“Roger that,” Formsby said. “We will be going shortly, then.”
“Give me a rundown, please.”
“Time to target at selected cruise is fifty-seven minutes, and we need eleven minutes from engine start to take-off. We plan to reach the target at 0545 hours.”
“You’ve got it calculated that closely?” Church asked.
“Who in the world knows? The boss feels good if we use odd numbers.”
Formsby came through the hatchway from the crew compartment into the cargo bay and yelled, “Andy!”
Wyatt turned to look back.
“The C-130s are off.”
Wyatt climbed to his feet. “Anything else, Neil?”
“That’s all the man gave me.”
The pilots and technicians began to stir out of their resting positions on the ramp and in the bay.
“Okay, guys, we’re on,” Wyatt said. “Let’s do it like we drilled it.”
Demion said to Kriswell, “Come on, Tom. You can play with the throttles while I see if this big mother will start.”
The two of them headed forward to the flight deck with Kriswell saying, “I want to see if I can retract the wheels this time. Would that be okay?”
“I’ll tell you what, Tom,” Demion said, “I’ll think about it.”
Dennis Maal and Hank Cavanaugh headed for the Hercules tanker.
Wyatt walked out to Yucca One with Win Potter, who carried a ladder. When they reached the plane, Wyatt slipped into his G suit, then checked his survival pack. The survival packs had been specifically provisioned for this mission, and he took out the most important item, the radio, and checked it for operation. He made certain he had extra batteries for it. Uncomfortable under his left arm was the holster for his Browning 9-millimetre automatic. He didn’t plan on using it.
“Good luck, Andy.”
“Thanks, Win. I’ll be seeing you soon.”
“Maybe we can have lunch,” Potter grinned.
“Plan on it.”
Wyatt went up the ladder and into the cockpit. He strapped into his parachute, then into the seat. Potter came up and helped out with the umbilicals.
Lifting his helmet from the floor, he slipped it on and fastened the chin strap. Potter grabbed the comm cord and snapped it in place.
Wyatt gave him a raised thumb, and Potter went down the ladder.
Borman was ready with the start cart, and, in three minutes the twin turbojets were turning.
They waved at him, and moved the start cart over to crank Gettman’s F-4.
In a short time, the turboprops of both Hercules aircraft were idling, as were all twelve turbojets.
“Formation lights,” Wyatt said.
The dim wingtip lights started popping on.
Wyatt sat in his cockpit watching the ballet.
After extending flaps to the full-down position and synchronizing the engines, Maal and Cavanaugh climbed out of the tanker and ran for the transport scrambling up the ramp.
Dave Zimmerman and Cliff Jordan slid out of their F-4s, Yuccas Five and Six — the C and D models, and scampered up the ladders and into the backseats of Yuccas Three and Four. They left their jets idling with the flaps down.
Grabbing ladders and a few scattered tools, the remaining mechanics sprinted for the Hercules.
Ben Borman was last. He set the timers on the start cart explosives, then rambled his way to the transport.
As soon as he was aboard, Wyatt touched the transmit stud. “Okay, Wizard, you’re gone.”
Demion said, “I may be slow, but I’m ahead of you.” While raising its ramp, the big Hercules released its brakes and headed for the end of the runway.
Because of the way they had been lined up, Barr was the last one off the ground. He took off in the same direction he had landed, dodging holes with a drift to the right as he shot down the runway in afterburner, necessary because of the short field and the take-off weight.
Ahead of him, the twin exhausts of Hackley’s Phantom burned bright, like two flares in the false dawn, slowly climbing away to the right.
As soon as the wheels quit rumbling, and the wonder of flight took over, Barr retracted his gear, keeping an eye on the airspeed indicator. He eased into a right turn, behind Yucca Three, got the speed up, and pulled the throttles out of afterburner.
The F-4s all had their formation lights on in the hopes of avoiding a collision with anyone except the Libyans. He continued to circle right, gradually gaining altitude to one thousand feet AGL.
He leaned right and looked down at the field.
The C-130F was on the move, headed for the end of the runway. As he watched, Yucca Five began rolling away from Yucca Six, then turned jerkily and followed the tanker.
“Be tender, guys,” Wyatt said, “we don’t want to pile them up right there.”
“Trust Thirsty, Yucca,” Dennis Maal said. “I’ve done this before.”
“With a C-130?” Barr asked.
“Well, no. But it did have a forty-five-inch wingspan and a top end of sixty miles an hour.”
“I’m impressed, Thirsty,” Formsby said. Formsby had taken Cavanaugh’s seat as co-pilot of the Hercules.
Utilizing the data down-link, the ex-E-2 AWACS console aboard the transport had some control over its subordinate aircraft through the autopilot. Kriswell and Vrdla had added some functions — full throttle arc, landing gear and flap retraction — in order to enhance the remote control. In addition, some data feedback — altitude, attitude, heading, speed — was displayed on the controllers’ screens.
In the past, Barr had had an AWACS controller, with more powerful down-looking radar available, actually do his flying for him, taking him up through cloud formations that had blinded Barr but appeared perfectly clear to the high-flying AWACS.
Remotely Piloted Vehicles (RPVs) had been used for a long time, as target drones and as reconnaissance platforms, but they weren’t generally as large as F-4s or C-130s.
From the backseat of Yucca Three, Zimmerman would attempt to fly Yucca Five, and Cliff Jordan had control of Yucca Six from the backseat of Gettman’s Yucca Four. Additionally, Zimmerman and Jordan had a view. Cameras in the noses of the remote-controlled Phantoms transmitted their images to the instrument panel screens of the backseaters. That feature had not been incorporated into the tanker.
If they got the F-4 RPVs as far as Marada, Wyatt wanted Zimmerman and Jordan to be able to target well enough, through the camera lens, to fly the planes right into the targets. Modem day electronic kamikazes without the benefit of cultural and spiritual upbringing.
Barr and Wyatt, when they had developed the concept, had discussed M.E. Morris’s intriguing novel, The Last Kamikaze, but they couldn’t figure out a way to program the computers with the same dedication demonstrated by Hirohito’s pilots.
In any event, Barr didn’t think the RPVs were going to make it to the target. Crashing them into the chemical plant had become the second of their priorities.
Gettman came on the air. “Hey, Thirsty, if you’re going to dump that big toy, dump it off the runway, will you? I still want a chance to get airborne.”
“Shut up, Four,” Maal said.
Wyatt wasn’t killing the banter this morning, and Barr figured it was because they were only a few minutes away from being discovered anyway.
He continued his circle, staying behind Hackley’s formation lights. On the far side of the field, he could see Wyatt’s and Gettman’s Phantoms, but he couldn’t tell which was which. The Hercules was higher, coming in from the south, directly above the runway so Formsby or Demion could coach Maal on the ICS, the Internal Communications System.
The C-130F was now on the runway, lined up. In the gathering dawn, Barr could see the exhaust from her four engines building.