Phantom Strike

by William H. Lovejoy

  Grabbing ladders and a few scattered tools, the remaining mechanics sprinted for the Hercules.

  Ben Borman was last. He set the timers on the start cart explosives, then rambled his way to the transport.

  As soon as he was aboard, Wyatt touched the transmit stud. “Okay, Wizard, you’re gone.”

  Demion said, “I may be slow, but I’m ahead of you.” While raising its ramp, the big Hercules released its brakes and headed for the end of the runway.

  *

  Because of the way they had been lined up, Barr was the last one off the ground. He took off in the same direction he had landed, dodging holes with a drift to the right as he shot down the runway in afterburner, necessary because of the short field and the take-off weight.

  Ahead of him, the twin exhausts of Hackley’s Phantom burned bright, like two flares in the false dawn, slowly climbing away to the right.

  As soon as the wheels quit rumbling, and the wonder of flight took over, Barr retracted his gear, keeping an eye on the airspeed indicator. He eased into a right turn, behind Yucca Three, got the speed up, and pulled the throttles out of afterburner.

  The F-4s all had their formation lights on in the hopes of avoiding a collision with anyone except the Libyans. He continued to circle right, gradually gaining altitude to one thousand feet AGL.

  He leaned right and looked down at the field.

  The C-130F was on the move, headed for the end of the runway. As he watched, Yucca Five began rolling away from Yucca Six, then turned jerkily and followed the tanker.

  “Be tender, guys,” Wyatt said, “we don’t want to pile them up right there.”

  “Trust Thirsty, Yucca,” Dennis Maal said. “I’ve done this before.”

  “With a C-130?” Barr asked.

  “Well, no. But it did have a forty-five-inch wingspan and a top end of sixty miles an hour.”

  “I’m impressed, Thirsty,” Formsby said. Formsby had taken Cavanaugh’s seat as co-pilot of the Hercules.

  Utilizing the data down-link, the ex-E-2 AWACS console aboard the transport had some control over its subordinate aircraft through the autopilot. Kriswell and Vrdla had added some functions — full throttle arc, landing gear and flap retraction — in order to enhance the remote control. In addition, some data feedback — altitude, attitude, heading, speed — was displayed on the controllers’ screens.

  In the past, Barr had had an AWACS controller, with more powerful down-looking radar available, actually do his flying for him, taking him up through cloud formations that had blinded Barr but appeared perfectly clear to the high-flying AWACS.

  Remotely Piloted Vehicles (RPVs) had been used for a long time, as target drones and as reconnaissance platforms, but they weren’t generally as large as F-4s or C-130s.

  From the backseat of Yucca Three, Zimmerman would attempt to fly Yucca Five, and Cliff Jordan had control of Yucca Six from the backseat of Gettman’s Yucca Four. Additionally, Zimmerman and Jordan had a view. Cameras in the noses of the remote-controlled Phantoms transmitted their images to the instrument panel screens of the backseaters. That feature had not been incorporated into the tanker.

  If they got the F-4 RPVs as far as Marada, Wyatt wanted Zimmerman and Jordan to be able to target well enough, through the camera lens, to fly the planes right into the targets. Modem day electronic kamikazes without the benefit of cultural and spiritual upbringing.

  Barr and Wyatt, when they had developed the concept, had discussed M.E. Morris’s intriguing novel, The Last Kamikaze, but they couldn’t figure out a way to program the computers with the same dedication demonstrated by Hirohito’s pilots.

  In any event, Barr didn’t think the RPVs were going to make it to the target. Crashing them into the chemical plant had become the second of their priorities.

  Gettman came on the air. “Hey, Thirsty, if you’re going to dump that big toy, dump it off the runway, will you? I still want a chance to get airborne.”

  “Shut up, Four,” Maal said.

  Wyatt wasn’t killing the banter this morning, and Barr figured it was because they were only a few minutes away from being discovered anyway.

  He continued his circle, staying behind Hackley’s formation lights. On the far side of the field, he could see Wyatt’s and Gettman’s Phantoms, but he couldn’t tell which was which. The Hercules was higher, coming in from the south, directly above the runway so Formsby or Demion could coach Maal on the ICS, the Internal Communications System.

  The C-130F was now on the runway, lined up. In the gathering dawn, Barr could see the exhaust from her four engines building.

  She began to roll, picked up speed quickly since her fuel load was now confined to what was in the wing tanks. Barr passed the south end of the runway as the tanker began swerving to the right, too hard.

  Maal corrected, she straightened out, achieved lift, and rose slowly from the airstrip. Maal, with his experience with flying models, had tutored all of the pilots — since any of them might end up flying the RPVs — to not make abrupt moves with the remote controls. It could rapidly translate into stalls, lost lift, and pancaked airplanes. A radio controller didn’t feel the attitudinal changes made by RPVs. Maal had admitted crashing six or seven models while learning to fly radio control, and he was a pilot. The revelation was not a morale builder.

  There were a few cheers on Tac Two as the C-130 gained altitude.

  Maal reported, “The data feedback says I’ve got gear up and airspeed. I’m taking it cool, and we’re out of here.”

  “Nice job, Thirsty,” Wyatt said. “Wizard, we’ll see you on the other side.”

  The two C-130s would join up, climb for altitude, and head north.

  By the time Barr had reached the northern end of his circle, Yucca Five was on the runway.

  “I’ve got a nice picture on the screen,” Zimmerman said. “That is, the resolution is nice. The view is dismal.”

  “Any time you’re ready, Five,” Wyatt said.

  “Going to afterburner.”

  The end of the runway lit up, and the F-4C leapt away. She built momentum quickly, missed the chuck-holes, and rotated.

  The F-4D was off the airstrip, retracting gear and flaps, by the time Barr completed his next circle.

  “All right, Yuccas, let’s form up,” Wyatt said.

  Barr ran in some throttle and closed on Hackley as they eased into a heading of 010. Seconds later, the two of them joined with Wyatt and Gettman in a finger formation. They climbed for two thousand feet AGL, providing enough control-correction tolerance for the RPVs, and staying low enough to avoid radar for awhile.

  “Let’s kill the formation lights, Yuccas. Heading zero-one-three, speed four-zero-zero knots.”

  Barr reached out and flipped the toggle on his lighting panel. The wingtip lights blinked out. As they gained altitude, however, the day brightened. He could make out the silhouettes of the Phantoms ahead on his left.

  Somewhere, fifty miles ahead, and at the same altitude, were the Hercs.

  Somewhere, a half-mile ahead of them, were Yuccas Five and Six, flying point for the combat formation. The two RPVs were supposed to be flying about two miles apart to prevent an accidental collision.

  The red-lit chronometer on his instrument panel read: 0454.

  “You notice, One,” Barr said, “that we’re six minutes off schedule. Pretty sloppy, that.”

  Formsby asked, “Does the CIA give out demerits?”

  “Only for spending Uncle’s money on champagne,” Barr told him.

  “Does this parachute work?” Forrnsby asked.

  Sixteen

  Janice Kramer was zapping burritos in the microwave at seven o’clock in the evening.

  The telephone rang.

  She gave up watching the burritos to step to the opposite counter and pick up the phone. Through the window, she could see the shadows lengthening, slowly overcoming the day.

  “Yes.”

  “Miss Kramer, this is your friend on the East Coast, retu
rning your call.”

  She thought it was Church’s voice, and she wouldn’t yet, if ever, describe him as a friend. At least, he had called after she left her message on the machine.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked.

  “I want a status report.”

  “Miss Kramer, we can’t…”

  “Those are my people” she said. “I want to know if they landed safely.”

  Church, sighed, hesitated, then said, “It’s underway.”

  “What! But it…”

  “Yes. There’s been a change. At any rate, it’ll be over in a couple of hours.”

  Her stomach clenched up on her. “Will you call me as soon as you know?”

  “I will.”

  He hung up, and she carefully placed the receiver in its cradle.

  She wasn’t hungry.

  Cancelling the microwave’s timer, she went into the living room and curled up on the couch.

  She curled up in a foetal position. Her stomach hurt.

  God. She had thought it was five days away.

  Another change.

  Another chance for error.

  Turn back, Andy. Come home to me.

  *

  “You want to take her for awhile, Neil?” Demion asked.

  “Marvellous, James! I would like that.”

  Outside of a few small aircraft he rented on weekends, Formsby did not often get a chance to fly. He especially did not get a chance to fly military aircraft, even the lumbering, four-engined Hercules.

  “Would a barrel roll be appropriate?” he asked.

  “I think you’d get some complaints,” Demion said, crawling out of the pilot’s seat.

  “Some people just have no sense of adventure.”

  Demion descended from the flight deck, found the pot of coffee Littlefield had made, and brought two mugs back to the cockpit.

  “You might have thought about me,” Kriswell said.

  He was seated in the flight engineer’s position, leaning forward to peer out the windscreen at the C-130F. The tanker was a half-mile ahead of them, at the same flight level of two thousand feet AGL.

  “You’re too busy, Tom,” Demion said, “and my hands are too full.”

  “I haven’t told Denny to make a correction in thirty or forty seconds,” Kriswell said.

  Maal, seated at the joystick controls down at the console, was flying the tanker with the telemetry feedback plus oral instructions from Kriswell over the ICS.

  Demion gave him one of the mugs, then went back down to the crew compartment for another.

  Sam Vrdla, also at the console, was in charge of the radar, and he asked, “Command pilot, can I have a radar check?”

  Demion told him, “Two sweeps, Sam. But keep the power down.”

  “Roger.”

  A few seconds later, when Demion was back in his seat, Vrdla reported over the intercom, “All systems check out, Jim. We should get our one-ninety-mile scan at thirty-five thousand.”

  Aboard the original E-2, with its massive radar antenna enclosed in the radome, the search area could be extended to 250 miles. With the modified antenna protected by a fiberglass bulge on the C-130’s fuselage top, they had managed only 190 miles. It was not quite what they had hoped for, but Wyatt felt that it was adequate.

  The MiGs they were going up against had a radar range of twenty-two miles, less than that of a production F-4. The modified radar in the fighter, Kriswell had told him, gave them a hundred-mile edge. That ability to say, “I see you” first might be all that was necessary to insure success. Even though, for weight and range considerations, the Phantoms were carrying short-range missiles, the radar superiority would increase the preparation time or the evasion advantage.

  Formsby felt, rather than saw, a shadow on his right, and he glanced out the side window to see the F-4s pulling alongside. Wyatt was in the lead plane, with the three others in echelon off his right wing. He looked up and saw the two RPVs several hundred feet above and spread far apart.

  “Actually, James, this is rather exciting. I am glad I decided to come along.”

  “Actually, Neil I’m amazed that we’ve got all eight planes in the right configuration at this point in time. My better instincts and a few laws of probability say we should have lost at least one to equipment failure by now.”

  “Speaks worlds for the design team,” Formsby said.

  “It does, doesn’t it?”

  The intercom chatter died down as they flew on through a brightening day. Tension was building within the Hercules crew, Formsby knew, even though this aircraft would not approach within 220 kilometres (175 miles) of the targets. That was an exceptionally short distance for a MiG-23. Especially when their defences would be limited to what the countermeasures pods could provide. They would soon lose their fighter-bomber protection.

  Thirty minutes later, Wyatt came on the air. “Wizard Three, Yucca One.”

  “Go One,” Vrdla, who was Wizard Three, said.

  “I’m showing two-two-zero from the IP.”

  The Initial Point for the bomb run was seventeen miles west of Marada Air Base and the chemical factory.

  “Roger that, One. We match up.”

  “All right.” Wyatt said. “Wizard, Thirsty, go to your stations. Yuccas Five and Six, initiate your run.” Demion said, “Wizard, wilco.”

  From the console below, Maal called, “Thirsty’s on her climbout.”

  Zimmerman replied, “Five.”

  And Jordan said, “Six moving out.”

  “I’ll take her back now, Neil.”

  “Just when I was getting to know her better,” Formsby said. “Story of my life.”

  When he felt Demion’s touch on the yoke, Formsby released his grip and took his feet off the rudder pedals. His ankle was aching some, but it was not something with which he could not live.

  “Let’s take the power to ninety percent,” Demion said to him.

  “Nine-zero coming up.”

  Formsby worked the throttles, keeping an eye on the tachometers so as to not get too far out of synchronization. When he had them adjusted, he fumbled for his oxygen mask, slipped the straps over his head, and let it hang around his neck. At thirty-five thousand feet, a stray missile could result in a sudden decompression, if not total annihilation.

  “You’ve got to move a little faster than that, Denny,” Kriswell said over the ICS.

  The tanker had fallen well below them, and Maal added more power from his remote controls in order to increase the rate of climb.

  “That better, Tom?”

  “Much better,” Kriswell said. “How about the rest of the crew? You all have your oxy handy?”

  Potter, Borman, Cavanaugh, and Littlefield all checked in with affirmative responses.

  They left the tanker at twenty-five thousand feet, its autopilot circling it in a three-mile-diameter circle. Maal was finally able to give up the joysticks and relax.

  Depending upon one’s definition of relaxation, Formsby reminded himself.

  The Hercules kept climbing toward the north.

  *

  Ibrahim Ramad stood with Colonel Ghazi in his control centre watching the grease-painted blips change position on the Plexiglas wall. Al-Qati’s C-130s, Black Squadron, were over the Kufra Oasis, in south-eastern Libya. They were about three hundred kilometres away from penetrating Sudan airspace. Orange Squadron, the air cover for the transports, was ranged above and ahead of them. The tankers were moving into position.

  “It will not be long now, Colonel Ghazi.”

  “No.” Ghazi seemed to be quite withdrawn this morning. His face reflected morose thoughts within.

  “Are you certain you would not like to accompany the mission?” Ramad offered. “We could find you a seat in one of the bombers.”

  “I will see everything I need to see from right here,” Ghazi said.

  On the secondary tactical channel monitor, they could hear the eight MiG-23s conversing with the tankers out of Tripoli. They w
ould have to refuel in about forty minutes. Then they would begin their descent to one thousand meters, staying ahead and above the transports, which would transit the Sudan at five hundred meters of altitude, simulating a low-profile, radar-avoidance attack.

  Two MiG-23s — Alif Flight — were six hundred kilometres to the west. They were supposed to be patrolling

  against any incursion of hostile aircraft from that direction, but he had listened to their radio conversations and was certain they were playing games with a flight out of Tripoli. He had issued a stern order against that nonsense.

  The MiG-23s flying under the call sign of Ba that had flown surveillance along the southern border were now in their landing approach. They would land for refuelling.

  Four MiG-23s, call sign Ta, were about to take off. They would patrol the region around the base until the bombers were well under way, then join the bombers. By then, Ba Flight would be refuelled and again be in the air. The bombers and Ja squadron would meet the tankers over Sudan.

  It was all proceeding so smoothly.

  Alongside the see-through map, the status board showed him that the nine Su-24s were now being towed from the hangars. From the overhead speaker, he heard the ground controller telling them to line up on the taxiway behind the MiG-23.

  Several minutes later the controller said, “Ta Lead, Marada. Incoming craft are now down and clear of the runway. You have clearance for take-off.”

  “Ta Lead, with a flight of four, proceeding.”

  Ramad crossed the room to stand behind the radar operator. The supervisor, in contact with the aircraft through his headset, also stood behind the corporal. On the radar screen, Ramad saw the first two aircraft make their take-off runs toward the north, then start into a right turn. Shortly thereafter, the second pair followed.

  He was about to turn away from the radar scope when he noticed two small blips near the bottom edge of the screen, about 150 kilometres away. They had to have been there for some time because the radar was set for a 220-kilometre scan.

  “What are those, Corporal?” he demanded.