"Jesus, that was close!" I snapped. "Skeeter, don't you-?"
"Fox two," Skeeter interrupted, indicating he'd just toggled off a Sparrow. "Come on, baby," I heard him add softly, coaxing the missile along to its intended target.
My Sparrow finally found its target, and I saw the treetop canopy blazing in bright fire. My MiG had tried to go low, tried to break the radar lock by confusing the Sparrow's cute little sensor with the clutter from the treetops. Sometimes it works. This time it didn't.
"Break left, break left," Gator ordered, his voice a pitch higher. "Incoming! It's gonna be close!"
I threw the Tomcat into a hard left-hand turn, stamping down on the pedals and slamming the throttles home into full afterburner. She turned so tight I felt like I was in a dodge-'em car instead of an eighty-million-dollar aircraft.
Behind me, I heard Gator grunting. The G forces that build up in a tight turn are incredible, and Gator was performing the M1 maneuver. You tense up all the muscles, tense your stomach up, and grunt. It forces the blood back up out of your legs and keeps it pumping to your brain. That keeps you from blacking out on a high-G turn.
Harder on him than it was on me. Sitting up front, I know when it's coming. Sometimes you catch the RIOs unawares and knock 'em out before you really know that you're doing it. "You okay?" I asked as the G forces started to ease.
"Got it ― target here." Gator kept radio chatter to a minimum as he fed me another target.
I craned my neck around, trying to see it. He was in front of the sun, hidden from visual by the brilliant glare.
"I don't have him, I don't have him."
"He's up there. I gave you the target." Gator sounded certain. "Take him with the Sparrow."
"Fox two, Fox two." The lighter Sparrow leapt off the wing like a weapon possessed and steered straight up toward the sun. It was the only weapon of choice at that point. Sidewinders become easily distracted by the sun. They see it as a giant, warm and fuzzy target, the mother of all targets for a heat-seeking missile. They wander happily off course, chasing it out of the sky until they run out of fuel.
"Break right," Gator ordered.
We were flying as a team now, the perfect trio. Gator was no longer a separate person but a part of me, a disembodied voice that seemed to be coming from inside my own head as much as through the earphones, and an extra set of eyes that fed me data and radar targets so quickly and seamlessly that it felt I was doing it myself.
And the aircraft that enclosed us ― no more metal and struts and fuselage, but simply power, raw power carrying us back and forth across the sky. We were one entity, one being, with one single purpose in life ― to kill other aircraft.
There were so many of them, so very many. We had the missiles to take them, but the sheer target density and the necessity to avoid a blue-on-blue fratricide constrained our engagements. The chatter on tactical was at a minimum, as it should be. When you've got a MiG on your ass and you need somebody to take him out, you don't want any gossip cluttering the circuit. "Billy, go high! I can't get turned around ― yeah."
"Break hard right, Fred. On my mark ― now."
"Fox three, Fox three."
"Jesus, did you see ― where the-"
I heard six quick engagements, followed by six triumphant cries of "splash, splash."
And one of ours.
"Oh Jesus, they got it. Chutes, chutes ― no chutes. They didn't make it."
The exploding fireball off to my right was one of my own squadron mates, a man that I'd served with since my first cruise. I'd known him well, spent many long hours with him in the ready room or in a sleazy bar on liberty solving the problems of the world over a couple of pitchers of beer.
"Bird Dog, head for the deck." Gator was almost screaming now.
I put my Tomcat into a steep vertical dive without even asking why. When your RIO sounds like that, you don't want to know first.
The Tomcat rolled violently to starboard, buffeted by the force of the missile passing close overhead. I almost wet my pants. It was so close I could make out the small aerodynamic fins of its body, see the deadly, sleek warhead mounted on the missile. It arrowed straight away, headed for another target. Along its flight path, Tomcats were jinking and diving, others jockeying for position on it. "Splash two!"
"Yeah, I got it ― Jesus, there's another one. Chopper, get him off my ass. C'mon, man ― c'mon, c'mon ― thanks."
"Home Plate, where's that backup?" I demanded. I'd put the call in for the all alert aircraft as soon as I'd seen the MiGs, and they still hadn't shown up.
"Hang in there, Viper Flight," the voice on the other end of the circuit said grimly. "Gonna take a few minutes ― you've got to hold the line."
"What the hell is the problem!" I said, keeping my visual scan up trying to keep my ass from getting fried. "Just what the fuck is the problem?"
"FOD on the flight deck. Red Deck for now."
"Then pick it the fuck up," I screamed at the AIC. "Jesus, don't you realize what's-"
"Ramp strike, Viper Flight," the AIC said, cutting me off. His voice was cold with anger. "Don't you think we know what the hell we're doing?"
Ramp strike ― too low on approach and too gutsy to take a wave-off. There would be pieces of pilot and aircraft smashed on the stern of the ship with flaming debris scattered down the entire flight deck. Who had it been?
I had no time to reflect on the possible identity of the ramp strike. Another flight of MiGs was rising up from the trees, adding another six airframes to the battle. Almost as many as we'd already shot down.
"Viper Flight, fall back and regroup," I ordered finally. The furball was getting too dispersed, a bad time-distance problem for providing support to each other. You don't want to be in too tight ― you need a little elbow room ― but you also want to have somebody delouse your six when it's necessary. Somebody besides your wingman.
Most of the Tomcats broke off their engagement and scampered out to our predetermined point. The MiGs followed them, and the Tomcats jinked wildly to avoid allowing them a perfect tail shot.
We pulled it back together and re-engaged. Gator fed me a third target, and I debated a moment whether to take it with a Sparrow or a Sidewinder. Finally, I selected the Sparrow, since the Sidewinder was truly my last weapon of choice. This MiG was a beauty, painted with something special that made it glint in the sunlight like raw gold. An odd, very distinctive undertone to its paint, one that did nothing for its low-observability characteristics.
But then again, maybe he wanted to be noticed. If so, then I'd just oblige him.
I tickled off the Sparrow, made the Fox call, then spiraled up to gain altitude. Altitude is safety. You can trade it for speed, which gives you increased maneuverability. Then things got nasty. Real nasty.
"SAM site," Gator said. "To the north. Bearing three two zero."
"Where the fuck are all these SAM sites coming from?" I asked. "Jesus, those intelligence guys don't know shit."
"Your turn, lead." Skeeter's voice was tight and controlled on the tactical circuit. "He's on me, Bird Dog, he's on me."
I snapped my head around to see what was happening out the back. Gator chimed in with an explanation. "Below us, about two thousand feet. Three o'clock. You got it?"
I did. Sun glinted off the wings of the two aircraft as they dodged and parried at low altitude. They were low, too low ― I swore quietly. How had Skeeter let himself get suckered into a low-altitude fight with the lighter, more maneuverable MiG? "Viper Flight, this is Home Plate. Friendlies inbound flight of four Hornets." The controller's voice off the carrier was clipped. "Watch out for 'em, fellows ― they're the cavalry."
The cavalry. Yeah, like the Hornets were going to save our ass this time. They always thought they were on the front line, when in truth they were getting into this fight long after my Tomcats got it stirred up. Still, they carried air-to-air missiles, and I was getting damned low on them at this point.