The Fourth War Read Online Free PDF

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    Inside the cockpit of the lead aircraft, a young flight commander with a salt-and-pepper beard and deep, angry eyes pulled his oxygen mask up to his face and snapped it into position. He glanced over his left shoulder, giving his wingman a final inspection, ensuring his weapons had been armed and he was ready to go. The wingman nodded and the commander replied with a quick wave. The flight leader turned back toward the runway, adjusted himself in the seat, then spoke confidently into the microphone embedded in his mask. “Tower, Bengal two-one, ready for takeoff.” The pilot spoke in his native Urdu, which was against the coalition rules. With U.S. flight supervisors monitoring airfield operations, all the flight crews were supposed to communicate in English, the internationally accepted language of air-traffic control. Most of the Pakistani pilots complied with this rule, but the commander did not. To him, the Americans were un-invited intruders, rude and arrogant, and he figured they could learn Urdu if they wanted to understand what he said.
    After a moment’s pause, the tower controller replied, “Bengal, stand by.” The controller spoke in English and the pilot bristled in his seat. What a pitiful language, like the chatter of little girls. He glanced at the clock on his cockpit display. Forty seconds until takeoff. He swore anxiously.
    Waiting for clearance, he pressed on his brake pedals and brought his engine up to 85 percent power. The aircraft shuddered below him, straining to move forward as the front strut compressed against the force of the brakes. He watched as his wingman also brought his power up. His engine-exhaust nozzles closed, indicating the second aircraft was near the afterburner range and a beautiful orange and blue flame began to glow in the afterburner cans. The pilot waited impatiently, his breath sounding in his mask. Ten seconds later, the tower controller finally came back, “Bengal, cleared for takeoff. Good hunting tonight.”
    Without acknowledging the controller, the pilot pushed his throttle to full military power. His engine accelerated to 100-percent RPM in less than two seconds. As the engine screamed behind him, the fighter began to inch forward and the pilot pressed more firmly against his brakes; one final check of his instruments and navigation displays, then he released his brakes. The fighter almost jumped forward, pushing the pilot back in his seat. He jammed the throttle forward to the afterburner range and a bright blue and yellow flame shot from the back of his engine. The two Falcons raced together. A thousand feet down the runway they passed through one hundred and twenty knots. Stealing a look to his side, the commander saw he was moving forward of his wingman and cracked his throttle just a bit so the younger pilot could more easily stay in position.
    As his fighter accelerated, it bounced across the cuts in the pavement, for it was heavy with weapons and fully loaded with fuel. An AIM-9 Sidewinder missile was mounted on the tips of both wings. Further in were an assortment of other air-to-air and air-to-ground weapons—two AMRAAMs, the most lethal air-to-air missile in the world, and four GBU-15 laser-guided bombs.
    Pakistani Presidential Aircraft (Steal One)
Over Western Pakistan
    As the two fighters lifted into the air, several hundred miles to the west the president of Pakistan, a four-star army general, leaned against the leather seat of his personal aircraft, an old Boeing 727 built in 1962. He looked at the landscape below as the aircraft flew toward the night, evening deepening quickly from dusk into gloom. He was tired and angry. And frustrated with himself. His mood, like the night, darkened as the aircraft flew east.
    The president was tired of this military campaign—this war of revenge that never seemed to end. He was tired of the situation the United States had placed him in, a dark and dangerous situation that might