Cyclops One (16 page)

There was a bright side to all of this, McIntyre thought to himself as the helicopter hurled itself through the looming shadows of the mountains: He had done his job very, very well. He now knew exactly what the Indians were up to.

Well, not exactly. He assumed they were going after a radar site, though there were any number of other possibilities. He guessed he’d find out fairly soon, however.

Unless they decided to dump him out the door of the helicopter before they got to where they were going. That might not even be such a terrible option, since they weren’t all that high—maybe only six or seven feet over the ground. If they threw him out now, it would be more like falling from a train than an airplane.

Assuming the train was moving at two hundred miles an hour.

The captain had taken his phones, but what galled him was having to hand over his wallet. What the hell—did the bastard plan on stopping at an ATM along the way?

The Russian-made Mil Mi-26 tilted on its axis. McIntyre slid on the bench, grabbing for the metal at the bottom of his seat to steady himself. The helicopter was relatively large. The two dozen troops inside it filled only about half of the bench seats. The other helicopter looked to have roughly the same number of men.

McIntyre glanced sideways toward the captain who had forced him aboard. He’d strangle the bastard with his bare hands, then kick his face black and blue.

Next lifetime, maybe.

Howe put the HUD hologram to max mag to watch the Pakistani S-7s as they altered their course and began tracking toward the Indian MiGs. There was no way they could have seen the aircraft with their own radars; if they knew they were there, the planes must have been picked up by one of the ground-based early-warning units farther west.

That told him this had to be a diversion.

He was tempted, sorely tempted, to radio the Pakistani fighters and tell them what was going on.

Two more fighters took off from a base near Lahore, these ID’d by the AWACS as F-16s. Their flight path ran in a direct line toward Howe’s.

Ground defense radars were spiking up all across Pakistan. The Indian MiGs, meanwhile, kept coming north, though they were still a good distance from the border.

Howe reminded himself the helicopters were the real prize. This was a diversion: It was going to happen soon.

“Indian MiGs are ten minutes from the border,” said Timmy.

“They’re not the story.”

“Roger that.”

“Eyes, those Pakistani F-16s—do they have a target?” Howe asked the AWACS.

“Negative as far as we can tell here.”

“They don’t know about the MiGs?”

“Not sure, Colonel,” answered the controller. “Uh, we’re—Hold on: fresh contacts.”

The controller gave Howe fresh data: A pair of Mirage IIIs were taking off from a base farther north and coming south.

“Hell of a picnic,” said Timmy. “Are they putting everything they have in the air, or what?”

“Colonel, be advised, the Pakistani flights may be following routine patrol patterns,” said the AWACS supervisor, stepping in. “They tweak each other regularly.”

Howe acknowledged.

“What do we do if those MiGs don’t turn back?” asked Timmy.

“You’re going to have to follow them while I concentrate on the helicopter,” said Howe. While the Indian planes were out of range to attack Cyclops Two, they could in theory get much closer by juicing their afterburners. There were four F-15s guarding the laser plane, but Howe wasn’t about to lose it.

“PAF aircraft don’t seem to be going after the Indians,” said Timmy. “What’s up with that?”

Howe guessed that the various aircraft were playing chicken. If the Indians went over the border and used their weapons, the Pakistani Air Force planes would as well.

“Hold on: MiGs, all Indian planes, are turning,” said Timmy. “They were just looking for attention.”

The S-7s remained on course for a minute longer, turning away just shy of the Indian border. So did the F-16s.

This all fit, Howe realized. The Indians had launched a flight that was sure to be picked up. That would not only decoy the Pakistanis but get them used to the idea that the crazy Indians always did this if they happened to find the real attack package a little while later. At the same time they probably knew what the Pakistanis had as reserves: He guessed there would be a window of opportunity as these planes returned to base; the PAF simply wasn’t big enough to keep launching aircraft all night.

If he was right, the helicopters ought to be closing in.

So where were they?

There, right there: 122 miles south, just coming north near the border area east of Gurais.

“Bird One to Cyclops. I have your target approaching the southeast corner of box alpha-alpha-three. Advise me whether you can arrange a shot.”

“Cyclops Two acknowledges contacts,” answered the pilot. “They’re about two minutes from our target area at their present course and speed.” There was a pause. “We’re moving in to set up a better shot.”

Howe hesitated before acknowledging. The closer Cyclops got to the border area, the more vulnerable it became.

The F-15s, not wanting to attract attention, were flying to the northwest but could close the gap in a heartbeat. So could he, for that matter.

One SAM missile—one freak shot from a Pakistani aircraft that thought the lumbering American 767 was an attacker—and he’d have lost his third jet.

Cyclops Two could fend for itself. Nothing could touch it. Nothing.

“Go for it,” he said finally.

Timmy had just turned back east to close the gap between him and Howe when the audible warning on his radar alerted him to fresh contacts: four MiG-27s, much lower to the ground and flying out of the south. They were slewing into a combat trail; this must be the attack package the helicopter attack was going to prepare the way for.

“Bird One, we have four—whoa, wait up, six, eight aircraft. Looks like they’re saddling up for an attack, probably going to follow that helo strike in,” Timmy told Howe.

“One.”

“I can take them down, boss,” Timmy added.

“Negative,” replied Howe. “Keep track of them. If they get close to the border and it looks like they’ll make it through, then we’ll let Cyclops Two nail ’em.”

“Two. Just saying I’m ready if things don’t go according to plan.” Timmy adjusted his course slightly, edging a little southward so that when they swung back to the west, he’d still have the MiGs close enough to take in a quick dash.

It’d be over in about thirty seconds. The basic MiG-27 design dated to the 1960’s; it was essentially a ground-attack version of the MiG-23. The Indians had upgraded the design with avionics that allowed for night and all-weather attacks; they’d also improved the power plant. But it was still a relatively slow aircraft with limited radar—easy pickings for the Velociraptor.

The radar continued to track the eight aircraft, watching them as they slipped into a mountain pass. The HUD hologram had them as small dots that shone through the hulking mountains, as if the plane had X-ray eyes and could see through the rocks. The helicopters, meanwhile, were hugging the valley, approaching the border, and just now entering range for the laser weapon nearly three hundred miles away.

“Stand by for Cyclops firing,” warned Howe.

As Timmy pressed the mike button to acknowledge, a new contact blipped onto the far edge of his tactical screen, a green-hued cluster of mismatched pixels. The computer tagged it as a large, unknown aircraft flying at 45,000 feet, identity unknown. Too slow for a bomber, the plane’s profile was similar to that of the AEW aircraft India had launched earlier—except that it seemed to be flying in from the coast.

“Somebody’s coming to watch the show,” he told Howe. “That one of ours?”

“Unknown,” said Howe. “Probably an airliner.”

They’d briefed the scheduled airliners and routes, and Timmy knew without looking that it wasn’t on the sheet.

“Eyes on the prize,” added Howe before he could point that out. “Cyclops is thirty seconds to target point.”

Howe checked his position, waiting now for the crew on the laser plane to confirm they were ready to fire. It was exactly like the war game exercise they’d run a year ago—except that time was with Megan.

The bitch. He’d strangle her.

Unless she was already dead. Then he’d simply mourn her forever.

“Cyclops Two to Mission Leader,” said the laser plane’s pilot, contacting Howe. “Permission to engage.”

“Engage,” said Howe.

Captain Jalil checked his watch. They were within five seconds of their schedule—nearly perfect. The operation was moving along as easily as any of the practice runs.

Ideally, he’d find a Pakistani weapon to kill the American with, then take the body back. The story would be easily concocted: They were on a routine patrol, showing the American the dangers, when firing began.

The man would end up being a hero to his people. The irony brought a smile to Jalil’s lips.

Would he feel good when he shot the first Muslim?

Yes. It would feel very, very good.

McIntyre coughed, then worked his tongue toward the back of his mouth. It felt as if something were lodged there, or as if the junction of his throat and mouth had been lined with cardboard—disintegrating cardboard. He coughed again, shook his head.

“Could I have some water?” he asked, looking toward the Indian captain.

He coughed again. The captain hadn’t heard him over the whine of the engines.

“Water?” asked McIntyre, getting up. He had to put his tied hands up against the racks at the top of the cabin area to keep his balance in the helicopter, which danced left and right as it moved through the rugged terrain.

“Water?” he said to Jalil. He tried to clear his throat, holding his Adam’s apple with his fingers.

Jalil looked up at him as if he didn’t understand.

“Water,” said McIntyre. As he let go of the rack to gesture with his hands, he felt his anger building up suddenly. He fought an urge to start pummeling the bastard.

Then he thought to himself: Why not? He’s going to kill me anyway.

“Water,” he said.

Something cracked at the top of the helicopter. McIntyre was thrown sideways as something long and hard smacked the side of his right calf. There was an explosion and a shout behind him, and in the next instant he felt himself tumbling into purgatory.

For one bewildering second, Captain Jalil thought he was six years old again, a child in his village, back on the day when his mother was killed.

Except that this time he was in the house, and the flames were grabbing for his clothes. He tried to beat them back with his hands, fight them off, but they were too fierce.

Escape!
he screamed at himself.
Escape!

Then he realized he was not six years old. Anger sprang from the center of his chest. He would avenge himself against the Muslim bastards. He would have the full revenge he was entitled to.

“Yes,” whispered a voice in his ear. He recognized it as his mother’s.

Jalil turned to see her but found only blackness.

“They’ve fired,” the weapons operator reported. “Two targets down.”

“Are they still tracking?” Megan asked.

“The radars are all active.”

She pushed her eyes across the instrument panel, forcing her thoughts away from Tom. He’d be out there, thinking about her.

That should have been her, firing the weapon.

She saw him now: the way he looked at her on the access ramp outside the aircraft, puzzled. Why was that what she thought about—not their date rock climbing, or the time she’d had him take her to an opera.

Some opera. It was a traveling company in a gymnasium. He’d hated it—just about fallen asleep—but pretended to be interested when she started talking about it later, nodding in all the right places.

She was right, and she had done the right thing. This proved it, didn’t it?

Others wouldn’t see it that way. Tom wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

“ETA to the target area is now five minutes,” said the weapons operator.

“Yes,” she said, still struggling to focus.

“Only a partial hit on target two,” reported Cyclops as Howe swung his aircraft toward the shoot-down. Both helicopters had disappeared from the screen seconds after the indicators flashed on Howe’s screen, indicating the weapon had discharged. “They’re definitely down, though.”

“I’m going to take a look,” Howe told them, slapping the throttle into afterburner. The flood of fuel into the rear chamber—tweaked and perfected after literally thousands of man-hours of fuss—ignited with a smooth, incredibly powerful ripple that nearly doubled the aircraft’s speed. The nozzle at the front of the engine was wide open, changing the world’s most efficient-at-speed jet engine into the world’s fastest jet-fueled power plant. The F/A-22V covered over thirty miles a minute, a proud cheetah running down her prey on the Africa savanna.

Howe’s heart beat lackadaisically, keeping time like the bass drum in a band, its cadence lazy enough for the hottest summer day. But his stomach felt the brief burst of acceleration—his stomach and the muscles in his arms, the tendons at his knees, his ribs, his joints, the small fibers of hair below his ear. They felt the acceleration and they thrilled to it. This was flying, moving through the air as fast as a Greek god, the leading edge of sheer thought. The aircraft strapped on his back was one of the best—
the best
—pieces of machinery ever perfected by man, attached through an electronic umbilical cord to a weapon as powerful as Zeus’s lightning bolts.

And it had just been used to avert World War III.

Thomas Howe, and the nearly thousand men and women connected to the mission, had just saved several million lives.

The idea was as intoxicating as the speed.

“Doesn’t that sound like a worthy thing to do? It’s something I’d die for. Truly.”

Howe pushed Megan’s voice back into the rush of the jet as he eased back on the gas, swooping to give the radar’s ground mode a good look at the wreckage. They needed to make sure the helicopters truly were down.

Timmy checked in, updating him on the attack package that was following the helicopters toward the border. The lead plane was now about twenty minutes from Pakistani airspace; they’d planned the attack very closely, giving the ground people ten minutes to take their targets.

Would they go ahead with the attack if the radars were still working?

No one knew. If they did, Cyclops Two and the Velociraptors would take them out.

“I have the lead plane,” said Timmy.

“Stick to the game plan,” Howe told him. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

He tucked his wing and plunged toward earth, flicking off the holographic HUD projection. The night was dark but clear, and he could see a pinpoint of fire at about ten o’clock in his windscreen, one of the targets burning after it had crashed.

“Splash one, definite,” reported Howe.

He was moving too fast and still too high to see much, even if it had been daytime. He went back to the synthetic view as he slid around the valley. The radar hunted the ground as if it were in its free-form attack mode, developed to help the next-generation attack planes turn up Scud missiles in tinhorn dictators’ palaces. The ground radar that the Indians had been targeting was only a few miles ahead; his RWR noted that it was active and hunting through the sky, though the Velociraptor had not yet been detected.

Push a button, and he could take it out himself.

Howe slapped the side stick, banking away. He hadn’t found the wreckage of the second helicopter, but he also hadn’t found it flying, either.

“Those MiGs are coming hard,” warned Timmy. “Eight of ’em.”

“We have them all,” said the Cyclops pilot.

“Hold on,” said Howe. “Wait until they’re at the border.”

“Hey, Colonel, you see that contact Unk-2?” said Timmy, referring to the computer tag on the large unknown aircraft flying northward near the Indian coast. “What’s his game, you figure?”

“Has to be a spy plane,” suggested Howe, just as he had earlier.

“Not Indian, though. Came off the ocean.”

“Could be the Russians.” They were a bit too far away to get good information about the aircraft, but its size and speed made it fairly obvious that it wasn’t part of the attack package.

Advising them, maybe, though one of Howe’s own ELINT aircraft ought to be picking up signals in that case. Cobra Two reported that the Indian forces were still flying silent com. The Pakistanis, meanwhile, did not seem to know anything was amiss.

“Lead MiG will be in range of the Pak radar in zero three,” said Timmy. “I don’t know…. He’s pretty low; hemight just get through.”

“We wait until he’s committed to crossing the border,” said Howe. He’d begun to climb now, swinging around the coverage area of the radar site. All of the Pakistani flights had returned to their bases; the only thing that the PAF had in the air were two Mirage IIIs back near Lahore. Besides the attack package closing in on the Kashmir border, the Indians had their 767 radar plane and its escorts flying near the border to the west, giving them coverage just about to Afghanistan.

Howe suspected that the Indians had other groups of planes airborne to the south, out of his task force’s detection range; they’d be preparing a follow-on strike once the first group of planes took out the sites. At the moment, though, they were too far off to see or worry about.

“One minute to border,” said Timmy. The two Velociraptors had separated about fifteen miles, Howe to the northeast and Timmy to the southwest of the lead MiG. They could divvy it up between them if they had to.

“Cyclops is tracking. We’re ready anytime, Colonel.”

“Bird One.”

“MiGs are slowing—turning! Shit,” said Timmy.

“Don’t sound too disappointed, my friend,” said Howe. “This just means we did our job.”

“Yeah, well, figures they’d wimp out,” said the wingman.

Howe laughed. His joints cracked; he hadn’t realized how tense he’d become.

“Bird One, be advised the strike force you’ve been tracking has used the word
abort,”
radioed Cobra Two.

“Bird One acknowledges. Well done, team. Kick-ass job, everybody,” said Howe. “How we looking out there, Timmy?”

“All I see is fannies with tails between their legs, scurrying home,” replied the wingman. “Our UFO’s still coming north, though. Sucker’s going to be at the border in, like, zero-five.”

“Yeah, I see,” said Howe.

“Maybe we ought to check him out,” suggested Timmy.

“Negative,” said Howe. “Cyclops, you’re cleared to head back to the barn.”

“That would be cave,” said Atta, the Cyclops pilot.

“Just don’t run into Ulysses,” said Howe.

Cyclops banked north, heading for its temporary Afghanistan base. The other aircraft checked in; Howe listened to the AWACS escorts working out a tank with Budweiser, the KC-135 assigned to make sure they didn’t go dry.

“Hey, that unknown contact is hitting the gas,” said Timmy. “They should be on Pakistani radar by now.”

“Bird Leader, be advised Mirage flight is being vectored south,” said Eyes.

“Confirming that,” said the AWACS controller. “Not sure what they’re doing. Could be heading for that unidentified contact, R2.”

The Pakistani airplanes would be picked up by the Indian radar plane quickly.

“Shit!” yelled Timmy. “MiGs are turning back.”

For a second, panic surged through Howe: the irrational fear he’d felt in the wake of the accident.

Then it was gone. He squeezed his hand on the stick, felt himself relaxing ever so slightly, giving himself over to the plane.

“MiG flight is receiving new orders,” said Cobra Two. “They’re being told to proceed…. They’re proceeding!”

“Understood,” said Howe. “Cyclops, give me status.”