The Warbirds (7 page)

At Thunder’s words, Jack flipped his compass and nav systems to their primary mode of operation, slaving them to the gyros in the inertial navigation system. It was a long delay. Jack gave Fairly a thumbs up, signaling that he was at last ready to taxi. Lieutenant Johnny Nelson, Fairly’s backseater, tapped his forehead. When he saw Bryant nod in acknowledgment, he simultaneously rocked his head forward and closed his rear canopy. Bryant keyed on Nelson’s head nod and closed his canopy in unison with Nelson. Fairly repeated the procedure for Jack and their front canopies came down together. Only the four crew chiefs launching the aircraft saw the synchronized canopy rou
tine that was the first step in the aircrews’ coming together as a team.

Colonel Shaw and his lanky DO were sitting in the commander’s pickup truck, monitoring the radio and watching the two fighters as they taxied out, lined up on the runway, and started their takeoff roll. Shaw watched, with a critical eye, the two F-4s as they made a precision formation takeoff while the sound of the SAC tanker’s engines filled the truck. He was satisfied with the response of the SAC tanker unit. Maybe, he thought, SAC
does
understand what the Air Force is all about.

“Your boys look good,” he said to Hawkins.

“Good enough,” the DO said. He hoped.

16 July: 1523 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 1523 hours, over the Mediterranean

“Colonel!” Bill Carroll shouted over the interphone in the RC-135. “The Libyans scrambled the MiGs. They’re going after the Grain King—”

Cruzak was continuing to refine the frequency pattern. The computer was almost locked onto the entire shift pattern the scrambler used. Cruzak calculated they would break the system wide open in another five minutes. It was a significant breakthrough.

Anthony Waters reacted calmly to this latest intelligence. “Down-link that to Washington.” He was sure a battle was going to start in a few minutes and there was little else he could do. He also hadn’t felt so alive in years.

The colonel unfolded from his seat and stretched his cramped legs. He could see the agitated lieutenant talking to Cruzak. Waters had been monitoring U.S. communications and walked down the narrow aisle, knowing the two needed reassurance. “Hey, you did good. Help is on the way from Alexandria South.”

16 July: 1528 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 1728 hours. Western Egypt

Cunningham’s order to establish contact with Grain King and order them out of Libyan airspace had been received over Outpost’s command communications equipment. “Grain King, Grain King, this is Outpost on Guard. Do you copy?” The transmission on Guard—the frequency reserved for emergencies—surprised the C-130 crew.

“Read you five-by, Outpost. Go ahead,” Toni answered.

“Roger, Grain King. Turn right to a heading of zero-niner-zero degrees
now
. Leave Libyan airspace ASAP. Repeat,
leave Libyan airspace ASAP
.”

“Outpost,” Toni replied, “we are under the control of Tripoli Center on an approved flight plan, on a weather divert into Alexandria South with an injured man on board.”

“Grain King, Outpost. You are in danger of being intercepted by hostile aircraft. Do you copy all?”

“Copy all.” Toni reached for the yoke, disengaged the autopilot, and spun the big cargo plane to an easterly heading. By pushing the throttles up and nosing the plane into a gentle descent, the airspeed increased to almost three hundred eighty knots. “How far to the border, Dave?”

“About a hundred miles, fifteen or sixteen minutes at this ground speed.” He looked over the flight engineer’s shoulder at the fuel gauges and rapidly calculated what the increased airspeed would do to their fuel. “You can keep this fuel flow up for about eighteen minutes.” If we don’t rip the wings off first, he thought. “Then you’ll have to shut one engine down for long-range cruise. It’s going to be tight.”

16 July: 1531 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 1731 hours. Western Egypt

“Outpost, this is Stinger One-One with a flight of two. How read this frequency?” Fairly queried the radar control post.

“Read you five-by, Stinger,” a female voice answered.
“Situation is as follows. Grain King Zero-Three, U.S. C-130 cargo aircraft, is transiting Libyan airspace with approved flight plan. Two bandits reported scrambled to intercept Grain King. Intentions of bandits unknown, suspect hostile. I have contact with Grain King. On your nose bearing two-six-five degrees, one-niner-zero nautical miles from your position. Will have a tanker on station in fifteen minutes.”

Fairly stepped on his rudder pedals, wagging the F-4’s tail. Jack broke out of his loose formation and moved two thousand feet to Fairly’s right and five hundred feet above him. The fighters had moved into a tactical formation from which they could support each other in an engagement. Fairly calculated how he could set up an interception on the C-130 that could be switched into an engagement with the bandits should it be necessary. It all depended on how good Nelson was at running intercepts and if he could find the bandits on his scope. “How’s the radar?”

“It’s a good set,” the young lieutenant replied. “All the test checks were OK. I’ve got it set up for air-to-air, fifty-mile range. It’s not much good beyond that. Don’t worry, I’ll get the first radar contact on Grain King.”

Fairly hoped it was not a false show of confidence. “Jack, listen up,” Fairly said over the UHF radio. “If we have to rendezvous on Grain King, the first one with a radar contact will run a standard intercept to the stern of the C-130. If we have to engage the bandits, the first one with a radar contact or visual on the bandits is lead. Run a hot intercept head-on into the merge. Number two will fall in trail two miles. Lead will blow on through the bandits and reverse. We want them to turn and two will go for a sandwich. Don’t let them get on Grain King. Support whoever’s engaged.”

“Roger,” Jack answered his flight leader. “Thunder, trade your mother for the first contact on that magic box of yours,” he told his backseater over the intercom.

“Stinger, Outpost. Say state.” The radar post was asking for the fighters’ armament, fuel and oxygen.

Fairly answered, “One-One and One-Two are guns only, fifteen minutes play time, lox sweet.” The radar site understood he meant they had internal gatling guns, could
stay in the area for fifteen minutes before fuel would force them to the tanker, and had plenty of liquid oxygen.

16 July: 1540 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 1740 hours. Western Egypt

“Stinger One-One, Outpost. Grain King is on your nose, five-five nautical miles from you. Altitude twenty-five thousand feet, heading zero-niner-zero degrees. The bandits are at your one-thirty position at five-five from you. They are intercepting Grain King. Do not intervene unless a hostile act is committed.”

Thunder’s voice came over the radio, deep and clear. “One-Two has a radar contact at twelve o’clock, five-four miles, level.” He touched the radar’s elevation wheel, raising the antenna’s elevation a whisker. Slowly, he played the gain, breaking out the target.

“Roger, Stinger One-Two. That is Grain King,” Outpost replied. “Rendezvous on Grain King. Fly heading two-six-five.”

Outpost’s orders were clear. The radar controller was still in control of the developing intercept. Fairly cursed his bad luck, radar set, and backseater.

“Jack, arm ’em up,” Fairly ordered, directing the pilot to throw the sequence of switches that activated his gun and made it “hot” while he did the same. Jack’s fingers moved over the switches, just as they had so many times on the gunnery range before he strafed the target panels. But this time he paused and went through the sequence again, making sure that all his switches were in the right position. No switchology errors, he thought as he lifted the switch guard and threw the final Master Arm toggle.

Jack glanced at the radar scope in front of him, satisfied to see the bright return of the C-130 sliding down the scope. He noticed that Thunder did not reduce the scope’s range to fifty miles when Grain King moved inside forty-nine miles. Thunder was searching for the bandits, a much more difficult target to break out on the old radar set. Hell, the pilot thought, we need a pulse Doppler radar. But if anyone can make this set work, it’s Thunder.

“Stinger, fly two-six-eight.” Outpost ordered the two
fighters to adjust their heading a few degrees. Thunder was working out the mental geometry of the intercept and still letting the controller direct them. He needed an accurate indication of how competent the unknown personality was at directing aircraft. After a short break the controller continued, “I’m bringing Grain King over to this frequency.” Another slight pause was followed by, “Grain King, how read on this frequency?”

For the first time, the F-4 aircrews heard Toni D’Angelo. “Read you five-by, Outpost.”

“Be damned,” Jack spat over the intercom. “Two women!” Two women in the Air Force, caught up in combat. Not the role he had put them in.

Outpost calmly queried the C-130. “Do you have the bandits in sight? They are at your eight o’clock, ten miles.”

“Negative,” Toni groaned.

“Jack, punch off your tanks. Now,” Fairly ordered his wingman. On the word “now,” Jack pushed his jettison button, causing the two empty fuel tanks attached to the underside of his wings to separate in unison with Fairly’s wing tanks. The two men were welded into a tight team. Both fighters had reduced the drag the tanks created and were fully configured for combat.

Toni called over the radio, “They shot a missile, repeat, they’ve fired. Missile went ballistic…” She turned and dove her plane as hard as she could without tearing the wings off, taking the big cargo plane into a sixty-degree dive. She flew for a small cloud deck lacing the sky eight thousand feet below her as the two MiGs repositioned for another attack.

“Stinger flight, you are cleared to engage. Repeat,
cleared to engage
,” Outpost told the Phantoms.

Now Thunder’s voice came through. “One-Two has contact on bandits, Judy.” With the code word “Judy,” Bryant told the controller and the flight he was taking over the intercept. He would direct the two fighters into the engagement.

The controller acknowledged and fell silent, continuing to monitor the radar scope in case she could be of more
assistance or had to disengage the F-4s if more bandits joined the flight.

Fairly buried his left foot in the rudder pedal and took spacing behind Jack, who was now flight lead, as he had briefed.

“Come right. Roll out.” Thunder was directing Jack into a head-on radar intercept with the bandits.

“Tallyho,” Jack yelled over the radio as he got a visual sighting on one of the bandits. “It’s a Flogger.” Jack had caught sight of the Soviet-built MiG-23 fighter, code-named “Flogger” by NATO. He had read the reports by U.S. pilots who had flown the swing-wing fighter in secret tests and had a healthy respect for its capabilities. If the single-engine fighter was carrying its normal armament, he could expect the MiGs to have two Apex and two Aphid air-to-air missiles along with a twin-barreled twenty-three-millimeter cannon.

“Where’s the C-130?” he shouted at Thunder. The wizzo lifted his head out of the radar scope and twisted his large frame around in the cramped seat.

“Seven o’clock, six miles, twenty degrees low,” he shouted back. Jack would not take his eyes off the MiG, not daring to lose sight of the slightly smaller aircraft. He was “padlocked” onto the MiG-23 Flogger. He jerked the Phantom to the right, dove and jerked back to the left, putting the MiG on a head-on collision course. He intended to shoot the other pilot in the face from a frontal cannon attack. As the Flogger surged into the target ring on the head-up display in front of him, Jack squeezed off a short burst of cannon fire. He had set the gatling gun on high rate of fire when he went through the arming routine. At six thousand rounds per minute, the six hundred forty rounds of twenty-millimeter shells in the ammunition drum would last less than seven seconds. The gun made a short burring sound as he expended one hundred eighty rounds, sending a near-solid stream of high-explosive ammunition toward the Flogger.

It was the first time the lieutenant had fired a shot in combat. He missed. He snap-rolled the fighter to the left, bringing the MiG aboard on his left, passing canopy-to-canopy with less than fifty-feet separation, his reflexes fas
ter than the other pilot’s. Instinctively, he pulled the F-4 up into the vertical, counterturning onto the escaping aircraft. Thunder’s voice came over the radio, telling Jack and Fairly what the MiG was doing. “He’s six o’clock, going away. Hey, they’re both on Fairly—”

“Jack,” Fairly blurted over the radio, “come back left, I’m engaged…” The command was for Jack to turn hard to his left, returning in the opposite direction of his original flight path.

Jack wrenched the big fighter through the pitch back he had started, pulling five G’s as they came across the top, inverted. Both he and Thunder grunted, fighting the force of the G’s created by the maneuver. Sweat was rolling off their faces. The fighter headed down, rapidly accelerating as they returned to the fight.

At the end of the arc, Jack saw Fairly about four miles in front and below him. The older man was jinking hard, attempting to shake the two Floggers and keep his tail turned away from the MiGs. One was less than three thousand feet behind Fairly and trying to get in a position behind the Phantom where the infrared guidance heads on his Aphid dogfight missiles could pick up the heat-signature of the F-4’s jet exhaust. So far Fairly was denying the Flogger pilot a missile shot and keeping out of the effective range of the MiG’s cannon.

The other bandit was doing a high yo-yo, a vertical roller-coaster maneuver, three miles behind Fairly, trying to kill his high overtake speed and fall in behind the first bandit by trading forward momentum for altitude. He would then pull his aircraft back down after his prey.

“You are dead meat,” Jack swore at the tail-end MiG. “Boss, pitch back left, bandit coming into your twelve o’clock. I’ll clear your six.” And he headed for the MiG directly behind Fairly.