“Rowboat, this is Hammer Two-Seven… request permission to order weapons-free rules of engagement to Viper One.” The CAG didn’t need to be told who the targets might be. He could see the same radar picture via data link that the Hawkeye was privy to.
“Permission granted.”
“Com, send it.”
The message was relayed to the Tomcats. They now had the authority to fire if they perceived a threat to be real. It was an order with a great deal of latitude. Polhill had been in the Navy for going on twenty-three years, and he knew fighter jocks; they were cocky, and arrogant, and above all, disciplined. Their job was to protect the Hawkeye and, by the nature of the mission, the 747. Two MiGs aimed directly at the radar aircraft could only be perceived as one thing: a threat. It wouldn’t be long.
“Sir, target… uh, the target is turning. Coming south.” The radar officer leaned closer to his screen. “Around. There. Steadying.” It was a few seconds before the call-out continued. “New course is one-seven-five… no. Still turning. Make that one-eight-zero. He must’ve hauled that baby over on her wingtips to turn that fast.”
“Radar, what’s Bandit One doing?”
“Slowing. Same course, and speed’s down to five-zero- zero knots. Distance to the 747 is nine-zero-miles.”
“Hmm,” Polhill grunted. Setting up a shot, maybe?
“Viper Two is six minutes out,” Com said. “Whoa! Fox three! Fox three! I have two fox threes. Viper one just fired.” Two Phoenixes—‘fox threes’—were on their way.
“There go—” Radar’s words stopped abruptly. “Bandit Two is firing! I’ve got two missiles inbound! Looks like they’re going for the ‘Cats.”
Smart. Polhill had seen this before. The MiGs were gambling that the Phoenixes’ own guidance radars hadn’t picked them up on active yet, and that the Tomcats would turn away to avoid the missiles targeted on them. That would take away the beam of radiated energy painting the target and cause the Phoenixes to miss. It was a gutsy move.
But the Tomcat drivers were no stranger to the ploy either, and with their defensive jamming systems on, they slowed to four hundred knots and watched their missiles streak toward Bandit Two.
“Viper One, shut down! Disengage!”
What? The radar officer turned to the commander, who returned his quizzical look. Viper One was already heeding the order from the CAG aboard the Vinson. The two F-14s rolled into a tight right, diving turn and shut down their fire control radars, coming around a full three hundred and sixty degrees to face the MiGs again. They were both visible on the Tomcats’ search radars, and to the Hawkeye, heading on a reciprocal course back to Benghazi.
Viper Two took up station thirty miles to the east of Hammer Two Seven, while Viper One remained at its present location to track the retreating MiGs. The weapons officer aboard the Tomcat with a remaining good Phoenix kept his finger on the radar transmit switch, ready to power up the AWG-9 if need be.
Aboard Hammer Two-Seven Commander Polhill questioned the order from the CAG. The Tomcats had two certain kills, courtesy of the overly confident Libyan pilots. Why order them off? It was a clear case of provocation. Hell, MiG-31 Foxhounds closing at nine hundred knots didn’t warrant just a ‘hello.’
“Sir, look.” Radar was pointing to his display.
Polhill took the suggestion. His heart stopped pounding. Directing planes in battle was stressful. An airborne controller was not at all removed from the fight: He was an integral part of it. Missiles streaking toward one of his aircraft might just as well have been aimed at him. Looking at the screen, however, Polhill brought his mind back to the here and now, and an answer to his questioning was apparent. The CAG had the luxury of watching Bandit One as the near battle erupted around the Hawkeye. Bandit One’s two MiGs had formed up on the 747, one mile off of each wing, and were escorting it toward the Libyan coast at four hundred knots.
It never had been necessary to send his Tomcats to protect the hijacked aircraft, the commander realized. Flight 422 was not an intruder…it was a guest.
“Good, thank you.” The chief of staff hung up the phone. “Bud, Meyerson just arrived.”
The NSA poured himself a cup of coffee. Gonzales waved off the offer. The cups were white stoneware mugs with the presidential seal emblazoned on opposite sides. The hot liquid felt good as Bud wrapped both hands around the mug. “It’s cold in here.”
Gonzales joined Bud, taking one of the seats around the antique coffee table. It sat near the Oval Office fireplace and closer to the president’s desk than the main door. “Mary said the building engineer is going to check on the AC in the morning.” He laughed. “The real morning.”
Really. Bud sipped his cup of caffeine. It was giving him the necessary jolt. He hadn’t wanted to wake the president, hoping that the NSC could get things under control. That wasn’t to be. The report from the Sixth Fleet required that, the need for sleep notwithstanding, he be roused.
“It’s amazing, Bud,” the COS began. “Two days ago we were really only functionaries. Second-string. Look at us now.” His voice trailed off in a melancholic tone. “Damned if I ever wanted to move up this way.”
The Oval Office was a lonely place. There were two men in the room, but each felt alone in many ways. It was an aura of solitude. Bud decided he wouldn’t trade places with the man for anything.
“What do you think’s up?”
Gonzales shrugged, running a hand over his quickly shaven face. “I don’t know, and he may not know, but he sure as hell is going to want a good estimate of what’s happening.”
What was happening? It was Bud’s question of the day.
He had at his disposal every military and civilian intelligence service, their analysts, and all the technological gadgetry available to them. They would already be working to identify the perpetrators and their intentions. But it was he who would have to make an intelligent assessment of the information and present recommendations to the president. It was the challenge he wanted, though a little more time to settle into the job before having this dumped on him would have been welcome.
Gonzales heard the clock’s minute hand click forward. It was that quiet. The president would be down any minute.
Both men rose as the door opened. It was a new reflex.
“Bud. Ellis.” The president wore a gray sweat suit and dirty white tennis shoes. The Secret Service hadn’t given him much time to dress. He took a seat across from his advisers. “What do we have?”
Bud pushed the mug away from the edge of the table and brought both hands together. “Mr. President, I’ve called in the NSC. They’re assembled in the situation room and the deputies group is also working. About an hour and a half ago an American carrier passenger flight, numbered 422, was hijacked out of Athens. Then, not very long ago, some of our naval aircraft tracking the jet near the North African coast had a confrontation with several Libyan fighters.”
The president was instantly awake. “Were there any casualties?”
“No, thankfully.” Bud wished he had written a brief, but there hadn’t been time. “There was fire exchanged, but the commander on the Vinson—that was the carrier involved — ordered his fighters to disengage.”
“Why?”
“Flight 422 was in the middle of the whole thing. Our fighters were trying to protect it as the Libyans approached in two groups. Our pilots believed the fighters were going to attack the 747, and their own command aircraft, so they fired. The Libyans returned fire.”