“What’s his altitude?”
Wink hooked the target on the PTID — the Programmable Tactical Information Display, which showed him the radar information. “Twenty-three.” Twenty-three thousand feet above the ocean.
Woods pushed the throttles forward to the stops — as hard as the engines could work without afterburner — and pulled the nose of the Tomcat up ten degrees above the horizon.
The green glow of the screens reflected on their clear visors. The night was as dark as any night could be and still be illuminated by stars. Moonrise wasn’t for another hour. The overcast cloud layer below blocked any light from the sea, not that there was much in the middle of the Mediterranean.
“Want to take him down the throat?” Wink asked.
“May as well since we’re coming in high, but we’ll need a little angle.”
The F-14 climbed hungrily into the cool night sky. “Think they’ve got us?”
“Sure,” Wink replied.
“Then they’ll know what we’re up to?”
“If they’re paying attention. But it’s the last one, they’re the bogey. May not notice our altitude. Starboard to 300 to build up some aspect angle.” Wink wanted to come in from the side so they could roll out behind their target.
Woods turned the F-14 gently as he continued to climb. He steadied on a heading of 300.
“Okay, come port to 278.”
Woods complied as they passed through thirty-four thousand feet, still climbing. He instinctively looked behind him to see if they were leaving contrails, but quickly realized he couldn’t have seen them in the darkness even if they were there. They continued to climb straight ahead without speaking until they were at forty thousand feet.
“Ten miles,” Wink said. “We’ll start our normal intercept turn to kick him out about seven miles or so, then back in around five.”
“Roger,” Woods said, leaning forward to see down, but unable to pick out his wingman far below. “What are their angels now?”
Wink looked again. “Ten.” Five miles below them.
“That asshole,” Woods said, smiling under his mask. “They’re sitting on the overcast.”
“We’ll just have to start down earlier, and watch our speed.”
“Piece of cake,” Woods said, grinning at the thought of screaming down thirty thousand feet in the dark upside down.
“Starboard hard,” Wink called.
Woods turned the F-14 steeply but carefully in the thin air. After passing through whatever heading Wink was watching for, he called for a hard port turn.
Woods pushed the stick hard left until the Tomcat was on its back. He leaned back on the stick and let gravity pull them down toward the earth. Looking through the canopy toward the darkness below, he saw Vialli’s red anticollision light. “Tallyho,” Woods said.
“Got him,” Wink responded, glancing up. “We’re nearly on his line. Pull straight.”
“Roger.” Woods leveled the wings upside down and pulled back on the stick harder until they were pulling four Gs. Their speed increased through six hundred knots as the nose of the Tomcat pointed straight at the ocean. Woods eased the throttles back, no longer needing the full thrust of the engines; gravity could do most of the work. “Think he’s got us?”
“They may be wondering what the hell we’re doing up here.”
“I doubt it,” Woods said, grunting against the G forces. “How far behind them we going to be?”
“About a mile if you hold this.”
“Perfect.”
“Watch the speed,” Wink said as they passed through 625 knots. Woods brought the throttles back more and pulled a little harder on the stick.
“Passing through twenty,” Wink called calmly.
“You got him locked up?” Woods asked.
“Yep. Pull up at fifteen thousand feet, then we can descend to their altitude.”
“Okay,” Woods answered, taking a quick look at the engine instruments. They were still ahead of their fuel ladder. He pulled back harder on the stick and held five Gs to increase their altitude on pull-out.
Woods watched the nose of their Tomcat come through the horizon and back up toward the east. The artificial horizon told him he was approaching level flight again. He relaxed the back pressure on the stick and felt the bladders of his G-suit deflate against his abdomen and thighs.
“Dead ahead, one mile, two hundred fifty knots closure,” Wink said to Woods, then on the radio: “Fox two.” The last transmission let everyone know they had completed the intercept and simulated the launch of an AIM-9 Sidewinder heat-seeking missile.
“Want to thump him?” Woods asked excitedly.
“Could get in trouble for that,” Wink said warily.
“Rules were meant to be broken. So you want to?”
“Just don’t hit him. That could really get us in trouble, and wet — I don’t want to go swimming tonight. I’m not wearing my dry suit.”
“Roger that.” Woods pushed the throttles forward.
Tiger, the Air Intercept Controller on the carrier, transmitted: “Victory 207, head outbound at 270–204, continue inbound 090 to set up another one.”
“That’s it for us,” Wink transmitted in reply. “207’s heading for marshall.”
“Roger that, 207. Good work. See you on deck.”
“Thanks, Tiger. Good work.”
“Three hundred knots closure,” Wink told Woods. He leaned to his left and studied the approaching lights of their wingman.
Woods also watched his wingman ahead. “He’s skimming along the cloud layer. It’s totally flat — he’s completely in the clouds except his canopy and the two tails.” He pondered their plan for a moment. “We’ll have to go into the clouds to get below him.”
“That’s pretty marginal. Another time.” Wink knew Woods was willing to lean on the boundaries.
“Nah, we’ll be huge. You got a good lock?”
“Yeah.”
“Tell me when we pass under him,” Woods said, lowering the nose of the Tomcat and moving into the darkness of the cloud. The approaching lights of their wingman faded, then disappeared.
“One tenth of a mile — three hundred closure,” Wink called, his eyes on the computerized radar image and the raw radarscope simultaneously. They were coming up to their wingman from dead behind with three hundred knots more speed. Wink saw the angle of the radar increase rapidly toward the top of the nose of the Tomcat, then felt the thud as the radar broke lock at a 65-degree up angle and the disappointed antenna returned to its neutral position. “Directly overhead,” Wink said.
“Roger,” Woods replied anxiously. “Think we’re clear?”
“Should be,” Wink replied.
“I’ll give it a few,” Woods said, counted to three in his mind, then pulled back hard on the stick. They came screaming up out of the cloud. The sky cleared and the stars were vivid again. “You got him?” Woods yelled.
Wink grabbed the handle on top of the radar console and used it to turn around and look between the two tails of the Tomcat. “Got him.” Wink watched as their F-14 went straight up at five hundred fifty knots directly in front of their wingman, like a rocket.
Lieutenant Junior Grade Tony Vialli saw a flash of darkness outlined by anticollision lights and the green blur of the formation lights on the sides of the Tomcat directly in front of him. Realizing there was something in front of him, he tried to dump the nose of his Tomcat toward earth to avoid what he thought was an imminent collision. “Holy shit!” he yelled into his oxygen mask so loud that Sedge could hear it in the backseat even though Vialli’s microphone was off. Coming out of their seats as the negative G forces from their evasive action pushed them up, they flew through Woods’s jet wash and entered the clouds at the same time. Vialli, fighting to recover his bearings, forced himself to watch his artificial horizon to avoid vertigo, a loss of reference that could be fatal. He quickly checked his engine instruments to make sure the jet wash hadn’t caused a flame-out.