Читать книгу End Game - Dale Brown - Страница 35

‘MiGs are scrambling off the new field at Al Ghayda,’ T-Bone warned Colonel Bastian. ‘Two aircraft, MiG-29s. Just about one hundred miles from us, Colonel.’

‘Mack, Cantor, you hear that?’

‘Roger that, Colonel. We’ll meet them.’

Dog keyed in the Dreamland communications channel to alert the Abner Read.

‘Abner Read, this is Wisconsin. We have two MiG-29s coming off an airfield in Yemen. We expect them to be heading in our direction.’

‘Bastian, this is Storm. What are you doing?’

‘Minding our p’s and q’s, Captain. As normal.’

The Navy commander snorted. ‘Are you where you’re supposed to be?’

Dog fought the urge to say something sarcastic, and instead answered that they were on the patrol route agreed to earlier. ‘I would expect that you can see that on the radar plot we’re providing,’ he added. ‘Is it working?’

‘It’s working,’ snapped the Navy captain. ‘What’s with those airplanes?’

‘I assume they’re coming to check us out. The Yemenis gave us quite a bit of trouble when we were out here a few months back.’

‘If they get in your way, shoot them down.’

‘I may just do that,’ said Dog. ‘Wisconsin out.’

‘Sounded kind of cranky,’ said Jazz.

‘Most pleasant conversation I’ve ever had with him,’ Dog told his copilot.

Cantor glanced at the sitrep panel in the lower left-hand corner of his screen, making sure the Flighthawks were positioned properly for the intercept.

‘Fifty miles and closing,’ Cantor told Mack. ‘Weapons radar is off.’

‘Yeah, I can see that,’ said Mack. ‘You’re lagging behind me, cowboy.’

‘We’re going to do this like we rehearsed,’ said Cantor. ‘I’m going to swing out. You get in their face.’

‘Flying wing isn’t the most efficient strategy.’

‘We’re not flying F-15s, Major. This is the way Zen teaches it.’

‘Oh, I’m sure it’ll work against these bozos,’ said Mack. ‘I’m just pointing out, it’s not the best strategy to shoot them down.’

‘We’re not supposed to fire at them.’

‘Hey, don’t bitch to me. Complain to Colonel Bastian.’

I will, thought Cantor. I definitely will.

Mack steadied his forearm on the narrow shelf in front of the control stick, listening as the Wisconsin’s copilot attempted to hail the MiGs. The bogeys were doing about 500 knots; with his Flighthawk clocking about 480, they were now about ninety seconds from an intercept.

If he’d been in an F-15 or even an F-16, the MiGs would be toast by now. An F-22 – fuggetaboutit. They’d be figments of Allah’s imagination already.

Mack jangled his right leg up and down. Unlike a normal aircraft, the Flighthawk control system did not use pedals; all the inputs came from a single control stick and voice commands. This might be all right for someone like Zen, stuck in a wheelchair, or even Cantor, who’d probably been playing video games since he was born, but not for him. He loved to fly. He had it in his belly and his bones. Pushing buttons and wiggling your wrist just didn’t do it.

‘They’re breaking,’ said Cantor.

‘Hawk One.’

The MiGs, which had been in a close trail, were getting into position to confront the Megafortress. Mack started to follow as Bogey One cut to the east, then realized the plane was closer to Hawk Two.

‘I got him, Major,’ said Cantor.

‘Yeah, yeah, no sweat,’ said Mack, swinging back to get his nose on the other airplane.

‘If they go for their afterburners, they’ll blow right by you,’ warned Cantor.

‘Hey, no shit, kid.’

The computer’s tactics’ screen suggested that he start his turn now, recommending that he swing the Flighthawk in front of the MiG to confront it.

‘Wrong,’ Mack told it. Doing that would take him across the MiG’s path too soon, and he might even lose the chance to circle behind him. Instead, he waited until his MiG began to edge downward. Then it was too late – the Yemen pilot opened up the afterburners and spurted forward, past the Flighthawk, even as Mack started his turn.

‘He’s going to use all his fuel, the idiot,’ muttered Mack, putting his finger to the throttle slide at the back of the Flighthawk stick. Even so, there was no way he could catch up with the MiG; it was already flying well over 600 knots.

‘They know where we’ll be, Major,’ said Cantor. ‘They can’t see us yet but they learned from the encounters back in November.’

‘Big deal,’ said Mack under his breath.

Cantor pulled his Flighthawk back toward the Megafortress, aiming to stay roughly parallel to the other fighter’s path. The MiG-29 Fulcrum was an excellent single-seat fighter, highly maneuverable and very dangerous when equipped with modern avionics and weapons. But it did have some shortcomings. As a small aircraft, it could not carry that much fuel, and teasing the afterburners for speed now would limit what it could do later. And their limited avionics meant the Flighthawk was invisible to them except at very close range. Guessing where it was wasn’t the same as knowing.

As soon as the Yemen jet turned to try and get behind the Megafortress at close range, Cantor made his move, trading his superior altitude for speed and surprise. He reminded himself not to get too cocky as it came on, staying precisely on course and resisting the temptation to increase his speed by pushing his nose down faster.

‘Bogey at one mile; close intercept – proximity warning,’ said C³, the Flighthawk’s computer guidance system.

‘Acknowledged, Computer,’ said Cantor. He gave the stick a bit of English as his target came on. The Flighthawk crossed in front of the MiG in a flash, its left wing twenty yards from the aircraft’s nose. As he crossed, Cantor pushed his stick hard to the right, skidding through the air and lining up for a shot on the MiG’s hindquarters.

He didn’t quite get into position to take the shot, but that didn’t matter. The MiG veered sharply to the west, tossing flares and chaff as decoys in an effort to get away.

‘Hawk Two has completed intercept,’ Cantor reported. ‘Bogey One is running for cover.’