AAA LOCK-ON, blared in Maraklov’s mind. ANTARES reacted first, banking hard right and pulling away as warning messages flashed in his mind and streaks of black raced past his canopy. It was an M173 Bulldog anti-aircraft artillery vehicle, a small tank with two 40-millimeter radar-guided guns that fired pre-fragmented tungsten-alloy shells out to a range of over four miles. There were only a few Bulldog regiments in the United States; Maraklov was unlucky enough to run into one. Without jammers, the only defense against the Bulldog was to fly as far and as fast away from it as possible — its twin cannons could pump out two hundred rounds per minute per barrel. Maraklov now had no choice but to kick in full afterburner.
ANTARES reported damage to several mini-actuators in the wings. One Bulldog was not an effective weapon against highspeed ground-hugging fighters, but even so it had been a narrow escape. The Bulldog was quickly deactivated as the F-15s came into range. Maraklov pulled his throttle out of afterburner as fast as he could, but the damage had already been done. DreamStar had no fuel reserves left. Every mile in any direction other than toward the landing point meant one more mile Maraklov would end up short of it.
Maraklov rolled DreamStar left and headed directly for Laguna de Santiaguillo, staying at one hundred feet above ground, flying directly over a small town. He activated the attack radar and completed a three-second sweep of the sky … the F-15 fighters had turned around, and at another mental inquiry he found out why — DreamStar was in Mexico, two miles south of the border, over the town of San Luis. He had made it.
Aboard the lead F-15 over southwest Arizona
“What the hell do you mean, turn back?” Colonel Jack Harrell, the Eagle Squadron commander from Davis-Monthan AFB, said over the scrambled radio channel. He lowered his oxygen visor with an exasperated snap. His four remaining squadron members were arranged in extended fingertip formation around him, two on his left and two others about a half-mile farther off to his left. “Tinsel, verify that last transmission. Over.”
“Eagle flight, this is Tinsel,” the senior controller aboard the E-3B AWACS replied, “your orders are verified. Permission to cross into Mazatlan Fighter Intercept Region sector one with live weapons on board has not been received. You must comply with International Aeronautics Organization chapter one-thirteen until permission to cross has been received.”
Harrell was livid. He had watched one of his best fighter pilots auger into the desert not two minutes earlier, and here he was sitting by while their target was escaping — and there was nothing between them but a lousy line on a map. Harrell made a decision — that line was not going to stop him.
“Copy, Tinsel,” Harrell said. “Understand permission received to cross into Mazatlan FIR sector one. Blue Flight and Red Two and Three, report back to Goalie for refueling. Red Flight is turning right in pursuit. Eagle leader out.”
“Blue Flight copies,” the leader of the second group of two F-15s replied before the controller aboard Tinsel could interject. As Harrell banked right, those two F-15s maintained their heading northeast toward Goalie, their waiting KC-10 aerial-refueling tanker. But the two F-15s accompanying Harrell stayed in fingertip formation of their leader.
“Eagle Leader, this is Tinsel,” the angry voice of the senior controller aboard the AWACS finally said over the command radio. “I repeat, you are not authorized to cross the ADIZ. Turn left heading zero-three-zero and climb to—”
Harrell shut off the radio. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the F-15 on his left wingtip raise and lower his airbrake to get Harrell’s attention. The pilot extended two fingers ahead of him, visible to both Harrell and the third F-15. Harrell nodded that he understood the signal and switched his second radio to the scrambled Squadron-only frequency.
“I thought I ordered you characters to hook up with the tanker,” Harrell radioed.
“If you’ve got radio or navigation problems, sir,” the pilot of the second F-15, Lieutenant Colonel Downs, replied, “we wouldn’t leave you. If you’re going after that stolen fighter, we’re sure as hell not leaving your wing.”
“We are going after that guy, aren’t we?” the third pilot, Major Chan, asked. “I’d hate to think we’re gonna lose our wings for nothing.”
“Tinsel sounds pretty pissed,” Downs said. “Sure you want to do this, sir?”
“We’re doing it, aren’t we?” Harrell checked his heads-up display, which had been slaved to provide AWACS-generated steering signals to the stolen fighter. He was pleased to find the data-link still active. “I’ve still got a steer on the XF-34. Lead’s coming right ten degrees, descending to two thousand feet. Two, take the mid-patrol at six thousand; three, take the high CAP at twelve. Let’s waste this guy.”
“Two.”
“Three.”
The two wingmen began slow climbs to their assigned altitudes. Harrell began a descent, following DreamStar’s flight path. Moments later he received a soft beep in his headset telling him that one of his Scorpion missiles had followed the AWACS’ data-link instructions and had locked onto its target. Harrell made sure his wingmen were clear, then radioed “Fox two” once on the Squadron-only frequency, and pressed the launch trigger …
Over northwest Mexico
The green “sky” surrounding DreamStar was still present, meaning that the AWACS was still tracking him, but Maraklov allowed himself a moment to relax. They had turned back. He had overestimated these reservist weekend-warrior fighter-jocks. They had a reputation for tenacity, for an itchy trigger finger, for not following the rules. These guys had more to lose.
Maraklov commanded a thousand-foot climb to pad his safe terrain-clearance altitude and began to retrim his engine from best-speed to best-endurance mode. There was still a chance he could make it. In best-endurance mode the fuel computer and autopilot would work together to step-climb the aircraft to take advantage of better flying conditions and greater endurance at higher altitudes, without wasting fuel in the—
He was startled by a sudden MISSILE LAUNCH indication from the tail sensor. Momentarily stunned into indecision, he called on ANTARES to execute an evasive maneuver.
Instead of diving for the ground ANTARES pitched DreamStar up in a hard climb, lit the afterburner, leveled out, then activated the attack radar. Instantly the radar image of Harrell’s F-15 appeared, dead ahead at five miles. ANTARES’ radar locked on and launched the last remaining AIM-120 missile at the lone pursuer. At only five miles and slightly above the F-15, the Scorpion missile did not miss. DreamStar then flew directly toward the flaming remains of Harrell’s F-15, dodging away right at the last moment. The moves were executed so quickly that Harrell’s Scorpion missile, which had dutifully followed DreamStar in its wild Immelmann maneuver, now locked onto Harrell’s flaming F-15 fighter and added its own destructive fury to the already doomed plane.
“Sweet mother of God …”
Downs banked left away from the blossoming fireball that erupted just below and in front of him. There were only a few seconds between when he left Harrell’s wing and when that fireball appeared. One moment his squadron commander was lined up for a perfect missile shot, at the closest possible range without getting into an inner-range warhead arming inhabit, the target straight and level in front of him; the next moment, the target had leapt into the sky, evaded the missile, turned and launched a missile of his own. Immediately after, Harrell was part of a cloud of metal and exploding fuel.