Chapter 68
Suez Canal, Egypt
Lava’s focus was absolute. His hands gripped the Hornet’s controls lightly, mere fingertip pressure. The Shahed looked far larger from his new perspective: it was less than ten feet from his wingtip.
He saw the pusher propeller churning, the ailerons on the drone’s wing adjusting deftly to maintain course.
It had descended to an even lower altitude; they were skimming along in formation a mere four hundred feet above the ground.
The good news was that the drone had leveled off.
The bad news: this was likely the altitude from which it would disperse its payload.
The Shahed was on its final attack run.
Being so low, even at a mere one hundred and sixty knots, the ground swept past in a rush.
The Hornet felt mushy in Lava’s hands, the flight controls less responsive at the low speed.
He eased closer, approaching from slightly below, until his jet’s left wingtip underlapped the Shahad’s right.
From that vantage point, he saw an ominous new sight.
A spray bar ran the length of the wing. Any moment now, radioactive liquid would begin spewing into the air not far from his canopy.
Lava couldn’t venture a look back, but he knew that Id was joining up with the last remaining Shahed. They were roughly two miles behind him. The whole dubious plan was Lava’s idea, so he would be the guinea pig.
He was thankful that he wasn’t carrying AIM-9 Sidewinders.
The FA-18 had a wingtip weapon station, a six-foot steel rail that was integral to the wing structure.
The rail was sturdy, designed to support hundreds of pounds of munitions during high-G maneuvering.
Right now, however, it was conveniently empty.
The Shahed’s wingtip was very different. It looked thin and was no more than two feet from front to back, perhaps four inches thick. Its metal skin would be thin to save weight. Altogether, a dollar-store toy compared to his eighty-million-dollar military-grade machine.
“As they say, when push comes to shove…” he whispered, not bothering to key his mic.
He raised his left wing ever so deftly, and for the first time the two aircraft made contact. He half expected the Shahed’s wing to fail immediately, to break off and send the drone crashing to the earth. It held.
For now.
Lava increased the pressure and, ever so gently, lifted the Shahed’s right wing with his left wingtip rail.
A foot at first. Then two. Aerodynamics took hold, and the drone reacted as any aircraft would.
It began a gentle turn to the left. He could see the drone’s flight controls fighting the maneuver, the trailing edge of the right aileron canting upward.
Its flight computer was correcting, trying to reacquire the programmed course to its target. Lava wouldn’t let that happen.
“Two-one, two-two. Is it working?”
“So far,” Lava replied. So intense was his concentration, so delicate the maneuver, he didn’t want to key the mic any longer than necessary.
“Okay, two-two is in.”
Lava imagined the same scenario playing out behind him.
He tried to keep the two wings in constant contact, figuring that was the best way to avoid structural failure. He wasn’t particularly worried about the Hornet—it had to weigh ten times what the Shahed did and was stressed for air combat. It was like steering a dingy with a battleship.
But it was working.
After ninety degrees of turn, Lava saw water on the periphery to his left. If he could roll out headed back toward the sea, keep the drone on that path, they would reach open water within minutes.
A burble of rough air caused the Hornet’s left wing to drop.
Lava couldn’t correct fast enough, and the two wingtips parted and then slammed together.
He held his breath, steadied his hands, waiting for the Shahed to careen out of control.
It didn’t happen. The underside of its wing was dented and the aileron looked damage. But it was still flying.
He reestablished contact between the wingtips and forced the drone back into a turn.
Lava could feel sweat dripping down his spine.
His neck began to cramp from twisting to the left.
Approaching one hundred and eighty degrees of turn from the original course, he flicked his eyes forward and saw nothing but sea ahead.
He was about to level out when the drone suddenly began turning in the opposite direction.
“Dammit!”
He knew instinctively what had happened. He’d gone beyond one hundred and eighty degrees, and now the Shahed’s shortest turn to its target was a left-hand turn, away from him.
Lava cursed again and pushed over, negative Gs raising him into his shoulder straps. He crossed under to the opposite side, and in the transition fired off a quick radio call. “Id, don’t go beyond a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn. This thing just did a reversal on me.”
“Two-two copies. You’re losing a dogfight with a drone.”
Lava actually smiled.
He climbed carefully to the Shahed’s left side and performed the same maneuver from the opposite wing.
This time he stopped the turn at one hundred and sixty degrees off the original course.
He held that for another three minutes, locked in an aerial stalemate—the drone trying to turn into him, the Hornet blocking the way.
Lava looked back over his shoulder. He estimated the beach to be six miles behind. That should do it.
His gun was already armed. He pushed over and maneuvered with aggressive S-turns to get high and behind the Shahed.
The drone began a gentle turn back toward shore.
Lava didn’t allow it. He rolled in, sighted carefully, and emptied his last rounds on the light-skinned target.
The Shahed disintegrated before his eyes, and he pulled clear.
“Two-one, splash number nine.”
He craned his neck to search for Id, spotted him a mile west maneuvering for his own shot. He watched the last Shahed disintegrate, its remains falling toward the sea in a cloud of vapor.
“Two-two, splash number ten. And I am beyond bingo fuel.”
“Two-one copies bingo.”
They joined up and Lava immediately set a course for Port Said Airport. It was twenty-six miles away. Both jets were running on fumes.
“Sparky, Glock two-one,” said Lava.
“Go ahead, two-one.”
“We’ve splashed all ten, no other bogeys on radar. We are diverting to Port Said and would appreciate it if you’d advise the local authorities. ETA six minutes…if we don’t run out of gas.”
Sparky acknowledged and promised to forward the message.
Lava flew a max range profile. The two jets climbed slightly and then entered an idle descent to the runway. The weather was clear and a million—no clouds, unlimited visibility. Poor conditions would probably have meant an ejection over water.
They never contacted Egyptian air traffic control. They couldn’t even if they’d wanted to since they didn’t know the appropriate frequencies. Port Said had not been in their plans when they’d taken off hours earlier.
The sun was breaking the horizon as they lined up with the runway.
Lava visually cleared its entire length for traffic.
Id landed first and made a midfield turnoff.
Lava was right behind him and made the same left turn.
Just ahead, he saw Glock 23 and 24 parked on a remote concrete pad.
Id taxied clear and shut down next to the number three jet.
Lava didn’t make it that far. He’d no sooner cleared the runway than his engines began winding down. He knew why: fuel starvation. His gauges were on dead zero. He’d been seconds away from ejecting.
He secured his jet on the taxiway, climbed down the boarding ladder, and walked over to join Spanx and Id.
Two Egyptian kids were gawking from outside the perimeter fence.
He guessed there would be a lot more onlookers soon.
Lava was suddenly overcome by exhaustion.
He had been up all night, running on adrenaline.
Finally, he’d reached the downside. His wingmen would be feeling it as well.
“I guess we cut it a little tight on the gas,” said Spanx as he approached, gesturing to Lava’s disabled jet.
“Tell me about it. But you know what…we got it done, brother.”
“That we did,” Id seconded.
“Where’s Gooch?” Lava asked.
His number three pointed to the jet that was isolated on the far side of the ramp. Lava saw Gooch fumbling under a closed canopy.
“What the hell is he doing?”
Spanx said, “He suspects his jet is contaminated. Says he flew right through a cloud of that radioactive shit.”
“Well…okay.”
“I told him to go one hundred percent oxygen when we were airborne. Figured that would keep him from breathing any nasty vapors.”
“That makes sense.”
“Once we got on the ground, I gave him a little more advice.”
Before Spanx could explain, the canopy of Gooch’s jet motored open.
As he began climbing down the boarding ladder, Lava did a double take.
Gooch had removed every bit of flight gear.
G-suit, helmet, harness. Even his flight suit, gloves, and boots.
He hit the ramp wearing nothing but boxers, athletic socks, and sunglasses.
Lava saw Id’s lips quiver ever so slightly.
And then it happened. The stress of the last hours cracked like a failed dam.
All three pilots broke out laughing hysterically.
And with that, a new call sign was born. “Gooch” went to the dust bin. For the rest of his career, or at least until he did something more embarrassing, James Whittemore would be known in the squadron as Glow.