We were only fifty miles off the coast, well within Vietnam's coastal radar range, so it wasn't like this was going to be a complete surprise. They must have been on some sort of alert schedule. As soon as we reached the twenty-mile point, they were coming out to meet us.
Four pairs of Hornets peeled off to deal with the first wave. It chapped my butt to continue on inbound and let somebody else fight the air war, but there it was. You fly the mission you draw. Safe ― or relatively so ― inside a cocoon of Hornets, I pressed on and got to watch the air battle from the outside.
Ten MiG-29s against eight Hornets. Hardly seemed like a fair fight, our Hornets were so quick. They were fighting in the loose-deuce formation, one guy high covering the one down below fighting. The high position had the advantage of being able to trade altitude for speed almost instantaneously, and of having a little longer radar range.
The first MiG made an immediate, deadly mistake. He took on our lead Hornet without waiting for backup. Think of it as a cop walking into a bad neighborhood late at night alone. He should have known better. The pilot in the high slot nailed him with a Phoenix while the MiG was boring in, fixated on that lonely little Hornet out in front of the pack.
They started smartening up after that, although I'd wondered that it'd taken them that long to do it. You'd think the first engagement would have taught them better.
Never underestimate the value of training. You fight me way you train, and it was clear that these pilots had been thoroughly brought up in the Ground Control school of air combat. The interceptors on the deck, the GCIs, were trying to run the air battle, in typical Soviet fashion. It doesn't work against a flexible, fluid force like a Hornet pack.
I saw one Vietnamese missile brush by a Hornet with what looked like only inches to spare. The Hornet driver jinked, and flew ight into the second missile. Not a direct hit ― the missile clipped the tail assembly. A huge, bright chunk of Hornet took off for the ocean, and the rest of the aircraft flew by sheer momentum alone before starting spiraling toward the water. Just as the spin went flat and deadly, a chute popped out of the canopy. I flashed on that, remembering how it'd been.
Still we pressed on, leaving the first waves battling behind us. The MiGs just couldn't get around those Hornets at us, the fat, high-value targets they were after.
More MiGs, more Hornet interceptors. Another wave peeled off to take on the new flight.
"How're they doing back there?" I asked over ICS.
"Looks good ― only two MiGs left in the first wave, four in the second. Those Hornets are kicking some ass." Karnes sounded cheerful.
"Yeah, well, we're the ones who'll have to live with the bragging when we get back," I grumbled. "Hate landing with 'Winders on the wing."
"Five minutes to feet dry," she answered, reminding me that we weren't all that far from starting our bombing run.
I kept track of the air battle over tactical, listening to the Fox calls and yells. A few of my Hornet brethren and sistren got into trouble. I heard another call of "I got a chute," a pilot reporting seeing another one punch out successfully, and the gleeful cry of the woman that took that particular MiG out of play forever.
"Feeeeeet dry," Karnes sang out. The further we got into the mission, the more cheerful she sounded. I started to wonder why I ever thought she seemed such a straitlaced little priss.
Jungle beneath us now, smooth and unscarred miles of trees and foliage. Pines on the higher slopes, the vegetation still thick and luxurious. Way far to the north, smog and smoke clotted the horizon, indications of city life. Not our problem. We were headed deep into the jungle to the secret facility hidden there. It could hide too much.
"SAMs," Karnes said, interrupting the mood I'd been drifting into, watching the jungle and remembering. "Search mode now ― no indication it's got us."
"Won't be long, though." The RIO's counter-ESM gear could detect hostile emissions long before the bad guys could see us. One of the standard problems of any piece of gear that spits out energy into the air is that it's detectable long before it's useful. "We're not doing much to avoid detection, unless you've got a cloaking device installed back there that I don't know about."
"'Fraid not. Just the Prowlers."
The EA6-B Prowlers were tucked in just below us, under both our limited anti-air capability and that of our remaining Hornets. They were equipped with HARM missiles and a variety of jamming gear. We were about to play a delicate game of timing with the bad boys on the ground.
As soon as we started jamming, they'd know we were inbound. Their radar screen would turn into broad spikes and circles of noise, overloaded by the massive amounts of electromagnetic energy the Prowlers would be putting out. The trick was to get the HARM missiles off the rails at the antennae before we were actually detected, let them do their work, then jam the hell out of the remaining antennae. And it all had to happen before they knew we were inbound, which should be- "They got us," Karnes announced. "Snoopy's got them too. Solid lock ― they're going to targeting mode, Bird Dog," she warned.
No noise, just bright light streaking away from below me as the Prowlers shot their load. Too late? Maybe ― if the Vietnamese detected the missiles inbound, they'd shut down all electromagnetic radiation. That tactic had worked well on older HARM missiles, which had to hold the radiating source all the way into impact point.
Not so with the newer variants. They could lock on and hold the position in their tiny little computer brains long enough to blow the shit out of a recently shut-down antenna. But not while the Prowler was jamming ― that was the tricky part.
Of course, they already knew in a general sense that we were coming in. Their fighters would have been relaying position reports back to their GCIs. But like they say ― the devil's in the details. Where and when we'd be going feet dry and where we'd go after that were still up for grabs.
"Vampires inbound!" The E-2 Hawkeye removed all doubt from my military mind. The SAM sites had us ― and cold.
Two Hornets vectored off to intercept, dropping our escort service down to six. What the hell was the point of having them fly CAP if they weren't going to stick around?
The high-spot Hornet held back a bit, waiting for his wingman to take the first shot. He'd retain a measure of altitude and maneuverability, waiting for a second shot if the first Hornet missed.
"Two more. Bird Dog, three missiles inbound." Karnes was starting to sound a little shaken now.
"Slow movers, honey," I said reassuringly. "Don't forget ― they're strictly subsonic. I have to, I can outrun them."
"I know that."
"I know you do," I said, still trying for the cool and casual tone. "I'm just talking aloud to convince myself. Just think about how bad it's going to be when we get back to the boat, listening to those Hornet drivers boast. First thing you know, they'll be claiming there were thirty missiles instead of three and that they took them all out with guns."
Shit, I was starting to sound like Gator. How many times had he pulled that routine on me, trying to get me to settle down and fly the aircraft? He'd talk, just as if we were out on a normal training hopping, making these little observations about how slow the missile was, how good a shot I was, anything he could think of to keep me focused and confident. And here I was doing the same thing to a RIO.
Still, everything I said was true. Just like Gator would have done it. The missiles were a lot slower than we were, and the Hornet pilots would be boasting.
"Yeah." Silence from the backseat after that.
I let her think about it for a while, then asked, "So, you know any good jokes? I'm getting bored up here, and Gator always had a couple of new ones."