“Going to take another look for those two bogies,” Matt said. “I haven’t got a visual on ‘em yet.” Even though they were flying at two hundred feet above the ground, well under the two aircraft, neither of them was interested in reporting a near miss. Again the radar came to life. This time a third target appeared. “Got another bogie out there in front of the other two,” Matt said. “It’s coming down the valley straight at us.”
“Jesus H. Christ,” Haney said, “he’s below us!” The wizzo had his number three screen programmed to show the pilot’s HUD and had seen the altitude readout when Matt locked up the third bogie. It was well below a hundred feet.
“Rog,” Matt replied, much calmer than Haney. He disengaged the autopilot and lifted the F-15 up to seven hundred feet. “No tally.” He was straining to visually acquire the three aircraft. “I’m doing another sweep. Don’t want to be sandwiched.”
“This ain’t a limited emissions profile anymore,” Haney groused. “What the hell,” he rationalized, “don’t want to run into any lost touristas out here.” This time the radar stayed on.
Now Matt had a wealth of information to work with and toyed with the idea of using the Eagle’s capability to instantly switch from a low-level, long-range interdiction mission to an air-to-air role. It was what made the F-15E such a potent weapon system. He punched up the air-to-air master mode that readied them for an engagement. He drove the cursors on his air-to-air radar scope over the first target, locked it up, and looked through the target designator box on his HUD. “Tallyho,” he told his backseater, now seeing the target closest to them. “Got the slow mover — comin’ right at us.” Matt kept the ground speed riveted on 480 knots. “Don’t let me overfly the next turn point.”
“Damn, we ain’t out here to engage anybody,” Haney cautioned.
“Like the boss man says, ‘Treat any unknown target like a potential threat and you won’t have a bad day.’ “ Matt rolled the Eagle up onto its right wing when they passed over the slow-moving aircraft passing underneath them. “That guy is really down in the weeds. Wonder if he even saw us? Did you ID him?”
“Civilian, twin-engine. Looks like a Cessna Four-oh-six. What the hell is he doing out here?”
“Too big for a Four-oh-six,” Matt told him. The lieutenant’s eyeballs and aircraft recognition were good and he had caught a few small differences when they flashed by. “Tally on the other two. Shit hot! They’re F-Fifteens.” Now the pilot could see the other two northbound aircraft. He dropped their jet back down to five hundred feet above the ground to pass well underneath. “Why in the hell they screwing around out here?”
Haney had already asked himself the same question and had been analyzing the information on the scopes in front of him. “They were set up in a racetrack pattern, each one on opposite legs. I’d bet they were in a radar search pattern. Now they’re fly in’ slow in a scissors pattern behind the slow mover — like they found who they were looking for. Oh shit, they’re …”
“Got to honor the threat,” Matt growled as the two other F-15s passed over, twenty-five hundred feet above them.
“No way!” Haney shouted over the intercom. Matt was no longer just bending the rules — he was shattering one of the more important ones. An air-to-air engagement with the $29-million F-15E had to be carefully planned and prebriefed so no one would do anything stupid.
The engagement developed quickly. Matt pulled his agle into the vertical and stroked the afterburners, pulling six g’s as he hooked up behind the two F-15's, maneuvering into their six o’clock position. Their headsets filled with the characteristic growl of a Sidewinder missile as the infrared seeker head on the training missile they were carrying started to track. The lock-shoot lights on top of the canopy bow were flashing. Matt mashed the communications switch on the left throttle with his thumb, transmitting over the UHF radio, “Fox Two on the northbound F-Fifteen on the right.” It was a standard radio call telling the F-15 that Matt had simulated a Sidewinder missile shot — at him.
“Come off right!” Haney roared as the two fighters split apart, taking evasive action, honoring the threat Matt had presented to them. The jet Matt had called a simulated infrared missile shot on had pulled into the vertical, pirouetted to get a visual on his attacker, then pulled his nose back after the slow mover on the deck. His wingman broke down and to the left, reversing course to the south. When he had a visual on Matt, he pulled off to the west and rejoined on his flight lead, ignoring Matt who had peeled off to the east as Haney had called, disengaging. Then Matt and Haney regained their original track, flying their low-level mission, back in a bombing role. The impromptu diversion had taken less than a minute and Matt was feeling much better.
The wizzo had twisted around in his seat, following the two F-15s. “They’re still tracking that Cessna,” he told Matt. “Jesus H. Christ, didn’t you see the Sidewinders they were carryin'?” Haney had caught a glimpse of the two air-to-air missiles hung under each wing of the other F-15s. Silence from the front cockpit. “Them puppies were white.” He didn’t need to remind the lieutenant that training ordnance was painted blue and that live missiles were painted white. “We bounced two alert birds. They were probably on a scramble going after a smuggler, a druggie.”
“I thought they were out just messing around,” Matt said. “You think they got our tail number?”
“That’s why they turned on us but it doesn’t matter,” Haney shot back. “Just how many other E models you think are roarin’ around out here?” The Air Force only had two hundred copies of the supersophisticated, dual-role version of the Eagle. “Damn, we really stepped in it this time.”
A laugh came from the front cockpit. “Probably. Not to worry.”
Avi Tamir let himself into the family’s apartment and dropped his briefcase by the door. Sometimes he wondered why he still carried the old battered bag around for there was no way he could bring any work home from his laboratory. Nowadays the bag rarely held anything other than lunch and a newspaper. “Shoshe?” he called. No answer. “Not home,” he muttered and looked around for the note that he knew would be somewhere. She never left it in the same place. He found it in the kitchen, next to the refrigerator. He chuckled to himself. Shoshana always left the note in a place where he would naturally see it as he went about the routine of coming home after being gone for the week. She was never wrong.
The note was a simple “Beach with Yoel. Back at five,” scrawled in her bold, open handwriting. “No doubt in her new swimsuit,” he grumbled. “Yoel will like that.” He poured himself a glass of club soda, threw in a slice of lemon and two ice cubes, and lumbered out onto the balcony. He leaned on the railing and took in the view of Haifa that spread out below him. He loved their big apartment in the “Hadar,” the old residential area halfway up the hill above the old bustling city on the broad bay.
He thought about his daughter for a moment and tried to visualize her in the latest swimsuit she had brought home last weekend. At first, he had been pleased when she announced it was a one-piece — that is until he saw it. Why couldn’t she be more modest and less clothes-conscious. You’re getting old, he told himself, when you go tut-tut instead of wowie. He rubbed his bald head, amused with his predicament at fifty-two years of age. So you lost your hair and want to be a grandfather, he thought. Well, maybe the bathing suit will move Yoel off dead center. He caught himself tugging at his beard and made himself stop. “Now that’s acting too old!” He laughed aloud.