The lieutenant thinks, "If
he shoots me, I die. If he's inside min range, once we close I can easily handle
him." Upon a moment's reflection, he calls his wingman back into the fight, just
in case. The throttles are already parked in the northwest quadrant, delivering
full combat rated power, so the lieutenant urges his fighter forward with small
thrusts of his hips like a horseman, trying to close the distance. He looks at
his armament panel, sees that he is still in simulation mode, reaches up and
re-arms the
jet:
"There," he
thinks. "If I'm going to have to die today, at least I'll have
company."
On board the air defense cruiser, the Force
Tactical Action Officer hesitates at his watch console - the fighters are
obviously busy out to the west and he's loth to disturb them with questions,
especially with the Iranian fighter now headed back towards Iran. Now that he's
headed away from the strike group, all of the air defenders can breathe a little
easier, sit back in their chairs and await further developments. Still, he's
responsible not just for this intercept, but for maintaining the air defense
grid for as long as there's a threat airborne. He'd really like to know the
status of the Hornet's fuel - he knows that fighters can run through the gas at
an amazing rate in an engagement.
No
- best not to ask them directly. Their voices seemed strained, their comms
brittle. This is no place to inject himself. Still, it couldn't hurt to vector
the alert tanker over in the direction of the fight. Make it that much simpler
to get the defensive counter air two-ship back on the step. "Ace 112, vector 060
for customers, Hobo 404, Fist 302. Hot Dog Red at 35 miles." He listens for the
tanker pilot to read back his instructions, and satisfied, pushes back from his
console to watch the fun.
The
lieutenant's wingman finishes her turn, hot to the fight, her hands almost
automatically playing the "HOTAS piccolo" as her fingers race through the
hands-on-thottle-and-stick buttonology to set her fighter up for rapid, short
range radar acquisition. She is rewarded by the full picture in two sweeps of
her radar's B-trace: In front of her at eight miles is a receding target -
beyond that is one heading towards her. The further target's range corresponds
to the air-to-air distance measuring equipment displayed in the HUD - the nearer
one is therefore the Iranian bogey. "Cool," she thinks, "I'm bread, lead's
bread, he's meat. We've got us a sandwich." She he allows herself a hard smile
inside her mask. It's always better to be the hammer than the
nail.
Inside the lead Hornet, the
lieutenant grimaces as the range counts down - he checks the distance displayed
on his HUD - two miles: Now or never. Three seconds later he's at a mile, not
yet targeted and starting to relax just a little - if it was going to happen, it
would have happened already. He decides to set up for a left-to-left pass with
the Phantom. Thinking on it, he decides to pass by him close aboard - dust him
off, like. Announce his presence with authority: He twitches the fighter to the
left just a bit more. There.
The
Phantom grows rapidly in his windscreen - no bearing drift. Thinks, "Holy crap,
that crazy son of a bitch, I'm going to hit him!" Pulls away hard to the right
and down, closes his eyes, shrinks from the expected blow, trying to become
small in his cockpit. Waits. Peeks out: The merge is
passed.
The lieutenant curses, throws
the jet up on its left wing, checks six: There - the F-4 still receding, he
didn't turn. Still cursing, he starts a hard left turn to follow, shaking his
head at the Iranian's audacity, not yet reflecting that the F-4 pilot had chosen
the same tactic for the lieutenant that the lieutenant had chosen for him. Too
close, by God. What a screwed up
fight!
He ends up behind the F-4 at
three miles, the shoot light flashing on his canopy bow as the shrill song of
the Sidewinder missile fills his headset, its seeker head falling madly in love
with the infrared energy of the Phantom's tailpipes, begging for release, a
union devoutly to be wished. The lieutenant strokes the trigger on his stick
gently... so easy.
His reverie is
interrupted by the E-2 ACO's voice: "Hobo 404, Hot Dog Red east, five miles,
recommend a turn to the
west."
"Hobo," the lieutenant answers
in prime. On aux, he asks his wingman,
"Status?"
"Six miles, tied on,
visual."
"Copy - Hobo 1 is track
west, keep the F-4 lit up until I call your turn." Might as well keep him
honest, the lieutenant thinks. Her radar lock will prevent the Phantom guy from
getting brassy and re-engaging as he himself turns away. He can call the wingman
to join him as they merge. It'd be almost like they planned it or something.
What a freaking goat rope.
His
wingman thinks, "Oh. It was an F-4," as the target continues to the east, back
into Iranian territorial airspace, evincing no apparent desire to come out and
play again.
In the E-2, the ACO
purses his lips, and shakes his head slightly, a small gesture of negation. Not
precisely according to Hoyle, he thinks. Should be an "interesting" debrief. He
can't wait to hear how the fighters explain all of
this.
In TFCC the Battle Watch
Captain turns to the admiral and says, "Well, that seemed to go pretty
well."
"Just about textbook," the
admiral concurs.
In Combat, the third
class operations specialist looks at his relief with a gimlet eye, passes down
the status of the air systems, threat and weapons posture. Turns the console
over and walks away without saying good-bye. Port and starboard watch - he'll
see the guy again in six hours. Hungry. Hungry and tired. Wonders which one
he'll work on first. Maybe a bite to
eat.
On the bridge, the Captain calls
down to Air Ops: "Where the hell are those alert fighters and the E-2? Sure
would be nice to have them on deck so that we can finish the
re-spot."
In a squadron ready room,
the executive officer concludes his briefing, releasing the close air support
crews to do their individual and crew briefs on their own. They'll walk in 30
minutes.
"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
