Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 10 (79 page)

 
          
“I
agree,” Reeves said. To the computer she said, “Deactivate generator number
three, reset warning, and attack Dragon.”

 
          
“Laser commit, stop attack,”
the
computer replied.
“Caution, plasma
generator number one overtemp, stop attack”
Computer cautions did not
require an override: Lindsey simply remained silent, and the computer processed
the attack. Seconds later both SA-10 missiles were destroyed, and Reeves turned
her attention back to the saved set of coordinates for the SA-10 command
vehicle. “C’mon, baby,” she said. “Show me what you got.” The laser radar
system couldn’t fully compensate for the massive atmospheric distortion caused
by shooting down through the atmosphere—but this time, it didn’t need to. The
plasma laser beam could only focus down to two feet in diameter—but with over
two megawatts’ worth of power, it was enough. The laser instantly burned
through the dielectric fiberglass panel covering the face of the phased array
radar, melted several hundred emitter arrays underneath, then burned clear
through the thin metal radar structure. The beam stayed on target long enough
to weaken the steel supporting the radar, and the radar collapsed backward
against the command cab, knocking the entire unit out of commission.

 
          
“Oh,
man,” Lindsey gasped. “The radar’s down ... I mean, it’s
down
, on top of the command cab. We just destroyed a ground vehicle
with a laser fired from an airplane.”

 
          
As
the MV-22 continued toward its objective—the presidential palace in
Tripoli
—the AL-52 Dragon moved farther west until
it was in a patrol orbit north of
Tripoli
. There were fighters everywhere, but
Lindsey dared not use the laser to shoot at any of them—she had no idea what it
would do. She could do nothing but stay in orbit, watch the last aircraft in
their attack formation make its way in to the target, and wait.

 
          
But
minutes later, just as the MV-22 had lined up for its final few miles to its
objective, Lindsey expanded her supercockpit display and took another laser
radar snapshot. “I’ve got a formation of two enemy aircraft, MiG-25s,
twelve o’clock
, thirty miles from Motorboat and closing,
descending, speed eight hundred forty knots,” Lindsey reported. “I’ve got a
second
formation of aircraft right
behind them—my God, they’re MiG-29s, four MiG-29s. I’m not sure if the laser
will get them all.”

 
          
“Bud,
can you keep these guys off us until we make it to the infil point?”

 
          
“I’d
bug out if I were you,” Franken responded. “We’re getting continuous faults on
the laser, and we’ve already lost one generator.”

 
          
“Give
us thirty seconds and we’ll be outta here,” the pilot of the MV-22 aircraft
said. “Keep ’em off us for as long as you can.”

 
          
“No
promises, boys,” Franken said. To Lindsey Reeves: “What’s it look like, Linds?”

 
          
“Pretty
bad—we should be bugging out of here ourselves,” Reeves replied. “I’m getting
overtemp warnings on the plasma generators even though the system isn’t powered
on, and I think the heat is affecting the magnetron that channels the plasma
field into the laser generators. If the magnetic field’s not strong enough, and
the plasma field touches the inertial confinement chamber before the reaction
stops—we’ll be turned into stardust in a millisecond.”

 
          
“Roger
that,” Franken replied. On the command channel: “Sorry, boys, but I suggest you
bug out now—we’ll use the last bit of juice we have left in the laser to cover
your retreat.”

 
          
‘Twenty
seconds, Dragon. Fifteen.”

 
          
“Lindsey...”

 
          
“We’re
pushing it, Bud—but okay.” She touched the icons for the MiG-25 fighters, then
spoke: “Attack commit Dragon.”

           
“Warning,
overtemp on plasma generator number one .. . caution, magnetron voltage
approaching tolerance limit. . . caution, overtemp on plasma generator number
two”

           
“Override overtemp warning and
attack.”

 
          
“Warning, magnetron voltage at tolerance .
..”

           
Franken looked over at his young
mission commander. No sign of airsickness this time—she was all business,
steady and focused. “Override all magnetron warnings and attack,” Lindsey said.

 
          
“Warning, plasma containment—”

           
“Override
all
warnings and attack!” Lindsey shouted.

 
          
“Attack commit Dragon, MiG-25, stop attack ”

           
Suddenly there was a deep,
high-pitched vibration coming from the back of the AL-52 Dragon, so great that
Franken had to take a firmer grip on the control stick. He was about to order
her to stop the laser from firing, but at that moment she announced, “MiG one
destroyed.” But the vibration didn’t stop—in fact, it was getting worse.

 
          
“Lindsey—”

 
          
“Attack
commit Dragon,” she announced.

 
          
“Warning—”

           
“Override all warnings and attack,”
she ordered.

 
          
“Lindsey—”

 
          
“Attack commit Dragon, stop attack,” the
computer warned.

           
The vibration was getting
worse—finally, Lindsey was starting to notice it. “What is that?” she asked.

 
          
“Eject,”
Franken said flatly.

 
          
“What?”

 
          
“I
said eject!” Franken shouted.

 
          
“I’m
getting this second MiG,” Lindsey said.

 
          
“No!”
Franken shouted. But at that moment the laser fired, and the second MiG-25
bearing down on the MV-22 disappeared in a cloud of fire.

 
          
The
vibration was louder and harder now, so hard that Franken had trouble taking a
normal breath. He had to force the air out of his lungs to scream,
“Eject! Eject! Eject!”

           
All aircrew personnel at Sky Masters
Inc. had extensive training in aircrew survival, including twice-a-year
ejection seat qualification. Lindsey Reeves was not prior military, like John
Franken, but she had been so thoroughly indoctrinated by Patrick McLanahan and
his staff that every flying scientist was as thoroughly familiar with aircrew
survival procedures as their military counterparts.

 
          
She
did hesitate when he said it once—every crew member has a moment of disbelief
when they hear that word. But the real command to eject was the word “Eject”
three times. So when Franken gave the proper command to eject, Lindsey Reeves
didn’t hesitate again. She sat back in her seat, pressed her head, back, and
butt as deeply into the seat as she could, jammed her heels back, kept her
elbows in tight, tucked her chin down, rotated the ejection handles upward, and
squeezed the exposed triggers. Her overhead hatch ripped away, and the seat
disappeared in a cloud of gray-blue smoke that disappeared in the sudden vacuum
as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a cold fog and an impossibly loud roar
of wind.

 
          
“Hope
you make it okay, kiddo,” Franken said into his oxygen mask. He entered some
commands into the attack computer—a complete system data dump, sending the
entire mission’s worth of stored system information to a satellite, where the
engineers at Sky Masters Inc. could retrieve and analyze it. That was something
Lindsey would do, if he had given her a chance to do it. She turned out to be a
pretty good crewdog, Franken decided—she overcame her fear and nearly
debilitating airsickness enough to take an untested warplane into combat
halfway around the world. Amazing. The least he could do for her is to make
sure that everything she worked and sacrificed so long and hard to build
survived.

 
          
There
were dozens of warning and caution indications on the instrument panel, but
Franken no longer cared. He turned the AL-52 Megafortress north, toward the
oncoming MiG-29 fighters. At this closure rate—the MiGs were flying at almost
twice the speed of sound to catch the MV- 22—he would catch them in no time.

 
          
Sure
enough, Franken could actually see two bright flashes of light, then two more,
as the lead MiGs fired air-to-air missiles. He saw the four streaks of fire arc
across the sky—but suddenly the sky seemed to brighten, as if dawn was
approaching, but at ten times the normal speed. The dawn then seemed to turn
silvery and warm.

 
          
The
Dragon, the four missiles, and then all four MiG-29 interceptors disappeared in
an uncontrolled plasma field that had formed, expanded to nearly ten miles in
diameter, engulfed its prey in a cloud of free electrons and ions, and then disappeared
without a trace—all in the space of a few millionths of a second.

 
         
“Bud,
this is Zero. Is our tail clear? We’re losing our electronic countermeasures
system. What’s your status?” No reply. “Where are they, Gonzo?”

 
          
“No
sign of ’em,” Wickland replied.

 
          
“What?”
Tanaka switched one of his multifunction displays to the LADAR tactical view.
There were no aircraft at all within fifty miles. “Oh shit, they’re gone. All
of them—the fighters and the Dragon. They must’ve taken each other out.”

 
          
“They’re
dead
?” Both men fell silent. Then
Wickland checked his display again. “Holy shit—a target in the air, but almost
hovering. I’m getting another LADAR shot.” Wickland activated the laser radar
again, then magnified the new target. Neither of them could believe their
eyes—it was the first time they had ever seen something like this on a laser
radar display. “My God, it’s a parachute! Someone in a parachute! I can’t
believe it! What do we do? What
can
we
do?”

 
          
“We
turn around and follow it down, then hope there are some friendlies we can send
into the area in case it’s one of ours,” Tanaka said. “I have a feeling it’s
one of our guys— judging by how slow it’s going down, I’ll bet it’s Lindsey Reeves.
At this rate, she’ll be falling all night. My God, I wonder what went wrong.. .

OVER THE PRESIDENTIAL PA LAC
E,
TRIPOLI
,
UNITED
KINGDOM
OF
LIBYA

THAT SAME TIME

 
          
“Twenty
right,” Hal Briggs said. The pilot of the MV-22 Pave Hammer tilt-rotor assault
aircraft banked in response. Briggs was studying the data display on the
electronic visor of his Tin Man battle armor’s helmet, watching the range and
bearing of his objective countdown as they flew closer. They had followed the
clear path of destruction created by the second Megafortress and had zoomed in
at treetop level right to the Presidential Palace, virtually unmolested. “Five
more right.. . hold it. Range point four hundred meters ... three hundred ...
steady at three hundred . .. steady at three hundred.”

 
          
“Matches
range to the rooftop,” the copilot reported, checking the range straight ahead
displayed on his targeting visor. After checking the range, he switched his
targeting visor to slave the chin turret and infrared sensor and used the
twenty-millimeter Gatling gun in the turret to force down any small-arms fire
from security units on the roof he could see.

 
          
“Make
a couple holes,” Briggs said. “Night Stalkers, stand by.”

 
          
The
pilot activated his weapons panel and selected “HELLFIRE.” Two weapons pods
unstowed themselves from the left and right landing gear sponsons. He activated
the missiles and squeezed a trigger. One Hellfire laser- guided missile from
each weapon pod shot out from its canister, and together the missiles and their
twenty-pound penetrating warheads blew a large hole in the roof of the
Presidential Palace. The pilot swung the MV-22’s nose to the right, and he made
a second hole about fifty feet from the first with two more missiles.