Tombstone turned to the TAO in TFCC. “Get that Tomcat on its ass. Weapons free if he sees any hostile intent, but for now just VID?visual identification?and escort. I want to know the second he can tell whether or not the wings are dirty.”
If the Turkish Falcon wings were clean, devoid of the Sidewinders, AAMRAM, and Sparrow missiles that made it a deadly air-to-air adversary, he would feel a good deal more comfortable than he felt now. However, until CAP got a good look at it, the only safe tactic was to assume that the Falcon was armed?and deadly.
“Tomcats,” the Falcon pilot reported back to his base in Ankara. “Two of them?one to the north, one directly ahead. Instructions?”
“Continue mission as briefed. You are merely to assert our right to use international airways, not to challenge or otherwise provoke the American forces. Is that clear?”
The pilot sighed and kicked the nimble single-seater F-16C in the ass.
The single General Electric turbofan responded immediately, the muted growl that was a continual background noise in the small cockpit climbing up into a higher octave and increasing the vibration slightly.
These freedom-of-aviation operations were a pain but a necessity. The attack on the American flagship had horrified him, along with most of his colleagues. Rumors were exploding around the base, ranging from one story claiming that the Americans had taken the first shot at a Turkish commercial flight to a barely credible fantasy centering around Kurdish rebels gaining control of Turkey’s nuclear arsenal. It seemed highly unlikely, if not absolutely impossible, that the Turkish government would have authorized such an attack. That fact alone gave credence to some of the more mythical rumors abounding.
On the other hand, the fundamentalist Islamic government certainly had less use for their American protectors than did their predecessors. While such political maneuverings might be far out of his scope of responsibility, the pilot was worried about the consequences of such a trend. Fewer spare parts, perhaps even an end to the coproduction facility with General Dynamics that had done so much to improve his country’s military aircraft inventory. After three years flying Falcons, he dreaded the possibility of being forced to fly an older aircraft. And the Falcon was, without a doubt, one of the finest, most versatile all-weather night-and-day military aircraft in the world.
“He’s turning toward me,” he radioed back to his ground control intercept, or GCI.
“Maintain level flight.” The order was curt, abrupt.
At least he was flying, not sitting in a classroom listening to interminable lectures on wars they’d never see. Or safety lectures?God, he hated those worst of all. It was bad enough that you had nightmares about punching out, but to see the realities of shark attacks during experiments, the effect that blood in the water had on the predators, was enough to distract you. And that was the last thing he needed, distractions?not while flying the Falcon.
Best to be very unthreatening then. The pilot double-checked his radar, making sure that it was in a simple search mode rather than fire-control-targeting. The latter mode would have given the Americans ample provocation to fire on him. Particularly under the circumstances.
“I need some altitude.”
Snake selected afterburners, yanked the Tomcat into a steep climb, and headed for altitude. Against a dissimilar aircraft such as this, the key to tactical superiority lay in exploiting the Tomcat’s greater thrust-to-weight ratio. The Falcon, a lighter, more maneuverable aircraft, would prefer to stay in a flat plane of engagement.
With its smaller turning radius, it would try to force the Tomcat into a scissors maneuver, exploiting its own capabilities to turn inside the Tomcat’s maneuvers and obtain a favorable position on his tail.
Or at least, that was what they’d practiced back in Top Gun school.
The pilot swallowed nervously, praying that he had enough experience to take on the Falcon.
“Got a visual,” the RIO reported. “Seven o’clock.”
Snake caught it then, the tiny smudge on the horizon. With a combined closure speed of over 1600 knots, the shape rapidly resolved into the sky-gray form of a Delta-wing fighter.
“Get under him,” Kraut suggested. “Homeplate wants to know if his wings are dirty.”
Snake obliged, descending to an altitude five hundred feet lower than that of the Falcon. This particular AOA?angle of attack?would give him a perfect view of the wings and fuselage. That would determine the next Move.
“He’s maneuvering,” the pilot said excitedly into the microphone.
“Descending?Control, he’s moving slower than I am. He’s going to have an advantage on me if he gets on my tail.”
“Evade as necessary, but make no threatening maneuvers,” was the response.
Great?evade without looking suspicious. Just how the hell was he supposed to do that?
For just a second, he wished he had the GCI operator in the cockpit with him so that he could strangle the man.
Whose idea was it to carry a standard practice load of dummy missiles on the wings during FON ops?
At this point, what his superiors had glossed over during his brief was beginning to seem like a very, very bad idea.
In all probability, the Tomcats were simply on a VID and escort mission. In all probability. But given the Americans’ claim of a Turkish attack on a flagship, how likely was it that the Tomcats were prepared to be reasonable?
By the time he could answer that question with any degree of certainty, it would be too late. The Tomcat would be firmly on his tail in perfect firing position. It would be too late then to second-guess the GCI.
Better safe than sorry. He stomped the Falcon into a hard right-hand turn.
“He’s maneuvering,” Kraut snapped. “Jesus, Snake, he’s on our tail.”
“Not for long.”
The Tomcat pilot put his aircraft into another steep climb, grabbing for altitude. The more powerful F-14 had to force the more maneuverable aircraft into an altitude game, one that the Tomcat would probably win.
“Did you see his wings?” Snake asked. He had been too busy maintaining safe separation between the two aircraft during their approach to get a good look. But the one glance he had gotten was enough to worry him.
“Roger that. Full combat load, it looked like.”
“You’re certain?”
“As certain as I can be at sixteen hundred knots of closure,” the RIO retorted. “You wanna go back that close for another look?”
“Tell Homeplate.”
The RIO flipped the toggle switch to tactical circuit. “Homeplate, I think we’ve got a problem.”
“He’s gaining altitude,” the Turkish Falcon pilot reported.
“Instructions?”
“Continue the mission as briefed. Approach to within sixty nautical miles of the USS La Salle, then turn back.”
“But he’s-“
“Do it.”
The Turkish Falcon broke off from the preliminary engagement maneuvering and corrected his heading back toward USS La Salle.