Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02 (97 page)

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
Even
if the ANTARES computer had not warned Maraklov of Cheetah’s sudden decrease in
airspeed, he had seen Cheetah’s engine exhaust nozzles snap closed and the ventral
louvers open, and had time to react. What he wasn’t expecting was the
suicide-move that McLanahan made after that. Before he knew it Cheetah had
banked up on its right wing and was turning directly into DreamStar on a
collision course.

 
          
Maraklov’s
first decision was to roll with Cheetah and outturn him, but the radar quickly
informed him that he had no room to bank away from the sudden roll—Cheetah was
so close that if DreamStar went into a right bank his left wingtip would
certainly strike Cheetah’s right wing. Maraklov was near-transfixed by the
sight of Cheetah swooping in on him. He had no place to run. Only a few yards
remaining . . .

 
          
Suddenly
the pain that had been with him ever since his successful interface with
ANTARES returned full-force. It was so intense it nearly blinded him. His
shoulder throbbed, the pain seemed to spread out across his entire body,
intensifying the electrical shock generated by the metallic flight suit. The
headache that had seemed to go away when he attacked Cheetah was now like a
red-hot thing buried in his head. He knew he did not black out—his seat was
still upright and he was not being force-fed blasts of oxygen—but he was out of
control as he tried to figure a way to escape Cheetah’s attack.

 
          
At
some point during the maneuver ANTARES took control. The computer commanded
full down deflection on the nose canards, full downward thrust from the
vectored-thrust nozzle, full adverse pitch on the flap strakes in the tail. The
effect was a rapid elevator zero-pitch descent at negative seven G’s, almost at
the structural limit of DreamStar’s airframe and, more important, twice the
normal safe negative-G limit of the human body. Cheetah’s right wingtip missed
DreamStar’s bubble canopy by a few yards—if the canopy been made of anything
but ultra-strong polymer plastics it would have shattered from the
hurricane-like force from Cheetah’s wingtip vortices.

 
          
Maraklov,
already partially incapacitated by the sudden intense sheets of pain rolling
across his body, was on the verge of unconsciousness from the negative G’s. He
was quickly past the red-out stage, where blood was forced up into his brain.
Blood vessels burst in his eyeballs and nostrils, and one eardrum exploded. The
computer sensed Maraklov’s semi-conscious state, immediately reclined his
ejection seat and shot pure oxygen into his face mask. But the increased
pressure in his face only forced blood from his nostrils back into his throat,
nearly drowning him.

 
          
Once
DreamStar’s all-aspect radar detected that Cheetah had rolled well clear, it
discontinued the hard horizontal descent, selected full afterburner and began a
hard climb up to a safer altitude. But DreamStar was flying on full-computer
control as Maraklov fought for consciousness. The pain had suddenly subsided,
but Maraklov was still trying to recover from the effects of the negative G’s
as DreamStar zoomed to thirty thousand feet, then leveled off.

 
          
ANTARES
performed a systems self-test and prepared to issue an all-systems-nominal
report—as soon as Maraklov regained full consciousness.

 
          
The
system self-test never included the pilot.

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
“
Colonel
,
what the hell are you doing?”
Preston
called out. “Recover, dammit, recover.”

 
          
McLanahan
immediately let up on the stick pressure, allowing Cheetah’s automatic
roll-and-yaw damping mechanisms slow the roll rate. When he firmly saw which
way his roll was going, he eased in left-stick force and rolled Cheetah wings-
level.

 
          
“Where
is he, Marcia? Where did he go?”

 
          
She
was still shaken from the sudden maneuver but quickly pulled herself together.
“God, what a
ride.
I don’t see him
anywhere.”

 
          
“I’ve
gotta risk using the radar.” He hit the voice-command button while continuing
to search the skies around Cheetah. “Radar, search, transmit, voice warning.”

 
          
“
Attack radar transmit
, ” the computer
replied.
“Voice warning activated. Fifty
mile range selected, no targets.”

           
“Get some altitude
back,”
Preston
said. “He had the upper hand when he got
above you. You can use your power more effectively if you stay above him.”

           
He began a rapid climb. “But
remember, DreamStar is a new kind of fighter. It’s hard to explain—it took J.C.
years to figure it out and months to explain it to me. There’s only one way to
get him, and I just showed it works.”

 
          
“By
almost killing us? By pulling a kamikaze on him? If that’s how we’re going to
play we might as well get out—”

 
          
The computerized voice cut in: “Target,
range twenty miles, bearing ten left. ”

           
“There he is,” Preston called out. “
Eleven o’clock
high, straight and level.”

 
          
“Tally
ho. I’m going for a shot.” He hit the voice-command button. “Radar target
designate . . .” The blinking circle-aiming cursor appeared on the windscreen,
superimposed on DreamStar as the only radar target in range. “Now.”

 
          
“Radar lock.
McLanahan hit the
missile-launch button and watched as one of the AIM-120 Scorpion missiles
streaked out from underneath the fuselage toward its target.

 
          
“Missile’s
tracking by itself,”
Preston
said, scanning her weapons indications. The
Scorpion missile needed guidance from its launch aircraft only until its own
on-board radar locked onto the target. Then the carrier aircraft could
disengage and look for other targets. “Try a left turn, get around behind him
in case he gets past the missile.”

 
          
“He’ll
get past it—guaranteed,” McLanahan said. To the computer: “Select radar
missile. Arm missile.”

 
          
“Warning, radar missile armed. ”
He hit
the launch button and a second Scorpion missile streaked out.

 
          
DreamStar
abruptly heeled over to the right, making a turn so tight that the Scorpion
missile’s automatic proximity detonation missed by over a hundred feet—the
proximity detonation circuits could not keep up with DreamStar’s remarkably
fast jink. McLanahan watched, transfixed, as DreamStar headed directly down at
Cheetah, rapidly closing the distance even before his AIM-120 medium-range
missile left the rails. Shaking himself, McLanahan banked hard right and up,
selected zone-five full afterburner, trying to get underneath DreamStar, spoil
his aim and get out of the way before Maraklov could finish his sudden attack.

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
Maraklov
had recovered from the effects of negative G’s just in time to receive the new
warning of radar lock-on and missile uplink—a Scorpion missile was in flight.
This time there was no pain—in an instant Cheetah’s location was plotted, its
direction and all three of its axis velocities were recorded and assimilated
and a counter-offensive move and several alternate maneuvers processed. He
selected the first choice a fraction of a second later. It had been timed
perfectly, and the missile rushed well past DreamStar without detonating until
it had passed out of lethal range.

 
          
In
the same instant ANTARES had selected an AA-11 infra- red-guided missile and
had just received a lock-on signal from the missile’s seeker-head when a new
threat was detected—a second missile in flight from Cheetah. A moment later he
saw Cheetah head straight for him, chewing up the distance. Now two threats
were closing on him—the second Scorpion missile and Cheetah itself, fast approaching
optimal cannon range.

 
          
ANTARES
commanded the AA-11 to launch. At the same time it made a tight right roll
followed by a hard break, turning in a tight circle to align once again with
Cheetah.

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
“Missile
launch! Dead ahead!”

 
          
McLanahan
hit the voice-command button. “Chaff. Flare.” As the radar and infrared decoys
ejected off into space, he jerked the control stick right, descended a few
hundred feet, then lit the afterburners and pulled up. But not fast enough.

 
          
DreamStar’s
AA-11 missile followed Cheetah’s turn and descent, then detonated its
ninety-pound warhead just as McLanahan began to hard six-G pull. The missile
detonated ten feet to the right and slightly aft of the right engine, piercing
the engine case and sending showers of metal and compressor blades in all
directions.

 
          
But
at the same time ANTARES detected Cheetah’s second Scorpion missile still in
flight—the two or three seconds it had taken to launch the jury-rigged Soviet
missile gave the big, high-speed AIM-120 missile time to lock on and reach full
speed. The all-aspect radar detected the missile still closing fast.

 
          
The
radar range to Cheetah’s second missile turned into a high-pitched squeal of
warning, transmitted directly to Maraklov’s already exhausted brain. ANTARES
had no choice but to evade the missile—DreamStar’s jammers were ineffective
against Cheetah’s radar or the Scorpion missile’s on-board radar—they had
reprogrammed the AIM-i2o’s on-board radar to a different frequency outside
DreamStar’s known jammer- range in anticipation of this fight—and DreamStar
could not continue the right turn to pursue Cheetah with the missile closing
in.

 
          
With
Maraklov allowing ANTARES now to select the fighter’s maneuvers and
counter-maneuvers, ANTARES reversed its direction of flight, went to full
afterburner, and aimed its nose right at the missile, presenting its lowest
radar cross-section. At the last possible moment DreamStar jinked upward hard .
. . and the missile passed underneath.

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
“Engine
fire on the right,”
Preston
called out. McLanahan yanked the right
throttle to idle, lifted it out of its idle detent and moved it to cut-off,
then hit the voice-command switch: “Right engine fire, execute.” The computer
commanded the right-engine fuel valves and supply lines closed and fire
retardant sprayed inside the engine compartment.

 
          
“I’m
showing fuel cutoff and engine fire light out,”
Preston
said. She turned in her seat, scanning the
area for damage. “We might have a fuel leak on the aft body tank. The smoke is
clearing.”

 
          
“Where’s
DreamStar? Is he behind us?”

 
          
Preston
scanned the skies, expecting to see that
unreal plane diving out of nowhere with guns blazing. But it was nowhere to be
seen. “I can’t see him.”

           
“I’m getting some altitude. Power
coming back to mil,” McLanahan said. With an engine fire and the potential of
more damage in the left engine casing, the use of afterburner was unwise except
in an emergency. “I’ve still got full flight control.” The engines were close
enough together on the F-15
^so
that single-engine handling was not a
problem, and the vectored-thrust nozzles, mission-adaptive wings, and canards
would compensate for the loss of rudder control and the asymmetric thrust.

 
          
“Airspeed’s
down below five hundred knots,”
Preston
said, continuing to search for DreamStar. “And you’re hardly climbing. We’ve
had it, we don’t have the power to even consider dogfighting with him any
more.”