Just as the aircraft locked him up in its weapons radar, Turk dropped the Tigershark toward the earth as hard as he could. Sabre One was temporarily without a shot, but it strove quickly to make up for that, dropping into a dive. Meanwhile, Sabre Two banked south, trying to head toward Turk.
“How’s that sequence coming?” Turk asked Whiplash. “I got the transmission gateway open. You can transmit directly.”
“Yes,” said Rubeo, in a tone that suggested Turk’s IQ was perhaps ten points below moron level. “We are doing that now.”
If anyone thought he was a moron, it was the Sabres; he now had both aircraft behind him, not a very good place to have an enemy in a dogfight. But the aircraft were worried that it was a trick: the Tigershark’s airfoil demonstrated it had high capabilities, and it had already convinced them that it was their mother ship. So rather than attacking with the all-out abandon a human pilot might have used, the planes remained cautious. Sabre Two closed on Turk slowly, while Sabre One stayed above and behind, just in case.
Turk took his pursuers downward, weaving and bobbing in a ribbonlike pattern that teased Sabre Two but didn’t allow it to get close enough to take more than a single shot. Since its autonomous programming prevented the aircraft from shooting anything less than a ten-shot burst with a ninety-five percent degree of probable accuracy — the programming was there to preserve the limited ammo store, and could be overridden remotely — Turk knew he was in relatively little danger as long as he had sky to maneuver in.
But then as he turned hard right, he saw that Sabre Two had broken off and was climbing up behind him. The planes had given up targeting him.
Why did they do that?
The answer was provided by the flash of a Sidewinder exploding a half mile away: Cowboy had come back to protect him.
At the worst possible moment, thought Turk, cursing.
Cowboy knew the missile was going to miss before he fired it — all-aspect or not, the Sidewinder was too far from its target to guarantee a hit. But what he wanted was to break the Sabres’ lock on his wingman. It looked like Turk was about to get nailed, and he needed to do something to get the UAV off his back.
It worked. The Sabres left Turk. The only problem was, they were coming for him.
Cowboy jerked the plane into the sharpest turn he could manage without blacking out. As gravity threatened to cave in his chest, he got a warning that the other Sabre was targeting him. This was followed by a run of black BBs across his wing.
Possibly I bit off more than I could chew here, he thought.
Seeing the F-35 and the Sabre locked in a tight turn, Turk scrambled to get close enough to get the plane off the Marine’s back.
“Take him lower!” he told Cowboy. “Go as low as you can, break out of your turn when I tell you.”
Turk’s idea was to kick off the Sabre’s safety protocols. Like most moves born of desperation, it didn’t really work — the Sabre slowed to compensate for its better dive qualities, but it remained virtually locked on Cowboy’s tail as he veered lower and lower, passing through 5,000 feet. The F-35’s ECMs were going full blast, which did help, since it meant that the Sabre had to stay close to get a lock. But that was going to be immaterial as soon as Sabre Two got in the mix — which it was aiming to do now, starting downward from above.
“Come toward me, now!” ordered Turk. “Just flat out toward me!”
“It’ll lock.”
“Not long enough to fire. Do it!”
The F-35 and the Sabre accelerated in Turk’s direction. Turk lit the rail gun. The first slug flew right at the Sabre, missing only because the aircraft dove at the last second.
Sabre Two changed its target, coming for Turk instead of Cowboy. Turk had used nearly all of his available energy to get into position and fire; he was flat-footed.
He managed to evade, turning and diving, dropping close to the water — close enough to get his safety protocols annoyed. As the Sabre closed, he hit his last bit of chaff and took a turn, practically losing his wingtip in the water.
The Sabre sailed past, climbing to get away from the waves.
“I need you to stay close to the Sabres,” said Rubeo over the Whiplash circuit, “and to turn off your ECMs. I need sixty-five seconds to transmit. You have to be within a mile. Closer is even better.”
“Turn off the ECMs?”
“In the F-35 as well,” said Rubeo.
“If he does that, he’ll get shot down.”
“If he doesn’t, he’ll get shot down anyway.”
Rubeo’s logic was undoubtedly correct. But Turk still hesitated — it was one thing to make himself a target, and quite another to tell someone else to sacrifice himself.
But it was the logical thing to do. And it was the only thing that would get the Sabres back and accomplish his mission.
“Cowboy,” said Turk, “they’re going to try transmitting a command to retake the Sabres. But they need us to turn off our ECMs.”
“Roger that.”
“I don’t think you understand — that Sabre is right on you. It’ll nail you.”
“We gotta do what we gotta do.”
“Hit every store you have — everything,” said Turk. “Then punch your gas, turn off the ECMs. And run.”
“Is that all?”
“Hold on. Let me get closer to your tail — we’ll do it on my count. Twenty seconds.”
32
Danny Freah watched the Osprey pick up the last of the downed Chinese pilots. He wasn’t the only one watching — the J-15s were circling overhead, with the F-35s above them.
It wasn’t going to go down as one of the great moments of international cooperation, but at least no one was firing at one another. The Osprey had been invited to bring the downed Chinese pilots back to the Chinese aircraft carrier; Danny decided to grant permission. It was the sort of bold move that would undoubtedly get him cashiered if the Chinese decided to renege on their ceasefire, but he felt it was the right one.
The Whiplash team, meanwhile, had assembled to board another Osprey and go west to the island where the UAVs had launched from. Danny was leaving the small Marine contingent aboard the tug; the McCain should be there within an hour.
The bow of the container carrier had slipped just about to its gunwale in the water, but the rest of the craft showed a surprising reluctance to sink any farther. It was likely that there was just enough buoyancy in the ship to keep it afloat. In any event, it would shortly be someone else’s problem: once the McCain arrived, the Navy would take physical custody of both ships. The destroyer captain was optimistic that his people could put out the fires and salvage the rest of the ship. Two other Navy vessels, both salvage craft, were on their way to help.
So for now, Danny decided he could devote himself to more pressing matters: the island where the UAVs had launched from.
“Saddle up, Whiplash!” he shouted as the Osprey lowered itself toward the tugboat. “Last man aboard buys the beer tonight. Last man besides me,” he added, realizing he was bound by duty and custom to be the last man in the aircraft.
33
Turk was sweating so badly he practically swam in his flight suit as he raced to catch the Sabre on Cowboy’s tail. The other UAV was somewhere behind him, but he couldn’t worry about it now — he had to do what he could to save his friend.