Joint Task Force #1: Liberia (37 page)

Nash looked where Jurgen said he saw the French fighters. A brief reflection of sunlight highlighted the French aircraft. The two were in a similar formation to his and Jurgen’s. A lead aircraft with a wingman slightly back on the left side. The two aircraft were in a turn that would carry them behind and beneath the two UFAVs.

“
Boxer
, Deathhead Leader; we have visual on the bandits. Request permission to engage.”

“Wait one.”

“ADMIRAL, THEY HAVE THE FRENCH FIGHTERS AND WANT
permission to engage.”

Holman bit his lower lip. Time was the key element here. “Where’s our landing force?”

A few seconds passed. He walked the two steps to the holograph display. The lieutenant manning the console hit the “refresh” button. The holograph display simmered slightly for a couple of seconds. Icons moved as positions were updated. Four CH-53 helicopters followed by two Ospreys were reflected several miles from the coast. At a higher altitude, Pauline and Jurgen’s UFAVs followed. The display showed the two UFAVs closing the landing force formation. Northwest of the task force, two French fighters merged beneath the two UFAVs. The landing force should be safe. They would cross the shore in the next couple of minutes. Northwest of Joint Task Force Liberia, three French Super Etendards orbited in a standard racetrack combat-air-patrol formation.

“Permission denied. Divert the two UFAVs away from the French fighters and head them toward Kingsville to help the landing force.”

“DEATHHEAD FORMATION,
BOXER
; PERMISSION DENIED
. Turn to course one-six-zero. Maintain altitude. New mission is to join support elements for evacuation operation.”

The front of Nash’s screen blacked out for a moment as a French Super Etendard blew past it, heading up with afterburner on. The view on the screens bounced as turbulence knocked the smaller UFAV around in the air. The stick shook in his hand. The altimeter showed him losing altitude. He glanced at the screen to his left, afraid for a moment he and Jurgen’s UFAVs would collide. Nothing there but a few clouds zooming past him.

“Too late,
Boxer
. Just been buzzed by one of the bandits. They know we’re here.”

“MEANS THE FRENCH KNOW WE HAVE NO AIRCRAFT CARRIER
and no Tomcats,” Holman said, biting his lip lightly.

“May still take them some time to figure it out, Admiral.”
Leo Upmann glanced at his watch. “They may be having their lunch. By the time the French pilots relay their information back, the operations people interpret it. Pull straws to see who has the pleasure of taking the news to their pompous French admiral—it could be ten to twenty more minutes.”

“If that’s true, then they are less professional than I have known the French to be. We have to assume they
have
figured it out.”

“Aye, sir. We have ordered the UFAVs south to join the landing force.”

“Ma’am,” the Air Search Radar operator said to Commander Stephanie Wlazinierz. “The three French fighters to our northwest have left pattern and are now on intercept course toward the landing-force formation.”

Holman looked at Leo, who shrugged his shoulders. “Guess I was wrong. We got those three up north and two to our southwest. Those two southwest of us are nearer the landing force if they decide to head that way. I would suggest, Admiral, we need to keep them occupied. Those three heading on intercept course with the landing force won’t reach them before they pass over the coast. It’ll be hard to track them with that mess of jungle and rain forest cluttering up their radar capability. Those southwest of us, though, could be on top within five minutes. I recommend we treat them as hostiles, Admiral. Have Lieutenant Shoemaker and his wingman engage them.”

Holman shook his head. He patted his shirt pocket like a security blanket. “We could.” He nodded. “Okay, Captain Upmann, they have permission to engage, but do not have ‘weapons free’ authority. Unless the French fire on our landing force, I will not authorize unmanned vehicles to return fire regardless of what those French pilots do.”

“Sir, they have nothing to fire,” Upmann said, referring to the UFAVs

“Bullshit, Leo. If I was a pilot and got jumped by an enemy and all I had were air-to-ground missiles, I would fire them just to keep them confused and pray for a lucky hit. Thank God they don’t have their cannons loaded.”

“JURGEN, YOU OKAY?”

“Roger, Lieutenant. I have you slightly above me and to my right.”

“Where are they?”

As if listening on their private line, Petty Officer Turner spoke. “Deathhead Formation. You may engage, but with weapons tight. You are not authorized to fire even if fired upon.”

“Let ourselves get shot down?”

“Sir, your orders are to engage and keep them occupied while our forces continue toward Kingsville.”

“But—” Jurgen broke in.

“Roger, understand. Doesn’t really matter since we only have air-to-ground missiles on board,” Nash said, interrupting his wingman.

“Deathhead Four, switch to tactical channel twenty-two. Your controller will be Chief Petty Officer Cooper. Deathhead Leader, remain this channel.”

“Roger,” Ensign Jurgen Ichmens said.

A click followed almost immediately. Nash reached up, moved his helmet slightly, and ran his handkerchief across his forehead. They were separating the UFAVs for the engagement.

“Turner, tell the boss up there to get the other UFAV ready for launch!” Nash said urgently. “If we lose one of these, we can reconfigure—”

“Deathhead Leader, come right NOW! Descend immediately two-zero-zero!” Petty Officer Turner shouted.

Nash shoved the stick down and to the right, putting the UFAV into a spiral spin. Déjà vu thoughts from the incident in North Carolina crossed his mind. He looked at the G-force meter: ten Gs. Nash eased back on the stick. The UFAV started to vibrate, shock waves transmitted back through the data link to the controls of the mock-up cockpit. He jerked his head to the left and saw the underside of the French fighter as it passed. That was close.

Nash pulled the stick to the right and brought the nose up.

“Contact two miles, separation one thousand feet, right-hand turn.”

He’s coming around for another pass.
Nash wondered
briefly if the fighter had fired on him. He bit his lower lip. As long as the French fighter used cannon, the only sign the UFAV was being fired upon would be him seeing flashes from the cannon or the UFAV being hit. Otherwise, it was practically impossible for him to know.

Well, a manned fighter could take a few Gs. The UFAV was capable of much more. At least, it was supposed to be capable of more. The crash in North Carolina had reduced Nash’s confidence slightly in the turn capability of the Unmanned Fighter Aerial Vehicles. He pulled the stick back and watched the heads-up display on the front screen while he glanced at the G meter: 13—14—15—16—the controls began to vibrate. He eased back, bringing the G meter to 12.

“Fire-control-radar switch on.”

A second passed before Petty Officer Turner spoke. “Deathhead Leader, turn off fire-control radar, sir. You are authorized to use air-search mode only.”

“Air-search mode only! If I don’t use the fire-control mode, Turner, I won’t be able to engage him at close range. It’ll all be smear because he’ll be inside the minimum range.”

“Yes, sir, I know. Orders are no fire-control radar.”

“I’m in a slight spiral, heading down toward the sea. I have a fighter on my tail. They won’t let me turn on my fire-control radar so I can have a better look at what I am fighting.”

“That’s because we’re not being allowed to fight!”

“OKAY, ALAN, PUSH THAT FIGHTER OF YOURS A LITTLE FARTHER
out. You’re making me nervous being this close,” Pauline told Jurgen.

“Roger, madam.”

“Quit that. Makes me either sound old or a manager of a whorehouse.”

“Let me see—old or manager of a lively business establishment? Decisions, decisions, decisions. I don’t think you’d do good
‘old.’
”

“I think you’re doing that on purpose.”

“Deathhead Two,
Boxer
; you should be able to see the helicopters, Lieutenant,” Petty Officer Watts said. “They should be below you at six thousand feet at your three o’clock.”

Pauline leaned toward her screen as if she could look below the frame. She searched the view, knowing a movement or flash of sunlight off the helicopters would catch her attention. There it was!

“Got them, Watts. Alan, you see them?”

“Yeah. Got ’em.”

“Deathhead Formation, descend to seven thousand. Come to course zero-eight-five.”

“Follow me, Alan. Keep wingman position.” Pauline pushed the stick forward and slightly to the right. The front view shifted as the UFAV turned right and began to descend. She turned her head left for a moment, and saw Valverde’s aircraft maintaining the same distance and position. He was good. Had to give him that.

The digital readout on the altimeter sped by.
Too fast
. She pulled up slightly on the stick to slow the descent. A quick glance showed that her wingman had adjusted his descent automatically to compensate for the change.

She pulled the stick back to the centerline. The UFAV leveled itself, but continued descending. Ahead, the helicopters grew in size. Pauline saw movement to the right and the left of the four CH-53’s, and for a moment a chill went up her spine before she recognized them as Ospreys. Somewhere behind them were French fighters.

“
Boxer
, Deathhead Two here. What happened to those French fighters?”

“Wait one, Deathhead Two.” A few seconds passed before Petty Officer Watts replied. “Ma’am, two French fighters are currently engaged with Deathhead Leader and Three. We’ve lost contact with the other three aircraft. Their last course had them on intercept toward your position. Air Search is reporting multiple contacts overhead the French battle group. Commander Wlazinierz believes they are launching more aircraft.”

“What does that mean?” Valverde asked over their internal communications link.

“Means multiple aircraft orbiting over the French fleet and three French fighters disappeared heading our way,” Kitchner replied with a deep sigh. “News just keeps getting better and better.”

Pauline clicked her transmit button twice acknowledging
Watts’s report. She reached over and alternated her hands on the stick as she pulled her flight gloves tighter. Reaching over to the intercom system, Pauline nearly switched on the private channel between the four mock-ups, but didn’t. She wanted to. She wanted to find out what in the hell Nash and
her ensign
were facing. Maybe they needed her and Alan? Then again, maybe they didn’t.

The data-link contact light blinked red a couple of times before steadying up on green. “What the heck!” She reached up and hit the lamp check switch. All the lights glowed green.

“Deathhead Two, this is Deathhead Three; Pauline, just had a data-link-interrupt light flash a couple of times.”

“So did I, Alan.” She bit her lower lip, her eyes turning toward the data-link console where a green contact light shined steadily. “We must have passed through an electromagnetic phenomenon,” she offered.

“Yeah, they have those out here? As much as I hate to say it, I think we are reaching the limits of our line of sight. That quick flash was probably the transmit system changing frequencies, searching for a better data connection.”

“If you’re right, Alan, then we’ll see another flicker in a few seconds. Let’s steady our altitude.” She glanced down at her altimeter. “Here, six thousand feet.”

“Maybe one of us should ascend to ten thousand feet? Then if we lose contact, the lower UFAV will lose it first. Then we can link through the higher-flying UFAV.”

“I knew that,” she said. “Petty Officer Watts, need to keep one of us at a higher altitude so we can maintain our electronic links between
Boxer
and the UFAVs. We may be reaching the edge of our transmit range on these frequencies.”

Before Petty Officer Watts could reply, the red light on the data-control console came on, and this time it burned steady. “Pull up! Pull up!” she shouted just before the screens went dark. “Shit! Alan—”

“I’ve lost contact, Pauline.”

She reached down and slapped the switch for the private circuit. “Nash!” she shouted.

“Pauline,” he said through clenched teeth. “Get off the circuit. Jurgen and I are trying not to get our asses shot down right now!”

“We’ve lost our links with our UVAFs. I think we passed our line-of-sight capability,” she continued, ignoring Nash’s order.

She heard the click as Nash disconnected her. Must be bad if he couldn’t talk to her.

“Deathhead Two,
Boxer
; Lieutenant, we show you and your wingman in a stationary orbit and ascending.”

“Pauline, the UFAVs have gone into automatic mode, heading toward twenty-two thousand feet.”

She felt foolish. “Roger, Alan.”

As if on cue, the red data lights changed to green as automatic electronic links readjusted and reconnected. Her screens flickered a couple of times before steadying up. She looked to her left to see where Alan’s aircraft was. The nose of the wingman’s UFAV was pointed directly at her.

“Jesus Christ!” she shouted. Pauline pushed forward on the stick, sending the UFAV into an emergency dive.

“Alan, pull up! Pull up!”

“I don’t have contact yet. Wait a minute! Here it comes. Shit! I’ve lost it again.”

Pauline’s controls shook as the angle of descent grew. She drew up involuntarily waiting for the collision. The renegade UFAV passed overhead. It disappeared for a moment, to reappear on the right screen in a sharp turn to begin another orbit.

She pulled back on the stick. Nothing happened. She tried with all her strength, but the stick refused to budge. Kitchner pushed down hard on the left flap, putting the UFAV into a left turn, reducing the drag for a moment. She pulled back, and like a large bucket rising from deep water managed to slow the descent. She fought the unmanned aircraft back to a level course. The digital compass showed her on a course of one-nine-zero, heading out toward the empty Atlantic. She pulled around, steadying up on course zero-three-zero. The red light on the data-link readout flickered.