Chernin had an immediate mental image of a big fish eating a small fish, only to be immediately devoured by an even bigger fish.
It made him smile.
Colonel Astan Izad jerked upright as every warning light and alarm in the J-20’s cockpit went off at once, informing him simultaneously of the detection of an enemy fighter, and that it had launched missiles at both him and his wingman.
Astan went from gloating over the two F-15s’ imminent destruction to attempting to survive in an instant. He saw to his horror that the enemy missile was closing on him impossibly fast — according to the J-20’s instruments, nearly Mach 10! How could he escape?
Ejecting before impact passed briefly through Astan’s thoughts, but was instantly rejected. Astan knew that even if he survived ejection and landing, he would certainly be captured. Then, the only question would be whether the Saudis would take the trouble to torture him prior to execution.
As the distance between Astan and the two missiles remorselessly closed, he could think of only one chance.
His wingman was doing what his training told him to — separate from Astan, make radical changes in course and altitude to confuse the missiles’ instruments, and deploy flares and chaff when the missiles neared.
Astan flew directly to his wingman. Very quickly Astan heard over his headset, “What the hell are you doing?”
Once his wingman’s plane had begun to fill his windscreen, Astan pulled up and released a string of flares and chaff that lit a path to the other J-20, and then veered off as sharply as he could.
Astan heard a snarled, “You son of a” which was cut off by the thunderous explosion of his wingman’s plane as it was hit by both Kinzhal missiles.
Astan’s J-20 had automatically tracked the source of the two missiles that had just killed his wingman, and he now had a lock. Izad quickly punched out his last two PL-15s. Let’s see you escape two of the best missiles the Chinese make, he thought savagely.
With that, he turned his J-20 back east to home base in Iran, and started to increase speed. The two Saudi F-15s had disappeared from his scope, and had almost certainly been destroyed. With no missiles left, he could do nothing more to help the helicopter carry out its mission.
Except, Astan thought grimly, to serve as a distraction for whoever had killed his wingman.
Captain Victor Chernin had watched the drama unfold on his scope as he closed the distance to the helicopter, and shook his head in disgust as one of the Iranian pilots deliberately sacrificed the other to escape his second missile. The two Saudi F-15s had dropped off his scope, presumably destroyed.
Chernin was starting to ready another Kinzhal missile for the surviving J-20, when all of his threat warnings sounded. The J-20 had fired two missiles at him, which according to his instruments were the very capable P-15s. And then immediately turned east towards Iran, and home.
This left Chernin with a choice. Spend the seconds necessary to launch on the J-20, which was probably no longer a threat, and more than likely was leaving the battle because he was out of missiles. Or, conserve the missile for use against his primary target in case his other remaining missile missed.
One argument for attacking the J-20 was that it could carry up to six P-15s, if it used its external hard points in addition to its internal bay, and so might turn back to attack him. If it had those extra missiles, though, it would probably have been easier for Chernin to detect.
None of this made Chernin decide to send another Kinzhal missile after the J-20. He simply couldn’t abide the thought of a pilot continuing to draw breath who had so brutally betrayed his wingman.
That done, Chernin had to put his faith in the SU-57’s digital radio frequency memory (DRFM) jammers to blind the PL-15’s radar seeker heads.
He had been told they were the most advanced DFRM version available. He could only hope they would be good enough.
Chernin now turned his attention to the helicopter, which he was annoyed to see had made more progress towards Riyadh than he had expected. He then saw the Reaper drone on his scope, and its launch of an AIM-9X missile at the helicopter.
Well, at least now Chernin was sure he could get a lock if the American missile missed, and if he had time before the PL-15s’ arrival. He was close enough now that extreme low elevation and terrain masking would no longer save the helicopter.
Chernin only had time to wonder what was causing a bright light to envelope his aircraft, before thought and existence both ceased.
He would never know that the last Kinzhal missile he had fired had done its job, or that his DRFM jammers might have stopped one PL-15, but never two.
Chapter Twenty One
Emir Waleed bin Hamad frowned as he read the news reports coming out of Saudi Arabia in his favorite penthouse apartment. Something was happening, but nobody seemed sure exactly what.
Prince Bilal bin Hamad strode into the room without knocking. If anything, Waleed saw, he was frowning more intently than him.
“So, do you know anything more than what’s on the news?” Waleed asked, gesturing at the several TV screens with news programs he’d set to close captioned.
Bilal nodded. “Al-Nahda’s man contacted me. He says that three targets were attacked with nuclear weapons. As we heard on the news, two were desalination plants on the Gulf coast. One of those attacks was successful, but the other was not. He didn’t know whether the weapon failed, or there was some other problem. The third exploded in the desert south of Riyadh.”
Waleed scowled. “So, they were lying about avoiding mass casualties.”
Bilal shrugged. “Maybe. But my contact says the explosion was deliberately well outside Riyadh, and that its purpose was to knock out power to the capital through an electromagnetic pulse.”
Waleed grunted. “An EMP. I’ve heard of them. So, do you believe Al-Nahda meant it when they said they would avoid mass casualties? Can we trust them, or are they lunatics we need to avoid?”
Bilal looked as uncertain as he felt. “The desalination plant that was destroyed was not near a city of any size, and it looks like the only people killed were working at the plant. The other plant was not far from a city of nearly a million, but we don’t know how powerful that weapon was, because it didn’t go off. I understand some are quite small.”
Waleed nodded grimly. “And Riyadh?”
Bilal shrugged. “It looks like some workers in an oil field south of Riyadh were killed. The prevailing winds blew most of the fallout into the desert.
The EMP has cut power to the entire Riyadh region, and the loss of one desalination plant has led to an order to use water solely for drinking and cooking. Not that I think gardening and filling swimming pools are probably high on anyone’s list at the moment.”
Waleed spread his hands. “Yes, but you’re not answering the main question. Did Al-Nahda intend to attack Riyadh and fail, or was the EMP the purpose as they claim?”
Bilal nodded. “You’re right, that is the real question. The answer is I don’t know. The EMP explanation is plausible, but it could be that Al-Nahda intended to destroy Riyadh and hoped we’d still go along with their attack.”
Waleed sighed. “Yes, and in spite of everything I’ve said, it would have been tempting.”
Seeing Bilal’s horrified expression, Waleed quickly added, “I didn’t say I’d give in to that temptation. I may have trouble resisting sweets and some of my cooks’ less healthy dinner creations. Mass murder of our fellow Muslims, even if it gives Qatar a strategic advantage, is another matter. So, do you or don’t you believe Al-Nahda?”