root as he gave her the GPS coordinates, ID’d the plane as a Blackjack with a V-shaped tail and other mods, and then told her about the helos.
“Assault team has an ETA of minus thirty minutes,” she said. “We’d like to recover the aircraft if possible. If not, destroy it.”
Before Howe could acknowledge, Timmy shouted a warning.
“Missiles in the air! Missiles in the air! Those crazy Russian fucks are gunning for us.”
“Can you assess the situation on the ground?” Gorman asked, unable to monitor the communications between the two Velociraptors.
“We’re under fire,” said Howe, dishing chaff and taking evasive action.
“From the Russians?”
Howe was too busy jinking to make any of the dozen or so retorts that occurred to him.
Chapter 14
The dust felt like heavy sackcloth, covering her face. Megan choked as she tried to get up, rubbing her eyes to clear enough grit away so she could get her bearings. She saw her three crewmen collapse behind her, falling as the helicopter made another pass.
Definitely a Russian. The bastards had figured it out somehow — as she had predicted.
“Rogers, blow up the plane,” she yelled to her copilot, who was lying next to her. When he didn’t move, she pulled at the pocket of his pant leg where the radio detonator was. “Do it! Do it!”
“I can’t,” he said. “Segrest told me not to blow the plane.”
“What?” She didn’t believe him, taking the radio device out anyway and pressing it. Nothing happened.
“He wants the laser,” said Rogers. “The detonator’s not rigged.”
“You bastard, these are Russian helicopters. This is Segrest?”
“No,” said Rogers. “I don’t think so.”
“Fuck, come on.”
“Where?”
“We can’t let them get the plane. We have to blow it up.”
“The detonator’s not set.”
“So help me set it.”
As she started to run, something popped in the air a few feet away. There was a roar and a rush of air. Megan felt herself pushed to the ground. One of the helicopters passed somewhere behind her, the ground shaking. Megan scratched forward a few feet, then got up and started to run again. She could hear the crackle of small-arms fire, felt her body becoming wet. She pressed the button on the detonator again and again as Rogers fell on top of her and rolled off, howling in pain, then awfully silent.
Luksha steadied his AK-74 automatic rifle at the fallen figure as he ran. It was the pilot. He had something in his hand, a radio no doubt. The pilot fumbled with it, trying to turn it in his hand.
Luksha kicked it under the jet, then pulled the man away, back to the side of the runway.
Not a man: a woman. The pilot was a woman.
Just like the Americans.
Luksha’s men swarmed over the aircraft. There was more gunfire, some shouts; for a moment he feared that more troops had been hiding on the island and they were about to be overwhelmed. The drumming of the helicopters rose and the wind swirled around him.
Then the chaos began to recede. There were no other troops, and there had been only four crewmen, three
