The Red Line

At least there was nothing for the Patriot soldiers to do for the first minute. Sixty seconds behind the initial group, a second set of six triangles suddenly appeared. They were followed moments later by another pair, and behind them a final aircraft. All were on the same flight path as the first group. There was little doubt they were coming for the Patriot.

Morgan instantly recognized the immense danger. She started interrogating the first of the nine new triangles bearing down upon them.

“Got them yet, Lieutenant?”

“Identification coming in,” she said. “Lead aircraft in second flight is hostile. Cleared for engagement.”

“Lead aircraft identified as hostile,” Fowler said, so the lieutenant could verify he understood her command. “Beginning engagement procedure.”

“Second and third aircraft also identified as hostile,” Morgan said. “Cleared for engagement on second and third aircraft.”

“Roger. Beginning engagement of . . .” He stopped in midsentence as the screens flashed new information.

Even as the data for the later flights was being fed into the system, the computer and radar were locked onto the original targets. While Fowler typed in the command to track and target the newer aircraft, the computer recognized that the first MiG had reached the firing point.

The computer selected a missile from the number six launcher and gave the command to fire. Belching hellfire and brimstone, a two-thousand-pound missile rocketed out of the launcher’s top left canister. A sleek nineteen-foot killer raced skyward at incredible speed. The instant the missile was launched, there existed a 98 percent chance of a successful kill. In all likelihood, the pilot in the intruder was already dead. The Russian just didn’t yet know that his fleeting life had come to an end.

“Confirm launch of first missile at . . .” Fowler glanced at his watch. “Zero-eight-fourteen. Paul, notify regiment of first launch.”

“Roger. Notifying regiment of initial launch at zero-eight-fourteen local time.”

They would have preferred to stop and follow the flight of the missile as it rushed into the heavens at nearly four times the speed of sound. At two thousand miles per hour, the Patriot would reach the oncoming enemy fighter in just over forty-five seconds. But if they wanted to live to see another day, the crew in the Engagement Control Station didn’t have forty-five seconds to spare. There were still fourteen aircraft roaring at them through the first frigid rays of the early-morning sunrise. All had a single goal in mind—end the Patriot soldiers’ existence.

Fowler and Morgan returned to the fight.

“Targeting second and third fighters in second flight,” Fowler said.

The computer grabbed a missile from the number two launcher and hurled it into the sky. Two seconds later, it fired a third missile, this time from launcher number eight. Three missiles appeared on their screens. Each was rushing into the heavens to seek and destroy. Two more pilots, as yet unaware, had less than a minute remaining.

There were twenty-nine missiles still waiting on the launchers to bring havoc to the German skies.

“Confirm second and third firings also at zero-eight-fourteen,” Fowler said. “Notify regiment of further launches.”

“Notification under way,” Paul said.

“Confirm hostile on second flight aircraft four, five, and six,” Morgan said.

“Roger,” Fowler answered. “Targeting second flight of aircraft four, five, and six.”

Thirty-five miles away, the onboard radar of the first fighter recognized the threat streaking toward it across the heavens. The aircraft screamed for its pilot to take evasive action. The lead triangle broke from the pack and attempted to dive thirty thousand feet to the ground below. The Russian hoped he could conceal himself in the ground clutter and lose the incoming missile. But the pilot’s desperate maneuver was bound to fail. The Patriot’s highly sophisticated computer immediately readjusted the missile’s flight. The missile matched the fighter’s every move. Even if by some miracle the pilot reached the sheltering ground, the Patriot system was far too advanced to be fooled. The missile, twice as fast and far more agile than the fighter, wouldn’t relent as it locked the MiG in its death throes and narrowed the distance between them with each passing moment.

The Patriot computer fired a fourth missile, again selecting one from the number six launcher. Right behind it, a fifth missile, from launcher number one, roared off its platform. The computer had reached the maximum number of aircraft that could be simultaneously engaged. Until one of the missiles destroyed its target, or failed in the attempt, no further firings would occur.

In the first flight, all but the trailing aircraft were being hunted down by the great birds of prey. With their radars warning them that certain death was on the wing, the pigeons scattered to the four winds. Only the final fighter in the group continued its persistent quest to eliminate the world’s premier destroyer of airplanes.

Fifteen miles behind the first flight, the second group of six came on. Given enough time, the Patriot would deal with each and every one of them.

The only question remaining was whether there would be enough time.

“Confirm two more firings at zero-eight-fifteen,” Fowler said.

“Paul, tell the Stinger teams to prepare for target acquisition,” Morgan said. “I think we might need them.”

“Notifying Stinger teams and confirming firings with regiment.”

Morgan began interrogating the final three aircraft.

“The two fighters in the third flight confirmed as hostile,” she said. “Begin targeting.”

“Roger. Confirm hostiles in third flight of two aircraft,” Fowler said, his eyes never leaving his screen.

The first missile reached out a sharpened talon to seize its helpless victim. The MiG-29 exploded, disappearing like a vapor from the slowly brightening sky. The Patriot confirmed the kill. A small tic-tac-toe symbol appeared over the aircraft’s triangle. The tic-tac-toe started to flash. In a few seconds, the scattered pieces of the destroyed fighter fell from the heavens. And the tic-tac-toe disappeared from the screens.

Fowler glanced at his watch once again. “Confirm initial kill at zero-eight-fifteen,” he said.

“Roger,” Morgan said. “Kill confirmed at zero-eight-fifteen.”

A sixth missile leaped from its launcher. It raced to meet the final fighter in the initial flight. There were five missiles in the air, eight more fighters targeted, one enemy plane destroyed, and a final unidentified aircraft with which to deal.

The clock was ticking for the Patriot crew. Any mistake at this point, no matter how small, would likely be fatal.

Another blinking tic-tac-toe flashed over one of the fleeing triangles. A second Russian aircraft was no more.

“Second kill at zero-eight-sixteen,” Fowler said. His voice was businesslike, masking the feelings of panic within him that were increasing by the second.

“Confirm second kill at zero-eight-sixteen,” the lieutenant said. She half turned in her chair. “Paul, pass on to regiment, second confirmed kill at zero-eight-sixteen.”

“Roger. Second confirmed kill at zero-eight-sixteen.”

The four triangles being hunted were heading away from the battery’s location. But the other nine were coming on fast. None of the six aircraft in the targeted second flight had yet been fired upon. They were thirty miles away and growing nearer. At a thousand miles per hour, they roared toward the Patriot team.

If the enemy wasn’t stopped, Fowler and Morgan had just over a minute to live.

With a second fighter destroyed, the Patriot launched once more. Fire roared from beneath the number two launcher. Another long missile, silhouetted in the lingering shadows of the growing sunrise, leaped from its launch tube. The pilot in the lead aircraft in the second flight would never see the coming day.

“Confirm firin

g of a seventh missile at zero-eight-sixteen,” Fowler said. As he watched the images on the screen, his concern continued to grow. There were still far too many of the enemy needing to be engaged and little time remaining to do so.

“Roger. Firing confirmed.”

A third flashing tic-tac-toe appeared on the screens. Somewhere in the dawning skies over southern Germany, another pilot’s life had ended.