I heard Gator grunt behind me. He always does that ― even after this long.
Then there was the sudden, mushy sinking feeling as we departed the ship. The Tomcat was still screaming at full military power, fighting for altitude and safety. We dipped down below the front of the carrier slightly, and I held my breath as I urged her up.
I love this aircraft. She only made me suffer for a microsecond, then took command of the airspace around her and started gaining altitude at a healthy pace.
I heard the net chatter as Skeeter launched, but was still too busy paying attention to my own altitude, rate of climb, and turn to watch him. I took a straight vector out to about five miles and waited for him to catch up.
Behind us, the carrier was banging an aircraft off the catapults every twenty seconds. Forward cat, waist cat, forward cat, starboard, in a continuous rotation designed to place the maximum amount of metal in the air in the minimum amount of time.
Skeeter was on me like stink on shit, then took his normal glued-to-your-wing position to my right. The rest of the flight was up now too, forming into their combat pairs.
"Viper Flight, Viper Leader," I said into the mike. "You guys ready?"
One by one, they sounded off. A good flight launch, no equipment casualties or other problems to interfere with a full formation.
"Okay, you all know what we're going to do. Let's go do it."
We settled into a loose formation, cruising at seventeen thousand feet, and headed for the coast of Vietnam.
The plan was pretty simple, the way it had been laid out. Some of those weaponeers on board the ship knew what the hell they were doing. Two EA-6B aircraft were going in with us, fully armed with HARM missiles. A couple of us were going to sneak in, buzz around slowly pretending we were E-2s, and wait for the SAM site to light up. As soon as it did, the aardvarks were going to let off with the HARMs to take out the SAM's antenna.
As soon as that happened, we were going to reduce one obnoxious, very, very nasty SAM site to a nice, clean, sterile, smoking black hole in the ground.
Ten minutes off the coast, it lit us up. Gator called Out the warning from the backseat, and I knew every other RIO in the flight was seeing the same threat indications. The EA-6Bs didn't wait to be told ― the HARMs were off their wings and headed for their targets so fast the guys must have been riding the button the entire time.
"Viper Flight, Home Plate. We have launch indications probable MiGs." The OS sounded almost excited about it, something unusual for the air-intercept controllers on Jefferson.
"Roger." I just acknowledged the report ― when I needed to know more, I'd ask.
"Great ― just what we needed." Gator was carping again.
"You think I carry these Sidewinders out here for my health?" I demanded. "Not hardly ― we ain't going home with any weapons on the wings, Gator."
"Fine with me."
As I got to thinking about it, I realized that Gator was probably as pissed at the Vietnamese as I was. More so, probably. He's four years senior to me, and had been stuck flying with me ever since my first cruise. He claims he spends most of his time trying to keep me out of trouble. But he and I both know that he's just a passenger, a guy in the back, a scope dope.
Well, not exactly. Gator's pulled my ass out of the fire in the air more than once.
I felt a bit chagrined when I thought about it. He was bound to be just as pissed as I was about losing the E-2C, but he'd never let on. You wouldn't see Gator charging into the admiral's office demanding to lead the flight back. You certainly would not. I made a mental note to skip some of the aerobatics on the way back, just because I knew how much he hated them.
They were on us almost immediately. I saw the first one pop up out of the trees at a ninety-degree angle to the ground, full afterburners spitting fire out his ass as he achieved a rate of climb that my Tomcat would never be able to match. The MiG-29s were faster, and more maneuverable, but the Tomcat had sheer power they couldn't even begin to match.
And more weapons.
"Get that shit off your wings," Skeeter suggested. "The bird will fly better without 'em."
"You think I don't know that?" I demanded. "Just reminding you," my wingman said casually.
Someday, someday, I'm gonna kill that little shit. It pisses me off the most when he's right. The moment to catch those MiGs was when they were fully committed to gaining altitude and thus less maneuverable.
"Fox one, Fox one." I pickled off the first Phoenix and held my Tomcat head-on to the ascending MiG.
My bird jolted to the left as I dropped the Phoenix off the right wing, and I fought her back into level flight. The massive missile seemed to move slowly at first, then quickly picked up speed. One thing I can say for it ― it's a powerful warhead, and if you do hit something, you're gonna kill it.
Skeeter had taken high station on me, eight thousand feet above and behind me. This loose-deuce fighting formation has worked for two generations of Navy pilots, and it's still the best approach in tactical aviation. It's particularly effective against a smaller, more agile aircraft like a MiG. There are basically two types of air-combat fighting styles. Both of them are driven by the performance characteristics of your aircraft and the nerve of the pilot. You take a big aircraft, something like the Tomcat, and you've got all the power in the world. Those engines will pump out a helluva lot of lift, and you can gain altitude over the long run faster than any MiG around.
The MiG, on the other hand, is an angles fighter. He likes to creep inside your turns, pivot around, and drop into position for the perfect tail shot. That's why the two-man Navy formation is so effective ― even as nimble as a MiG is, he can't keep up with two of us.
"Shit shit shit shit shit," I heard the refrain from the backseat.
"What the hell is the shit?" I asked.
"Bird Dog, we're about to get-" Gator never got a chance to finish the sentence. The canopy of treetops below us exploded with what seemed like a thousand sleek aircraft, all arrowing up like they'd been shot out of the same quiver. They were all MiGs, all carrying a full combat load, and all plainly intending to jump into our part of the sky, gain some altitude, and then beat the shit out of us.
"Fuck this." I broke radar lock with the Phoenix, saw it waver off course and fall away harmlessly. I took a shot in the general direction of the aircraft ascending from the trees, just to get their attention, then made my own dash for some altitude.
There were fourteen of us ― seven pairs ― and only twenty-four of them. Not a fair fight ― but then, whoever said they had to fight fair?
"Viper Flight, engage at will. Watch the blue-on-blues, guys ― pick your target."
"This one," Gator said, targeting one of the blips with his radar designator from the backseat. I nodded my agreement.
"Fox two," I said after the steady growl of the missile told me it had a solid radar lock on the nearest MiG.
The Sparrow is a fire-and-forget weapon. Unlike the Phoenix, it graciously lets me go kill other bastards while it seeks out the one I picked out for it. Assuming the Phoenix didn't get anything, I had enough missiles for four kills. Maybe five, if I could catch two MiGs in the same fireball.
"We're about to get in serious trouble," Gator warned. "Bird Dog, those lead three are at altitude. They're maneuvering, coming back down in on us. We got to get the hell outta here."
"Skeeter, you got them?" I queried.
"Fox three, Fox three," I heard my wingman say. Seconds later, a bright fireball obliterated my vision.