Gettman climbed upward, got away from Barr’s Phantom, and kicked in the afterburners. He wasn’t worrying about fuel at this stage, either.
Barr was beginning to worry about it.
“One,” he said, “I haven’t heard from you.”
“We’re plugging along,” Wyatt came back. “Three’s joined up with me.”
“How plugged are you?” Barr asked.
“There have been better days. I’ve lost the starboard turbojet, but I’m managing what, Three?”
Hackley said, “Two-seven-oh knots. Right now.”
“You drop all your ordnance?” Barr asked.
“I’ve thrown away everything I can throw away.”
“Give me some coordinates, Norm. I’ll find you.”
“To hell with that,” Wyatt said. “You go where you’re supposed to go.”
Barr shut up.
He was passing south of the air base, and he wished he had brought a camera along. The damage was spectacular. There was burning wreckage all over the runway and taxiway. The ground had sagged deeply in a half-dozen spots over the subterranean hangars, and smoke and flames had broken through in several spots. A ground fog of white mist hung over everything. He saw men grouped together in clusters out in the desert away from the complex, and more people were still running, attempting to get away from the base.
There were a number of bodies spread around also, and he tried to skip over those.
But he couldn’t.
Wyatt had full power on his remaining turbojet and he was watching the temperatures closely. He had trimmed the controls out as far as he could to balance the aircraft, but he still had to maintain pressure on the left rudder. The calf of his left leg was going to know about it soon, he thought.
Hackley had told him he was holding thirty-two hundred feet AGL, and he was beginning to believe he could maintain that for awhile. Fuel wasn’t a problem at the moment; he had lost half of his consumption end.
“Can you come right a bit more?” Hackley asked.
“Sure.”
Wyatt released pressure on the left rudder, and the Phantom obediently swung right.
“There you go, Andy. That puts you on two-one-five.”
“Take off, Norm.”
“Not on your life, which is what we’re talking about, right? When you go down, I want your coordinates, and you don’t have anything left to tell you what they are.”
That point was difficult to argue.
“Wizard Three,” Wyatt said.
“Go, One.”
“What are you showing in the area? Anything coming out of Tripoli or Benghazi?”
“If they are, I haven’t seen them. We’re showing that MiG about a hundred out, and that’s all.”
“You guys skedaddle.”
“We’ve got this one covered,” Demion said. “You just pay attention to what you’re doing.”
Wyatt concentrated on his flying.
Ramad tried calling Marada Air Base, but no one answered his call. The fools were probably hiding under the tables. He thought about diverting Orange Squadron from its Return to Base command, but knew he would not need them for an attack on a slow-moving target.
He thought about tuning in the Tripoli command frequency, and decided against that. He didn’t want to talk to anyone from the staff until after he had finished this.
The altimeter read ten thousand meters.
His airspeed was Mach 1.7.
Abruptly, a target appeared on the top edge of his radar screen. It was thirty-five kilometres away, and it appeared to be flying in a large circle.
It was definitely their command plane, and he would blow it out of the sky.
He checked his armaments panel. His three remaining AA-8s were indicating availability.
Reducing his throttle settings, he remembered someone with whom he should talk. He used the secondary tactical channel.
Ahmed al-Qati heard Ramad calling.
After the fourth try, he responded. “Vulture, this is Colonel al-Qati.”
Ramad ignored the use of his name. “What is your position?”
“Colonel, the C-130s have been recalled and are returning to El Bardi. Some of the MiGs are still refuelling. Tripoli has recalled the entire operation.”
Al-Qati did not mention that the transports he and Shummari now commanded were no longer part of the group of C-130s retreating to the coast. They were now one hundred kilometres west of the border, heading west-south-west.
“That is impossible! I have not called off Test Strike.”
“There is no more Test Strike, Colonel. Your bombers are destroyed on the runway. Your air base is destroyed. The casualties are high. The last report said seventy dead and many more than that wounded. Colonel Ghazi has been killed.”
Al-Qati realized he was talking to no one. Ramad had given up listening.
But then, he had done that many months before.
“You won’t be needing me here, will you, James?”
“Go ahead, Neil,” Demion said.
Formsby removed his headset and disconnected his oxygen mask, then pushed himself up out of the co-pilot’s seat.
Demion had already taken the Hercules out of its programmed circle and was on a heading of 190 degrees. The four turbine engines were churning out one hundred percent power.
Formsby was no more out of the seat than Kriswell was into it.
Kriswell said, “I’ve always wanted to fly a combat mission.”
“You can fly it, Tom. Just don’t touch anything,” Demion told him.
Sliding down the ladder to the crew compartment, he found a crowd. Potter, Borman, Cavanaugh, and Littlefield had not been able to wait it out, sitting in the cargo bay. They were ranged around Maal and Vrdla, who were seated next to each other at the console.
Potter had rigged up an oxygen distribution hose for all of the extra people, and Formsby plugged into it. Borman handed him an extra headset. They were all conversing over the aircraft’s internal communications system.
“Thank you, Benjamin.” He was still trying to remember everyone’s names.
He peered over Vrdla’s shoulder at the screen.
“Tell me, please, Samuel.”
Vrdla used a stubby forefinger to point to each blip on the screen. They were not using the Identify Friend or Foe equipment, so none of the blips was automatically tagged by the computer.
“This is Andy and Norm. They’re making two-seven-zero, and they’re a hundred-and-forty-five miles north of us. Over here,” — about forty miles west of Wyatt — “is Bucky. He’s doing all right, and he’s a hundred-and-twenty out. Ahead of him, here, is Karl and Dave. They’re a hundred out. This fucker here is the MiG. He’s slowing some, but he’s still hauling ass. He’s twenty-one away. Here, south of us, is the tanker.”
“No chance that Gettman will catch the MiG, is there?” Formsby asked.
“Not in this world,” Vrdla said.
“What do you think, Neil?” Maal asked.
“I think it is time. Perhaps past time.”
“Jim?” Maal asked.
“Let’s go with Neil’s timing, Denny,” Demion said.
Maal sat up straighter in his seat, worked his shoulders, then placed his hands on the twin joysticks in front of him. The right one controlled ailerons and elevators. The left controlled rudders and throttles. A small Bakelite box in front of the joysticks had several toggle switches identified with black labelling tape — LNDG GEAR, FLAPS, AUTOPIL, FUEL SEL. There were a couple of additional controls for setting the autopilot.
Set into the console was a cathode ray tube that displayed the C-130F’s pertinent data via a radio feedback. Airspeed, heading, altitude, attitude (turn-and-bank indicator), and rate-of-climb were the primary readouts, but engine tachometers and oil pressure relays were also shown.