The Libyan pilot saw Jack at the same time and headed down, trying to disengage.
“They don’t seem to want to hang around and fight,” Jack said to Thunder.
“He’ll outrun us,” Thunder decided, trying to find the Hercules and the other MiG. But Jack wasn’t ready to let the MiG escape. He turned hard, pushed his throttles into full afterburner, and shoved his nose toward the ground, chasing the Libyan. Again, Thunder buried his head in the radar scope, trying to lock-on the fleeing MiG. Jack was astounded as the gunsight’s analogue bar clicked on, giving him the exact range to the MiG and telling him his backseater had managed to acquire the bandit on the radar scope in the midst of the fight.
“Shit hot,” was all the pilot had time to say, signaling approval to his Weapons Systems Officer. Now the fight had descended to below five thousand feet and the F-4E was in the element it had been designed for. Jack’s bird was turning like a witch and accelerating with the Flogger. He was still in a tail chase with the MiG. Fairly was following him. All three planes were in a steep dive, dangerously close to the ground as their altimeters unwound in a blur. Jack calculated how much lower he could go before pulling out. He was totally committed to chase the MiG into the ground.
Now the Libyan leveled out and jinked back and forth in short little left-and-right turns.
Thunder had turned around in his seat, still trying to find the other MiG. But all he could see was Fairly, less than four miles behind them. Knowing that the two F-4 pilots were fully occupied with the Flogger, he queried the C-130, “Grain King, say position.”
Toni answered. “Circling at twenty-two thousand, hiding in this goddamn cloud deck.”
Thunder scanned his RHAW (Radar Homing and Warning gear). “Good. Stay there.” He twisted back and forth in his seat, still trying to find the first MiG, which would appear behind them at their six o’clock position — if it came back.
Jack was padlocked on to the MiG, slowly closing as the Flogger pilot tried to outmaneuver the bigger F-4 and started a left turn seventy-five feet above the ground. Jack also turned his bird hard to the left, getting the nose of his Phantom inside the MiG’s arc. Slowly, the distance between the two closed as the F-4 turned inside the MiG, coming into gun range. Jack expected the Flogger pilot to roll out and accelerate away, but the Libyan, apparently confused, continued the turn, allowing the American to close on him.
Again, Jack had a MiG fill his lighted target ring and squeezed off a second shot. This time, determined not to miss, he tried to empty the remainder of his ammunition drum at the Flogger. The gun fired over three hundred rounds before it jammed. Four of the stream of bullets found the agile fighter, cutting into the right wing, tearing it off.
The MiG cartwheeled into the ground going over 600 miles per hour.
Jack let out a whoop. What had they always told him? A kill is a kill, there are only two kinds of airplanes — targets and fighters.
Jack pulled the throttles out of afterburner and started an easy spiraling climb above the wreckage of the MiG, which was sending a pillar of smoke into the sky, a dark beacon marking the funeral pyre.
Thunder’s words broke the quiet of the aftermath as he called the radar post, “Outpost, Stinger One-Two. Any more trade?” Outpost immediately responded that there were no other bandits in the area.
Jack’s backseater friend had not mentioned the downed MiG. Then he realized that Fairly had also been silent as he joined on the right. Jack keyed his radio. “Outpost, Stinger One-Two. Bandit splashed at this time.” Both he and Thunder studied the wreckage in silence.
As they climbed above it, a peculiar sense of sadness came over Jack. He had just killed a man. His stomach tightened in a knot. His heart burned. He wasn’t so sure it was something to be proud of… But he could have just as easily been the pilot in the burning wreckage. “Poor bastard,” he said, mostly to himself.
Thunder lifted his visor and rubbed the sweat off his forehead and from around his eyes with the back of his glove. He was grateful for the subdued reaction of the pilot. Just maybe, he thought, the man might make it.
In the aftermath of the engagement, the burning wreckage fading behind them, Fairly took charge. The squadron commander understood what his wingman was going through. It was a feeling that he had experienced in Vietnam. Savor it now for what it is worth, he thought, because I’m going to chew the hell out of you later in the debriefing. “Well done, Jack.” The lieutenant colonel patted his left leg, trying to vent the intense pressure generated by the fight. He smiled as an image came to him: the embarrassment Shaw was going to suffer, explaining why Jack had been on alert for a week. “Jack, fuel check.” Fairly’s own fuel was at a low level and he suspected that Jack’s was even lower after the prolonged engagement.
“One-niner squared,” Jack said, subdued. He had nineteen hundred pounds of fuel remaining, all in his internal fuselage tanks. He calculated how far his remaining fuel would take him. He sure as hell didn’t relish the thought of meeting an accident board and having to explain to them how he had shot down a MiG, then run out of fuel on the way home. One Flogger exchanged for one F-4 because he had forgotten to check his fuel while engaged…
“Outpost, Stinger One-One. Request immediate rendezvous with the tanker. Request the tanker head our way. Now.” Fairly had resumed lead of the flight.
The controller at Outpost came right back, still very much a part of Stinger flight. “Roger, Stinger. Fly heading of zero-seven-eight degrees. Climb to flight level two-four-oh. Tanker has already departed orbit and is moving your way.” Twenty-four thousand feet, Jack thought. It was a long way to climb with the fuel he had, and he was thankful the controller had brought the tanker in for a rendezvous before they asked for it.
Toni’s voice came over the radio. “Outpost, Grain King proceeding on course. Declaring minimum fuel at this time and request priority handling.”
All four of the F-4 crewmembers noted how calm and controlled the C-130 driver had become. They also understood her fuel problems could only be solved by landing. At least the Phantoms could refuel in flight. Outpost cleared Grain King over to an air traffic control frequency. Before her flight engineer could switch the radio over, Toni stopped him and keyed her mike. She could see the two fighters climbing past on the left. “Stinger flight, Grain King.”
“Go ahead Grain King,” Fairly answered.
“Mucho thanks. I’m buying the bar tonight. Can you make it?”
“Wouldn’t miss it, Grain King.” There was no doubt in Fairly’s mind that between the trash hauler’s and Jack’s generosity, the bar was going to be very wet.
It was one of those magnificent desert sunsets that escaped description, frustrated artists, and defied the poets who knew how many similar sunsets had witnessed the conclusion of battles in this scarred portion of the world. Colonel Shaw and his bird of prey DO had seen many Egyptian sunsets and were immune to the spectacular sunset before their eyes. The men were caught up in another emotion; the intense feeling of a commander when his crews returned from combat. Both had fought in Vietnam, where they had waited with growing concern for their comrades to recover. Time had not diminished the intensity of that emotion. The experience of making decisions and assuming responsibility for others had sharpened the feelings of pride, accomplishment and relief that they felt.