The intercom chatter died down as they flew on through a brightening day. Tension was building within the Hercules crew, Formsby knew, even though this aircraft would not approach within 220 kilometres (175 miles) of the targets. That was an exceptionally short distance for a MiG-23. Especially when their defences would be limited to what the countermeasures pods could provide. They would soon lose their fighter-bomber protection.
Thirty minutes later, Wyatt came on the air. “Wizard Three, Yucca One.”
“Go One,” Vrdla, who was Wizard Three, said.
“I’m showing two-two-zero from the IP.”
The Initial Point for the bomb run was seventeen miles west of Marada Air Base and the chemical factory.
“Roger that, One. We match up.”
“All right.” Wyatt said. “Wizard, Thirsty, go to your stations. Yuccas Five and Six, initiate your run.” Demion said, “Wizard, wilco.”
From the console below, Maal called, “Thirsty’s on her climbout.”
Zimmerman replied, “Five.”
And Jordan said, “Six moving out.”
“I’ll take her back now, Neil.”
“Just when I was getting to know her better,” Formsby said. “Story of my life.”
When he felt Demion’s touch on the yoke, Formsby released his grip and took his feet off the rudder pedals. His ankle was aching some, but it was not something with which he could not live.
“Let’s take the power to ninety percent,” Demion said to him.
“Nine-zero coming up.”
Formsby worked the throttles, keeping an eye on the tachometers so as to not get too far out of synchronization. When he had them adjusted, he fumbled for his oxygen mask, slipped the straps over his head, and let it hang around his neck. At thirty-five thousand feet, a stray missile could result in a sudden decompression, if not total annihilation.
“You’ve got to move a little faster than that, Denny,” Kriswell said over the ICS.
The tanker had fallen well below them, and Maal added more power from his remote controls in order to increase the rate of climb.
“That better, Tom?”
“Much better,” Kriswell said. “How about the rest of the crew? You all have your oxy handy?”
Potter, Borman, Cavanaugh, and Littlefield all checked in with affirmative responses.
They left the tanker at twenty-five thousand feet, its autopilot circling it in a three-mile-diameter circle. Maal was finally able to give up the joysticks and relax.
Depending upon one’s definition of relaxation, Formsby reminded himself.
The Hercules kept climbing toward the north.
Ibrahim Ramad stood with Colonel Ghazi in his control centre watching the grease-painted blips change position on the Plexiglas wall. Al-Qati’s C-130s, Black Squadron, were over the Kufra Oasis, in south-eastern Libya. They were about three hundred kilometres away from penetrating Sudan airspace. Orange Squadron, the air cover for the transports, was ranged above and ahead of them. The tankers were moving into position.
“It will not be long now, Colonel Ghazi.”
“No.” Ghazi seemed to be quite withdrawn this morning. His face reflected morose thoughts within.
“Are you certain you would not like to accompany the mission?” Ramad offered. “We could find you a seat in one of the bombers.”
“I will see everything I need to see from right here,” Ghazi said.
On the secondary tactical channel monitor, they could hear the eight MiG-23s conversing with the tankers out of Tripoli. They would have to refuel in about forty minutes. Then they would begin their descent to one thousand meters, staying ahead and above the transports, which would transit the Sudan at five hundred meters of altitude, simulating a low-profile, radar-avoidance attack.
Two MiG-23s — Alif Flight — were six hundred kilometres to the west. They were supposed to be patrolling
against any incursion of hostile aircraft from that direction, but he had listened to their radio conversations and was certain they were playing games with a flight out of Tripoli. He had issued a stern order against that nonsense.
The MiG-23s flying under the call sign of Ba that had flown surveillance along the southern border were now in their landing approach. They would land for refuelling.
Four MiG-23s, call sign Ta, were about to take off. They would patrol the region around the base until the bombers were well under way, then join the bombers. By then, Ba Flight would be refuelled and again be in the air. The bombers and Ja squadron would meet the tankers over Sudan.
It was all proceeding so smoothly.
Alongside the see-through map, the status board showed him that the nine Su-24s were now being towed from the hangars. From the overhead speaker, he heard the ground controller telling them to line up on the taxiway behind the MiG-23.
Several minutes later the controller said, “Ta Lead, Marada. Incoming craft are now down and clear of the runway. You have clearance for take-off.”
“Ta Lead, with a flight of four, proceeding.”
Ramad crossed the room to stand behind the radar operator. The supervisor, in contact with the aircraft through his headset, also stood behind the corporal. On the radar screen, Ramad saw the first two aircraft make their take-off runs toward the north, then start into a right turn. Shortly thereafter, the second pair followed.
He was about to turn away from the radar scope when he noticed two small blips near the bottom edge of the screen, about 150 kilometres away. They had to have been there for some time because the radar was set for a 220-kilometre scan.
“What are those, Corporal?” he demanded.
“Uh, where, Colonel? Oh. They just appeared.”
“Idiot! Identify them!”
“I, uh, we don’t have an aircraft in that region right now, Colonel.”
The supervisor was already on the radio, demanding identification from the pair on the primary frequencies. Airplanes flying in pairs were not accidental tourists.
“They are not transmitting IFF, Colonel,” the corporal said.
“Get me a position, you pig!”
“They are bearing almost directly on us, Colonel. One-four-eight kilometres, altitude two-thousand meters.”
Merciful Allah! Ghazi could be correct! But no, he could not be!
“How fast?” he demanded.
“Ah, closing at nine hundred knots, Colonel.”
Supersonic!
Ramad glanced over at Ghazi, who was watching the activity at the radar with passive disenchantment.
The incoming airplanes suddenly began to emanate radar emissions, the pulses showing up vividly on the screen. Every eye in the vicinity of the radar set was drawn to them.
“Radiating,” the corporal said.
“I can see that!”
Ramad’s mind immediately went into a defensive posture. He ripped the headset from the supervisor and spoke into it.
“Ta Leader, Marada.”
“This is Ta Leader.”
“You have a flight of two unknowns at your heading one-nine-two, altitude two-zero-thousand, distance one-four-zero, speed nine-zero-zero. Take them!”
“Uh, Marada, do you want us to identify them?”
“Ta Leader, I want you to shoot them down!”
Ramad dropped the headset and ran for the door, yelling, “Tell my crew to have my airplane ready!”
Ghazi stopped his flight with one raised hand. “Are you notifying Tripoli, Colonel?”
“I will take care of this, Ghazi.”
“Yes. I am certain that you will.”
“Keep me apprised, Yucca Five,” Barr heard Wyatt demand of Zimmerman.
“The RPVs are sixty miles ahead of us,” Zimmerman said, “and seven-five out. My feedback says five is being hit with search radar.”