SAM was not to be our big problem that day, although he was active. Trouble was spelled Mig, and the first ones to verify that were our SAM hunters as they swung off to the side of the main force and started searching.
’Two bogies one o’clock Flamingo,” announced the number three man in the specialized flight.
“Rog, got ’em,” came from the leader.
As I turned the force around the northern corner of Thud Ridge, I knew the stinking weather was about to beat us again, and I knew that at least one of my flights was already being forced to divide their attention between their main job and the harassing Migs.
“You got bogies at nine o’clock now.”
It sounded like Flamingo might be in the market for some help now that he had them on both sides of his flight, but he had disappeared into the murk and cloud underneath, and we were not really in position to do much for him at the instant. He would call soon if he really needed help.
Both Thud wings were scheduled into the area, running pretty close together today, and that was OK by me, as it doubled the SAM hunters. It looked like my boys would be less than fully effective with their playmates already on board. “Laredo’s got a weak SAM, one thirty,” sounded good and told me that another flight of the two-seaters was on the job.
While things were not off to a joyous start, we had everyone in good position and I was particularly pleased with the structure within my own lead flight. Don had the element with Bing on his wing and that was a good combination. I had Rod, my old next-door neighbor from Japan, on my wing, and they didn’t come any better than Rod. This was a funny business. Not too long ago Rod and I had been out in the backyard complaining about the noisy Japanese street that ran behind our houses, clogged with the 24-hour rush traffic of Tokyo that screamed and smelled and would about knock you off the government furniture in those little ancient and uncomfortable government shacks. It was quite different at the moment, and the noises and smells that counted now were capable of doing a lot more than knocking you off your chair. They could knock you clean down into that hazy obscured little valley below that told me we were almost halfway down Thud Ridge with no weather break in sight. In addition to behig a superior pilot, Rod has one of those sets of eagle eyes that seem capable of picking up the bogies wherever they may be.
“Kingpin, there’s a flight of four fives back there at five o’clock.” My seeing-eye captain was doing good work for me today.
Then Hot Dog flight started to get in on the action. They were picking up a fair amount of SAM activity, and the leader had decided to dump his now-empty external tanks to allow a bit more freedom of movement, but number two’s tank refused to cooperate. When you have a single bird in a flight carrying the additional drag of a 20-foot-long tank, you have a problem. If he tries to stay up with the rest of the flight as he must do in a danger zone like this, he is at full power all the time and his fuel goes much too fast. If you drag everyone back on the power to give him a break, you compromise the entire flight position and defeat the purpose of tank jettison. It is such a simple matter to punch off a tank, you would think it could never be a problem, but it was. Many of the more agonizing aspects of fighter combat are the direct results of the failure of the simplest systems. It’s hard to figure how we can go to the moon, yet we can’t build a simple, fool-proof system that will allow you to let go of a big blob of a tank when you want to.
“Hot Dog, you know of any other way to get this thing off of here?”
“Say again,” from the leader indicated that he had not yet recognized his problem or was involved in something else.
“Yeah, you know of any smart ideas on how I can get this tank off?”
“Negative.”
“Rog,” and now two was stuck with the problem all by himself.
The lead had a problem of his own, “OK, Hot Dog, we’ve got a valid launch, valid launch, at two. Keep your eyes open.” They were stuck on top of that overcast and they knew there was at least one SAM headed their way from underneath the clouds. The question is two-fold—where will it come poking through the murk, and will you have time to do anything about it when and if you see it? It is a spooky feeling. I supposed that Hot Dog two had at least temporarily forgotten about that hung tank of his, and I just hoped he didn’t have to go through some wild gyration to avoid the unseen SAM that would result in that dizzy tank pulling off and wrapping around the wing, as they had a nasty habit of doing.
“Flamingo has guns at twelve.” Now the array was complete as the big radar-directed guns were probing for us.
“Junetime, Junetime,” blurted out from the big birds surveying the area and told us that they too had seen the launch at Hot Dog. That is about the most useless warning you can get, as all it tells you is that the white telephone poles are flying. About all you could do was assume that they saw the same one Hot Dog was looking for and working against, and go on with your own job.
“Flamingo three has multiple guns.”
“Hot Dog, ease it down, multiple guns, Hot Dog.” Those two flights were really getting in among them. “Hot Dog’s got another SAM, two o’clock.”
We had enough going on now to know that they were ready for us again today, and I figured it was about time to let my troops know what it looked like from the lead seat. “Kingpin lead here. I’m about halfway down the Ridge and it doesn’t look like it’s going to be any good, but we’ll press on a ways.” About the time you make a call like that you can visualize at least twenty guys muttering under their breath, wondering what’s the matter with that idiot up front—of course it looks lousy—can’t he make up his mind?
“Hot Dog, take it down.”
“How’s it look, Kingpin?” Somebody didn’t get the message, but I didn’t have time to repeat it as the only patch of undercast that looked even hopeful was sliding by underneath me and it just would not open up for me. We were going fast now, just as fast as those little beauties would go with that big ugly rack of bombs jiggling and shaking under the belly. How fast is fast? Whatever the slowest machine in the flight can do at full power. You just keep easing it up until it looks like one of your guys is about to have trouble staying with you, then you back off just a tad.
“Flamingo’s got a launch light.”
“MIGS!”
“Flamingo, break left—NOW!”
The Migs were all over us. They had a perfect setup and had listened to their ground controllers guiding them into attack position under the clouds. Now as we came into the heart of the target area, they cobbed their light maneuverable craft and spit up from our blind bellies. We really needed all the speed we had and they could wrap us up in any turns we made if we let that speed drop off. If we could hold that speed, they could give us fits, but they probably couldn’t hurt us too badly. I have gone thundering down that Ridge with them right in formation with us. They could match speed with us at that altitude, but unless they got a lucky break or unless your tactics or your people were so weak that they put you in an impossible box, they could seldom get enough advantage to attack the way they wanted to. They could hose a missile at you, but if you keep thundering, they couldn’t quite get the edge they wanted. It must have been_frustrating to them, and I had one Mig-21 who got so wrapped up in trying to shoot me down that he made us a flight of five and even stuck in there as I pulled up and rolled in on the bomb run. It was not until the massive ground fire from his compatriots engulfed us that he realized he was in sort of a stupid spot and got out. It seems like every hassle we got wrapped up in pits us against lightweight and highly maneuverable interceptors who always have the ability to outturn us and disengage at will. Perhaps someday we will produce a machine capable of turning with them on even terms. If we ever do, our Mig score should go sky-high. In the meantime, while we insist on building large supersonic flatirons whose pilots must avoid the basic aerial maneuver of trying to outturn the enemy, I would strongly suggest serious thought toward a rearward firing missile as that seems to be where they are most of the time—on our behinds. That would be a real kick, to have one of those little gnats jump you at six o’clock and promptly dispatch him with a missile right in the snoot.