Never before had Peterson heard of a practice intercept that was run by an AWACS controller. Usually the AWACS were reserved for special training exercises, and, of course, times of war.
Finally, there was the fact that the controller had directed the F-16s to come up “magic.” This meant that he wanted them to contact the AWACS on their have-quick secure voice radio. All of their conversations would then be scrambled and free from unwanted listening ears.
This intercept was not for practice, Lt Peterson realized. This one was beginning to look very real.
Peterson carefully eyed his leader as they flew to the west and continued to climb through the sky. They were now passing through 18,000 feet. Peterson reached down to reset his altimeter and did a quick scan of his instruments and weapon systems. He tuned in Dragonfly’s frequency on his have-quick radio just in time to hear his leader check in.
“Dragonfly, Blade six-four is with you.” Lead’s radio sounded slightly garbled from being scrambled and encoded for broadcast.
“Blade flight, say number and status,” the AWACS controller replied.
“Blade six-four, flight of two F-16s. Sixty-nine hundred on the gas. Two Heaters, four Rams.” The controller made a quick note in his log. Two F-16s, each armed with two heat-seeking and four radar-guided missiles.
“Roger, Blade six-four. Turn right heading three-three-five. These are vectors to your Bandit. He is two-hundred-ten miles at your one o’clock. Altitude three hundred feet. You are cleared to engage.”
A very, very long pause. Peterson watched and listened intently. Sweat now poured down his back. Suddenly he felt very thirsty. He felt for the small water bottle that he kept in the calf pocket of his G-suit and gulped down a quick drink of water before he heard Major Perry respond.
“Dragonfly, did you say Bandit?! What the—” he cut himself short. Peterson could see his shoulders rise as he took a deep breath, then continued. “Dragonfly, what’s going on?” Major Perry demanded. “Who is the target? What do you mean we are clear to engage? Are you telling me we have a Bandit over the middle of the United States? Now, what’s going on?!”
The controller responded very quickly. His voice was hard. “Blade six-four flight, your instructions are as follows: you are being vectored to your target. Your target is an American B-1 bomber. I say again, your target is an American Bravo-One bomber. The target is considered extremely hostile. The aircraft has been stolen. Its crew is of an unknown origin, as are their intentions. It is loaded with Category Alpha weapons. That’s category Alpha, Blade flight.
“The renegade bomber is presently flying in a southeastern direction, six hundred knots at three hundred feet. You will engage and destroy by any means available. Do not attempt to make contact with the target. Do not attempt to force the target to divert. Do not try to force it to land. Your mission is simple. To seek and destroy. I say again, to seek and destroy.”
Inside the AWACS, the controller paused and looked up once again at the two-star general who sat in the observation chair overlooking his controller display. The general nodded his head, giving his approval once again. The controller waited for the Blade leader to reply. After fifteen seconds of silence, he queried the pilot.
“Blade six-four, did you copy your instructions?” His voice sounded stern and directive. Again he waited. Ten seconds later, Major Perry shot back.
“Dragonfly, authenticate Bravo, Zulu.”
A young sergeant at the next console quickly flipped through the code book for the correct reply. She hurriedly pointed to the proper response. The controller glanced at the code book and then said, “Dragonfly authenticates Whiskey, Delta. I say again, Whiskey, Delta.… Now Blade, do you copy your instructions?”
This time there was no hesitation. “Blade flight copies all,” the fighter pilot quickly replied.
“Now listen, Blade,” the controller continued. “We’ve only got one shot at this, so we’ve got to make it good. The only other air-intercept aircraft are your friends up in Vermont, and I don’t think they’re going to make it to this party. So, it’s all up to you.
“Your target departed from McConnell approximately thirty minutes ago. It has tracked on a southeastern direction since then. You are the only chance that we have to get him now. You are the only thing between him and the Gulf of Mexico. At the speed he is flying, you’re only going to get one shot, so let’s keep things good and tight, okay guys?”
As the AWACS controller spoke, Lt Peterson began to slowly shake his head, rocking his helmet against the back of his headrest. He was nearly numb with disbelief. An American B-1! How could that be? Some terrorist group must have stolen one. Probably Hamas. They were always involved. Now, with a bay full of nuclear weapons, who knows what the rag-heads would do?
Peterson looked over at his flight leader. Underneath his mask was a determined frown. He watched as the lead F-16 cut through the moisture-laden air. He scanned his eyes down the wing line, examining his leader’s six missiles. Between the two of them, they had twelve missiles and more than eight thousand 20mm shells for their cannons. Two of the world’s best fighters, fully armed and ready for combat. Against a single B-1. Piloted by a couple of rag-head terrorists.
They would blow the B-1 into a thousand smoking pieces of fine dust.
Peterson reached down to fine-tune the contrast on his APG-68 radar, then looked at his leader once again.
It was then that he saw the smoke begin to trail from his leader’s exhaust.
“Blade lead, this is two,” Dale Peterson said, his voice sounding squeaky and shrill. He swallowed hard before he continued. “Uh, Rick, it appears that you have some smoke coming from your tail.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’ve been fighting a light compressor stall for the last couple minutes. Every time I adjust the throttle, it stalls again. Could be one of those new fuel controls we’ve been testing.”
“How’s she doing?” Dale asked as he surveyed his leader’s aircraft, looking for telltale signs of a problem. All the while he was silently pleading to himself. “Come on, baby, hang in there.” He coaxed the other aircraft along. “Falcon, heal thyself,” he commanded, while he made a quick sign of a cross. Lt Dale Peterson was finding a sudden deep need for religion.
Then he saw it again. Another thin wisp of smoke. This time he could also see Major Perry’s F-16 shudder as its engine sputtered and churned. Peterson started to move forward on the other Falcon, an indication that Perry’s F-16 was slowing down. He pulled back on his own throttle so that he could stay in the proper position.
“Blade flight, come up squadron common,” he heard his leader command.
Peterson quickly changed his UHF radio to their squadron’s common frequency. This would allow the two falcons to talk without being heard by the AWACS controllers. As soon as he had the frequency dialed in, he heard Major Perry’s voice.
“Dale, it looks like you got this one on your own, you lucky dog.”
“What’s the deal, Lead?” Surely he must be kidding. Major Perry wasn’t going to leave him out here by himself? Dale had only been checked out in the F-16 for three weeks. He wasn’t even checked out in dissimilar air combat tactics. This wasn’t the time, and he wasn’t the pilot, to go chasing a B-1 on his own.
“This baby just ain’t gonna make it, my boy,” his leader continued. “I’ve got my engine set at eighty percent now, and that’s all that it will give me. I think I can make it back to Biloxi, but that’s as far as I can hope to go.”