Lawrence's visored eyes scanned the sky around him, moving in a boxlike pattern perfected by thousands of hours aloft. His scan registered the two cathode-ray tube displays in his cockpit, took in his fuel state, and returned to the outside world. Fighter pilots were always thinking fuel, for they were professional managers of that precious commodity.
Cruising at Mach.82, the F-20's fuel flow was about 2,300 pounds per hour while the Tigershark made nearly eight miles a minute: 450 knots at 35,000 feet. Within 110 miles of destination, the pilot could pull the throttle back to idle and glide at 250 knots, burning only 200 pounds of fuel per hour. Thus, the last 110 miles would consume merely 80 to 90 pounds of JP4 during the 25-minute descent. That was normal fuel flow in a turbofan fighter being flown like an airliner. But a fighter plane is for war, for killing other aircraft. And in combat it uses fuel in an ungodly manner. The F-20 could fight for two minutes 400 miles from its base and return with a safety reserve, or cruise nearly 2,000 miles on the same amount of fuel.
Lawrence felt calm, confident, and slightly hungry-a predatory hunger. It was the kind of hunger the toughest cat on the block feels. A fight was coming. He could feel it.
* * *
The next four days were full but unexciting. Settling in at Khamis Mushayt, arranging for rotation to Nejran and advanced fields, the Tiger Force personnel adjusted to the routine. They were taken with the stark beauty of the Empty Quarter, the Ar Rub Al Khali, but even more so with Nejran. Seeing the pure desert oasis for the first time from the air, Tim Ottman was enchanted. The beautiful village of mud structures, with an ancient castle surrounded by dates and palm trees, was straight out of a fairy tale. Now I've really been to Arabia, he thought.
The F-20 pilots met with the crews of two Saudi Air Force E-3A AWACS planes, which would provide airborne warning and control. Ed Lawrence and the other instructors were impressed with the airborne controllers-sharp young men who would monitor Saudi airspace for intrusion from South Yemen and direct F-20s to intercepts if necessary. The two AWACS would stage out of Khamis Mushayt, alternating missions daily.
The two forward fields, southeast of Nejran, were suitable for Tigersharks and F-5s but were not yet adaptable to larger aircraft requiring more support. Most of the pilots were confident of a confrontation with the Yemenis; some earnestly wished for it. Only a few recalled Bennett's warning: "Be careful what you want. It might come true."
Based on Lawrence's schedule, a four-plane flight of F-20s patrolled the Saudi-Yemen border once or twice a day at irregular intervals. There was no discernible pattern to the patrols-predictability is a sin to a dedicated warrior. Varying patrol times, patterns, and altitudes, the Tigersharks trolled impatiently, letting the South Yemen radar get a good look at them.
While the airborne flight made its seemingly random passes up and down the border, the second flight sat runway alert at one of the forward fields. Hangars were available, so the pilots and mechanics were spared the worst of the Arabian sun. These four fighters could be airborne in one minute, ready to reinforce the airborne flight in perhaps ten minutes, depending on the scene of contact. The third flight remained at Khamis Mushayt, rotating forward every third day to allow one of the others a rest.
At dusk on the fourth day Lawrence discussed the situation with Major Ali Handrah, one of the prospective squadron commanders. They were relaxing over lemonade in the small building allotted Tiger Force at Khamis Mushayt.
Theirs was a courteous, professional relationship, devoid of warmth. Bennett had warned his exec against any word or action which could be interpreted as overbearing or superior. Unofficially Lawrence outranked Handrah, but the American also was a foreigner in the pay of the king of Arabia.
"Major Handrah, I've been thinking about our patrol patterns. What would you think if we fly farther inland for a couple of days? Give the appearance that we're not as concerned anymore. It might help defuse the situation if we show the Yemenis that we're working into a routine attitude, with more or less predictable schedules." But his words belied his intent.
The Saudi set down his lemonade. Lawrence knew the officer's orders were to observe more than command. He also knew Handrah was expected to establish a sense of discipline in his young pilots; if Riyadh wanted a show-the-flag mission, the youngsters' high spirits should not lead elsewhere. If the intrusions could be ended without a fight, so much the better.
Handrah said, "Yes, Colonel Lawrence, I agree. Your suggestion is in keeping with our orders. Perhaps. the Yemenis will realize we intend to keep patrols in this area. There have been no more intrusions since we arrived."
Lawrence's plan went into effect the next day. In conferring with the airborne controllers from his staging base, he learned that MiGs out of Shibam had caught the new pattern. For the next two days they flew much closer to the border-wherever it was-thus taking up the slack to maintain closer contact with the F-20s.
Then, on the eighth night, YAR guerrillas struck an army compound twenty miles inside PDRY territory. Tiger Force immediately got word from Saudi intelligence, and Lawrence laid plans accordingly.
The South Yemenis reacted the next morning. But the MiGs and Sukhois avoided Saudi airspace, crossing directly into YAR territory to bomb and strafe two guerrilla compounds. Ed Lawrence bristled with anticipation, trolling as close to both borders as he dared during the raid. His Saudi student leading the flight played it straight, and returned to the advance base upon reaching "bingo" fuel state.
"I'll be a sad sack." The redhead tossed his helmet down to the crew chief and slowly unhooked. "We could see some contrails but that was all." He viciously unsnapped the koch fittings of his torso harness. "Shee-it."
Lawrence arranged for the third flight to join him while Tim Ottman's four planes, plus one spare, took the next patrol. The IPs agreed that they should have full strength available now that things might be heating up. There was still a good chance Lawrence's "restrained" patrol pattern might entice some MiGs over the border.
Southeast of Najran, 0840 Hours
At the advanced field an ordnanceman stood beside Lieutenant Rajid Hamir's wingtip, flashlight in hand. It was the ninth day of the operation; something would have to happen soon or the operation would be called off. When the F-20s started engines the young Saudi airman watched for a thumbs-up from the pilot, indicating the Sidewinder missile on each wing was activated. The armorer then shined the flashlight on the AIM-9's seeker head, visible behind the thick glass in the nose. By moving the light laterally and vertically, the "ordie" saw whether the thermoelectrically cooled homing system was functioning normally. Such was the sensitivity of the infrared seeker that its eye followed the heat of a mere flashlight.
Developed by the U.S. Navy in the 1950s, the Sidewinder was simplicity itself. It mated the then-new seeker and warhead to an existing rocket motor, and the original models cost $800 apiece. The current versions, with a front-attack capability, ran over $100,000 but they were deadly effective. British Sea Harrier pilots in the Falklands War scored an 80 percent kill rate with their AIM-9Ls.
Rajid Hamir led his wingman off the runway moments after Lawrence had landed. The second section, led by Tim Ottman, was only seconds behind, followed by a spare. Keeping low, Rajid checked the position of the other three aircraft and keyed his microphone button.
In rapid order came the responses: one, two, three clicks. All four pilots had checked in; their radios were functioning. There was mild jockeying as each F-20 took turns flying a mile behind its partner, double-checking the tracking tone of its missiles. Satisfied that each aircraft was fully operational, Rajid detached the spare with a waggle of his wings and set course east-northeast at reduced throttle. In one-mile spread the two sections adopted loose deuce and waited. No one had spoken a word since takeoff.
Over the Yemen Arab Republic, 07115 Hours
Captain Julio Martin Cordoba led his four Sukhoi 22Ms outbound from a wadi in the Yemen desert. He had made a surprise follow-up attack on one of
the guerrilla bases across the border from South Yemen. The Cuban pilot had shrewdly figured that the YAR "terrorists," accustomed to one bombing at a time, would not expect a second attack moments after the first. And he had been right. The guerrilla camp had just begun to stir, with enough of the smoke and dust settled to allow good visibility from above, when Cordoba's flight arrived.
It had been a well-executed attack. The Su-22s-NATO callsign "Fitter"-had struck from north and south, almost simultaneously. Glancing down, Cordoba doubted that many of the terrorists had survived this time. He was not new to the game. He had flown in Angola years before.
Leading his reassembled formation northeasterly, Cordoba had plotted a return course which described an arc tangent to the claimed Saudi border. Thus, he avoided a reported YAR antiaircraft missile battery which had fired on MiG-23 reconnaissance flights recently. He knew from radar reports over the past week that Saudi fighters had never crossed into Yemeni airspace. Besides, MiG-21s would be airborne to screen his flight during his return along the border.
Over Saudi Arabia 0717 Hours
Ninety miles away, a Saudi captain peered intently at his radar scope in the airborne AWACS. One of his companions monitored the South Yemeni fighter-direction frequency, noting that radio discipline was typically poor for Soviet-trained air forces. With a highly-structured command-control system, the MiGs relied on instructions from ground controllers for almost every phase of flight, down to dropping external tanks and arming missiles.
The Saudi captain placed his cursor on the MiG blips, providing an electronic memory for consultation anytime later. He already had a good idea of the direction and speed of both Yemeni formations.
The geometry was coming together. From its God's-eye view the E-3 radar plane scanned the three groups of aircraft crowding the Sandi-Yemen border area. The Sukhois were headed to a point very near the boundary-perhaps upon it-and the MiGs were converging toward that point from the east-southeast.
The four F-20s, on direction from the airborne controller, turned hard right. Rajid and Tim Ottman took their wingmen in startling climbs, splitting to a five-mile separation between sections. Rajid heard the controller call, "Bogeys on your nose, twenty-eight miles at sixteen thousand." Rajid gave his mike button a quick click to acknowledge.
he Yemeni officer shouted over his shoulder into the darkened hut. "Comrade Colonel Sorokin! Look at this!"
Colonel Kirill Sorokin was a forty-eight-year-old air defense specialist assigned, — semi-permanently, he ruefully thought sometimes-to the People's Democratic Republic of Yemen. He had performed similar duties all over the world, and surely the pest hole he now occupied belonged right at the bottom of the list. Hotter than Hades, thousands of kilometers from anywhere with precious little comfort, there was not even much liquor to ease the burden. "Serves you right for being so good at your work," his superior had said. Some system, which rewards competence with misery, Sorokin thought.
Flinging aside the blackout curtains separating his small office from the control room, the Russian took in the esoteric data contained on the radar scope in just a few seconds.
"Damn it to hell!" he shouted.
The controller visibly flinched. He was well acquainted with the colonel's temper.
To Sorokin it looked as if the Saudis intended to cut off the Sukhois at the border. He yanked the headset off the controller and pressed it to his ear. He did not know the tactical callsign of the MiGs, and there was no time for formality. "MiG flight! Heads up! Interceptors closing on you from the north. Select afterburner and arm your missiles."
Sorokin had played this game many years before, in the air defense center in downtown Hanoi. Seeing a developing opportunity, he relied on the Cuban, Cordoba. He's experienced, Sorokin thought. He'll follow orders without hesitation.
The Russian ordered the lead pair of Sukhois to come hard left, dashing into Saudi airspace. The lead section had Atoll air-to-air missiles while the other Su-22s had been armed solely with bombs and rocket pods. Cordoba would have expended his ordnance and should be down to fighting weight on fuel. The MiGs were to hook right, enveloping the Saudis in a two-pronged aerial pincer. Though it was a hasty decision, it could work if timed properly.
Over Saudi Arabia, 0720 Hour.
Rajid eyeballed the four MiG-21s on his left quarter, watching them close at a combined rate of some 1,500 mph. He heard Tim Ottman call, "I'm high." Noting the four 21s were flying a "welded wing" formation, with each wingman almost wingtip to wingtip on his leader, Rajid pulled in toward the nearest section. His armament display panel showed the right-hand Sidewinder was selected.
The AIM-9 missile had a forward-quarter capability, with enhanced sensitivity in the infrared seeker head which detected even the aerodynamic frictional heat generated by a high-speed aircraft. Rajid heard the warble of the tracking tone in his earphones, and for an instant he marveled that all his training was being put to use.
Then he called "Snake!" and pressed the trigger.
It was a low-percentage shot, with only a marginal chance to score. But the MiGs were forced to break formation to evade the missile, immediately putting the Yemenis on the defensive. They had not had time to fire any missiles of their own. The nearest two MiGs split from one another and Rajid pressed his attack on the wingman.
Circling overhead like a lethal shepherd watching his flock, Ottman alternately tracked the second pair of MiGs and tried to follow the engaged Tigersharks. So this is combat, he mused. Funny, it doesn't feel much different from practice.
Acting on doctrine, Rajid called, "I have it."
His wingman pulled up to cover the fight, turning to place the lead MiG off his nose. When the second 21 broke hard right to defeat the missile, Rajid had held his course, passing on a reciprocal heading to the 21's belly side. He could have continued his turn, using the F-20's superior maneuverability to gain an angle when both fighters came around the circle. But that would prolong the fight. He recalled Colonel Lawrence's dictum: Don't waste time trying to sweeten up the shot. Kill the bogey soonest.
Instead of turning, Rajid pitched into a high yo-yo immediately after passing the MiG's tail. Pulling up, he quarter-rolled to keep his opponent in view through the top of his canopy, arcing onto his back.
Straining against the G, forcing himself to keep the MiG "padlocked," Rajid felt an odd sense of detachment, almost as if he were a spectator of this combat rather than a participant. I've been here before, he thought, in practice and in the simulator. I'm going to win!
The frightened Yemeni pilot reefed hard in his four-G turn, almost as much as his MiG-21 could sustain. He had difficulty keeping the Saudi in sight above him, and hoped to throw the Northrop outside his turn radius. But by continuing his level turn he gave the Tigershark a predictable path to anticipate the conversion, and it did not take long.
Pulling hard behind the 21, sensing the fuzzy grayness at the periphery of his vision, Rajid waited until his nose was approximately aligned with the MiG's. He recognized that he had a bit more separation than he needed, but he was well within the Sidewinder envelope. He had a favorable angle off the tail and took off some bank to reduce the G on his airplane. Hearing the tone again, he called the shot.
* * *
From overhead, Ottman saw the second 'winder come off the left rail, fly unerringly to the MiG, and explode. There was a bright flash in the sky.
"Yeah!" Ottman shouted in his oxygen mask.
The MiG-21 disgorged a cloud of dirty orange flames, with hundreds of tiny metal fragments in its wake. Instantly the canopy came off and the pilot's seat rocketed from the cockpit. The remains of the aircraft plummeted to the desert floor.
Seeing his wingman hit the ground, the MiG leader elected to disengage. The camouflaged delta-winged fighter reversed its turn, no longer sparring with Rajid's wingman. The F-20s' ROE said no hot pursuit, but the second MiG section remained in Saudi airspace. Ottman keyed his mike: "Orange Lead, this is Three. Two bandits still
in a level turn with me, coming around upsun right now."
Rajid rapidly scanned the sky, hoping to silhouette the MiGs above him against the high, thin overcast. The glare bothered him. "No visual, Three."
"Lead from Two. I have the bandits." Lieutenant Hasni Khalil had good eyes.
"You have it, Two."
Khalil slid out abeam of Rajid as the two easily traded the lead.
Moments later Rajid saw them, also noting Ottman's section arcing upward to position itself beyond the bogeys. The MiGs were trapped.
“Orange Flight, this is Sentinel. Two bogeys at twenty-two miles, closing from southwest." The AWACS was doing its job.
Ottman cursed to himself. Damn Sukhois-he'd almost forgotten them. "Lead from Three. I'll take 'em."
"Ah, roger, Three."
Ottman rolled over and took up the heading. His wingman moved out abeam, expertly anticipating his move. With a visual on the Sukhois at six miles, the two F-20s began working for position.
Over the Undefined Border, 0722 Hours
The Su-22M is a large single-seat fighter-bomber, as big as a Phantom. Though it has variable-geometry wings, it cannot turn or accelerate with lighter aircraft but it has powerful armament and Mach 2 speed. Julio Martin Cordoba led his Yemeni wingman to engage the Saudis with air-to-air missiles and, if necessary, the seventy rounds in each of their 30mm cannon. Granted position for a gunnery pass, the Sukhois might have done some harm. But against alerted, aggressive Tigersharks the Fitters stood little chance.
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