Maxwell saw something — the ejection seat? — separate from the cloud of wreckage. Behind the object trailed a stream of material, which then blossomed into the tan-colored canopy of a parachute.
“Splash one!” Maxwell called.
A few seconds later he heard Flash Gordon’s exultant voice: “Splash one!”
Another MiG down.
He took his eyes off the tumbling wreckage of the MiG and scanned the sky around him. Two MiGs were out of the fight. That left one still alive.
Where?
No radar, no radio transmissions. Give them nothing with which they could track him.
His Sirena radar-warning receiver told him they were searching. With the sophisticated equipment aboard their AWACS ship, they probably detected him. But by his staying low, skimming the ground on the north slope of the massif that stretched to the Red Sea, his chances were decent. They improved with every kilometer he put between him and the enemy fighters.
Al-Fasr kept the MiG in full afterburner. It meant that he would be fuel critical within minutes. So be it. The only fighters that could threaten his escape were the Tomcats, and he was opening up enough lead to put him beyond their pursuit range. Within ten minutes he would be across the narrow Red Sea. Then he would put the fighter down on the strip in Eritrea.
The fight had gone as well as he could have expected. According to the reports from his battle observation monitors, stationed in a hundred-kilometer belt around the complex, at least two American fighters were down. He had lost two MiGs.
Two for two. It was a fair exchange, considering the odds.
Novotny was dead. He was sure of it. The blockheaded Czech had bored straight into a section of Hornets just as they were coming off their target. They had executed a nose-on attack before Novotny had even gotten a missile in the air.
So it went. Fools like Novotny were expendable.
Rittmann had remained in character. True to his word, he had not been afraid. He had thrust himself at the attacking Hornets like a fearless — and stupid — German attack dog. Kill and be killed. That was Rittmann’s style. Now he was either dead or lost in the vastness of the Yemeni highlands. It didn’t matter. Rittmann was more trouble than he was worth.
His Sirena was chirping in the same mode it had been since he left the battle. It meant their radars were scanning, possibly even picking up a return from his low-flying jet. From the display he could see that no threats were coming his way. No missiles in the air, no fighters targeting him from behind.
Ahead, the high ridge of the massif sloped toward the horizon. He kept the MiG-29 low, skimming the boulders and the scrub brush. Occasionally the blur of a terraced field passed beneath him. He glimpsed huts, outbuildings, thin wisps of wood smoke.
The brown landscape dropped away beneath him, and the rocky shoreline came into view. Beyond lay the milky blue haze of the Red Sea. He had been informed that the Reagan’s pilots, by their rules of engagement, were forbidden to pursue targets beyond the coastal boundaries of Yemen.
The coastline flashed under the MiG’s belly. Across the narrow passage lay the shore of Eritrea.
Safety.
In the cockpit of the MiG-29, Al-Fasr let himself relax for the first time since he’d left the revetment. He had survived the first battle. The next was about to begin.
The red phone next to Boyce’s chair rang. It was the direct line from the captain’s station on the bridge.
“I’m afraid so,” said Boyce, “two down, a Tomcat from the TARCAP, and a Hornet from Yankee flight.”
Boyce held the phone two inches away from his ear. Stickney wanted to know where the MiGs had come from and how come nobody saw them coming and why did this whole goddamn caper look like fucking amateur hour?
Boyce felt the eyes of Admiral Fletcher and Babcock on him while the Reagan’s captain roared over the phone. “I don’t have the answers yet, Sticks, but I assure you we’re gonna find out. My first priority is getting the RESCAP in place and snatching our people out of there.”
He hung up and saw Claire Phillips standing beside him. Her face looked somber.
“It’s not good, is it?” she asked in a low voice.
“I’ve seen better.”
“Some of our pilots have been shot down. Who are they?”
“You know I can’t tell you that.”
“One of them is the woman pilot. The one they call B.J.?”
Boyce looked around the CIC compartment. Controllers were hunched over their consoles, coordinating the elements of the strike group. Fletcher and Babcock were staring at him again. “Look, Claire. This is a pretty volatile situation, and the media shouldn’t be this close. I’m going to ask you to leave while we deal with this.”
“Red, please, I won’t interfere with—”
He took her elbow and steered her toward the door. “Listen to me, Claire. Not a word, not a hint of what you saw or heard in here will be reported without clearing it through me. Is that understood?”
Claire’s eyes flashed. “Of course it’s understood. Do you think I’m the enemy, Red?”
“No. Sorry, but you know what I mean.”
On her way out the door she paused. “Just tell me. Is Sam okay?”
He glanced back at his tactical display. None of the symbols on the screen had changed in the past half minute. “Yeah. Sam’s okay.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
INDIAN COUNTRY
Stealth jogging.
Yes, she thought, that was it. It had a nice ring to it. Maybe she could use it someday in a paper or a lecture. It described what she was doing this very moment — hightailing it through the Yemeni hills like a hunted fugitive.
Which, of course, she was.
She wished she had her running shoes, the ones with the air soles that weighed eight ounces each. She’d be flying over the rocks instead of clumping along in these clodhopping boots.
B.J. jogged along the shaded slope of the ridgeline, stopping every minute or so to listen. She needed to put distance between her and the valley where the Tomcat crew was caught. Keep moving, stop and listen for the bad guys, keep moving. Stay out of sight.
If she got out of this place, she thought — and then instantly corrected herself. Forget if. No more ifs. When you get out. You are getting out of this place. And after you do you will sit down and write one hell of an authoritative paper about escape and evasion. Maybe get it published in Naval Institute Proceedings or some such journal. Why not? Who else would know more about being on the lam in a garden spot like Yemen?
It was luck that she hadn’t been injured in the ejection. She’d punched out at high speed — something over four hundred knots, she guessed — barely beating the fireball when the Hornet blew up. She’d been in the chute only seconds, just long enough to smack down onto a rocky hillside, landing with an ungraceful thud and rolling twenty feet down the slope before she could disentangle herself from the shroud lines.
She was okay, just some bruises and cuts from the rocks. She could run, which was the most important item in her set of skills. Run like hell. The stuff she didn’t want to carry — chute, helmet, raft, torso harness — she stashed beneath rocks and brush. She gathered the essential items into the survival rucksack and moved out.
Not until she’d gone a mile did she stop and try the radio. The emergency UHF transceiver was her ticket home. She could communicate with friendly aircraft, give her location, call in the SAR helo.