Transmission: Voodoo Plague Book 5 by Dirk Patton Page A

and wearing a skirt, who had
kissed the SF guy goodbye.  She had watched the loading of the aircraft with a
keen interest, not even taking her eyes off of it while speaking on a large,
satellite phone.
    The jet was taxiing to the main runway where six of the Mig
fighters sat waiting.  Once it was in place, the remaining six Migs would form
up at a safe distance behind, all thirteen aircraft taking off within a minute
of each other.  Michael T watched them jockey around as all the pilots got into
position.
    The Antonov’s pilot’s face was large in his scope, and he
wished he could put a round through the man’s head.  The plane wouldn’t go
anywhere, and while they might look, the Russians wouldn’t find him or his
brother.  But, his orders were clear.  Observe and report, only.  He could not
engage any target for any reason, other than self-defense.
    A moment later the lead Migs throttled up and raced down the
runway, quickly leaping into the blue sky.  The Antonov had started rolling at
the same time, but the much larger aircraft was heavily loaded and needed
nearly the full length of the runway to get off the ground.  As soon as its
tires left the tarmac, Michael T notified the Force Recon team.  The remaining
Migs were in the air in moments, racing to gain altitude. 
    The Russian Air Force is neither incompetent nor stupid, but
they are human and susceptible to human arrogance.  Their mistake that day was
thinking that the only possible threat to the lumbering jet was from other
aircraft.  They were well protected against that threat with a 200 mile radius
CAP around the base as well as the 12 escort fighters whose only purpose in
life was to protect the Antonov.  What they didn’t take into account was the
possibility of a surface to air attack.
    No routine ground patrols were occurring to prevent an enemy
from setting up on their airfield.  No low-level helicopter patrols of a buffer
zone around the base.  Nothing.  This was good for the Marines.  It had made
their jobs much easier, and increased the likelihood that they might
successfully evade what was sure to be a swift Russian response once they shot
the plane down.
    “System is on automatic.  Badger 25 bugging out.”  Michael T
heard over his radio earpiece.  Acknowledging the transmission, he wished them
luck.
    The Marines had set the Avenger’s system to automatically
track and shoot any aircraft that came within range of its sensors.  Then they
had gotten the hell out of the area.  Hopefully they would be able to put
enough distance between them and the Avenger that the Russians couldn’t find
them.  They would probably have five minutes at the most from the time the
first missile left the pod mounted on the rear of the Hummer.
    The Antonov pilot had never flown in a combat zone before
coming to America.  If he had, he likely would have gained altitude as quickly
as possible.  He also would have requested and been granted permission by the
air traffic controllers to spiral up as he climbed, keeping his aircraft in
vertical alignment with the air base.  But he did none of this.  Instead he
flew straight ahead, slowly gaining altitude.  Civilian passengers would have
appreciated the smooth and steady take off, but they wouldn’t have liked the
results.
    One minute after the Antonov’s landing gear left the tarmac,
the giant plane had only climbed 2,000 feet.  Ten seconds later it entered the
Avenger’s sensor range, the Boeing made system locking on in a fraction of a
second, analyzing the signature, and firing a missile.  The Marines had
programmed some additional instructions into the computer that controlled the
missiles, and quickly the remaining seven SAMs rippled out of their pods and
sped skyward.  Each of them was locked onto one of the Migs, the fighters still
below the missiles’ operational ceiling of 15,000 feet as they loitered,
waiting for the much slower cargo jet.
    Five seconds later the first missile