Part 8 (1/2)
For now, though, the information coming at Halverson was pretty d.a.m.ned obvious and accurate. The Russians had no intentions of stopping.
”Russian helos, this is Joint Strike Force Fighter Siren. You have crossed into Canadian airs.p.a.ce and are instructed to turn back, over.”
Halverson waited a moment, then repeated the same instructions in Russian. Her language skills weren't great, but her p.r.o.nunciation was clear enough for them to understand-if they were willing to listen.
She also wondered about the Canadian response. They had adamantly maintained their neutrality in the war, though it wasn't beyond imagination that they might court the Russians for some ”diplomatic” purpose.
For all Halverson knew, these helos could be en route to a southern location at the invitation of the Canadian government; if that were the case, it would have been nice to inform the JSF of their little visit.
But what kind of drinking party were the Canadians throwing that required the Russians to come in forty helos? If crates of vodka and droves of loose women weren't on the list, Halverson doubted they would attend.
”Igloo Base, this is Siren, over.”
”Go ahead, Siren.”
”We buzzed the helos and are hovering at one thousand as they approach. No response to our requests, over.”
”Roger that, Siren. Just maintain-”
”Siren!” cried Boyd. ”Rockets incoming. Jesus-”
Out of the corner of her eye, Halverson caught the flash of a bright light, and just as she throttled up- More unguided rockets fired from the lead choppers tore through her wake.
”Siren, this is Ghost Hawk! Jesus, d.a.m.n it, I'm hit! I'm hit! Got a fire. Electrical failures. Damage to left wing. I saw the radar warning, and I just didn't believe it! Losing control!”
”Eject! Eject!”
Halverson climbed over the swarm of choppers to look down upon the scene, spotting Boyd's fighter beginning to drop like a rock, nose tipping down.
”Boyd, get out of there!”
He was at about one hundred and fifty knots when a tiny flash erupted, and the canopy tumbled away. Then the ejection seat fired, and out came Boyd, with approximately eight hundred feet between himself and the ground below.
Halverson wished she had time to see if he was okay, but the rage inside-awakened by the audacity of these Russians-launched her into action. She wheeled around, brought the jet into another hover, pivoted toward the helos.
Speed and maneuver. Speed and maneuver . . .
She had missile lock. There was no thinking it over or calling to base for authorization. And there were no second thoughts.
The two wingtip-mounted AIM-9X Sidewinder missiles exploded away from her jet, using a pa.s.sive IR target acquisition system to home in on infrared emissions. They each raced toward a chopper in the lead group, leaving glowing white tendrils of smoke in their wake.
”Igloo Base, this is Siren. Ghost Hawk has ejected! Can't see if he's on the ground yet! I've engaged the helos, over!”
”Roger that, Siren.”
Twin booms shone in her display, the fireb.a.l.l.s expanding then plummeting toward the icy deck.
Two Ka-29s down.
Thirty-five? Thirty-six to go?
She'd exhaust everything she had, she didn't care.
But first she had to find Boyd, see if he made it, and if he did, be sure those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds weren't trying to finish the job.
His beacon shone in one of her displays, as the choppers below scattered like bees being swatted, spreading out, gaining alt.i.tude, while a few pilots descended even lower.
Two of the choppers banked hard, coming around to engage her as she hovered above them.
Rockets flashed from their underwing pods. She rolled to her left, even as she engaged her four-barreled GAU-22/A gun mounted in a teardrop pod along the jet's aft center pylon, the four barrels bound in one spinning cylinder.
Armor-piercing discarding sabot with tracer rounds leapt out ahead of her fighter at a rate of forty-two hundred per minute, chewing into the first chopper's canopy amid a flurry of sparks and the laser-like streaks drawn by the tracers.
She s.h.i.+fted fire to the next helo, more rounds drumming along its side as the pilot attempted to evade.
The first chopper began to fall away, out of control, smoke pouring from the shattered c.o.c.kpit. And suddenly, the second one joined the first, rolling away, trailing more smoke.
She carried only two hundred and twenty rounds of ammo for the gun despite its cyclic rate of fire, and she had already blown through half. d.a.m.n it. The cost of being trigger-happy.
There were two more Sidewinders in her internal bays, along with two AGM-154 Joint Standoff Weapons for hitting hardened surface targets. She also had a pair of five-hundred-pound JDAM bombs under the wings, but they wouldn't help unless those helos put down. Finally, she had a pair of laser-guided training rounds they were supposed to use in a couple of days.
Boyd's fighter had crashed just ahead, the flames still soaring skyward; he had drifted downwind about a half kilometer farther south.
”Ghost Hawk, this is Siren, you copy, over?”
No response.
”Igloo Base, this is Siren. No contact from Ghost Hawk on the ground. Four choppers engaged and destroyed, over.”
”Roger that, Siren. You're ordered to return to base, over.”
”Negative, Igloo Base. I'm not leaving until I can confirm if Ghost Hawk made it or not, over.”
”Stand by, Siren . . .”
Well, she'd stand by, all right, but not without unleas.h.i.+ng her last two Sidewinders.
The helos, now much more spread apart, maintained their southerly course, a speckled field of potential targets glowing on her display.
”Here you go,” she whispered. ”Eat this.”
Dinner was, in fact, served, a late-night course of explosives delivered with blinding efficiency.
The bay doors swung open, and the rockets spat from the warplane's belly, arrowing through the night.
She throttled up once more, dove, and came in for a final run with guns- Even as the two Sidewinders slammed into their targets, sending debris and flaming bodies hurtling outward in all directions.