Battle Born Read Online Free Page B

When the pilot rolled out of his turn, the OSO took a radar patch on the target. “I got the patch. Steering to the target is good. Give me full blowers, Rodeo!” The pilot shoved the throttles back into max afterburner, and a few seconds later they broke the speed of sound.
    “Bandit now at nine o’clock, ten miles and closing!”
    “Stand by . . . bombs away!” the OSO yelled. The CBU-87 cluster bomb scored a direct hit.
    “Zeus-23’s still up,” the DSO said.
    “What?”
the OSO yelled. “That run looked great! We were a little off, but well within the kill zone. Those squids are jacking us around, guys! That was a good kill all the—”
    “Forget about it, Long Dong,” the pilot interrupted. “Where’s my steering?”
    The OSO called up the last target in the third restricted-area bombing range. “Steering is good,” he said. “Single Scud-ER transporter-erector-launcher with communications van. Supposed to be tucked in between some hills. Max points if we get this one, guys—it’s worth more than all the other targets put together. Gimme a little altitude so I can see into the target area.”
    “Scope’s clear,” the DSO immediately reported.
    It was clear to see why the OSO needed some altitude. The pilots couldn’t see much more than a few miles ahead, and if they couldn’t see, the radar could see even less. They were several seconds late too, and the faster speed meant even less time to spot the target.“Get ready for a vertical jink,” the pilot said. He reset the clearance plane switch to one thousand feet, and the bomber responded with a steep climb.
    “I got . . . squat,” the OSO reported. The cross hairs went out to a large section of blackness. There were no radar returns yet in the target area. His hesitant voice infuriated the pilots even more. “ADF a one-three-five track, pilots. Clear back down.”
    The pilot released the pitch interrupt trigger, and the bomber settled back down to its roller-coaster ride just two hundred feet above the blurred earth zooming by. “You got the target?” he asked.
    “Not yet,” the OSO responded. “The radar predictions said we won’t see the targets until four NAP if we stay low—we’d need to go up to two thousand to see it sooner. Let’s get back on planned track, and then give me another jink so I can get a better—”
    “Bandits!” the DSO interrupted. “Eight o’clock, fifteen miles and closing! I think it’s an F-14—no,
two
F-14s! Give me a hard left thirty!”
    “I’ll lose my look down the canyon!” the OSO objected. But the pilot rolled into a hard ninety-degree bank turn, rolling out just far enough to track perpendicular to the fighter. “Reverse as fast as you can!” the OSO said. “I need one last look down that canyon!”
    “Clear to turn back!” the DSO said after only a few seconds. The pilot started a right turn. “Trackbreakers active! Bandits never turned. They’re nine o’clock, nine miles.”
    “Give me a vertical jink now!” the OSO said.
    “Negative!” the DSO interjected. “We’ll be highlighted against the horizon! If the fighter gets a visual on us, he’s got us!”
    “I need the altitude!” the OSO cried. “I can’t see shit!”
    “If we climb, he’ll spot us!” the pilot protested.
    “Then center up!” shouted the OSO. “I’ll try to get a lock close-in.” He knew he’d have only seconds to see the target on radar before bomb release.
    Sure enough, as they closed in on the target, all he could see on the digital radar screen was dark green, interspersed with flecks of white. The terrain was shadowing every bit of ground radar returns. Nothing showed up on the MTA display—no moving targets at all.
    “Twenty TG,” the OSO said. “Action left thirty. I need one thousand feet, pilot, and I need it
now.
”
    “All right,” the pilot said. “You got about five seconds.” He spun the clearance plane switch and they climbed. “You get your fix, Long Dong?”
    The