as soon as he dumped the ordnance on his wings.
“Five seconds,” Gator announced with all the emotional involvement of a
stockbroker reporting an inactive share.
“Four, three, two now, now.”
Bird Dog had already shifted the weapons selector switch to the
appropriate station. He toggled it sharply and felt the Tomcat jolt
upward as a pair of five-hundred-pound bombs left the wings. His
airspeed picked up immediately, as did his altitude. Bird Dog slammed
the throttles forward, cut sharply to his right, and kicked in the
afterburners. The increase in thrust slammed him back against his
seat, and he heard a sharp, involuntary gasp from Gator. Bird dog
grunted and tensed his stomach muscles, forcing blood out of his torso
and into his head to insure he kept consciousness during the high-G
maneuver. It wasn’t his preferred way to leave a target sure, get away
smartly, but this insane coupling of maneuvering and speed brought its
own dangers. Graying out right now, less than five hundred feet above
land, would be fatal. There was no room for error.
Still, there was no other option. With the MiGs inbound in a classical
high-low combat formation spread, the Tomcat flight had to gain
altitude. And fast. It would be an easier task for its lighter Hornet
brethren, but the Tomcats would be the mainstay of any extended ACM.
After the bombing run, heavily laden and traveling close to the ground,
the Hornets would be burning fuel at an incredible rate. He figured
they had no more than twenty minutes on station in ACM and violent
maneuvering before they’d have to vector back to the carrier to tank.
As formidable as the light aircraft were in ACM, easily outclassing the
MiG in turning radius and maneuverability, their short legs were too
often a fatal weakness.
Bird Dog watched the altimeter spool up past angels two.
He eased out of the turn and felt the aircraft begin to gain altitude
even more quickly. Finally, at ten thousand feet, he cut the
afterburners and eased back to military power.
His wingman. Short Mahoney, was lagging behind. Bird Dog orbited,
waiting for him to catch up.
“Six minutes,” Gator announced in the same tone of voice he’d used to
count down the bomb drop. “Within Phoenix range now.”
“Right. If I had any.” He’d selected a weapons load consisting
primarily of Sidewinders, since carrying the five-hundred-pound bombs
left little additional space on the wing hard points.
“Three minutes to Sparrow range,” Gator added.
“Short, go low. I’ll take high station,” Bird Dog ordered over
tactical. He ascended another two thousand feet and watched as his
wingman dropped down to angels seven.
The MiGs were visible now in the eastern sky, no longer simply black
spots on the horizon but sharp-angled sleek fuselages and wings. And
the wings dirty, he could tell even at this distance. What were they
carrying? Probably a combination of short- and medium-range weapons,
he decided. They’d known they were going to be in a dogfight, and
wouldn’t have bothered to carry the Soviet equivalent of a long-range
standoff Phoenix. And since they hadn’t had to carry
five-hundred-pound bombs into target, they’d have more than enough
weapons to spare, he figured. If they could catch the Tomcats, that
is.
He watched the heads-up display adjust itself as radar homed in with
the AWG-9 radar on the lead target, switching from search to tracking
mode. A low growl sounded in his ears as a Sidewinder signaled that it
had acquired a heat source sufficiently large to warrant its
interest.
Bird Dog took a quick, reflexive check on the position of the sun. It
was something you always watched for with a Sidewinder, that you
weren’t taking a long-range shot at the sun with the short-range
missile. No, it was still below the horizon. With all of his own
aircraft safely behind him, he felt confident that anything the
Sidewinder had acquired was a bad guy.
“Fox Three,” he said as he toggled the weapons selector switch over to
the appropriate station. He slammed his eyes shut for a moment as the
aircraft shuddered, trying to save his night vision from being
destroyed by the phosphorous white fire of the missile’s ignition