Rogue Element

His younger brother, Wyan, had phoned him out of the blue to ask him whether Indonesia had anything that sounded suspiciously like a V22 Osprey, because one had just flown in from the sea at wave height and disappeared inland. Of course we haven’t, he’d said. It was an American plane being tested by their army and marines. As it happened, Shidyahan had just read a performance review on them that suggested they were too dangerous and would probably never see service. His brother’s enquiry was just another coincidence in a day full of them. Hasanuddin AFB had been experiencing all kinds of unusual radar interference, but couldn’t trace the problem to its source. And then the call had come from Wyan. There was definitely something odd going on. There were also the orders from the top to be particularly vigilant. Why? The major had no idea but he had enough muscle at Hasanuddin to get a flight of F-16s fuelled and airborne to investigate.

His brother had provided an estimated heading and speed of the suspected intruder but the plane would most likely have altered course once it had made landfall. In short, the V22 could be just about anywhere. The major wished his country had the resources to afford blanket radar coverage. With its tens of thousands of islands, having that kind of support would make the air force’s job so much easier. He rolled left and right again. Nothing. A gnawing in his gut told him the radar interference hid a malignant force. He gave brief instructions into his oxygen mask and the flight made a descending turn to the left, and decelerated.

Toad’s threat indicator showed the Indons making the turn. It was decision time. The Prowler had reached the agreed point where it, too, would turn away from the inbound flight of F-16s, and hightail it out of the area. Almost immediately, the Indonesians would get their radars back and the three intruders would be revealed on their scopes. The Indonesians were fifteen miles out. Toad and his wingman held the tactical advantage. He selected the AMRAAMs and his wingman did the same.

Toad, being the flight leader, chose the two leading aircraft in the approaching formation, as his wingman knew he would. Toad’s OSCAR confirmed that the two leading aircraft had been targeted. He watched the Prowler turn away on his scope. As it did so, Toad thumbed the fire button. One, two missiles away. The AV-8’s airframe rocked with the energy expended by the departing ordnance. OSCAR calculated time to impact.

Toad’s wingman had targeted the next two closest F-16s. As Toad manoeuvred his aircraft out of the way, the wing-man popped up from behind and launched his missiles. They had launched a total of four AMRAAMs between them.

On his radar, Major Sanders saw the effect on the F-16s of the missile launches. The enemy formation split, aircraft spearing left and right in a deadly dance of evasion. The AV-8s pumped, turning aggressively through 180 degrees, to resume their sweeping fore and aft of the Osprey still hugging the treetops below.

Major Shidyahan happened to be peering at his radar display when the storms of electrons sweeping across it broke up. He saw three contacts, bandits, turning away and four inbound foxes, missiles, heading towards his flight. He instantly began to sweat. Inbound missiles! Who fired them? Where did they come from? What were they? He hoped and prayed that they would be something old and inaccurate. An equally assertive voice within him told him not to be stupid. The missiles would be coming in at Mach three. No time to think. He jerked his control stick back and the F-16 bucked, clawing for altitude. No, he wanted the ground, not sky. He pushed the stick forward. His shoulders strained against the straps and blood gushed into his brain as the F-16 hit four negative gs.

A warning horn went off in his phones from the threat indicator. Beep. Beep. The missile was hunting for him. The tone changed. Wah-wah-wah. Now it had found him. He threw the F-16 through a 90-degree left turn and pulled back into a climb. Blood rushed to his feet. His vision narrowed, blackout imminent. He released pressure on the stick, allowing a little blood back into his brain to restore sight, then jammed the stick back again.

Condensation formed at the wing roots, pressure waves squeezing the vapour out of the air. Wah-wah-wah. The horn might be the last thing he’d hear. Shidyahan jinked right. Then left. Wah-wah-wah. He looked behind him. He could see the trail left by the exhaust of the missile’s solid rocket propellant. A deadly white finger reaching towards him. Wah-wah-wah.