“Roger, Rat. Let’s go to work.”
“Viper One, Two, we are Fox Three on the eastern lead. Fox Three!” Fastball triggered each of the Tomcat’s four AIM-54Cs then watched as each darted into the distance after their targets.
“Roger, Three’s Fox Three on the main group.”
“Four’s got the western group.”
“Tracking,” she said, watching the missiles on her TID. “Going active…” She counted softly to herself then out loud. “Contact in six… five… four… three… two… one…
“Red Crown, Viper Two, splash three bandits. Repeat, splash
Bird Dog relaxed his grip on his control stick and steadied his throttles as his Tomcat rolled wings level. A second Tomcat took up position off his port wing, in a combat spread, with two F/A-18 Hornets flying two miles to his southeast. The two sections were part of an eight-plane Combat Air Patrol orbiting to the southeast of
But there were still two hours until nightfall. Intel had warned of a probable attack and the activity up north seemed to already confirm this as more than simply a “probable.” Bird Dog looked out his side window at the Gulf shores that surrounded him. Right now, he thought, darkness sounds better than a date with Lobo. Skirmishing with the ill-trained Iranian and Iraqi Air Forces was one thing, but to be trapped in the Gulf and limited in number of available fighters was another story altogether.
Music stopped his weapons status review when he saw a faint return at the edge of his scope. Adjusting his APG-71 radar to reach out to eighty miles, he waited a moment, then switched into Track-While-Scan mode. “Bird Dog, I’m picking up something. Looks like two heavy groups. Crossing the coastline… now. Heading for us at four hundred knots.”
“We were expecting something to happen.” Fastball reconfigured his TSD to reproduce Music’s radar scope, studying it for a moment. The two groups were attack aircraft headed for the
“Dixie Flight, hold your course,” Music called. “We’re swinging right to get more separation.”
“Copy your call.”
“Fastball, we have a problem,” Rat called over the ICS, her voice picking up in pace with excitement. “I’ve got a new group of contacts, fast movers. Three-three-seven, seventy-five miles at angels ten, five hundred knots. Heading one-five-seven,” Johnnie called using the F-14 community’s bearing, range, altitude, speed, and heading, BRASH brevity code.
“Must be the fighter cover,” Morrow cursed. “Is there any backup? Radio the—”
Johnnie interrupted. “I’ve got a launch… multiple launches from the Backfires! Mother Goose, Viper Two,” she called the
A sharp
“Where’s it at, Rat? Where’s it at?” Morrow’s head wrenched from side to side until he saw the two light gray shapes of MiG-29s Fulcrums closing on his rear. “
“Got ’em, Fastball. Come left. Come left.”
Morrow pushed his stick hard to port and sliced the nose down trying to pick up speed. The two MiGs hung in tight formation angling toward the Tomcat.
“One, Two has bandits on our six. Get over here, fast!” she screamed at her lead. But Lobo and her RIO were still a mile and a half to the east.
“Roger, Rat, visual. We’re on him in ten seconds,” answered Lobo’s RIO.
Morrow shoved his throttles to the stops and held his turn as Rat glued her eyes on the fast-approaching MiGs. One of the MiGs started to climb while the second held a tight fix on her Tomcat.
“Hang on, Rat.” Morrow held his grip and rolled his Tomcat inverted then pulled back on the stick, jerking both the pilot and RIO violently. Angling down toward the ocean, the F-14 released a steady stream of hot flares. The missile’s heat-seeking warhead tracked, then locked on to the burning magnesium and exploded well behind the Tomcat.
“Where’d he go? Where is he?” she hollered, rolling her head from side to side. “Damn!”
“He’s in front! Switching to heat.
“Fastball!” she shouted. “I’ve got a warning light on our…” There was a loud bang and Morrow felt his Tomcat shudder again as more rounds from the MiG’s laser-guided 30mm gun tore into his fuselage.
“Johnnie!” he shouted.
There was no response. “Talk to me, Rat!”
Looking around his Tomcat’s interior, he saw his engine pressure gauge read low. A red warning light flashed on his starboard engine. Morrow opened the tactical frequency and called to his lead. “Lobo, get this guy off me. I’ve lost an engine.”
“We’re on him, Fastball. He’s locked. Hold on!”
At that instant, he heard his radar warning device signal a lock. Now he was in trouble. The next sound would be a launch warning.
“Fox One on the MiG, break right.
“Eagle, Dixie Flight committing on the eastern group.” Music confirmed the intercept called from the E-2C. Yankee Flight consisting of the remaining four F/A-18s, were tackling the westernmost group. The E-2 Controller guessed that group was made up of Su-22 Fitters and probably carried a shorter-ranged weapon than the Floggers.
