Sword of Allah

Ten miles due south of Thai — Myanmar border, 35 000 feet

The navigator reconfirmed the airway’s clearance with the flight deck. Lieutenant Pete Crawford wondered if the Thais would be so happy to wave them through if they knew that this little BUFF was not a commercial flight as indicated by the flight plan and transponder emissions.

The B-52 was in position, just inside the maximum range of the joint stand-off weapons cradled under the bomber’s wing. ‘Fly present heading,’ said the navigator sitting on the lower deck. The colonel gave Crawford the nod.

Down on the lower flight deck, the radar navigator confirmed that the azimuth, elevation and coordinates downloaded into the missiles’ systems prior to takeoff tallied with those held on her computers. She keyed in the appropriate strokes and saw that the information was a match. No further advice had been received amending or aborting the mission from either Diego Garcia or a man-in-the-loop down on the ground. A quick scan of the system’s defensive avionics told her that no missile tracking radars had locked on to their aircraft and that electronic countermeasures were therefore unnecessary. The radar navigator knew this would be the case but it paid to stay sharp. She armed the missile, informed the flight deck that a ten-second countdown was in progress, and the JSOW designated number one on her offensive avionics display dropped from its pylon. ‘Fox one,’ she said in a flat, matter-of-fact tone.

As the AGM-154D dropped away from the B-52, its wings flipped out and locked in position, the small turbofan catching as the airflow through its fan blades turned over the compressor unit like a vehicle jumpstarting down a hill. The missile verified its position in relation to the general target area through an onboard GPS integrated with an inertial navigation system. The INS altered the JSOW’s course four degrees to the left, allowing for wind drift, and the aircraft accelerated into a shallow dive.

Sixty seconds later the radar nav announced the departure of the second AGM-154D, ‘Fox one,’ and another sixty seconds after that, a third: ‘Fox one.’

Lieutenant Pete Crawford was intrigued. Here they were up in northern Thailand cruising towards Myanmar and three live JSOWs had just been released. Where were the missiles going? What was their target? All the information fed into the missile systems was coded so not even the radar nav had any real idea. Guesses, yes, but nothing certain. The rumour was that they were in support of a covert Special Forces op aimed at toppling the military regime there. Crawford doubted that. What difference would three little missiles make? He shrugged and let the thought go. ‘We’re just the pizza delivery boy,’ he’d heard the colonel say once. ‘The only difference is, we always deliver hot.’

‘Okay, the sows have been taken to market, so let’s get this little piggy home,’ said Colonel Zeke Chapman. ‘By the way, Pete, you’re doing a fine job. Wake me up on final.’

‘Wilco, sir.’ The whole thing had been too easy, thought Crawford as he watched his commander sit back in his chair and place a fishing magazine over his face. All temps and pressures normal. A walk in the park.