"Bored?"
"Yeah, bored. How do you feel about aerobatics?"
"Love 'em."
Another surprise. Gator always puked unless I gave him plenty of warning. "Maybe on the way back then."
"Sure."
A small puff of smoke off on the horizon, then another. Some too cool, too casual boasting from the Hornet pilot ― two missiles scratched.
"Where's the other one?" I asked, just to keep her head in the game.
"Still inbound ― five miles and closing." Good, she sounded steady and cool like she ought to. Maybe I'd learned something from Gator after all.
"High guy will get him," I said. I made sure my position in formation was solid, then turned my head to the right to watch.
I could see it now, arcing up and spewing a trail of white smoke behind it. I hoped Karnes wasn't looking at it. Every time I see one, I get this cold crawling in the pit of my belly. She sounded okay now, but I didn't want to be nursing her back to health every five minutes. "Any other contacts in the area? How long till IP?"
She spouted off the answers, and I knew from the sounds of her voice that her head was buried in the black plastic hood fitted around her radar scope. It keeps the sun off the screen, makes for better visibility. "Four minutes ― on profile, on time. Starting descent and approach in two minutes, ten seconds."
"Okay."
While her head was down, I reached up to the switch overhead in front of me and switched us out of command-eject. If she pulled the plug, she'd be the only one going. Not that I didn't trust her, mind you ― I just didn't want her deciding when I ought to depart the aircraft.
The Hornet overhead was moving now, streaking down toward the remaining missile and vectoring off dead on so he could improve the angle on the target. Head-on shots are hard to make ― worse, because of the rate of closures, you might not have time to get a second shot off. He turned back in toward it, giving me a classic quarter-stern view of him. A nice bird ― if you like Hornets.
Another missile off the rails, then a second one. He was getting a little antsy, just the way I would be if I had missiles inbound on the back of my attack aircraft. Still, he should have waited a little on the second shot, given himself some time to look at it. "Thirty seconds," Karnes announced, her voice still slightly muffled. I knew she could see the Hornet, his missiles, and the incoming SAM playing out on her scope. There, though, it was controllable. Not like having to watch real aircraft and real missiles against the cloudless sky.
I knew it before she did. And before the E-2C and the other Hornets. The geometry was wrong, all wrong. It would be close ― but not close enough.
"Incoming! Break formation!" Even as I started shouting over tactical, I rolled the Tomcat into a tight right turn, barrel-looping down toward the water. I flashed by the two Prowlers, saw the startled look as the guy in the right-hand seat turned toward me, heard the beginning of a curse over tactical.
Karnes yelped once, then settled down into feeding me a steady stream of information. "Okay, Okay, there's no lock, no lock… still heading for the formation… Hornet's taking another shot."
What the hell was wrong with them? Gaggled up together there, they were a missile sump. I stared up at the formation as it flashed by, passed out of view, then steadied up overhead as I pulled out of the dive.
Finally, they were starting to react. Skeeter was ahead of the rest of them, peeling out of formation in a hard left break, electing for a straight dive for the deck instead of a rolling descent. The Prowlers were accelerating and descending as well, on a straight line that pulled out ahead of the formation. One went high once they steadied up, the other low.
The rest of the airspace was cluttered with Hornets and Tomcats, some breaking high, others opting for distance. Like I said, we could outrun this sucker only if we tried to. It was a mile away now, streaking toward the last spot its radar had spotted large patches of metal in the sky. It wavered a little, like a hunting dog scenting the air, then picked out one of the Prowlers. They were slower than we were ― I wasn't so certain about their chances.
"You've got the angle," Karnes announced, breaking her normal monotone for an insistent suggestion. "Bird Dog, you're the only one within range who's out of their evasive maneuvers."
"All I've got is Sidewinders. IR-seeking."
"It's hot ― look at that exhaust. The 'Winder will see it."
I toggled one on, and sure enough got the signal. A signal ― who could be certain in the mass of metal and aircraft all going in different directions just then.
"There's a Prowler on the same bearing," I said, "I can't…"
"You have to. He hasn't got the speed."
"If I miss, the Sidewinder will get the Prowler."
"Then don't miss. You're the only chance he's got."
She was right. I knew it the moment she spoke.
I selected the Sidewinder, waited for the growl, then toggled it off. "Break down and right, Prowler," I shouted over tactical as the missile leaped off my wing tip.
The Prowler was listening and paying attention. It broke hard, straining the ancient airframe past any G-tolerance ever built into it. Too close, too close.
For one second, I was certain I'd missed.
I hadn't. The Sidewinder caught the SAM at an angle on the tail and sent both of them tumbling end-over-end through the air. Something hit, something cooked off ― a brilliant fireball erupted where the second before there'd been flashing metal and sun.
"Thanks, Bird Dog." Jake "Snake" Allen, the Prowler pilot, sounded like he meant it.
"Got one left ― you stick close on me, Jake. I'll take care of YOU."
We formed back up loosely, more loosely now. We were on final approach to the drop point. There was every reason in the world to abort the mission. We'd just screwed up every detail of the carefully planned bombing run, the precision timing between our aircraft, the spacing, everything. But no one said a word. We were there to put metal on target, and that's exactly what was going to happen.
Back before global positioning systems, before precision avionics and high-tech black boxes, aircraft dropped ground ordnance. They did it the old-fashioned way, with eyeballs and sheer judgment. We still practice it some, but not as much as we should. Not as much as we were going to right now.
"Looking good, Bird Dog. Twenty seconds out ― ease back off Runner now, you're crowding up his tailpipe. Piece of cake, piece of cake…" Karnes continued as though nothing of importance had happened. Whatever nerves she'd experienced early on were gone now, replaced by precision guidance and ice water in her veins. I listened, double-checked her suggestions against ground truth as I saw it, and slid back slightly to give Runner in the aircraft ahead some clearance.
"Ten seconds… nine… eight… a little to the right, that's good…" she said, continuing the countdown methodically along with a running commentary on our orientation to the IP ― impact point. It was working with us now, smooth and telepathic, almost as solid as with Gator. "You're in, you're in ― now!" I dropped the bombs and peeled off at a right angle, following the egress plan we'd briefed on board the ship.
Karnes pulled herself off the radar and twisted to stare back over her shoulder at the IP while I flew the aircraft.
She didn't need to. I could have told her how they'd hit. A little to the left of center, about thirty feet or so. But well within the lethal circle of death we'd designated on the chart earlier that day.
"Oh, yes," she said quietly. "Yeah, they're dead on."
"Not a little to the right?"
She was silent for a second, then said, "Well, maybe. Still good, though."
"I know."