“Won’t be long now,” Jordan said.
“Hell, even by long-distance, I’ll give ’em a run for their money,” Zimmerman promised.
Barr scanned his instrument panel and HUD. All nice readings. >He was itching to fire up the radar and find something to track.
“Yucca One, Two,” Barr said, “I think it’s time.”
“It’s close enough,” Wyatt agreed. “Let’s lock open the channel.”
Barr flipped the toggle on the communications panel which kept his transmit mode open. It made for easier interplane conversation during hectic manoeuvring.
“Four, you with me?” Barr asked.
“Roger, Two. Lead the way.”
Barr made a slight correction with his stick and rudders, dropped out of the formation, and veered off on a more northerly route. Gettman, with Zimmerman in the backseat, followed and fell in on his right wing.
He could imagine the intensity of concentration Zimmerman and Jordan were having to maintain. They would have to ignore attitudinal changes made by the aircraft they were in and keep their minds attuned to what was happening in the RPVs.
The desert below was now fully, though hazily, lit. It appeared no less forbidding. He saw a few lights off about ten miles to the west and pinpointed them as the village of Zella. It was not, he thought, a tourist attraction.
They were way the hell into it now. The southern border was so far behind, it could have been in another atlas. Barr wondered why they hadn’t considered high-tailing it for the Med, ditching the aircraft, and getting picked up by someone’s luxury yacht.
Then remembered that yachts were slow, and someone might catch them.
And learn some true names.
Which wasn’t supposed to happen.
He glanced to his right. Wyatt and Hackley had disappeared. They were probably less than two miles away, but the camouflage blended them right into the desert below.
He was still holding two thousand AGL, and he was pretty certain the bad guys hadn’t spotted him yet.
“One,” he said, “can we have an AWACS check?”
“Go, Wizard Three,” Wyatt said.
“Going.”
Two seconds.
Three.
“I’m showing four bandits, bearing zero-four-three, coming hot on the RPVs. Four-five miles on them, and closing.”
“Roger,” Wyatt said. “Keep Five and Six alerted from here on in.”
Five and Six were emitting radar energy to attract attention only. Their radars could not be read by Zimmerman and Jordan.
“Yucca Five and Six are five-eight from target,” Vrdla said. “Can you guys see anything?”
Zimmerman reported, “I’ve got a nice, clear picture on the camera, but I can’t see anything but dirt.”
“All Yuccas, One. Weapons are free. Arm ’em up.”
Barr reached for his armaments panel and switched off the safety. He no longer had a backseater, and he selected “Pilot” for triggering. Just to be prepared for an airborne attack, he selected a Super Sidewinder for the time being.
The Ford Aerospace/Raytheon AIM-9L missile had an eleven-mile range at a cruising speed of Mach 3. Compared to the sixty-two-mile maximum range Sparrow, with which the F-4 was normally equipped, it was like using a knife in a street fight rather than a sniper rifle. Wyatt and Barr had elected to switch to the Sidewinder, however, for two reasons. For targeting, it utilized infrared homing, rather than semi-active radar guidance, and lacking backseaters, the infrared was preferable to them. Additionally, they saved twelve hundred pounds per plane in weight, which boosted their crucial performance data: speed and/or fuel consumption.
With its twenty-five-pound warhead, instead of the Sparrow’s eighty-eight-pound warhead, the Sidewinder could still destroy enough of an enemy aircraft to temper its aggressiveness. As an infrared-seeker, the missile usually found a hot exhaust pipe to home on, and when that was the case, that was all it took.
“One and Three jumping off,” Wyatt said. “Go afterburner, Three.”
“Sure you don’t want some help?” Barr asked.
“Hell, Bucky. there’s only four of them,” Hackley came back. “Andy can wait here if he wants to, and I’ll be right back.”
“Two and Four going hot-shit for the coast,” Barr said. “Can we pick you up a hotdog or a girl in a bikini?”
“I rather doubt,” Formsby said, “that you’re going to find either.”
“What a downer,” Barr said as he kicked in the afterburners.
Checking his right side, he saw Gettman accelerating with him, grinning widely.
Ramad was in his cockpit, performing his final pre-flight checks. The wings were extended and locked in their sixteen-degree configuration. The armaments panel showed him the availability of three hundred rounds of 23 millimetre cannon shells, two AA-7 missiles, and four AA-8 missiles. The AA-7 missiles, called Apex by NATO, were good at medium ranges, sixteen to thirty-two kilometres. The AA-8 missiles were designed for high-manoeuvrability targets at close range. They had only a seven-kilometre effective kill range, but they were very accurate. All of his missiles were infrared-homing.
He looked to the east, where the sun had now ascended just above the horizon. There were a lot of men standing around on the ramp, trying to figure out what was happening. To the west, the Su-24s were stretched along the taxiway, awaiting their orders.
“Marada Ground Control, Vulture,” he said.
“Proceed, Vulture.”
“I am ready for take-off.”
“Vulture, the bombers are now in position for take-off.”
“Move them. I am going first.”
He waved away his ground crew and released the brakes, heading quickly for the taxiway and closing his canopy as he went.
As he approached them, he saw the Su-24s sidling ahead and easing to the right, to allow him passage along the left side of the taxiway.
He had barely turned onto the runway when he heard Ta flight on the tactical radio.
“Tas, Ta Leader. Targets two-five kilometres. I have a lock-on.”
“Ta Two, lock-on.”
“Ta Three. I also have a target.”
“Ta Four, target on the screen. Now, lock-on.”
“Two missiles each, Tas,” Ta Leader said.
Ramad shoved his throttles forward and sagged into the seat as the gravitational force mounted.
Save one for me.
As he rotated and retracted his landing gear, he found himself becoming excited by the prospects.
If Ghazi’s reports were correct, there were another four hostile aircraft somewhere, and he was going to get one of them for himself.
“Yucca Six. Missile lock-on,” Jordan said easily. It was easier to say when he wasn’t sitting inside the target.
“Ditto with Five. They’re infrared seekers. I’m still shutting down radar.”
“Six shutting down.”
Wyatt checked his HUD. He was making 1040 knots, over the barrier, consuming fuel like it was hot chocolate on a wintry Nome night.
“Back off a little, Three.”
“Wilco,” Hackley said.
He worked the throttles back a little. They were still at two thousand feet AGL.
He tried to imagine what was happening with the RPVs. They had initiated their radar to make them attractive targets, and they had been fired on by infrared-homing missiles. Switching the radars to passive mode didn’t make a lot of difference.
“Five and Six,” he said. “Go ahead and launch all of your missiles.”
“Five, roger.”
“Six.”
They couldn’t actually aim the missiles, but it was a shame to waste them. If nothing else the eight missiles would scatter the Libyan formation.
“Wiz Three, here. I got missiles all over the damned sky. The homeboys are breaking up. No hits yet on either side.”