Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 01 (41 page)

 
          
“Why,
General Elliott,” Sands said, grinning. “I figured it was you. What’s a big SAC
cheese like you doing in a hell-hole like this?”

           
“You’re going to make this
rendezvous, Colonel—”

           
“Or else, were you going to say?
We’re getting pretty feisty in our old age, aren’t we? Well, I’ve got news for
you,
sir
—we’re heading back to
Shemya, and we’re going to—”

 
          
“Just
watch your
one o’clock
,
Icepack.”

 
          
“Now
listen, Elliott—”

 
          
As
Sands was posturing aboard the KC-10 tanker, Wendy ejected four bundles of
chaff from the wings of the
Megafortress
.
Angelina locked her airmine radar onto the cloud of metallic tinsel behind
them, and when they moved about a mile behnd the bomber fired a single airmine
rocket at the cloud.

 
          
From
the cockpit of the KC-10
Extender
tanker it resembled a giant flower-like fireworks display, even at their
extreme range. The airmine rocket plowed into the cloud of chaff and exploded,
mixing thousands of chips of metal into the explosion and fire caused by the
exploding rocket. The detonation ignited the chaff and the shrapnel from the
rocket, creating a fiery cloud that spread rapidly across the evening sky.

 
          
“Turn
range is twenty-two, Eddie,” Elliott said over interplane. “Left turn. Or we’ll
make another little fireworks display on your tail.”

           
“Switch radio two back to command
post,” Sands said sharply. “The fighter’ll be on three-eleven. Have them get
their asses up here.” He stared at the slowly dissipating cloud of fire ahead
and clenched his fists. “Screw you,” he muttered, “I’m running this show,
General.”

           
As Ashley switched frequencies from
VHF to UHF range and keyed the microphone, an ear-splitting squeal drowned out
his call.

 
          
“He’s
trying to transmit on three-eleven,” Wendy said, studying her emitter video
display.

 
          
“We’re
jamming UHF and VHF too,” Elliott said to the KC-10. “So forget about calling
those fighters. We’re jamming IFF and we’ll squeal out HF, too.”

 
          
“Thirty-five
miles, General,” McLanahan said.

 
          
“One
more convincer, Eddie,” Elliott told him. “I understand you folks have
threat-warning receivers now. Well, check it out.”

 
          
On
the interphone he called down. “Lock onto him Patrick.”

 
 
          
McLanahan
hit his TRACK switch, pressed the ENABLE lever on his tracking handle, and
guided a circle cursor over the radar skin-paint of the KC-10 tanker. When he
released the ENABLE lever the circle remained on the return and a green numeral
“one” lighted on McLanahan’s TV screen.

 
          
“Got
him,” McLanahan announced. On board the KC-10 the results were a bit more
dramatic. On the threat-warning receiver on the instrument panel between the
pilots, Elliott’s plane had been showing as an “S,” for search radar. The
“friendly” symbol on the threat radar video display suddenly changed into a
hostile “bat-wing” threat symbol. Moments later a red MISSILE ALERT illuminated
as the threat receiver’s internal computer interpreted the steady “lock-on”
signal from the unknown aircraft as a missile tracking signal—indicating a
missile ready to launch.

 
          
“We
gotta get out of here,” from Ashley.

 
          
“Easy,
copilot, easy,” from Reynolds.

 
          
“How
do we know who he is?”

 
          
“The
S.O.B. is bluffing,” Reynolds said. “He’s a goddamned friendly. He won’t shoot.
Set the IFF to EMER. Get on GUARD and call those fighters.”

 
          
Sands
waited a few moments while Reynolds directed his crew. The anticipated results
came a few second later.

 
          
“IFF’s
faulted,” Ashley said. “No interrogate indication.”

 
          
“Heavy
jamming on all emergency frequencies,” the flight engineer reported.

 
          
“Okay,
okay,” Sands said. “Tie the autopilot back into the rendezvous computer. Make
the turn.”

 
          
“But
we can’t—”

 
          
“Yes,
we can. Someone’s either playing a very big joke ... or is very serious. It
doesn’t matter—we’re committed,” he said, and flipped over to the interplane
channel.

 
          
“Okay,
Genesis, you convinced us,” Sands said. “Or should I say, General Elliott?
Don’t worry, we’ll make the turn. Are we going to have to listen to that
missile alert bull all through the refueling?”

 
          
Elliott
smiled. “Take it down, Patrick.” McLanahan deselected the TRACK switch and
punched in “one” on his keyboard, and his circle cursor went to the “home”
position in the upper left corner of the radar scope.

 
          
“Icepack
turning left heading two-seven-one,” Ashley said nervously on the radio.

 
          
On
board the Old Dog, McLanahan watched the radar return carefully for a few
moments, then said, “He looks fine, General, normal turn rate, correct
direction. He should roll out two miles ahead of us.”

           
“Good. Get back on long range radar
and get a fix on those fighters. I’ve got a visual on his lights.”

 
          
McLanahan
switched from thirty to eighty mile range and immediately a large bright return
appeared, just passing the thirty-five-mile range mark.

 
          
“Thirty-five
miles, General. Closing fast.”

 
          
“Genesis
has visual contact,” Ormack said. He pointed out the cockpit windows into the
growing blackness.

 
          
“So,
General,” Sands said, “last I heard you were in the Looking Glass unit in
Omaha
. You’re a long long way from
Nebraska
,
sir.
” He paused, then: “I thought the missile alert stuff was sort of childish,
General. You wouldn’t fire a missile at one of our own. Now let’s cut the
crap—”

 
          
“Not
now, Eddie,” Elliott broke in. “Now, I know you have a codeword that sends
those F-15s home. We’ll release your fighter frequency so you can tell them
they’re not needed.”

 
          
“Then
you also know, General, that I got a word that’ll have those trigger-happy
jocks blow you into atoms.”

 
          
Elliott
looked at Ormack. “He’s right.”

 
          
“Game’s
over. If I say nothing—or if you keep jamming and I’m not
allowed
to say anything—those boys come in hellbent for blood and
with itchy trigger fingers on real Sidewinders. It may be too late already,
sir, what with their interplane frequency being jammed like that. If this is
some sort of exercise, it’s gone
way
too far—but I’m not yelling uncle.
You
are. Right now. What’ll it be?”

 
          
“I’ll
tell you what, Eddie—”

 
          
“Go
ahead, General, I’ve got plenty of gas—and firepower.”

 
          
“I’ve
got more than a code-word, Eddie, I’ve got a story. A story about a certain
wing commander at a conference in
Omaha
. About a certain air division commander’s
wife. A story about a blond kid in an Italian family . . .”

 
          
“Stop
crappin’ around, Elliott—”

 
          
“My
mission is no crap, Sands. I may not be doing it by the book but I’m Special
Ops. We both get to tell our stories to headquarters when we land.” Elliott
quickly switched to interphone. “Patrick. Range to the interceptors?”

 
          
“Twenty-five
miles.”

 
          
“Well
I’ve got a story about a certain hot-shot one-button in the
Philippines
that should prove entertaining,” Sands hit
back.

 
          
“I
had dinner with the Secretary two weeks ago, Eddie. While you were chipping ice
cubes out of your undies I told him that story. He bought me a martini
afterwards. Look, we’re running out of time, I don’t want those fighters any
closer.” On interphone he said, “Frequency clear?”

           
“Yes, sir,” from Wendy. “The
interceptors are contacting their command post for engagement authorization.”

 
          
“You’re
on, Eddie,” Elliott said.

 
          
“Cutlass
flight, this is Alpha aboard
Icepack one-oh-one on channel nine.”

 
          
“Copy
you loud and clear now, Icepack,” the lead pilot of the F-15
Eagle
two-ship formation replied. “We
have visual contact on you but not on your receiver. Heavy Milling on all
frequencies. Permission to join on your receiver’s wing for positive ID.”

 
          
“Negative,”
Sands told him wearily. “Positive ID already established. Status is Red Aurora.
Red
Aurora
. Alpha out.”

 
          
“Patrick?”

 
          
“Fighters
are turning,” McLanahan reported. “Heading back toward the coast.”

 
          
“Shut
down UHF again, Wendy,” Elliott said. His order was instantly confirmed by a
loud crackle of static on the radio he was monitoring.

 
          
“That
won’t be necessary, Genesis,” Sands said over the VHF refueling frequency.
“We’ll play ball, damn you. But the fighters and my command post will just get
nervous if they can’t talk to us.”

 
          
“I’m
counting on you, Eddie.”

 
          
“Open
a window and we’ll shake on it,
General
”

 
          
“Wendy,
open up three-eleven again,” Elliott said. “Leave everything else shut down.”

 
          
Sands
unplugged his interphone and oxygen connections and cleared off to the air
refueling pod in the back of the converted DC-10 airliner. He strapped himself
into the long wide boom operator’s bench and stared out the window beneath
their feet.

 
          
“What’s
his range?” Sands asked the boom operator.

 
          
“Almost
two miles. Still can’t see him. And it’s not even completely dark yet.”

 
          
“Genesis,
this is Icepack. You guys are either very small, very dark, or both. Turn your
lights back on or we’ll be up here a long time trying to plug you.”

 
          
“Who’s
in the pod, Eddie?” Elliott asked.

 
          
“Just
me and the boomer.”

 
          
“No
other spectators, Eddie. Deal?”

 
          
“I
got a feeling I don’t want to see this,” Sands muttered over VHF.
“Okay,
agreed. Let’s see what’s such a
big goddamned deal.”

 
          
“Lights
are coming on.”

 
          
The
formation lights revealed the size of the unknown receiver, but nothing else.
It appeared like a group of stars flying in formation behind the KC-10 tanker.

           
“We’re also going to need fuselage
lights, Genesis,” the boomer said. “I’ve got your receptacle light okay but no azimuth
or elevation references.”