The primary problem with the Phoenix was that it required continual guidance from the Tomcat and had a long history of unreliable fusing problems. But even with its shaky performance, the Phoenix had one big plus going for it. It made any intruder stop and think and go on the defensive. The expanding continuous rod and control fragmentation warheads did work sometimes, and when they did, the results were devastating. An adversary aircraft could not afford to count on the Phoenix’s not working. It did, just often enough.
Bird Dog listened to the chatter of tactical engagement over the circuit as Red Dog Three sighted the missile in on the two lead aircraft. At the last moment, both MiGs jigged violently, shaking the Phoenix off. Hard thrust maneuvers coupled with chaff and jamming were often enough to confuse the post-Doppler radar terminal homing.
“Well, what did you expect?” Gator said when it became obvious the two missiles had missed.
“Yeah, but check their combat spread. It threw them on the defensive.
Now Red Dog can close in with Sparrows and Sidewinders. Maybe take out a couple of them hell, two Tomcats can take on six MiGs any day.” Bird Dog tried to sound confident.
It was a bold statement, and one that had little basis in fact. The MiG was a smaller, more maneuverable aircraft.
At best, the Tomcats could possibly take out two MiGs each, and that was only if everything went well. The possibility that the MiGs would down a Tomcat was not even mentioned.
“Fox Two, Fox Two.” The second call indicated that Red Dog Two had launched a Sparrow, a radar-guided, medium-range air-to-air missile.
The Sparrow was not the dogfighting missile of choice, and was much more effective in a nonmaneuvering intercept. Though more reliable than the Phoenix, there were still problems with the solid-state electronics and the missile motors.
“Fox Three, Fox Three.” And now the Sidewinders.
Bird Dog nodded in approval. It was every pilot’s choice of weapon for a close-in dogfight. The annular brass fragmentation was wrapped in a sheath of preformed rods and used infrared homing to provide all-aspect tracking for the missile. It was a fire-and-forget weapon, one that could be off the rails and on target without distracting the firing pilot from critical evasive maneuvers.
“Got one!” Red Dog Three’s voice was jubilant. “And there’s another oneoh, shit, Fred, he’s on my ass! Get him, get him!”
“I can’t” The transmission ended abruptly but without the noise blast and squeal that would have indicated a deadly shot on the Tomcat.
“Damn it, why aren’t we in that?” Bird Dog swore.
“We’ve got more combat experience than all of these other pilots put together.”
“Don’t even consider it, asshole,” Gator snapped. “You’re flight leader your job is to get them in, all of them, and put ordnance on target. Not pick off fighters on your own.
Get used to it, buddy.”
“But I could’ve” “You don’t know what he did until the debrief,” Gator cut him off. “Get your head back in the ball game.”
Gator was right. Bird Dog tamped down his temper and concentrated on the tactical mission around him. “Red Dog Four, roll off and assist Red Dog Two.” An odd feeling of heaviness settled into the pit of his stomach. He hadn’t expected this, being left out of the actual fight, ordering other crews off on an intercept. He knew he shouldn’t feel so bad so guilty. Still, sending men and women off to die in dogfights while he bore in on the grand target? It shouldn’t be like that.
“They’re down to three MiGs,” Gator reported. “One Sparrow, two Sidewinders. Red Dog Four just took a Phoenix shot at the trail aircraft.”
“Where are we?” Bird Dog demanded. In concentrating on the air battle going on to the east, he’d temporarily lost the big picture.
“Feet dry in ninety seconds,” Gator answered.
Hearing the familiar voice of his RIO provided an unexpected amount of comfort. After all the missions they’d flown together, the MiGs they’d shot down over China and the hair-raising assault on the Aleutian Islands, it meant something to have the right man in the backseat. Or woman, he amended, one part of his mind worrying over that as another fought to regain the tactical picture. “I’m descending now,” he said.
Gator clicked his mike twice in acknowledgment.
From five hundred feet above the ground, the terrain was suddenly familiar. God knows he’d studied the topography maps often enough, and it was starting to pay off now. It was like making a run on Chocolate Mountain in southern California, a familiar, predictable terrain.
The early morning sky suddenly lit up with fireflies. No, not fireflies, they were “Tracers,” Bird Dog yelped. “Shit, Gator, we’re taking antiaircraft fire!”
“Damn it. Bird Dog, don’t lose it now. That was briefed you knew about it. Just get us in on target.”
Bird Dog fought the almost visceral urge to grab altitude and climb to safety. At five hundred feet, he had little room for error, and less for maneuverability. They were so close to the target point now that any twitch off course would put ordnance on the wrong targets with his luck, probably a hospital or orphanage, more grist for the news media to castigate the American military establishment. He gritted his teeth, focused in on the terrain, and pressed on. Another seventy seconds until he could climb to safety.
Unexpectedly, he thought of Callie. His relationship was fucked up, but at least he’d do something right something he was trained to do, something he’d practiced millions of times. And there was no chance the Cubans would send him a Dear John letter over this attack.
“Those are ours,” Sikes said, pointing up to the sky. “You can tell by the Tomcat engine.”
Huerta nodded. “Are we clear?”
Sikes shrugged. “I don’t know. It depends on how accurate they are.”
They’d left the Fuentes Naval Base perimeter the same way they’d come in, dragging Pamela Drake through the hole in the perimeter fence.
Suddenly, she’d seemed convinced of her own immortality, and had actually argued that she should remain in the compound during the air attack on the base. He shook his head. Women and reporters. No sense at all.
“Let’s put a little more space between us and the IP,” he ordered. “I want to be on the beach in five minutes.” He turned to the Marine Corps pilot. “Think you can keep up?” he asked, deliberately ignoring Pamela Drake.
The Marine major seemed to swell slightly. “I’m a Marine. You wanna race me to the beach?”
Sikes shook his head. “No, the real question is this how well can you swim?”
“Twenty seconds,” Gator said. “Almost there. Bird Dog we’re almost in.” The backseater sounded like a football coach calling a routine play. “And hurry up!” The RIO’s voice took on a new note of urgency.
“We’ve got company.”
Bird Dog’s head snapped up. He’d been staring down at the terrain, tensing himself for the moment that he would release the five-hundred-pound bombs. “Where? And who?”
“Dead ahead. Ten miles. Looks like more it is. MiGs, from the radar.
Bird Dog, we can make it. Hold steady on this course, dump the bombs, then we’ll take care of the MiGs.” Gator’s voice was insistently urgent.
“How many?”
“You don’t wanna know.”