At Thunder’s words, Jack flipped his compass and nav systems to their primary mode of operation, slaving them to the gyros in the inertial navigation system. It was a long delay. Jack gave Fairly a thumbs up, signaling that he was at last ready to taxi. Lieutenant Johnny Nelson, Fairly’s backseater, tapped his forehead. When he saw Bryant nod in acknowledgment, he simultaneously rocked his head forward and closed his rear canopy. Bryant keyed on Nelson’s head nod and closed his canopy in unison with Nelson. Fairly repeated the procedure for Jack and their front canopies came down together. Only the four crew chiefs launching the aircraft saw the synchronized canopy routine that was the first step in the aircrews’ coming together as a team.
Colonel Shaw and his lanky DO were sitting in the commander’s pickup truck, monitoring the radio and watching the two fighters as they taxied out, lined up on the runway, and started their takeoff roll. Shaw watched, with a critical eye, the two F-4s as they made a precision formation takeoff while the sound of the SAC tanker’s engines filled the truck. He was satisfied with the response of the SAC tanker unit. Maybe, he thought, SAC does understand what the Air Force is all about.
“Your boys look good,” he said to Hawkins.
“Good enough,” the DO said. He hoped.
“Colonel!” Bill Carroll shouted over the interphone in the RC-135. “The Libyans scrambled the MiGs. They’re going after the Grain King—”
Cruzak was continuing to refine the frequency pattern. The computer was almost locked onto the entire shift pattern the scrambler used. Cruzak calculated they would break the system wide open in another five minutes. It was a significant breakthrough.
Anthony Waters reacted calmly to this latest intelligence. “Down-link that to Washington.” He was sure a battle was going to start in a few minutes and there was little else he could do. He also hadn’t felt so alive in years.
The colonel unfolded from his seat and stretched his cramped legs. He could see the agitated lieutenant talking to Cruzak. Waters had been monitoring U.S. communications and walked down the narrow aisle, knowing the two needed reassurance. “Hey, you did good. Help is on the way from Alexandria South.”
Cunningham’s order to establish contact with Grain King and order them out of Libyan airspace had been received over Outpost’s command communications equipment. “Grain King, Grain King, this is Outpost on Guard. Do you copy?” The transmission on Guard — the frequency reserved for emergencies — surprised the C-130 crew.
“Read you five-by, Outpost. Go ahead,” Toni answered.
“Roger, Grain King. Turn right to a heading of zero-niner-zero degrees now. Leave Libyan airspace ASAP. Repeat, leave Libyan airspace ASAP.”
“Outpost,” Toni replied, “we are under the control of Tripoli Center on an approved flight plan, on a weather divert into Alexandria South with an injured man on board.”
“Grain King, Outpost. You are in danger of being intercepted by hostile aircraft. Do you copy all?”
“Copy all.” Toni reached for the yoke, disengaged the autopilot, and spun the big cargo plane to an easterly heading. By pushing the throttles up and nosing the plane into a gentle descent, the airspeed increased to almost three hundred eighty knots. “How far to the border, Dave?”
“About a hundred miles, fifteen or sixteen minutes at this ground speed.” He looked over the flight engineer’s shoulder at the fuel gauges and rapidly calculated what the increased airspeed would do to their fuel. “You can keep this fuel flow up for about eighteen minutes.” If we don’t rip the wings off first, he thought. “Then you’ll have to shut one engine down for long-range cruise. It’s going to be tight.”
“Outpost, this is Stinger One-One with a flight of two. How read this frequency?” Fairly queried the radar control post.
“Read you five-by, Stinger,” a female voice answered. “Situation is as follows. Grain King Zero-Three, U.S. C-130 cargo aircraft, is transiting Libyan airspace with approved flight plan. Two bandits reported scrambled to intercept Grain King. Intentions of bandits unknown, suspect hostile. I have contact with Grain King. On your nose bearing two-six-five degrees, one-niner-zero nautical miles from your position. Will have a tanker on station in fifteen minutes.”
Fairly stepped on his rudder pedals, wagging the F-4’s tail. Jack broke out of his loose formation and moved two thousand feet to Fairly’s right and five hundred feet above him. The fighters had moved into a tactical formation from which they could support each other in an engagement. Fairly calculated how he could set up an interception on the C-130 that could be switched into an engagement with the bandits should it be necessary. It all depended on how good Nelson was at running intercepts and if he could find the bandits on his scope. “How’s the radar?”
“It’s a good set,” the young lieutenant replied. “All the test checks were OK. I’ve got it set up for air-to-air, fifty-mile range. It’s not much good beyond that. Don’t worry, I’ll get the first radar contact on Grain King.”
Fairly hoped it was not a false show of confidence. “Jack, listen up,” Fairly said over the UHF radio. “If we have to rendezvous on Grain King, the first one with a radar contact will run a standard intercept to the stern of the C-130. If we have to engage the bandits, the first one with a radar contact or visual on the bandits is lead. Run a hot intercept head-on into the merge. Number two will fall in trail two miles. Lead will blow on through the bandits and reverse. We want them to turn and two will go for a sandwich. Don’t let them get on Grain King. Support whoever’s engaged.”
“Roger,” Jack answered his flight leader. “Thunder, trade your mother for the first contact on that magic box of yours,” he told his backseater over the intercom.
“Stinger, Outpost. Say state.” The radar post was asking for the fighters’ armament, fuel and oxygen.
Fairly answered, “One-One and One-Two are guns only, fifteen minutes play time, lox sweet.” The radar site understood he meant they had internal gatling guns, could stay in the area for fifteen minutes before fuel would force them to the tanker, and had plenty of liquid oxygen.
“Stinger One-One, Outpost. Grain King is on your nose, five-five nautical miles from you. Altitude twenty-five thousand feet, heading zero-niner-zero degrees. The bandits are at your one-thirty position at five-five from you. They are intercepting Grain King. Do not intervene unless a hostile act is committed.”
Thunder’s voice came over the radio, deep and clear. “One-Two has a radar contact at twelve o’clock, five-four miles, level.” He touched the radar’s elevation wheel, raising the antenna’s elevation a whisker. Slowly, he played the gain, breaking out the target.
“Roger, Stinger One-Two. That is Grain King,” Outpost replied. “Rendezvous on Grain King. Fly heading two-six-five.”
Outpost’s orders were clear. The radar controller was still in control of the developing intercept. Fairly cursed his bad luck, radar set, and backseater.
“Jack, arm ’em up,” Fairly ordered, directing the pilot to throw the sequence of switches that activated his gun and made it “hot” while he did the same. Jack’s fingers moved over the switches, just as they had so many times on the gunnery range before he strafed the target panels. But this time he paused and went through the sequence again, making sure that all his switches were in the right position. No switchology errors, he thought as he lifted the switch guard and threw the final Master Arm toggle.