Rogue Element

Two towering, converging volcanic cliffs reared in Major Shidyahan’s forward view. He was going to drill into them. Faced with a certain, violent death, he screamed. Unconsciously, he flicked the F-16 into a knife-edge turn and pulled the control stick back hard. The vertical volcanic rock wall seemed to suck the F-16 towards it. His vicious manoeuvring forced the AMRAAM to go stupid when its sensors lost the target against the noise of the ground. The missile slammed into the cliff behind him, the concussion wave from the ensuing explosion tossing the F-16 into a yaw.

Major Shidyahan sucked in the oxygen to steady his nerves. Sweat dribbled down his forehead into his eyes and stung them. He scanned his instruments. No damage, Allah be praised. As his aircraft climbed smoothly away from the rockslide caused by the AMRAAM’s impact, he fought to regain control of his body and tried to think through the implications of the battle in progress. He radioed his position and situation quickly to Hasanuddin AFB. They asked him to clarify. He ignored the request. Aviate, navigate, communicate, he reminded himself, the three most important things for a pilot to remember, in their order of importance. Remembering the maxim from his early training days reassured him. But where was the avoid-incoming-missiles-at-all-costs bit? he asked himself, elated by his improbable escape from certain death.

Shidyahan pondered the origin of the enemy aircraft he’d seen on his screen. Given that they were probably somehow related to the sighting of the Osprey, and that the Osprey itself was only in service with American forces, that meant he was up against the US army, navy or air force. The United States of America, shooting missiles at him within the airspace of his own country!? Shidyahan’s fear turned to anger. He tightened his shoulder straps.

* * *

Three bandits winked out on Toad’s radar screen. Two. Three. Four. Where was bandit number one? Shit. Bandit one must have outrun its AMRAAM. And the pilot in that plane had had less time to react than the other three. Yes, there he was, number one, painted on his display. He must have gone low. And survived. He silently toasted the F-16 pilot’s good luck and obvious skill. The bastard should buy himself a lottery ticket, Toad thought.

On his display, Toad saw the three surviving aircraft turn towards him. Shit, he thought, that was definitely not a good sign. Those guys would be seriously pissed. He wished he had more AMRAAMs under his wings, or more aircraft in his flight. It was time to bug out. Carefully. Museum piece or not, the F-16 was a formidable enemy in the right hands, even an F-16A armed only with AIM-9s and guns. And, as he’d just witnessed, at least one of those guys could fly it. That meant their training was probably pretty good across the board.

He was checking his weapons stores again; a couple of AIM-9Ms and the gun, just as the picture presented on the small screen display went blank. What the hell…? The transmission to the AV-8s from the AWACs had suddenly been cut. Just when I need them most, those bastards break for lunch, Toad fumed. He was in the process of cursing them out loud when he saw why the link had gone down. He’d just put the towering volcano between himself and the AWACS, and one thing radio waves would not penetrate was solid rock. He checked his fuel stores. Christ, they were getting marginal. His flight was now being stalked by a force that was numerically superior, and on their home turf. And he’d lost his link to the AWACS. Definitely time to bug out, thought Toad. But where the hell was that slow-mover, the V22?

The V22 accelerated to around 100 knots as it barrelled into a volcanic channel. The pilot swung through a tight turn in the channel at sixty degrees angle of bank. The bend in the channel tightened, forcing the Osprey to make a tighter, higher-g turn. The wall of the channel edged closer to the outside wing, threatening to clip it, and then suddenly it widened, allowing the aircraft to slip through unscathed. Ahead, the walls narrowed again. The pilot and co-pilot hoped the channel would lead away from the volcano, rather than snake back towards it.

* * *

It was difficult to know what was going on. Suryei couldn’t rely on her inner ear for bearings at all. She couldn’t see a horizon line; the window was small, revealing little detail. At one stage she was convinced they were flying nearly straight up, and then the aircraft felt like it was falling backwards. It was a very awkward motion, and bad news for her stomach. Suryei retched bile. She had never suffered from airsickness before and it was not a pleasant feeling.

A flash of green coloured the small window diagonally opposite. The blue of the sky followed. Then black rocks. She worked out that the aircraft was banking savagely through a narrow passage. Suryei wondered if there’d be any warning before they hit a mountain. Probably not, she thought, if they hit it head-on.