time.
'Viper Flight, Home Plate. We have launch indications probable MiGs.' The OS sounded almost excited about it, something unusual for the air-intercept controllers on Jefferson.
'Roger.' I just acknowledged the report ? when I needed to know more, I'd ask.
'Great ? just what we needed.' Gator was carping again.
'You think I carry these Sidewinders out here for my health?' I demanded. 'Not hardly ? we ain't going home with any weapons on the wings, Gator.'
'Fine with me.'
As I got to thinking about it, I realized that Gator was probably as pissed at the Vietnamese as I was. More so, probably. He's four years senior to me, and had been stuck flying with me ever since my first cruise. He claims he spends most of his time trying to keep me out of trouble. But he and I both know that he's just a passenger, a guy in the back, a scope dope.
Well, not exactly. Gator's pulled my ass out of the fire in the air more than once.
I felt a bit chagrined when I thought about it. He was bound to be just as pissed as I was about losing the E-2C, but he'd never let on. You wouldn't see Gator charging into the admiral's office demanding to lead the flight back. You certainly would not. I made a mental note to skip some of the aerobatics on the way back, just because I knew how much he hated them.
They were on us almost immediately. I saw the first one pop up out of the trees at a ninety-degree angle to the ground, full afterburners spitting fire out his ass as he achieved a rate of climb that my Tomcat would never be able to match. The MiG-29s were faster, and more maneuverable, but the Tomcat had sheer power they couldn't even begin to match.
And more weapons.
'Get that shit off your wings,' Skeeter suggested. 'The bird will fly better without 'em.'
'You think I don't know that?' I demanded. 'Just reminding you,' my wingman said casually.
Someday, someday, I'm gonna kill that little shit. It pisses me off the most when he's right. The moment to catch those MiGs was when they were fully committed to gaining altitude and thus less maneuverable.
'Fox one, Fox one.' I pickled off the first Phoenix and held my Tomcat head-on to the ascending MiG.
My bird jolted to the left as I dropped the Phoenix off the right wing, and I fought her back into level flight. The massive missile seemed to move slowly at first, then quickly picked up speed. One thing I can say for it ? it's a powerful warhead, and if you do hit something, you're gonna kill it.
Skeeter had taken high station on me, eight thousand feet above and behind me. This loose-deuce fighting formation has worked for two generations of Navy pilots, and it's still the best approach in tactical aviation. It's particularly effective against a smaller, more agile aircraft like a MiG. There are basically two types of air-combat fighting styles. Both of them are driven by the performance characteristics of your aircraft and the nerve of the pilot. You take a big aircraft, something like the Tomcat, and you've got all the power in the world. Those engines will pump out a helluva lot of lift, and you can gain altitude over the long run faster than any MiG around.
The MiG, on the other hand, is an angles fighter. He likes to creep inside your turns, pivot around, and drop into position for the perfect tail shot. That's why the two-man Navy formation is so effective ? even as nimble as a MiG is, he can't keep up with two of us.
'Shit shit shit shit shit,' I heard the refrain from the backseat.
'What the hell is the shit?' I asked.
'Bird Dog, we're about to get-' Gator never got a chance to finish the sentence. The canopy of treetops below us exploded with what seemed like a thousand sleek aircraft, all arrowing up like they'd been shot out of the same quiver. They were all MiGs, all carrying a full combat load, and all plainly intending to jump into our part of the sky, gain some altitude, and then beat the shit out of us.
'Fuck this.' I broke radar lock with the Phoenix, saw it waver off course and fall away harmlessly. I took a shot in the general direction of the aircraft ascending from the trees, just to get their attention, then made my own dash for some altitude.
There were fourteen of us ? seven pairs ? and only twenty-four of them. Not a fair fight ? but then, whoever said they had to fight fair?
'Viper Flight, engage at will. Watch the blue-on-blues, guys ? pick your target.'
'This one,' Gator said, targeting one of the blips with his radar designator from the backseat. I nodded my agreement.
'Fox two,' I said after the steady growl of the missile told me it had a solid radar lock on the nearest MiG.
The Sparrow is a fire-and-forget weapon. Unlike the Phoenix, it graciously lets me go kill other bastards while it seeks out the one I picked out for it. Assuming the Phoenix didn't get anything, I had enough missiles for four kills. Maybe five, if I could catch two MiGs in the same fireball.
'We're about to get in serious trouble,' Gator warned. 'Bird Dog, those lead three are at altitude. They're maneuvering, coming back down in on us. We got to get the hell outta here.'
'Skeeter, you got them?' I queried.
'Fox three, Fox three,' I heard my wingman say. Seconds later, a bright fireball obliterated my vision.
'Jesus, that was close!' I snapped. 'Skeeter, don't you-?'
'Fox two,' Skeeter interrupted, indicating he'd just toggled off a Sparrow. 'Come on, baby,' I heard him add softly, coaxing the missile along to its intended target.
My Sparrow finally found its target, and I saw the treetop canopy blazing in bright fire. My MiG had tried to go low, tried to break the radar lock by confusing the Sparrow's cute little sensor with the clutter from the treetops. Sometimes it works. This time it didn't.
'Break left, break left,' Gator ordered, his voice a pitch higher. 'Incoming! It's gonna be close!'
I threw the Tomcat into a hard left-hand turn, stamping down on the pedals and slamming the throttles home into full afterburner. She turned so tight I felt like I was in a dodge-'em car instead of an eighty-million-dollar aircraft.
Behind me, I heard Gator grunting. The G forces that build up in a tight turn are incredible, and Gator was performing the M1 maneuver. You tense up all the muscles, tense your stomach up, and grunt. It forces the blood back up out of your legs and keeps it pumping to your brain. That keeps you from blacking out on a high-G turn.
Harder on him than it was on me. Sitting up front, I know when it's coming. Sometimes you catch the RIOs unawares and knock 'em out before you really know that you're doing it. 'You okay?' I asked as the G forces started to ease.
'Got it ? target here.' Gator kept radio chatter to a minimum as he fed me another target.
I craned my neck around, trying to see it. He was in front of the sun, hidden from visual by the brilliant glare.
'I don't have him, I don't have him.'
'He's up there. I gave you the target.' Gator sounded certain. 'Take him with the Sparrow.'
'Fox two, Fox two.' The lighter Sparrow leapt off the wing like a weapon possessed and steered straight up toward the sun. It was the only weapon of choice at that point. Sidewinders become easily distracted by the sun. They see it as a giant, warm and fuzzy target, the mother of all targets for a heat-seeking missile. They wander happily off course, chasing it out of the sky until they run out of fuel.
'Break right,' Gator ordered.
We were flying as a team now, the perfect trio. Gator was no longer a separate person but a part of me, a disembodied voice that seemed to be coming from inside my own head as much as through the earphones, and an extra set of eyes that fed me data and radar targets so quickly and seamlessly that it felt I was doing it myself.
And the aircraft that enclosed us ? no more metal and struts and fuselage, but simply power, raw power carrying us back and forth across the sky. We were one entity, one being, with one single purpose in life ? to kill other aircraft.
There were so many of them, so very many. We had the missiles to take them, but the sheer target density and the necessity to avoid a blue-on-blue fratricide constrained our engagements. The chatter on tactical was at a minimum, as it should be. When you've got a MiG on your ass and you need somebody to take him out, you don't
