Read Online Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 06 by Fatal Terrain (v1.1) - Free Book Online
Authors: Fatal Terrain (v1.1)
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on this
southbound jog before it turned westbound again toward the industrial site, but
he was too late. The industrial site was hit. Dammit, looked like a direct
fucking hit—wait, no, not quite. The bad guys intel was obviously poor—the hit
was on the center of the big building, mostly crating and shipping stuff and
empty space. The bandit got a hit, but it didn’t do much harm!
Westbound
again, radar on in wide-area look-down search—got him! BANDIT one o’clock low, twelve miles, Sharon advised.
“Lock
bandit, arm AIM-120, AIM-120 shoot,” Mauer ordered immediately.
BANDIT LOCKED . . . ROGER, AIM-120 ARMED,
WARNING, WEAPONS ARMED . . . AIM-120 SHOOT, AIM-120 SHOOT, WARNING, WEAPONS
DOORS opening . . . aim-120 away, Sharon responded in rapid-fire succession, and his
last AMRAAM missile was flying. But almost as soon as it launched, Mauer could
see its white smoke trail wobbling, then breaking first hard to the left, then
in a wide sharply arcing curve to the right, then again to the left in an even
wider arc. He knew it was going to miss well before the “time to die” meter ran
down to zero. That bandit had made two high-G jinks that again beat the hell
out of the highly maneuverable AIM- 120 missile.
Another
cloud of black smoke —another hit on
the industrial site, and this time it was on the smaller building southeast of
the large building, where a lot of finished munitions and products were stored
awaiting transportation. That son of a bitch had actually gone all the way
around and reattacked, with a fighter
on his tail! He had balls, that’s for sure— any mud-mover worth his wings would
hit, then get out of the defended area as fast as he could.
Enough
of this super-automated datalink shit, Mauer thought—time to call in some help.
They were supposed to stay off the voice radios and use the datalink as much as
possible, but he was in deep shit and his first priority was to defend his
territory. He rocked the radio switch on the throttles up to the UHF position: “Saber One-Two, this is
One-One on Red.”
“One-Two,”
replied his fellow hunter, Captain Andrea Mills. She had a slight twinge of
sarcasm already in her voice, and Mauer almost regretted calling her—he knew
she knew he was having trouble.
“Come
give me a hand with this bandit,” Mauer said.
“Roger,
I’m on my way,” Mills replied, the sarcasm gone. Mills looked for every
opportunity to rub her fellow fighter jocks’ noses in the macho hunter-killer
game they all relished, but when it came time to get down to business, she was
serious, focused, and as deadly as any swinging dick.
Mauer
switched his heads-down supercockpit screen to a God’s-eye view and expanded it
until Mills’s fighter symbol appeared—good, she was off to the north, racing
southwestbound to cut off the bandit from the other major ground target in the
area, the fighter base and Patriot missile emplacements. Mills was staying
high, establishing a high patrol, so Mauer pushed his stick forward and zoomed
down lower, closer to the bandit’s altitude. He had two missiles left, both
heat-seekers with a max range of only seven miles, and he had to make them
count. If the bomber got the airfield and the Patriot site, their forces would
be left wide open to attack, the airborne fighters would have to find someplace
else to land, and the fighters on the ground were sitting ducks and wouldn’t be
able to depart.
At
3,000 feet above the ground, the hills and buttes looked close enough to scrape
the bottom of Mauer’s fighter. He kept the power up at full military power,
speeding westbound at Mach 1.5, searching for the bomber . . . but Mills’s
radar locked on first. The JTIDS datalink transferred the bandit’s position
southbound jog before it turned westbound again toward the industrial site, but
he was too late. The industrial site was hit. Dammit, looked like a direct
fucking hit—wait, no, not quite. The bad guys intel was obviously poor—the hit
was on the center of the big building, mostly crating and shipping stuff and
empty space. The bandit got a hit, but it didn’t do much harm!
Westbound
again, radar on in wide-area look-down search—got him! BANDIT one o’clock low, twelve miles, Sharon advised.
“Lock
bandit, arm AIM-120, AIM-120 shoot,” Mauer ordered immediately.
BANDIT LOCKED . . . ROGER, AIM-120 ARMED,
WARNING, WEAPONS ARMED . . . AIM-120 SHOOT, AIM-120 SHOOT, WARNING, WEAPONS
DOORS opening . . . aim-120 away, Sharon responded in rapid-fire succession, and his
last AMRAAM missile was flying. But almost as soon as it launched, Mauer could
see its white smoke trail wobbling, then breaking first hard to the left, then
in a wide sharply arcing curve to the right, then again to the left in an even
wider arc. He knew it was going to miss well before the “time to die” meter ran
down to zero. That bandit had made two high-G jinks that again beat the hell
out of the highly maneuverable AIM- 120 missile.
Another
cloud of black smoke —another hit on
the industrial site, and this time it was on the smaller building southeast of
the large building, where a lot of finished munitions and products were stored
awaiting transportation. That son of a bitch had actually gone all the way
around and reattacked, with a fighter
on his tail! He had balls, that’s for sure— any mud-mover worth his wings would
hit, then get out of the defended area as fast as he could.
Enough
of this super-automated datalink shit, Mauer thought—time to call in some help.
They were supposed to stay off the voice radios and use the datalink as much as
possible, but he was in deep shit and his first priority was to defend his
territory. He rocked the radio switch on the throttles up to the UHF position: “Saber One-Two, this is
One-One on Red.”
“One-Two,”
replied his fellow hunter, Captain Andrea Mills. She had a slight twinge of
sarcasm already in her voice, and Mauer almost regretted calling her—he knew
she knew he was having trouble.
“Come
give me a hand with this bandit,” Mauer said.
“Roger,
I’m on my way,” Mills replied, the sarcasm gone. Mills looked for every
opportunity to rub her fellow fighter jocks’ noses in the macho hunter-killer
game they all relished, but when it came time to get down to business, she was
serious, focused, and as deadly as any swinging dick.
Mauer
switched his heads-down supercockpit screen to a God’s-eye view and expanded it
until Mills’s fighter symbol appeared—good, she was off to the north, racing
southwestbound to cut off the bandit from the other major ground target in the
area, the fighter base and Patriot missile emplacements. Mills was staying
high, establishing a high patrol, so Mauer pushed his stick forward and zoomed
down lower, closer to the bandit’s altitude. He had two missiles left, both
heat-seekers with a max range of only seven miles, and he had to make them
count. If the bomber got the airfield and the Patriot site, their forces would
be left wide open to attack, the airborne fighters would have to find someplace
else to land, and the fighters on the ground were sitting ducks and wouldn’t be
able to depart.
At
3,000 feet above the ground, the hills and buttes looked close enough to scrape
the bottom of Mauer’s fighter. He kept the power up at full military power,
speeding westbound at Mach 1.5, searching for the bomber . . . but Mills’s
radar locked on first. The JTIDS datalink transferred the bandit’s position
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