“I say, Hunter,” Heath called back. “Did I copy? Soviet markings?”
“Roger,” Hunter confirmed. “I’d know that red star anywhere. I put them only forty miles from the carrier and the tugs right now, and even closer to the port at Algiers.”
A half-minute went by. It was agonizing. If they were belligerent, the Soviets would have to go into their attack mode within forty-five seconds. If they had decided to mind their own business, they would just keep on flying.
Hunter had never been in this position before. In the past, any Soviet airplane he spotted was immediately judged an enemy and immediately attacked. Things were done differently in and over the Med.
His radio crackled to life again. “We have two Harriers warmed up, Hunter,” Heath responded. “And Sir Neil is now aware of the situation.”
The aircraft were now only thirty seconds from the port of Algiers and the small harbor where the ferrying operation was taking place. Were the planes — although Russian — simply flying through? Or had the Soviets learned about the carrier’s mission and were they attempting to disrupt it? Maybe the airplanes were being flown by mercenaries, although it’s a rare occasion when the Soviet Air Force permits free-lancers to fly its equipment while still carrying the old Red Star. Then there was another way-out possibility: could the bombers actually be on a bounty-hunting mission, with Hunter and the billion-dollar reward as the prize?
The last thought shook him slightly. But whatever the case, Hunter knew the airplanes would have to act soon.
“Hunter?” Heath called. “Do you think your friends up there might chat on the radio?”
“Only one way to find out,” Hunter said, turning on his UHF band radio and closing to within a mile of the bombers.
“Ilyushin-28 flight commander,” he began. “This is Major Hunter of the … Allied Expeditionary Force.” He had just made up the name. “You are flying in a restricted area. Please identify yourself and your intentions.”
He flicked the radio switch back to “Receive.”
Nothing.
“Flight commander,” he tried again. “I am prepared to attack if you do not ID yourself.”
Again, nothing …
He flew right up on the tail of the trailing aircraft.
“Ilyushin flight commander, please ID … ” The words were barely out of his mouth when he suddenly yanked the F-16 to the right. Just in time he had dodged a burst of gunfire from the tail gunner of the last Ilyushin.
“Jesus!” he yelled. “They just took a shot at me!” He was more surprised than anything; very few Ilyushin-28s carried tail gunners.
Just then the airplanes split up. The first pair dove through the clouds and toward the port at Algiers; the other two veered to the west, increased their speed, and went into a similar dive. These two were now pointed right towards the small village where O’Brien’s tugs were just starting to pick up the mercenaries.
“Launch the Harriers!” Hunter yelled into his radio. “Get them vectored towards Algiers! And someone better warn that Moroccan troopship … ”
With that, he took off after the pair of bombers that were heading for the tugs.
Down below, O’Brien’s tugs were churning up the sea between the Algerian village harbor and the Saratoga. The ferrying operation was proceeding very smoothly when Sir Neil had first gotten word about the approaching Soviet aircraft. All of the tug crews were just receiving the word to go to battle stations when they heard a horrifying scream of engines coming from the east.
First to burst through the 1500-foot cloud cover was a shiny silver Ilyushin-28. It was heading for a group of three tugs that were just a mile away from the Saratoga. All of them filled with mercenaries. Sir Neil, watching from a tug a half-mile from the action, saw the bomber level up and going into a bombing-run course.
“Bloody Russians!” he screamed, “Those tugs are sitting ducks—”
But just then, another aircraft broke through the clouds. It was smaller, quicker. It was painted red, white, and blue.
“It’s Hunter!” he yelled. “He’s right on the bastard’s tail!”
The three tugs attempted to scatter, but the jets were moving too fast. The crews on the other tugs away from the action could only watch as the F-16 pulled right up on the rear of the Ilyushin while the Soviet airplane prepared to drop its first rack of bombs. All the while the Soviet tail gunner was blazing away at the fighter, and Hunter was blazing away at him with his Vulcan Six Pack.
Sir Neil knew something had to give. In this case, it was the entire tail section of the Ilyushin. Hunter’s six-knuckle, 20mm-cannon punch was too much for the old Soviet airplane. The 16’s cannon shells found something explodable in the rear of the Soviet airplane and ignited it. The tail was instantly incinerated. The bomber, its rear quarter completely enveloped in flames, did a slow flip and plunged into the Med, with a great fiery crash of steam and smoke.
A cheer went up from all those on the tugs. “That’s Hawk Hunter in that F-16.” The word was passed. “That’s the guy they call The Wingman!”
But the danger was far from over.
Off in the distance, the other Ilyushin had emerged from the clouds and was streaking along the wave tops, going in torpedo-bomber-style on the carrier itself. It passed two of the Norwegian frigates on the way — both ships sent up a wall of antiaircraft fire that lit up the overcast Mediterranean sky. But somehow the Soviet airplane made it through.
Hunter was there in a flash, streaking around the bow of the Saratoga and facing the Soviet airplane head on. The Six Pack opened up with a burst of orange flame that was clearly visible on the tugs more than a mile away. The two jets barreled on toward each other, neither giving quarter.
“Stay with him, man!” Sir Neil said under his breath as he watched the drama. “Hang in there, Hunter!”
Finally, those aboard the tugs saw a flash erupt from underneath the 16’s port wing. A streak of light and smoke followed, traveling a path straight and true towards the onrushing Ilyushin.
“He’s launched a Sidewinder!” Sir Neil called out.
Before the words were out of his mouth, the missile caught the Ilyushin face on, crashed through the plexiglas nose, and traveled on to the cockpit, where it detonated. A bright orange ball of flame appeared and seemed to hang in the air for one long moment. Then what remained of the bomber slammed into the sea, just 300 yards from the carrier.
“Blimey, that was close,” Sir Neil whispered. “Too close … ”
The ferrying operation was still going on when the sun popped up, large and red, the next morning.
Watching the sunrise from the deck of Olson’s command frigate, Hunter was reminded of the old saying “Red sky in the morning, sailor take warning … ”
Just 200 feet off the starboard bow of the anchored carrier the frigate’s crew was lifting the wreckage of one of the destroyed Ilyushins out of the water. The ship’s crane snared the airplane under its tail wing and swung it up and over, allowing a deluge of seawater to escape through the many perforations in the plane’s skin. Then the crane operator gingerly lowered the battered fuselage onto the frigate’s empty helicopter pad.
Hunter was the first one to approach the wreckage. Heath and Sir Neil followed. They watched as the American headed straight for the Ilyushin’s bashed-in cockpit. There wasn’t much left that the Sidewinder hadn’t destroyed, but Hunter was just looking for clues. Clues to prove his suspicions about the origins of the air attack.
Crawling through the sharp, tangled mess of metal and wires, Hunter finally reached the pilot’s compartment. Sir Neil and Heath were right behind him, though moving a little slower. When they got there, Hunter was examining what was left of the airplane’s controls.