Deep Black

80

Whacker plotted strikes on both sites, splitting the flight in two. The IP, or initial point, for the bombing run on the first was ninety seconds away with the gates flooded; the second was fifteen seconds beyond that.

“We won’t have the fuel to recover,” said the navigator— weapons officer.

“Roger that,” said Train. “Punch them in. Malachi, you drive to the second target. Whacker, I want you to sit on that one and take it. I’ll launch on the first.”

“Good,” said Whacker. He touched his screen, automatically inputting the suggested courses into the flight system. The computer presented the information immediately to Malachi, essentially giving him a dotted line to follow to the target site.

“Ground intercept radars are up,” said Riddler. “We have an SA-6 battery, an SA-2.”

“Jam them,” said Train, who had the threat icons on his screen. “Malachi?”

“I have control; I’m on course,” he told the flight leader, jacking the throttle.

“Talk it up, talk it up,” said the leader.

“Sorry,” said Malachi, belatedly realizing he’d forgotten to acknowledge the earlier order. “On course. Uh, ninety seconds to IP. I have both planes. Shit, I’m spiked!”

Either alerted by the earlier encounter or placed on active alert because of the coup attempt, Russian defense radars were now lighting up all across the country. One had just managed to find Bird Two, “spiking” or locking onto it at very close range. Riddler was already working to break the contact with the onboard ECMs.

“SA-2 site is on us,” Riddler told Malachi. The original radar that had found the flight had handed off the information to another radar, which was being used to direct high-altitude SAMs. “We have a launch. Two missiles.”

The SA-2 was a rather old missile — early versions were actually used, with great effect, in Vietnam. Malachi didn’t worry about them, confident that the electronic fog being poured into the sky by Riddler would confuse them.

The SA-10b battery that fired a few seconds later was considerably more worrisome.

Riddler let out a string of curses as data flowed in about the launch. Six missiles were in the air, all aimed at Malachi. Riddler cursed and complained that the gear must be screwing up because the SA-10bs — they might be compared to a late-model American Hawk, with a bigger warhead and more extensive range — seemed to have come from nowhere.

“Relax,” barked Train. “Everyone on their game. Focus.”

Malachi’s threat screen flashed red as the missiles continued to home in on the robot aircraft. Bird Four, which Malachi had locked into an offset trail about four miles behind the other plane, remained clean.

No-brainer. Two was carrying all air-to-air missiles and could be readily sacrificed. Four was now thirty seconds from the point at which he would start maneuvering to launch his weapons.

Riddler cursed in his headset. Malachi lost track of what was going on around him. He jinked and tossed chaff from Bird Two, trying to make it harder for the SA-10b’s onboard guidance gear to close in. Then he pushed his head a few inches from the flight screen and gave control of Bird Two to the computer to fly a “defensive evade” as he took Bird Four into the target.

Riddler barked a new warning, but Malachi was committed. He dipped the wing hard, pivoting nearly ninety degrees as he dropped five thousand feet in a half-breath, playing the stick with a bit of body English to keep his nose precisely where he wanted. In a “real” plane, Malachi would have blacked out from the g forces, and in fact that robot’s wings briefly exceeded their maximum stress factor as the speed whipped up.

“I don’t have a target,” warned Whacker. The weapons officer was looking at a large screen split into three parts. Similar to Malachi’s main screen, the top showed a computer-generated picture of the area ahead, with an octagonal reticule at the bottom indicating his current aim point. The bottom left screen was a simplified grid where the target and missile would be shown as a box and triangle respectively; the right was a specific target box, complete with continually updated target information.

“Stay with me,” said Malachi. The target area was on the right. The altitude ladder continued to bounce down; he was through 25,000 feet and needed to level off, but the robot was responding sluggishly.

“I don’t have a target,” repeated Whacker.

Malachi turned up the volume on the imaginary song playing in his head—“Kll Ants” by Z — and blew a wad of air out slowly through his mouth, hanging with the robot as it began to slow, finally answering his tug on the throttle. One of the missile batteries had spiked him — all sorts of warnings were buzzing, but it was all background noise, all diversion.

The target was a blurry red rectangle in the right corner of his screen. He nudged toward it. The robot’s tail flew upward — something had exploded below it.

He struggled to hold the plane on course. His eyes were now less than an inch from the screen.

“I’m on it,” said Whacker. He switched on a laser beam to guide the missile to the target, locked the data into the Paveway V in the F-47C’s belly, and launched.

With the missile away, Malachi began to pull up. The laser designator in the recently updated system did not have to stay on the target after the missile was launched, which made it easier for Malachi to take evasive maneuvers as antiaircraft systems continued to track him. He shut down the active radar gear, released his last bale of chaff and some flares for good measure, and zigged right. Just as he began to check for Bird Two, his screen flashed — the bomb had exploded.

But not on the target.

“The Russian laser took out the Paveway,” said Whacker.

Before Malachi could respond, his flight screen blanked. Bird Four had just been shot down.