Outlaw

The bold word SHOOT stood out next to the symbology as a not-so-subtle reminder that Colt had satisfied the requirements of the Rules of Engagement. Even though the E-2D Hawkeye controller had already declared the Chinese fighters hostile, his onboard systems correlated the target and met the programmed criteria to engage.

He glanced at his radar attack display to ensure he had both Chinese fighters targeted, then reached up with his left hand to the master arm switch and moved it from SAFE to ARM.

He moved his trembling hand back to the throttle and said a small prayer.

Please, Lord, please don’t let me fuck this up.

“Two zero one, Tiger, single group hostile.”

It was yet another not-so-subtle reminder that he had a job to do and to stop hesitating when it mattered most. Without another thought, he squeezed the trigger and held it firmly until the first of his four AIM-120D AMRAAMs dropped away from his weapons rack. Its rocket motor ignited almost immediately and raced forward, leaving a mesmerizing, brilliant trail in its wake.

He tapped the button to switch targets to the second Flanker and repeated the process. He squeezed the trigger until his second missile dropped free and raced off into the night. “Two zero one, Fox Three, two ship, single group.”

The missiles — as bright as they were initially — disappeared quickly as they accelerated to Mach 4 on their way to the Chinese fighters. Colt banked his jet and looked through the NVCD at the computer-generated diamond representing the Flankers’ location. A dim blossom of light flared briefly inside the diamond, then faded to black. At first, Colt thought his first missile had impacted, but a quick glance to his radar display showed that he still had at least thirty seconds until it reached the target.

Then it dawned on him.

“Tiger, two zero one, single group just fired on the friendly.”

The reply was a curt, “Tiger.”

There was nothing left to do but continue tracking the fighters and hope his missiles reached their targets first. If the Chinese had fired a semi-active radar-guided missile, it would go stupid the minute the host aircraft blew up, courtesy of the AMRAAM’s forty-pound high-explosive blast fragmentation warhead.

But an active missile would continue to guide on the friendly helicopter autonomously, no matter what happened to the Chinese Flanker.

Let’s hope it’s not active.

Dusty One

Air Branch Mi-17 Hip

Charlie clutched the helicopter’s controls with a fear-induced, white-knuckled grip. He focused on what he could see of the horizon — which wasn’t much — and aggressively banked the helicopter and climbed to the right, before reversing direction and descending back to the left.

For a helicopter not designed for high-performance maneuvers, his experience shone as they executed a modified weave designed to defeat the air intercept radars that remained stubbornly locked onto them.

“Still locked on,” Roger shouted over the straining turbine engines.

Charlie ignored him and poured all his focus into maneuvering the lumbering helicopter as best as he could to defeat the missile without inadvertently flying them into the water. His focus was broken only momentarily by a blinking light appearing on the horizon.

“Passu Keah’s in sight,” Charlie muttered, before glancing down at his engine instruments to make sure he wasn’t pushing the helicopter beyond its limits.

“Dusty One has FARP Alpha in sight,” Roger said over the SATCOM channel.

“Scar Nine Nine.”

Beads of sweat ran down Charlie’s face and dropped from his eyebrows into his eyes, which he quickly blinked away. He couldn’t take his hands off the controls to wipe at the sweat and hoped that the downward force of the Gs would draw it down his cheeks and keep his vision unobstructed. This was not the time to go blind.

“Fifty feet,” Roger said, providing a quick warning that they were extremely low over the water.

Instead of replying, Charlie abruptly rolled the helicopter to the other side and brought their rotor blades perilously close to the water before beginning a climb.

Suddenly, the radar warning receiver went silent. Charlie continued his frantic maneuvers without acknowledging that the alarm had stopped blaring its tinny warning in the cramped cockpit.

“Charlie,” Roger said calmly, his eyes still fixed on the rapidly changing needles on the vertical speed and altitude indicators.

Charlie ignored him.

“Charlie.” Roger reached across the cockpit and placed a relaxed hand on his tense forearm. “We broke the lock.”

He completed one more iteration of the weave maneuver before his muscles relaxed, and he allowed the helicopter’s nose to track toward the flashing infrared beacon on the horizon. His chest rose and fell with rapid breaths, but as his heart dipped back to normal, his breathing slowed. “Thanks,” he whispered.