CHAPTER 69
Annie keyed the mike. “Lumber two-zero pushing with four.”
From three miles away, she heard the other division lead of VFA-23 Super Hornets key his mike. “Lumber three-four pushing with four.”
“Condor,” acknowledged the E-2 controller coordinating the strike.
Ahead of the Lumber divisions, and beyond Annie’s visual range, the four Whisks from VFA-54 were sprinting for the Venezuelan coast at a transonic airspeed. The American fighters were over four miles up, above the late afternoon buildups. However, they were close to, and unnerved by, a high overcast that had not been forecast. It highlighted the aircraft silhouettes to surface observers. As strike lead, Annie had little choice but to live with it. This far out to sea, they were safe for the time being.
Macho maintained tac wing position on Annie as they increased their run-in speed. In fifty miles, she and Killer, not quite in formation but near enough for mutual support, would sprint ahead to deliver their SLAMs. Once the two junior pilots released the missiles and cleared to the northeast, Annie and Blade would pump once and follow them in, controlling the weapons into the target. It was a delicate operation that required detailed coordination and clear situational awareness, but one they had practiced in training.
On her linked display, Annie could “see” the Whisks ahead and the Jelly suppression division behind her. Blade and Killer were a mile to her right, and the four Rhinos of the other Lumber division were mere specks beyond them. They were all heading south. Annie could make out the coast on her nose. The clustered metropolis of Caracas, at her two o’clock, was cloaked in buildups with towering cumulus above the southern mountains. In five minutes, Macho and Killer would sprint ahead to deliver their weapons as Annie and Blade did a tight one-minute turn to build separation.
Showtime.
The radio sprang to life. “Whisk one-one. Single group, Bullseye one-two-zero at ten. Hot.”
“Condor copies, and second group Bullseye two-three-zero at twenty. Nose cold.”
“Whisk one-one. Condor, declare the eastern group.”
“Condor declares both groups hostile.”
This call from the E-2 electrified the American cockpits. The Venezuelans had two groups of fighters in the vicinity of the SLAM targets, one of them hot. Annie referred to her timeline and noted the Whisks would be making their western turn in three minutes — unless they committed on this eastern group that was now nose hot on the American formations. The Whisks, no doubt, had their radars looking at them to sort the enemy formation and get a raid count.
Annie scanned the horizon, trying to determine an avenue of clear air, a canyon through the cloud buildups. Too far away to determine. Once Macho released the weapon, it would fly a programmed track. Annie would “grab” it via data link in the end game, and she figured it would be below the scattered buildups by then. Hoped it would be. The radio blared again, and her heart skipped a beat.
“Whisk, Condor, third group orbiting Bullseye. Hostile.”
“Whisk one-one looking. Clean there.”
“Look low!” the E-2 shot back.
Wow, Annie thought. The Venezuelans have a significant opposing force airborne. Did they have tipper info? Should we pump and let the Whisks deal with them — and avoid the risk of fratricide? She rejected that notion. They didn’t have a cushion of fuel—they never did—and this was a contingency they had briefed. Annie and Killer would have to flex to air-to-air if any leakers got through, and they would have to deal with them before they released the SLAMs. The tension level had spiked for everyone.
Annie mulled the options over in her mind as the formation closed at nine miles per minute.
“Whisk one-three, single group, Bullseye, cold, five thousand.”
“That’s your group,” Condor answered him. “Hostile.” Whisk 11 then took charge.
“Whisk one-one committing on the eastern bandit group. Bullseye one-zero-zero at twenty, nose hot, fifteen thousand.”
“Condor.”
“Condor, Whisk one-three committing on the bandit group orbiting Bullseye, nose hot now, five thousand.”
“Condor.”
“Condor from Whisk one-one. Monitor the western bandit group.”
“Roger, Whisk, western group two-one-zero for twenty, nose cold, appears to be orbiting.”
“Roger. Watch him.”
From the radio calls, Annie built a “picture.” The Whisk division was going to engage the bandits over the SLAM run-ins, a train wreck of turning and missile-firing fighters the Venezuelans had planned — or stumbled onto. In less than two minutes, she and Macho would take separation, placing Macho at greater risk. Killer, too, but each would have the other a few miles away if the situation became dire. They were feet wet, another advantage. She made her decision and keyed the mike on the auxiliary radio.
“Macho, Killer, we’re gonna continue as briefed. Armstrong.”
Macho had never felt such a high stress level in her cockpit.
The FAV was up and waiting for them. The Whisks sounded concerned and realized they had more bogies than they could handle. In coordination with her XO, she had to deliver, alone, a weapon she had never delivered before. She was unsure of what to do if things went to worms, which they were well on their way to doing. However, she had an AMRAAM on her right wing and two Sidewinders on her wingtips to deal with any bandits. And she had bullets. Once she released the SLAM, her job was to egress hard with Killer, rendezvous with Annie and Blade at the briefed get-well point, and then head back to the ship.
Macho’s mouth was dry as she designated her aimpoint, the HUD symbology jumping to the new geographic coordinate. On her displays, she could make out the coastal chart and the positions of the Whisks and the bandits, positions which would be merging soon.
“Lumbers, action.”
Macho pushed the throttles forward and bunted her nose to increase speed for her run-in. She saw Annie in a knife edge left turn above her, and, far to her right, she noted Killer in his run. The Whisks were clobbering strike common frequency with their running commentary on the three bandit groups they were juggling. The late-afternoon sun played across her visor, and, catching herself, she raised the MASTER ARM switch to ARM. Her radar warning receiver began to display symbols, and, in her headset, those symbols manifested themselves as aural boops and deedles.
Sensory overload.
Taking quick glances at Killer, Macho spent most of her time “heads down” in the cockpit acquiring her target as she sped toward the coast at 500 knots. Through the puffy buildups she could see the ridgeline, and her missile launcher was on the northern face of it. On the FLIR display, the designated aimpoint was clear of distracting returns; that could be her target, but she wrestled with uncertainty. She had miles to go before release but saw some clouds ahead and maneuvered to avoid them and give Annie every advantage in controlling the weapon. The targeting comms of the Whisks and Condor filled her headset.