“Dragon Five-Five, you. take the lead,” Elliott heard the interceptor-formation leader, Major Coursey, say on the command radio. “Five-Six, you’re on his wing. I’ll take the high CAP. Let’s see if you guys have learned anything today.”
“Two.”
“Three.”
Lieutenant Myers, the pilot of Dragon Five-Five, called out: “I’ve got the lead. Dragon Five-Four, clear to climb and clear the formation. Five-Six, clear to my right wing.”
“Three,” Douglas, aboard Dragon Five-Six, replied. Of all three pilots he had had the least to say the entire flight — his vocabulary had consisted of the word “three,” his original formation assignment. Even when they changed leads, Douglas would always report in as “three” because he had started out in that position.
“Five-Four’s outta here.”
Elliott glanced at the master radar display. Another aircraft had just appeared on the scope at two hundred miles range. The operator had drawn an electronic line on the screen, depicting the airway A321, and the new target was dead on that line. This airway ran all the way from Rio de Janeiro to Goose Bay, passing near Colombia, Panama, Nicaragua, Cuba, Miami and New York — A321 was the most widely used airway in South and Central America. Every aircraft they had intercepted had been dead on this airway, and each had been transmitting the proper identification codes. When they were intercepted by Coursey and his wingmen they had turned out to be just what their I.D. codes said they were.
The exercise was beginning to wear on Coursey and his pilots, so they had been swapping leads on each intercept. For the first time, the least inexperienced pilot, Myers on Five-Five, was going to be in the lead for an intercept.
“What’s the inside pitch on Myers, Ed?” Elliott asked the 767 AWACS commander.
“A hard-charger, from what I hear,” Marsch replied, checking his duty roster for this mission. “Top in his class at Nellis. One of the first pilots to go directly from an Air National Guard commission to F-16 ADF training. He’s low-time, but he’s good.”
Elliott nodded. A good opportunity for Myers to get some training — he hoped that was all he’d get. He checked the data readouts on the newcomer. “Relatively low altitude,” Elliott remarked. The new aircraft was at fifteen thousand feet and climbing. “Got an origin?”
“Negative, sir,” the console operator said. “I should be getting his IFF data in a minute.”
“Five-Four’s on the high CAP,” Coursey reported.
“Slow down your turn rate for me, Five-Five,” Elliott heard on the radio — obviously Dragon Five-Six was having trouble keeping up with Five-Five. In many ways being a formation leader was more stressful than staying on a guy’s wing — you had to think ahead all the time. On the wing all you had to worry about was staying on the wing. As lead you had to consider your wingmen’s reactions to each of your moves and radio call — every throttle movement, hesitation, control input or decision had a ripple effect on everyone else.
“That’s better, Bob,” Douglas on Dragon Five-Six said.
Just then Ed Marsch handed General Elliott a messageform. “Message from SAC headquarters via JCS, sir,” he said. Elliott read the note, lips tightening; then nodded and flipped the note onto the console.
“It seems the Russians have agreed to the President’s terms. They’ve promised not to move the XF-34 out of Nicaragua. They’re negotiating on terms for the removal of the aircraft — they say the aircraft is damaged and unflyable. The pilot will not be returned until the investigation is completed. We’ve been ordered to stand down. The fighters have been granted a two-night stay in Georgetown but are ordered back to Panama by Monday.”
Marsch let out his breath, trying to restrain his relief at being ordered to get out of this duty. His E-5A AWACS radar plane was vulnerable out here, with no ready fighter protection and only a few minutes flying time from Cuba. “I’ll order the fighters from Georgetown to RTB,” he said. Elliott nodded. To the senior controller, Marsch ordered, “Tell Dragon Five-Four flight to recover to Georgetown ASAP. Set up a refueling for them if they need it — they must be down close to an hour’s duration.” The senior controller nodded.
“If they can properly secure your plane, Colonel,” Elliott said, “request permission for you and your crew to spend the weekend in Georgetown. It beats flying all the way back to Oklahoma. I can find my own way back to Nellis.” Back to Dreamland. Back to forced retirement. Back to disgrace …?
“Excellent suggestion, sir,” Marsch said excitedly. One weekend in the Caribbean beat a year in Oklahoma City. “I’ll work on it immediately.”
“We’ve got an I.D. code on the newcomer, sir,” the radar operator at the main console called out. “Checking his flight plan with Georgetown air traffic control now.”
Marsch had gone over to the communications section, so Elliott said, “Let’s have it, Sergeant.”
“Flight plan from Georgetown says it’s a flight of three — a Soviet Ilyushin-76 Midas tanker-transport plane and two MiG-29 Fulcrum fighters. One four-zero-nine-six code and one mode C.” Standard civilian air-traffic beacon codes; the first transmitted aircraft-identification data, the second transmitted altitude.
“What’s their origin?”
“Origin code is MMNP, sir,” the operator replied. “Augusto Cesar Sandino International Airport, Managua, Nicaragua.”
Elliott slipped on his headphones and keyed the mike switch. “S-One, this is S-Five. Have the fighters from Georgetown turned back yet?”
Marsch’s head poked up from behind a communications console as he punched his mike button. “Affirmative, sir.”
“Tell them to turn around and rendezvous with us,” Elliott said.
“Excuse me, sir,” Marsch said and exited the communications console and began to walk toward Elliott, “we’ve been ordered to stand down—”
“We got two fighters and a Soviet transport heading our way,” Elliott said. “I want to run an intercept on them. And I want cover for us until they pass.”
Marsch returned to the master radar-console and checked the readouts. “An Il-76 and a couple of MiGs. Have they got a flight plan?” The operator nodded. “They’re squawking the proper codes, General. They’re on the airway. I don’t see what the problem is—”
“There’s no problem, Colonel,” Elliott said. “I just want an intercept on them, and I want air cover for us until they leave.”
“Sir, the mission is over,” Marsch said, “we’ve been ordered to return to base. Besides, it’s crazy running an intercept on Russian aircraft. If something goes wrong we could be in serious trouble—”
“I know what we’ve been ordered to do, Colonel. I also know what my responsibility is and I know what your responsibility is. Do what I tell you, goddamn it.” Marsch nodded, eyes on Elliott. No question, Marsch thought, that the old man meant what he said. He turned back to the communications cabin.
“Have the mid-CAP run an intercept on the transport,” Elliott told the senior controller. “But I want no hostile moves out there. Have the mid-CAP flank the fighters, but no radar and no taIl-attack aspect. I just want them close enough for a visual on the transport.”
“Yes, sir.”
Marsch came back to the radar cabin and stood behind Elliott. “Dragon Five-Seven flight is on its way,” the radar-console operator reported. “ETA twenty minutes.”
“What’s the ETA on the MiGs?”
“Fifteen.”
“I want one of the fighters in the Dragon Five-Seven flight joined on us in twelve minutes,” Elliott said. “How’s the intercept running?” Elliott didn’t expect an answer; he could hear the strained interchange of the pilots as they closed in on their first hostile bogeys.