“Dragon Five-Five on heading two-zero-five, level flight level two-zero-zero,” Myers replied. The transition from flight lead to eventual Caribbean beach bum and back to flight lead was jarring.
“Roger, Dragon,” the controller said. “Your target is one o’clock, one hundred and fifty miles, flight plan reports two MiG-29 fighters and one Il-76 transport. Radar showing one primary target only—” Only one of the possible three aircraft was positively being tracked.
“What the hell are we doing, Barrier?” Coursey said. He was still on the high combat air patrol, electing not to take over the lead from Myers. The kid needed the experience, and what better experience than intercepting some real Russians? But the sudden switch from stand-down to I.D.’ing some Russians was weird. “Say again our ROE. Over.”
“Roger, Dragon. You are to visually I.D. and inspect the transport. Avoid hostile-attack aspects. Do not fire unless fired upon. Over.”
“You guys got that?” Coursey said.
“Two.” That was Myers — his voice was shakier, tenser than ever.
“Three.” Even Douglas sounded nervous. These guys were wound pretty tight.’
“Listen up, Dragon,” Coursey said, “run it like all other intercepts. Take it nice and easy. As long as you don’t hit ‘em with an attack profile the MiGs should leave you alone — they’re on a cruise to the Copacabana; that’s all. They got as much right to be here as we do. Follow the ROE and the normal air-traffic rules and we’ll be on the beach sipping cubra libras before you know it. Head’s up.”
“Two.”
“Three.” Douglas sounded better, but Myers sounded like someone had a vise-grip on his balls.
“One hundred miles,” the controller said. “Rate of closure nine hundred sixty knots. Bogeys moving to one o’clock … radar now showing three primary targets, Dragon, repeat, three primary targets—”
The radar-warning receivers on the F-16s lit up. On the displays of the three Falcons was a diamond symbol. On the left display the computer identified the radar source as search-radar.
“Dragon’s got music,” Myers reported.
“Barrier copies,” the controller said. “Transport target may be an airborne-radar aircraft, Dragon.” The warning hung on the frequency; then the controller added: “Use caution.”
Coursey had to laugh into his face mask.
What the controller did not convey to the F-16 pilots was that the MiGs might be planning, computing their attack on them using the long-range radar on the Il-76 just as they themselves would use the E-5’s radar to direct an attack on the MiGs. The 767 AWACS controller should be setting up options for the F-16s in case the MiGs started to mix it up. Intelligence reported that the Soviets now used an AA-11 infrared short-range missile, code-name “Archer,” and a copy of the AIM-120 launch-andleave medium-range missile called the AA-15 “Abolish,” but that neither was as good as the American counterpart. Well, if things went to shit they were going to find out first-hand about the Russian missile’s capabilities.
“Eighty miles,” the controller said. “Spacing increasing between fighters and transport aircraft. Altitude readouts on all three remain flight level one-eight-zero.” The MiGs were getting some maneuvering room, Coursey thought, but it was unlikely they’d leave the transport unprotected.
“Sixty miles. Flight level one-eight-zero. Moving to one-thirty position. Distance between fighters and transport now one mile.”
“Barrier, Dragon Five-Seven is zero-three minutes from join-up,” Coursey heard a new voice report. That was Major Tom Duncan, the squadron operations officer and leader of the second flight. The brass must have called back the second flight of F-16s when the MiGs showed up. At least someone on the AWACS is thinking, Coursey thought.
“Forty miles,” the controller said. “Spacing between fighters and transport now one mile. Altitude still one-eight-zero.”
They should just cruise on by, Coursey told himself. As long as Douglas and Myers kept their guns away from them, they shouldn’t feel threatened. Nothing’s going on here, Coursey told himself, trying to convince himself this was a routine training flight, but he began heading toward the Soviet formation as if running his own intercept on the transport. Radar-warning indications illuminated his threat receiver — he had to assume that the Russians knew he was up here …
“Twenty miles, Dragon, moving to two o’clock position.”
“Tally ho,” Douglas called out. It was just a speck on the horizon, but the huge Ilyushin transport moved into view. From twenty miles away the huge saucer radome, viewed from above, could be clearly seen; it resembled an American C-141 Starlifter with a flying saucer hovering over it. “Definitely an AWACS configuration,” Douglas reported.
“Five-Five has a tally,” Myers finally said — a few more seconds and Douglas would have had to take the lead. “Coming right to intercept.”
“Fighters moving out to two miles of the transport,” the controller reported.
Two miles? They were still fairly close to the transport, but two miles’ separation was a long way for escort aircraft. They were loosening up their escort duties considerably …
“Fighters moving to three miles … now four miles, Dragon,” the controller said. “Report visual contact on the fighters.”
“Five-Six has a tally.”
“Five-Five.” He didn’t sound very positive — Coursey guessed that he hadn’t yet picked up the fighters.
“The fighters are breaking off to join up on you individually,” Coursey called out on the command channel. “Ignore them. Keep an eye on them, but all we want is a visual on the transport. Be careful — they might try to crowd you or hit you with a radar lock-on. Nice and easy.”
Coursey was prophetic. “Dragon, MiGs are pairing up with you, one turning left, one turning right, both climbing. Five-Five, your bogey is at eleven o’clock, fifteen miles. Five-Six, your bogey is at two o’clock, fifteen miles.”
“Lead, c’mon down here.” That was Myers.
“I said ignore the fighters,” Coursey said. “Keep your damned cool.” But Coursey found it was getting harder and harder to believe himself — the Russians were up to something. What?
“Ten miles to the transport,” the controller reported. “Five-Five, your bogey’s at nine o’clock, eight miles. Five-Six, three o’clock, seven miles … Dragon flight, both MiGs moving rapidly on your outboard beams, closing rapidly to three miles … two miles …”
Myers could only stare out his canopy — the twin-tailed MiG-29, resembling a larger single-seat version of the Navy F-14 Tomcat, was in a shallow right bank and screaming right at him. He was not stopping his turn rate … Myers called on the radio— “He’s gonna hit …”
“Hold your position …”
But Myers couldn’t stand it any longer. With the Mig still a mile away, he selected max afterburner and yanked back on his control stick. Douglas was completely taken by surprise but somehow managed to stay within a half-mile of his leader.
Myers shot skyward, allowing his F-16 to gain at least five thousand feet before even thinking about recovering. Then, noticing his airspeed bleeding off, he rolled inverted to the left and pulled to arrest his ascent — but he had ignored his wingman trying to stay on his right wing. Douglas instinctively rolled left with Myers and found himself at the top of the roll directly over Myers and fast running out of airspeed. “Five-Five, roll right,” Douglas called out as he remained inverted and pushed his nose below the horizon to gain airspeed.