Joint Operations

computers on board as well as a radar seeker that kept them “on target on track” even if the firing platform lost radar contact. Once launched, the missile would proceed to the designated contact, or, if contact lost, the last known position. It would then execute a search pattern, looking for its quarry, until it found an appropriate target or ran out of fuel.

Chan’s mission orders had been relatively simple — prevent any aircraft from entering the airspace around Oahu. Exactly what comprised the interdiction airspace, or how Chan should handle intruding aircraft had not been explicitly defined, but Chan was capable of determining his superior’s orders. When his boss said no incoming aircraft, that’s exactly what he meant.

His fingertips caressed the throttles, feeling the sheer raw power surge through the fuselage and linkages and up to his fingertips. It was by far the sweetest aircraft he’d ever flown, and this airframe in particular was the best of all onboard the ship. He made certain of that, watching carefully the technicians who maintained her, ensuring that no speck of corrosion or grease was allowed to mar her aerodynamically perfect form. Sure, there had been some resentment, criticism from the other pilots, but he made sure his bird got attention first, even if at the expense of others.

A small blip crept onto the edge of his heads-up display. Simultaneously, a soft chime warned him that his radar was holding a new contact. A blip appeared on his HUD. Next to the tactical symbol was the transmission from the contact’s IFF. Passenger liner, according to its modes and codes.

Or was it? The United States had made no secret of its ability to commandeer civilian aircraft to transport troops into troubled areas. An aircraft that size could hold nearly a brigade.

But that was unlikely, wasn’t it? He did the mental calculation quickly. Just barely enough time — if the United States had had any advance warning, had known what was coming, then they could have gotten the troops on the aircraft in San Diego and sent them enroute the Hawaiian Islands.

It wasn’t likely. Every aspect of operational security had been closely monitored. There had been no warning, none. The contact was really what it seemed, a passenger liner plying the airways between mainland and the most distant state.

But what about the position? The contact was well north of the established international airways transiting at speeds and altitudes lower than that allowed for westbound aircraft, according to the briefing that he received before launching.

No, no, part of his mind argued. You know what is happening here.

For most of his life, Chan had been a civilian aircraft pilot himself, and he knew well the dilemma the captain of the IWA flight would be facing. All those passengers, fuel constraints — perhaps he had no choice but to continue on to the Hawaiian Islands, diverting from his original destination tour more distant — and perhaps more secure — location. Yes, that is exactly what Chan himself would have done, had their positions been reversed.

But the obvious wasn’t always the correct answer, was it? Yes, with a bit of warning, the aircraft could very well have been converted to military use. Not that that mattered, in the end. Chan had his orders, and they were explicit. The United States had been warned, and it chose to ignore that warning.

Just then the modes and coats radiating from the contact’s transponder changed to 7777 — the international IFF signal for air distress. At the same time, his ESM gear picked up the weak pulse of the civilian airborne radar. So the airliner had detected him, and was now radiating the distress frequency.

Or trying to deceive me. Pretending to be on an innocent, peaceful mission, even as the pilot ferried troops into Hilo for a short hop over as part of an assault force.

Though Chan understood his superior’s orders, one part of him quailed at what he knew he must do. He knew too well what the missiles under his wing would do to the airliner, no matter how solidly built. It would sheer through metal and the delicate contents like chopsticks through rice. The missile would find a heat source, one of the engines. It would spiral part of the way up the intake, destroy the turbine before it exploded. Shrapnel from both the missile and the engine turbine blades would spin outward, penetrating and shredding the fuselage. Most likely the aircraft would break into two pieces along the line of the initial explosion, probably fracture along its upper surface before the lower edge gave way. It would spill its human contents into the air, and at least a portion of them would still be alive. Many of them would be unconscious within seconds, those who were already seriously injured or dying from the explosion. The oxygen was simply too thin to support life. They would tumble helplessly down toward the surface of the ocean, completely oblivious to what lay below them, accelerating at thirty-two feet per second squared.

The aircraft might remain nominally intact for a few seconds later, but soon the fracture in its sides would meet on the underbelly of the aircraft. Then it would most probably break in half, dumping the contents of the passenger compartment into the air. By then, if not earlier, a spark from metal scraping across metal would ignite the now free-floating cloud of aviation fuel into an all-encompassing fireball.

By then, the true horror would be taking place 10,000 feet below. As it plummeted through the atmosphere down into thicker air, any passengers or flight crew still alive would begin to regain consciousness. They would have seconds, maybe even a full minute, to watch the earth speeding up gracefully toward them, growing ever closer and closer. Swaths of color would become mountains, trees and structures. Their view of the islands would grow smaller and smaller as they descended, until eventually the horizon shrunk down to a few square miles of land. By then, they would be able to see the details clearly. But they would have only seconds to appreciate the view before they smashed into the hard, unyielding earth.

No, better to die as a fighter pilot would, merging with his aircraft and in an instant of eternity, obliterated before he ever knew what was happening.

Chan pushed the thoughts away as he pressed the firing trigger. It was dangerous to be distracted, even with easy targets such as this. Although the sky around him was clear, there was still the American aircraft carrier to contend with. Traveling at speeds in excess of Mach one, well over six hundred miles an hour, an American fighter could be in the game at any time. Any time.

Get it over now. Do it. He felt a surge of sympathy for his American civilian counterpart, then pressed the trigger.

The missile leaped off of his wing, arrowing straight for a moment before it curved off to the right. He heard the tone in his headset telling him it knew where it was going, had activated its own radar seeker head, and was hungry for prey. Chan avoided the temptation to become fixated on his own missile’s exhaust, and instead kept up a scan of both cockpit and sky.

His ESM warning gear caught the first sign of trouble, and its strident, insistent beeping soon confirmed his worst fears. He glanced at the signal parameters display, and agreed with the classification that the system had assigned it — it was an AWG-9, the tracking and targeting radar associated with the F-14.

And how far away? He resisted the urge to scan the sky around him, and instead kept his gaze fixed on the heads-up display. The computers onboard were capable of detecting and classifying the targets far more quickly than he could.

Two seconds later, he saw it. It popped up on his display, already labeled with a track number and a hostile symbol. Chan banked his aircraft away from the airliner. The missile was on its own now, a fire-and-forget weapon that require no further guidance.

The American pilots normally fought in a loose deuce position, one high, the other low and forward. The formation had proven its worth in countless battles, enabling the high position to keep a close eye on the overall picture and back up the low aircraft as necessary.

In aerial combat, altitude was safety. As the situation warranted, he could quickly exchange altitude for speed, and sometimes that was all it took to make the difference between life and death.

So where was the second Tomcat? He pointed the nose of his MiG back toward the American, hoping to increase radar coverage slightly. It should be somewhere along the same line of bearing.

There. Another blip, another warning from the ESM. The pulses were coming tighter now as the Tomcat switched from search to tracking and targeting mode.

Where was the rest of his squadron? The last thing he wanted to do now was take on two Tomcats by himself. Although the MiG 33 was lighter and more maneuverable than the Tomcat, more like a Hornet in performance characteristics, the Tomcat was a formidable foe.

He could see them now, two silver blurs flashing against the sky. He took his eyes off them for a moment to glance down, and was horrified to see how far out over the ocean he was. How could he have been so careless?