Terror At Dawn

status?”

“Renegade One, new target designation to you.” And a new symbol popped into being on his HUD, labeled with bearing and range information. “Intelligence confirms probable biological-weapons site, with possible warhead capabilities. No known antiair defenses in the area.”

“No known? That’s not very reassuring.”

A new voice came on the circuit, one he recognized immediately as the admiral’s. “Nothing about combat missions is supposed to be reassuring, mister.”

Just what I need, him sitting in TFCC and micromanaging the final run. Wonder if he’ll give a weapons-release countdown for me?

“Got it,” his RIO said. “Come right to about ten degrees. That shit is coming in from the side. We can make a hard turn, come in right over it, and get out of that radar’s range before they get a handle on us. The range should be long enough for a spoof to work.” The ESM system had active countermeasures, ones that could intercept a targeting radar and transmit a return signal that would convince the threat radar that its target was somewhere else.

“In theory, at least,” the pilot noted.

“Yeah. In theory.”

I remember this target. Not a lot to look at. It’s on the side of a hill, built back into it. A helluva target for a five-hundred-pound dumb bomb. Something like that, we need a daisy-buster. But it’s a come-as-you- are fight and what we have will have to do. Maybe we can damage the entrance enough to hole up anybody back in the buried part of it.

“Commencing final run,” he said, turning the aircraft to put it on the path indicated on his HUD. From here on in, it was a matter of coordinating electronic information and visual, using his experience to release the dumb bomb exactly at the right moment to loft it onto the target. Sort of like throwing a softball, he mused. And in this case, he would have to rely on his eyes and experience to tell him what alterations in the flight plan he had to make to compensate for the hill. The plan called for him to nail the center of the target, but that clearly wasn’t going to work. He needed to strike near the entrance.

“I’ve got a visual,” he announced a few seconds later, as the dull brown before him resolved into a sloping hill with a concrete building set on the side. It merged into the hill, but his eyes recognized the setup from the intelligence photos.

“Roger, concur,” his RIO said.

“Two,” his wingman acknowledged.

In a few words, Lauren sketched out additional instructions for his less-experienced wingman, hoping that the other pilot was enough of a stick to do some fine-tuning to the release point.

All once the ESM gear erupted into warnings. “SAM site, SAM site,” his RIO shouted, his voice tight and under control. “Drop it and get us out of here!”

“No,” the pilot said. “We’re not close enough, and I’ll be damned if I’m going home with these babies on my wings. Five more seconds — now!”

The aircraft jolted as the five-hundred-pound bombs left the wings, heading down toward the target, following the aircraft’s course and descending in a parabolic arc. Lauren broke off to the right, his wingman following, and kicked in afterburners to clear the area.

“They’re launching, they’re launching,” his wingman shouted over the circuit. “I have a visual on two — no, three missiles!”

“Settle down,” the pilot ordered sharply. “Keep your eyes opened, you’ll be okay. The SAMs are slow and clumsy — you can avoid it if you stay on your toes. Just like in school, Joe.”

He rolled his Tomcat inverted and stared back the way they’d come. Yes, he could see them now, his vision preternaturally sharpened by the knowledge that they were there. Two long, white telephone poles rising up from the ground, beam-on to them now but already turning to follow them, the third one not yet visible. At least they didn’t have fighters. Ground-based missiles were a helluva lot easier to handle.

“It’s got me, it’s got me,” his wingman shouted as the ESM gear stuttered into a harder, faster tone, indicating that one of the missiles had detected him on its own radar and was locking on. “Chaff, flares — commencing evasive maneuvers.”

The air around them was suddenly cluttered with strips of metal foil and burning flares, all designed to throw the missile off its target. The countermeasures gear kicked in automatically, intercepting the radar signals from the missile seeker head, delaying them, and transmitting them back, attempting to fool the small computer mind into thinking that the aircraft was somewhere else.

“It’s got us, too,” his own RIO said. “Wait for it, wait for it — break right, break right!” The pilot did as the RIO ordered, popping out chaff and flares as he did.

“I lost it — no, it’s reacquiring, coming back on me — break right, break right,” his wingman shouted, swinging his Tomcat around as the missile turned away from the chaff and flares. For whatever reason, this particular missile was tenacious. Lauren had his own problems to deal with, though. His own nemesis had reacquired and was turning to meet him.

There’s something to be said for the Hornet. Damn, I wish I had their turning radius right now. He jerked his Tomcat around almost in midair and was rewarded with, “It’s falling off,” from his RIO. Evidently their maneuvers had exhausted the missile’s fuel and it was tumbling back to earth. Be damned fine if it fell back on that bastard target.

“Come on, come on,” he heard his wingman chanting. The G-forces were distorting his words. The pilot was fighting to stay conscious as he put his aircraft into a hard, diving turn. “Joe, easy!” Lauren said. “Change altitude, increase closure without so many Gs — acknowledge!”

“I’m trying,” the voice said, even more sluggishly. “It’s not—”

Suddenly, below Lauren and to his right, a fireball exploded where moments before had been a Tomcat. “Joe,” he shouted, as though raising his voice to reach across the distance between them and save his junior wingman. “Answer me!”

“That was him,” his RIO said softly, shock in his voice. “Those weren’t that hard to avoid.” He began to swear softly.

Shit, double shit. I’ve got to go see.

He put his Tomcat into a hard turn that headed directly for the fireball. He had to see if there were any parachutes. The odds of it were slim to none, but as long as there was a chance that his wingman and his RIO had gotten out just before the hit, that somehow he had managed to eject them in the moments before the missile hit, Lauren had to check.

The air below the fireball was already littered with burning pieces of fuselage that fell through the air like a shower of meteors. Lauren stayed around the edges, careful to avoid the secondary explosions and shrapnel, and rolled inverted to check the air below them. “Anything?” he asked his RIO, already knowing what the answer was. “Anything at all?”

“Renegade One, States,” the TAO’s voice said over tactical. “Interrogative the status of your wingman?”

“No chutes,” the pilot said shortly, his voice emotionless. “I’m coming back for another check, but I don’t think he made it.”

Silence on the circuit, and then the admiral came back on. “Get your ass back here, mister. Now.”

“Just a few more minutes, sir. Just in case—”

“Don’t you people understand what orders are? I said now!”

The silence that followed on the normally busy circuit had an entirely different quality to it. Shock, horror, even more than the death of his wingman had occasioned. It was unthinkable that a pilot leave a wingman before he was absolutely and morally convinced that there were no parachutes in the air. It violated every tenet of the warrior’s code, the one that both he and the admiral had been raised on.

That could be no explanation, no justification. This was not the time for an argument. Instead, the pilot simply ignored the man with the stars and began his futile orbit once again.

CVIC United States

1650 local (GMT +3)

The intelligence specialists and officers listen to the exchanges closely, each one secretly glad he did not