The Art of War

SIX

Lieutenant Brad “Fastball” Morrow slid the dual throttles of his F-14D back into idle, allowing his bird to slow as he turned into the northeastern leg of his combat air patrol (CAP). Morrow and his lead, Bird Dog, were flying a counter-rotating CAP along the northeastern threat axis toward Iran. Four such CAPs were stationed around Jefferson’s Battle Group; two consisted of F/A- 18s and two of F-14Ds. CAG would have used all Tomcats but for the fact that there were only ten available, and he needed the Tomcats for their LANTIRN and TARPS capabilities.

Fastball had joined the squadron just a few weeks prior to cruise and was still a “nugget.” The first thing anyone had learned about him was that he was a San Diego Padres fan — in fact, fan was too mild a word. If ever the beleagured team from southern California had had the perfect fan, it was in him. Fastball had a baseball shirt with Tony Gwinn’s number on it, and he could cite statistics and details of every game for the last ten years. He had compared flying the Tomcat to throwing the perfect fastball and the name had stuck. It was only with great difficulty that his squadron mates convinced him that playing baseball on the flight deck would not only result in a dinged aircraft and dangerous conditions, but that they would lose more balls over the side than could easily be replaced.

Fastball had been crushed. Somehow, he had gotten it in his head that it would be possible to form a battle group league and have teams from each ship ferried over to the carrier for games. No one had been able to convince him that as impossible as it was to play baseball on the flight deck, the smaller ships faced even more serious limitations.

Morrow checked the radar picture on his Tactical Situation Display (TSD), then clicked his mike. “What do you make of this, Rat?” he asked his RIO over the ICS.

Lieutenant Johnnie Davis had been watching several groups of aircraft forming up just about ten miles off the coast of Iran. The E-2C had told her of three separate groups: one group of four MiG-29 Fulcrums from Bandar Lengeh, and eight Su-24 Fencer-Ds from Chah Bahar. Four F-5E Tiger IIs were also airborne near Kish Island and circling. Two Iranian F-14As were circling far to the east, over Iran, probably providing AEW for the pending strike with their AWG-9 radar, she thought. The Iranian F-14s were already registering a feint return on her Radar Warning Receiver (RWR).

“I don’t know, Fastball. They did the same thing this morning, too, but then broke off at the last minute. It may be a feint to draw us in closer to their SAM range. They’ve got SA-2s all along the coast.” Rat focused on her Tactical Information Display, also called TIDs. She had selected the Link-16 data link, which fed radar information directly to her display from the E-2C via the JTIDS. The link tracks appeared as a small upside-down “Us” for friendlies and a upside-down “Vs” for hostile.

She then noticed the group had joined and had turned toward the picket destroyer, Algonquin. Jefferson had a smaller air wing (CVW-14) than normal, due to downsizing — about seventy aircraft. Also with the CVBG were two Middle East Task Force destroyers, HMS Liverpool (Sheffield-class) and the Canadian destroyer Algonquin.

CAP station two miles west of Tomcat 109

“Hammer, King, picture. Two groups, southeast Chicago, twenty miles,” came a monotone voice over the tactical comm. “Suspect second group are strikers. Both groups hostile, repeat, both groups hostile. Recommend commit.” The call was from the E-2C Hawkeye II airborne early warning aircraft circling near Jefferson. The Hawkeye II’s sophisticated APS-145 radar allowed it to see out some 300 miles over the horizon, spotting both air and surface threats. “Chicago” was the brevity code word for the Iranian airbase at Kish Island and served as a fixed reference point for all friendlies. The distance and direction was from that reference point.

“Hammer One, contact, your call,” Music responded. “Hammers committing.” Music checked his scope. “That’s it, Bird Dog. Let’s get ’em.”

“Hammers, committing bandits, southeast Chicago thirty miles. I’ve got four MiGs in-bound leading the strikers.” Music quickly sorted through the contacts with his powerful APG-71 radar confirming their formation, then called out a short target modification to the preflight brief. “Hammer Two, target trail group.”

“Two,” Rat acknowledged. She began to set up her shot, slewing the cursor over the lead Fencer-D of her group. Her Tomcat’s radar scanned ahead of her in Track-While-Scan mode, watching all of the in-bounds. “Just like we briefed, Fastball. Just like we briefed.”

“Don’t worry, Rat. I’ve got it under control.” Fastball jammed his throttles into full burner. The kick of the mighty F110s bumped her in the butt. She looked up from her TIDs for a moment considering Fastball’s comment. This new pilot’s arrogance was getting old fast. And Johnnie, as a rather diminutive female in what was still a man’s career, knew all too well what it was like to be on the receiving end of an attitude. But her demeanor usually kept her from acting on it. She didn’t expect to be treated special, but she was his senior, and she had two cruises under her belt. Plus, she was fresh from TOPGUN, which meant she knew a hell of a lot more of tactics than some “fresh-from-the-RAG” nugget. “Just watch the gas. Rats don’t swim well,” she finally replied.

Bird Dog swung his Tomcat southeasterly, separating from his wing. As he leveled, he glanced left, noticing that Fastball was well ahead of where he should be and speeding toward the Fulcrums.

“What’s that kid doing, Music?” Bird Dog hollered over the ICS. While he had only flown with the new kids on three occasions, he could already see himself a few years earlier — young, cocky, fully of overconfidence. And perhaps about to learn a few lessons. There’s one thing about rising in the ranks, Bird Dog thought. You see life come full circle.

Rat finished her Phoenix firing solution on the two Fencers. “Fastball, your dot,” she said, meaning that the shot was set up and ready to launch.

“Why aren’t we getting the MiGs, Rat? This doesn’t make any sense. We kill them and we can play with the Fencers all day.”

“Leave the strategy to Bird Dog. Just fire the damned missile.”

“But…”

“Fire the missile.”

“Fox Three on lead MiG, 20,000 feet, south group,” he finally called the shot, then watched as it soared ahead and climbed to its attack altitude. Although a Mach 5 missile, much of the Phoenix’s punch came from its death dive toward its target, rather than its engine thrust. The missile was “fire and forget,” which meant that, unlike the Sparrow, several Phoenix could be simultaneously targeted and launched without waiting for each missile to hit its target.

“Second shot ready, your dot.”

“Two is Fox Three. And…” Music called in a calm voice, “it’s your dot.”

“Take it, Music.”

“Roger,” Music smiled as he reached for the button. “Fox Three on the lead Fencer, angels 15, main group.” His eyes followed the two Phoenix missiles for a second, then rechecked the overall situation.

“Bird Dog,” Music said. “We should join on Fastball. Those northern MiGs are closing on him fast. The southern guys are still with the Fencers. Let’s get the Hawkeye to watch them.”

“Roger, make it happen.” Bird Dog considered his new RIO. As much as he enjoyed flying with Gator, he had to admit that this new guy was good, and, to Bird Dog’s satisfaction, he knew when to talk and when to shut up.

“King, Hammer One. Monitor southern group, Chicago south at three-five. We’re heading north.” With that, Bird Dog rolled his bird on its side and headed toward his wingman.

Rat watched her TID, waiting for the Phoenix to find their prey. She gave a quick glance outside, then returned her stare to her screen. It had been ten seconds since the launch and the two missiles had just gone active. She could see the small blips making their way toward the…

“Splash one Fencer!” she shouted, followed quickly by a “Splash two.” Seconds later, Music called the same. Four Fencer-Ds were now heading into the Persian Gulf, burning and in pieces. That left only four for the Algonquin’s air defenses.

“Hot damn!” Fastball yelled, feeling the rush of adrenaline over come him. “That’ll teach them to play with Uncle Sam.”

Rat now turned her full attention to the remaining contacts — the Iranian MiG-29As. The four had separated into pairs and the northern two were speeding toward her Tomcat. At ten miles, she gave her required HUD call, “Out of blower, switching VTR from TSD to HUD,” signaling Fastball to activate his HUD recorder. Powering out of afterburner also reduced his heat signature now that he was within range of the MiG’s infrared missiles. “Ten right, ten miles, twenty degrees high”, she called, using the standard “bearing, range, elevation” format. “Wing should be left and low.”

“Now let’s get some MiGs. Select Sparrow.”

“Locked, and ready,” Rat said, hooking the next target, then hesitated for a second. “Fastball, can I take this one?”

“No, this is my plane, Rat. Fox One,” he called without waiting for her response.

Johnnie shook her head in disgust, but held her anger only for a moment. “We’re spiked!” she said, indicating that the enemy had a missile lock on their aircraft. “Launch at our one o’clock, high.” Rat set up her ECM gear, then reached for her dispensibles. “Jammers on, popping chaff.”

Fastball pulled into a tight banking turn just long enough to break the lock, then nosed back toward the MiG. He was determined to get his first MiG kill and join the small cadre of fellow pilots, whose beginnings dated back to the skies of Korea.

“They’re splitting,” Rat called out, watching the two northern MiGs trying to set up a position. She had seen enough sorties at the Fighter Weapons School to know that this wasn’t developing into a good situation. “I don’t like this, Fastball.”

“I’m going north. Let’s bag the one running. Switching to heat.” He clicked his weapons switch.

“Fastball, turn into him. Go nose to nose. We can’t have him on our—”

“No, this guy’s giving me his pipes. Just watch your MiG!”

“Tally on the southern mover.” Rat grunted, but kept her eyes peeled on the trailing Fulcrum. The thought quickly struck her that this kid wasn’t about to give her experience any deference. She’d have to fix that when… if they made it back to the Jefferson. “Trailer’s slowing to come around. He’s setting you up, Fastball! It’s a drag! Reverse right! Reverse right!”

“I’ve got him, Rat!”

“Fastball, reverse now! We’re spiked, trailer!”

“Music, we better get over there. Fastball’s getting himself in deep. He’s locked up by that second MiG.”

“Bird Dog!” Music answered. “We’ve got our own problem. Spiked, three o’clock. Break left!”

“Missile in-bound,” Rat hollered. “Four o’clock high.”

“I see it.” Fastball jerked his stick hard right, placing the missile on his starboard beam. The MiG’s radar, the Slot Back, guided the missile and giving it a flat return surface temporarily broke the radar’s lock. “Chaff, now!” Fastball called. Rat responded with three small clouds.

“Missed. That was close!”

Fastball pulled his nose back around. “You’re mine,” he called, then cranked his Tomcat into firing position.

“Smoke!” Rat saw another missile loosed from the bottom of the MiG and quickly released a stream of flares. “Brad, this MiG’s on us bad! He’s at our four… coming around… climbing… he’s going over the top.” Her breathing was getting heavy. “Smoke! Smoke!” she cried out. “Six o’clock! He took a shot.” She quickly pumped another trio of hot flares into their jet stream. “Dive! Break… right!”

The missile exploded just aft of the Tomcat’s right engine, sending a shower of perforated rods into the Tomcat’s tail structure. The jolt shook the Tomcat, forcing Morrow to fight to recover his bird. The rudder was now bent and one of the stabilizers torn. Both of them felt the sudden deceleration.

“Fastball, we’re hit!”

“Son-of-a… Our burners are out!”

Rat quickly relocated the MiG. “He’s coming around! There’s another MiG. Crossing our nose going north. He’s climbing to turn.”

Bird Dog focused on the MiG chasing Fastball as he listened to Rat’s pleas over the tactical.

“Fox Two!” Three seconds passed. “Yes! Splash one MiG.”

Music turned his head away from the MiG now leaving the scene. “Second MiG’s bugging out.” He quickly checked his JTIDS display. “He’s heading back toward Iran.”

“Find Fastball!” Bird Dog’s eyes scanned the horizon ahead of him, using the smoke and missile trails to locate his wing. “There,” he said. “At two o’clock. Going to burner.”

“Got ’em, boss.”

“He’s in trouble. Music, get a lock on that Fulcrum now! Use a Sparrow.”

“Working on it!” Music fiddled with his gear then a tone rang out over their headsets. “Got em. Dot’s yours, Bird Dog.”

“Waiting…” he watched the MiG weaving for position on Fastball’s Tomcat.

“He got him! Bird Dog got him!” Fastball shouted.

Rat swiveled her head from side to side trying to padlock. Things were happening at such a frantic pace. Even with her training, she was fighting to keep her situational awareness. “Jesus, where’d he go… wait, got ’em. Hammer One, Two’s blower out with a MiG at our three.”

“Rat! MiG twelve o’clock low, climbing!”

“I’m on the northern MiG. He’s at our three… turning… he’s in guns range… firing!” Rat’s eyes opened wide as she watched the stream of 30mm rounds from the Fulcrum cascade toward her F-14 in a downward arch. “He missed!”

Fastball fought his sluggish stick, jerking his Tomcat from side to side in a jinking maneuver. “Spanking the pony,” he used to jokingly refer to that in the RAG. Suddenly, with his life on the line, he didn’t feel much like joking. He was using every trick in his book and quickly discovered that may be he wasn’t quite as “hot” a pilot as he had thought. Maybe he should have listened to his RIO. This MiG had him and his only hope was his lead, who was still too far away. It was a setup and she had seen it coming.

“Come on!” Bird Dog cried out. “Get a lock, Music!”

“Lock!” The tone rose sharply.

“Hammer Two, break left on mark three… two… one. Break!”

“Fox One!” He fired, not waiting for a reply.

Fastball heard an umphf from his backseat as he yanked his Tomcat hard to the left and up, sending his bird into a steep, climbing turn. “You’re… killing… our… speed.” Rat grunted. “Fastball!” She felt her vision narrow against the heavy gs.

“He’ll blow right by!”

“He’ll shoot us!”

“He’s firing!” Thud thud thud! Three rounds ripped across the Tomcat’s frame, just missing the aft cockpit. Rat knew the MiGs giant 30mm rounds would tear her to shreds even if only one managed to strike her. “Fuel leak. We’re leaking fuel.”

“Rat, were done, get ready to eject!”

“No, not yet!”

“Get ready to…”

Boom! The MiG at their three o’clock suddenly broke into two and burst into a fiery ball of red-orange. The pieces fell toward the water. There was no chute.

“Splash one Fulcrum, southbound at angels fourteen,” Bird Dog called. “Music, where’s the bandits?”

“Heading east. They’re leaving.”

“Thank God.” Bird Dog sighed.

Johnnie waited a moment for Fastball to respond, but he said nothing. He hadn’t said a thing since the dogfight ended. Finally, she checked her gauge. “Oh my God. Hammer One, state is three point nine. We are way low. And our blowers are out. Leaking fuel. Need a Texaco fast.”

“Roger, making it happen.”

She switched to the ICS. “Fastball, I told you to watch your state. You stayed in burners way too long. We’ll be lucky to make it back to the tanker.”

He didn’t respond.

“Fastball! I’m talking to you.”

“Not now, Rat. Save it for the boat.”