Combat Maneuvering” mode. This was a quick-reaction mode, utilized to point the radar at threats less than ten miles away: it would automatically lock on whatever it found.
I glanced up, saw the Eagles making contrails and eyeballed where the threat must be. Slewing the pointing cross left and down in the HUD, I let go and waited as the two F-15s began their attack. They’d called it a “Bogey” instead of a “Bandit” which meant they couldn’t positively identify it as hostile. Identification could be done with a variety of electronic systems on both the F-16 and F-15, but there hadn’t been time. So the aircraft would remain “unknown” until it could be visually identified or committed a hostile act. Like shooting at one of us.
“LOCK . . . LOCK . . .”
To my astonishment, the radar actually grabbed a contact. I stared, wide-eyed, at a dark speck coming straight down the “snot locker”—between us—at over 500 knots. It was eight miles away and charging up at us from below.
I snapped the master arm back to ARM and strained forward against my straps to see over the F-16’s nose. The Target Designator (TD) box was there, sliding over the mountaintops as the strange jet raced toward us.
“CONAN One is visual . . . bogey . . . ten o’clock low!”
“CONAN . . . CHAINSAW . . . say again?”
AWACS was doing its normal bang-up job. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of sunlight on something shiny and saw the Eagles, about four miles in front of me, sweeping down from the north. The F-4 and I were split apart by about five miles but now beginning to turn in. This unknown fighter was sandwiched in three dimensions. It was the perfect intercept.
He was screwed, whoever he was. It was just a matter of who would kill him first.
I grinned and uncaged my AIM-9 Sidewinder. This let the missile’s infrared seeker to try to track whatever target I was locked to. It just growled at me though, unable to tell jet from earth, so I’d have to get closer. That wasn’t a problem at these speeds, since we’d close the eight miles to shooting range in about fifteen seconds.
There! In the TD box, I could see an aircraft. It was tiny and its exhaust left a smoke trail. With the exception of the Phantom, no U.S. aircraft smoked. And this was no Phantom. I kept trying to lock the Sidewinder but it wouldn’t.
Shit.
If an Eagle killed this MiG in front of me, I’d never forgive myself. Probably spend all my money in therapy.
I’d descended a few thousand feet when we broke apart so I wouldn’t give this asshole a nice, look-up shot at me. I’d also been able to pull my power back as I’d glided down, and this cooled my engine off so any infrared missile shot against me would have a tough time. I didn’t put out any preemptive flares, because if he hadn’t seen me yet, flares would certainly give away my position. It was risky though, because if he shot, I’d have only a second or two to pop the flares. I didn’t like thinking defensively.
Fuck it. Shoving the throttle up to mil power, I pulled back and up toward the oncoming jet.
He was about four miles in front of me and slightly high, so I uncaged the Sidewinder and the clear, steady tone said it finally liked what it saw. With a good firing solution and a visual on the bogey, this was almost perfect. Squinting against the sun and the Gs, I still couldn’t tell what it was except that it was painted brown. I grunted and moved my right thumb just over the pickle button. That about clinched it. We didn’t have any brown aircraft.
For a long count of two, I waited. Waited for a smoke trail coming off his jet. Waited for the Eagles to identify it.
“CONAN One . . . ID Friendly! Repeat . . . ID Friendly.” The Eagle pilot sounded disappointed.
What in the hell . . .
My thumb came away from the pickle like it was hot. But I continued pulling into the other jet, carefully avoiding the two F-15s that had settled in behind
I glanced up, saw the Eagles making contrails and eyeballed where the threat must be. Slewing the pointing cross left and down in the HUD, I let go and waited as the two F-15s began their attack. They’d called it a “Bogey” instead of a “Bandit” which meant they couldn’t positively identify it as hostile. Identification could be done with a variety of electronic systems on both the F-16 and F-15, but there hadn’t been time. So the aircraft would remain “unknown” until it could be visually identified or committed a hostile act. Like shooting at one of us.
“LOCK . . . LOCK . . .”
To my astonishment, the radar actually grabbed a contact. I stared, wide-eyed, at a dark speck coming straight down the “snot locker”—between us—at over 500 knots. It was eight miles away and charging up at us from below.
I snapped the master arm back to ARM and strained forward against my straps to see over the F-16’s nose. The Target Designator (TD) box was there, sliding over the mountaintops as the strange jet raced toward us.
“CONAN One is visual . . . bogey . . . ten o’clock low!”
“CONAN . . . CHAINSAW . . . say again?”
AWACS was doing its normal bang-up job. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of sunlight on something shiny and saw the Eagles, about four miles in front of me, sweeping down from the north. The F-4 and I were split apart by about five miles but now beginning to turn in. This unknown fighter was sandwiched in three dimensions. It was the perfect intercept.
He was screwed, whoever he was. It was just a matter of who would kill him first.
I grinned and uncaged my AIM-9 Sidewinder. This let the missile’s infrared seeker to try to track whatever target I was locked to. It just growled at me though, unable to tell jet from earth, so I’d have to get closer. That wasn’t a problem at these speeds, since we’d close the eight miles to shooting range in about fifteen seconds.
There! In the TD box, I could see an aircraft. It was tiny and its exhaust left a smoke trail. With the exception of the Phantom, no U.S. aircraft smoked. And this was no Phantom. I kept trying to lock the Sidewinder but it wouldn’t.
Shit.
If an Eagle killed this MiG in front of me, I’d never forgive myself. Probably spend all my money in therapy.
I’d descended a few thousand feet when we broke apart so I wouldn’t give this asshole a nice, look-up shot at me. I’d also been able to pull my power back as I’d glided down, and this cooled my engine off so any infrared missile shot against me would have a tough time. I didn’t put out any preemptive flares, because if he hadn’t seen me yet, flares would certainly give away my position. It was risky though, because if he shot, I’d have only a second or two to pop the flares. I didn’t like thinking defensively.
Fuck it. Shoving the throttle up to mil power, I pulled back and up toward the oncoming jet.
He was about four miles in front of me and slightly high, so I uncaged the Sidewinder and the clear, steady tone said it finally liked what it saw. With a good firing solution and a visual on the bogey, this was almost perfect. Squinting against the sun and the Gs, I still couldn’t tell what it was except that it was painted brown. I grunted and moved my right thumb just over the pickle button. That about clinched it. We didn’t have any brown aircraft.
For a long count of two, I waited. Waited for a smoke trail coming off his jet. Waited for the Eagles to identify it.
“CONAN One . . . ID Friendly! Repeat . . . ID Friendly.” The Eagle pilot sounded disappointed.
What in the hell . . .
My thumb came away from the pickle like it was hot. But I continued pulling into the other jet, carefully avoiding the two F-15s that had settled in behind
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