Suddenly a small box appeared around the circle — he was locked on. He selected the AIM-9L Sidewinder on the left wingtip and was rewarded with a growl in his headphones. The IR seeker on the missile had its target in view and was telling him with an audible signal. SHOOT appeared on the HUD and he pulled the trigger.
The missiles were practice rounds without propellant or warheads, so nothing left the rail. But if it had been real, his target would be dead. Tony grinned under his oxygen mask. The video recorder would display all the data on the HUD as proof back at debrief.
The two oncoming planes were just visible now, rushing toward him out of the starlit darkness. They were F-16s.
Tony came up on the wing frequency. “Lead Falcon heading south over Range Alpha, this is Bluejay One. Gotcha.” The missile’s growl was audible on the circuit.
There was no answer, but their two opponents broke hard left, turning toward them. Tony saw it and called, “Burner.” He shoved his throttle all the way forward. As the engine responded with a satisfying roar, he pulled back sharply on the stick.
The F-16 Falcon is one of the most agile aircraft in the world. Among its other sterling qualities is an engine that puts out more thrust than the aircraft weighs. This means that it can do very interesting things, like accelerate while going straight up.
They climbed, quickly passing the altitude where their two opponents were still turning left. Tony did a rapid calculation in his head and rolled the aircraft to the right, still climbing, so that he was “facing” their adversaries, who were now behind and beneath him. Hooter kept with him, hanging on to his wing as if he were glued there.
Still pulling on the stick, Tony passed over the top and saw a dark horizon, the ground, climb up the back of his canopy. He searched quickly “over” his head and was rewarded with two bright points of light — the two “enemy” F-16s had also gone to burner, but it was too late. They were still turning left.
Diving on full burner, he pressed the cannon select button on his stick. As the radar shifted he called, “Hooter, I’m going for a gun on the aft ship.” He heard Hooter click his mike switch twice in answer.
The radar locked up immediately and he adjusted his dive slightly to put the “death dot” aiming reticle over the target. He forced himself to count “one potato, two potato” so the gyros could catch up with all his hard maneuvering. The SHOOT prompt came on again and he pulled the trigger. “Aft ship, this is Bluejay One. You’re a mort.”
Hooter’s excited voice came over his phones. “Beautiful, Saint. I wonder if we can frame a videotape?”
Without a word the two “enemy” planes pulled up and rocketed off for points unknown, and the Bluejays turned for base. Two blasts of afterburner had significantly reduced their fuel.
“Saint, who were they? I didn’t see any other Falcons scheduled in our area tonight.”
“Probably some Juvets from the 80th ordered to surprise us. I heard a rumor the wing commander was going to try something like this.”
Hooter chuckled, “Well, they can surprise us like that anytime they want.”
“I’ll pass. They might have been real gomers. Thank God we dropped enough ordnance to mark off the box. If they had interrupted us sooner, we’d have had to repeat the mission.”
“Yeah, then you wouldn’t have safetied out the cannon.”
Ten minutes later they were back at base, and it took just five minutes more to taxi to the arch. Tony climbed out of his cockpit feeling like he’d been there for a year. Pulling five to seven g’s wears you out. It was 2130 and he and Hooter still had an hour of debrief left before they could sleep. But there were two poor bastards in the 80th who’d be up late, too, and they wouldn’t have much fun watching their after-action videotape.
CHAPTER 6
Uncertain Welcome
Second Lieutenant Kevin Little was more than a little worried. So far, at least, on his first real day of active duty as an Army officer, nothing — absolutely nothing — had gone right.
It had started with his flight into Kimpo International Airport that morning. Bad weather in Seattle had kept him from making his KAL connection in Anchorage, and he’d had to wait for the next plane. That had turned a planned fourteen-hour trip into a full twenty-four-hour nightmare. That would have been bad enough. But then he hadn’t been able to get through to the battalion travel office at Camp Howze to let them know that he’d been delayed.
So now that he had finally gotten into Kimpo, his transport to the battalion had been and gone. And the Eighth Army captain in charge of ground transportation at the airport was making it crystal clear that sympathy was in short supply in South Korea.
“Listen, Lieutenant whatever-your-name-is, I don’t give a raggedy rat’s ass about your missing ride. We’ve just come off a six-day alert and I’ve got better things to do than to spend time rounding up a car and driver for every woeful, wayward, green-as-grass replacement wandering around in Korea. Like getting some sleep, for example. Got it?” The captain kept his voice low, but Kevin could swear that every lowly PFC and clerk in the room had heard every word.
Cripes, now what? His first, miserable day in ROTC basic training flashed back to him. The captain had asked a question to which there was only one permissible answer.
Kevin drew himself to attention. “Sir, yes sir.” He almost stopped — why was the captain’s face turning bright red? Hurriedly he carried on, “Could the captain please direct me to the nearest cab stand or bus station, then?”
“Oh, shit, boy…” The man seemed to be trying hard not to laugh, “Don’t you know Americans aren’t real popular around this country right now? You might be able to get a cab, but you’d be just as likely to end up way down in Pusan as at Camp Howze.”
The captain turned to bellow at one of his sergeants standing just a few feet away. “Fergie! See what we can do for this little lost lamb! I guess we’re playing nursemaid today.”
He looked back at Kevin. “Don’t expect too much or anything too fancy. General McLaren, the Big Boss here in Korea, doesn’t like seeing officers spending their time riding around like some kind of foreign potentates.” The captain’s Alabama drawl stretched the word “potentates” into something that sounded vaguely obscene.
The captain yawned. “You’re lucky I’m in a merciful mood, Lieutenant. And now that I’ve put your case in Sergeant Ferguson’s capable hands, I’ve done all that I can.” He yawned again. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some important paperwork to clear up.” With that, the captain sauntered into his office and closed the door.
Sergeant Ferguson, a wiry, little man, motioned Kevin over to a chair. “Better take a pew, Lieutenant. This might take awhile. Not a whole lot going up toward the Z today. Should be able to get you something though.” He started flipping through a huge stack of papers on one of the desks.
Kevin sank into the chair. Jesus, here he was. Stuck in Korea. Stuck in the hands of a bunch of Army clerks. His new battalion commander had probably already listed him as AWOL, absent without leave. He could just see writing to his parents: “Dear Mom and Dad, arriving back from Korea tonight. Please write care of Leavenworth Army Prison.” He leaned his head back against the office partition in misery and then sat bolt upright.
The captain snored.
Two hours later Ferguson came through and Kevin found himself in the cab of an Army supply truck trundling north toward the DMZ. Jet lag was starting to catch up with him; he was tired, sore, and more than a little nauseous, and the truck driver, a shifty-looking corporal, seemed to delight in making hairpin turns, sudden lane changes, and ear-splitting gear shifts.