Stephen Coonts - Combat

Igor Gnido literally possessed a license to kill. He chuckled at the thought of his diplomatic passport from the Russian government, plus his credentials as a trade representative of the People’s Republic of China. The mirth he felt at his present situation — controlling the airspace over Los Angeles, California — was mixed with contempt for politicians and diplomats who made such a condition possible.

The first American fighter had been ridiculously easy to destroy. The R-77—what NATO called the AAM-AE “Amraamski”—had been fired well within range and performed as advertised. The haze made it difficult to discern the fireball fifteen nautical miles away, but the big Sukhoi’s sophisticated radar clearly showed the southerly target destroyed. Gnido knew that it had to be a Tomcat or Hornet, and from the its unvarying course he wondered if the pilot had been using his radar-warning receiver. Not that it would have mattered very much; R-77 was a fire-and-forget weapon like the U.S. AMRAAM.

Gnido banked into a tight orbit above Terminal Island, awaiting events. He felt confident that the Americans would not return fire as long as he was over land, where aircraft wreckage or missiles would cause casualties and damage on the ground. However, with his lookdown, shoot-down radar, he could easily track anything over water.

To the northwest the radar picture was a cluttered mess. Gnido laughed again at the thought of the panic he must have caused at LAX, where a flock of jetliners was scrambling like a covey of quail. Ladies and gentlemen, we regret to announce the cancellation of Flight 123 owing to occasional Flankers and light-to-moderate missiles in the area. It occurred to him that he could hide in the LAX traffic pattern, essentially holding hostage any commercial traffic still there.

A pity I only have three missiles left, he gloomed. There had been no time to load more.

“Papa Three or Four, this is Lead.”

Ozzie heard the call and replied first. “Zack, this is Oz. Where are you?”

“Ah, I’m halfway to home plate on the zero three five radial. Getting skosh on fuel. How ’bout you?”

“Dash Four and I have seen missile plumes, Zack, and there’s a splash on guard channel. You hear it?”

“Negative. I been kinda busy.” There was a pause while Delight sorted priorities. “Four, you copy?”

“Four here. Go!” Vespa sounded calm, even eager.

“You have a visual on Three?”

“Yes, I’m closing on his four o’clock.”

Delight mentally computed the relative positions of the three Skyhawks. Ostrewski and Vespa would be below and behind him, still offshore. “Okay. Break-break. Santa Cruz, this is Papa One. What dope on Dash Two? Over.”

Moments passed before the watch officer replied. “Ah, Papa One, be advised. Papa Two is aboard with a bent bird. Pilot and backseater are both okay. Your signal is Charlie on arrival.”

“Roger. See you on deck.”

Lieutenant Commander Jennifer Jensen fought to control the palsied trembling of her hands and forearms. For the first time in her naval career she was forced to confront the fact that she was out of her depth, facing a situation that neither seniority nor contacts would alleviate.

That knowledge, combined with the fiery death of her wingman, meant that she was deep-down, bone-chilling scared . Just how scared she might have to admit eventually — how else to explain the switchology error in firing a Sidewinder after designating the suspected Flanker for an AMRAAM shot?

Now, with the range closing at six miles per minute, she was barely one minute from the merge with that supremely arrogant Russian. Belatedly, Jensen realized she had not made the obligatory “Fox Two” call, indicating an AIM-9 shot. She knew that she had been too rattled to follow procedure, but with a little luck she might still retrieve the situation. Which would be fortunate indeed, considering that she had not yet received the “Weapons free” call from Boorda’ s strike operations center.

She inhaled deeply, sucking oxygen into her lungs with the faint molded rubber scent of her mask. She willed herself to project the ice princess tone in her voice as she called Strike Ops. “Chainsaw Strike from Bronco Three-Zero-Four. Request weapons free. Repeat, weapons free.”

“Three-Zero-Four, stand by.”

God damn it, I can’t afford to stand by! “Strike, Bronco. I’m looking at multiple bogies on my nose. My wingman is down, and I’m outnumbered!” Immediately, Jen-Jen Jensen regretted the tremor in her voice — the guys would say she choked — but she realized it could work to her advantage. Admiral, I was in reasonable fear of my life. My God, they had just killed Tommy Blyden!

Interminable seconds crawled past. During that infinity of time, Jensen fought a cosmic battle of Ambition against Fear. Ambition whispered in her ear, hinting at glorious rewards that might yet be hers if she succeeded. Fear screamed the banshee wail, the dirge that the only reason that Flanker pilot had not yet destroyed her was his willingness to toy with her until he tired of the game.

“Bronco, Strike. Two Tomcats are launching at this time. You are cleared to fire only in defense of yourself or other aircraft. VID is required. Acknowledge.”

Jensen was appalled. Visual identification? He’ll kill me before I ever see him! Then, like a gambling addict laying her last dollar on the table in hope of beating the house odds, she heard herself say, “Three Zero Four. Acknowledge.”

Gnido sought to sort out the confusing radar picture. Amid the multitude of blips on his screen, one American fighter had gone down, another continued toward him, briefly painting him with fire-control radar. At least three more aircraft were below him to the south. He assumed the latter were A-4s but had no way of knowing which were friendly or hostile. One was climbing out to sea, probably returning to the carrier, and that one likely was an American. Gnido placed his cursor on the blip and toyed with the idea of locking it up. If I had a full loadout …

But he needed to keep his remaining R-73 for the main threat — the fighter pressing inland over the Palos Verdes peninsula. He remained confident that no American officer would allow a BVR engagement over a densely populated area. Therefore, he retained control of the situation, willing and even eager to test his aircraft and close-range weapons against a competent opponent. Whatever the political fallout from the Penang Princess debacle, Igor Gnido felt that he stood to gain exceptional benefits both from his Russian employers and his Chinese patrons. “Yes, it was terrible what happened at Long Beach,” arms merchants would say, “but did you notice what one Su-30 did to three or four U.S. Navy fighters?”

American businessmen talked of “cutthroat competition.” The comfortable, dilettante bastards. How could they compare to Igor Gnido, who was turning into a world-class salesman?

Jennifer Jensen was thinking better now. She had broken lock on the presumed Flanker, lest the pilot get nervous and spear her with another long-range Archer. She was willing to go to visual range, which would probably be under three miles in this murk, and if the bogey — no, make that bandit — made a threatening move, she would would use her remaining AIM-9M.

Following the “bandit box” in her heads-up display, Jensen turned slightly to port, keeping the threat on her nose. It was an eerie feeling, knowing that somewhere within the HUD square superimposed on infinity lay the source of the death of Lieutenant Thomas Blyden.