Phantom Strike

by William H. Lovejoy

  “Uh, where, Colonel? Oh. They just appeared.”

  “Idiot! Identify them!”

  “I, uh, we don’t have an aircraft in that region right now, Colonel.”

  The supervisor was already on the radio, demanding identification from the pair on the primary frequencies. Airplanes flying in pairs were not accidental tourists.

  “They are not transmitting IFF, Colonel,” the corporal said.

  “Get me a position, you pig!”

  “They are bearing almost directly on us, Colonel. One-four-eight kilometres, altitude two-thousand meters.”

  Merciful Allah! Ghazi could be correct! But no, he could not be!

  “How fast?” he demanded.

  “Ah, closing at nine hundred knots, Colonel.”

  Supersonic!

  Ramad glanced over at Ghazi, who was watching the activity at the radar with passive disenchantment.

  The incoming airplanes suddenly began to emanate radar emissions, the pulses showing up vividly on the screen. Every eye in the vicinity of the radar set was drawn to them.

  “Radiating,” the corporal said.

  “I can see that!”

  Ramad’s mind immediately went into a defensive posture. He ripped the headset from the supervisor and spoke into it.

  “Ta Leader, Marada.”

  “This is Ta Leader.”

  “You have a flight of two unknowns at your heading one-nine-two, altitude two-zero-thousand, distance one-four-zero, speed nine-zero-zero. Take them!”

  “Uh, Marada, do you want us to identify them?”

  “Ta Leader, I want you to shoot them down!”

  Ramad dropped the headset and ran for the door, yelling, “Tell my crew to have my airplane ready!”

  Ghazi stopped his flight with one raised hand. “Are you notifying Tripoli, Colonel?”

  “I will take care of this, Ghazi.”

  “Yes. I am certain that you will.”

  *

  “Keep me apprised, Yucca Five,” Barr heard Wyatt demand of Zimmerman.

  “The RPVs are sixty miles ahead of us,” Zimmerman said, “and seven-five out. My feedback says five is being hit with search radar.”

  “Won’t be long now,” Jordan said.

  “Hell, even by long-distance, I’ll give ’em a run for their money,” Zimmerman promised.

  Barr scanned his instrument panel and HUD. All nice readings. >He was itching to fire up the radar and find something to track.

  “Yucca One, Two,” Barr said, “I think it’s time.”

  “It’s close enough,” Wyatt agreed. “Let’s lock open the channel.”

  Barr flipped the toggle on the communications panel which kept his transmit mode open. It made for easier interplane conversation during hectic manoeuvring.

  “Four, you with me?” Barr asked.

  “Roger, Two. Lead the way.”

  Barr made a slight correction with his stick and rudders, dropped out of the formation, and veered off on a more northerly route. Gettman, with Zimmerman in the backseat, followed and fell in on his right wing.

  He could imagine the intensity of concentration Zimmerman and Jordan were having to maintain. They would have to ignore attitudinal changes made by the aircraft they were in and keep their minds attuned to what was happening in the RPVs.

  The desert below was now fully, though hazily, lit. It appeared no less forbidding. He saw a few lights off about ten miles to the west and pinpointed them as the village of Zella. It was not, he thought, a tourist attraction.

  They were way the hell into it now. The southern border was so far behind, it could have been in another atlas. Barr wondered why they hadn’t considered high-tailing it for the Med, ditching the aircraft, and getting picked up by someone’s luxury yacht.

  Then remembered that yachts were slow, and someone might catch them.

  And learn some true names.

  Which wasn’t supposed to happen.

  He glanced to his right. Wyatt and Hackley had disappeared. They were probably less than two miles away, but the camouflage blended them right into the desert below.

  He was still holding two thousand AGL, and he was pretty certain the bad guys hadn’t spotted him yet.

  “One,” he said, “can we have an AWACS check?”

  “Go, Wizard Three,” Wyatt said.

  “Going.”

  Two seconds.

  Three.

  “I’m showing four bandits, bearing zero-four-three, coming hot on the RPVs. Four-five miles on them, and closing.”

  “Roger,” Wyatt said. “Keep Five and Six alerted from here on in.”

  Five and Six were emitting radar energy to attract attention only. Their radars could not be read by Zimmerman and Jordan.

  “Yucca Five and Six are five-eight from target,” Vrdla said. “Can you guys see anything?”

  Zimmerman reported, “I’ve got a nice, clear picture on the camera, but I can’t see anything but dirt.”

  “All Yuccas, One. Weapons are free. Arm ’em up.”

  Barr reached for his armaments panel and switched off the safety. He no longer had a backseater, and he selected “Pilot” for triggering. Just to be prepared for an airborne attack, he selected a Super Sidewinder for the time being.

  The Ford Aerospace/Raytheon AIM-9L missile had an eleven-mile range at a cruising speed of Mach 3. Compared to the sixty-two-mile maximum range Sparrow, with which the F-4 was normally equipped, it was like using a knife in a street fight rather than a sniper rifle. Wyatt and Barr had elected to switch to the Sidewinder, however, for two reasons. For targeting, it utilized infrared homing, rather than semi-active radar guidance, and lacking backseaters, the infrared was preferable to them. Additionally, they saved twelve hundred pounds per plane in weight, which boosted their crucial performance data: speed and/or fuel consumption.

  With its twenty-five-pound warhead, instead of the Sparrow’s eighty-eight-pound warhead, the Sidewinder could still destroy enough of an enemy aircraft to temper its aggressiveness. As an infrared-seeker, the missile usually found a hot exhaust pipe to home on, and when that was the case, that was all it took.

  “One and Three jumping off,” Wyatt said. “Go afterburner, Three.”

  “Sure you don’t want some help?” Barr asked.

  “Hell, Bucky. there’s only four of them,” Hackley came back. “Andy can wait here if he wants to, and I’ll be right back.”

  “Two and Four going hot-shit for the coast,” Barr said. “Can we pick you up a hotdog or a girl in a bikini?”

  “I rather doubt,” Formsby said, “that you’re going to find either.”

  “What a downer,” Barr said as he kicked in the afterburners.

  Checking his right side, he saw Gettman accelerating with him, grinning widely.

  *

  Ramad was in his cockpit, performing his final pre-flight checks. The wings were extended and locked in their sixteen-degree configuration. The armaments panel showed him the availability of three hundred rounds of 23 millimetre cannon shells, two AA-7 missiles, and four AA-8 missiles. The AA-7 missiles, called Apex by NATO, were good at medium ranges, sixteen to thirty-two kilometres. The AA-8 missiles were designed for high-manoeuvrability targets at close range. They had only a seven-kilometre effective kill range, but they were very accurate. All of his missiles were infrared-homing.

  He looked to the east, where the sun had now ascended just above the horizon. There were a lot of men standing around on the ramp, trying to figure out what was happening. To the west, the Su-24s were stretched along the taxiway, awaiting their orders.

  “Marada Ground Control, Vulture,” he said.

  “Proceed, Vulture.”

  “I am ready for take-off.”

  “Vulture, the bombers are now in position for take-off.”

  “Move them. I am going first.”

  He waved away his ground crew and released the brakes, heading quickly for the taxiway and closing his canopy as he went.

  As
he approached them, he saw the Su-24s sidling ahead and easing to the right, to allow him passage along the left side of the taxiway.

  He had barely turned onto the runway when he heard Ta flight on the tactical radio.

  “Tas, Ta Leader. Targets two-five kilometres. I have a lock-on.”

  “Ta Two, lock-on.”

  “Ta Three. I also have a target.”

  “Ta Four, target on the screen. Now, lock-on.”

  “Two missiles each, Tas,” Ta Leader said.

  Ramad shoved his throttles forward and sagged into the seat as the gravitational force mounted.

  Save one for me.

  As he rotated and retracted his landing gear, he found himself becoming excited by the prospects.

  If Ghazi’s reports were correct, there were another four hostile aircraft somewhere, and he was going to get one of them for himself.

  *

  “Yucca Six. Missile lock-on,” Jordan said easily. It was easier to say when he wasn’t sitting inside the target.

  “Ditto with Five. They’re infrared seekers. I’m still shutting down radar.”

  “Six shutting down.”

  Wyatt checked his HUD. He was making 1040 knots, over the barrier, consuming fuel like it was hot chocolate on a wintry Nome night.

  “Back off a little, Three.”

  “Wilco,” Hackley said.

  He worked the throttles back a little. They were still at two thousand feet AGL.

  He tried to imagine what was happening with the RPVs. They had initiated their radar to make them attractive targets, and they had been fired on by infrared-homing missiles. Switching the radars to passive mode didn’t make a lot of difference.

  “Five and Six,” he said. “Go ahead and launch all of your missiles.”

  “Five, roger.”

  “Six.”

  They couldn’t actually aim the missiles, but it was a shame to waste them. If nothing else the eight missiles would scatter the Libyan formation.

  “Wiz Three, here. I got missiles all over the damned sky. The homeboys are breaking up. No hits yet on either side.”

  “Sitrep, Five?”

  “I’m doing things I can’t believe I’m doing without being there, Andy,” Zimmerman said. “Loops and rolls. Showed ’em my tail for a few seconds without planning it. The image on the screen is crazy. I don’t know if I’m up or down. I lost feedback on the airspeed indie…”

  “Five?”

  “I think I’m dead. Everything went blank and zero.”

  “Six?”

  Jordan reported. “I’m inverted at five hundred AGL. I think I’ve dodged about six hundred missiles. Upright, now, pulling for altitude. Oh, shit! Threat warning on IR missiles. Maybe two of them. Rolling.”

  “Wizard Three, report!” Wyatt ordered.

  “Three,” Vrdla said from the Here. “All my blips have gone crazy. I think that’s Five spinning in. Gone. Okay, showing five bogies. That must be Yucca Six near the ground. Missiles all over hell, but they’re blinking out. Yeah, Six go hard right and climb.”

  “Going hard right,” Jordan called. “Hell, I’m losing airspeed bad. Got to put the nose down.”

  “Hard left.”

  “Left. Stalling out.”

  “Their formation is a shambles.” Vrdla reported. “They’re all over the sky. I see you at two-zero from contact, Yucca One.”

  “I got it back, I think,” Jordan said. “Airspeed coming up.”

  Wyatt said, “Three, lose the drop tanks.”

  “Roger.”

  He hit the external tank jettison and felt the slight rise of lift through the stick as the tanks fell away.

  Wyatt pulled back on the stick and the nose leapt upward. He shoved in the throttles, checked to his right.

  Hackley was right with him.

  The adrenaline was pumping. His eyesight seemed sharper. The clarity of everything, in and out of the cockpit, was amazing. The airplane moved with his thoughts. They were one being, and he hadn’t felt that in a long time.

  “Yucca One, Wizard Three. I’ve got another bandit just off the runway at Marada, and I’m reading eleven aircraft on the ground.”

  “Those are the ones we want,” Wyatt said.

  “Should we take these out first?” Hackley asked. “Why not?”

  Wyatt felt like anything was possible.

  *

  Ramad monitored the action of Ta Flight on the radio as he rolled out on a heading of 194 and urged the MiG into supersonic flight with the afterburners.

  He switched in his search radar and found five blips immediately. Four of them were converging on one from different angles.

  He attempted to shove the throttles forward, but they were already end-stopped. He had broken the sonic barrier, and the airspeed indicator revealed Mach 1.8.

  “One unknown destroyed,” Ta Leader reported.

  Ramad thought that atrocious. One airplane downed after firing eight missiles, all of them AA-7s judging by the distance involved when they were ignited.

  One of Ta Flight’s pilots shouted, “Son of a goat!” as his missile apparently missed its target.

  Ramad was fifty kilometres from the engagement. He armed his AA-7 missiles.

  Then glanced again at the screen.

  There were suddenly two new targets to be seen, coming from the southwest and vectoring on the dogfight. They had been flying low and were now gaining altitude rapidly.

  He was about to alert Ta Lead when Marada Air Base broke in. “Vulture, Marada. We have radar contact with an unknown aircraft emitting radar energy two-two-zero kilometres, your bearing 178 degrees, altitude ten thousand meters.”

  Involuntarily, he looked at the screen, but the target would be beyond his radar range.

  He would ignore it for the moment.

  “Ta Flight, Vulture. You have two unknowns attacking from your bearing two-six-zero,” he reported. “Disengage and meet the threat. I will assume your present target.”

  “But…” Ta Leader complained.

  “Now!” Ramad ordered.

  He was closing fast on the target, and his radar screen showed him Ta Flight peeling away from it. He selected an AA-7, armed it, then rolled right to centre the target on the screen.

  The missile’s warhead began to hum in his earphones as the infrared seeker attempted to lock-on to the target. He was approaching it broadside, and was not yet close enough to obtain a strong heat source.

  And then he noted two more blips appear on his screen. They were to the north heading almost directly east.

  Toward the chemical factory.

  Almighty Allah! They come from everywhere!

  In the back of his mind, he was counting. There were now seven unidentified aircraft.

  Where Ghazi had said there would be six.

  Something was wrong.

  This was a massive invasion. There would be more, appearing from all points of the compass.

  Switching to the secondary tactical channel, he called the squadron overflying the transports. “Orange Squadron, Vulture. Return to base immediately!”

  “Uh, Vulture, we cannot. We must first refuel.”

  Ramad cursed under his breath. “Refuel en route. Do it now!”

  Back on the tactical one channel, he told Marada Air Control, “Recall Alif Flight.”

  “At once, Vulture.”

  The high-toned pitch in his earphones told him the missile had locked-on to the target.

  He triggered it, and the missile leapt from its rails, a bright, hot exhaust almost blinding him.

  He pulled the nose up and began to climb, so as to avoid the debris when his missile struck.

  *

  “Yucca One, eight miles to target,” Vrdla said. “They’re at angels seven and climbing.”

  “Roger, Wizard.”

  Wyatt cut in his search radar and scanned the HUD. Altitude 12,500 feet AGL. Speed Mach 1.1. Heading 086.

  He put the nose down.

  The desert rolled t
hrough his HUD, speeding quickly beneath him. He could see six targets in the immediate path of his search radar. Four, in apparent disarray, were closing on him from widely scattered positions. The fifth was apparently Yucca Six on an eastern course, attempting to gain altitude. The sixth was streaking across the screen on a perpendicular course to the north at almost double Mach. He saw the missile launch.

  “One coming at you, Six.”

  “Roger,” Jordan said. “I’m cutting throttle.”

  Jordan would attempt to fool the missile attacking the RPV by reducing the heat source, then turning into the missile to get his hot tail pipe out of its infrared vision.

  “Jesus!” Jordan said. “I can see the damned thing on camera.”

  Wyatt blanked out Jordan’s voice as he concentrated on the four targets coming at them.

  “I’ve got the left two, Yucca Three.”

  “Roger, One. Taking the two on the right.”

  He expected to hear his missile threat warning sound off at any moment. The MiGs were two thousand feet below them, climbing, six miles away.

  He guessed they had used their medium-range Apexs on the RPVs and were now left with the short-range Aphids.

  Which meant that his and Barr’s tactics were paying off. The RPVs’ primary role was to draw the long-and medium-range weapons. Beyond that, if they survived, anything they accomplished was icing.

  He had a solid lock-on tone from the first Sidewinder. The words “LOCK-ON” appeared on the HUD.

  And now the targets were visual, black dots against the terrain.

  “Tally ho, Three!”

  “I see ’em,” Hackley said.

  They were taking on the enemy aircraft head-on, which wasn’t the most effective configuration for heat-seeking missiles, which preferred a hotter energy source. The Super Sidewinders, though, were being operated at a longer wavelength of 10.6 microns, and they “saw” whole targets whose skin was heated by the friction generated from passing through the atmosphere.

  Depressing the release stud, Wyatt closed his eyes for an instant, to avoid the exhaust glare as the missile dropped from its semi-recess in the fuselage, ignited, and shot away.

  Kicked in a little left rudder.

  Selected the second Sidewinder.

  Heard an immediate lock-on tone, and fired.

  Checked back to the right.

  Eased in some rudder and aileron.