Bird Dog swung his Tomcat southeasterly, separating from his wing. As he leveled, he glanced left, noticing that Fastball was well ahead of where he should be and speeding toward the Fulcrums.
“What’s that kid doing, Music?” Bird Dog hollered over the ICS. While he had only flown with the new kids on three occasions, he could already see himself a few years earlier — young, cocky, fully of overconfidence. And perhaps about to learn a few lessons.
Rat finished her Phoenix firing solution on the two Fencers. “Fastball, your dot,” she said, meaning that the shot was set up and ready to launch.
“Why aren’t we getting the MiGs, Rat? This doesn’t make any sense. We kill them and we can play with the Fencers all day.”
“Leave the strategy to Bird Dog. Just fire the damned missile.”
“But…”
“
“Fox Three on lead MiG, 20,000 feet, south group,” he finally called the shot, then watched as it soared ahead and climbed to its attack altitude. Although a Mach 5 missile, much of the Phoenix’s punch came from its death dive toward its target, rather than its engine thrust. The missile was “fire and forget,” which meant that, unlike the Sparrow, several Phoenix could be simultaneously targeted and launched without waiting for each missile to hit its target.
“Second shot ready, your dot.”
“Two is Fox Three. And…” Music called in a calm voice, “it’s your dot.”
“Take it, Music.”
“Roger,” Music smiled as he reached for the button. “Fox Three on the lead Fencer, angels 15, main group.” His eyes followed the two Phoenix missiles for a second, then rechecked the overall situation.
“Bird Dog,” Music said. “We should join on Fastball. Those northern MiGs are closing on him fast. The southern guys are still with the Fencers. Let’s get the Hawkeye to watch them.”
“Roger, make it happen.” Bird Dog considered his new RIO. As much as he enjoyed flying with Gator, he had to admit that this new guy was good, and, to Bird Dog’s satisfaction, he knew when to talk and when to shut up.
“King, Hammer One. Monitor southern group, Chicago south at three-five. We’re heading north.” With that, Bird Dog rolled his bird on its side and headed toward his wingman.
Rat watched her TID, waiting for the Phoenix to find their prey. She gave a quick glance outside, then returned her stare to her screen. It had been ten seconds since the launch and the two missiles had just gone active. She could see the small blips making their way toward the…
“Splash one Fencer!” she shouted, followed quickly by a “Splash two.” Seconds later, Music called the same. Four Fencer-Ds were now heading into the Persian Gulf, burning and in pieces. That left only four for the
“Hot damn!” Fastball yelled, feeling the rush of adrenaline over come him. “That’ll teach them to play with Uncle Sam.”
Rat now turned her full attention to the remaining contacts — the Iranian MiG-29As. The four had separated into pairs and the northern two were speeding toward her Tomcat. At ten miles, she gave her required HUD call, “Out of blower, switching VTR from TSD to HUD,” signaling Fastball to activate his HUD recorder. Powering out of afterburner also reduced his heat signature now that he was within range of the MiG’s infrared missiles. “Ten right, ten miles, twenty degrees high”, she called, using the standard “bearing, range, elevation” format. “Wing should be left and low.”
“Now let’s get some MiGs. Select Sparrow.”
“Locked, and ready,” Rat said, hooking the next target, then hesitated for a second. “Fastball, can I take this one?”
“No, this is
Johnnie shook her head in disgust, but held her anger only for a moment. “We’re spiked!” she said, indicating that the enemy had a missile lock on their aircraft. “Launch at our one o’clock, high.” Rat set up her ECM gear, then reached for her dispensibles. “Jammers on, popping chaff.”
Fastball pulled into a tight banking turn just long enough to break the lock, then nosed back toward the MiG. He was determined to get his first MiG kill and join the small cadre of fellow pilots, whose beginnings dated back to the skies of Korea.
“They’re splitting,” Rat called out, watching the two northern MiGs trying to set up a position. She had seen enough sorties at the Fighter Weapons School to know that this wasn’t developing into a good situation. “I don’t like this, Fastball.”
“I’m going north. Let’s bag the one running. Switching to heat.” He clicked his weapons switch.
“Fastball, turn into him. Go nose to nose. We can’t have him on our—”
“
“Tally on the southern mover.” Rat grunted, but kept her eyes peeled on the trailing Fulcrum. The thought quickly struck her that this kid wasn’t about to give her experience any deference. She’d have to fix that when… if they made it back to the
“I’ve got him, Rat!”
“Fastball, reverse now! We’re spiked, trailer!”
“Music, we better get over there. Fastball’s getting himself in deep. He’s locked up by that second MiG.”
“Bird Dog!” Music answered. “We’ve got our own problem. Spiked, three o’clock. Break left!”
“Missile in-bound,” Rat hollered. “Four o’clock high.”
“I see it.” Fastball jerked his stick hard right, placing the missile on his starboard beam. The MiG’s radar, the Slot Back, guided the missile and giving it a flat return surface temporarily broke the radar’s lock. “Chaff, now!” Fastball called. Rat responded with three small clouds.
“
Fastball pulled his nose back around. “You’re mine,” he called, then cranked his Tomcat into firing position.
The missile exploded just aft of the Tomcat’s right engine, sending a shower of perforated rods into the Tomcat’s tail structure. The jolt shook the Tomcat, forcing Morrow to fight to recover his bird. The rudder was now bent and one of the stabilizers torn. Both of them felt the sudden deceleration.
“Fastball, we’re hit!”
“Son-of-a… Our burners are out!”
Rat quickly relocated the MiG. “He’s coming around! There’s another MiG. Crossing our nose going north. He’s climbing to turn.”
Bird Dog focused on the MiG chasing Fastball as he listened to Rat’s pleas over the tactical.
“Fox Two!” Three seconds passed. “Yes! Splash one MiG.”
Music turned his head away from the MiG now leaving the scene. “Second MiG’s bugging out.” He quickly checked his JTIDS display. “He’s heading back toward Iran.”
“Find Fastball!” Bird Dog’s eyes scanned the horizon ahead of him, using the smoke and missile trails to locate his wing. “There,” he said. “At two o’clock. Going to burner.”
