So far, four missiles had been expended by both sides with no hits.
Noble Three One rolled to the right as the Mig-25 banked left. She pulled the F-16 up, executed a half loop, and came out behind the Mig-25. The locked-on alarm sent a steady tone to her earphones. She squeezed the trigger. Her third Sidewinder ignited and shook the F-16 slightly as it blasted away at Mach Two toward its target. Flares shot out from the Mig-25.
Noble Four Eight, two miles further west, had the remaining Mig-25 on the run. The Libyan pilot was on the deck, rocking back and forth in a frantic effort to avoid the American fire-control radar.
A minute passed without the Mig-25 pilot hearing the warning tone from his sensors. The fleeing Libyan grinned as he congratulated himself on evading the American fighter. He eased his aircraft up to three thousand feet. As he keyed his microphone to call Tripoli military airfield, Noble Four Eight fired his missile. Inside the Mig-25 cockpit the beeping alarm of an inbound missile disrupted the call for eight seconds before the Sidewinder hit the engine exhaust. The Mig-25 wheeled over and began an out-of-control spiral toward the sea. It exploded when it hit, sending debris a hundred feet into the air, enveloped by a dark cloud of smoke. Noble Four Eight looked for the Libyan pilot’s parachute, but didn’t see one.
“Scratch another Mig!” shouted Noble Four Eight gleefully.
“He’s on my tail!” shouted Noble Three One. “He has lock on.”
From the tail of Noble Three One, four flares and a cascade of chaff shot out. The missile from the Mig-25 hit the number-two flare and passed harmlessly under the F-16 to explode fifty feet in front of it.
Noble Three One faked a left roll, and pulled up on the throttle as the Mig-25 flew by her to the left. She banked a hard-left diving turn, coming out behind the Mig and “luck firing” her cannon as her missile system searched for a lock-on. Hitting an aircraft with cannon fire when the target is evasive-maneuvering is hard. Most pilots believe it is just plain bad luck if you get shot down with cannon fire.
Missiles were the weapons of choice for aerial combat. They required little thought, and electronics did the work. One of the twenty-millimeter shells penetrated the hydraulic system of the complex Mig-25 avionics, causing the Libyan pilot to lose control.
The Foxbat jerked, swinging from right to left and back again, as the pilot strained with muscle power to compensate for the loss of hydraulics. Without the critical hydraulic systems to move the ailerons and flaps, the aircraft was barely manageable.
Noble Three One lined up behind the Foxbat and laced the aircraft with a burst of twenty-millimeter cannon shells. The left engine of the Mig-25 burst into flames.
Without hydraulics and with only the starboard engine, the Libyan pilot lost all control of the Mig-25. The heavy Foxbat began to spin in a left-hand roll on a downward spiral to the sea.
An ejection seat blasted out from the Mig as the Libyan pilot abandoned his fighter. “Noble Formation, reform on me,” The Bird said as he began a right-turn circuit, waiting for the other three to show.
“Wizard One, how does it look out here?”
“Noble One Six, Wizard One; clear skies. Well done. Time to go home now.” “Roger, Noble One Six,” said Noble Three One. “Scratch another Foxbat.
One pilot in the drink about five miles from Gearing survivors. And not one nail damaged, not one hair out of place, and — dry knickers!
How’s that for calm?”
“Was that why you were crying, “He’s on my tail,” “He’s on my tail’?”
Noble Four Eight laughed.
“Hey, you twit! That wasn’t a cry. It was just me stating a mere fact that all women understand; there’s always some man somewhere on your tail.” “Good job, Noble Formation,” The Bird said.
“Noble Formation, this is Wizard One. Congratulations! We watched everything from here.”
“Roger, Wizard, we be ready to go home. Want to make one pass by the Gearing as we exit area. They were the only audience for this little air show and they deserve the finale.” “Wizard, this is Hunter Six Zero,” the P-3C. “We are north of thirty-sixth parallel and heading home. Noble Formation, well done.
Thanks for doing what we would have loved to have done.”
The four F-16s reformed into a diamond formation. At one thousand feet the Air Force fighters roared over the Gearing survivors, who waved their hats. Noble Formation executed a formation victory roll as they departed the area.
“Wizard One, this is Noble One Six. Scratch six helicopters and four Mig-25s. Request two more Foxtrot Sixteens and we’ll take on their entire damn Air Force.”
“I think you just did, Noble Formation!” yelled the Navy P-3C pilot.
“Noble One Six, fuel state?” the ATE asked.
“Roger, fuel low. Request tanker.”
“Roger, turn to course three five zero for tanker support. Kilo Charlie One Three Five standing by,” the ATE said, informing the F-16 formation that a KC-135 tanker was orbiting in the assigned refueling zone. “Turn to channel sixteen and contact tanker. Upon refueling, check back in on channel fourteen and contact Wizard One. Noble Formation, Admiral Cameron, Commander U.S. Sixth Fleet, sends
“Well Done.””
“Noble Formation, this is Hunter Six Zero. The pitchers will be waiting at the club.”
“Just make sure they’re full, Hunter.”
“You can be sure of that, but a full pitcher of beer in front of a lot of thirsty sailors doesn’t stay full long.”
CHAPTER 6
Shortly before midnight the submarine surfaced.
Silently and quickly, sailors spilled out of the black monster as they ran to Their positions. Each was acutely aware of the vulnerability of the USS Albany while surfaced. They hurried about their tasks, conversations low as they rushed to disembark their rioers. Groaning from exertion, several sailors helped the SEALs pull the awkward rubber boats topside. Faint red light from the interior illuminated the nighttime task.
Belowdecks, Duncan stood with the remaining SEALs, waiting for the “all clear topside” before heading up the ladder to what Duncan termed freedom. Cooped up inside a steel coffin for the past thirty hours had made him feel like he was trapped in a stalled elevator; only this elevator was surrounded by tons of water. On top of that, they were twenty-four hours late for their rendezvous. They had no idea whether Alneuf was there or not, and wouldn’t until they hit the shore. What a waste of time if they got ashore and found they’d missed him. Then, Duncanvould have endangered his SEALs for nothing.
“Damn, what a time to get a headache,” Duncan whispered to Beau, who stood inches behind him.
“Drink water and take plenty of aspirins. If you still have it in the morning, call me,” Beau replied.
Duncan rubbed his temples, feeling the cammie paint rub off on his fingers.
He pulled a stick of camouflage paint from his pocket. Squeezing a small portion on his fingers, he smeared the black-and-green makeup over his face.
A head stuck itself in from above. “Pssst! Captain, y’all come on.”
“Damn, I’m surrounded by you Southerners.”
“Wasn’t he supposed to say, “All clear topside’?” asked Beau.
“Well, Beau, I guess this is it. Good luck.”
“You, too, Duncan.”
Duncan turned to the squads. “Okay, let’s go,” he said softly. “You know what to do. Do it quietly and do it fast.” He slung his carbine over his shoulder and scrambled up the ladder. Faster than he thought he could. His sports arthritis bothered him more as he got older. He recalled fleetingly, as he pulled himself through the hatch, when he could break a six minute mile with a hangover. Now, it took eight on a good day. Here he was doing something a younger officer should be doing, and the migraine wasn’t helping. He should have let Mike Sunney take this mission. To hell with whether President Alneuf of Algeria would have been offended or not if a junior officer rescued him. Duncan could have always stayed behind. Plus, there was always Beau. Beau was more than capable of leading this expedition. But in the end, Duncan knew he would never throw in the towel or stay behind or give the mission to Beau. In spite of misgivings, in spite of what the Navy had done to him, this was his mission. And as he had done countless times during his Navy career, he would execute as ordered. A stab of migraine pain zapped him. Slight migraines had plagued Duncan periodically ever since a blow to the head years ago in a brawl outside a merchant marine bar near the piers in Marseilles. He hoped it would go away before they hit the beach.