2
The E-2C Hawkeye off to my left was an ungainly-looking bird. Slap a huge rotating radar dome on the Navy's all-purpose -2 series airframe, add a weird cross-framed tail assembly, and you've got a bird that maxes out at 450 knots. And that's downhill with a tail wind.
I pitied the poor bastards riding sidesaddle in the E-2C Hawkeye. Bad enough that it's a prop plane instead of a jet, but the danged consoles are mounted along the fuselage. The aviators ― yeah, we call them that even though they're really scope dopes ― get to sit face-forward during takeoffs and landings. That's about it. The rest of the time, they've got the seats swiveled ninety degrees to the side and they're staring at tiny little blips on radar screens instead of all this big blue sky.
No jet engines, no missiles. What's the point of being an aviator?
About five minutes after we went feet dry over Vietnam, one of the Hawkeye Radar Intercept Operators answered that question.
"Viper 201, Snoopy 1. We're getting prelaunched emissions, probable SAM site." The RIO on tactical rattled off some range-bearing info, the sort of stuff my backseater, Gator Cummings, just loves. "We holding it?" I asked Gator.
"Nope. But they've got better gear. If Frank says it's there, it's there."
"What the hell's an active SAM site doing down there?" That worried the shit out of me.
"Probably the reason we're taking Snoopy out for a look-see," Gator said calmly.
That's one of the things I like about Gator. He stays cool, stays loose, when other RIOs would get all bothered about a minor detail like SAMs.
"How close can I get?" I asked Gator. I still wasn't convinced we had an active SAM site down below.
"Thirty miles ― no closer," Gator warned. "We're almost at the edge of the envelope now."
I mulled that over for a moment, trying to decide how serious he was about that. Gator always builds in a safety factor when he's talking to me, one that he says gives him time to punch out. Yeah, right. Like I've ever had a backseater punch out on me. While Gator's my usual RIO, I've flown with others. Never lost a one.
Still, there had been moments when I knew he'd come damn close to jerking down on that orange-and-black-striped lever and departing the aircraft prior to landing. Probably the last time he'd been serious about it was when we were over the Arctic, and then only the fact that the weather would probably kill him faster than I could had kept him in the aircraft.
I knew there were still some long-range bastards down in that foliage below. But why would they be targeting us? Vietnam was at peace as much as it had ever been in its shattered last century, and there was no reason to believe that we were wandering into hostile territory.
"Probably just normal maintenance," I suggested, wondering if I could get Gator to agree to that.
"You want to take that chance?"
I had my answer. Gator believes that serious paranoia is the beginning of sound operational planning, and I have to admit that he's usually right. Still, I wasn't within range just yet, and I hadn't done formation flying in a long time.
"Bet it goes off-line in three minutes," I said, with more confidence than I felt. Some of Gator's paranoia was starting to affect me, slithering down my backbone and creeping into the ends of my fingers. If there were bad guys down there, then the problem wasn't ours. Hell, I thought I could probably outrun anything they could shoot at us. However, the unarmed E-2C still in position off my right wing was another matter.
As capable and competent as it is at what it does, there's a reason they send it out with fighter escorts. Not usually in close formation like this, but then there'd been a couple of us that needed a little formation-flying practice, and we'd decided this was an excellent opportunity to catch up. The E-2 hadn't minded; the pilot had only warned us to stay out of his blind spot in that ungainly high-winged airframe he'd be flying.
"Viper 201, suggest we turn back." The E-2 pilot now, making it clear by his tone of voice that consenting to play pigeon in some Tomcat formation flying didn't include getting any closer to this SAM site.
Damn. Another paranoid aviator. What happened to the good old days? Gator would have pointed out that my good old days weren't all that long ago.
"Roger, Snoopy." It wasn't like I had a lot of choice.
The E-2 had us increase the separation between all three aircraft, giving him forty-five degrees and two thousand yards of lead on both of us. As my wingman slid back into position, I noticed him shaking his head, and he waggled his wings slightly in greeting. I waggled back.
"What the fuck ― missile launch, missile launch!" My wingman's RIO was the first to pick up the radar trace of the missile leaving the rail and ascending into the atmosphere.
"Snoopy, get the hell out of here!" The E-2 knew I wasn't kidding. He curled into a tighter turn than I'd ever seen one of those birds pull before, and started beating feet for open water, leaving us to deal with the incoming threat.
"Take low position," I ordered our wingman. He slid down and below, peeling off into a steep dive to take him two thousand feet below me. I climbed up, keeping my aircraft interposed between the incoming missile and the bird we were supposed to be protecting.
"Two ― no, three." Now Gator was holding them as well, singing out the range and bearings as the missiles spiked up from the tree cover.
"I'm going after the first one," my wingman said. I saw him bank hard right, heading for the course that he thought would put him on an intercept with Sparrows against the slower surface-to-air missile.
"Don't chase it ― stay in formation and wait for it," I ordered. It was too late. Viper 202 was already well out of position, the pilot chasing that perfect firing slot that would put him in perfect firing position.
"Damn, damn, damn," Gator swore quietly over the ICS. "Asshole's going to ― hold it."
The cry of "Fox two, Fox two" echoed over tactical as 202 toggled off two Sparrow missiles at the deadly incoming fire.
"No good." Gator's voice was slightly higher now as he relayed to me the details of the geometry between missile, fighter, and target. "He needs to go with a Sidewinder ― now."
"202, Fox three time," I said over tactical.
"Roger, I'm on it." The old man's voice made it clear that I was a distraction rather than a help at this point.
I swore quietly, picturing Skeeter Harmon in the cockpit swearing back at me.
Skeeter Harmon ― a hot stick, one of the best. Hell, Gator'd had the audacity to suggest that my problem with Skeeter was that I felt threatened. Threatened ― not likely. Not from a junior nugget just starting his second cruise on board Jefferson. I had more time in the shitter than he had in the cockpit, and there wasn't a damn thing for me to feel insecure about.
Skeeter had gotten off to a rocky start in the squadron, but had quickly come around once we saw he could fly. That's all that really matters in the long run anyway ― how hot a stick you are.
But Skeeter seemed to think that there were other issues at work in the squadron, and he was the first to start wailing whenever he didn't get exactly the flight he wanted. One night when we were out drinking in Singapore, Skeeter had even had the audacity to suggest that it was because he was black. I almost popped him at that point. Gator, that asshole, damn near agreed with him. Hell, if you can't count on your RIO in a bar, where can you count on him?
Anyway, that missile now getting too damn close for comfort didn't know whether Skeeter was black, white, or pink with purple polka dots. Missiles are like that. So are MiGs.