“They can’t hang you for something you had no control over.”
Elliott sat quietly for a few moments, then: “As long as I’ve got control, I’m going to use it.” He picked up the direct line to the command post controller. “It’s something I should have done from the beginning.”
“You’re going to recall McLanahan and Powell?”
“I’ve made too many mistakes. I’ve got a responsibility here, and I’m taking charge right now.”
J. C. Powell had taken Cheetah down from forty thousand feet to one thousand feet and just below the speed of sound as they approached the area where DreamStar’s data-signal indicated its position.
“Showing thirty miles to intercept,” McLanahan said, reading the telemetry data being received from DreamStar’s automatic encoders. “Still showing him on the ground but with engines running.”
“Can you get a fix on his positon?”
“Already got it,” McLanahan said. “I don’t show any Mexican airfields on my charts, but there’re probably a lot of them around here. He … goddamn, just lost the data-signal.”
“Which means he’s got help,” J.C. said. “Someone must have deactivated the data-transmitter for him.” J.C. took a firm grip on his stick and throttles, experimentally shaking the stick to help himself concentrate — he was amazed at the extra amount of agility Cheetah demonstrated without the heavy camera on the spine. “Twenty miles. Stand by. Throttles coming to eighty percent.” Slowly Powell brought the throttles out of military power and to the lower power setting.
“Give me a good clearing turn in each direction so I can get a look,” Patrick said. “I’ll call the target, then we’ll come back around and try for a strafing run.”
“Guns coming on,” said J.C. He hit the voice-recognition computer button: “Arm cannon.”
“Warning; cannon armed, six hundred rounds remaining,” the computer replied.
“Set attack mode strafe,” J.C. ordered.
“Strafe mode enabled.” A laser-drawn crosshair reticle appeared on J.C.’s windscreen, and weapon- and altitude-warning readouts appeared near the reticle. Adjusted for airspeed, wind and drift by the computer and attack radar, the reticle would position itself where the bullets from Cheetah’s cannon would impact, no matter how Cheetah moved through the air. In strafe mode J.C. could select a ground target and the computer would direct the pilot which way to fly to keep the reticle centered on the target. It would also warn of terrain or other obstacles and warn when the ammunition count was getting low.
“Cannon’s on-line,” J.C. told McLanahan.
“Ten miles out.” McLanahan now began to transition to visual, looking out the canopy as he could, scanning the rocks and scrub-forested hills ahead for an airfield. The inertial navigator and flight director could fly Cheetah to within sixty feet of a waypoint, but if the airstrip’s coordinates in the database were not perfect they could miss the field. And in this dense, hilly terrain it was very possible to fly as close as a few hundred yards of the airstrip and not see it.
“Five miles.” J.C. made S-turns around the flight path, banking sharply up without turning so Patrick and he could get a clear look all around the aircraft for the airfield, including under the belly. There were lots of clearings, even several that looked like airstrips, but in the few moments they had at each, they saw no aircraft.
“DreamStar could be hidden,” J.C. said. “They’ve had time—”
“We’ll find it.”
“We’ll be able to loiter only a few minutes before we have to start back—”
“Just look for the damned — there it is, eleven o’clock low …”
Cheetah was in a steep left bank when Patrick called the airstrip. Powell saw it immediately. It was a narrow clearing on top of a small plateau, but it was wide enough through the trees so that the edges of the tarmac could be seen. It was also difficult to miss the huge black-and-green helicopter sitting in the middle of the clearing.
“A chopper. They brought in a chopper,” McLanahan called out. “If we can hit that Chinook, keep it from taking off—”
“Hang on.” J.C. pulled hard, using Cheetah’s large canards to pull the nose hard-left over to the helicopter in the clearing.
“Target lock.” The aiming reticle began to rotate. As the helicopter moved into the center of the reticle Powell said “—now!” to complete the command.
“Target locked,” the computer answered. A small square appeared in the center of the reticle indicating that the firing computer was now aimed and locked onto the helicopter, and a large cross, resembling the glideslope-azimuth flight director of an instrument landing system, interposed itself on the screen. “Fifteen seconds to firing range, six hundred rounds remaining … caution; search radar, twelve o’clock.”
“DreamStar,” Powell said. “His search radar.” As he finished saying it the search symbol on the widescreen changed to a batwing symbol.
“Warning; radar weapon track, twelve o’clock,” the computer announced.
“He’s got us,” McLanahan said. “But we got him first …”
“Disconnect.” The computer-synthesized voice of Maraklov boomed in Kramer’s headset. “Clear the area. We’ve been spotted. Aircraft to the east!”
Kramer, still standing on top of the crew ladder during the refueling and rearming procedure, turned and searched the horizon behind him. He saw it immediately, bearing down on them. A single F-15 fighter, dark gray, larger than DreamStar. Even from this distance he could see the missiles hanging on the wings.
“Skaryehyeh,” Kramer shouted to the ground crewmen. “Disconnect the fuel lines; move that fuel truck aside; launch the helicopter, move!” He jumped off the ladder, pulled it free and threw it into the bushes beside the airstrip. The canopy closed with a bang. A crewman had disconnected the fuel line from the single-point refueling receptacle before the truck’s pump was shut off, and a geyser of jet fuel erupted near DreamStar’s front landing gear.
Cheetah. As Maraklov issued the mental command to begin the start-sequence and prepare DreamStar for flight he knew it had to be Cheetah. He didn’t need to analyze the radar emissions or flight parameters. He could even guess who was on board: Powell and McLanahan. Only those two would be crazy enough to go on a search-and-destroy mission alone — but that matched Powell’s cowboy attitude and McLanahan’s emotional approach. They should have brought a dozen F-15 Strike Eagles or FB-111 bombers along for ground attack and carpet-bomb the area, plus another dozen fighters for backup. They were probably acting against orders — hell, they might be in as much trouble right now as he was. But he still had a chance to escape if he could get off the ground in time.
Maraklov closed the service panel and began to retract the cannon back into its bay at the same time that he activated the cannon and checked the system. The Soviet-make ammunition fed through the chamber — then suddenly jammed. It might have been the same caliber ammunition but the feed mechanisms were barely compatible. Immediately the cannon performed an auto-clear, which reversed the belt feed, ejected the cartridges where the jam had occurred and re-fed the belt, and this time the one-inch-diameter cartridges fed properly.
One last check as the engines quickly revved to full power. Two hundred rounds of ammunition had been loaded. They also had managed to onload full fuel in the body tanks and three-quarter fuel in the wings, about forty thousand pounds of it. It was enough for the seven-hundred-mile flight to Nicaragua at normal cruise speeds but not enough if he had to mix it up with Cheetah. This was not the time or place to make a stand — the order of the day was Run Like Hell; Fight Only If Cornered …