Phantom Strike

by William H. Lovejoy

  Closing so fast, the seconds screamed by.

  His missile was streaming vapour toward the target, which he could clearly identify as a MiG now.

  The MiG pilot knew he was in jeopardy. Even in his firing sequence, he hauled the nose up to dodge the Sidewinder.

  Wyatt selected his third missile.

  The MiG pilot evaded the Sidewinder, but his two missiles launched on a crazy angle and headed for nowhere.

  “LOCK-ON.”

  Wyatt fired number three.

  Number two impacted the MiG on his far left.

  A bright yellow-orange blossom burst into bloom, spewing segments of shrapnel out of its centre.

  One mile away.

  Wyatt hauled back on the throttles, kicked in left rudder and aileron, and slid across the sky to avoid the head-on rush of his first MiG. With its ton-and-a-half of bombs still on the pylons, the Phantom felt heavy. He hoped the bombs stayed with him. The G-meter numbers ascended toward eight.

  The Sidewinder slammed into the MiG’s air intake, detonated, and the MiG lost its entire right side and wing. What was left went immediately into a spiralling, tumbling descent.

  “Dodged my missile attack,” Jordan yelled on the air. “Six’s going to original heading. Wizard, help me out.”

  Vrdla gave him some headings.

  “Got two of the bastards,” Hackley said with a great deal of jubilation and adrenaline in his voice.

  “I count four down,” Vrdla said.

  “Roger, four down,” Wyatt said.

  His vision had dimmed with the high-G turn, but was coming back.

  He rolled out to the right, checked his position against the programmed coordinates for Marada Air Base on his HUD, and settled into a heading of 095. They had drifted northward during the engagement.

  The fuel state wasn’t impressive.

  His altitude of nine thousand feet AGL was sufficient. He wouldn’t waste fuel trying for more.

  The speed had dropped to 660 knots. That would do, also.

  Hackley moved in next to him.

  “Very nice,” Formsby said from the Hercules. “I wish I were with you.”

  “Let us not forget,” Vrdla said, “that you’ve got another bogie out there. Plus, the aircraft on the base are starting to move.”

  Seventeen

  Ramad could not believe his poor luck.

  It had to be luck that allowed that perfect pigeon in his sights to go unharmed.

  He eased back the stick, turning and bleeding off speed. Perhaps he had been going too fast.

  As he turned back to the south, he became aware that the excited chatter of pilots on the tactical channel had ceased.

  He searched his radar screen.

  They were gone.

  His four MiGs were gone.

  All that remained was the low, fast blip of the airplane he had targeted — he had seen that it was indeed an F-4 — headed for the base.

  And it was followed by an additional two blips some twenty kilometres behind.

  He was alone against them.

  “Vulture! Vulture!” cried an anguished controller.

  “Marada this is Vulture. Order the bombers to take off immediately. Ba Flight is to follow them.”

  Ghazi’s voice came on the air. “Vulture, you have made a most regrettable mistake.”

  He did not need an army man to tell him that.

  Ghazi continued, “I have ordered the defensive batteries to full alert. We will be able to stop the intruders.”

  The way the pilot of that first F-4 flew, Ramad was not certain, but he was also running short of alternatives.

  “More important,” Ghazi said, “is the chemical factory. They do not have an equal number of surface-to-air missiles. You must stop the attackers.”

  Without realizing he was accepting an order from an army man, Ramad lifted his left wing and went into a tight turn to the right. Seconds later, his radar picked up the two fighters moving almost directly east toward the chemical factory. He estimated that they were making nearly nine hundred knots at three thousand meters of altitude, and they were but seventy kilometres from their target.

  He was thirty-five kilometres southeast of their flight path.

  Ramming the throttles into afterburner, he selected his last AA-7 missile. That would do for the first target, but he would have to get closer for the second.

  And the timing was going to be critical.

  *

  Ahmed al-Qati rested against the bulkhead in the flight compartment, standing behind the pilot and next to the flight engineer. His helmet was clipped to his web belt, and he wore a headset.

  The pilot had just reported to his superiors, the airlift command in Tripoli, that their MiG-23 air cover had just turned back, along with the tankers.

  That seemed to be creating some consternation in the military headquarters in Tripoli.

  Al-Qati had listened to the clipped, low-descriptive dialogue on the primary tactical channel since the attack had begun. It was confusing, but he had deduced that four MiGs had been shot down, that their air cover was racing to the rescue, and that the bombers were only now taking off.

  And Tripoli was just now waking up to the crisis.

  He tried not to think that Sophia had been successful. He longed to talk to her. If he used the airplane’s radio, he could reach her through his headquarters in El Bardi, but that would endanger her as well as himself. He would point no one in her direction.

  “What am I to do?” the pilot asked for perhaps the third time. “We will be crossing the Sudan border in minutes.”

  After a moment’s dead air, the controller from Tripoli radioed, “You are to continue your mission.”

  Sophia had been successful, but not successful enough. The idiots were still going to go through with the farce.

  But not all of them were idiots.

  Al-Qati unsnapped his holster, slipped the automatic from its sheath, and laid the barrel almost gently on the pilot’s shoulder.

  Startled, the man whipped his head around, saw the muzzle of the gun, and looked up at al-Qati, his mouth agape, and his eyes twice as large as they should be.

  He said to the co-pilot, “Switch the radio to the secondary channel.”

  The man hesitated until al-Qati rubbed the pilot’s throat with the automatic.

  He glanced at the engineer, but that man had backed up as far as he could in his seat.

  Reaching up to depress the transmit button on his cantilevered microphone, al-Qati said, “Moonglow.”

  “Sundown,” came back to him.

  “I am going.”

  “And I will follow,” Shummari said.

  Over the roar of the engines, al-Qati said, “No one will touch the radios. Co-pilot, return to the primary channel so that we may listen to Marada.”

  The man reluctantly changed the switch position.

  “Pilot, drop out of the formation, then turn west. I want a heading of two-eight-zero degrees.”

  Al-Qati had a pretty fair picture of where he was geographically. If the raiders returned to the south, he might be in a position to intercept them.

  He was even prepared to ram their airplanes, which would likely be unarmed by the time of their return leg, with this C-130. Al-Qati might not relish the chemical bombing of civilians, but he was a patriot, and he would not let this incursion into his national territory go unchallenged.

  It took a nudge of the pistol against the pilot’s ear to urge him into compliance. He eased the yoke forward, and the transport fell away from its place in the formation, then rolled into a right turn.

  When he bent over and peered through the side window, he saw Shummari’s transport following along.

  Within a minute of their departure from the group, a battery of queries rained upon them from the other transports.

  As long as he held the gun, no one was going to respond.

  *

  Belatedly, Barr tightened his harness.

  He had heard t
he elated reports of downed MiGs on the open channel, but had refrained from entering the repartee. He might need a clear channel soon.

  He decided to use it now.

  “Four, let go the tanks.”

  “Roger,” Gettman said.

  He had switched to his main tanks earlier, when the drop tanks had coughed up the last of their precious liquid, and he abandoned them now without regret.

  “Four, you have the lead.”

  “Roger.”

  Yucca Four drew alongside, then eased into the lead. Zimmerman, having lost his RPX had reverted to his Air Force role of backseater, and he would guide both Phantoms onto the target.

  Barr selected two of his three bombs from each pylon. He wanted to save two of the five-hundred-pounders for a second pass if it was necessary, or for a drop on the air base on their outbound run.

  “IP on my mark,” Zimmerman said.

  The Initial Point was an abandoned township some seventeen miles west of Marada Air Base, but south of their line of flight toward the factory. Zimmerman was making his bomb run based on navigational extensions.

  “Mark.”

  Seventeen miles out.

  Air speed 845 knots.

  They had to start reducing speed soon. The optimum speed for the bomb release was 450 knots in order to improve the accuracy.

  “Let’s everybody come right to zero-nine-three,” Zimmerman ordered.

  Barr eased into the turn, then locked-on the heading.

  “Hate to mention this,” Zimmerman said, “but I’ve got a bogey twelve miles south, on intercept.”

  “He’s mine,” Barr said.

  He reselected a Sidewinder as he brought the nose up, then boosted the throttles. He was no longer thinking about fuel conservation.

  The bogey was clear on the radar screen, and after he turned a few degrees to the right, appeared on the HUD.

  Thirteen miles to target.

  The bogey turned toward him.

  At their combined rates of speed, they would meet in about thirty seconds.

  The Sidewinder began to moan.

  The MiG released a missile. Barr guessed it was an Apex.

  Threat warning howl.

  “MISSILE LOCK-ON” blinking on the HUD.

  He ignored it.

  Ten miles to target.

  Sidewinder screaming happily.

  He punched the stud.

  The missile dropped and whisked away.

  Barr tugged the stick back and right, kicked in the right rudder, pulled up, then rolled inverted.

  He launched two infrared countermeasures flares.

  Yanked the stick back again, and shot for the earth.

  The Apex chasing him lunged upward toward the flares, changed its simple mind, reversed itself, and went down for him, but too late.

  It sailed over his tail, detonating a quarter-mile beyond him.

  He came back up, looping, and rolled out at the top, back on course for the factory.

  The MiG had veered off toward the north and was dancing a ballet, attempting to evade the Sidewinder.

  And he saw another missile coming at him. A short-range job this time, he supposed.

  He rolled hard to the left.

  Brought the nose down.

  “Missile off!” Gettman called. He had fired on the defender also.

  Rolled upright.

  The missile was swerving toward him.

  He turned into it.

  Fired two flares.

  Then turned past it.

  The missile missed a direct impact with the Phantom.

  But its proximity fuse detonated it off his wingtip.

  The F-4 shuddered at the concussion.

  And immediately rolled to the right.

  Barr caught it, forced his way upright, and looked out at his left wing.

  What was left of it.

  About three feet of the wingtip was shredded.

  “You okay, Bucky?” Gettman asked.

  “We’re supposed to use call signs,” he said.

  “Fuck that. What’s your status?”

  “Flying. These old buckets are tougher than grandpa.”

  “Goddamn it! Give me a sitrep.” That call was from Formsby.

  “I’ve lost some wingtip,” Barr reported. “I can still unload my ordnance, provided the bogey stays away.”

  He balanced his throttles, putting more power on the right engine to match the drag created by having more wing on that side.

  “The bandit’s gone north,” Gettman reported.

  “Wizard Three here,” Vrdla said. “Your bogey outran both Sidewinders, but he’s out of the plan for about fifteen seconds. Do your stuff.”

  “Call it, Yucca Five,” Barr said.

  Zimmerman said, “We’re right on course. Two, come left three degrees. Let’s get the speed down.”

  “Forget the speed,” Vrdla said. “Your bogey will catch you.”

  “Maintain eight-zero-zero knots,” Zimmerman said.

  Maintain eight hundred? Barr was down to 670. He worked the throttles up, keeping more power on the right engine.

  The landscape ahead was still barren. If there was a chemical factory out there, it had been painted to match Barr’s colour scheme for the Phantoms.

  The plant’s geographical coordinates had been pre-programmed into the computer, and Barr called them up.

  He got exactly nothing.

  “This is Two. My adding machine went on strike.”

  “Stay with me,” Gettman said.

  Yucca Four had pulled ahead of him as he fought to regain airspeed and he could see her a quarter-mile to his left.

  He forced in some more turn. The extra drag on the right made all of his manoeuvres tougher.

  Considering that he might not make it as far back as the air base, and considering that he needed to be as light as possible, as soon as possible, Barr selected all of his bombs. He switched on the electro-optical targeting system. It seemed to be working because a target reticule immediately appeared on the HUD.

  “Targeting computer is still earning a paycheck,” Barr reported.

  “That’s the American work ethic in action,” Formsby told him.

  He checked the chronometer, urged it to greater speed. The seconds seemed to be dragging.

  He looked ahead and maybe saw a few blockish shapes forming on the horizon.

  “There ’tis!” Zimmerman said.

  They had been losing altitude without his realizing it since he had been following Gettman’s lead. The radar altimeter reported thirty-five hundred feet AGL.

  Barr found the plant a few seconds later, sighting through the HUD. The computer wasn’t generating a target for him, but he saw the plant live. It was a complex of eight or nine buildings, and he suspected from the construction style that there were several subterranean levels below the single story showing above ground.

  He used the joystick to centre the reticule on the structure second from the right, then locked it on. He pressed the pickle button to commit the drop.

  From that point on, the computer — if it was working — -would accept what it was seeing from the bomb’s point of view, add to that the altitude and speed factors, and release the load at the proper moment.

  No matter what Barr did with the airplane.

  Maybe.

  “I’ve got four miles to target,” Zimmerman said. “Four’s committed.”

  “Two’s committed.”

  “Your bogey’s on your ass,” Vrdla added.

  “SAMs coming!” Gettman yelled.

  Barr saw three surface-to-air missile launches, but they were too late. The Phantoms were moving low at nearly twice their bombing speed, and the SAMs whistled harmlessly by them to the rear.

  Closer to the target, five or six antiaircraft guns opened up, their high-explosive shells erupting in grey-black blossoms all around them.

  They would just tough out the AAA.

  The image of the chemical plant grew quickly in the winds
creen.

  A set of Lego toys.

  A playhouse in the backyard.

  A white vapour floated on the air above it.

  And there it was, just disappearing under the nose.

  The Phantom leapt a little as the bombs dropped away.

  And then the plant was gone, and he was flying over desolation once again.

  *

  Ramad could not believe it.

  He had almost reached firing range of his last three AA-8s when the bombs dropped from the airplanes ahead of him.

  The clock stood still while he counted the hits. Ten of the twelve bombs struck the second, third, and fifth buildings. It seemed as if the bombs holed the roofs, counted to ten, then erupted.

  A visible concussion ring rose from the buildings, followed by great geysers spewing blackened vapour and debris. The walls bulged outward, the roofs collapsed, and the walls caved in on them. The first, fourth, sixth, and eighth buildings began to buckle also.

  The bombs that entered building five must have gone through the first floor into the subsurface level, where the warheads were constructed, for a secondary blast gushed red-orange flames chased by a yellow fireball.

  He had to swerve to the left to avoid the detritus filling the air.

  He wondered if the fire would consume all of the released chemicals before they invaded the nerves and minds of his countrymen.

  And he became furious at the destruction. Libya’s future, in his hands, had become shaky. He must kill the infidels, any of them.

  All of them.

  And he realized that the still unidentified radar blip to the south would be their airborne control.

  One of the two Phantoms ahead of him was damaged badly. From what he knew of their range, he did not think either of them would reach the borders of Libya. The pilots could be captured at will.

  He would strike down the damnable commanders.

  “Marada Base, Vulture.”

  “Vulture, they are attacking!”

  “Give me a vector for the southern target, Marada.”

  “But Vulture… uh, take a heading of one-nine-six.”

  *

  Neil Formsby was feeling antsy, listening to the chatter on the radio, and trying not to put his two cents worth in. He had dozens of extremely positive suggestions, but he wasn’t on the scene.

  “Damn, damn, damn,” Demion said. “Come on, somebody! Report something!”