After two long minutes with nothing but chatter from Lookout, their scopes were clean. Mother was impatient. “Lookout from Panther, do you hold any surface contacts on our nose?”
“Got one way out there, Panther. Coordinating with a patrol asset to ID it. We’ve got a section of Snipers coming to help you. One Vampire impact reported at home plate.”
Two Super Hornets inbound to help was good, but now Mother and Lookout needed to ensure the Rhinos would not shoot the Marines by accident. The confusion and the confirmed attack on Iwo Jima and the need to prevent more missiles from getting through ratcheted up the pressure on everyone. Milton’s radar then went to single target track. Fish on!
“Got one! Contact two-four-two for sixteen, on the deck, hot, inbound. Declare!”
“Just shoot it, Milt!” an exasperated Mother radioed. He then saw a white streak a mile away going the opposite direction.
Fuck!
Mother rolled and pulled hard as he shoved the throttles to MAX, his thumb bumping the castle switch to radar-lock the flying cylinder. “Milt, I’m engaged visual with one inbound over here. You’re on your own!”
Milton rogered him and concentrated on the shot. All three Lookout controllers, who ten minutes before had been yawning in front of their empty scopes, were now approaching task saturation.
Milton looked over his shoulder at glowing Hornet burner cans as Mother pulled away, then turned back to his own radar geometry. He took a cut into the contact, had a good SHOOT cue, and squeezed the trigger. The missile tore off the rail and made an easy right turn to intercept as it accelerated ahead. Milton watched the rocket motor burn out and, a second later, saw another flash of flame. In the low light, he again saw a smoke plume arc into the sea.
Mother put his missile on his right canopy rail, a heading his fire control system called for to intercept. He selected GUN, his only weapon, and saw he was well out of range with only sixty knots of closure. And now fuel was a factor. Leaving his throttles in afterburner would allow him to gain on the missile, but with under 4,000 pounds, he would be emergency fuel for Iwo in minutes. He would have to gun this thing. At least it was leading him toward home.
“Got another one, and I’m Winchester missiles!” Milton sang out as he picked up another Vampire at his nine o’clock.
“Gun it! That’s what I’m doing!” Mother answered him.
Like Mother, Milton overbanked and crammed his throttles forward to intercept. He had the missile in the crotch of his canopy with constant bearing and decreasing range. Now inside 50 miles of Iwo Jima, both aviators needed to act fast.
Mother shot first. With his radar burning a hole in the sea skimmer, he slashed at it with a burst, his rounds kicking up spray ahead of the missile’s flight path. He then repositioned to avoid flying into the water, popped his speed brake and pulled up into a displacement roll as he climbed. He then rolled out and bunted ahead. Stabilized inside 500 feet, he squeezed again.
The characteristic chain saw BRRRRRPPPPP! sounded in the cockpit as a mesmerized Mother watched tracers impact on the missile’s right wing. It spun and yawed like a dying gyroscope, then began an out-of-control climb in front of Mother. Reacting more than flying, Mother pulled up hard left to bleed airspeed and stay behind the missile. He quarter-rolled right and there it was, inside 100 feet and gyrating such that he was surprised it didn’t come apart. Flinching to get away from the dangerous projectile, Mother pulled left again. When he rolled out, he saw the missile had broken up, pieces fluttering or falling to the sea in graceful misting parabolas.
Milton held his gun pipper in front of his missile in a high-deflection snapshot as he approached from only 100 feet at 500 knots. The missile was still below him, and his bullets missed high as he shot past. Pulling up and then down in a modified high yo-yo, he heard Mother yammering about something with Lookout. Milton continued to concentrate on knocking down the target that was closing Iwo Jima. He popped the speed brake and rolled into the missile from five o’clock, stabilized his pipper on the exhaust nozzle, and squeezed.
Several high-explosive rounds found their mark, and the slender tube exploded and spun into the sea trailing black smoke. A white splash fanned ahead as Milton overbanked left to see it. While firing, he sensed he had shot all his bullets. A check of his weapons page confirmed it. Winchester!
“Panther Two is Winchester bullets,” he radioed to all. Then, as he pulled to the southwest, he got another radar lock on another low fast flyer. Sonofabitch! How many of these things are coming at us?
The two Marines were now separated by eight miles, and with two FA-18Es coming into the fray, visual ID was imperative. The Lookout controllers would do their best, but they knew all the radar contacts would, at some point, bunch up into a see-and-avoid scenario for their engaged fighters.
Milton’s contact stabilized, and he centered the dot to intercept it. With nothing to shoot, he could thump it or maybe flick it off course with a wingtip as RAF fighters had done to V-1s over Britain.
Milton again came at the cruise missile on its left bearing line, fighting his fear to maintain the 100 feet he needed to join on it co-altitude. He held his closure rate at plus 30 knots and, as he approached the missile, he realized the sight picture was all wrong. Unable to underrun to stop the closure, he threw a wing up and pulled. The abrupt maneuver allowed him to join on the missile’s left side. He saw Chinese symbols on the gray and white fuselage and the numeral “14” on the nose. The jet intake hung low at the rear, and they were co-airspeed at 395 knots.
Now inside 40 miles of the island, Milton flew by craning his neck to the right and flying form on the missile, placing his empty wingtip rail under the swept gull wing on the enemy weapon. With a few furtive looks ahead, he set his radar altimeter for 60 feet. His game plan was to flick the missile up and hope the internal gyros would lose stabilization and fly either off course or into the water. As he rocketed over the whitecaps, bounced by gusty surface winds, he gripped the stick as tightly as he ever had. With reflexive pressures, he jerked the throttles up and back to maintain position underneath, snapping his head back and forth the whole time.
Almost there… NOW!
As Milton snatched the jet up and left, he felt the impact on his wingtip and lit the burner cans to get away from the water. He wasn’t going to do this again.
After two seconds he reversed right just in time to see the missile corkscrew into the sea. “Splashed it! Flicked the wingtip!” he shouted in excitement. He checked his fueclass="underline" 4,200 pounds. Not much left.
Mother found another missile inbound and joined up, but this missile sped ahead like the first one, another blue flame against a darkening horizon.
“Lookout from Panther lead. The missile I’m joined on just kicked it into high gear and is coming at home plate. I can’t catch it.
The two Snipers had watched Mother join and saw the missile speed ahead. Armed only with Sidewinders, the FA-18Es both went to burner and gave chase.