"Feeeeeet dry," Karnes sang out. The further we got into the mission, the more cheerful she sounded. I started to wonder why I ever thought she seemed such a straitlaced little priss.
Jungle beneath us now, smooth and unscarred miles of trees and foliage. Pines on the higher slopes, the vegetation still thick and luxurious. Way far to the north, smog and smoke clotted the horizon, indications of city life. Not our problem. We were headed deep into the jungle to the secret facility hidden there. It could hide too much.
"SAMs," Karnes said, interrupting the mood I'd been drifting into, watching the jungle and remembering. "Search mode now ― no indication it's got us."
"Won't be long, though." The RIO's counter-ESM gear could detect hostile emissions long before the bad guys could see us. One of the standard problems of any piece of gear that spits out energy into the air is that it's detectable long before it's useful. "We're not doing much to avoid detection, unless you've got a cloaking device installed back there that I don't know about."
"'Fraid not. Just the Prowlers."
The EA6-B Prowlers were tucked in just below us, under both our limited anti-air capability and that of our remaining Hornets. They were equipped with HARM missiles and a variety of jamming gear. We were about to play a delicate game of timing with the bad boys on the ground.
As soon as we started jamming, they'd know we were inbound. Their radar screen would turn into broad spikes and circles of noise, overloaded by the massive amounts of electromagnetic energy the Prowlers would be putting out. The trick was to get the HARM missiles off the rails at the antennae before we were actually detected, let them do their work, then jam the hell out of the remaining antennae. And it all had to happen before they knew we were inbound, which should be- "They got us," Karnes announced. "Snoopy's got them too. Solid lock ― they're going to targeting mode, Bird Dog," she warned.
No noise, just bright light streaking away from below me as the Prowlers shot their load. Too late? Maybe ― if the Vietnamese detected the missiles inbound, they'd shut down all electromagnetic radiation. That tactic had worked well on older HARM missiles, which had to hold the radiating source all the way into impact point.
Not so with the newer variants. They could lock on and hold the position in their tiny little computer brains long enough to blow the shit out of a recently shut-down antenna. But not while the Prowler was jamming ― that was the tricky part.
Of course, they already knew in a general sense that we were coming in. Their fighters would have been relaying position reports back to their GCIs. But like they say ― the devil's in the details. Where and when we'd be going feet dry and where we'd go after that were still up for grabs.
"Vampires inbound!" The E-2 Hawkeye removed all doubt from my military mind. The SAM sites had us ― and cold.
Two Hornets vectored off to intercept, dropping our escort service down to six. What the hell was the point of having them fly CAP if they weren't going to stick around?
The high-spot Hornet held back a bit, waiting for his wingman to take the first shot. He'd retain a measure of altitude and maneuverability, waiting for a second shot if the first Hornet missed.
"Two more. Bird Dog, three missiles inbound." Karnes was starting to sound a little shaken now.
"Slow movers, honey," I said reassuringly. "Don't forget ― they're strictly subsonic. I have to, I can outrun them."
"I know that."
"I know you do," I said, still trying for the cool and casual tone. "I'm just talking aloud to convince myself. Just think about how bad it's going to be when we get back to the boat, listening to those Hornet drivers boast. First thing you know, they'll be claiming there were thirty missiles instead of three and that they took them all out with guns."
Shit, I was starting to sound like Gator. How many times had he pulled that routine on me, trying to get me to settle down and fly the aircraft? He'd talk, just as if we were out on a normal training hopping, making these little observations about how slow the missile was, how good a shot I was, anything he could think of to keep me focused and confident. And here I was doing the same thing to a RIO.
Still, everything I said was true. Just like Gator would have done it. The missiles were a lot slower than we were, and the Hornet pilots would be boasting.
"Yeah." Silence from the backseat after that.
I let her think about it for a while, then asked, "So, you know any good jokes? I'm getting bored up here, and Gator always had a couple of new ones."
"Bored?"
"Yeah, bored. How do you feel about aerobatics?"
"Love 'em."
Another surprise. Gator always puked unless I gave him plenty of warning. "Maybe on the way back then."
"Sure."
A small puff of smoke off on the horizon, then another. Some too cool, too casual boasting from the Hornet pilot ― two missiles scratched.
"Where's the other one?" I asked, just to keep her head in the game.
"Still inbound ― five miles and closing." Good, she sounded steady and cool like she ought to. Maybe I'd learned something from Gator after all.
"High guy will get him," I said. I made sure my position in formation was solid, then turned my head to the right to watch.
I could see it now, arcing up and spewing a trail of white smoke behind it. I hoped Karnes wasn't looking at it. Every time I see one, I get this cold crawling in the pit of my belly. She sounded okay now, but I didn't want to be nursing her back to health every five minutes. "Any other contacts in the area? How long till IP?"
She spouted off the answers, and I knew from the sounds of her voice that her head was buried in the black plastic hood fitted around her radar scope. It keeps the sun off the screen, makes for better visibility. "Four minutes ― on profile, on time. Starting descent and approach in two minutes, ten seconds."
"Okay."
While her head was down, I reached up to the switch overhead in front of me and switched us out of command-eject. If she pulled the plug, she'd be the only one going. Not that I didn't trust her, mind you ― I just didn't want her deciding when I ought to depart the aircraft.
The Hornet overhead was moving now, streaking down toward the remaining missile and vectoring off dead on so he could improve the angle on the target. Head-on shots are hard to make ― worse, because of the rate of closures, you might not have time to get a second shot off. He turned back in toward it, giving me a classic quarter-stern view of him. A nice bird ― if you like Hornets.
Another missile off the rails, then a second one. He was getting a little antsy, just the way I would be if I had missiles inbound on the back of my attack aircraft. Still, he should have waited a little on the second shot, given himself some time to look at it. "Thirty seconds," Karnes announced, her voice still slightly muffled. I knew she could see the Hornet, his missiles, and the incoming SAM playing out on her scope. There, though, it was controllable. Not like having to watch real aircraft and real missiles against the cloudless sky.
I knew it before she did. And before the E-2C and the other Hornets. The geometry was wrong, all wrong. It would be close ― but not close enough.
"Incoming! Break formation!" Even as I started shouting over tactical, I rolled the Tomcat into a tight right turn, barrel-looping down toward the water. I flashed by the two Prowlers, saw the startled look as the guy in the right-hand seat turned toward me, heard the beginning of a curse over tactical.
Karnes yelped once, then settled down into feeding me a steady stream of information. "Okay, Okay, there's no lock, no lock… still heading for the formation… Hornet's taking another shot."
What the hell was wrong with them? Gaggled up together there, they were a missile sump. I stared up at the formation as it flashed by, passed out of view, then steadied up overhead as I pulled out of the dive.
Finally, they were starting to react. Skeeter was ahead of the rest of them, peeling out of formation in a hard left break, electing for a straight dive for the deck instead of a ro
lling descent. The Prowlers were accelerating and descending as well, on a straight line that pulled out ahead of the formation. One went high once they steadied up, the other low.
The rest of the airspace was cluttered with Hornets and Tomcats, some breaking high, others opting for distance. Like I said, we could outrun this sucker only if we tried to. It was a mile away now, streaking toward the last spot its radar had spotted large patches of metal in the sky. It wavered a little, like a hunting dog scenting the air, then picked out one of the Prowlers. They were slower than we were ― I wasn't so certain about their chances.
"You've got the angle," Karnes announced, breaking her normal monotone for an insistent suggestion. "Bird Dog, you're the only one within range who's out of their evasive maneuvers."
"All I've got is Sidewinders. IR-seeking."
"It's hot ― look at that exhaust. The 'Winder will see it."
I toggled one on, and sure enough got the signal. A signal ― who could be certain in the mass of metal and aircraft all going in different directions just then.
"There's a Prowler on the same bearing," I said, "I can't…"
"You have to. He hasn't got the speed."
"If I miss, the Sidewinder will get the Prowler."
"Then don't miss. You're the only chance he's got."
She was right. I knew it the moment she spoke.
I selected the Sidewinder, waited for the growl, then toggled it off. "Break down and right, Prowler," I shouted over tactical as the missile leaped off my wing tip.
The Prowler was listening and paying attention. It broke hard, straining the ancient airframe past any G-tolerance ever built into it. Too close, too close.
For one second, I was certain I'd missed.
I hadn't. The Sidewinder caught the SAM at an angle on the tail and sent both of them tumbling end-over-end through the air. Something hit, something cooked off ― a brilliant fireball erupted where the second before there'd been flashing metal and sun.
"Thanks, Bird Dog." Jake "Snake" Allen, the Prowler pilot, sounded like he meant it.
"Got one left ― you stick close on me, Jake. I'll take care of YOU."
We formed back up loosely, more loosely now. We were on final approach to the drop point. There was every reason in the world to abort the mission. We'd just screwed up every detail of the carefully planned bombing run, the precision timing between our aircraft, the spacing, everything. But no one said a word. We were there to put metal on target, and that's exactly what was going to happen.
Back before global positioning systems, before precision avionics and high-tech black boxes, aircraft dropped ground ordnance. They did it the old-fashioned way, with eyeballs and sheer judgment. We still practice it some, but not as much as we should. Not as much as we were going to right now.
"Looking good, Bird Dog. Twenty seconds out ― ease back off Runner now, you're crowding up his tailpipe. Piece of cake, piece of cake…" Karnes continued as though nothing of importance had happened. Whatever nerves she'd experienced early on were gone now, replaced by precision guidance and ice water in her veins. I listened, double-checked her suggestions against ground truth as I saw it, and slid back slightly to give Runner in the aircraft ahead some clearance.
"Ten seconds… nine… eight… a little to the right, that's good…" she said, continuing the countdown methodically along with a running commentary on our orientation to the IP ― impact point. It was working with us now, smooth and telepathic, almost as solid as with Gator. "You're in, you're in ― now!" I dropped the bombs and peeled off at a right angle, following the egress plan we'd briefed on board the ship.
Karnes pulled herself off the radar and twisted to stare back over her shoulder at the IP while I flew the aircraft.
She didn't need to. I could have told her how they'd hit. A little to the left of center, about thirty feet or so. But well within the lethal circle of death we'd designated on the chart earlier that day.
"Oh, yes," she said quietly. "Yeah, they're dead on."
"Not a little to the right?"
She was silent for a second, then said, "Well, maybe. Still good, though."
"I know."
"How?"
I shrugged. "Don't know. I always do, though. You believe it too, or you wouldn't have told me to shoot that Sidewinder."
"Maybe I do," she said thoughtfully. "It was just something Gator told me ― about your flying map of the earth in the Arctic in zero visibility. I figured if Gator was willing to go up with you, it must be true."
"Just remember ― hell, you admitted it earlier. I'm immortal. The guy in the backseat is the one I have to worry about."
"It's beautiful back there," she continued. I took a quick glance back at her ― she was still craned around in the seat watching the IP. "I can't see anything anymore. Just smoke and flames."
"That's the way we like it."
We had about five seconds of peace and quiet to contemplate the pleasures of a good, hard-hitting bombing run. Then her ESM detector went off.
"Crap. More SAMs." She was back in the hood now. "That Prowler ― where is he?"
"Cut out before we did. You got his squawk?" I suggested, referring to his IFF signal.
"Yeah, I got him. Carrier's keeping him under close control. I think he's out of range of the site now. Uh-oh."
It always worries me when RIOs say that. "Uh-oh what?"
She sighed. "The Hornets ― they took out most of the MiGs, but then they started getting low on fuel. They're cutting out one by one to hit the tanker."
"And the MiGs?" I prompted.
"Headed toward us, but bearing to the north some. I can't tell if they're running an intercept or not. The geometry doesn't work for it, but…"
"But they could if they wanted to," I finished for her. "Wouldn't take a whole lot of fuel, not with us each carrying one or two Sidewinders."
"Yeah. I'm watching them. If they're going to turn into us, it'll have to be ― shit, they just did. Six of them, Bird Dog, about eleven o'clock and high."
I gave the sky a quick once-over and had them. They were there, just barely visible.
"Viper 201, Snoopy. Be advised, six bogies inbound." The E-2C bubba sounded alarmed. He rapped out a quick series of vectors to open the gap between the MiGs and us, then added, "We're buster back into the inner air zone. Say your state?"
I glanced over at the fuel gauge. "Enough for a shot at the deck without tanking. Hold one ― we're vectoring in to provide CAP for you."
"Me too," another voice chimed in on tactical. "We got enough fuel." Skeeter. How did I know he would be in on this? "No, Skeeter," I said firmly. "You go-"
"Not this time, Bird Dog." There was a cold note in my wingman's voice I couldn't quite place. "No, not again."
"Just what the hell does that mean? Skeeter, you get your ass out of here!"
"No way. You think you can shake me off, go ahead and try."
I groaned. "Listen, we're almost back inside the cruiser's missile coverage. It's not like this guy's going to need CAP for long. He'll be back on the deck before you can get over here."
"Nope."
"Umm ― Bird Dog? Two thousand yards back and forty-five degrees down ― it's a little late to be sending him home, don't you think?" Karnes's voice had the first note of amusement I'd heard in it since we'd gotten airborne.
And just why didn't I want Skeeter around? I tried to convince myself that it wasn't necessary, that I could handle taking care of the E-2C by myself.
Sure. Like I did last time, There was a reason we fought in pairs.
Then what was it? I could only think of one possibility, one that pissed me off right down to my boots.
Skeeter was a hell of a stick. So was I. Something about that bothered me.
He didn't have any judgment, no sense of when to call it quits and back off for another shot. I couldn't depend on him the way ― The way Gator depended on me? Look what had happened to my RIO.
"All right," I said finall
y. "Take high station on me." Two clicks on the circuit acknowledged my order.
Skeeter made a smooth transition to his new station. I reached up and switched the eject-select switch back to command-eject.
The MiGs were definitely inbound now, balls to the walls for us. The Hawkeye was going buster back to the boat, but it was going to be close. "Pull off. Stay between the E-2C and the MiGs," I said.
"Roger."
Now we were orbiting, letting the Hawkeye make his dash back to the boat while we loitered high waiting for the MiGs.
"First Hornet's off the tanker," Karnes reported. "But he's Winchester ― out of weapons."
"Who's got anything left on their wings?" I asked over tactical. A few Hornets answered up. Altogether, we had eight Tomcats with two Sidewinders each, me with one, two Hornets with two Sparrows and two Sidewinders, and three Hornets with one of each. Not a lot of firepower, but it was all we had airborne.
Six MiGs versus fourteen U.S. fighters ― nine Tomcats and five Hornets. Twenty-two Sidewinders and four Sparrows on our side, God knows how many air-to-air missiles on the MiGs. I liked the odds.
"Carrier's launching the reserve Hornets, but it's going to be about ten minutes," I heard over tactical.
"We don't have the time or the space," Karnes said. "It's us, guys."
"More MiGs," the Hawkeye chimed in. "We got them just launching to the north. Getting too hot for us here, shipmates. We're out of here."
"Roger, Snoopy. See you back on the deck. Break ― Viper Flight. There's not going to be an E-2 overhead giving us the big picture," I added. "Wait for them, call out your targets, and kill them. No excuses, no wasted shots. We hold on until the cav arrives, you got it?"
A chorus of clicks on the circuit acknowledged my transmission.
Like I said ― good odds. The MiGs had more missiles, but we had something they didn't have.
Each other.
It didn't take long. Within five minutes, all that was left of the MiGs was smoking craters in the sky and oil and debris floating on the ocean. We were all Winchester and low on fuel. A quick plug and suck at the tanker, and we formed back up in a starboard marshal pattern to wait for our look at the deck.
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