Trying to close on the fleeing MiG, McCutchin keyed his radio. “Get out, Corky! Get out of there!”
“Shoot him!” someone pleaded. “Kill the sonuvabitch!”
“Sting Four — I’m on fire — ejecting!”
“We have people in the water,” McCutchin shouted on Guard frequency. “Get out here!”
Working hard to line up a good deflection shot, McCutchin fired a couple of bursts that did little more than alert the MiG driver. Aware that his plane was absorbing cannon fire, the Iranian came out of burner and dove for the deck. Squinting to see his prey in the dark, McCutchin continued to hose the MiG with armor-piercing, explosive fragmentation rounds. The heavy shells tore through the fuselage, ripping the innards to shreds.
The pilot ejected while the airplane was still shedding parts. Slowly, the Fulcrum rolled inverted and plummeted toward the Gulf, streaming burning fuel all the way to impact.
Gasping for oxygen, McCutchin snapped the Eagle into a punishing high-G batturn that caused transonic vapor to erupt above the wings. Rolling level, he pitched the nose up and was clobbered by a SAM. The powerful explosion shattered the canopy and rendered him semiconscious. With his oxygen mask drooping on his chest, McCutchin rode the spinning Eagle to a watery grave.
25
Flying low over the coastline, Scott glanced at the former Phoenician city-state of Sidon. Graced by Castle of the Sea, the northern harbor of Saida was quiet at this time of the morning. Scott began a shallow climb to improve his chances of contacting the Permak Express. Surprisingly, the ship immediately answered the radio call, although the transmission was weak and broken. Seconds later the ship was steaming toward the stricken Caravan.
Out of habit, Jackie and Scott glanced at the fuel gauges as they continuously computed and updated the time and distance to the container ship. At best, the chances of reaching the Permak Express were fifty-fifty.
She turned to him and spoke in a low voice. “Well, it wasn’t pretty, but we got the job done.”
“Yeah.” Scott shrugged. “The key word is ‘lucky.’“
Jackie remained silent.
“I’m going to check on Greg and Maritza,” Scott said as he unbuckled his seat and shoulder harnesses. “You have the airplane.”
“I have it,” Jackie said as she assumed control of the turboprop. “What are you going to tell them?”
“The truth,” he said, then remarked idly, “which I’m sure they’ve already figured out.”
Jackie remained quiet while Scott stepped out of the cockpit. Maritza and Greg were sitting on the bare floor next to the life raft. They were cold, in constant pain, and soaked raw with jet fuel. Neither one had complained.
Scott knelt beside them and spoke in a soft, soothing voice. “Both of you need immediate medical attention, but we’re going to have to make some changes in our—”
O’Donnell and Gunzelman interrupted him at the same time.
“Don’t worry about us,” Greg said steadily. “The mission comes first, so do what you need to do.”
Scott reached for Maritza’s hand and felt the pressure of her cold fingers. Her eyes reflected a deep sense of fear and emotional pain. “You’re going to have to ditch the plane, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Scott said without hesitation. He allowed his head to droop. “We don’t have many options left, so we’re going to get you aboard the container ship as soon as possible.”
O’Donnell’s gaze inadvertently shifted to Scott’s eyes. “Bubba, you can’t bluff worth a shit,” he said with a ragged smile. “We’re going to run out of fuel first, right?”
Scott shrugged his shoulders. “That’s a distinct possibility, Captain Optimistic. Aren’t you the guy who always has the upbeat, ‘top of the morning’ attitude about everything?”
An awkward quiet settled over the pungent smell of the cabin.
Maritza finally broke the silence. “Greg tells me that you’re the best,” she declared in a firm voice. “And I told him that Jackie’s the best, so we’re not worried.”
Scott quietly nodded, then patted her hand and returned to the cockpit. God, if you have a miracle to spare, we really need one.
“Diamond One-Oh-Seven,” the senior Hawkeye controller radioed to the lead BARCAP pilot, “six — make that seven bogies at your twelve, noses on, at sixty-three miles, Angles fourteen.”
“One-Oh-Seven, we’ve got ’em.” Lieutenant Commander Denby Kaywood inched the Tomcat’s throttles forward.
“Diamond One is comin’ up on the power. Let’s go combat spread, Stan.”
Stan Greenwich, Kaywood’s wingman, clicked his radio button twice and worked his throttles forward while he banked away from his flight leader.
“Three more bogies in trail,” the Miniwacs controller said excitedly while another controller notified Washington.
“Diamond One-Oh-Seven,” the controller said hastily. “Make that five aircraft. They’re hugging the deck, seven to eight miles behind the first wave. They’re — the wingmen are diverging from the leader. They’ve jinked out ten—’bout fifteen degrees.”
“Roger that,” Kaywood answered, scanning his engine instruments. “They gotta be carryin’ cruise missiles.”
“Yeah, best bet.”
“Diamond Three and Four step to the left,” Kaywood ordered, trying his best to sound calm. “One and Two goin’ for knots, comin’ right twenty.”
With a click click on the radio, the second section leader and his wingman banked and disappeared in the dark sky. They would maneuver in combat spread, ready to splash the oncoming bogies.
In Kaywood’s backseat, Chet Hoffman had his head buried in the radar scope, tweaking and interpreting the information displayed on the screen. He was one of the best when it came to anticipating an enemy’s moves and visualizing the fight well before the merge. In order to keep the surface of the water from interfering with his radar, Hoffman wanted to get below the adversaries so he would be looking up at the enemy.
“Let’s take her down,” Hoffman suggested a split second before Kaywood radioed their wingman, then lowered the nose and plunged downward, leveling at 4,000 feet and 470 knots.
“Warning Yellow, Weapons Hold,” the Air Warfare Commander ordered. “Repeat, Warning Yellow, Weapons Hold.”
“Copy, Diamond One-Oh-Seven.”
The U.S. pilots were in an intermediate stage in the process of preparing to fire in self-defense.
Hoffman kept his face glued to the radar scope while Kaywood talked to himself. “Fifty-eight miles, speed 450, Angels twelve.”
With his reflexes in survival mode, Kaywood watched the separation shrink at an alarming rate. When the bogies reached twenty-two miles, he keyed his radio. “Master Arm On.”
“Master Arm On,” Stan Greenwich repeated from Diamond 104.
“Three.”
“Four’s ready to dance.”
Chet Hoffman felt warm perspiration on his forehead. “I can’t believe this,” he quietly said over the intercom. “And to think I gave up submarines for this kind of crap.”
“Centering the T,” Kaywood announced as he worked on a steering cue to ensure an optimum missile launch position. “Eighteen miles, centering the dot. Lookin’ good, Chet.”
When the Iranian leader reached fifteen miles, Kaywood didn’t hesitate. “Fifteen miles. Fox One! Fox One!”
“Here we go,” Hoffman said, then gulped oxygen as the Sparrow missile rocketed toward its prey. “Stan fired a missile. Two’s got a missile off.”
“Fox One!” Three declared.
“Fox One,” Four said evenly.
“Eleven miles!” Kaywood reported, then stopped breathing a few moments. In the distance, he saw a series of white flashes, followed by a high-pitched warble sound in his earpads. The bogies had launched air-to-air missiles. He felt his heart pound as the adrenaline kicked in.