“More inbound from the north on the other side of the river,” Fratierie responded. “Can’t pinpoint their location, but the round came from the north, probably the other side of the bridge. Aces, Aces, can you see the newcomers north of our position?”
“Flex, give me a countdown for when everyone’s on board.”
“Twenty seconds, Cap … fifteen … ten seconds … cargo ramp’s moving, everyone on board! Go! Go!”
Weston poured in power right to the redline, and the MV-22 lifted off. He thumbed the nacelle control knob, which rotated the engine nacelles downward a few degrees, increasing their forward speed. As their forward speed increased, the MV-22’s wings produced more lift, but because Weston held the nose down and kept the tilt-rotor aircraft at treetop level, speed increased dramatically. As speed increased more, Weston eventually rotated the nacelles to full horizontal position, changing the Pave Hammer from helicopter to airplane mode. He activated the terrain-following radar and low-light TV sensors so he could see and avoid all terrain and obstacles outside in the darkness.
“Holy shit, we made it,” the copilot breathed. “I thought we’d never—”
At that instant, the threat-warning receiver in the cockpit emitted a shrill DEEDLEDEEDLEDEEDLE! tone, an A symbol appeared near the top of the display, and an instant later the electronic warfare officer shouted, “Radar-guided triple A, four o’clock, break left now!” A ripple of antiaircraft fire erupted just to the right of the nose, tracers sweeping in their direction. Weston banked hard left, but not quickly enough. The twenty-three-millimeter shells of a mobile ZSU-23-2 antiaircraft artillery unit belonging to the Russian Federation Air Force’s Troops of Air Defense detachment based at Zhukovsky Air Base ripped into the MV-22’s forward fuselage. The force of the big shells piercing the plane’s belly and hitting the copilot’s body nearly pushed him right out of his seat and made him look as if he was trying to stand up and turn around to escape his bloody fate. Weston heard sounds of explosions, popping, and snapping of electrical circuits behind him; most of the electronic readouts and multifunction displays on the forward instrument panel extinguished, and a thin layer of blue electrical smoke filled the cabin. There was a loud squeal in the intercom, and Weston had to rip his helmet off because he couldn’t shut it off. The cabin instantly got fifty degrees colder, with swirls of icy, rainy air penetrating the cabin. Ice immediately began to form on the windshield on the inside — soon it would ice over completely.
Weston pulled his copilot’s shredded body off the center throttle quadrant, his shaking right hand and arm instantly covered in blood up to his shoulder. “Oh shit,” he exclaimed. “Flex! Give me a hand! Help me!” The senior jumpmaster rushed forward, unstrapped the copilot from his seat, and laid him on the deck. It seemed as if blood covered every square inch of the cockpit. “Flex, get in the right seat, help me keep this thing level. We’re all blasted to hell.” He kept the nose down, but the airspeed was steadily decreasing, and the vibration coming from the right wing was getting worse. “Check the gauges, Flex. What else did I lose?”
“Fluctuating prop RPMs on the right,” the jumpmaster said. Weston pulled some power back to try to dampen the vibrations, but it had no effect. “Looks like a bunch of gauges for the right engine are oscillating. Vibration is getting worse, too.”
“Shit. I’m going to shut down number two.” Weston switched the MV-22’s transmission system so that both rotors were being powered by the left engine, isolated the right engine’s electrical, pneumatic, and hydraulic systems, then quickly shut off fuel to the right engine to shut it down. “Airspeed’s dropped off about forty knots,” he said, “but I’ve got control. Vibration has decreased a bit.” He knew that was being very, very optimistic. “Any more damage?”
“We got a bunch of c/b’s that won’t reset, and a blown fuse light on the number three inverter and current limiter,” the jumpmaster reported. “Where’s the current limiter fuse?”
“Not accessible inflight,” Weston replied. “Let’s start shedding electrical loads and setting up the electrical panel for single-inverter operation. Crap, what else could go wr—?”
Suddenly, it was as if the entire horizon ahead of them erupted into sheets of blazing gunfire. The plane had inadvertently drifted right over toward Zhukovsky Air Base, and almost every antiaircraft artillery piece on the base opened fire on them. Weston immediately banked hard left to try to get away, but there was gunfire in every direction. The arcs of glowing tracer rounds got closer and closer every second. Just then, a searchlight popped on, and in a few seconds it had locked directly on them.
Time to die, Weston thought. No ejection seats, and not enough parachutes for everyone. His only chance was to try a forced landing, but if those triple-A units got a clean shot at them, there wouldn’t be enough of the plane left to land. Weston thought of his family, thought about the service his kids would have to attend, thought about …
Just then there were several sharp flashes of light, one after another, illuminating the cockpit like dozens of flashbulbs popping one after another. So this was what it was like, Weston thought, to take a direct triple-A hit? This was what it was like to die….
“God almighty,” the crew mission commander, Nevada Air National Guard Major Duane “Dev” Deverill muttered. “That was the definition of a wrong turn. Either Trash Man is lost, or he’s just plain stupid.”
From twenty miles east of Zhukovsky, Deverill and his aircraft commander, Nevada Air National Guard Captain Annie Dewey, orbited above the hellish nightmare aboard an EB-1C Megafortress II bomber. They had watched the entire episode from high above, well above antiaircraft artillery range, using the Megafortress’s LADAR, or Laser Radar, to paint a three-dimensional image of the MV-22’s entire approach and escape. The LADAR also imaged and targeted the positions of some of the advancing Russian forces.
“Is the MV-22 still airborne?” Annie asked.
“Yep,” Duane responded. “The Longhorn got to him just in time. Bombers save the day again.” Deverill had released an AGM-89D Longhorn Maverick precision-guided missile when they saw the MV-22 drifting over toward Zhukovsky, and it had scored a direct hit on the antiaircraft artillery site that was about to open fire on them. The Longhorn missile, an upgrade of the venerable AGM-89 Maverick missile, was fitted with an imaging-infrared seeker and a millimeter-wave radar that could detect and home in on vehicles as small as an automobile. It had a range of over thirty miles and was big enough to destroy a main battle tank or penetrate five feet of reinforced concrete. Along with a rotary launcher of eight Longhorn missiles in the center bomb bay and an extended fuel tank in the aft bomb bay, the Vampire also carried a rotary launcher with eight special air-to-air missiles in the forward bomb bay.
“Give ‘em a break, Dev,” Annie said. “It looked like they caught some triple-A back there after they lifted off. Maybe they’re badly damaged.”.
Duane snorted, politely conceding the point. “You’re right, Heels. I’d hate to think they just plain screwed up.”
Annie looked over at Deverill and studied him for a moment. How, she thought, could a guy so damned cute be so damned insensitive?
Annie couldn’t help being drawn to him, despite his cocky, confident, self-indulgent attitude. If he wasn’t so popular and highly qualified, he would be the biggest asshole on base. But he really knew his shit and he contributed a lot to the 111th Bomb Wing “Aces High” and to his fellow crewdogs.
“I think he’s in trouble,” Annie said after studying Dev’s large multifunction display as it plotted the MV-22’s position. “We need to help him.”