A human pilot would have strongly suspected a trick — the move had made Cowboy’s F-35 infinitely more vulnerable. But if the UAVs were wondering why he had just served himself up on a silver platter, they gave no sign of it, instead held their course.
“Basher Two, Ospreys are two minutes from the reef,” said Colonel Greenstreet.
“Roger.”
“They’re going to put down there. I’ll target the UAVs as soon as they land.”
“Get closer and wait for me to turn hard north,” said Cowboy. “The closer you are, the better the odds of taking them.”
“Are you sure you can last that long?”
“Piece of cake.”
Cowboy flexed his fingers around the stick, waiting as the two UAVs closed in on him. They’d managed to climb, which would make it even more difficult for him to get away. He’d push left and accelerate. At least one of them would do the same, and extra altitude might take away some of the advantage he hoped to get from surprise.
“Just as they lock, pull back and climb,” suggested Turk.
“Are you kidding?” answered Cowboy. “They’re above me. That’s suicidal.”
“No, they won’t expect it. They’ll have angled down to make their shots and you’ll slip right out of their targeting cone. As long as they’re five thousand feet above you when you pull back, you’re good. You’ll have just enough time to break their lock as they pass you.”
“What about six thousand?”
“Not gonna work. Keep it as close to five thousand as you can — you can’t give them too much time to react. Or too much room. Five thousand’s just about the sweet spot.”
“Then what do I do?”
“Pick one, get on his tail, and fire your Sidewinders. The Sabres will be about three minutes away.”
It sure sounded easy, thought Cowboy. But actually doing it was going to be very difficult. “You sure this is going to work?”
“No. But it’s what I would do if I were in your plane.”
That was less than the ringing endorsement Cowboy had hoped for.
He nudged down slightly, keeping his plane a little more than 5,000 feet below the closer of the two UAVs. They’d slowed a bit more, which was a temptation — maybe if he hit the afterburner he could shoot away without getting nailed. But even if that worked, he’d leave Greenstreet open to attack.
The UAVs closed to four miles, then three and a half. The RWR was bleeping, pleading with Cowboy: he was about to become dead meat.
“I agree,” muttered Cowboy.
And then they were on him, trying to slice him into yesterday’s hash. Cowboy yanked back on the stick, then got an inspiration. Why stop now? Rather than simply climbing, he urged the F-35 into a full loop, continuing around until he saw the black speck of one of the UAVs in front of him.
The Sidewinders sniffed the air, trying to find the UAV’s heat signature.
“It’s right there, right there,” said Cowboy, yelling at the missile. He turned left to keep the UAV in his sights, then poured on the throttle to hold onto his target.
The missile finally growled, indicating it had locked on its target. Cowboy fired, then pulled hard right, worried about the other bandit.
He was right to worry. The enemy aircraft had come in behind him. Its weapon caught the top of the cockpit before he managed to turn inside and drop out of the UAV’s sights. As he shoved the F-35 back to the north, he heard and felt a loud bang above him: the canopy literally ripped in half, the thick acrylic shattered by the combination of the laser and the high g turn. Cowboy floated for a fraction of a second, as if his brain and body had separated. Then everything roared around him, as though he’d flown into the center of a tornado.
Turk was saying something over the radio, but Cowboy couldn’t hear.
Where was the UAV?
Behind him. The gravity and wind nearly overcame him. The plane bucked, the stick jerking from his grip. Cowboy was blind; he pushed into a dive, desperate to get away.
The canopy gave way completely, shattering and flying behind the plane. Cowboy was pushed back in the seat, his hands still on the controls but unable to move because of the force of the wind. The aircraft had slowed and descended precipitously, but it was still a wild beast, some 5,000 feet above sea level, wings tipped.
I’m dead, he thought.
A pair of black shadows passed in front of him. There was a flash in the sky, a jagged red and yellow hand rising behind him.
The Sabres had arrived.
11
Turk watched the Sabres follow the UAV that had been on Cowboy’s tail as it tried to accelerate away. Cowboy’s missile had damaged the other aircraft, but it was still flying, heading westward, most likely back toward its base.
They’d take down the one they had first, then go for the other. The enemy had never seen them coming.
With the Marines now in reasonably good shape, Turk turned his full attention back to the minesweeper, which had continued toward the island. He sent Sabre One on a low pass directly over the ship, running from bow to stern, and got a good close-up showing the sailors manning battle stations. The 85mm gun swung in the direction of the beached merchant vessel.
“Colonel Freah, I’m guessing they’re getting ready to fire,” Turk told Danny. “Like really soon. Minutes, if not seconds. They’re nearly in range.”
“Radio the warning.”
“Yes, sir.” They had prepared a brief message in English and Mandarin, declaring that the merchant ship had been boarded by U.S. forces in accordance with a UN resolution against helping the Malaysian rebels and telling the Chinese not to interfere. Turk had the computer broadcast it on all channels used by the Chinese navy.
There was no response. Not that he really expected one.
“Colonel, no response. They’re in range.”
“Do what you gotta do,” replied Freah. “But only if they fire.”
In other words — don’t shoot until they do. In many if not most situations, U.S. pilots would be allowed to fire on a ship or aircraft that turned its weapons radars on and locked on them. But the recent contentious history of U.S.-Chinese interactions in the South China Sea, where weapons radars were routinely used for provocation by both sides, had led to the more stringent requirement. There was an additional consideration in this case, as the capabilities of the Tigershark’s weapon were still secret, and simply using the weapon provided the enemy with information.
The Chinese were also notoriously poor shots. Still…
Turk started to object. “Colonel, if I wait until they fire, there’s always the possibility—”
“Those are your orders.”
“Yes, sir.”
“There’s a hell of a lot of gear here,” yelled Guzman from below. He’d gone through the hull into another opening and a small compartment beyond. “Looks like the frickin’ bat cave. And there’s another hatchway down at the end.”
“I’m coming down,” said Danny. “Stand by.”
Leaving Grisif near the blown-out hatchway, Danny maneuvered himself down to the ladder and then across the thick screen that ran between the hull and the compartment bulkhead. Water flowed at his feet, trickling down from the compartment above. Danny’s wrist light was of little use inside the darkened chamber. He switched the helmet to night vision, which cast everything an eerie gray. He had to turn sideways to get through the opening in the hull, squeezing his body down into a squat.
The compartment was actually a cylinder attached to the outside of the ship via a narrow tunnel. It opened into what looked like a large round hallway lined with computer equipment. Running nearly thirty feet, the cylinder was fourteen feet in diameter, with LED lighting along the top and a metal screen deck at the bottom. There were pumps below, sucking in the water as it leaked down and expelling it somewhere outside in the seabed. They were losing the battle, water slowly inching up toward the deck.