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the aircraft Colonel Bastian had encountered some days before. Sparks decided he would target them with Anacondas right away—and wasn’t surprised when they fired their own missiles, apparently radar homers, just as the first Anaconda left the bay.
“Launch the Quail,” he told Sparks, referring to the radar decoy.
“Still trying to get a lock on the second MiG,” replied the copilot.
“Well, lock the motherfucker and let’s go.”
“I’m working on it, Sparks. Relax.”
The pilot brought up the decoy screen and handled the Quail II himself. Similar in many respects to its Cold War era forebear, the Quail II had an artificial radar profile and could broadcast radio and radar signals similar to the Megafortress’s own. With the decoy launched, Sparks took a sharp turn away, making sure the bait was between him and the missiles.
“Foxfire One,” said Micelli finally. “Anaconda away.”
The missile ripped out from under the Cheli as if angry that it had been delayed.
“Why are you having so much trouble?” Sparks asked.
“You were one-two-three on the test range.”
“We ain’t on the freakin’ test range,” said Micelli. “The radar isn’t interfacing right. It’s getting hung up in the ident routine. I don’t know. Where’s Jen Gleason when you need her?”
“She’s in that Osprey we’re trying to protect,” said Sparks.
“So we better do a good job.”
An atoll off the Indian coast
Time and date unknown
WHAT WAS THAT SOUND? ZEN WONDERED. AN AIRPLANE?
If so, it was very far away—beyond his imagination. Beyond everything. He only existed on this tiny collection of rocks; he could not think beyond it.
An airplane.
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He picked the radio up mechanically, made sure it was set to broadcast, made sure the voice option was selected.
He should broadcast, shouldn’t he? That was his job, even though his life was here.
“Zen Stockard—” His voice broke. He stopped speaking for a few seconds. Could he imagine himself beyond these rocks? Was there another place to go?
“Zen Stockard to any aircraft. Any aircraft,” he repeated.
“Mayday. Mayday. Airman down … Pilot down … Mayday. Zen Stockard.”
He listened for the inevitable silence. But instead words came.
“Give me your location, Zen.”
Had he heard the voice yesterday, the day before, he would have laughed and answered with glee. He would have made a joke or said something grateful, or done one of a dozen other things.
Now he simply replied, “Colonel Bastian, I’m on a treeless atoll somewhere off the coast of India. I don’t have a GPS.”
“Roger that Zen. Jeff—Breanna? Is she with you?”
Zen glanced toward her, unsure what to say.
“Yes,” he managed finally.
“Thank God. Keep talking to me. Just keep talking. We’re going to find you. Keep talking so we can home in your signal.”
Was there anything to say?
Anything?
“Zen?”
“I guess I’m a little thirsty,” he said finally. “And hungry.
But mostly thirsty.”
Aboard Dreamland Cheli,
over India
0515
“ANGRY BEAR, CUT NINETY DEGREES,” SAID MICELLI, warning the Osprey of yet another ground battery. “Cut and stop. Shit. You got a zsu-zsu dead ahead.”
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“Get ’em, Cowboy,” said Sparks.
“Yeah, I’m on it,” said the Flighthawk pilot. “Take me two minutes.”
“Splash Chinese MiG One. Bam! ” said Micelli.
Sparks didn’t have time to celebrate with his copilot. He checked the radar warning indicator at the bottom of his dashboard. Another Spoon Rest radar—SA-2—was operating to the south, but they were well out of range.
“What’s the status of those Chinese missiles?” Sparks asked Micelli. “They still following us?”
“Sucking on the Hound Dog’s signal. Going east. Both of them,” said the copilot. “No threat. Anaconda missile has missed Bandit two, the Chinese MiG.”
“We missed?”
“Must’ve been the trouble locking. Both MiGs turned as soon as they launched. They’re not a threat.”
“No SA-3 battery here,” said Cowboy, guiding the Flighthawks. “What’s the story, dude?”
“You need to go two miles south,” said the ground radar operator.
“Oh yeah, yeah, yeah, my bad.”
“I need that refuel,” said the Marine pilot in Angry Bear.
“We’re going to get you there,” said Sparks. “You’re ten minutes away. Relax.”
“I have fifteen minutes of fuel, no reserves.”
“And you’re complaining?”
As soon as Cowboy started his run on the antiaircraft gun, Sparks told the Osprey to proceed. The area for the refueling rendezvous had been carefully plotted so it was far from any Indian or Pakistani radars. The tanker aircraft—another Osprey rigged for refueling—approached over southern Pakistan, sneaking away as its F/A-18 escorts tangled with a pair of Pakistani F-16s.
As the Flighthawk tracked back to cover Angry Bear, Sparks took the Megafortress west, checking the path to the ocean. With roughly two hundred miles to go, their best course was a beeline over the Rann of Kutch. There were RETRIBUTION
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several radar installations there, but only one missile site; Sparks had Micelli target it and was just about to give the order to fire when a fresh flight of Indian Mirage 2000s showed up on the radar to the south.
“Four of them,” announced Cheech. “Just coming in range—they’re at 35,000 feet.”
“I don’t think they’re going to be a problem if I hurry these Osprey guys up,” said Sparks.
“Where are those Navy jets?” said Micelli. “We’re supposed to have help.”
“They have their hands full,” said Sparks.
“We don’t need no effin’ Navy,” said Cheech.
“Keep your mind on your scope,” said Sparks.
“My eyes are there. That’s what’s important,” said Cheech.
Then his voice settled into a more serious, clipped tone. “Another aircraft coming off the field at Jamnagar.”
Jamnagar was a major military base on the Gulf of Kutch, less than a hundred miles south of their planned exit route.
“You have an ID?”
“Negative. Two engines—patrol type.”
“All right. Track him. Micelli, let’s get that missile site.”
They fired the Anaconda, then swung back toward the Ospreys. A fresh pair of Hornets from the Lincoln checked in, saying they were about ten minutes off. Sparks told them to concentrate on Jamnagar; he’d watch the Mirages.
“Another pack of MiGs,” added Cheech. “The Mirages are on afterburners. I have some other contacts. A hundred and fifty miles.”
“What the hell did they do, save up all their fuel just for us?” said Micelli.
“They’re bored from being grounded the last few days,”
said Cheech.
“All right, we’re going to have to deal with these guys,”
Sparks told them. “Who’s the biggest threat?”
“We have only three Anacondas left,” said Micelli.
“Well, you’ll just have to get a two-for-one shot,” Sparks replied. He pulled up the stick, taking the Megafortress up 340
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another 5,000 feet and aiming southward. He’d keep as much distance as possible between the Cheli and the Ospreys. Most likely the Mirage radars wouldn’t be able to see the rotor tilts after they tanked and would concentrate on him.
The Mirages were in two groups, two planes apiece.
Sparks had Micelli target the lead plane in the first group, hoping that with their leader gone, the others would lose heart, or at least hesitate enough for them to get away.