by Robert Gandt
Delancey could see it was going to be an old-fashioned turning fight, a classic Lufberry circle with the lead F-15 on one side of the circle, his own Hornet on the other. Nearby, Hozer and the second F-15 were engaged in their own separate turning duel.
This wasn’t DeLancey’s style of fighting. It was primitive, flying supersonic fighters in a hard G-pulling flat turn like this, trying to get inside the other guy’s radius. This was World War I Richtofen and Rickenbacker stuff. DeLancey preferred to use the spectacular vertical capability of the Super Hornet to swoop and pounce on the enemy like a hawk plucking a mouse.
But it was okay with DeLancey. He had never lost a fight to an F-15 puke, and today wasn’t going to be a bit different. It was just more work this way.
Pulling hard, sweat pouring down from inside his helmet, DeLancey kept his eyes on the lead Eagle across the circle. He could see the puffs of vapor spewing from the fighter’s wings, a product of the high G load the Air Force pilot was pulling.
But DeLancey could see the angle between them decreasing. In tiny increments, he was gaining the advantage. He knew that in a turning fight, almost no supersonic fighter in the world, including an F-15 Eagle, could beat a Super Hornet. It was just a matter of time, a few more turns of the circle. . . he would have his nose on the Eagle’s tail pipes. The F-15 would be dog meat.
In his peripheral vision, DeLancey caught an occasional glimpse of Hozer Miller, flying his own Lufberry circle, closing on the second F-15. Hozer’s target was high, pulling hard, trying to evade the missile-firing cone of the pursuing Hornet.
Suddenly the second Eagle stopped trying to evade. Instead, he shallowed his turn, dropped his nose and pointed his jet across the circle.
At Killer DeLancey’s Hornet.
DeLancey had no time to react. “Hozer! Shoot the sonofabitch—”
Too late. “Fox Two! Splash one Hornet,” came the voice of the Eagle pilot.
Killer was dead.
A second later: “Splash the F-15.” Hozer killed his target — but not before the Eagle pilot had fired his simulated Sidewinder missile at Killer DeLancey.
In his cockpit, DeLancey slammed his fist against the canopy rail. A surge of fury flashed over him like heat from an explosion. He couldn’t believe it. That goddamned Air Force prick! It was a cheap shot — totally unexpected and illogical. Stop defending, kill the lead Hornet, sacrifice yourself. A stupid decision in real combat. But this was a war game, and it was perfectly legal.
Ten seconds later, Flash Gordon’s section of Hornets dispatched the surviving F-15. “Splash the lead Eagle,” reported Gordon.
The fight was over. Four Mobil defenders were shot down. And so was Killer DeLancey.
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Maxwell waited until he heard that DeLancey’s fighters had engaged the F-15s. Then he called, “Strikers, take heading two-seven-zero.”
His strike package was inbound once again to the target. Both groups of strikers — Maxwell’s Buick flight and, ten miles abeam, the Rambler flight — accelerated to attack speed.
Thirty miles out, they heard from Tracey Barnett in the AWACS: “Rambler One, bandits on the nose, thirty miles, hot.”
Maxwell could see them on his own radar, the four remaining Orange defenders. The Royal Saudi F-15s were committing. They were leaving their CAP station, making a head-on attack against the entire strike package. They were Al-Kharj’s last defense against the Blue strike force.
“Blue force, go air-to-air,” Maxwell transmitted. His Hornets were ready for a face-to-face with the F-15s. The Saudis were good, he knew, but not very imaginative. Four Eagles against eight Hornets, who also happened to be armed with the same AIM-120 radar-guided missiles.
Determined but outgunned, the Saudi pilots came blazing into the fight with the suicidal panache of the Light Brigade. The lead F-15 managed to score an out-of-range shot on Maxwell’s dash four, who was flying too wide and stepped down.
It was B.J. Johnson, Maxwell realized. He made a note to himself to debrief her about flying proper combat spread.
It was the last Orange kill of the day. Seconds later, Maxwell reported: “Splash the lead F-15.”
“Splash two,” called another Hornet pilot.
“Splash three.”
“Make that four.”
The Orange air defense had been eliminated. Twenty miles ahead, Al-Kharj lay exposed like a ripe garden.
“99 Gippers,” Maxwell said, again using his group’s collective call sign, “push it up.”
His Hornets formed a wide combat spread.
“Weapons hot.”
Maxwell shoved his throttles into afterburner, rolling into his dive. On either side, he could see his strikers doing the same, each acquiring his respective target on the big sprawling air base.
Streaking downward at supersonic speed, the Hornets ripped over Al-Kharj, dropping their make-believe weapons.
“Buick One off,” called Maxwell, flashing past the orange-and-white checkerboard-painted water tower.
“Buick Two.”
“Rambler One off.”
Each jet reported off, his simulated bomb load delivered on one of the base structures. One by one the fighters screamed over the concrete-and-sand-and-grass patchwork of the air base at nearly nine hundred miles per hour.
Inside Maxwell’s oxygen mask, a wide grin spread over his face. He knew the thunder of the sonic booms was reverberating across the air base like the hammers of hell. Glasses were probably shattering, a few windows breaking, someone’s china vase cracking. War was hell.
Maxwell knew that when their nerves stopped twanging from the booms, the Air Force blue suits down there would figure out what happened. They had just gotten schwacked by the swabbies.
Chapter Seven
Sugar Talk
USS Ronald Reagan
1115, Monday, 12 May
DeLancey was seething. Every vivid detail of the shoot-down — that numbnuts Eagle driver sacrificing himself so he could take a shot at DeLancey — was still burning like an ember in his gut.
Ahead of him lay the great gray slab of the Reagan’s flight deck. Behind the carrier trailed a wake of white foam, sparkling in the afternoon sun. DeLancey was stabbing his throttles forward and back, struggling to keep his jet stabilized on the glide path. Trying to keep the ball — the amber light that served as the pilot’s optical glide path indicator — was supposed to be in the middle of the Fresnel lens, jutting up like a sign board at the left edge of the landing area.
DeLancey’s jet was settling in the groove. “A liii—iiitttle powerrrrrr,” the LSO coaxed, using his best sugar talk.
DeLancey responded with a burst of power, shoving the throttles up. Too much.
“Don’t go high,” said the LSO. But it was too late. Killer’s blast of thrust had pushed the jet above the glide path. “Bolterrrrr!” Pearly barked into his microphone.
A “bolter” meant that the jet’s tail hook had missed all three wires. Instead of landing, the pilot had to jam the throttles forward and take off again, hurtling off the end of the angled deck and back into the sky. The gray blur of the ship passed beneath and behind him — without stopping. Ahead was the open sky and the sea.
Now Killer was in a rage. Bolters were supposed to happen only to nuggets — pilots who were new aboard the ship — or to pilots who were rattled and had lost their concentration. He was the commanding officer! He had over eight hundred carrier landings in his log book. He wasn’t supposed to lose his concentration.
What galled him most of all was the knowledge that down there in his own squadron’s ready room, the other pilots, mostly junior officers, who had not flown today’s exercise would be watching the landings on the PLAT — the Pilot Landing Aid Television. He knew what they’d be doing. The insolent little bastards would be cracking up.
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He was right.
“Yee-ha!” howled Buster Cherry, a baby-faced lieutenant. “See that? Killer blew through the deck.”
“Killer the clutcher!”
“Who’s he gonna blame that one on?”
“The LSO, of course. For giving the power call.”
They loved it. What could be better than watching their own larger-than-life, MiG-slaying commanding officer, Killer DeLancey, having his day in the barrel?
They watched the PLAT monitor as DeLancey made his way around the pattern, setting up for his next pass at the deck.
“Betcha a buck he nails a two wire this time,” said Flash.
“You’re on,” said Buster. “He’ll squat the jet.” “Squatting” meant descending below the glide slope, dumping the jet onto the deck and catching the first wire. It was dangerous because it increased your chances of landing short and exploding against the ramp — the edge of the flight deck.
“Killer’s cool. He’ll get an okay pass.”
“I bet on a wave off,” said Leroi Jones, the squadron duty officer. A “wave off” was a command by the LSO to add full power and go around for another try at the deck.
The ready room fell quiet. The JOs watched the black-and-white image of DeLancey’s Hornet appear behind the ship. Superimposed over the jet on the PLAT screen was a set of cross hairs, indicating the jet’s position on the glide path.
The jet was below the cross hairs.
“A little low,” came the voice of the LSO. “Give me some power.”
No one spoke. The audience in the ready room was caught up in the mini-drama of the carrier landing ritual. Carrier landing grades were a matter of pride and heated competition among pilots — and squadrons. To be named “Top Hook” — best carrier pilot — was one of the highest plaudits in naval aviation.
On the VFA-36 “greenie board” — the chart in the ready room on which each pilot’s carrier landing grades were recorded — Killer DeLancey’s name dwelled somewhere in the middle. At the top of the chart, with stars around it, was the name of the current VFA-36 carrier landing champion: Brick Maxwell. It was a distinction, as everyone in the squadron knew, that irritated the hell out of Killer DeLancey.
DeLancey’s jet was still below the cross hairs. “Powerrrr,” called the LSO.
The jet was almost at the ramp. Still slightly low. “Don’t go low. . .”
Passing over the ramp, the deck of the Reagan safely under him, DeLancey pulled the power off.
He squatted the jet.
Whummppp! The Hornet plopped like a descending dump truck. The jet’s tailhook snagged the number one wire — the one nearest the blunt ramp of the deck. The Hornet floundered to a stop on the angled deck.
“Yes!” yelled Flash Gordon in the ready room. He held his hand out, collecting the dollar from Buster Cherry. “That was the ugliest pass since the Marines came out last month.”
“I wanna hear the LSO debrief that one,” said Leroi Jones. “That’s a No-Grade if I ever saw one.” A No-Grade was the lowest grade an LSO could assign for a carrier landing. It was equivalent to a black mark on the pilot’s landing record.
“That’s not the worst part. Did you hear that Killer got morted by an Eagle jockey?”
“No shit?”
“He’s gonna come storming in here looking for someone to kill.”
The laughter ended. The awful realization hit them simultaneously: In a matter of minutes DeLancey would be in the ready room.
Buster Cherry remembered he had paperwork to do. Flash Gordon declared that he had to check on his men in the ordnance department. Leroi Jones glanced at his watch and announced that he was late for a meeting.
“A meeting with who?” demanded Gordon.
“The chaplain. He’s gonna take my confession.”
“You can’t leave. You’re the duty officer.”
“I thought you might take over for a little while so I can —”
“You’re on your own, Jones,” said Gordon as he evacuated the ready room.
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“First pass— too much power on the start,” said Pearly, reading from his handwritten notes. “High in the middle, flat at the ramp and over the wires. Bolter pass.”
DeLancey’s fist clenched and unclenched the strap on his nav bag as he listened to the LSO. He wanted Pearly to get the goddamn landing debriefing over.
Pearly was carefully not looking at DeLancey. “Second pass. . .” He hesitated, then blurted out the rest: “Not enough power on the start, low in the middle, ease gun at the ramp for a No Grade, taxi to the one-wire.”
DeLancey squeezed the nav bag strap until his knuckles were white. Are you finished?” he said. “I’ve heard enough.”
He was careful to stop short of actually disputing the landing grade, shitawful that it was. That was one of the oldest rules in naval aviation: You never argued with the LSO. Even if you were his commanding officer.
But DeLancey was pushing it. “Yes, sir,” said Pearly. “Guess you were just, uh, having a bad day.”
DeLancey shot him a look that said: And you’re gonna have a worse day, mister, if you don’t get out of my sight.
Pearly got the message. He and his writer, an LSO-in-training named Nelson, beat a rapid exit out the back door of the ready room.
When they were gone, DeLancey looked around. The place was empty, except for the duty officer, Leroi Jones, who had been unable to escape. Jones was intently contemplating a spot on the far bulkhead.
In an outpouring of rage, DeLancey wound up and hurled his helmet bag.
Whang! The bag smashed against a metal locker ten feet away. The clatter caused Leroi Jones, still preoccupied with the spot on the bulkhead, to levitate a full six inches out of his chair.
“Jones!” roared DeLancey.
“Sir?” Leroi leaped to his feet. His eyes widened to the size of frisbees.
“Anybody asks where I am, tell ‘em I’m on my way to CVIC. I’m gonna set the record straight about who fucked up this strike exercise.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
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CAG Boyce hung up the phone and turned to the officers assembled in CVIC. “That was Butch Kissick, the airborne commander aboard the AWACS. He sends a ‘Well Done.’ He’s been telling the Air Force pukes over at JTF how the Navy kicked their butts today. When we get into Dubai, he says the drinks are on him.”
Boyce had most of his flight leaders in the room. Brick Maxwell, the strike leader, was still wearing his sweat-stained flight suit. Burner Crump, skipper of the F-14 Tomcat squadron, and Rico Flores, commanding officer of the other Hornet squadron, VFA-34, were there.
The only missing player was Killer DeLancey.
“Give credit where it’s due, CAG,” said Crump. “Strike lead set ‘em up.”
“Brick pulled it off,” said Rico Flores. “He waxed their butts today.”
Boyce nodded in agreement. Maxwell was no longer an unknown quantity. DeLancey had almost persuaded him to transfer Maxwell. Too much pointy-headed test pilot, not enough hardball fighter pilot, DeLancey had tried to tell him, and Boyce had almost agreed.
DeLancey was wrong, thought Boyce. The pointy-headed test pilot had pulled off one of the slickest coordinated strikes he’d ever seen.
Just then DeLancey stormed into the briefing room.
“Where you been, Killer?” said Boyce. “Bagging extra traps?”
A titter of laughter rippled through the room. They had all seen Killer’s two landing passes on the PLAT.
DeLancey glowered. “The whole exercise was a cluster fuck. We lost two Hornets on the way in. No way that should’ve happened.”
“And you were one of them, right?” said Burner Crump.
More laughter, this time not so suppressed.
Rico Flores said, “Hey, Killer, you’re just pissed because the Eagle jockey took you out.”
“It wouldn’t have happened,” DeLancey insisted, “if the strike had been executed right.”
Boyce gnawed on his cigar, watching DeLancey fume. It was time to put a stop to th
is. “Okay, you’ve made your point, Killer. I don’t blame you for being pissed at the F-15 pilot, but you can’t blame the strike leader.”
“Sir, I still think —”
“Here’s the bottom line,” said Boyce, his voice more forceful. “We took out all the enemy’s air defense assets, losing only two strike aircraft. We destroyed the target — with one minor exception. Intel says one of our Roadrunners — Spam Parker — managed to target the Al-Kharj base hospital instead of the command headquarters building.”
This drew howls from the group. Burner Crump said, “She probably thought the big red cross on the building was her aim point.”
Boyce grinned and shook his head. “Luckily, the exercise umpire won’t know anything about it. The exercise was a huge success, and the credit goes to the strike leader for planning and execution.”
Boyce walked over and extended his hand to Maxwell. “Brick, consider yourself a qualified air wing strike lead.”
The flight leaders gave Maxwell a round of applause. Rico Flores clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Shit hot, Brick.” Burner Crump said, “Man, we broke some beer mugs down at Al Kharj, didn’t we?”
The last to shake Maxwell’s hand was Killer DeLancey. His face had shed most of its anger. In its place was the famous grin. “I was out of line, Brick. Good job.”
From across the room Boyce watched the two men shake hands. The handshake was cordial enough. The words sounded sincere, even conciliatory. But Boyce knew better. He could tell by their eyes — that cold, hard exchange of looks. These two despised each other. He didn’t know what the root of their conflict was, but he sensed that it went deeper than their disagreement over the MiG shoot last month. Whatever it was, it meant trouble.
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Maxwell was sitting alone in the wardroom when CAG Boyce plopped down in the seat opposite him. Boyce helped himself to the coffee. “Okay, open up with me.”
Maxwell looked at him in surprise. “Sir?”
Boyce raised an eyebrow. “This pissing contest between you and Killer. I don’t need two of my senior officers feuding like a couple of kids in a schoolyard.”