“Floggers at forty and closing. Targeting western group. Two, target eastern group.”
“Copy.”
Music completed his switchology then hooked and designated the last MiG-23 in his formation before passing the dot to his pilot. The two Tomcats carried just enough AIM-54C between them to stop the entire raid. That is, if all worked properly. If not, the Hornets would clean up with their AIM-120s.
“Fox Three on lead MiG, angels seven, eastern group,” Bird Dog called the first shot, then “Fox Three on —”
“
“Can you make them?”
“Damn small. Look like F-5s.”
“Dixie Flight, One, Tally four F-5s at four o’clock,” Music called. “Range seven miles. Three and Four, stay after the strikers.”
“Three, copy.” The two Hornets banked northeast and slid into burners, speeding toward the approaching MiG- 23s.
“Missile inbound.” Bird Dog saw its plum of smoke.
Rat leaned forward in her seat fighting the pain in her arm and chest. It was a tremendous pain unlike anything she had ever experienced. She looked down at her right arm, which was covered with blood and twitching. Shrapnel from the MiG had slammed into her right elbow and a bone protruded through her flight suit. She felt dizzy and sick. For a moment, she looked up at the shattered glass in her cockpit. Cold air was rushing everywhere around her. Most of her controls were smashed.
“Brad,” she spoke in a faint voice. “It hurts… hurts real bad.”
“Hold on, Johnnie. We’re heading back to the boat. Hang on!”
He heard a few faint murmurs followed by a throaty cough.
“I’m not going home, Brad,” she forced her words. “I’m so cold….”
Her head bobbed again and her vision blurred.
Two of the Iranian F-5s detected the Hornets breaking for the Floggers and disengaged the Tomcats, leaving a classic 2v2 engagement. But two still bore down on Bird Dog and his wing. The Iranian Sparrows fired by the F-5s had just missed both Tomcats, resulting in the two aircraft having become separated. Bird Dog was to the north and his wing was heading due south, swinging out to meet one of the F-5s that appeared to be setting up a “hook.”
“He’s closing fast, Music. Coming down our port side low.”
“I’ve got him locked. Let’s keep him guessing.” Music knew that the closure was too extreme for a Sparrow shot, but also knew that the tone over the F-5 driver’s headset would make him nervous and might cause him to make a fatal mistake.
“Got ’em!” Music hollered. “Coming around right. He’s climbing some.”
Bird Dog started a hard high-G left turn, then nosed up about ten degrees before dropping his nose down below the horizon. “Keep your eye on him!” If this worked, the two fighters would end up head-to-head. It was a classic two-circle fight where both fighters executed hard lead turns into one another at the merge. The trick was who could bring his nose around faster to place a heat-seeker on the other. Bird Dog was gambling that he would emerge first. But if he didn’t, his second bet was that the F-5s pilot, like many American pilots in the early days of Vietnam War, didn’t fully understand his missile’s envelope. In either case, Bird Dog would gun him with his superior all-aspect AIM-9M Sidewinder.
“Tally” called Bird Dog. “Switching to heat.” The F-5 was still pulling out of its turn when Bird Dog’s Tomcat nosed around. The warble of the Sidewinder’s seeker screamed in his headset, meaning a good lock. “Fox Two on the northern F-5.”
The missile loosed from the rail seconds before one sprang from the bottom of the F-5. Both raced after each other’s host, snaking across the sky. Bird Dog was first to react, jinking his Tomcat left, than right, while his RIO popped streams of phosphorous flares.
“Missed! Missile’s vertical.” Music called.
Bird Dog’s missile exploded on the starboard wing intake of the F-5, sending the plane into a slow right turn back toward the U.A.E.
“We hit him, but he’s still flying. He’s heading home.” Bird Dog recovered and entered a hard left slice turn, quickly setting up another shot on the F-5. “Fox Two!” The F-5 had little chance. The Sidewinder ran right up its port tailpipe, bisecting the plane in a fireball.
“Good kill!”
“We missed!” the Rio called, still watching his Sparrow head aimlessly toward the U.A.E. The F-5 had managed to defeat it, through maneuvering and chaff, but had now decided to head home, no match for the better- trained Americans.
The Pilot pulled his Tomcat’s nose up and pressed his throttles through to afterburner. “Let’s get this bastard. He’s not getting away that easy.”
“Sparrow, your dot.”
“Fox One, southbound F-5. Switching to heat.” The P3 thumbed his selector. “Fox Two.”
Both missiles raced toward the F-5 just seconds apart. The pilot detected the incoming Sparrow and ejected, leaving his empty plane without a chance. The Sparrow hit first, ripping the F-5s right wing from the fuselage, followed moments later by the Sidewinder tearing through the port engine. The F-5 crumbled, then began to roll before disintegrating.
“Splash One F-5, southbound, angels eight.”
Morrow looked at his displays. He was still too far for her in this condition.
“Lobo,” he called over the tactical. “Move in and check out Rat. She’s not responding.”
“Roger, be there in a flash.”
Morrow clicked his mike again. “Come on, girl. Talk to me.”
“Tell Doug, I… tell him… I… Hanna…” Her head fell against the headrest then hung off her left shoulder.
“
Morrow shut down his remaining engine and hit the canopy release button, then started to loosen his restraints. He had to see what was wrong with his RIO. Lobo had said that the back canopy was shattered and that she could see splotches of red on the instrument console. In her estimation, Rat was either unconscious or dead.
Fastball managed to escape just as one of the flight surgeons scaled the right side of his Tomcat and peered into the backseat. “She’s alive — for now,” the flight surgeon shouted down at the corpsmen following him up the bounding ladder. “Come on, people — move! I want her in surgery in the next three minutes. Tell the orthopedic surgeon and neurologist to stand by. If we move fast enough, we may be able to save this arm!”
Morrow leaned back into his cockpit and lowered his head. His squadron had lost two aviators — would Rat make it three? Taking a deep breath, he fought the urge to throw up. Was it his fault? Should he have seen those MiGs or at least anticipated that they would be there? The long-range contacts had been a mere diversion for the
