When he bent over and peered through the side window, he saw Shummari’s transport following along.
Within a minute of their departure from the group, a battery of queries rained upon them from the other transports.
As long as he held the gun, no one was going to respond.
Belatedly, Barr tightened his harness.
He had heard the elated reports of downed MiGs on the open channel, but had refrained from entering the repartee. He might need a clear channel soon.
He decided to use it now.
“Four, let go the tanks.”
“Roger,” Gettman said.
He had switched to his main tanks earlier, when the drop tanks had coughed up the last of their precious liquid, and he abandoned them now without regret.
“Four, you have the lead.”
“Roger.”
Yucca Four drew alongside, then eased into the lead. Zimmerman, having lost his RPX had reverted to his Air Force role of backseater, and he would guide both Phantoms onto the target.
Barr selected two of his three bombs from each pylon. He wanted to save two of the five-hundred-pounders for a second pass if it was necessary, or for a drop on the air base on their outbound run.
“IP on my mark,” Zimmerman said.
The Initial Point was an abandoned township some seventeen miles west of Marada Air Base, but south of their line of flight toward the factory. Zimmerman was making his bomb run based on navigational extensions.
“Mark.”
Seventeen miles out.
Air speed 845 knots.
They had to start reducing speed soon. The optimum speed for the bomb release was 450 knots in order to improve the accuracy.
“Let’s everybody come right to zero-nine-three,” Zimmerman ordered.
Barr eased into the turn, then locked-on the heading.
“Hate to mention this,” Zimmerman said, “but I’ve got a bogey twelve miles south, on intercept.”
“He’s mine,” Barr said.
He reselected a Sidewinder as he brought the nose up, then boosted the throttles. He was no longer thinking about fuel conservation.
The bogey was clear on the radar screen, and after he turned a few degrees to the right, appeared on the HUD.
Thirteen miles to target.
The bogey turned toward him.
At their combined rates of speed, they would meet in about thirty seconds.
The Sidewinder began to moan.
The MiG released a missile. Barr guessed it was an Apex.
Threat warning howl.
“MISSILE LOCK-ON” blinking on the HUD.
He ignored it.
Ten miles to target.
Sidewinder screaming happily.
He punched the stud.
The missile dropped and whisked away.
Barr tugged the stick back and right, kicked in the right rudder, pulled up, then rolled inverted.
He launched two infrared countermeasures flares.
Yanked the stick back again, and shot for the earth.
The Apex chasing him lunged upward toward the flares, changed its simple mind, reversed itself, and went down for him, but too late.
It sailed over his tail, detonating a quarter-mile beyond him.
He came back up, looping, and rolled out at the top, back on course for the factory.
The MiG had veered off toward the north and was dancing a ballet, attempting to evade the Sidewinder.
And he saw another missile coming at him. A short-range job this time, he supposed.
He rolled hard to the left.
Brought the nose down.
“Missile off!” Gettman called. He had fired on the defender also.
Rolled upright.
The missile was swerving toward him.
He turned into it.
Fired two flares.
Then turned past it.
The missile missed a direct impact with the Phantom.
But its proximity fuse detonated it off his wingtip.
The F-4 shuddered at the concussion.
And immediately rolled to the right.
Barr caught it, forced his way upright, and looked out at his left wing.
What was left of it.
About three feet of the wingtip was shredded.
“You okay, Bucky?” Gettman asked.
“We’re supposed to use call signs,” he said.
“Fuck that. What’s your status?”
“Flying. These old buckets are tougher than grandpa.”
“Goddamn it! Give me a sitrep.” That call was from Formsby.
“I’ve lost some wingtip,” Barr reported. “I can still unload my ordnance, provided the bogey stays away.”
He balanced his throttles, putting more power on the right engine to match the drag created by having more wing on that side.
“The bandit’s gone north,” Gettman reported.
“Wizard Three here,” Vrdla said. “Your bogey outran both Sidewinders, but he’s out of the plan for about fifteen seconds. Do your stuff.”
“Call it, Yucca Five,” Barr said.
Zimmerman said, “We’re right on course. Two, come left three degrees. Let’s get the speed down.”
“Forget the speed,” Vrdla said. “Your bogey will catch you.”
“Maintain eight-zero-zero knots,” Zimmerman said.
Maintain eight hundred? Barr was down to 670. He worked the throttles up, keeping more power on the right engine.
The landscape ahead was still barren. If there was a chemical factory out there, it had been painted to match Barr’s colour scheme for the Phantoms.
The plant’s geographical coordinates had been pre-programmed into the computer, and Barr called them up.
He got exactly nothing.
“This is Two. My adding machine went on strike.”
“Stay with me,” Gettman said.
Yucca Four had pulled ahead of him as he fought to regain airspeed and he could see her a quarter-mile to his left.
He forced in some more turn. The extra drag on the right made all of his manoeuvres tougher.
Considering that he might not make it as far back as the air base, and considering that he needed to be as light as possible, as soon as possible, Barr selected all of his bombs. He switched on the electro-optical targeting system. It seemed to be working because a target reticule immediately appeared on the HUD.
“Targeting computer is still earning a paycheck,” Barr reported.
“That’s the American work ethic in action,” Formsby told him.
He checked the chronometer, urged it to greater speed. The seconds seemed to be dragging.
He looked ahead and maybe saw a few blockish shapes forming on the horizon.
“There ’tis!” Zimmerman said.
They had been losing altitude without his realizing it since he had been following Gettman’s lead. The radar altimeter reported thirty-five hundred feet AGL.
Barr found the plant a few seconds later, sighting through the HUD. The computer wasn’t generating a target for him, but he saw the plant live. It was a complex of eight or nine buildings, and he suspected from the construction style that there were several subterranean levels below the single story showing above ground.
He used the joystick to centre the reticule on the structure second from the right, then locked it on. He pressed the pickle button to commit the drop.
From that point on, the computer — if it was working — would accept what it was seeing from the bomb’s point of view, add to that the altitude and speed factors, and release the load at the proper moment.
No matter what Barr did with the airplane.
Maybe.
“I’ve got four miles to target,” Zimmerman said. “Four’s committed.”
“Two’s committed.”
“Your bogey’s on your ass,” Vrdla added.
“SAMs coming!” Gettman yelled.