Because of the extended range and retargeting capability, it also possessed the small IFF receiver in the nose. In theory, it could tell friendly aircraft from enemy ones — in theory, at least. He knew that in every operational test so far, the system has proved less reliable than the rest of the missile. He would bet his life on it, but it did provide an additional measure of safety.
The disadvantage to the long-range Russian missiles was that, since it was slightly heavier, the MiG could carry fewer of them. And, like the Hornet counterpart, the MiG packed less overall firepower than one Tomcat. Still, the MiGs were adept at working as small wolf packs and several smaller aircraft could easily bring down any number of larger ones as long as they worked together.
But working together without a GCI, or ground control interceptor, was a relatively new skill for them. Sure, they’d practiced, drilled, and trained for it, but in actual fact, maintaining coordination was only slightly more difficult than getting the IFF to work.
Still, as Korsov tracked the incoming AMRAAM, he saw his own missile was having the desired effect. The American forces below him were already scattering, breaking apart into pairs, some dodging and twisting now trying to evade the missiles homing in on them, others remaining rock steady and launching their own missiles before executing evasive maneuvers.
“Bolshoi flight, engage at will,” Korsov ordered. “Lenin flight will refuel and rejoin on you shortly.”
The SEALs moved west and south, seeking out the next missile launcher location on their chart. The final installation was downwind slightly from the mishap area, a fact that worried Parto somewhat. But, it seemed to be far enough away that the nerve agent might be disbursed before it reach them — or maybe not. They would watch the birds overhead carefully as they approached, assessing the possibility of danger. At this slightly lower altitude, the vegetation was even thicker, and it was almost impossible to move quickly and silently. But there was no time for caution, no time for a careful, invisible survey of the scene, a deliberate approach to maximize their advantage.
Whoever commanded this detachment ran a tight ship. Or perhaps someone had put out a warning, noting that four other truck installations had failed to answer routine security checks. Whatever the reason, there were four men with weapons at the ready, each one intently scanning the jungle around them, alert and ready to act. The SEALs would have to do this one the hard way.
“On my command,” Parto said, his voice barely audible as he spoke into the whisper-mike. “Guard’s first, then the rest of them. Watch the missile.” A series of clicks acknowledged his command.
Right, like I had to tell them that. Not after what Lacar saw.
The guard nearest to Parto was making the classic error of any watchstander. He was clearly assigned to cover a sector of ninety degrees of the jungle, and he had taken to pacing back and forth along his perimeter, falling into a rhythm as he scanned the jungle for intruders.
Suddenly, the radio slung on one man’s hip blared to life. Parto could make out words, but he couldn’t tell what they were saying. It sounded like Russian — he crept closer, hoping to be able to make out the orders.
“—launch now—” was the only phrase he was able to decipher. That alone was enough to make his blood run cold.
They would have to move in, and move in now. If there was a launch order, then there was no time to waste.
Parto waited until the man was as close to him as possible, and whispered, “Now!”
Before he could finish the word, gunfire crackled in the jungle. Parto fired himself, bringing down his man with a short burst of three rounds. The SEALs charged forward, weapons at the ready, to the very edge of the camp.
The Russian team was panicking, but panicking with a purpose. Everyone had a weapon drawn, and they were formed up in three small clusters, their backs to each other as they covered all angles of approach. One brave soldier scrambled to the control panel and was frantically typing, glancing over his shoulder as he did. The missile launcher started to move. It was already completely extended. A second round of gunfire rang out and the three clusters of men dropped. They were firing as they died, the shots going randomly to the jungle. But a random shot could kill you just as easily as a well-aimed one. Leahy hit the ground, sighted in on the man standing at the console, then put one round through his lower back, hoping that it didn’t ricochet up into the missile.
It didn’t. But before he died, the man had evidently completed his task. As Parto’s last shot rang out, the missiles belched fire from its ass. A second later, it rattled off the rails, vaulted through the gap in the canopy overhead, and arrowed out into the blue sky.
Lacar fired at it as it came off the rails, hoping against hope to hit it, knowing that if he did he may have killed them all. But it launched untouched, and for a moment he wondered whether some subconscious instinct of self-preservation had skewed his aim. But sometimes lousy shooting was just lousy shooting.
“They got it off!” Lacar said, as he pointed up at the sky. He followed with a string of curses, as any of them were prone to do when they failed to do the impossible.
“But six others didn’t,” Parto pointed out.
All across the island, missiles were boiling up out of the green hills, gleaming white and shining against the deep blue sky. They were visible for only a few moments before they were out of range. “Could be more,” one said, and Parto wasn’t sure whether he meant that they could have eliminated more, or that there could be more launched. Either way, it didn’t matter. Their window of opportunity was over.
“Come on, let’s get out of here,” Parto said. “We’ve got things to do.”
SEVENTEEN
For just a moment, the Aegis computer stuttered. The flood of new contacts did not come close to overwhelming its capabilities, but they still had to be organized, assorted, assigned track numbers, and then processed for display. This took an eternity in computer time, almost two seconds in human time.
“Chief, get those little bastards designated,” Coleman shouted. “I want a ripple shot, missiles on top of each one of them, now!”
“Roger, sir, switching to full auto,” he said. He would let the computer do the assigning, weighing the priorities — he could do it himself, of course, but the computer was far faster, and with the number of targets arcing out from the island, speed mattered. “Sir, friendly forces are in the way! They need to descend to below ten thousand feet and clear a bearing sector out from our ship.”
The TAO picked up the mike to make the call over tactical. “Hold fire, Chief. Wait until I give the word.”
It wasn’t like the aircraft could break off from everything they were doing simply to clear the area. Blue and red symbols were intertwined so closely it was almost impossible to tell what the boundaries of the air battle were. To turn tail and run would simply be to expose the most favorable target aspects to the enemy. Yes, they could move the battle to the south, but it would take a few minutes — and a few minutes was what they didn’t have.
“All but three clear,” he said. “Sir, the missiles will be out of range in approximately ten seconds. We have to fire now.”
And risk those three aircraft that stood between the ship and the missiles? He had to. If the intelligence reports were correct, the nuclear, chemical, and biological warheads on those missiles were an order of magnitude greater threat than the loss of a few aircraft.