“I think you might have an intruder, Aladdin,” the FAA controller said without preamble. “One of my Delta flights got a good look at the plane that passed close to him. He said it looked like a foreign jet to him. He said there might have been two of them. I don’t have a squawk from this guy.”
“Annette, we got an unknown, forty-eight miles west of KEYSTONE and coming in at six hundred knots,” Fjelmann called over to her.
Fields was beside his left shoulder in an instant. “What happened?”
“I missed him, that’s all,” Fjelmann said. “With all the traffic alerts I’ve seen in the past ten minutes I started tuning them out of my mind. These guys slipped in right in the middle of the divert planes going south for Bravo-646 while I was watching the guy around KEYSTONE. I’m only picking up one, but a pilot says he may have seen two foreign-looking jets—”
“Foreign-looking jets? That’s the best I.D. they could come up with?” But Fields knew the answer to that one—at night, in all this confusion, they were lucky to get any kind of eyeball on anyone out there. “Okay, we treat them like hostiles until we get a positive visual on them. If they’re bad guys they’ll break out of the airliners’ pack and head right for KEYSTONE. Bring Homestead’s two F-16 fighters in as soon as you can. You’ve got the intercept.”
But the miss really hurt Fjelmann. He could feel the stares of his buddies around him and felt he’d let them down. Fjelmann stared blankly at his screen and muttered. “Maybe you should get someone else ...”
“We don’t have anyone else. You’ve got the intercept.” On interphone Fields announced: “Listen up, everyone. We got two intruders that are going to break out of the pack in a few seconds and try a run on KEYSTONE. Get on the horn to your approach controllers and move your planes away from the area.” To Fjelmann, Fields said, “All right, get those F-16s in, and for God’s sake don’t miss.”
Aboard the Lead Cuchillo Mirage Attack Plane
It was pitch black outside, calm and warm. Off in the distance out the left side of the nose, a few lights could be seen on the horizon—the Florida Keys and Key West, just thirty miles away. A few stars were sprinkled in—the sky was so clear that the stars seemed to touch the horizon, and they felt so close that it seemed he could touch them all around him in the cockpit. A few airliners could still be seen off in the distance, but a lot of the confusion had subsided and the commercial jets were on their way, although several miles south of their original course.
The mission was going so smoothly ... Where were the air-defense fighters? The target was right over there, seemingly within easy reach. Except for the airliners all around him, the skies were peaceful and serene. It was going too easy . . .
The pilot of the lead Mirage F1C fighter-bomber felt his plane start to turn right and climb. Had he actually drifted off to sleep? Lulled into complacency? He shook himself hard to get his blood flowing, then depressed his left rudder pedal and nudged his stick left to regain control.
Suddenly he heard “Lead, get on your gauges,” on his radio and he quickly scanned his flight instruments, fighting off the sudden vertigo when he realized that what was happening in his brain really wasn’t happening to his plane. The plane wasn’t turning right—his gauges confirmed that. He was experiencing spatial disorientation, a sudden and sometimes uncontrollable loss of “up” and “down” where the brain would interpret what the eyes were seeing in a perverse way. The stars began to look like the lights of the Florida Keys, and those stars formed their own false horizon that made it look as if he was in a climbing right turn.
Easy, now, he coached himself. Light on the controls . . . roll back wings level . . . merge with the airliners again. Now stop staring out the windows and concentrate on the mission—
“Lead . . .”
“I’m okay,” he reported. “Got a little lopsided,” he muttered to himself. Be careful or Salazar will make it permanent . . .
“We're right on course,” the wingman reported.
The lead pilot checked his heading with the airliners’ they were following. They were heading farther south than before. Their distance to the target had already increased to over thirty miles even though they were heading eastbound at over eight miles a minute. Were the airliners being kicked out of the area? If so, that could only mean . . .
His suspicions were answered a moment later. A warning bleep on his threat-warning receiver, a high-tech radar detector that searched for signals from enemy fighters or ground-missile sites, told the real story—they had just been picked up by enemy attack-radar. The airliners were clearing out before the shootout.
The Cuchillo lead pilot turned left, got the heading direct to the target off the Doppler navigation set and fine-tuned his heading to put them on course to the aerostat radar site. He resisted the urge to push the power up any higher than eight hundred kilometers an hour—five hundred miles an hour, about the same speed as the airliners—and he resisted activating his EP-171 radar-jamming pod. A jamming strobe would tell the whole world they were military planes, and he didn’t want to do that, not yet. Time to play the final games, the one that would decide whether they made it into the target area or not.
The flight leader switched his radio to 121.5, the international emergency frequency. He took a deep breath, keyed the mike, and in his best American accent said, “Mayday, mayday, mayday, Challenger five-six mike-mike on GUARD. Can anyone hear me?” The call sign was a last-minute inspiration from something he had seen on an American television show—it was the well-known call letters of one of the corporate jets of the Disney Corporation.
“Falcon five-six mike-mike, this is the United States Border Security Force. We read you loud and clear. Squawk emergency and go ahead.”
“Squawk emergency,” the pilot knew, meant switch his identification encoder to code 7700, which would pinpoint his location on the American’s radar scopes. He made sure that his encoder could not transmit any altitude data by turning the mode C function of the encoder off, then set in the 7700 code and flicked it on. He let it run a few seconds, then flicked it off.
The Americans knew where they were now, but they would still need a few minutes to sort it all out before deciding on a course of action—and he and his pilots were now only three minutes away from their target.
Border Security Force Command Center
“We got him,” Fjelmann called out. “He’s reporting in now on GUARD. His call sign is Challenger five-six mike-mike. He . .. damn, I just lost his beacon.”
But Annette Fields was too keyed up to consider any other possibility. “Continue the intercept. Kick him out of our airspace and get him turned around.”
“He transmitted a mayday—”
“I don’t care. I want him heading south until we get an I.D. on him.”
“But that call sign. Mike-mike. Mickey Mouse . . . ?”
“I said kick him out and continue the intercept.”
Fjelmann nodded, then switched to the F-16’s fighter-intercept frequency. “Trap Two flight, this is Aladdin. We have an intruder alert, one, possibly two jets now at your two o’clock, seventy miles, ten thousand feet. Come right heading two-five-zero, take angels twelve for intercept.”
There was a slight pause, then: “Aladdin, this is Trap Two flight. We’re talking with BUTCHER on this frequency. Stand by.” BUTCHER was the southeast military air-intercept controller.
“Trap flight, Border Security will handle the intercept. Turn right heading two-five-zero and take angels twelve.”
“I said stand by, Aladdin. We’re coordinating with our command post.”
Fields had heard the interchange and was instantly on the phone to Homestead Air Force Base. The throbbing in Fjelmann’s temples increased as he switched channels to talk to the unidentified intruder.
Lead Cuchillo Mirage Strike-Fighter
“Challenger five-six mike-mike, this is the United States Border Security Force, radar contact. We have lost your beacon, primary target only. Recycle your transponde
r, turn right and stay clear of Bravo- 646 until further notice. SCATANA procedures are in effect. Acknowledge. Over.”
They weren’t buying it, the lead pilot thought. Try once more, then forget the ruse. “I’ve got an engine on fire and smoke in the cockpit,” the Cuchillo called out over the radio. “I need to land immediately, I’m heading toward Key West for emergency landing. Over.”
“Five-six mike-mike, unable your request. You must remain south of route Bravo-646 due to an air-defense emergency. Turn right immediately and clear the area. We will vector you to Marathon Airport for emergency landing.”
“I won’t make it to Marathon. I am landing at Key West. I am declaring an emergency and I wish priority routing. Over.”
“If you can make it to Key West from your present position you can make it to Marathon,” the Hammerheads controller told him. He was right—the two Mirage FICs were almost equidistant between Key West and Marathon. The ruse was over. “Turn right immediately to heading one-two-zero. Over.”
“Key West has a longer runway and crash equipment, sir,” the Cuchillo pilot persisted. “Marathon is unacceptable. I want to land in Key West. Get me your supervisor—”
“My supervisor is unavailable, fix-six mike-mike. You are endangering yourself, your passengers and other air traffic on your present course. No flight plan is on file for you and identification has not been established. You are not authorized, repeat, not authorized to proceed. Turn right heading one-two-zero, vectors clear of restricted airspace. Acknowledge and comply. Over.”
Well, thought the lead Cuchillo pilot, at least they had bought a few precious minutes. He flashed his wingtip position-lights on and off, a signal for the wingman to take spacing. When the bomber moved out, he turned on the rotating beacon once, then off, then flashed the lights once again—the signal to jettison the external fuel tank and arm weapons. He quickly safed all weapons, selected the centerline stores station, jettisoned the empty centerline ten-thousand-liter fuel tank, then reselected and rearmed all offensive weapons.
He could only assume that his wingman had done the same ... he couldn’t see the other plane in the darkness. He would have to assume everything else about his wingman for the next few minutes—assume he would stay on course, assume he would strike his target, assume he would get out safely—because from now on they were all on their own. The bomb-equipped Mirage would descend to less than a hundred meters above the water and start his target run, and the leader would try to destroy all attackers until he ran out of weapons and it was time to run.
He began to push the throttle up to full power, checked once again that his weapons were armed and ready, then activated his jamming pod and attack radar.
Another bleep on the warning receiver, this time longer and strong enough to trigger the automatic jamming pod—it meant the American planes were getting their final radar fixes before starting their attack . . .
Border Security Force Headquarters Command Center
“Challenger five-six mike-mike, acknowledge and comply. Over . . . Five-six mike-mike, you are in danger of coming under attack without further warning. Turn right immediately. Over.” Panic seized Fjelmann and he lunged for the interphone button, searching for the duty controller at the same time.
“That Challenger plane just started accelerating,” Fjelmann shouted out to anyone on interphone who would listen. “He’s up to Mach point eight.” The warning came unbidden and was unnecessary—he was controlling the intercept. Others would report to him or keep silent. “Trap two and three, this is Aladdin, vector to intercept, right turn heading one-niner-zero, altitude five hundred feet, range, mark, forty miles.”
“Aladdin, please stand by,” the lead pilot in the F-16 formation said. He was obviously confused too—he was itching to get into the fight but uncertain whether to take commands from a non-Air Force controller. “Sir, we do not have authorization or authentication to take vectors from you. We’re waiting for instructions.”
“Dammitall...” Fjelmann exploded but choked down his protest just in time. Fields rushed over to study the radar display. “Trap flight, you had better make a decision right now or I’m going to clear you out of my airspace for Hammerhead aircraft to respond. Take the vectors or reverse course. Now!”
There was another pause, then: “Aladdin, can you give me a data link to your target?”
“Do it,” Fields said. Fjelmann began furiously typing on his computer keyboard. A data link between the ground radar and the aircraft gave steering signals to the fighter. The F-16 pilot could, if he wanted, engage his autopilot and let the fighter fly itself to an intercept. But it also provided a quick way to test the authenticity of a controller’s instructions, because only an authorized agency would have the equipment and expertise to use a data link. On the F-16 pilot’s heads-up display the data link would appear as a small circle with a channel number superimposed over it—in the Border Security Force’s case, a circle with an 8 in the middle—where the target was.
Moments later, Fjelmann heard, “Aladdin, we have your uplink. Trap Two flight of two in a right turn.” Seconds later: “Trap Two contact, twelve ’clock, twenty-seven miles. Judy.” “Judy” meaning that the F-16 pilot was using his own attack radar to intercept the target and that he was ready to take over on his own.
“Negative, Trap Two.” Sweat popped out on Fjelmann’s forehead. “Negative. Your bogey’s at thirty-five miles, heading north at five hundred feet.” A spike of white streaked across the digital screen, and the message “WARNING FREQ AGILE WAIT WAIT” appeared on the screen. Fjelmann cursed on interphone. “That Mexicali flight is right in the goddamned way, and the bastard’s jamming us—”
“Trap Two flight is negative contact... Trap flight has music.” The F-16 fighters were reporting that they had received jamming as well. “Trap flight has radar contact, radar contact . . . stand by . . . stand by, Hammerhead.” The jamming would only get stronger as the F-16 got closer.
“Trap flight, your bogey’s at twelve o’clock, twenty miles. Additional traffic moving to your ten o’clock, fifteen miles and high, use caution. Target at eighteen miles, twelve o’clock low, moving to eleven o’clock, call Judy.”
“Trap Two is popeye . . . dammitall . . . two, I think I’m knocked up, take the lead.” Like the Hammerhead’s radar system, the F-16’s attack radar could counter jamming by switching frequencies away from a jamming signal—but apparently the lead F-16’s anti-jamming system wasn’t working. The number-two plane would now have to take the lead and search for the target.
“Don’t do that, don’t do that,” Fjelmann muttered to himself. “You don’t have time ...”
And, as if the F-16 pilots had heard him: “Disregard, two. I’ll stay in the lead. No room for a lead change. Hammerhead, sing out.” “Roger, Trap flight. Eleven o’clock, eight miles, offset one half mile, low, target altitude now eight hundred feet, ten-thirty, seven miles, offset three-quarters of a mile ...”
“Trap leader has a Judy, Aladdin. Judy. Ten-thirty, six miles.” “That’s your target, Trap flight. Ten seconds to feet wet.”
“How far from that civilian, Aladdin?”
“Seven miles at your nine-thirty position, offset seven miles.” Then, just as the F-16s crossed over the Keys: “Feet wet, Trap flight. Cleared in hot. Caution, there might be two bogeys. Cleared in hot.”
Aboard the Lead Cuchillo Mirage F1C Fighter
The Mirage’s threat-warning system was squawking so loud that the pilot finally turned it off. No use overstating the obvious—the fight was on for real.
The aggressor always has the advantage, at least so they had been taught by Colonel Salazar. No matter what the odds, no matter how great the deficiency in weapons or technology, a sudden, aggressive attacker always had the upper hand. It was time to put the colonel’s idea to the test.
Aboard the Lead F-16 Fighter
The Hammerheads controller’s last warning was met by the scream of the F-16’s Threat Warning System, a
radar detector that not only revealed the presence of enemy radar transmissions but could pinpoint the relative direction of the radar beam and determine if the signal was a search radar, a target tracking radar or a missile-guidance signal. This time, at such close range, the lead F-16 pilot got all three almost immediately—the radar signal started out as a search radar, quickly changed to a target-tracking signal as it acquired and locked onto the F-16s, then switched to missile-lock seconds later. A large “LOCK” light flashed on the instrument panel, and the words “MISSILE LAUNCH” appeared in the pilot’s heads-up display.
“Trap flight, breaking right,” the lead pilot called out. For the moment the attack was forgotten and the pilot’s concentration was on saving himself and his plane. He hadn’t expected the missile- launch signal at all—a reliable missile hit with two fighters heading directly toward each other was almost impossible unless the attacker had very sophisticated weapons . . .
Whatever the reason, a missile-launch warning was nothing to ignore. The lead F-16 pilot ejected chaff—radar decoys—from his left ejector and yanked his nose hard right and up in a hard, fast, six-G maneuver. After gaining over a thousand feet in seconds the pilot rolled his F-16 inverted with a quick snap and dove for the water, straining to execute the tightest possible turn without blacking out. Just before making the dive he ejected more chaff, hoping that the missile would lock onto the slow-drifting tinsel-like decoy instead of his fast-moving Falcon.
But the Cuchillo’s Mirage fighter had not launched a missile. He had simulated a missile-launch indication, designed to force an enemy fighter prematurely to maneuver and go into a defensive posture— which was what the lead F-16 fighter did. When the lead Cuchillo pilot saw the F-16 go into a sharp snap-climb he immediately switched from his longer-range radar-guided missiles to his shorter- range heat-seeking missiles, accelerated and climbed right behind and up with the F-16. Now, instead of going head-to-head, the Cuchillo fighter had managed to slip behind the maneuvering F-16, getting into missile-firing position . . .
Brown, Dale - Independent 02 Page 50