Rogue Forces

Jon cracked his knuckles and began to issue instructions, changing the XC-57’s programmed flight path to take it inside the Turkish aircraft’s loiter area, then having it steer itself to fly behind and below it, using its laser radars for precise station keeping. “I don’t see any escorts,” Boomer said, studying the ultradetailed laser radar image of the area around the Turkish aircraft as the XC-57 closed in. “It’s a single-ship. Pretty confident, aren’t they?”

“What kind of aircraft is it?” Patrick asked.

“Can’t see it yet—it’s smaller than a Gulfstream, though.”

“Smaller?” That feeling of impending doom was back, crawling up and down Patrick’s spine. “It packs a lot of power for an aircraft smaller than a Gulfstream.”

“Inside ten miles,” Jon said. “I’ll hit it at five miles. Still trying to make out the engine nacelles.” The XC-57 closed the distance quickly.

“I don’t see any nacelles—it’s not a passenger aircraft,” Patrick said. As it got closer he could make out more detail: a small twin-engine bizjet, but with three pods underneath each wing and a pod under the belly. “Definitely not civilian,” he said. “Lock onto anything you can, Jon, and fire as soon as you’re…”

Before he could finish, suddenly the Turkish aircraft turned hard left and started a fast climb—and its turn rate was not that of a large passenger-size aircraft like a Gulfstream. At this close range, with its full profile showing on the laser radar image, its identity was unmistakable: “Oh, crap, it’s an F-4 Phantom fighter!” Boomer shouted. “An F-4 with jamming capability? No wonder they didn’t bring escorts—he can probably escort himself.”

“Hit it, Jon,” Patrick shouted, “and get the Loser out of there! The Phantom’s bound to have defensive armament!”

“Hit it, Boomer!” Jon said, typing commands furiously to recall the XC-57.

“Slingshot active!” Boomer said. “Full power. Range six miles…it won’t be enough.”

“Don’t worry—he’ll be closing that distance real quick,” Patrick said ominously. “Start a fast descent, Jon—maybe the F-4 won’t want to go low. Put him on the deck.”

“Going down!” Jon Masters said. Using the XC-57’s mission-adaptive wing technology, which allowed almost every surface of the aircraft to be made into a lift or drag device, the XC-57 descended at over ten thousand feet per minute, its composite construction the only thing keeping it from ripping itself apart.

“Comms are back,” a technician reported. “All jamming and interference down.”

“He’s slowing down,” Boomer said. “Three miles…he should be feelin’ the heat right about—” And at that instant the laser radar image showed two missiles leave each wing of the Turkish F-4E. “Sidewinders!” he shouted. But seconds into their flight, the Sidewinder missiles exploded. “Slingshot got ’em both,” Boomer said. “The laser is redirecting on the Phantom. He’s still slowing down even though he’s in a descent.”

“I think we hit something vital,” Jon said. The magnified laser radar image clearly showed smoke trailing from the fighter’s right engine. “He’s got to break it off. He’s down to five thousand feet aboveground—fighter guys don’t like flying near the mud.”

“Two miles and still closing,” Boomer said. “C’mon, aptal, game’s over.”

“Aptal?”

“Turkish for ‘idiot,’” Boomer said. “I figured if we’re going to be facing off against the Turks, I’d better learn some Turkish.”

“Leave it to you to learn the bad words first,” Jon said. He turned back to the chase unfolding on his laptop. “C’mon, buddy, it’s over, it’s—” Just then, numerous warning messages appeared on Jon’s laptop. “Crap, number one and two engines shutting down…hydraulics and electrical system in emergency! What happened?”

“He closed in to gun range,” Patrick said. In daylight, with clear skies…the XC-57 was a goner, and everyone knew it.

“C’mon, baby,” Jon urged his creation, “you’ll be okay, just keep going…”

And as they watched, they saw a puff of smoke from the forward part of the Turkish F-4 Phantom, the canopy peeled away, and the rear ejection seat flew skyward. They waited for the front seat to go…but as they watched, the altitude numbers continued to decrease, finally reading zero seconds later. “Got him,” Boomer said quietly, with no trace of joy or triumph—watching any aviator die, even an adversary, was never a cause for celebration. “He must’ve been really hurting, with Slingshot in his face at full power, but he wasn’t going to let the Loser get away.”

“Can you bring her back, Jon?” Patrick asked.

“I don’t know,” Jon said. “The lower laser radar array’s not retracting—that’s a lot of drag, and we’re down to one engine. We’re losing gas, too. Just thirty miles to go—it’ll be close.”