“We’re in for a long night,” he said on their secure channel. “I don’t know what it was we just saw — or didn’t see — but one thing for sure, the security dinks are going to be all over us on the ground.”
Major Terrent lined up Bouncer Three on an azimuth that would take them directly over the four corners — where Colorado, Utah, Arizona, and New Mexico met — the only place in the United States contiguous to four states.
Kill Zone Bravo was several hundred miles beyond that in the same direction. White Sands Missile Range.
“Where’s the bogey?” Terrent asked.
“Holding, about fifty miles behind us,” Scheuler reported. “Let’s hope they’re better prepared at Bravo,” Terrent said.
General Gullick was directing the situation to insure just that. He had Aurora and Bouncer Eight heading directly toward the kill zone. They would beat Three there by four minutes.
Four F-15’s from the 49th Tactical Fighter Wing at Holloman Air Force Base were already in the air. He didn’t expect them to have any more luck than the two F-16’s had — except now he had the ace card of having Bouncer Eight in the air. Gullick planned on using both it and Bouncer Three to corral the bogey into a position where the F-15’s could get a good shot at it. Aurora was to be on standby to chase, just in case it did get away again and moved outside the continental United States. It was a rule that even General Gullick could not break on his own initiative — the bouncers could not fly over the ocean or foreign territory on the remote chance they might go down.
The wall display was crowded now. Bouncer Three straight shot from Salt Lake to White Sands, the bogey just behind. Bouncer Eight and Aurora on line from Nevada. Four small airplane silhouettes lying in wait over White Sands.
“Amber Teal has the bogey,” Quinn announced. “We’re getting some imagery.”
Gullick wasn’t impressed or interested. They already had photos of the foo fighters. He wanted the real thing. He keyed his SATCOM link to the F-15 commander. “Eagle Leader, this is Cube Six. Target ETA in five minutes, twenty seconds. You’re only going to get one shot at this. Make it good. Over.”
“This is Eagle Leader. Roger. Over.” Eagle Flight Leader glanced out of his cockpit at the other three planes. “Eagle Flight, take up positions. Get a fix on the first craft as it goes through. It will come to a halt on the far side of the kill zone. A second craft similar to the first is also en route from the west and will also hold on the western side of the kill zone. Launch on the bogey as soon as it crosses Phase Line Happy. Over.”
The four planes broke into a cloverleaf pattern, the kill zone a large pocket of empty sky, crisscrossed with electronic energy as the planes turned on their targeting radar.
From Bouncer Three, Captain Scheuler could see the waiting F-15’s on his display. “ETA thirty seconds,” he said.
“Slowing.” Major Terrent let up on the yoke.
“That’s the first one,” Eagle Flight Leader called out as Bouncer Three buzzed through, slowing as it went. His men were disciplined. No one questioned what it was. That would have to wait until the ready room after the mission.
Even then, they all knew they could never speak openly of tonight’s mission. “Lock on,” Eagle Leader confirmed.
“Locked,” Eagle Two echoed, as did the other two pilots.
“Fire!”
On the display at the front of the Cube the foo fighter appeared to suddenly become motionless as a thin red line extended from each fighter toward the green dot.
“Jesus Christ!” Eagle Flight Leader swore. The bogey had disappeared — straight up! Then reality set in hard. “Evasive maneuvers!” he screamed as the Sidewinder missile from the F-15 opposite him locked onto his plane.
For four seconds there was absolute confusion as pilots and planes scrambled to escape friendly fire.
General Gullick didn’t even watch the self-induced melee. “Bouncer Three, go! Direct angle of intercept. Break. Eight, loop to the south and catch it if it goes the way the other did! Aurora, get some altitude. Move, people! Move! Over.”
“Seventy thousand feet and climbing,” Quinn reported. “Seventy-five thousand.”
“Please, Lord,” Eagle Flight Leader whispered as he pulled out of the steep dive he’d gone into. A Sidewinder roared past to his left. He keyed his radio. “Eagle Flight report. Over.”
“One. Roger. Over.”
“Two. Roger. Over.”
“Three. Took a licking, but I’m still kicking. Over.”
Eagle Flight Leader looked up. Not to where the bogey had gone but farther. “Thank you, Lord.”
“Ninety thousand and still climbing,” Scheuler informed Major Terrent. His fingers hit the keyboard in front of him, his arms struggling against the G-forces pushing him down into his cutout seat.
“One hundred ten thousand and still climbing,” Major Quinn said. “The F-15’s are all secure and returning to Holloman,” he added. “One hundred and twenty thousand.” Well over twenty miles up and still going vertical.
“One hundred and twenty-five thousand. It’s peaking over,” Scheuler said.
Major Terrent let out his breath. The controls had started to get slightly sluggish. The record for altitude in a bouncer was one hundred and sixty-five thousand feet, and that had been a wild ride four years ago. For some reason, due to the magnetic propulsion system, which had not yet been figured out, at over a hundred thousand feet the disk started losing power.
The crew of the disk that had made the record flight had had the unnerving experience of peaking out while still trying to climb and gone into an uncontrolled descent before the disk had regained power.
“Heading?” Terrent asked, concentrating on keeping control.
“Southwest,” Scheuler said. “Heading, two-one-zero degrees.”
“What’s it doing?” Gullick asked.
“Bogey heading two-one-zero degrees,” Quinn said.
“Descending on a glide path, going down through one hundred and ten thousand. Three is in close pursuit. Eight is—” Quinn paused. “The bogey’s turning!”
“Uh-oh,” Captain Scheuler said as things changed on his display.
“What?” The controls were getting firmer in Major Terrent’s hands. They were just about down to one hundred thousand feet.
Scheuler snapped into action. “Collision alert!”
“Give me a direction!” Terrent yelled.
“Break right,” Scheuler guessed.
On the large screen the red and green dots both curved in the same direction and merged. Gullick stood, his teeth biting through the forgotten cigar.
Scheuler watched the foo fighter tear by directly overhead, less than ten feet away. A beam of white light was flashing out of the small glowing ball and raking over and through their disk.
“Engine failure. Loss of all control,” Terrent reported.
They both felt their weight lighten, then they were peaking over and heading down.
Scheuler looked at his display. “Ninety thousand and in free fall.” The lever and yoke moved freely in Terrent’s hands.
“Nothing. No power.” He looked over at Scheuler. Both men were maintaining their external discipline but their voices displayed their fear.
“Eighty-five thousand,” Scheuler said.
“Bouncer Three is in uncontrolled descent,” Quinn reported. “No power. Bouncer Eight and Aurora are still in pursuit.”
The green dot representing the foo fighter was moving swiftly to the southwest.
“Sixty thousand,” Scheuler reported. Terrent let go of the useless controls. “Fifty-five thousand.”
“The bogey will hit the Mexican border in two minutes,” Quinn reported.
“Bouncer Eight, this is Cube Six,” Gullick said into his boom mike. “Get that son of a bitch!”