“We haven’t hit the worst part yet.” They were riding the military crest — the point on a hill where observation was the most difficult — of the lush, green Cordillera Chontalena mountain range in southern Nicaragua, heading northwest at five hundred fifty miles an hour. “We should be safe from Managua SAM sites, but Sebaco is supposed to be loaded for bear — we could be within range of their SA-10 missile sites in five minutes. Once we bust their radar cordon, we’ll be assholes and elbows trying to get out of here—”
Just then, they saw two dark shapes streaking across the hills in front of them. The shapes trailed long fingers of flame that were visible even in daylight.
“Oh, God,” J.C. broke out. “They look like MiG-29s, heading north.”
“The drones are right on time,” Patrick said, realizing the MiGs had gone for the diversionary drone targets. A few moments later two more jets screamed northward behind the first two, now less than ten miles from where Cheetah was hugging the green forested mountains. One of the MiGs appeared to start a right turn toward Cheetah, but he was really maneuvering away from his leader as they raced away. They were close enough to see the MiGs’ external fuel tanks and feel their jet-wash as they passed.
“If they flushed their whole alert force to chase down the drones) we just may be able to go in without visitors.”
“When those guys find out they’ve been suckered by a couple of drones, they’ll be back in a hot minute and after us, “ J.C. said.
“Ten miles from the first SAM ring,” McLanahan said, checking his chart and the GPS satellite navigation system. “Punch off those external tanks any time.”
J.C. hit his voice-command button. “Station select two and seven.”
“Stations two and seven select,” the computer verified. The right multi-function display showed a graphic depiction of Cheetah, with the icons of the two external fuel tanks highlighted. J.C. aimed Cheetah for a deep, thicketed stream. There was little danger of dropping the tanks on any villages or people below — they had seen no signs of habitation since crossing the coastline. The tanks might not be found for years — maybe never. They hoped.
“Ready jettison command.”
“Warning; jettison command issued; select ‘cancel’ to cancel,” the computer intoned. The highlighted icons on the right MFD began to flash.
Powell hit the voice-command button. “Jettison … now.”
“Jettison two and seven. “ McLanahan watched as Cheetah’s two external fuel tanks disappeared from view. “Clean separation,” he said.
“Safe all stations,” J.C. told the computer. The display screen acknowledged the command, accomplishing a release-circuits check and reporting a “normal” and “safe” indication. “All right,” J.C. said. “Throttles coming up. Time to do some flyin’,” and he slowly began moving both throttles up until he had full power.
“Point-nine-eight Mach,” McLanahan said. “Speed limit for the camera pod.”
“I’ll hold it here for now,” J.C. said, nudging the throttles back a bit, “but we’re not going over a Soviet military base below the Mach. I’m not getting our butts shot off just to protect a lousy camera.”
“Five minutes out. Camera’s activated … good data-transfer signal from the satellite. We’re on-line …” And then the first warble from the radar-warning receiver could be heard through the interphone. “Search radar, twelve o’clock.” McLanahan punched buttons on his forward console. “All automatic jammers active.” He reached up and clicked in commands to the radar altimeter, which measured distance from Cheetah’s belly to the ground. “Radar altimeter bug set to one hundred feet.”
“Mine’s set for ten,” J.C. said.
“Ten feet?”
“If we’re supposed to look inside buildings, a hundred’s too high.”
“Well … we don’t have a terrain-following radar on this—” He was interrupted by a high-pitched warble and a blinking “10” on his threat-receiver scope.
“Warning; radar search,” the computer reported.
“SA-10 in search mode, twelve o’clock.”
“Let’s hope that pod can take a pounding,” J.C. said, pushing the throttles to min afterburner. “Here we go.”
“Warning; external store overspeed,” the computer intoned. J.C. ignored it.
“Mach one,” McLanahan said almost immediately. “Three minutes to target.”
“Warning; radar tracking, “ the computer said.
“The SA-10’s got us already,” J.C. muttered.
“Impossible, unless—”
“Warning; missile launch, missile launch.”
“Signal moved to one o’clock,” McLanahan called out. “They moved the SAM site.” He hit the chaff button on the left-side ejector. “Jink right …”
J.C. threw Cheetah into a hard right-turn. They saw the missile immediately, or rather they saw the smoke trail left by the SA-10 as it streaked by, missing them by scarcely a few dozen yards — one or two seconds slower reaction time and the missile would not have missed. “Goddamn, they put an SA-10 on that hilltop overlooking their base. That was too close …”
Powell started a hard left-turn away from the site and let the autopilot center back on the target. “Well, they took their best shot and missed,” he said. “If they want to shoot now, they’ll be shooting toward their own base.” Cheetah rolled out on the autopilot’s command. “I’ve got the target,” Powell said. “I’ll find your precious damn jet for you, Patrick. Hang on …”
Andrei Maraklov was watching Musi Zaykov get dressed when the siren pierced the silence of her bungalow. By reaction learned after four years in the Strategic Air Command, Maraklov got to his feet and began pulling on his flight suit. “What’s that?”
“Opasno pavarota, “ Zaykov said, and hurriedly put on her boots and buttoned her uniform blouse. “Bistra.” Maraklov never had a chance to understand what she said, but the urgency in her voice was clear. He ran out of the bungalow behind her.
Workers were running toward the flight line, some pointing toward the sky to the south. Maraklov started toward the flight line but Zaykov grabbed his arm. “No. If it is an attack you should not go there.” Maraklov shrugged out of her grasp and headed for the flight line, crossed the access road and leaped over the low gate — none of the security forces stationed around the flight line moved to stop him, apparently confused by the sirens. He ran into the clear, into an unused part of the aircraft parking ramp and scanned the skies.
He did not see it until he was halfway down the runway — apparently neither did the anti-aircraft battery located at the south end of the runway. The aircraft slid silently down the west side of the runway, straight and level — it was so low that it looked as if it was going to try to land. Then Maraklov realized that he didn’t hear the aircraft coming — it had made no noise as it passed. That meant … he instinctively cupped his hands over his ears and opened his mouth so the overpressure wouldn’t rupture his eardrums …
… Just in time. The sonic boom rolled across the parking ramp, knocking unsuspecting workers and soldiers off their feet. The shock wave felt like a wall of wind shoving him in the face, squeezing his head and chest in an unseen grip. Men were yelling all around him, as much from shock and surprise as pain. When he opened his eyes he caught a glimpse of the aircraft as it banked hard right and climbed a few meters. The sight turned his blood cold.