The UHF radio came alive as Rustler flight joined up on Duck Mallard’s C-130. Then the transmissions crackled with commands as Rustler flight reported bandits in the area. The frequency became a torrent of words as Rustler flight capped the C-130 and sorted out the bandits. Jack listened to the radio traffic, building a mental picture of the developing engagement, then rechecked his own radar and TEWS and it all fell into place … Four bandits were bouncing Mallard’s C-130 and the four F-15s of Rustler flight while he and Kowalski headed straight for a hornet’s nest of at least eight orbiting fighters that were obviously looking for them.
He called Kowalski over to another frequency, leaving the channel clear for Rustler flight. He keyed his radio. “Delray Five-One, this is Stormy Zero-Two. How copy on this frequency?” The answer came through scratchy but readable. “We have multiple threats in the area,” Jack told the AWACS, “and need to divert to the west.”
“Negative, Stormy,” the AWACS answered. “Hostile reception to the west.” The Iraqi air defense system was still up and active.
“Then send some damned help,” Jack demanded.
“Stormy, be advised Rustler flight is engaged. Cowboy flight is refueling. Will send Cowboy in flights of two as they come off the tankers.”
“Tell ‘em to hurry. Scamp, you copy all?”
“Roger,” Kowalski answered.
“We got to get down in the rocks and weeds. We’re going right under a cloud of Gomers looking for us. They don’t have a very good lookdown capability so they got to find us with their eyeballs. Help’s on the way.”
“Roger on the help,” the C-130 pilot answered, skepticism lacing her words.
“Cap’n”—it was Byers—“look behind you.” Jack twisted his head around, glad for the excellent visibility in the F-15. Two distinctive sets of smoke trails were coming right at them. Iranian F-4s.
He reversed course with a hard slashing pitch-back to the left. “Two bandits six o’clock, seven miles, I’m engaged,” he transmitted for both the C-130 and the AWACS to hear. At the top of the vertical he studied the oncoming bandits and continued to zoom, delaying the completion of the pitch-back and letting the F-4s close. Then he pulled down into the fight.
“Hank!” Kowalski shouted over the intercom to her loadmaster, “get everybody strapped in and tie everything down. It’s about to get rough.”
The two F-4s had a late tallyho on Jack and barely had time to split, one going high and to the left, the other diving to the right. Jack chose the high man and went for a head-on pass. He selected guns, snap-rolled to the right, squeezed the trigger for a long burst of cannon fire and brought the F-4 aboard, passing almost canopy to canopy. He saw smoke puff from behind the F-4 as he turned his attention to the other bandit. “Watch him,” he told Byers, “don’t lose sight.”
Byers turned to look at the rapidly disappearing F-4 behind them just as Jack wrenched the fighter after the other jet. The sergeant’s head snapped to the left and his helmet banged off the canopy, but he did keep his eyes on the first Iranian …
The second Iranian, for his part, was concentrating on the C-130, trying to get behind the slow-moving cargo plane. Actually Kowalski’s low altitude and slow speed were causing problems for the Iranian pilot …
Jack selected a Sidewinder and sweetened the shot, taking his time to get well inside the launch parameters of the missile. The reassuring growl of a lock-on grew louder and louder. He pressed the pickle button and watched the missile streak home. The rear of the Iranian jet flared into a long plume of flame as the plane spun into the ground.
“My guy ran away,” Byers told him. “What happened?”
“We got one,” Jack said as he flew past Kowalski. “You did good, Byers. Rule number one is always check six. You did that. That guy died because he forgot rule number two.”
“What’s that?”
“Never forget rule number one—”
“Bandits,” Kowalski called over the UHF, “ten o’clock high.”
A welcome voice came over the radio. “Snake and Jake on the way.” Snake Houserman and his wingman were now off the refueling tanker and headed into Iran.
“Hurry, Snake,” Jack answered. “Multi-bogies on us.” He checked his armament-control set. Two AIM-9 missiles and 450 rounds of 20mm showing on the rounds-counter were left. In a hurry, Jack missed that he still had one Maverick left hanging under the right wing and creating drag. He turned toward the four Floggers that had their noses on him …
“Rustler Four-Two,” the fighter controller on the AWACS radioed, “four miles to the fence.”
“Roger,” Rustler Four-Two answered, his voice strained. “I can hold it until then.”
The situation on the tactical displays aboard the AWACS told its story: Rustler flight had shot down one of the four MiGs that were attacking Duck Mallard’s C-130. The other three had been driven off, and one of the F-15s, Rustler Four-Two, had taken a hit by an Aphid, the Soviet-made dogfight missile hung under a Flogger. The F-15 was still flying, leaving a trail of smoke and hydraulic fluid behind it, trying to make it across the border before the pilot ejected. Two F-15s of Rustler flight were still escorting Mallard, ten minutes away from the border, and one was escorting Rustler Four-Two.
“Crossing the fence now,” the AWACS transmitted.
“I’ll hold it for another minute to clear the border,” Rustler Four Two said. It was a matter of waiting now. Then: “Ejecting now.”
“He’s got a good chute,” the pilot escorting Rustler Four-Two transmitted, hoping for but not counting on a happy landing …
Jack stroked his afterburners, going for another head-on pass. If he and Byers were going to survive he had to hit-and-split, but he couldn’t split too far or the MiGs would be onto Kowalski. He planned a series of rapid reattacks, using the F-15’s ability to turn rapidly and maintain its airspeed at the same time. Jack did not warn Byers he was about to pass out …
He selected a Sidewinder and waited for the growl to come through his headset that told him the missile’s seeker-head was locked on and tracking. The Lock-Shoot Lights on the top of the canopy bow flashed, showing him that a shoot cue was generated. The MiGs saw him and started to split just as he fired the missile. He headed straight into the pack, chasing his own missile, taking a snap-shot with his cannon when another MiG passed in front of him. Then he was clear, pulled back on the stick and pushed the right rudder. He could hear the double-rate beeper of the overload warning system as he loaded the F-15 with nine Gs and pitched-back to the right, reentering the fight. He could see a MiG spiralling into the ground and a parachute blossoming above it.
The F-15 slashed through the area where the MiGs had been, but they were disengaging. A reprieve.
“What the …” came from the back seat.
“You passed out when we pulled six Gs,” Jack told the sergeant. “You need a G-suit.”
He rejoined on Kowalski and checked his radar-display and TEWS. “Snake, say position.”
“Six minutes out, coming in from the north.”
“I’m still getting a lot of attention. I now count five bandits in the area.” Jack checked his fuel. Getting low, but still okay. He thanked the fast-pack tanks strapped onto the side of his E model as well as that fuel truck on the ground at Kermanshah. He called up the systems-display on his left video for another weapons check. One AIM-9 and 250 rounds of 20mm. Damn, go easy on the trigger, he told himself, shorter bursts. Then he finally noticed he had one Maverick left. He reached for the jettison knob so he could clear that station. What the hell, he rationalized, anything when your ass is all hung out …