Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 10 Read Free Page A

.” The pulse-Doppler radar on the MiG-29,
another Libyan purchase from the Russians, could not detect a target with a
closure rate equal to the aircraft airspeed.
                This
was not looking good, Patrick noted immediately. “Warning,” the female-voiced
threat computer reported, “MiG-29 nine
o'clock five-zero miles, flight level three-
three-zero, acquisition mode. Warning, trackbreakers are in standby”
                “Either this guy is very lucky, or
very good,” Patrick said. “The leader is coming right in on us. Something’s not
right.” He hit the voice command stud: “System status.”
                 “All monitored systems are functioning
normally,” the computer said after a slight pause. Then: “Warning, MiG- 29 at nine o'clock ,
forty miles, tracking”
                “Oh, shit,” Patrick said.
‘Trackbreakers coming on.” But it was then that he found the problem: “The ECM
system faulted—it shut itself down completely.” Patrick powered it back up.
                 “Warning, towed array not in coordinated
flight,” the computer reported.
                “That’s what happened,” Patrick
said. “When we made the turn, it must’ve knocked the array out of whack and
faulted the system. It’s been back there spinning away like a great big
pinwheel. I’m cutting it loose.” But that didn’t work. “The array won’t
jettison. It’s totally faulted. I’m going to try an ECM system reset. LADAR
coming on. It’ll be the only threat warning we have now.”
                 “Warning, MiG-29 at seven o'clock ,
thirty miles...” But moments later, they heard, “Warning, missile launch
detected on radar, nine
o'clock , twenty-six miles. Time to intercept, fifty
seconds”
                “Break
left!” Patrick shouted. Franken shoved the throttles to full military power
and yanked the control stick full left, rolling the AL-52 up on its left wing
in a tight ninety- degree bank turn—they had to risk flying into their own
cable to try to defeat the incoming radar-guided missile. At full bank, he
started to apply back pressure to tighten the turn even more, presenting the
smallest possible radar cross-section on the MiG-29’s radar. He let up on the
back pressure when the computer issued a stall warning and started to pull the
control stick forward. Meanwhile, Patrick was frantically trying every
countermeasures switch he could. “ECM is completely dead—chaff, flares,
jammers, everything.”
                Out the cockpit window, the sight
was horrifying. They could clearly see a trail of fire arcing across the
sky—the Libyan radar-guided missile, heading right for them. There was no time
to turn, no time to try anything, no time to even speak. . ..
                 The
missile dove right at them—then passed just behind them, making a direct hit on
the spinning array, missing them by less than three hundred feet. To the two
men in the cockpit of the AL-52, it looked as if the missile had been aiming
right at the middle of their foreheads.
                 “Lost.
.. lost contact with the towed array,” Patrick said, gasping for breath—he
thought he had bought the farm that time. “The missile hit it dead-on.”
                 “Well,
that’s one way to cut the array loose,” Franken said.
                 Patrick
switched his supercockpit display to the tactical view. “These suckers aren’t
going to get a chance to get another shot off at us,” he said.
                 “Are
you going to try to hit the missiles as they come off the rails?”
                 “I’m
not going to let them get off the rails,” Patrick said. To the attack computer,
he said, “Commit Dragon.”
                 “No TBM targets,” the computer
responded.
                 Patrick
touched the MiG-29 icon on the