Wingman:
"Two's naked." Neither of them targeted yet with an air-to-air radar.
Good.
All throughout
the strike group, eyes close and ears strain to catch each almost mechanical
note of this exchange, ears attuned to the hidden weight of the words and
tension in the voices. Which elevates immediately to a new and higher octave
with: "Two's spiked,
nose."
In the lead
aircraft, the lieutenant's jaw clenches, bares his teeth in his mask: Hard - He
is closing on what is now very apparently an Iranian fighter at the rate of a
mile every three seconds. He weighs the space left to him to maneuver, the time
before a missile could reach his wingman, the rules of engagement. His actions
in the next few moments might affect the fate of his wingman, the fleet,
nations. He is 27 years old.
"Pump," he commands his wingman on the Aux
radio. The radio no one but them is listening in on. He's about to get outside
the box, and he doesn't want anyone else to
know.
"Say
again?"
"Pump - do it," He
insists.
Hesitantly (no time to
waste!) she replies, "Two.
YO-YO."
YO-YO - you're on your own -
no kidding. That's the whole point, the lieutenant thinks. He watches as his
wingman commences a hard slice turn away from him, away from the threat, back to
the west. The point is to be on my own - not only will this prevent you from
being shot, if that's the other guy's intention, you'll capture his full
attention. When I do my stern conversion on him, we'll see what he's got on his
mind, and what he's made of.
"Ten
miles - you better run hard," he
adds.
"Two's cold - spiked at six.
I've got it firewalled," she adds. Full afterburner. Ah, well. There
is
a tanker airborne.
Confusion breaks
water and displays its ugly head on board the E-2, the air defense cruiser and
the aircraft carrier as the radar presentation changes strangely. What had been
a proper two-ship of fighters running an intercept on an Iranian bogey is now
one aircraft hot to the threat, itself still inbound, and an additional,
previously unobserved bogey between the fighter and the strike group - two
groups have become three: Who could that new group hot to the strike group be?
The cruiser reacts first, with the TAO designating the new threat track number
2537, and assigning a weapons cover order. Time/distance calculations, weapons
release ranges, grimaces and "what the hells" all the way around until the E-2
ACO hooks the track and verifies friendly interrogation codes. A collective sigh
of relief until the realization sets in: "They've split up - he's
alone."
Alone - it's never a good
thing to be alone in air combat. In a part of himself that he will not allow to
speak just yet, the lieutenant knows that by sending his wingman away he has
broken a cardinal rule of fighter aviation - the two-ship section is the basic
fighting element, never to be divided. And yet, he also knows that one of the
first heroes of the continental Navy, John Paul Jones once said, "He who will
not risk, cannot win." With the seconds clicking away, and with his section
occupying one of the hated gray areas in the rules of engagement, with no clear
guidance on the legal use of force, and a not-friendly-but-not-quite-hostile
political situation, he could not in the time available to him think of a better
way to protect his wingman, the strike group and himself from second-guessing.
Which he knew would come anyway.
He
bunts the fighter's nose to build more separation in the vertical - he wants
turning room and he'd like nothing better than to execute that turn from below
the threat's belly, where he will not be observed. He sees a speck on the
horizon, engines smoking badly - almost certainly a Phantom, he thinks, smiling
in his oxygen mask. A fast jet, the F-4, but antiquated when compared to modern
fighters and not very maneuverable - it'll be like clubbing baby seals.
Originally US manufactured, and delivered in the time of the Shah, he wonders
how the Iranians have kept them flying all these years. With all that smoke, it
will be no challenge maintaining tally-ho, maintaining sight. He breaks his
radar lock - with Iranian fighter still locked on to his wingman, he'll have no
situational awareness to anyone else. No use in warning him, if he's got any
radar warning gear of his own. The lieutenant scans his own receiver - still
naked. Five miles. Now four - yes a Phantom - definitely a Phantom, the wing
anhedral gives it away, the muscular fuselage.
Three.
At a mile, with three seconds
left to go until the merge, the lieutenant knows that he is unobserved - no way
that the Phantom pilot would allow a threat down there at his belly without
checking into him to neutralize the merge - he'll have 90 degrees advantage by
the time he crosses the Phantom's six o'clock.
Perfect.
He starts an "early turn,"
before the merge has even happened, up in the vertical behind the F-4. At 90
degrees nose high, looking back through his canopy at the Phantom exhaust pipes
and with his airspeed bleeding away in the HUD, the lieutenant realizes his
mistake and screams with anger into his O2 mask: His nose-high conversion turn
has cost him too much energy, he has gotten slow. He will get slower still
before he has completed his turn and is in trail of the F-4. The F-4 is a faster
jet: Not only will he never catch up to him, but the F-4 will catch up to his
wingman, placing her at risk- the lieutenant recovers to the horizon at 250
knots and sees the fast moving Phantom turn again from an identifiable aircraft
into a receding speck on the horizon. In training he could simulate a missile
launch from here and win the day. But he isn't in training, this is really
happening, and he hasn't got the
ROE.
He is out of position, and the
physics cannot be overcome.
"Sign on, young man, and sail with me. The stature of our homeland is no more than the measure of ourselves. Our job is to keep her free. Our will is to keep the torch of freedom burning for all. To this solemn purpose we call on the young, the brave, the strong, and the free. Heed my call, Come to the sea. Come Sail with me." - John Paul Jones
"Pardon him, Theodotus; he is a barbarian, and thinks that the customs of his tribe and island are the laws of nature" --George Bernard Shaw, "Ceasar and Cleopatra"
"And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music."--Friederich Nietzsche
