Stephen Coonts - Combat

“Process the launch!” the Russian mission commander shouted. “Ignore this American bastard! He did not attack us before — perhaps he cannot stop us.”

As if they could hear their interphone conversation, the American said, “Hey, Blackjack, you better bug out now. I just relayed your position to my little buddies, the F/A-18 Hornets from the Midway. They’re not very happy that you’ve come to try to blow up their ship. In about two minutes you’ll have an entire squadron of Hornets on your ass.”

The Iranian pilot could no longer contain his anger. He opened the channel to the GUARD frequency and mashed his mike button: “You cowardly pig-bastard! If you want us, come and get us!”

“Hey, there you are, Blackjack,” the American said happily. “Nice to talk to you again.”

“You know who I am — who are you?”

“I’m the pig-bastard at your two o‘clock position and closing fast,” the American replied. “I’ll bet my interceptor missiles are faster and have longer range than your attack missiles — I’ll reach my firing point in about ten seconds. You don’t want to die flying straight and level, do you? C’mon up here and let’s get it on.”

“You will never stop us!” the Iranian shouted.

“Oops — I think I overestimated our firing point. Here they come.” And just then, the radar-warning receiver blared a shrill MISSILE LAUNCH warning — the Americans had fired radar-guided missiles!

The Russian pilot reacted instinctively. He immediately started a shallow climb and a steep right bank into the oncoming missiles. “Chaff! Chaff!” he shouted; then: “Launch the Kh-29s! Now!”

“We are not in range!” the bombardier shouted.

“Launch anyway!” the Russian ordered. “We will not get another chance! Launch!” The bombardier immediately commanded the Kh-29 missiles to launch. The missiles all had solid lock-ons, and with the slightly greater altitude, the Kh-29s had a little greater range … it might be enough to score a hit.

“They launched missiles!” Patrick shouted. The Megafortress’s attack radar, a derivative of the APG-71 radar from the F-15E Eagle, immediately detected the big Kh-29 missiles speeding toward the Midway . “I got four big missiles, very low altitude, going supersonic. Wendy …?”

“I got ’em,” Wendy Tork reported. The APG-71 weapon system had immediately passed targeting information to Wendy’s defensive system, and all Wendy had to do was launch-commit her AIM-120 Scorpion missiles. “We’re at extreme range — I’m going to have to ripple off all our Scorpions. Give me forty right and full military power.”

As Brad Elliott followed Wendy’s orders, the fire-control computers went to work. Within twenty seconds, eight Scorpions fired off into space. At first they used the Megafortress’s attack radar for guidance, but soon they activated their own active radars and tracked the Russian missiles with ease. All four Kh-29 missiles were shot down long before they reached the Midway .

“Splash four missiles,” Wendy reported. “But we’re in trouble now — we used up all our defensive missiles.” And, as if the Blackjack crew heard them, Wendy saw that the Iranian attack plane was turning very, very quickly — heading right for them. “We got a big, big bandit at fifteen miles, low. He …” Just then, the *EB-52C’s threat-warning receiver issued a RADAR WARNING, a MISSILE WARNING, and a MISSILE LAUNCH warning in rapid succession. “Break right!” Wendy shouted. “Stingers coming on-line! Chaff!”

The Soviet-made R-40 missiles were well within their maximum range, and the Blackjack’s big fire-control radar had a solid lock-on. The Megafortress’s rear-defense fire-control radar locked on to the incoming missiles and started firing Stinger airmine rockets, but this time they couldn’t score a hit. One R-40 missile was decoyed enough for a near miss, but a second R-40 scored a hit, blowing off the left V-tail stabilator on the Megafortress and shelling out two engines on the left side.

The force of the explosion and the sudden loss of the two left engines threw the Megafortress into a jaw-snapping left swerve so violent that the big bomber almost succeeded in swapping nose for tail. Only Brad Elliott’s and John Ormack’s superior airmanship and familiarity with the EB-52C Megafortress saved the crew. They knew enough not to automatically jam on full power on all the operating engines, which would have certainly sent them into a violent, unrecoverable flat Frisbee-like spin — instead, they had to pull power on the right side back to match the left, trade precious altitude so they could gain some even more precious flying airspeed, recover control, and only then start feeding in power slowly and carefully. The automatic fire-suppression systems on the Megafortress shut down the engines and cut off fuel, preventing a fatal fire and explosion. They lost two hundred knots and five thousand feet of altitude before the bomber was actually flying in some semblance of coordinated flight and was not on the verge of spiraling into the Persian Gulf.

But the Megafortress was a sitting duck for the speedy Blackjack bomber. “His airspeed has dropped off to less than five hundred kilometers per hour,” the defensive-systems officer reported as he studied his fire-control radar display. “He has dropped to one thousand meters, twelve o’clock, ten miles. He is straight and level — not maneuvering. I think he’s hit!”

“Then finish him off,” the Iranian pilot shouted happily. “Finish him, and let’s get out of here!”

“Stand by for missile launch!” the defensive-systems officer said. “Two missiles locked on … ready … ready … launch ! Missiles …”

He never got to finish that sentence. A fraction of a second before the two R-40 missiles left their rails, three pairs of AIM-9 Sidewinder heat-seeking missiles from three pursuing F/A-18 Hornet fighters from the USS Midway plowed into the Blackjack-E bomber, fired from less than five miles away. They had used guidance information from the asyet-unknown but friendly aircraft, so were able to conduct the intercept and lock on to the enemy attack plane without having to use their telltale airborne radars. The Sidewinders turned the Blackjack’s four huge turbofan engines into four massive clouds of fire that completely engulfed, then devoured the big jet. The pieces of Blackjack bomber not incinerated in the blast were scattered across over thirty square miles of the Persian Gulf and disappeared from sight forever.

“Hey, buddy, this is Dragon Four-Zero-Zero,” the lead F/A-18 Hornet pilot radioed on the UHF GUARD channel. “You still up?”

“Roger,” Brad Elliott replied. “We saw that bandit coming in to finish us off. I take it we’re still alive because you nailed his ass.”

“That’s affirmative,” the Hornet pilot replied happily. “We saw the hit you took. You need an escort back to King Khalid Military City?”

“Negative,” Brad replied. “That’s not our destination. We’ve got a tanker en route that’ll take us home.”

“You sure, buddy? If you’re not going to KKMC, it’s a long and dangerous drive to anywhere else.”

“Thanks, but we’ll limp on outta here by ourselves,” Brad replied. “Thank for clearing our six.”

“Thank you for protecting our home plate, buddy,” the Hornet pilot responded. “We owe you big-time, whoever you are. Dragon flight, out.”

Brad Elliott scanned his instruments for the umpteenth time that minute. Everything had stabilized. They were in a slow climb, less than three hundred feet a minute, nursing every bit of power from the remaining engines. “Well, folks,” he announced on interphone, “we’re still flying, our refueling system is operable, and we’ve still got most essential systems. I want everyone in exposure suits. If we have to ditch, it’s going to be a very, very long time before anyone picks us up. Might as well get up and stretch a bit — at this airspeed, it’s going to be a real long flight back to Diego Garcia.”