Unless the pilot came back up on the air, however, no amount of guesses were likely to turn him up. The Maverick viewers could see only a tiny area at a time, and when they were designed no one was thinking of using them to spot bodies. An Iraqi airfield lay due north, about five minutes away for an enemy MiG with its pedal to the metal, increasing the tickle factor if not the degree of difficulty.
“Work out from me to increase what we’re covering,” Skull told A-Bomb as they began their second sweep. “I think you can take it further south on your turn.”
“Yeah,” replied A-Bomb.
“I’m going to turn now,” said Knowlington.
“Two,” replied his wingmate.
The Maverick screen remained a blurry, undefined mess. But at least that meant no one was down there to shoot at him — Skull was at three thousand feet, a juicy target flying at barely 250 knots an hour.
“Devil One, this is Coyote,” said the controller in the AWACS coordinating flights in the sector.
“Devil One.”
“We have no Vulture flight,” said the AWACS.
“What exactly do you mean by that, Coyote?” snapped Skull.
“There is no Vulture flight on the ATO at this time.”
The crewman paused between each word, strongly implying that Skull had made a serious mistake. The plane’s powerful airborne radar helped it keep track of everything happening north of the border; while it was possible that a plane had been hit without Coyote knowing about it, it was extremely unlikely. The call sign did not appear to be a valid one, since the plane was not on the tasking order for duty that night. That alone would convince even the most open-minded controller — and certainly his commander — that the transmission had been bogus.
Or some sort of auditory hallucination.
But Skull knew what he had heard.
“Acknowledged, Coyote,” he said. He maintained his course heading north, studying the view screen.
“Devil One, this Coyote,” snapped a new voice obviously belonging to controller’s supervisor. “Please advise your current status.”
Skull blew a long breath into his mask, then calmly noted his location and course.
Which wasn’t the answer Coyote wanted.
“There is no Vulture Three,” said the officer flatly. “We have no data indicating a downed plane at this time. Colonel, we’re concerned here that you’re being sucked into a trap.”
“I appreciate your concern. Maintaining search pattern.” Skull could almost hear the exasperation in the static that filled the radio band.
“See, now that’s why you get the big bucks,” said A-Bomb over the short-range radio. “I woulda told him to jerk off.”
O’Rourke would have been perfectly within his rights to suggest they break off their search. Most if not all of the wingmen Skull had flown with, from ‘Nam to Panama to Red Flag, would have at least asked if he was positive he’d heard the distress call.
But A-Bomb was a wingman’s wingman. And a Hog driver.
“Turning,” said Knowlington, starting his sweep. He hit the radio and broadcast a call on the Guard frequency used by stricken aircraft, asking Vulture Three to acknowledge.
Static.
It was a hell of a coincidence, he had to admit. Twenty years before, he’d lost his own Vulture Three during what had been a routine mission to hit a supply depot in North Vietnam. Skull had taken a four-ship of Phantoms north for the strike. It was about midway through his second tour in Vietnam — he’d flown Thuds on his first — and if the truth be told the mission had seemed almost boringly routine. They’d encountered no flak and no SAMs en route. Skull had a good look at the target through the cloud deck as he launched the attack, and a strong memory of his backs eater telling him they were clean, meaning that the Vietnamese had not managed to mount a defense. The sky had remained empty as Skull recovered and the planes regrouped, flying southeastward to the coast as they had planned.
It happened that a coastal air defense battery was being hit by Navy A-4s at the same time; Skull had seen a few black puffs of gunfire in the air, and four or five separate fires on the ground as he banked over the water and waited for his flight to catch him. It had seemed like glimpsing the corner of a movie screen through an open door as he passed through a theater lobby, a quick vivid glimpse that disappeared as he put his head back to the task at hand. His wingmate had caught up; they tacked south, waiting for the other two planes in the flight.
Vulture Four had arrived shortly, having been separated from Three as he went after a secondary target. Three never showed.
The Vietnamese had launched several MiGs to respond to the Navy attack, and things got tangled quickly. Fuel reserves low to begin with, Skull hadn’t been able to mount a proper search. The Navy did fly several flights in, but no trace of Vulture Three was ever found.
Knowlington forced his eyes down from the Maverick screen to the fuel gauges, running a quick check on his reserves. They had used considerably less fuel than planned, but he’d have to think about going south for the tanker soon.
He keyed back into the command and control aircraft plane running the Strawman mission for an update. Everything was quiet.
So had he imagined the distress call?
That sort of thing had never happened to him before. Not even when he was drinking.
Maybe it had and he’d just shut it out. Or didn’t even realize it.
“Devil Leader, I got something hot down there,” said A-Bomb. “Uh, looking about two, no one-and-a-half miles at say two o’clock off, uh, your nose.”
“One,” said Knowlington, dipping his wing as A-Bomb continued with more detailed coordinates. He pushed the Hog lower, easing the throttle back so slow that he was practically walking.
If this was a ruse, he was a sitting duck.
A road cut across the desert; in the screen it looked like a twisted piece of litter, the narrow cutting from a newspaper fresh off the press.
“Vulture Three, this is Devil One. Vulture Three, please acknowledge,” Knowlington said over the emergency band.
A bright shadow appeared at the top corner of the Maverick screen. Knowlington edged his stick to the right, the Hog stuttering a bit in the air — his indicated airspeed had dropped precipitously. He caught it smoothly, the plane gliding toward the growing glow in his monitor.
Long cylinder. Maybe a fuselage.
Maybe a heated decoy.
RWR clear.
But it would be if they were planning to use shoulder-launched heat seekers.
Flares ready.
Knowlington turned his eyes toward the windscreen, trying to sort through the darkness for something — anything.
If it’s an ambush, he thought, let’s get it over with.
“Vulcan Tres, Vulcan Tres,” crackled a voice over Guard. “Vulcan Three to approaching allied aircraft.”
Vulcan, not Vulture. Shit.
“Vulcan Three, this is Devil leader,” said Knowlington, flicking his talk button. “Relax friend. Give me a flare.”
Static flooded into his headphones, and for a long moment Skull feared that maybe he was imagining the whole thing. But suddenly a sparkle of red pricked the sky two-and-a-half miles southeast of his nose.
“There she blows!” sang A-Bomb.
“Coyote, this is Devil One,” said Knowlington. “I am in contact with Vulcan Three. Repeat, Vulcan Tres. French flier. I have a flare…” He looked over and noted the position on the INS, reading it off as he walked his Hog toward the downed airman. “Requesting verification procedures.”