It looked a little tight. Just as he was going to inch closer, an airman with a flashlight ran up from the side and waved him forward. He pointed the light over to the side, and Tony could see where they had added some metal matting to one side of the pavement.
They taxied over the matting gingerly and lined up for takeoff. Tony called the other two ships. “Combat departure. Go.”
They were lightly loaded, thank God. Even with afterburner they were barely past takeoff speed when they hit the end of the runway. The combat turn was a little shallower than usual, but they made it.
As they climbed, he looked at the sky. He hadn’t stopped for a weather report. There were scattered clouds at high altitude, maybe thirty thousand feet. No problem for his flight, but he hoped there weren’t any surprises in the forecast.
He led first flight, so they would orbit at ten thousand feet. Second flight would be at fifteen thousand, and so on. Tony felt almost honored. Any bandits would probably come in at low altitude, so he was closest to them and might be the only one able to hit the gomers before they made their attack. Of course they were also the closest to all those SAMs and Vulcans. Something to remember if they got in a scrap. That thought made him pause. “Showtime flight, verify IFF is on, out.” He looked over and saw both planes waggle their wings in answer.
IFF stood for “Identification, Friend or Foe.” The electronic box sent out a coded pulse that told friendly radar screens that they were friendly aircraft. If they were shot down by their own side, it wouldn’t be his fault.
They reached ten thousand and leveled off, throttling back until the engines were almost idling. Since they didn’t have to go anywhere, the idea was to minimize fuel used and maximize time aloft. He started a long, slow turn, looking alternately at the horizon and his radar screen. His abbreviated formation maintained position behind him.
As they started their third circle, Tony and the rest of his flight heard their call sign. “Showtime, this is Pancake. Steer two nine five.” Tony immediately turned to the new course, increasing his throttle to cruise speed. Pancake hadn’t said why they should head west, but there was only one reason to do so: bandits.
“Pancake” was the ground-based fighter control station. The staff analyzed the radar picture and tried to predict where the inbound aircraft were going to attack. It was not a simple task. Not only did mountain valleys block many radar beams, but the enemy used jamming and feints to confuse the issue.
Pancake probably had enough info to want the Showtimers moving west, but nothing hard, Tony thought to himself. He tried to imagine John’s mood right now. He had always been tight with the enlisted crews. Hooter was solid, though.
Boomer was aggressive enough, but he didn’t have a lot of experience in night air combat. With only the radar and occasional silhouettes of an opponent, dogfighting became much more difficult. It was best to make a fast, slashing attack, then get out of Dodge before someone got in a lucky shot.
“Penguin, Cadillac, Universe, Showtime, Castle, this is Pancake. Multiple bogies at five thousand to ten thousand feet, raid count thirty, speed four hundred at fifty miles. Steer two eight seven, buster.”
Jesus, Tony thought, they’re really calling in the clans! Thirty aircraft, probably one-quarter are escorts. We’ve got about fifteen.
Buster meant full throttle, but not afterburner. He increased speed, the pressure at his back almost reassuring. Suddenly his radar scope was filled with contacts. The computer sorted them out and locked onto the nearest plane. Forty miles out, closure rate of 900 knots. “Pancake, Showtime has lock.”
“Roger, Saint. Cleared to engage. Get some.”
A diamond symbol on his HUD told him where to look for the target. It was about two thousand feet lower than he was, which put it below the horizon and hard to spot. They were approaching from the target’s front, a little to the right. There were three other aircraft close by, probably a flight of four like his own should be. “Hooter, take the right man, Boomer, the left. Clear to fire nine limas at max.”
Automatically Showtime flight spread out into line abreast. They would fire Sidewinder missiles at maximum range, almost ten miles. It isn’t the best angle, he thought. Better would be dead aft, but it’s in the envelope. “Twenty miles out.”
He spared a glance at his wingmen, then at the horizon. They were just visible in the dark, still in position. No other aircraft could be seen. Dawn was still five hours away.
Tony got a growl at fifteen miles. The seeker “saw” the target, even though the missile’s motor couldn’t carry it that far. He held it for a few seconds as they closed the gap. With the seeker’s signal still filling his earphones, he heard a
“Shit!” He pressed the shoot button on his stick, with the HUD readout at 12.2 miles. At the same time he called, “Showtimers break left!” and pushed the stick over hard. He tensed his muscles and took short breaths as the g’s increased.
There was a switch-plate on the left wall of the cockpit, next to the throttle, that released chaff, bits of metalized plastic that could confuse a radar-guided missile. Tony banged it with his fist twice. Suddenly there was a
He heard a SLAM and his heart turned to lead. Automatically he looked to the left, the engaged side. There was a bright ball of flame, right where Boomer ought to be.
“Saint, Boomer’s gone!”
Radar-guided missiles meant interceptors. Where were they? He looked at his scope. “Hooter, Bandits at two three zero are probably the fighters.”
“Rog. You have the lead.”
They closed at burner. It was too dark for a visual ID, but Tony had a good lock. There were three aircraft, all small. Range was seventeen miles with a closure rate of over a thousand knots.
They both automatically armed Sidewinders and fired a few seconds later. Tony went vertical, with Hooter following. His plan was to roll into the opponents after he saw the results of the missile attack. He looked back down for the aircraft maneuvering or missile explosions, but he saw nothing. He scanned the sky frantically and saw a flash of wings at his level!
It was too dark to see the type, but he saw two fins against a lighter sky. It was maneuvering with him, which meant a capable aircraft and a capable pilot. He maneuvered, trying to maintain energy and get in firing position. Meanwhile, they climbed.
The thing had two engines, and they were both on burner. Tony throttled back and saw him pull ahead. “He must have lost me,” Tony thought.
Hitting the cannon select, he started lining up for a shot. The pilot would realize his error any second.
“Saint, there’s one behind.”
“Rog.” The plane’s tail filled his HUD and he fired. There was no flash, but the aircraft suddenly spun wildly to the right. He started to follow it down —
“One’s behind, at your seven, break left!” Tony pushed left on the stick and leveled out, turning hard. Hooter was behind and to his right.
“Can you get a shot?”
“I’m going to guns. Turn harder, he’s lining up!”
Tony was already pulling seven plus g’s. The harder an aircraft turned, the more speed it bled off. He was going to start slowing down, which could make him an easy mark. He put the aircraft in a shallow dive to gain some speed back, cranking the stick even harder. His head was pushed back by forces nine times normal. “Get him, Hooter!”
“Rog.”
Even in the steep diving turn, Tony jinked and slid, trying to spoil the pilot’s aim. He looked over his shoulder and saw the bastard nimbly following his maneuvers. “Anytime, Hooter.”
“Rog.”
Tony continued to jink, watching his altitude decrease. The fight had started at about eight thousand. He was now at sixty-five hundred and had the choice of either diving into the SAM envelope at five thousand or pulling up and losing —
“Shooting.”
