The AMRAAMs were targeted on the greatest threat, the Rafale squadron. Each plane pulled up into a wild series of maneuvers. Many missiles missed, but five aircraft, the best fighters in the EurCon arsenal, were hit and disappeared in black and gray explosions. The rest were prevented from firing back for a few precious moments.
The other EurCon fighters were not maneuvering, and the Mirage 2000s fired a salvo of active radar homing Mica missiles. The German Phantoms added their own fire, American-built Sparrows. Almost fifty missiles arrowed toward the oncoming navy planes.
Simultaneously the Americans fired again. More AMRAAMs and Sparrows leapt from under gray-painted wings, speeding toward the EurCon planes still twenty-five miles away. Both sides saw each other only as blips on glowing radar screens and target designator boxes on HUDs.
That was a serious problem for the French and German aircraft. Their screens were still cluttered with American jamming. It didn’t stop them from launching missiles, but it slowed them down, and in air combat, time is a weapon of its own.
Surrounding the navy fighters were six EA-6B Prowlers. Packed with antennas and electronics, their transmitters were so powerful that the signals were lethal to nearby personnel on the ground. They felt out the electronic spectrum, found the enemy radar and radio frequencies, then poured electronic radiation into them like a waterfall. Tied together by their own data links, the six jamming planes were welded into a single unit, sharing information and assigning targets.
Another missile salvo flashed out from the American planes, matched by a more ragged salvo from the EurCon side. Planes from the opposing sides were just coming into visual range. Tracks from half a dozen different missiles filled the air between the two formations. Even as the missiles struck aircraft of both sides, the two formations merged.
Radar tracking of the combat was now meaningless. Gibierge could only see a hash of blue and red symbols on the left-hand screen. One thing was clear. There were fewer and fewer blue symbols.
The only sound in the room was the formation radio circuit. Like commanders half a century before, all the waiting men could do was try to pick out stray scraps of information from the frantic calls of the pilots, fighting hundreds of miles away.
“… three planes to port… launching now… stand by, break now!.. I’m hit, my port wing’s gone…” Each voice had its own background of warning beeps and howls, and one was accented by the roar of a rocket motor igniting as a missile launched.
On a separate frequency, emergency locator beacons sent out their beep-beep-beep signals, marking the locations of downed pilots. They appeared on the display, too, but there was no way to tell which side they belonged to. There were a lot of them, though, and their numbers grew steadily.
Mann hoped like hell his wingman was all right. He’d lost sight of the other F/A-18 only a minute into the fight, and he’d been far too busy since then to look for him.
There were too many planes climbing, diving, and turning through too little airspace. Over half his attention was devoted to avoiding a midair collision, not to killing the enemy. He’d nearly lost it once already, when a hard break away from somebody’s missile had almost slammed him into a scissoring German Phantom.
He looked around, rapidly scanning a sky full of arrowed shapes at every aspect and angle possible. Streaks of smoke marked the passage of missiles between the rival aircraft, as well as the places where planes had died. The lower edge of the dogfight was marked by colored parachutes.
It was a battle of snap shots and fleeting chances. He’d scored one gun kill early on, firing instinctively as a Mirage filled his canopy. The French jet had fireballed, rocking his Hornet. Since then, though, he’d felt like a ball in a pinball machine.
A Tomcat appeared out of nowhere, passing in front of him at high speed. Beyond it was a Rafale, facing away from him, nose-up.
With Sidewinder already selected, he brought his Hornet’s nose over, waiting for a tone. Nothing. Damn it!
He switched to guns and increased the throttle, intending to close the range before firing. Instead, the track light on his radar warning receiver lit up. A frantic glance over his shoulder revealed a Mirage at his five o’clock.
Abandoning his quarry, Mann chopped the throttle and pushed the stick forward, unloading the Hornet’s wings. Then he broke hard left, turning into the delta-winged French fighter. They passed within a dozen yards of each other, canopy-to-canopy.
Another Tomcat hurtled toward him, approaching almost head-on and in pursuit of the Mirage. Mann brought his nose right to clear the F-14, and had a spectacular view of the Tomcat’s Sidewinder as it left the rail. He didn’t see the result. He’d spotted a German Phantom above and to starboard. Increasing the throttle, he pointed the Hornet’s nose up a little, risking a stall to bring the enemy aircraft into his sights. The Phantom’s engines weren’t as stealthy as a Rafale’s and this time his heat-seeking missile’s tone was clear and strong. Perfect!
Mann’s thumb pressed the fire button on his stick. The Sidewinder dropped off its rail and covered the quarter mile between the two planes in an eyeblink. It scored a direct hit, slamming into the German’s left wing and blowing it off.
He watched the F-4 start to spin, almost too slowly. Still in slow motion, its canopy popped off, and Mann saw a blast of smoke and flame flare in the cockpit. The Phantom’s ejector seat tumbled free of the torn aircraft, carrying its pilot to the relative safety of the North Sea.
“Mustang. This is Rancher. All units, vector three one five. Bandits inbound at level ten. Buster.”
Mann recognized the CAG’s voice, and the meaning of the call. Three one five degrees was a rough bearing back to George Washington. Some of the EurCon attackers had broken clear of the dogfight. “Buster” meant to intercept at full power.
He keyed his mike. “Roger, Rancher, all Mustangs to three one five. Hatchet out.”
He advanced the F/A-18’s throttle. He felt his aircraft’s speed build up quickly, carrying him out of the fight. He adjusted his course, then cast a quick glance at his six o’clock. At full military power, his engines made a dandy IR target. Fortunately nobody was following him.
Mann spotted several other Hornets, all on the same course, scattered above and below him. His radar showed a cluster of contacts in front and below him at twenty miles — all headed toward the carrier at high speed. They were still out of launch range but wouldn’t be for long. The F/A-18 was light now, without its drop tanks and half its missile load, almost clean.
Mann noticed the “Bingo” indicator light come on. Building up this last burst of speed had drained his fuel supply. He was going to need a tanker, and soon.
He selected his last Sparrow and locked up a target. “Mustang Lead, engaging.”
“Admiral, we’ve got ten-plus inbounds at five-fifty knots. Fighters are engaging. We’ve got Dale on that side, weapons tight. She’ll be in range soon, but we have to get the fighters out of there first.”
March’s report and implied recommendation was half formality, but it was Ward’s decision to make. Sitting in his command chair, surrounded by displays, he felt a little superfluous. “Clear the fighters and tell all ships to go to weapons free.”
It was the only logical thing to do. He had missile ships facing an incoming enemy attack with their hands practically tied behind their backs. Going to weapons-free status would clear them to fire SAMs more effectively. Any air target not positively identified as friendly would be fair game.