Tom Clancy's HAWX

Chapter 13

"Didn't think we were on for the Dhuladhiya mission," Jenna drawled as she caught up to her Falcon Force teammates heading for a rare late-evening briefing. "Thought it was a strike mission. I thought I was a snooper, not a shooter."

"I heard that Harris wants us to snoop on the shooters," Hal said. "I guess we'll fly in right after they shoot, and snoop on what's left."

"At least we had a day and a half and a good night's sleep," Troy Loensch added. He was walking behind them slightly, keeping an eye open for the kind of groping that he expected was going on between them, but saw none. Groping? Maybe he was reading too much into it. She had, after all, merely patted him — even if it was on his ass.

They arrived in the briefing room, finding it unusually full. The forty-eight hours of downtime had become thirty-six hours, and now it was over — before the second of the two good nights of sleep for which they had hoped.

The strike mission was due to launch at 0300 so that they would be over the target in the predawn darkness. Indeed, Harris had decided to have Falcon Force fly a poststrike assessment package.

The 334th Air Expeditionary Wing planning staff, standing in the front of the room, looked exhausted. They had pulled an all-nighter and had been working all the next day. After they unveiled their master plan, they could all sleep — while the aircrews went to work.

There was an air of excitement in the room, the anxious excitement born of the anticipation of a larger-thanusual mission. After the conference at Joint Task Force headquarters, General Harris was anxious to prove that his airpower could do the job, and he was making it a maximum effort.

There were two fighter/ground attack squadrons assigned to the 334th. Between them, they could muster thirty-four F-16s. In normal operations, some of these were routinely reconfigured from carrying ordnance to flying reconnaissance missions such as poststrike assessment. Tonight, he wanted all of them carrying weapons.

This left the three Falcon Force ISR birds as the only F-16s available for snooping, and they got the job.

On the screen were images that Troy had brought back of Dhuladhiya. Overlaying these were circles and arrows that indicated where the barges carrying weapons would be. In a satellite image less than six hours old, a freighter labeled as Iranian by the intel analysts could be seen unloading crates onto a barge near an inlet on the island. This was the smoking gun — or rather the guns that would be smoking as soon as the bad guys could get them within range of UN or U. S. personnel.

"Falcon One, clear for runway two-niner."

Troy breathed a sigh of relief. Hal was now taxiing toward Atbara's runway. Next, it would be Jenna's turn, and finally his. After an hour of sitting in their cockpits watching the strike package take off — tongue after tongue of flaming turbofan engines — it would be good to get moving.

They flew the same flight plan as they had on their earlier reconnaissance of the Dahlak Archipelago. This time, though, the distance ahead of them was filled with the winking red lights of the strike aircraft.

An hour later, as they descended to the flight level for the attack, Troy could hear the voices in his headset of pilots far ahead as they began to drop ordnance.

There were some excited boasts as hits were reported on barges. The GBU-32 JDAM smart bomb was deadly accurate, and it was also just plain deadly.

Suddenly the tone of the chatter changed.

"Aspen Four… taking ground fire."

"Maple One… I see tracers at two o'clock… one o'clock."

"Aspen One… I got tracers at eleven… everywhere!" "Think I see a SAM… Ponderosa Two… SAM incoming…"

"Mayday… repeat… mayday…"

"This is Ponderosa One… we are egressing over Eritrea and walking into a wall of SAMs."

"We got SAMs coming off that damned island too!" "Aspen Four looks like he got hit…"

"Aspen Four, this is Aspen One, can you read me…

come on, talk to me… Aspen flight… climb to…" "Mayday… this is Maple Four… I'm hit!"

The lump rose in Troy's throat. In the distance, he could see the carnage, a sky full of explosions and white hot streaks of SAMs climbing through the darkness. The American F-16s had raced into the target area in close formation and were too close to take evasive action without risking in-flight collisions. They had to just grit their teeth and plow though it.

"Why?" Jenna said out loud. "How?"

"Somebody got tipped we were coming," Troy snarled angrily.

"Roger that, Falcon Three," Hal said, trying to remain calm. "Climb to ten thousand and maintain heading."

The surface-to-air missiles were fused for the altitude at which the bombers had been flying. Hal figured that Falcon Force could still complete its mission at a higher, safer altitude.

As they came across Dhuladhiya, the ground and sea beneath them were on fire with burning ships and the tracers and streaks from SAMs targeting airplanes.

In the distance, Troy could see the unmistakable plume of a burning aircraft falling to earth.

"Wish we were carrying HARMs on this flight," Hal said. The planners had taken the calculated risk of loading the attackers for strikes on boats and barges. Nobody had anticipated surface-to-air missiles, certainly not so many. Indeed, there had been no sign of them in the recon data brought back by Falcon Force.

The flight plan for their return called for the American aircraft to cross onto the African mainland by way of the narrow, lightly populated strip of Eritrea that led into the Denakil Depression where Troy and Jenna had earlier tangled with the Eritrean MiGs. Unfortunately, as soon as they made landfall, the aircraft came under attack from a second defensive line of surface-to-air missiles. The strike commander had ordered the aircraft to scatter, but not before at least three, and possibly more, had been hit.

Both the airspace and the airwaves were in a state of mass confusion.

"Falcon Two… incoming," Jenna shouted. "I've been pinged. See it coming… taking evasive—" The next three seconds were the longest of her life.

She jinked and rolled as she watched the white-hot doughnut of a SAM coming at her head-on.

"Aaarrgh!"

She felt the Gs as they stacked up and pressed on her brain, but still the thing came, pursuing her like a shadow.

Her whole field of vision was filled by the thing. Was this really the way her life would end?

Then came the impact as the heat seeker brought the SAM into contact with the tail of her F-16.

There was a thundering crash of metal onto metal and a jolt that was like being hit by a freight train.

But no explosion.

The aircraft shivered and shook, but it did not come apart in a cloud of burning debris.

"Falcon Two, are you there?" Hal said nervously. "Talk to me… are you there?"

"Falcon Two here… I've been hit… it was a dud… didn't explode. I've been hit… hard to control."

Troy let out a breath. At least she was alive.

"Falcon Two, can you eject?" Troy asked.

"Trying to get control," Jenna said. "Don't want to punch out… not here… get closer to home."

The streaks of purple dawn were starting to form along the horizon, and Troy could make out the silhouettes of the other two aircraft in his flight. Hal was about a quarter mile away at his altitude, but Jenna was a couple thousand feet below.

"This is Falcon Three," he said. "I'm going to descend to get a better look at the damage to Falcon Two."

"Roger that," Hal said in a tone of voice suggesting he wished he'd thought of that first.

"Falcon Two, that SAM must have hit you damned hard, your rudder is bent and there's a piece missing."

"No wonder it's so hard to fly this thing," Jenna replied.

"Do you think you can make it back to Atbara?" "I'm losing altitude and can't turn," Jenna replied. "Other than that… no problem."

"We're with you, Falcon Two," Troy said.

"Mighty neighborly of y'all," Jenna replied.

"Falcon One, I have bogies," Hal said nervously.

"I see 'em on the scope," Troy said. "Probably stragglers from the strike pack."

"Negative Falcon Three, they're headed south, straight at us."

"Falcon One… I've been pinged," Hal said. Indeed, the incoming fighters had locked on to him first because he was flying at the highest altitude. "I'll ping… him back…"

Hal stood the F-16 on its tail, climbing to get above the incoming bogies, and then he looped as they approached. The added altitude gave him the advantage as they maneuvered to pursue him.

"Fox Two…"

While the other planes clawed for altitude, his loop brought Hal into firing position. He had a good shot, and he took it.

The first Eritrean pilot was so busy trying to get at Hal that he didn't realize until too late that he was about to get got.

The AIM-9 Sidewinder connected, and one of Eritrea's last remaining MiG-29s was gone.

The second MiG-29 broke and ran.

Hal, who had been in a diving attack, began his pullout.

Had the second MiG pilot been more professional, he would have rolled in behind Hal as the F-16 plummeted and picked him off.

As it was, he was so freaked out at watching his pal get popped that he decided to get out of the area.

However, as he ran east, he spotted two Americans below. The first rays of the morning sun striking the rudder on one of the F-16s illuminated what appeared to be serious damage.

How do you say sitting duck in Tigrinya?

Realizing that he had the altitude advantage that the American had in the previous encounter, he rolled out and dove.

"Falcon Three, bogie on your six," Hal shouted as he banked hard to intervene in the fast-closing battle about two miles away.

"Roger that," Troy said, instinctively turning to screen Jenna's damaged aircraft as the enemy's missile lock-on pinged in his headset.

Troy looked back. There was a bright yellow flash as the Vympel R-60 "Aphid" air-to-air missile erupted from the MiG's wing.

Making sure that it was tracking him, not Jenna, Troy banked as hard as he could, hoping to outturn the missile.

It came so close that the lemon-yellow flame from its solid-fuel engine illuminated his cockpit — just before the explosion illuminated his entire field of vision.

The concussion knocked Troy's helmet against the inside of the canopy, cracking it. The F-16, which was in a roll when the proximity fuse detonated, began to spin.

There was good news and bad news.

The good news was that the Aphid hadn't hit Troy. The bad news was that the explosion was close enough to cause severe damage to his aircraft.

"Falcon Three… g-g-g-going… d-d-d-down," he reported as he fought to control the shaking, shuddering, corkscrewing aircraft.

"Punch out, Falcon Three," Hal shouted, as Troy tried to control the spin long enough to do this.

Seeing the spinning desert rushing up at him, he decided that it was now or never.

In a blinding flash, he left the F-16, and for what seemed like an eternity he hurtled through the air, spinning like a Frisbee. Somewhere within that eternity, he might have blacked out, because the next thing he remembered was when the canopy of his parachute jerked him back to his senses.

In the distance, he saw an F-16 tumbling lifelessly toward the ground. He watched it hit and disintegrate, the pieces bouncing across the desert at impact speed, swathed in dust and smoke.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted something else. It was another F-16, twisting, gyrating, and falling. Who? Hal?

Suddenly a third F-16 flashed past, and in the cockpit he caught a glimpse of the checkerboard pattern of Hal's helmet.

"Jenna!"

Troy realized as the second F-16 impacted the desert that one of these falling airplanes was Jenna's.

Hal came by again, so close that the shock wave caused Troy's parachute to bounce about twenty feet.

Below, the ground was rushing upward.

The last thought Troy had before the impact knocked him unconscious was that he had better prepare for a hard landing.