“Not a soul,” Wink replied, smiling, looking forward to pulling a few Gs as he used his radar to scan the empty skies ahead of them.
As the plane accelerated through four hundred fifty knots Woods pulled up quickly, away from the dark blue sea to the paler blue sky. He watched the accelerometer steady at six Gs and eased off when they were pointed straight up. Glancing in his mirror, he saw Vialli right behind him. He rolled the plane over onto its back and leveled his wings to complete an Immelman, immediately pulling up again to continue climbing. Vialli was still right behind him.
“Heading 067 for 6,” Wink said to Woods, reporting the course to the carrier as he changed radio frequencies back to Air Boss, the tower of the carrier. “Morning, Boss. Victory 201, flight of two, 6 miles out for the spar,” he said.
“Roger, 201. Spar trailing. Cleared into the pattern. Report 3 miles.”
“Wilco,” Wink replied. “Checklist,” he said to Woods.
They went through the gunfire checklist in preparation for their strafing runs.
Woods looked down at the carrier now five miles away and headed for it. “Which way is she going?” he asked Wink.
“Don’t know. Hold on… Boss, say ship’s course.”
There was a pause, then the response came. “Course 355,” Air Boss answered.
Woods headed starboard of the ship so they would end up three fourths of a mile or so behind it, just the length of the cable towing the spar.
“Victory 201, flight of two, 245 at 3 miles,” Wink transmitted.
“Roger, 201. Pattern clear. You’re cleared in to the spar. Call when in last run.”
“Wilco.”
Woods lowered the nose again and descended to fifteen hundred feet. He checked his gun sight and switches, Wink searching the air with his radar for any stray airplanes the Boss might not be aware of. Everything was clear. “Looks good, Trey.”
“Roger.”
“Passing through one thousand — four hundred fifty knots.”
Woods made no reply. He saw the spar, a telephone pole being dragged behind the carrier, one mile away, making its own wake like a periscope. He placed the gun sight on it and continued his descent to five hundred feet, glancing over his shoulder at Vialli, knowing he would be right where he should be. Vialli was an instinctive pilot. Woods never had to tell him where to go. It was like flying with yourself in two airplanes at once. He had to admit Vialli was better than he had been himself when he was in Vialli’s position, his first cruise. Woods’s first squadron tour had been in VF-103 three years before. He had gone to Topgun before returning to the fleet. This was his fourth Mediterranean cruise. It was Vialli’s first.
Woods flew directly over the spar at five hundred feet and looked at the carrier to his left. He trimmed the plane to fly perfectly straight and level at four hundred fifty knots, then slammed the throttles forward and pulled up hard to start the gunnery pattern.
Vialli waited ten seconds, then followed suit.
Woods pulled the nose up at a 45-degree angle then turned sharply to the left until the plane was going in the opposite direction. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Vialli, his nose also up at a 45-degree angle. Woods flew down a ways, then began a sharp turn toward the spar. “One’s in,” he transmitted. He bunted the nose of the F-14 until his wings were level and he was pointed directly at the spar, moving his aiming point to twenty feet behind it. He was only supposed to shoot close to the spar, not hit it. They wanted to be able to use it again.
“Four-fifty, two thousand feet,” Wink called out, looking at the instruments. He noted that Woods had guns selected.
Woods raced downhill at a 20-degree angle and brought the throttles back to maintain exactly four hundred fifty knots.
“Two’s in,” Vialli transmitted behind him.
“One thousand feet,” Wink said.
Woods pressed in toward the spar, then pulled the trigger on the stick and felt the Vulcan cannon in the left side of the nose of the Tomcat spool up and spit out twenty-millimeter bullets at six thousand rounds per minute. It didn’t sound like a gun really, more like a very large and angry sewing machine with a cold.
The deckhands watching from the deck saw the smoke come from the nose of the plane, then saw the bullets strike the water behind the carrier in a furious white foam, then heard the report of the gun firing. The bullets were supersonic, reaching the water long before the sound.
Woods bottomed out at five hundred feet and pulled up hard, pulling five Gs as the plane strained to go skyward again. “One’s off,” he transmitted without letting more than the required air out of his mouth, bringing the nose up high to head the other way in the racetrack pattern.
“Boomer’s too steep,” Wink grunted.
Woods glanced over his shoulder to his left at his diving wingman. His heart jumped. Wink was right, Vialli was way too steep. Woods watched, hoping to see some recognition by Vialli of the hole he was getting into. The Tomcat raced down toward the spar.
“He’s too fast,” Wink said, seeing the danger building. If Vialli got his nose too low with too much speed on the plane, it didn’t matter what he did, he would be dead. He would be unable to pull out before hitting the water, and he would be outside the ejection envelope. Even if he realized what was happening and tried to eject, it would only mean that he would die in his ejection seat instead of sitting in the airplane.
Woods waited as long as he could before keying his mike for the front seat radio. “Boomer! Throttle back! You’re too steep!”
The nose of the F-14 turned up suddenly as Boomer was startled into action by the shock of the unexpected voice of his section leader. He pulled hard and cloud-like water vapor appeared on the tops of the wings from the pressure. He leveled out at about the height of the flight deck, seventy feet off the water, still way too low, but pulling up quickly to follow Woods.
Woods shook his head and rolled back in on the spar. “One’s in,” he transmitted.
“Two’s off,” Boomer transmitted, well after he should have.
“He sure dicked that up,” Woods said.
“Hasn’t he ever strafed the spar before?”
“Maybe not. We’d better watch him.”
“We’d better tell the Skipper about that.”
“No, I’ll handle it.”
Vialli followed Woods religiously through the remainder of the runs on the spar. They cycled through the gunnery pattern again and again, shooting their bullets in fifty-round bursts, until they were both out of ammunition. “One’s winchester,” Woods said after his last run.
“Two’s winchester,” Vialli replied, following him up again.
“Victory 201, flight of two exiting the pattern directly overhead, Boss,” Wink said.
“Roger, 201. Good shooting.”
“Fifteen minutes till we have to be overhead,” Wink reminded Woods. Wink looked back to see Vialli closing in to join up.
Woods accelerated away from the carrier and climbed to fifteen thousand feet. “Let’s woodshed our wingman a little,” Woods said. Without warning, he jerked his plane to the left and hit afterburner. He had waited until Vialli wasn’t looking at him, and Vialli didn’t notice until he was nearly a half-mile away. Vialli turned to catch up. Woods came out of afterburner and turned sharply into Vialli. “Fight’s on,” he said over the squadron frequency, the universally recognized declaration of the commencement of voluntary air combat. Woods loved air-to-air combat, and loved taking advantage of his unsuspecting wingman. A few more times like this and he wouldn’t be unsuspecting again.