The target was a ring of mobile antiaircraft batteries protecting a large Egyptian tank unit that threatened Israeli defenses east of the canal. Another formation, composed of six Skyhawks, was bearing down on the same target from the east and south. The F-4s would provide top cover from enemy fighters and attack the defenses while the A-4s went after the tanks. Assuming everyone's timing was perfect, the attack sections would hit from three directions in ninety seconds.
At 400 knots the F-4s were as fast as a.45-caliber pistol bullet at the muzzle. The ground ahead was blurred to a distance of more than 1,500 feet, so the pilots focused and refocused on more distant points. Their 250-foot altitude kept them in 'ground clutter,' the mixture of radar returns which diminished or ruined the effectiveness of Egyptian Gun Dish tracking units, but conventional flak and hand-held SA-7 missiles still posed a threat.
West of the canal, Solomon Yatanahu saw the sweep hand of his watch tick off the final seconds. He moved his twin throttles through the detent into afterburner and felt the J79-GE17 turbojets each kick in 17,900 pounds of thrust. Pulling the stick into his belly, he led his wingman in a full-power climb toward 15,000 feet, where they would briefly orbit to intercept any Egyptian aircraft attempting to break up the impending strike.
Thirty miles to the northeast, the main Phantom formation entered the target area. A carefully choreographed aerial ballet had just debuted as the mission commander held course and altitude. With precise timing, he swept into the outer fringes of the SAM belt, then popped up to 3,800 feet as he and his wingman released chaff and flares.
On the desert floor, patient Egyptian gunners and missileers watched the curtain rise in the preview of interim Israeli tactics. A similar routine was performed to the south, where the A-4s would appear in several seconds.
Tiny flickers of light reflected the sun as aluminum chaff-lengths of metal cut to match known radar frequencies-erupted by the thousands in the air. White-hot magnesium flares burst into existence, competing with the heat of jet engines and drawing off some of the missiles launched at the brown-and-tan camouflaged fighters. On each side of the target, Phantoms crossed one another's flight paths, adding more 'hot spots' in the sky which might lure one or two SAMs from genuine targets.
The Gainful missiles-three to a vehicle-were unable to track fast, low-flying targets under these circumstances, and their threat was negated. But dozens-perhaps scores-of soldiers with shoulder
mounted Grails pointed their launchers skyward, acquired the green light indicating they were tracking a heat source, and fired. The desert blossomed with dust clouds as the SA-7s lifted off, crowding the flak-filled sky with lethal fingers groping for an unwary or unlucky victim.
The Phantom leader, seeing his countermeasures taking effect, noted the first white flashes in his peripheral vision as bombs exploded to the southeast. Good; the Skyhawks arrived on time. He turned back for another pass to assess the damage.
'MIGS FOUR O'CLOCK LEVEL!'
Captain Yatanahu whipped his head over his right shoulder in response to his wingman's call. Almost immediately he saw a camouflaged delta-winged shape bearing down on him. The Phantom pilot estimated its distance as two miles, closing fast. Not much time.
Yatanahu had 550 knots on his airspeed indicator. He pulled the stick into the right rear comer of the cockpit, stood on the right rudder pedal, and loaded almost seven Gs on himself, his radar operator, and his aircraft. With adrenaline surging and full concentration upon his adversary, he was hardly aware of the physiological effects of seven times normal gravity.
The MiG-21 had begun a countermove, curving to its left in an attempt to maintain position on the F-4. Yatanahu's momentum was too great to gain an angle advantage at this speed and distance so he momentarily stopped his turn, maintaining 135 degrees of bank. When he judged the moment was right, he continued his maneuver into an elegant barrel roll above, beyond, and below the MiG's flight path.
Yatanahu heard a garbled transmission from his wingman, who presumably was engaged with a MiG of his own. The captain was aware of his backseater's labored breathing on the hot mike, his favorable position relative to the MiG, and his parameters for weapons employment. He had already discarded the Sparrow option; he was too close for a radar missile and he wasn't convinced the electronic countermeasures the enemy had so unexpectedly developed wouldn't defeat an AIM-7.
Therefore, Yatanahu pulled into three-quarters of a mile of the MiG's tail, slightly offset to the left. His armament switch was selected for HEAT, and he heard the manic chirping in his earphones which told him his Sidewinder missile was tracking the enemy's hot tailpipe. Yatanahu pressed the trigger, and after a pause saw the AIM-9 surge past his left side. It arced toward the MiG and exploded in the engine's plume.
Instantly the Phantom pilot shifted his armament switch to GUN.
He had a 20mm cannon in his nose and fully intended to use it. But the MiG-21 pilot chose that fortuitous moment to eject himself from his doomed fighter.
Yatanahu looked around, and his backseater anticipated his concern. ''Two is rejoining at three o'clock.' Two Phantoms had taken on three MiGs, destroying one and damaging another. Thirty-five seconds had passed. Yatanahu glanced at his watch and set a circuitous course for home. Whatever had happened with the anti-tank mission, he had done his job.
Modi Tal was pleased. he had timed his wide turn away from the target to allow much of the dust to settle, and now was screeching toward the southeastern corner of the armored pocket at nearly Mach 1. He wanted another pass to evaluate the results of the raid, which seemed to have been well executed. He counted at least eight vehicles aflame-either T-54 tanks or tracked missile carriers.
Several trip-hammer blows pounded the F -4E, sixteen in all.
The Phantom rolled violently to the right, shedding parts as the aerodynamic forces tore at the ragged gouges left by 23mm explosive shells.
There had been no warning from the Gun Dish continuous wave radar. The Egyptian battery commander had shrewdly placed two vehicles beyond the obvious perimeter, camouflaged with sand-colored nets, and had obtained a firing solution on the speeding jet.
In the rear cockpit, the young reservist initiated command ejection without waiting for word from his pilot. At low level there was no time for corrective action, and as the stricken F-4 began its second roll both canopies came off. The rear seat fired, hurling the radar operator out of the Phantom one and three-quarters seconds before the pilot's seat rocketed away. The sequence prevented the front seat ignition from searing the backseat occupant, but it didn't matter. Both fliers were flung into the violent turbulence of supersonic air, and neither survived.
The battery commander saw the American-built fighter plunge to the ground and explode in a fireball of jet fuel. He was glad of his unit's success, but he was enough of a professional to know that one airplane in exchange for nearly a dozen armored vehicles was no bargain. The Israelis were learning fast.
The four Vought F-8Js cruised effortlessly at 20,000 feet, deployed in combat spread. Each was armed with 20mm ammunition and AIM-9 Sidewinder missiles. Though the world's attention was riveted on events nearly 2,000 miles to the north, the aircraft carrier USS
One war had just ended-or at least American involvement had ended-and the thirty-year-old carrier was a veteran of that war. She had been on her eighth cruise to the Tonkin Gulf when ordered south at high speed with her escorts and fleet oiler. Now
Aloft in the lead F-8 was Commander John L. Bennett, skipper of Fighter Squadron 24. With three previous combat tours and a MiG-17 to his credit, Bennett was one of the most experienced fighter pilots in the U.S. Navy. At age thirty-eight he recognized that he was near the acme of his professional life. If fortunate, he might obtain one more flying tour as an air wing commander. After that, he did not want to think about it.
Bennett glanced at his fuel gauge, noting he had ample JP5 remaining. Engine rpm, fuel flow, tailpipe temperature all normal. Bennett's practiced scan took in his aircraft's vital signs in seconds and returned where it belonged-outside the cockpit. But he mused upon the events of the past few days.
Only days before
