Viper Strike c-2, page 29
part #2 of Carrier Series
Operation Bright Lightning's whole reason for being was to support the Thais. He couldn't stand back and watch the less experienced That pilots get cut to pieces by whatever it was that Hsiao had waiting for them up there.
"Let's hit it." He keyed the tactical frequency. "Eagle Leader to Eagles. Let's give our That friends some help. Lead in."
"Eagle Two," Batman echoed. "We're in."
One by one the other Eagles called in.
"Eagle Three, in." Army Garrison in Tomcat 204.
"Eagle Four, us too." Price Taggart in 203.
"Five, yo!" Shooter Rostenkowski in 248.
"Eagle Six, count us in." Nightmare Marinaro in 244.
Six pale gray arrowheads, wings swept back against their flanks, streaked toward the north.
As they closed, Tombstone's RIO described the trap's closing as it unfolded on his Tactical Information Display. "Looks like a heavy SAM concentration in the Taeng Valley," Dixie said. "Trapdoor is reporting casualties… at least three planes down. And the bogies are turning."
"How many bogies you got, Dixie?"
"Hard to tell, Tombstone." Distance and friendly jamming would be confusing the picture. "At least twenty… maybe more."
"Okay." He keyed his mike to squadron tactical. "Eagle Leader to Eagles. We'll go in low over the airstrip. If you catch any MiGs, on the ground or taking off, nail them." It would be easier to whittle down the odds if they could hit the enemy planes before they were airborne. Not as sporting, perhaps… but despite the popular concept of winged warriors and man-to-man combat, there was little room for chivalry in war. "Stick together for the fast pass," he continued. "Tight deuce."
While the Navy's loose-deuce tactics provided the greatest flexibility in air combat maneuvers, Tombstone wanted the formation to stay close together until they knew for sure what they were up against. There would be so many planes in the air over U Feng that it would be easy for the American Eagles to bee widely scattered, unable to support one another.
"I'm counting twenty-two bogies now, Tombstone," Dixie reported. "Looks like they just splashed another Trapdoor."
"Rog." The odds were not good. Trapdoor had gone in with sixteen aircraft. Four, so far, had been shot down. Eagle numbered six. The Hornets of VFA-161 numbered eight more, but they were still a long way off and dedicated to SAM suppression, though they would take on the fighter role once again after they'd dropped their ordnance. The Intruders of Thunderbird didn't count since they were strictly ground-attack aircraft and mounted neither machine guns nor air-to-air missiles.
So that made it eighteen friendlies against twenty-two hostiles…
twenty-two known hostiles, Tombstone added to himself.
And a hell of a lot worse than that if the That formation fell apart.
Tombstone didn't like relying on the unknown quality of the That pilots. He didn't know how they would stand up to the killing stress of ACM. He knew how his people would react… but the Thais were untested, hence unreliable.
They might prove themselves yet, but Tombstone couldn't count on them until they did.
So until the Hornets of Chickenhawk arrived on the scene, Tombstone could count on six Tomcats against no less than twenty-two MiGs.
"We're closing, Tombstone," Dixie said. "Closing fast. Bogies now inbound, bearing three-one-zero, range five miles. They're closing on Trapdoor, coming fast."
"This is Eagle Leader," Tombstone said. "Let's go down on the deck." He nosed the Tomcat over, dropping toward the jungle. The tactic was called terrain masking, hiding the aircraft in the ground clutter of ridges and hills. It might give them some precious time before someone started loosing SA-6s at them.
Of course it also put them within range of the small and highly portable SA-7s, like the one that had nailed Batman.
Trees and ground flashed past the cockpit of his aircraft, a green blur.
With startling suddenness, jungle gave way to a broad, open clearing littered with buildings and the dark-gray slash of an airstrip. U Feng! The runway appeared clear. Perhaps all of the MiGs were airborne.
As quickly as it had appeared, U Feng vanished behind the hurtling aircraft. Sunlight flashed from the surface of a river dead ahead… in the Taeng Valley.
"Watch it now, people," Tombstone said. "Watch for snakes in the grass."
"Looks like they're turning and burning with the Thais," Price Taggart said. "We've got some major ACM up there."
"Bandits!" Tombstone's RIO called. "Six… correction, eight bandits, inbound, range three miles! Bearing three-four-zero!"
"Tally ho!" Batman called. "I've got visual on the bandits."
MiG-21s. The sky over the Taeng Valley appeared to be filled with aircraft, That F-5s and MiGs, turning and burning in a twisting, far-flung dogfight.
"Two-four-four confirms," Nightmare added. "We're picking up Jay Bird here."
Jay Bird was the code name for the MiG-21 J-band radar used to illuminate targets for the Atoll AA.M.
"Arm missiles!" Tombstone brought the Tomcat up, turning to meet the new threat. "Here we go!"
0744 hours, 21 January
U Feng
Hsiao held the radio microphone to his mouth. Before him on the table was a map, vectors and sighting tracks plotted on it in grease pencil.
"Area four-seven," he said. "Fifteen kilometers southeast of U Feng. A number of enemy radar tracks converge there, and we believe it may be a helicopter staging area for a airmobile assault, almost certainly. Get the Q-5s airborne at once."
"They are armed, fueled, and ready to go, General, the voice on the radio replied. "But what of the enemy fighters?"
"Colonel Wu has them at bay, Group Commander. You should have a clear run to the target."
"We go." He could hear Dao Zhu Qingtong's confident grin over the radio link. "Sheng li!"
"Victory, Group Commander Dao!" Hsiao repeated. "U Feng out!"
Hsiao had been holding Dao's ten Nanchang Q-5 ground attack planes in reserve at Mong-koi, the final part of his trap for the That forces.
Launching from the Burmese air base now, they could be over the That assembly point within five minutes.
CHAPTER 26
0746 hours, 21 January
U Feng
The walls of the shed trembled under the deafening onslaught of noise.
For one moment, Pamela thought that someone had planted a bomb squarely on the fuel pump nearby. As she lowered her hands from her ears and looked up toward the shed's small window, though, she realized that the sound had been caused by jets flying low overhead. She could still hear them, engines shrieking, as they pulled over the airstrip and corkscrewed into the sky.
They'd come! The That army had come… possibly the Navy as well. She moved over to the corner of the shed, where Bayerly sat on the dirt floor, a strange expression on his face. "I think it's a battle," she said.
"F-14s," he said, listening. "Tomcats. They're ours."
Pamela felt a sudden thrill which jolted through her. Tombstone! If there were Tomcats overhead, one of them might be Tombstone!
Bayerly was looking toward the door now. "We'd better get ready," he said. "If they're buzzing the airstrip, ground troops can't be far behind.
And I don't think our new friends are going to want us to get rescued."
"But what can we do?"
He gave her a tight smile, a mirthless stretching of his lips. "We'll manage something," he said.
0746 hours, 21 January
Near U Feng
Lieutenant Miller peered up through the jungle canopy as the six Tomcats thundered into the sky. There was a thump, followed by a slithering hiss, and a line of white smoke scrawled its way across the blue. Someone on the ground had just loosed a SA-7 Grail… but far too late. The Navy planes were already nearly out of sight by the time the missile was loosed.
Miller noted the launcher's position in his mind. Part of the close-in perimeter defenses, no doubt.
Lieutenant Miller lay on his belly at the edge of the clearing, studying the compound through his binoculars, taking care not to turn the lenses toward the sun and give away their position with a flash. The Marines had moved silently to this location. staying off the trails, slipping like shadows among the trees. Security elements were posted, guarding flanks and rear.
They were directly on the U Feng perimeter now, looking into the camp across a cleared fire zone a hundred meters wide. Behind barbed wire and sandbags, the enemy camp was in an uproar. Large groups of armed men were running among the barracks, apparently deploying along the perimeter defenses to the south. A pair of tracked SA-6 chassis were parked by one end of the runway, each mounting three Gainfuls side by side, probing the sky.
Miller cursed. Those Gainfuls meant big problems. They'd have to be taken out before the Thais could assault the camp, or they'd play hell with the That-American grab for air superiority. The leader of that flock of Tomcats that had just gone over had played it smart, Miller decided, coming so the Gainfuls couldn't nail them with their Long Track radars. As he watched, though, a missile on one of the launchers spat flame, and a billowing white cloud of smoke engulfed the vehicle. The missile rose into the air, an ungainly, finned pencil shape balancing atop a column of fire.
He looked up. The Tomcats were almost out of sight already but the SAM radars would have them locked in hard.
A second missile slid clear of the launch rail with a hissing roar.
God, Miller thought. This can't go on much longer. Someone would have to take out those SAMs, or this whole operation would be blown.
He turned his attention back to the compound. The word was that the prisoners were being held in a shed or small building close to the fuel tanks.
He could see the tanks, not far from his present position, but there were several buildings which could be the one the Karen scouts had meant.
Damn! Which one?
0747 hours, 21 January
Tomcat 201
"Stand by to break, people," Tombstone ordered. The Tomcats were climbing now, the enemy just coming into visual range. He could see the mingled contrails of dog-fighting aircraft two miles ahead and ten thousand feet above. "On my mark… break!"
The tight cluster of F-14s opened like the blossoming of a flower, a maneuver called the bomb burst at Top Gun school. Three pairs of sleek gray aircraft separated from one another, the pairs themselves slipping apart as the formation went from welded wing to loose deuce.
"Eagle Leader, Eagle Two!" Batman called. "We're being painted by Straight Flush. They're trying for a lock!"
Tombstone rolled his Tomcat into an inverted position so he could see the ground. There could be hundreds of SAMs lurking down there. "Keep your eyes open, Batman," he said. "I don't- SAM launch! SAM launch on your six!"
0747 hours, 21 January
Tomcat 216
Batman turned in his seat as Tombstone yelled the warning. He searched the jungle behind them, saw the telephone pole shape rising from the direction of U Feng. "Launch! Launch!" he called.
"Oh, shit," Ramrod added from the back seat. "He's locked onto us, Batman! He's got a lock!"
Batman heard the warbling chirp of the Gainful's Straight Flush radar. A warning light labeled SAM flashed red next to his HUD.
The Gainful climbed above the treetops, accelerating at a sky-burning twenty Gs. Then the solid booster burned out. Looking back again, Batman saw the spent booster falling away. The missile was now moving toward him at Mach 1.5. With the booster gone, the rocket converted to a ramjet, gulping air through four ducts as it continued to accelerate. Top speed for the SA-6, Batman knew, was Mach 2.8, well above the best the Tomcat could do.
Batman brought the F-14 into a sharp turn. "I'm breaking, Eagle Leader," he said. "I need some maneuvering room."
Roger that," Tombstone replied. "Get clear."
He held the break, grunting against the increasing G forces. "Keep it coming," he said, more to the aircraft than to Ramrod or anyone else. "Keep it coming. His compass reading dropped as he turned through a full 180 degrees, until he was heading straight toward the oncoming SA.M. He couldn't outrun the thing, but having seen its launch, he had a chance to outsmart it.
He checked his altitude. Six thousand feet… that was going to make it damned tight. The missile was angling over now, flying almost on the same level as Batman's aircraft. Still hurtling toward the SAM, Batman rolled the Tomcat right until he was canopy down, then brought the stick back and headed for the ground.
The Gs built as Batman held the inverted dive. "Good night… Ramrod!"
he grunted against the crushing pressure. There was no answer from the backseat, and Batman knew his RIO was either unconscious, or too busy breathing to reply. He stabbed the chaff release again and again, scattering false targets in the F-14's wake.
Green jungle filled the forward half of his canopy as his altimeter spooled rapidly toward zero. The G-pressure was gone now, replaced by the dropping-elevator sensation of free fall. He chanced a look over his shoulder, saw the SAM arrowing toward the ground now, hard on his tail and getting closer. His first chaff release hadn't fooled it, and it was now a race to see whether the plunging Tomcat would be destroyed first by the missile or the up-rushing ground. Now…!
He pulled back on the stick, watching the ground swoop away beneath the Tomcat. The G-forces returned with a vengeance, crushing his chest, dragging at the skin of his face, on his guts. He slammed the throttles full forward past the detents and into afterburner. The Tomcat's twin engines shrieked fury as he started to climb again, leaving the ground behind. The plane was shuddering with the terrible stress. A number on his HUD showed that he was pushing nine Gs, and he was aware of blackness closing in at the periphery of his vision, a sure sign that he was about to lose consciousness.
Then the F-14 shrieked into clear sky. He looked back and saw a boiling mushroom of white smoke where the SAM had smashed into the jungle.
Made it! Batman let out a long, unsteady breath. That one had been a hell of a lot closer than he really wanted to admit.
0747 hours, 21 January
Tomcat 201
Tombstone kept his heading dead on for the approaching MiGs. "This is Eagle Three!" Garrison called over the radio. "They've locked on to me!"
"Say again, Eagle Three."
"Tracking lock! Tracking lock ― correction, launch! I have missile launch!"
"Eagle Six confirms. Bandit launch."
"Looks like they want to play," Tombstone said. He shifted frequencies.
"Victor Four Delta. Victor Four Delta, this is Eagle Leader. We have SAM and air-to-air launches on American planes. Engaging."
That answered any question about the ROES. The bad guys had fired first, and the Navy was responding with appropriate action.
At least, that was how the official after-action reports would read.
Somehow the follow-up reports never managed to carry the exultation of air-to-air combat. Or the terror. "Break left, Army!" Taggart called.
"Roger. Left."
"Watch out, Tombstone!" Dixie called. "Twelve o'clock! We got two taking us head-to-head!"
Tombstone saw the MiGs streaking toward his plane dead ahead. "Rog! Let 'em come!" In an instant they swelled from specks in the distance to aircraft flashing past. The combined speeds of MiGs and Tomcat amounted to better than Mach 2.
One of the strange effects of combat which Tombstone had noted before was the almost surreal slowing of time. At Mach 2 there was no way for an aviator to see any detail at all in the other aircraft… yet as he turned his head to follow the passing MiGs it felt as though he could count every rivet. He could see the J-7s' mid-fuselage delta wings, could see the arrow-slim heads of their Aphid and Atoll missile loads, could actually see into the cockpits and see two red-helmeted heads with the black sun visors canted up, looking back at him.
Then they were gone, vanishing into the blue distance behind him.
"Eagle Leader," he called. He pulled back on the stick and the Tomcat climbed. "I'm on them. Going for a vertical reverse."
"You want to let me off at the next stop?" Dixie asked.
"Just keep your eye on those MiGs," Tombstone replied. The F-14 was climbing straight up now, but Tombstone kept the afterburners off. The plane was losing speed. "Where are they?"
"Going into a turn, Tombstone. Range one mile."
The vertical reverse was the modern equivalent of the stall turn sometimes employed by fighter pilots in the age of prop planes. The aircraft climbed straight up, losing speed until it threatened to stall out completely, then turned toward the ground. The plane's low speed made it possible to turn in an extremely tight radius, but there was a very large risk that the fighter would lose control.
Tombstone brought the Tomcat's swept-back wings forward and engaged the flaps. The F-14 bucked, stress vibrating through the hull, but the airspeed indicator showed less than one hundred and forty knots as he kicked in the rudder and brought the stick over. For one shuddering moment, the F-14 fought and bucked, and the stall warning light on his caution/ advisory panel flashed once.
Then they were arrowing toward the ground once more. Tombstone cut the flaps and brought the wings back to full sweep, trading altitude for speed in an all-out dive for the deck. Two miles away, the MiGs were halfway into their turn, barely visible as a pair of black specks almost touching one another as they broke left in unison.
He pulled the F-14 out of its dive and hurtled toward the MiGs at almost five hundred knots. He selected the targeting display for his HUD and saw the small box symbols appear over the specks as the plane's computer identified potential targets. "We'll go for a Sidewinder launch," he told his RIO. He brought the targeting pipper on his HUD across one of the specks, saw the square flash into a circle with the computer graphic "M" for missile displayed.
His fingers closed on the firing button, and an AIM-9J Sidewinder slid clear of its rail. "Fox two!" Tombstone called, warning of a heat-seeker launch. "Fox two!"
