Chapter 67
Under any other circumstances, it would have been a beautiful night. A high half-moon hovered silver and bright, and a pale dawn glow had begun painting the eastern horizon. Unlike the tempest that had descended on Al-Jaghbub, the air here was smooth, the visibility unlimited.
There was no time to appreciate any of it.
“Two-one, two-three has a contact at twelve-thirty low, forty-five miles. Angels five, heading east.”
“Two-one copies, I’m picking up two bogeys now, five miles apart. Both ten o’clock, same heading and altitude.”
The Hornet’s Multifunctional Information Distribution System, or MIDS, exchanged radar information among the four aircraft. Within a minute, eight of the ten targets appeared on Lava’s display. What he saw was a tactical geometry from hell.
“Okay, Glock flight,” he said, “these targets are widely spaced. I show sixty miles from the northern bogey to the southern. We were told to expect ten, so the last two are probably even farther out.”
“Two-one, two-three. I suggest we split into singletons.”
The same idea had been brewing in Lava’s head during their scalding eastward run.
The tactical model of entering combat with a wingman at your side, of having mutual support, was sacrosanct in the fighter world.
But right now, with no long-range missiles loaded, splitting up was their only chance to handle so many widely dispersed targets before they reached the canal entrance.
“Two-one copies. No other way, divide and conquer.”
The Hawkeye had fallen farther back, but its crew was still able to monitor the frequency. “Glock two-one, Sparky. You are cleared in hot. CAG reiterates targets must be engaged feet wet.”
“Two-one copies—drop ’em in the drink only.”
With one look at his map, Lava realized that was going to be a challenge. “Two-one shows the most advanced drone twenty miles from the coastline. Check master arm on. Standard sort, everybody takes two. Engage the target closest to shore first.”
The others acknowledged.
Lava looked over his shoulder and saw Spanx and Gooch break away south.
Each jet would target a pair of drones. The procedure for sorting targets was second nature.
Be it radar or visual engagements, right and left, and high and low, were used as discriminators.
This was done to avoid two jets targeting the same hostile in the heat of combat.
Gooch, on the right side of the formation, would intercept the rightmost two drones.
Spanx, second on the right, would take the next two inboard.
The same division applied on the left side.
Altogether, it would account for eight of the ten targets, assuming they could reach them in time.
Then they would have to hunt down the last two Shaheds.
The battle, quite literally, was moving at the speed of sound.
Lava turned north to engage his designated hostiles.
As he did, his radar lost its lock on the southern package.
MIDS would fill the void, populating his tactical display with a god’s-eye view.
Still, it was awkward managing a battle when half the fight was behind you.
He also wanted to keep an eye on Gooch—he was a good stick, but also a nugget on his first cruise.
As Lava nosed over and built speed downhill, he was struck by a new and unpleasant thought.
He decided it was worth a radio call. “Two-one flight, all we have is guns, which means close quarters. Remember, these hostiles are loaded with some kind of radiological agent. Strongly suggest a high angle pass to not get fragged by the glowing vapor.”
“Two-three copies,” Spanx replied. “Also suggest a close watch on the round counter. These targets are low, slow, and small. Might take a few passes to get good hits. If we go Winchester, we fail.”
Winchester referred to running out of ordnance. Four hundred and twelve rounds sounded like a lot, but the Vulcan’s high rate of fire—six thousand rounds per minute—allowed only so many squeezes on the trigger.
Lava noticed that his target was descending. As it passed through two thousand feet, he wondered how low it would go to deliver its payload. Aerial gunnery was always challenging but doing it at extreme low altitude only added to a dizzying array of complications.
At a range of three miles, he switched to Gun Acquisition Mode.
A target designator box appeared in his heads-up display.
Thankfully, the dawn light was strengthening, and he saw the drone squarely in the middle.
As always, one visual was worth a thousand sweeps of the radar.
The drone was getting bigger quickly, and a glance at his displays told Lava he had five hundred knots of overtake.
Having flown the speed of heat to reach this point, he slammed the throttles to idle, picked up the nose, and broke into a hard S-turn.
Seven Gs left, seven Gs right. His body compressed into the seat and his G suit inflated to keep blood in his brain.
The maneuver bled his airspeed to a manageable rate of closure.
The mismatched airspeeds were going to present a problem.
The Shahed was flying at one hundred and sixty knots—a speed at which a Hornet would practically fall out of the sky.
Five hundred feet above the drone, Lava rolled inverted for a better look at his target.
The Shahed looked small, and he decided it was a variant he hadn’t seen before.
Straight wing, V-tail, single pusher prop.
No time to waste.
He rolled into a twenty-degree dive and pointed directly at the drone.
His radar computed a lead solution for gunning the slow-moving aircraft.
Lava closed in tight and fired. The Vulcan gatling gun rattled the Hornet from nose to tail, and the moment his finger came off the trigger he pulled away hard.
He had no desire to get fragged by nuclear vapor.
He rolled right, searched the sky, and to his disappointment saw the drone still flying.
“Shit!” he muttered to himself. On second glance, he realized he’d done some damage.
The tip of the right wing was broken, and liquid of some kind was streaming from the fuselage.
But it was still flying. Still bearing down on its target.
He stomped the rudder pedals, pissed at himself for not making good on the first pass. He went through the whole drill again, staying on the trigger a little longer the second time. The Shahed exploded in a hail of debris.
The radios came alive as he pulled clear.
“Two-two, splash the northernmost bandit. Moving to second target.”
“Two-one, splash-one.”
And so it went. All four Hornets got their first kill and moved on to the second. Then an even better development.
“Two-one, two-two. I’m picking up two more targets northeast. From my position, bearing zero-four-zero, twenty miles.”
Lava checked his tactical display and saw the new targets. They were low and slow, just like the others.
“Nicely done, Id. Glock flight, let’s finish this.”
Lava stroked his burners again to accelerate. His second target was sixteen miles ahead. Just when he was feeling good about the whole scenario, he saw a profoundly disconcerting sight. The coastline was clearly visible ahead.
His jet gave an automated warning for a low fuel state.
“Yeah, tell me something I don’t know,” he replied to the computer-generated voice.
Lava intercepted his second Shahed and took it out easily, refining what he’d learned from his first splash. The others did the same.
With one exception.
Gooch engaged the southernmost Shahed too aggressively. His fangs were out after downing the first drone, and he scored no apparent hits on his initial slashing attack. On the second run his rounds counter showed ninety-eight bullets remaining. Enough for one last shot.
But the coastline was coming on fast, and he rushed.
His geometry was poor, the dive angle not steep enough, and he pressed minimum range.
He hit the drone squarely, but as it exploded in a cloud of mist, he flew straight through the debris field.
He heard fragments strike his jet, and worse yet, saw his windscreen get covered by viscous liquid.
“Two-one, two-four. I splashed the southern target but got fragged. My jet took some damage, and it’s covered in some kind of fluid.”
Lava said, “Check engines and hydraulics.”
Gooch looked over his instruments and saw no anomalies. Engines were solid, hydraulic pressure good. Then he looked out at his wings and saw damage to the leading edges on both sides. “Instruments are normal, but I see damage to both wings. Jet seems to be flying fine.”
Having downed his second Shahed, Spanky rejoined on Gooch. He performed a battle damage check, flying tight beneath his wingman’s jet to get a better look.
“Two-four, two-three. I see some minor damage, and you’ve got fuel streaming from your belly. We need to get you on the ground now.”
“Two-four copies.”
A return to the Ford was completely off the table.
Lava had already determined that the closest usable airfield was Port Said, slightly west of the canal entrance.
The unannounced arrival of four U.S. Navy fighter jets might wake up some sleepy Egyptians, but the DoD could sort out the repercussions.
“Two-three, two-one. Make for Port Said. Id and I will hunt down the last two.”
Everyone acknowledged the plan.
Lava set out with Id on his wing, the last two drones ahead. They were low on fuel and ammo, but if they played everything perfectly there was enough to finish the job. At a range of five miles, Lava got a visual on their targets.
And that was when the plan went to shit.
“Two-one, two-two,” Id said from the right. “You seeing what I’m seeing?”
“Two-one, yeah. They’ve gone feet dry.”
Both the Shaheds were skimming over light brown desert, the converging entrances of the canal on either side.
“We’re too late unless somebody can find a way to turn them back out to sea.”
Lava slammed a gloved fist on his canopy. They were so damned close!
His eyes scanned farther ahead. Sparky had forwarded the expected target, a confluence of the two northern entrance canals ten miles inland. Lava could see it dead ahead. In a minute, maybe two, the drones would begin dispersing their radiological hell.
Then Id’s last words played back in his head.
…unless somebody can find a way to turn them back out to sea.
Lava closed in on the nearest drone, which was less than a hundred yards off his nose, and an idea percolated into his head. It probably wasn’t even possible. It was certifiably insane. The potential outcomes? Anywhere from a smashing success to Chernobyl.
But it was the only damned escape hatch he could think of.
“Two-two, two-one. Here’s what we’re gonna do…”