Wraith (27 page)

Nick did not like the look of things at the convoy. The Iraqi officers shouted commands, restoring order with frustrating efficiency. After the smoke from the rockets cleared, they had rounded up their troops and were once again working to clear the wreckage from the front of their column. Soldiers had lined up on either side of the two destroyed vehicles and were already pushing them off the road. Nick was certain their hands were being burned and blistered by the searing hot metal, which only minutes before had been blazing out of control, but fear of their superiors obviously overrode the pain.

“What do you see, Wraith?” Oso's voice crackled over the radio.

“The picture's not good, Sandy One. It appears they are very close to clearing the road and getting under way. Do you think you could set up another rocket attack?”

A new voice interrupted the conversation. “Did I hear you say the target was on the move again?”

Nick felt a wave of elation at the sound of Drake's voice. “Well, that's a voice I never thought I'd be so happy to hear.”

“Thanks, Wraith. It's nice to be needed,” Drake replied. “Okay, Sandy One, I'm eight minutes out and about to go feet dry. Hit me with a sitrep.”

Oso gave him the rundown. “The Iraqi convoy is still lethal, with a pair of SA-6 surface-to-air missile systems. We've taken out their triple-A and slowed them down, but Wraith just reported that they're close to moving again. I need you to get in there and take out one of the SAMs. Once you've accomplished that, we'll clean up the rest. What do you say?”

“Sounds like a plan. I'll give you a heads-up when we're two minutes out.”

“Copy that, I'll be waiting for you.” Oso immediately began preparing for the endgame. “Sandy Three, I need you to take Four and go get the choppers. Move them as close to our position as you can without risking a missile shot.”

“I'm on it, One.”

Just as Sandy Three and Four turned to the south, Nick saw a puff of smoke from the southern SAM vehicle. “Sandy, break west! Break west! Missile off the rail!” he shouted into his radio. “It's going after Three and Four!”

The two A-10s banked westward as the missile reached the apex of its flight and turned toward the earth. “I think it's ballistic,” said Three. “My scope is clean. It's not tracking.”

The missile continued on a southern flight path, ignoring the Hogs, and Nick guessed that the rocket attack had pushed one of the Iraqi SAM operators to the breaking point. Their training told them not to waste a missile unless they had a clear radar lock, but the operator was angry and impatient for a fight. He had probably launched in hopes of getting a late lock or at least detonating the missile close to one of the Hogs.

“It was a blind launch,” said Nick. “I think you're okay.”

All eyes remained fixed on the missile, but with nothing to guide it, the SAM simply plummeted toward the earth. At a few hundred feet above the surface, the missile exploded in an orange ball of fire and sparks.

“All right, Three, you're cleared to continue south,” said Oso. “When you come back with the choppers, keep them well out of range of that thing.”

As the two Hogs moved off again, Nick turned the events of the last few minutes over in his mind. He felt the shock of a hunter whose prey suddenly turns and charges. Since Oso's rocket attack, he had felt relatively safe, reporting the Iraqi movements with confidence. Now he felt exposed again. The SAM operator had missed, but the message was clear: “
You
are the hunted here, not us.”

Drake brought Haven One into Iraqi airspace just west of the Shatt al Arab, the joining of the Tigris and Euphrates rivers. The blue-gray of the gulf rushing past the windscreen changed to deep browns and lush greens as they passed over the delta.

Danny studied the moving map. “The convoy is too far to the east,” he said. “In order to attack from that direction, we would have to steer very close to Iran, if not across the border.”

“Not a good idea,” Drake replied. “This operation is screwed up enough without involving the forces of another rogue nation. We'll attack from the west, from behind the ridge that Sandy One called Tango. That will mask the attack and buy us time while we climb up and loft the bomb.”

“Sounds like a plan,” said Danny, but then he frowned. “You still haven't explained the endgame.”

“I know. How's the math coming?”

Danny returned to scribbling on his clipboard. “Give me a few. The attack direction was the last variable.” He continued working for another minute in silence.

“Any time now, buddy. We're almost there.”

“Hey, don't rush me. We don't want to screw this up just because I forgot to carry the three or something.”

Finally Danny held up his results for Drake to see. “That's your speed, distance, and climb angle, along with the coordinates and altitude where you want to launch. Since it's a guided weapon, I gave you a window around those numbers. As long as you're pointed directly at the target, you can fudge the rest, but not by much.”

Drake glanced at the numbers. “Good work. Now I've got another task for you.”

“Shoot.”

“On the panel behind the engineer station, there are several rows of circuit breakers. I need you to pull one of them.”

Danny grabbed a flashlight from the engineer's station and shined its beam on the bulkhead behind the seat.
Several rows
was a gross understatement. Tiny black knobs completely covered the wall. “Okay, I see them,” he said, panning his light up and down. “There are hundreds of these things. I hope you know where the one you want is.”

“It should be somewhere on the left side of the third row. It's marked ‘AOA Limiter.' Do you see it?”

Danny zeroed in on the prescribed location and pushed his glasses up his nose, trying to read the tiny labels. “Yep, found it,” he said. “What do I do with it?”

“Just grab it and give it a good yank.”

The little knob was difficult to grasp, and when he finally got a grip on it and pulled, it only extended a couple of millimeters out of the panel. “Uh . . . I'm not sure I did it right, but I can see a white ring around the base now.”

Drake looked back over his shoulder. “That's right. You've got it.”

“Got what?” Danny asked, climbing back into the copilot seat. “What did I just do?”

“You disabled the bank angle limiter,” said Drake, grinning. “You made it so that we can fly inverted without the automatic flight controls stopping us.”

“I did
what
?”

“The bomber's autopilot will take over if the computer senses too much bank or an impending stall. If we bank too far, it will fight us and try to right the aircraft. You've just turned that feature off so that we can roll the plane on its back.”

Danny started tightening the straps of his parachute harness. “And why on earth would I want to do that?”

“After we launch the bomb we'll be very exposed, belly up to the SAM,” said the pilot, beginning a lazy turn to the east. “We're going to turn our good side—the top—toward the radar to spoil any last-minute shots.”

“You're telling me that we're going to do a barrel roll with a three-hundred-thousand-pound bomber, over the top of a battalion of enemy forces and two surface-to-air missile systems?” asked Danny. “Do we have time to discuss this?”

A long ridge materialized on the horizon to the east as Drake rolled out of his turn. “Nope. Time's up.”

Nick crouched on the west side of the ridge, peering over the top through his binoculars. “Sandy, Haven, this is Wraith,” he said into his radio. “I've got some bad news.” As he watched, the SAM launcher lurched forward, black smoke belching from its exhaust. Troops climbed onto armored personnel carriers that were already beginning to inch forward. The burned triple-A vehicle lay on its side beyond the edge of the road. “It looks like our convoy is up and moving again.”

“Roger that, Wraith. We'll set up another rocket attack to slow them down,” said Oso.

Drake cut him off before he could issue the attack briefing. “Stand by, Sandy One. We're only two minutes out with the heavy iron. That'll be stronger medicine than the rockets. We're going to fly due east right over your little hill there, so I suggest you move your flight north or south.”

“Done. Sandy Three, leave the choppers where they're at and make your hold two miles southwest of Tango; I'll take the northwest. Let's make some room for the big guns.”

*   *   *

Drake hugged the top of the dunes. He was barely thirty feet above the desert and picking up speed. The big flying wing shook and buffeted in the thick surface air as it whipped over the sand, topping four hundred knots. It kicked up a cloud of dust in its wake, drawing a billowing trail across the barren landscape.

He glanced over at Danny, who gripped the armrests of his seat as if trying to squeeze blood from the vinyl pads.

“You okay, Danny?” Drake asked. He had dropped his mask due to the heat of low-altitude flying, but that meant he had to shout to be heard.

Danny didn't answer. His wide eyes remained fixed on the rushing sands outside.

“Look, no pressure,” shouted Drake, “but since the convoy is moving, we'll have to take a radar shot to update the coordinates.”

Danny turned and looked over at the pilot. His face was pale. Just then, the aircraft hit a pocket of dead air and bounced hard, rocking them both. Danny's eyes grew even wider.

Drake continued as if nothing had happened. “I'm sort of busy flying the plane, here. So I'm going to need you to operate the radar and the bomb bay. Are you with me?”

The intelligence officer nodded.

“Right. You're practically oozing confidence. I like it. Okay, open the doors.”

Danny mechanically complied and Drake could feel the added drag shaking the bomber even more as the left bay doors opened. He was pushing the already damaged aircraft beyond its design limits. He looked over at Danny again. “Tell me how I'm doing,” he ordered.

Danny glanced down at the navigation display. “You're on the correct heading. Keep your speed between four hundred fifteen and four hundred thirty knots.” His voice was feeble at first, but it increased in vitality as he spoke, as if drawing strength from the numbers he had developed. “Pull up to an eight-degree climb and loft the bomb between four and five thousand feet above the surface. If we toss it too fast or too high, the weapon will overshoot the target. If we're too slow or too low, it will fall short, right on top of Nick.” By the time he looked up at Drake, the color had returned to Danny's face. “With those radars searching for us, you're only going to get one chance.” He offered a thin smile. “Don't screw up.”

A moment later, Danny held up three fingers and started counting down. “Start your climb in three . . . two . . . one . . . now!”

Drake pulled back on the stick, willing the shaking behemoth to climb. Slowly, as though it were moving through molasses, the nose tracked upward until he froze the angle at eight degrees above the horizon.

*   *   *

Nick remained crouched a few feet below the crest of his hill. He turned and looked to the west, where he could clearly see the approaching bomber, an awesome sight. For a moment he stood transfixed, his sense of time and danger lost. The black jet shot across the surface of the desert like a stingray across the ocean floor, dragging behind it a cloud of sand and dust. Suddenly adrenaline yanked him from his trance. This spectacle wasn't just incredible, it was deadly. And it was headed right for him.

Nick didn't fear the bomber. He feared the sand. The blast from the stealth's wake would hit with enough force to tear the skin from his body. He ran to the crest of Tango and dove over the top, becoming fully airborne as the terrain on the eastern side dropped away. Just as he rolled onto the sand, the roar and the shadow of the stealth overtook him. An explosion of grit and dust burst over the ridge, cascading down the hill like an avalanche. Nick tucked his head into his arms and tried not to breathe.

*   *   *

As the bomber crested the ridge, Drake saw the convoy for the first time. The Iraqis were moving faster than expected.

Danny saw it, too. “Our heading is bad,” he shouted. “You've got to adjust.”

“I see it.” Drake shoved the stick to the right and pulled, turning the bomber nearly on its edge and stressing the wings to five Gs, a level he was used to in the T-38, but not the B-2. With no G-suit to help counter the effects, blood began pooling away from his brain and his vision began to narrow. He tensed his muscles to fight off the threat of G-lock.

As soon as he leveled the wings, Drake called for the radar. Danny didn't respond. The intelligence analyst had no experience with Gs. He wobbled in his seat, half-conscious. Drake reached across the cockpit and punched the button himself, firing the radar, and then shook his comrade. “Wake up, Danny!”

Danny's eyes shifted wildly around the cockpit as he came out of his G-induced stupor. Then they locked on to the instruments. “You're in the zone!” he shouted. “Launch now!”

Drake tapped the radar screen. “Just a little longer. We don't have the picture yet.”

The altitude continued to climb. Danny's eyes were locked on the rolling numbers. “We're going to lose the window!”

“No, we're not! Just give it one more second.” Drake banged on the dashboard above the radar screen. “C'mon, you lazy piece of junk.” And then the picture was there, a perfect black-and-white image of the convoy. “Update the crosshairs,” he ordered.

Danny was already on it, using a thumb stick to move the crosshairs to the trailing SAM launcher. “Almost there . . . almost there . . . got it! Target is updated!”

*   *   *

In the trailing SAM vehicle, the radar operator saw nothing but the static caused by the immense sand cloud at the surface. Unable to hear the excited shouts of the soldiers in the vehicles ahead, he ordered his driver to continue south.

“I am not able,” the driver responded. “The vehicles in front of us have stopped.”

“Don't just sit there like an idiot. Find out what is going on.” The operator stared at the interference on his screen while the driver did as he commanded. Suddenly the younger Arab began shouting in earnest from outside the hatch, but the operator could not understand the words. “Slow down, you babbling moron. I can't understand you!”

The driver stuck his head down into the SAM vehicle. His face showed sheer terror.
“Sayed!
Sayed!”
he screamed. “Do something! A great black beast is rising out of the desert.”

Unsettled by the soldier's wild eyes, the radar operator trained his beam westward. He was mystified by what he saw on his screen—nothing. He shook his head and continued to sweep, certain that his driver would not cower like a beggar unless he had seen something coming their way. Finally his efforts were rewarded. A small blip appeared on the screen.

*   *   *

“Missile lock, missile lock,” a calm feminine voice chanted into Drake's headset.

“They've got us!” shouted Danny.

“Missile lock, missile lock,” the voice persisted.

Drake mashed his finger down on the release button. “Weapon away!” There was an audible thump and a slight shudder as the ejector pushed the five-thousand-pound bomb from the bay.

As soon as the bunker buster fell free, Danny closed the left bay doors and Drake began an arcing roll. The nose of the jet tracked up and the right wing dipped. As Drake rolled through the vertical, he saw his own bomb, still climbing in its lofted arc, miss his wingtip by inches. When the stealth was completely inverted, he pushed forward, causing the nose to track skyward and forcing the G-meter to zero. A few loose items in the cockpit floated up from the console as if the B-2 crew were astronauts. Then, looking past the falling bomb, Drake saw a cloud of white smoke billow up from the desert road.

*   *   *

The SAM operator had tried to wait for a better lock, but the screams of the driver were too much for him. With barely enough energy to hold the track, he launched his missile. Then, even before the roar of the rocket reached its crescendo, the blip disappeared. He couldn't believe his eyes. One moment it had been there, slowly getting stronger, and then it was just gone. With no track to guide it, the missile would go stupid. He hesitated, hanging on to the hope that his track would return, but the screen showed nothing. He knew what he had to do. He had to remotely detonate the weapon before it overshot the target. He flipped up a red guard that covered a square button on his panel, rested his finger on the button for one more second, and then pushed it.

*   *   *

There was little that Drake could do about the oncoming missile. He had already exceeded the maneuvering limits of the bomber. It would give him no more. He could only delay the inevitable and hope for a miracle. He pulled the nose downward into the threat, and all the floating debris came crashing down as if a wizard's spell had been broken.

Danny saw the missile, too. “Incoming!” he shouted.

Both men kept their eyes locked on the missile as it grew larger in the windscreen. Then, in a blur, it was past them. For a split second, Drake thought they might have escaped unharmed, but that was too much to hope for. A massive blast hit the B-2 like a wrecking ball, shifting the bomber unnaturally downward through the air.

Instantly, lights and alarms sprang to life all over the cockpit. Yellow Master Caution lights and red Fire Warning lights flashed in Drake's face. Warning bells deafened him. He ignored it all and continued to fly, shoving the stick over to the left while pulling back to prevent the nose from burying itself. To his relief, the B-2 responded to his command and he soon had her upright in a hard turn to the south, diving back toward the relative safety of the desert floor.

Danny handled the onslaught of warnings and cautions from the jet's alarm systems. “Engines one and two are on fire,” he said with uncharacteristic calm. “I'm shutting them down.”

As the engines spooled down, the aircraft yawed drastically left, threatening to destroy what little lift Drake was holding. He corrected with his rudder, fighting to straighten her out. In the radio, he could hear Nick saying something, but it didn't register—he already had too much on his mind.

“The engines are down, but neither fire is going out,” said Danny. “I think I should blow all four fire bottles to the left side.”

“Cleared hot,” Drake responded. When Danny had first become his pseudo-copilot, Drake had chided him for bothering to study the stealth bomber's systems in such detail. Now he was grateful. He couldn't have dealt with the damage on his own. Keeping the crippled jet in the air was hard enough.

As Danny punched the buttons to send extinguishing agent to the burning engines, the ramifications of the action crept to the front of Drake's mind. Like the designers of the
Titanic
, the B-2's engineers had put too much faith in their creation. They'd never planned for the stealthy plane to take battle damage. The system took two fire canisters per engine, and there were only four in total, half as many as the bomber needed. Danny had just used every bit of extinguishing agent they had. If another engine caught fire, they would have nothing left to put it out.

A problem with the controls brought Drake's full attention back to flying. The aircraft seemed to wait a moment before responding to each movement of the stick. “Flight controls are sluggish,” he said. “Something's wrong with the hydraulics. Even with only two engines, we should still have full pressure.”

Danny called up the hydraulic schematic on his monitor. “We've lost a third hydraulic system. Shrapnel must have taken out one of the lines.”

Drake shook his head. “Too many failures. I don't know how much longer I can keep her in the air.”

“What do we do?”

The B-2 pilot looked over at his comrade with narrowed eyes. He didn't try to soften the command. There was no point, and no time. “Prepare to eject.”