“I’m beginning to think they’re out,” said Bear, whose dog tags identified him as Captain Harvey Jackson, another member of the Air National Guard and a high school English teacher in what he called “the real world.” Intel suspected that at least one battery of SA-2’s and another of SA-6’s were still breathing below.
“If they’re not coming up for those Hogs, they’re not coming up,” Bear predicted. “They should be able to see them. I say we got three minutes to worry about, then it’s downhill. I hope these assholes try something— I want that SA-6.”
“Me too. But not if it nails our little buddies.”
“Hey, those Hogs are tough bastards. I bet you could put a missile through each wing and they’d still come home— after they made their bomb run.”
“Probably been done.”
“Don’t worry, Fred. I’m not letting them get hit.”
In some of the early model Phantoms, the backseater could look past his control panel and see the pilot; in fact, it was possible to pass notes back and forth and even lean forward or backward for an ataboy. In the Gs, though, the two crewmen were separated by an “iron wall”— actually a wall of aluminum and glass, electronics, wires and gauges, but it might just as well be iron as far as Bear in his cave was concerned. Fly with the same guy long enough, though, or through enough shit and the distance disappeared. His thoughts became your thoughts; the back-and-forth chatter became a kind of binary code plugging into your head.
“I’m going to take us further north near that SA-6,” Parsons told Bear. “I have a feeling they’re down there and waiting.”
“Hang loose, Colonel.”
It wasn’t the words but the tone that told the pilot his backseater had a tingling. The APR-47 radar attack and warning receiver sniffed out a quick hit as Parson’s grip on the stick tightened.
“Oh yeah. He’s turning it on and off. Just a two-second burst. I have him. SA-2. Hasn’t launched yet. Okay, okay.”
“Roger that. Scope’s clear except for Squeaky,” answered Parsons. “Putting him on beam.”
“Still looking for the SA-6.”
“I have ten miles to target. That SA-2 battery’s going to launch any second. You ready to fire?”
“PPI has it,” said the pitter, referring to the Plan Position Indicator, which displayed enemy threats in relation to the Weasel. “I’m handing off.”
It took a bare second for the Phantom’s computer to send the targeting information to the HARM AGM-88 missile under her wing. The antiradiation missile took in the numbers, crunched them to fit, and blipped the light on Bear’s panel telling him it was ready to talk turkey with the Iraqis.
“Got a light.”
“Launch.”
“Missile away.”
“They’ve launched!” Parsons saw the ground flash and blew hard into his mask. The SA-2 had been in action since the Vietnam War; it had a small bag of tricks, and to a plane as fast and as high as Rheingold One, it did not pose much of a threat. Still, he had to be careful. He was just about to push the Phantom into a roll when his backseater shouted into the com set.
“Son of a bitch— there’s two batteries. Hold it— there’s our SA-6. Colonel, go to twenty-five mile scope.”
“Roger that. We got a telephone pole headed in the other direction. Get the six first. How far is it?”
“Fifteen miles. In two, start your turn to the left. We’ll take a beam shot, then go back for the twos.”
“Shit— more launches. The twos. I thought these motherfuckers were hit day one. It looks like Cape Canaveral down there.”
Parsons tightened his grip on the control stick. The SA-6s, persistent missiles immune to the ECM pods used by many USAF planes in theater, had top priority.
The Hogs were on their own against the SA-2s.
CHAPTER 7
Somewhere at the edge of his consciousness, the radar warning receiver was lit up like a Christmas tree, telling Mongoose that the missile was coming at him from the northeast. By the time the information fully registered, the pilot had already begun turning the plane to “beam” the missile’s radar guidance system— pulling the Hog ninety degrees to the radar to defeat its pulse-doppler signals.
“Missile in the air,” said A-Bomb, his voice cold and crisp in Mongoose’s helmet.
When his first maneuver and the chaff failed to shake the missile, Mongoose rolled the Hog, tucking his right wing to the earth as his eyes hunted the sky for the enemy bullet. Gravity crashed into his face and side, Newton’s laws of motion making him work for a living. His fingers tightened on the control stick as he felt the Hog tug a bit. The Mavericks and Rockeyes were still tied to his wings but the plane wasn’t complaining so much as letting him know it could still do its job once this diversion was over.
First he had to get clear. He poked his nose back, still coming down, but the last thing he wanted to do was fly right into the son of a bitch.
But it was fine. Around it was okay. Away from it was better.
A-Bomb yelped something else. The words rushed by incomprehensibly.
Mongoose looked in the direction the warning unit advised but saw nothing. The edge of his helmet slammed against his neck as he jerked his head around; the sting crept down his back like a pack of night crawlers.
The Weasel pilot barked something at him, another break most likely.
More missiles. His warning unit had them.
One problem at a time.
He sucked air hard twice before his eyes found what looked like a thick telephone pole pushing toward him. It looked more like a tree trunk propelled by a tornado than a missile, more blunted than streamlined. Mongoose caught a good glimpse of its nose as he pushed the Hog down, trading altitude for energy and speed. He was lucky; he could already tell from the trajectory the missile would miss him. It was too big to come back to his course. Too big, too fat, too ugly, too old, even for a slow mover like the Hog.
He was clear; none of the other missiles had locked on him.
He had a good view of one of them. Big bastard, but kind of a wimp— didn’t even have the guts to spin back in his direction and keep the fight going.
Then he realized the missile was going after A-Bomb, whose big green shadow passed through a low cloud a depressingly short distance from the thirsty, blunt nose of the SA-2.
CHAPTER 8
A-Bomb fired another round of chaff and kicked a couple of flares out the back for good measure. He could feel the missile starting to breathe in gulps, like a tiger closing in for the kill.
“Screw yourself,” he told it, bending the nose of the Hog as he jackknifed the airplane toward the ground. He rolled and caught sight of the missile closer than he’d suspected, so close in fact that he knew he’d almost blown it big time.
He saw the wobble and then the shock wave that consumed the SA-2’s long shaft as the warhead exploded. He saw that before he felt it, before he hunched his shoulders up and reflexively ducked his head, steadying the stick and telling the Hog not to worry. Energy and shrapnel rushed toward him; he swept his plane to the left, riding some of the wave but rocking like all hell, knowing they were going to make it okay. He squeezed the A-10 close to him, swaying with her like a teenager at a prom, whisking her off to a quiet corner of the dance floor where he could feel beneath her bra without the chaperones taking notes.