In my humble opinion, having fought too many wars in too many countries, the strategy ignored another important principle Good fences make good neighbors.
However, no one ever asked my opinion, and this current mission was a prime example of cooperative engagement. We were going to Russia as part of a friendship visit ― friendship spiced up with a little healthy competition. I guess it's too cold to play football up here, so our leaders came up with the next best thing.
Since we'd had a couple of years to play around with a MiG as well as some damned good intelligence on the MiG-3 1, I was pretty certain my team could take on any group of Russian pilots easy. Sure, they knew a fair amount about the Tomcat as well, but there's really not much in the Russian training syllabus that prepares them for going one-on-one with a smart, aggressive American fighter pilot. The difference is initiative ― an American fighter pilot has it. A Russian one doesn't. He's trained to listen to the ground intercept controller, the scope dope on the deck who tells him which targets to engage, how to attack them, and everything from when to refuel to when it's time to wipe his butt.
There was the difference in aircraft type to consider as well. The Russians had been cagey about exactly which aircraft they wanted to fly against us, the MiG-29 or the MiG-31. Both of them posed the same challenge for the Tomcat, with the difference being that the -31 had a bit better avionics and targeting suite and a smidgen more power. Both MiGs, though, had one thing in common. They were angles fighters, smaller airframes that relied on speed and maneuverability to win engagements. In level flight, they could cut inside a Tomcat's turn radius, curling in around behind the heavier, more powerful American fighter to slam a missile up your ass before you could even think about it. In a fair fight, one-on-one at a constant altitude, the Tomcat doesn't stand a chance.
That's why we don't fight fair. There's no glory in it, not if it means giving up tactical advantage to some Commie bastard who's listening to his GCI.
The advantage a Tomcat has is that it's a massive, powerful airframe, eight thousand pounds of metal and armament strapped onto two screaming turbofans. The F-14 can climb faster, harder, and farther than a MiG ever dreamed possible.
Great, so you grab altitude ― there's no inherent virtue in that, except for one little odd law of aerodynamics. Altitude and speed are interchangeable ― you can trade one for the other in whatever direction you're headed.
See, the Tomcat starts climbing, turning away from the MiG. The MiG has to follow ― if he doesn't, the Tomcat simply turns and comes in on his ass from behind. So the MiG starts climbing, trying to figure out exactly how far up to follow the Tomcat, making his own break for the deck just before the Tomcat can use that superior altitude to build up speed and cut back in behind him. The climbing game and trading altitudes isn't his preferred fight ― he'll try to start his break back into level flight in time to catch the Tomcat at the same altitude and force the Tomcat back into the angles fight, not letting him use his superior power and speed against the MiG.
The Tomcat driver, on the other hand, wants to be yo-yoing up and down in the sky like an idiot, forcing the MiG to bleed off airspeed and sacrifice maneuverability. Get the MiG going slowly enough and it's either an easy target or the MiG has to forget about trying to shoot you down while he concentrates on pulling some airspeed out of his ass in order to stay airborne.
The bottom line was that we knew what kind of fight we were in for, regardless of which MiG showed up on the ramp. Skeeter had had his share of experience with the -29 and I'd seen both versions in action, including an advanced prototype that the Chinese had built based on Russian designs.
The Russians had made a fairly interesting pitch for this whole contest, and I still hadn't exactly figured out what was behind it. They'd proposed four separate contests, and left the possibilities for additional training opportunities open. "As available," the message had said. Made me nervous ― flexibility in the Russian mind always indicates something devious afoot.
The first contest would pit a young American pilot and backseater ― that would be Skeeter and Sheila ― against a young Russian pilot.
The second would pit two more experienced aviators against each other ― veterans of the Cold War, Russia had insisted. The Navy picked me for that one, since I've probably got more stick time against Russians than any other pilot in the Fleet. Gator was a good choice as well, since he'd cut his eye-teeth fighting MiGs with Bird Dog driving.
The third would be a bombing run, probably by the younger opponents.
The final contest would be two-on-two, and of all the engagements, that was the one I was certain we would wax their asses in. American fighters are trained to fight in pairs, in a loose deuce formation. One aircraft high, keeping the big picture ― and let's not forget that altitude that he can trade instantly for speed ― and the other forward and below, sniffing out the threat and engaging first with the longer-range weapons such as Phoenix. We train in pairs, think in pairs, and win in pairs. The Russian equivalent, pairing a pilot with a GCI operator, didn't stand a chance.
There was one more contest going on, one that only a few other people knew about. It didn't involve aircraft, flying, or even airborne weapons.
It was a hell of a lot more personal ― and, of all the four missions, the least likely to succeed.
A couple of years ago, during one of the innumerable conflicts that seem to spring up around the world, I learned something that shook me to my very core. A Cuban radical told me that there was a very good chance that my father had not died on a bombing run over Vietnam. Before he left, he hinted that my father had been captured alive but seriously injured and taken to Russia for further interrogation.
Russia. The very thought of it made my blood run cold, and the careful compartmentalization I try to maintain in the cockpit started to crumble. This wasn't the time to start thinking about my father and Russia, not if I expected to be able to put on a diplomatic show of goodwill when I landed. If I found proof that he'd survived the ejection, that he'd been taken to Russia as I expected, then I'd… I'd… I'd what?
Batman had hit it on the head when he'd asked what I'd do if nothing came of this. The short answer I didn't know.
I have a few memories of my dad ― nothing very specific, just fragments of memories, more like quick snapshots than specific sequences of events.
I remember a pair of cowboy boots, my first attempts to hit a foam softball with a plastic bat, a birthday party here and there. He was gone so much during the early years, deployed with his squadron and doing what he knew was important to do for the country ― fighting the war that no one was very sure we were winning.
For thirty years plus, I've believed he died over that godforsaken land. Even though he was officially listed as MIA ― Missing In Action ― we knew he was gone. When the word finally came changing his status to KIA ― Killed In Action ― it was more a confirmation of something we'd tacitly accepted for years rather than any real change. It wasn't until I married Tomboy that I realized how very much I missed him. My uncle, Dad's brother, did what he could. A damned fine job, most of the time, filling in for his younger brother as the father figure in his only nephew's life.
Mom seemed to appreciate it. We did, too, but not to the extent that I do now.