"Patrick, what in hell are you doing?" Elliott shouted on interphone. "Defense, did you stop jamming UHF? What in hell's going on back there?"
"That's not a good idea, Patrick," John offered, sternly but not as forcefully as Elliott. "You just told him we're Americans. He's going to want to take a look now."
"He'd be crazy to answer," Brad said. "Now stay off the radio and…"
But just then, they heard on the radio, "Shto etah? Nemalvali pa-zhaloosta."
"What the hell was that?" Wendy asked.
"Sounded like Russian to me," Patrick said.
Just then, in broken English, they heard, "American aircraft at my twelve of the clock position from my nose, this is Khaneh One-Four-One of the Islamic Republic of Iran Air Force. I read you. You are in violation of Iranian sovereign airspace. I command you now to climb to three thousand meters of altitude and prepare for intercept. Reduce speed now and lower your landing-gear wheels. Do you understand?"
"One-Four-One, this is the American aircraft. We have locked defensive weapons on to your aircraft. Do not fly closer than twelve kilometers from us or you will be attacked. Do you understand?"
"Range ten miles."
"You are at sixteen kilometers," Patrick radioed. "Do not come any closer."
"Patrick, this is nuts," Brad said. "You're going to try to convince him to turn around? He'll never go for it."
"Nine miles. Closure speed five hundred knots."
"One-Four-One, you are at fourteen-point-five kilometers, closing at thirteen kilometers per minute. Do not, I repeat, do not fly closer than twelve kilometers to us, or you will be attacked. We are not in Iranian airspace, and we are withdrawing from the area. This is my final warning. Do you understand?"
"Eight miles…"
"One-Four-One, we have you at twelve kilometers! Break off now!"
"Stand by to shoot, Wendy! Damn you, McLanahan…!"
"Here he comes!" Wendy shouted. "Closure rate… wait, his closure rate dropped," Wendy announced. "He's holding at eight miles… no, he's slowing. He's climbing. He's up to five thousand feet, range ten miles, decelerating."
"Cease jamming, Wendy," Patrick said.
"What?"
"Stop jamming them," Patrick said. "They broke off their attack. Now we need to do the same."
"Brad?"
"You're taking a big damned chance, Muck," Brad Elliott said. He paused, but only for a moment; then: "Cease jamming. Fire 'em up again if they come within eight miles."
"Trackbreakers and comm jammers to standby," Wendy said, punching instructions into the computer. "Range nine miles. He's climbing faster, passing ten thousand feet."
"You Americans, do not try to approach our Iran, or we will show you our anger," the Iranian MiG pilot said in halting English. "Your threats mean nothing to us. Stay away or be damned."
"He's turning north," Wendy said. "He's… oh no! He's diving on us! Range ten miles, closure rate seven hundred knots!"
"Jammers!" Brad shouted. "Lock on and shoot!"
"No! Withhold!" Patrick shouted. He keyed the UHF radio mike button again: "One-Four-One, don't come any closer!"
"I said shoot… !"
"Wait! He's turning and climbing!" Wendy reported with relief. "He's climbing and turning, heading northeast."
"Prick," John Ormack said with a loud sigh of relief. "Just a macho stunt."
"Scope's clear," Wendy said. "Bandit at twenty miles and extending. No other signals."
"Pilot's clearing off," Brad said. He didn't wait for John's acknowledgment, but safetied his ejection seat, whipped off his straps, and stormed out of his seat and back to the systems officer's compartment.
"He doesn't look happy, guys," John warned Patrick and Wendy on interphone.
The instrument console was right behind the hatch leading to the lower deck, so Brad couldn't go all the way back. He plugged into a free interphone cord, so everyone on board could hear his tirade, stood over the console with eyes blazing, pointed a gloved finger at Patrick, and thundered, "Don't you ever countermand my orders again, Major! He could've blown us away-twice! You're not the aircraft commander, I am!" He turned to Wendy Tork and shouted, "If I say 'shoot,' Tork, you obey my orders instantly or I will kick your ass, then kick your ass into prison for twenty years! And don't you dare cease jamming an enemy aircraft unless I give the order to stop! You copy me?"
"I hear you, General," Wendy shot back, "but you can go straight to hell." Elliott's eyes bulged in rage. Wendy hurried on: "Who gave us the order to shoot? Who even gave us permission to jam a foreign power's radar and radios?" Elliott remained silent.
"Brad?" John Ormack asked. "This mission is supposed to be a contingency mission, in case Iran opens a second front against the Coalition. We're not supposed to be flying so close to disputed territory-I don't think we were supposed to engage anyone."
"In fact, I don't ever recall being given an order to fly at all, sir," Patrick said. "I read the warning order, and it says we were supposed to stand by for possible action against Iran or any other nation that declares neutrality that might be a threat to the U.S. I never saw the execution order or the rules of engagement. We never received any satellite photos or tactical printouts. Nothing to help us in mission planning."
"What about that, General?" Wendy asked. "I never saw the execution order for our mission either. I never got the order of battle or any intelligence reports. Is this an authorized mission or not?"
"Of course it is," Brad said indignantly. His angry grimace was melting away fast, and Patrick knew that Wendy had guessed right. "We were ordered to stand by for action. We're… standing by. This is tactically the best place to be standing by anyway."
"So if we fired on an Iranian fighter, it would be unauthorized."
"We're authorized to defend ourselves…"
"If we were on an authorized mission, we'd be authorized to defend ourselves-but this isn't authorized, is it?" Patrick asked. When Brad did not answer right away, Patrick added, "You mean, none of the Me-gafortresses we have in-theater is specifically authorized to be up here? We've got three experimental stealth warplanes loaded with weapons flying ten thousand miles from home and just a few miles from a war zone, and no one knows we're up here? Jesus, General…"
"That will be all, Major," Elliott interjected. "The sorties were authorized-by me. Our orders were to stand by and prepare for combat operations in support of Desert Storm. That is what we're doing."
Patrick unstrapped, unplugged his interphone cord, got to his feet, leaned close to Brad Elliott, and said cross-cockpit, so no one else could hear, "Sir, we can't be doing this. You're risking our lives… for what? If we got intercepted by Iranians or Iraqis or whoever, we'd have to fight our way out-but we'd be doing it without sanction, without orders. If we got shot down, no one would even know we were missing. Why? What the hell is all this for?"
Brad and Patrick looked into each other's eyes for a very long moment. Brad's eyes were still blazing with indignation and anger, but now they were shadowed by a touch of… what? Patrick hoped it would be understanding or maybe contrition, but that's not what he saw. Instead, he saw disappointment. Patrick had called his mentor and commanding officer on a glaring moral and leadership error, and all he could communicate in return was that he was disappointed that his protege didn't back him up.
"Is it because you didn't participate in Desert Storm?" Patrick asked. The Persian Gulf War-some called it "World War III"-had just ended, and the majority of troops had already gone home. They were enjoying celebrations and congratulations from a proud and appreciative nation, something unseen in the United States since World War II. "Is it because you know you had something that could help the war effort, but you weren't allowed to use it?"