“Where’s that stupid S-3?” Woods said, frustrated.
“He was sitting on the deck when we launched. You really think he’s gonna get here before we do?” Wink replied.
Woods scanned the sky anxiously.
“Got him,” Wink said. “Forty left, four thousand feet, climbing.”
Woods looked to his left. “Tallyho,” he said as he brought the Tomcat sharply left to head for the S-3.
“Better let him get to altitude or he’ll yell at us,” Wink cautioned.
“We don’t have a lot of time to screw around today, Wink.”
“I know that, Trey. Just lighten up.”
Woods frowned under his visor and oxygen mask as he rendezvoused with the tanker. He motioned for the pilot to deploy the basket and moved quickly back when it was in place. After both the Tomcats had taken as much gas as they could hold they broke off from the tanker and headed for their air intercept station to practice intercepts.
Wink switched to button eight on the radio in the backseat, and Woods changed to the radio frequency in the front that he and Big had agreed on, Jolly Roger common — the frequency used by the squadron, but they added one digit in case anyone else was listening.
“Big, you up?” Woods asked.
“Two,” Big replied.
Wink consulted his card to see what the Washington was calling itself and what the squadron’s code name was for the day. “Gulf November, this is Bright Sword 211.”
“Bright Sword 211, Gulf November, your station is 020 at 30. Who wants to go first?”
Woods checked his clock. They had to go now.
“211 will be the first fighter, and 207 will be the bogey,” Wink transmitted to Tiger, the familiar voice of the controller. They had met at 0300 that morning.
“Roger 211, squawk 3234. Take station 020 for 60. Break — 207, squawk, 3353. Take station 020 at 30.”
“211,” Wink said.
“207,” Sedge transmitted.
They headed out the 020 radial as they climbed out toward their stations. Big kept his place on Woods’s starboard wing waiting for the signal. They approached thirty miles and Woods leveled off at fifteen thousand feet.
“Thirty miles,” Wink transmitted.
“Roger, 207, you can orbit there, and 211, continue outbound.”
Woods nodded and the two F-14s pitched over and headed toward the ocean. Wink and Sedge turned off their IFFs — Identification, Friend or Foe — and changed the Link 11 frequency that allowed automatic communication for data link from that of the Washington to the frequency Trey had given them of the Israeli Air Force E-2C Hawkeye, the radar plane identical to those on the Washington. It was orbiting somewhere in northern Israel.
“Should be getting their picture any minute now,” Wink told Woods as he switched the displays in the back cockpit and Woods adjusted his own displays so he could see Wink’s radar picture. They descended rapidly to the water with Big on their wing. Wink looked around for airplanes, but saw none. The radar showed no ships or airplanes in any direction closer than twelve miles.
Woods turned east, heading 086. It was 0715. They were a couple of minutes behind the rigid schedule Woods had set for them in his planning. They had no room for error. “We may be late. I’m going to push it up a little.”
“Whatever you do, don’t go super.”
“Don’t worry,” Woods said, advancing the throttles to military power as he leveled off at fifty feet. The sea raced by, a dark purple comforting blur. Big stayed above Woods, long ago having learned the lesson that when flying very low the wingman should stay above the lead or risk being scraped off the ground or a tree. “Head 080,” Wink said.
“How do you know that?” Woods asked without looking into the cockpit. He was concentrating to keep from flying into the sea. If he sneezed, they’d hit the water going five hundred knots.
“We’ve got good data link. They’re showing Ramat David, and all the airplanes that are airborne.” Wink leaned forward and raised his hand above the green on black screen to block out the reflected sunlight. “I’m going lead nose. No radar from here on.”
“Don’t turn it on accidentally, Wink. That’s all we need is for someone to detect our radar.”
“Don’t worry,” he replied. “I’ll set the frequency to sniff in case I hit the switch.”
“211, come south to 200, Bogey 200 at 30, angels 15,” Tiger transmitted.
“Roger. 211 coming to 200,” Wink replied. “Sounds like Tiger’s on board.”
“Think he’ll pull it off using fake symbols?”
“He thought so. We’ll soon find out.”
“You didn’t tell him where we were going, did you?”
“No. Don’t want them to run out of room at Leavenworth. Less he knows the better.”
“What if he doesn’t pull it off?”
“We’re cooked,” Wink said, shrugging. “We could still say we were doing unauthorized dogfighting. Didn’t want Admiral Sweat dirtying his shorts.”
“Good idea.”
“Radar altimeter set?”
“Forty feet.”
“That should keep us dry.”
“How far to the shoreline? I think I can just make it out.”
“Without the radar it’s hard to tell, but about fifteen miles.”
“Big doing okay?”
“Yep. Sedge has his arms up on the canopy rails. Looking for birds or something. Very casual.”
“Good,” Woods said as they accelerated through five hundred fifty knots.
The two Tomcats with their white skull and bones painted on the tails screamed toward Israel fifty feet off the water. They cut through the smooth air like parallel daggers, their wings working their way back to a 68-degree sweep, programmed by the onboard computer as they approached supersonic.
“211, Bogey 199 for 20 miles, angles 15.”
“Roger. Judy,” Wink said, taking control of the imaginary intercept.
Woods’s heart was pounding as it had been since they took off. His throat was usually dry when flying this fast this low, but now he could barely swallow. His palms were sweaty as he gripped the stick and throttles with his bare hands, not wearing the required Nomex fireproof gloves.
“I’ve got the shoreline,” Woods announced, trying to sound calm.
“Come to 084,” Wink replied.
Woods immediately made the small correction. In the green projection of the HUD on the windscreen, he could look right at his heading, weapons status, and altitude without taking his eyes off the terrain in front of the plane. The HUD symbols were focused at infinity, the same as looking off in the distance.
Suddenly the beach shot by underneath them, giving them a sense of speed the passage of constant blue water never did. Palm trees snapped by only a few feet under the Tomcats. Woods stole a glance sideways to see if there was anyone on the beach this early, but saw no one. They passed directly over a car as they crossed the coast highway, the highway where Vialli had been killed. Woods breathed deeply and drank in the pure oxygen. He pulled slightly on the stick and climbed to five hundred feet. He brought the throttles back and slowed to three hundred knots.
“How far to Ramat David?” he asked.
“Thirty miles or so. Six minutes,” Wink said. “Fox Two, knock it off and set up another one,” he transmitted.
“Roger, 211. 207, head north as the fighter, 211, south as the bogey,” Tiger said calmly.
“211. Roger.”