The Red Line

“Third kill recorded,” Fowler said.

“Third kill confirmed.”

Paul didn’t wait for them to tell him to notify regiment. He started relaying the latest firing and kill information on his own.

Ten miles behind the second flight, the pair of hostiles also raced toward the Patriot battery. A few miles behind them, a lone aircraft trailed.

Morgan began interrogating the last fighter. The Patriot computer ordered the radar to send out the identification code. In the nose of the American F-16, the message was received and the proper response transmitted. A friendly symbol appeared next to the trailing triangle.

“Final aircraft is friendly. Do not target,” Morgan said. “Say again. Do not target final aircraft. Aircraft has been identified as friendly.”

“Understood,” Fowler said. “Confirm on my screen that final aircraft is friendly.”

The second flight continued to close with the Patriot battery. If they didn’t stop the MiGs, Fowler and Morgan had forty-five seconds before a fiery death in the form of air-to-ground missiles would reach down to claim them.

The computer hurled another Patriot into the skies. The second fighter in the second flight would be its next victim. It would be a few more seconds, however, before the high-flying Russian would realize that he’d been abruptly transformed from hunter to hunted.

The straining jet engines of fighters four and five in the first flight gave their pilots all they had. Still, it wasn’t nearly enough. The Russians were vastly overmatched. The steadfast missiles closed with their targets. Two more flashing tic-tac-toes found their way onto Fowler’s and Morgan’s screens. Another pair of MiGs had vanished from the early-morning sky.

The Patriot was free to fire once again. Launchers five and seven roared to life. A pair of missiles carried death into the heavens at Mach 3.9. Only fifteen miles separated the Patriots from their targets. In less than thirty seconds, the killers would span the distance between themselves and the planes.

Once again, all the Patriot engagement team could do was stare at their screens while the computer and the radar coordinated their maximum load of five missiles.

The first four fighters in the second flight ran in different directions. Each pilot clung to the desperate hope that he could somehow find a way to save his frail life. The final two fighters in the flight continued their determined quest to reach the air-defense battery. Fifteen seconds passed. The pair of MiGs closed to within ten miles of their target. Beneath their sleek wings and bloated bellies, their missiles glistened in a blinding morning sun’s first rays.

Fowler and Morgan watched the two triangles nearing the battery. Another pair of hostiles was ten miles behind. The air defenders understood they had little time left.

“Paul, tell the Stingers to prepare for an attack!” Morgan said. “Targets are north-by-northeast.”

Paul spoke into his headset once more.

“This is going to be close,” Fowler said.

As the first pair entered a steep dive, the MiG pilots armed their air-to-ground missiles. The Stinger gunners pointed their shoulder-mounted air-defense weapons toward the heavens. With the five-mile limit of their small missiles, all the Americans could do was stand their ground and wait. They could see the black dots in the sky growing quite large, but were helpless to do anything about it. Behind the diving fighters, three more dots in the rising sun were coming quite near.

The MiGs would release their missiles just as they reached the three-mile point. They’d be close enough to have a decent chance of hitting the target, yet far enough away to keep the Stingers from locking on and firing in time to stop the attack. At that distance, they’d also be near enough that a Patriot missile wouldn’t have the time to activate and find the plunging fighters before the MiGs found them.

In fifteen seconds, Fowler, Morgan, and Paul would reach their end.

A Patriot smashed into the last fighter in the first flight. Tic-tac-toe.

The computer instantly fired upon the first of the diving aircraft. The MiG was eight miles away. Five miles from its firing point, it came on. The pilot saw the Patriot launch. But he knew that at so short a distance his only chance of escaping was by destroying the Patriot computer before its missile destroyed him. He had to make it to the three-mile point before the Patriot did.

He’d never release his missiles. Twice as fast as the MiG, the Patriot reached up to pluck it from the skies with three miles to spare. The MiG exploded six miles above the Engagement Control Station. A ball of fire tumbled to the ground a few hundred yards east of the American battery.

Undeterred by what had happened to its brother, the final aircraft in the second flight continued its teeth-rattling dive. The Stingers waited. They strained to obtain a lock onto the plunging fighter. Each gunner begged to hear the firing tone ringing in his ears. The MiG was nearly ready to unleash its ordnance. There was a single mile to cover before he would launch a handful of lethal missiles. It was too late for either the Patriot or Stingers to intercept the fighter in time.

Fowler, Morgan, and Paul had eight seconds to live.

They stared at their screens. Disbelief spread across their faces. Fowler gripped the computer keyboard with all his might. He could sense the hair on his arms standing straight up.

From out of nowhere, the plummeting fighter’s radar suddenly warned the Russian that he was under attack. The confused pilot hesitated, uncertain of what his aircraft was trying to tell him. He’d seen the Patriot destroy his partner, but he was convinced the Patriot hadn’t fired again. Much too late, the resolute Russian realized the missile that would decimate his aircraft wasn’t reaching up from the ground to find him. The missile that was coming to end his life was approaching from the rear.

The F-16 Falcon was twelve miles behind the diving MiG. The two fighters just ahead of the American pilot had led her directly to the attack on the Patriot battery. She watched her display as her Sparrow missile raced across the sky toward the diving enemy. The Russian reacted to this new threat to his survival. He broke off his dive and soared upward at incredible speed. Nevertheless, the American kept her Sparrow right on target. The chase was short and sweet. A fireball erupted in front of the Falcon as the MiG died beneath the speeding Sparrow’s attack.

As the MiGs began disengaging from the earlier air battle, it hadn’t taken the AWACS commander long to determine what the enemy was up to. Unable to directly warn the air-defense units, the AWACS did the best it could. The Sentry One commander issued an urgent order for any available aircraft to intercept the Russian fighters. The lone F-16, her wingman killed moments earlier, had chased fourteen MiGs across the German skies in their one-hundred-mile journey to destroy Charlie Battery. The American pilot knew she couldn’t stop all fourteen, so she bided her time. Running with her radar off to hide her presence, she waited for the Patriots to do most of the dirty work for her. With the seconds in Fowler’s, Morgan’s, and Paul’s lives down to single digits, the F-16 struck.

The final pair of fighters was just beginning their own dives when the Sparrow raced right between them and smashed into the MiG a few miles ahead. For the first time, the Russians realized they weren’t alone. Both took severe evasive action.

One right after the other, four Patriots destroyed the fleeing fighters of the second flight. The Patriot computer fired on the final pair of MiGs. The F-16 saw the dual launch. She pulled well away and waited for the Patriots to finish the job.

The MiGs also saw the

Patriot fire. With barely ten miles between prey and killer, they knew there’d be no chance for escape. Their own tic-tac-toes were scant moments way.

Within seconds of each other, the pair exploded.

With the destruction of the last of the MiGs, the F-16 turned and headed north to Ramstein.

Inside the small van, the blood returned to the Americans’ faces as the final of the hostile triangles was covered by the flashing symbols. A warming wave of relief washed over them.

None was able to muster the strength to utter a single sound after so narrow an escape. They sat in self-imposed silence for nearly a minute.

“Confirm thirteen missiles launched and thirteen kills recorded,” Morgan finally said.

“Roger,” Fowler said. “I confirm thirteen missiles fired and thirteen kills. Paul, notify regiment.”

“Notifying regiment of thirteen launches and thirteen kills.”

They were elated to be alive. But there was no time for celebration. Letting their minds wander too far from the images on their screens could still be fatal. They returned to the task at hand. As the air battle continued, the hundreds of triangles were far more scattered than they’d been earlier.

There was nothing within seventy-five miles of the Patriot battery. And to their relief, no indications that another attack on their position was imminent. For the moment, there was little to do but observe the surviving triangles as they battled and died in the blood-tinged skies over Germany.

• • •

The report came in thirty minutes later.

“Oh, man, you’re kidding!” Paul said into his headset. “Are you sure about that?”

He looked into the curious faces staring up at him from the front of the compartment. “Regiment says that seven of the sixteen Patriot batteries and all of the Hawk firing units were destroyed by enemy fighters. Alpha and Bravo Batteries both bought it.”