Code of Honor полностью

“That is not likely,” Deddy corrected his protégé. “Habib can still maintain distance and separation above us. Below, he would be blind.”

Chavez put a hand on the pilot’s shoulder. “Keep her straight and level. And slow us down. That should make it more difficult for him to maneuver his jet.”

Deddy shook his head. “The Hawker is faster than us, but it can fly almost as slowly. And we are heavy with product.”

The F-15 came across the radio again. “Piper Cheyenne, Justice, your company is camped out on top of you about thirty meters. Are there any friendlies on board the Hawker?”

“That’s a negative, Justice,” Chavez said.

“Copy, Cheyenne,” the F-15 leader said. “Stand by… Hawker, Hawker, this is a United States Navy aircraft over international waters. You are endangering the lives of United States citizens. I order you to turn left ninety degrees immediately.”

In the aircraft world, immediately meant just that.

Justice One spoke again, a hint of the barrio in his accent now.

“Cheyenne, Justice One, are you familiar with a head-butt maneuver?”

“I am,” Chavez said.

“Stand by to see one up close.”

Chavez barely had time to explain to a sweating Deddy and his hiccupping copilot before the F-15 looped in front of the Cheyenne, cutting directly across the nose in full afterburner, flaring to display the array of missiles under the wings as it shot by. The roaring Pratt & Whitney turbofan engines shook the much smaller aircraft in a terrifying show of force.

“He’s sticking with you, Cheyenne,” the F-15 pilot said. “Rules of Engagement are crystal clear on this. Stand by to decrease throttle and break right on my mark, going for avoidance. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Wilco.” Chavez made sure Deddy understood the plan and then grabbed a handful of seat leather.

“Three… two… one… mark!”

Deddy did what he was told and banked the Cheyenne 60 degrees to the right. The G-force of the skidding turn felt as if it might drive Chavez’s feet through the cabin floor.

A moment later, Justice One crackled over the radio again. “No go, Cheyenne. He’s sticking tight with you. Too close for a shot with a Sparrow. The missile wouldn’t be able to differentiate.”

Chavez had thought about asking for the M61A1 Vulcan rotary cannon, but he didn’t like the image. The F-15 Eagle had to really put on the brakes to get back down to the speed of sound, and Chavez didn’t relish the idea of eating any stray 20-millimeter rounds when they came screaming by.

He was struck with a sudden idea. “Justice One, Cheyenne.”

“Yes, sir, go for Justice One.”

Damn, this kid is calm.

“You speak Spanish?”

“Affirmative, sir,” the F-15 pilot said. “I’m with you there. Stand by.”

Deddy gave Chavez a shaky thumbs-up to show he understood the plan.

Justice One gave the preparatory command to break right again on his mark, only this time, he gave it in Spanish.

Chavez began to translate — and it would have worked, had they not hit turbulence, causing the Hawker, still pancaked in tight above, to drop enough that her belly struck the horizontal stabilizer on top of the Cheyenne’s T-tail.

The plane lurched and began to dive.

Deddy pushed a button on his yoke, then followed up by turning a manual wheel forward of the middle console.

His voice was quiet. Taut. “They have damaged the pushrods that control the elevators. The trim tab will help some, but we must land. Now.”

“Cheyenne,” the F-15 pilot said, surprise evident in his voice. “Did the Hawker just collide with you?”

“Affirmative, Justice One,” Chavez said. “Good chance he damaged his landing gear.”

“He won’t need landing gear if you can give me separation. Can you still control the airplane?”

“Barely,” Chavez said. “We’re going to have to put down.”

“There is an airfield two miles to the south,” Deddy said.

Chavez leaned forward, catching the pilot’s eye. “You were taking us there all along.”

Deddy nodded. “I thought my idiot brother-in-law would force us down. I did not know he would crash his plane into mine.”