“With fond thanks and memories, Akiko.”
Even under the current load, Amanda couldn’t help but be woman enough to wonder who Akiko was and what she was fondly thankful for.
Alpha Strike had already been successfully recovered and stricken below. The helicopters of Bravo could be seen on the topside monitors, descending on the deck lifts – and Charley Strike was clear and coming home through the Sunda. Only Delta was still outbound, its position hack just reaching the end of its projected flight plot, the circle that marked the firing arc of an AGM-88. At its center was Delta’s target.
“Signal Intelligence, are the propaganda broadcasts still coming out of
Pakanbaru?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Captain Montgomery sounded as tired as Amanda felt. “We’re also picking up traffic on the Indonesian military’s tactical channels. There’s a firefight going on somewhere in the Pakanbaru area between government forces
and a band of Aceh separatists. The government troops have been trying to reach
and retake the radio station without success.”
“Maybe we can save them the trouble. Stay on it, Captain – and give your people a well done. You’ve all done premier work today. It will be noted.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Montgomery sounded like she’d be willing to trade any medal in the world for an uninterrupted hour in a bed.
“This is Delta Strike lead to Star Child.” Vince Arkady’s voice on the other hand sounded as steady and strong as a man risen from a
refreshing night’s sleep. “Be advised that we are coming in on target. Cleaning up and climbing to attack
altitude.”
Amanda glanced up at the overhead speaker, visualizing in her mind’s eye the discarded drop tanks splashing into the sea beneath the two distant SPEED Cobras, the slender dragonfly aircraft nosing up into a climb.
Now was the moment of greatest risk as the strike abandoned its sea skimming flight profile. Various technologies had been applied to the compound helicopters to render them more difficult to detect – retinal schiff-based radar absorbent paint, RAM body panels, radar transparent thermo-composite rotor and propeller blades – but such “cheap stealth” applications could only reduce the helicopter’s radar cross section, not eliminate it. The SPEED Cobras were stealthy, not full stealth. They were vulnerable to the brush of a sweeping air defense radar.
“Climbing to two thousand, Pink.”
“Angels two it is. Right with you, Lead.”
Air One was directly accessing the Talk-Between-Pilots channel now as the easiest mode of monitoring the strike, the voices of the two aviators issuing from the overhead speakers.
“Let’s heat ‘em up, Pink.”
“Roger, Vince. Arming missiles. Got good arming lights.”
“Okay Pink, come left to 210 degrees true. Set your signal gates and start
hunting.”
“Rog.”
“You’d think if they wanted to protect their transmitter, they’d just shut the damn thing off,” the fighter direction officer murmured from the main console.
“That would be an option if they had permanent possession,” Amanda replied absently. “But whoever our friends in the Third Faction are, they probably realize they’re only going to have a limited number of broadcast hours out of those
facilities. It’s only a matter of time before the Indonesian government recaptures those
transmitters or cuts their power. Until then, they’ll nurse as much propaganda mileage out of those stations as they can.”
The overhead speaker sputtered and emitted a whisper of hysteric Bahasa, a
backdrop for the voice of Vince Arkady’s wingman. “Delta Lead, I’ve acquired the target.”
“Rog on that, Pink. I’m still not acquiring. Let’s take it in a little more.”
The position hacks of Strike Delta crawled closer to the Sumatran coast. A third blue bat-shaped aircraft symbol paralleled them, holding farther offshore, the Air Force Global Hawk that was providing radar imaging and electronic Intelligence for the mission.
Suddenly two more aircraft hacks appeared on the display from the northwest. Only these pulsed a warning red.
Instantly, the fighter director pounced on his transmit key. “Strike Delta, be advised you have two hostiles factoring from the northwest,
climbing out from Medan Air Force Base. We are indicating active airborne
radars. Targets are vectoring for intercept!”
“Roger that, Star Child.” Arkady’s voice was bland, a workman going about a well-practiced trade. “We got ’em on the threat boards. We are being painted. We still have room and we are
continuing to close with the target.”
Amanda leaned in over the fighter director. “What have we got?”
“An Indonesian interceptor flight, ma’am. They’re only BAC Hawk strike-trainers, but they’ll be carrying ASRAAM air-to-air missiles and cannon and a rudimentary air
intercept radar.”
The SPEED Cobra flight was just going feet dry, crossing the coastline – but, as they continued to close on their objective, the swifter Indonesian fighters continued to close on them. On the large screen display, the interceptors trailed a golden glowing flight track behind them. Amanda could see them edging around, incrementally aligning on the helicopters as the Indonesian pilots obeyed their own ground controller’s intercept vectors.
The overhead speakers hissed and muttered, picking up an underbreath mumble. “Come on, you bitchkitties! You can hear him out there. Why won’t you lock up?”
Amanda figuratively gripped herself by the throat, throttling down the screamed command to break off and get the hell out of there. Vince Arkady knew his business.
“Hey, Lead, I got threat warnings. We’re being painted air-to-air. We got Hawks in a pursuit curve. Thirty seconds to ASRAAM range.” Pinkerton’s voice was as laconic as Arkady’s.
“I’m on it, Pink. I have to reset a circuit breaker here … Got it! I have acquisition lights! Take your shots! Let’s kill him!”
“Affirmative! Shooting in three, two, one …”
Whispered rasps issued from the speakers as a sound-actuated mike responded to the missiles roaring off their wingtip rails.
“Missiles away! Good birds!”
“Roger D! Brake left, Pink! Break hard left! CHAFF! CHAFF! CHAFF!”
An extensive glowing blob blossomed on the large screen display as the countermeasures systems of the SPEED Cobra’s kicked out blocks of radar jamming metal foil. The tracks of the compound helicopters and those of the Indonesian jets merged within the chaff cloud.
There was a fearful moment of indistinction; then the two tracks reappeared, separating. The frustrated jets punched out of the cloud heading west, the American aircraft to the southeast, diving and reversing out from under the guns and missiles of their pursuers.
“Star Child, this is Delta Lead. We have serviced the target. Endeavoring to
disengage.”
In Air One, Amanda snapped her fingers and pointed to a second systems operator. Without needing a verbal instruction, the young woman called up the signal intercept channel. Over the airwaves, the booming angry voice of an imam was just reaching a crescendo of religious revilement when, abruptly, it was cut off as if by an angered and profaned Allah.
