The Saudi captain placed his cursor on the MiG blips, providing an electronic memory for consultation anytime later. He already had a good idea of the direction and speed of both Yemeni formations.
The geometry was coming together. From its God's-eye view the E-3 radar plane scanned the three groups of aircraft crowding the Sandi-Yemen border area. The Sukhois were headed to a point very near the boundary-perhaps upon it-and the MiGs were converging toward that point from the east-southeast.
The four F-20s, on direction from the airborne controller, turned hard right. Rajid and Tim Ottman took their wingmen in startling climbs, splitting to a five-mile separation between sections. Rajid heard the controller call, "Bogeys on your nose, twenty-eight miles at sixteen thousand." Rajid gave his mike button a quick click to acknowledge.
he Yemeni officer shouted over his shoulder into the darkened hut. "Comrade Colonel Sorokin! Look at this!"
Colonel Kirill Sorokin was a forty-eight-year-old air defense specialist assigned, — semi-permanently, he ruefully thought sometimes-to the People's Democratic Republic of Yemen. He had performed similar duties all over the world, and surely the pest hole he now occupied belonged right at the bottom of the list. Hotter than Hades, thousands of kilometers from anywhere with precious little comfort, there was not even much liquor to ease the burden. "Serves you right for being so good at your work," his superior had said. Some system, which rewards competence with misery, Sorokin thought.
Flinging aside the blackout curtains separating his small office from the control room, the Russian took in the esoteric data contained on the radar scope in just a few seconds.
"Damn it to hell!" he shouted.
The controller visibly flinched. He was well acquainted with the colonel's temper.
To Sorokin it looked as if the Saudis intended to cut off the Sukhois at the border. He yanked the headset off the controller and pressed it to his ear. He did not know the tactical callsign of the MiGs, and there was no time for formality. "MiG flight! Heads up! Interceptors closing on you from the north. Select afterburner and arm your missiles."
Sorokin had played this game many years before, in the air defense center in downtown Hanoi. Seeing a developing opportunity, he relied on the Cuban, Cordoba. He's experienced, Sorokin thought. He'll follow orders without hesitation.
The Russian ordered the lead pair of Sukhois to come hard left, dashing into Saudi airspace. The lead section had Atoll air-to-air missiles while the other Su-22s had been armed solely with bombs and rocket pods. Cordoba would have expended his ordnance and should be down to fighting weight on fuel. The MiGs were to hook right, enveloping the Saudis in a two-pronged aerial pincer. Though it was a hasty decision, it could work if timed properly.
Rajid eyeballed the four MiG-21s on his left quarter, watching them close at a combined rate of some 1,500 mph. He heard Tim Ottman call, "I'm high." Noting the four 21s were flying a "welded wing" formation, with each wingman almost wingtip to wingtip on his leader, Rajid pulled in toward the nearest section. His armament display panel showed the right-hand Sidewinder was selected.
The AIM-9 missile had a forward-quarter capability, with enhanced sensitivity in the infrared seeker head which detected even the aerodynamic frictional heat generated by a high-speed aircraft. Rajid heard the warble of the tracking tone in his earphones, and for an instant he marveled that all his training was being put to use.
Then he called "Snake!" and pressed the trigger.
It was a low-percentage shot, with only a marginal chance to score. But the MiGs were forced to break formation to evade the missile, immediately putting the Yemenis on the defensive. They had not had time to fire any missiles of their own. The nearest two MiGs split from one another and Rajid pressed his attack on the wingman.
Circling overhead like a lethal shepherd watching his flock, Ottman alternately tracked the second pair of MiGs and tried to follow the engaged Tigersharks. So this is combat, he mused. Funny, it doesn't feel much different from practice.
Acting on doctrine, Rajid called, "I have it."
His wingman pulled up to cover the fight, turning to place the lead MiG off his nose. When the second 21 broke hard right to defeat the missile, Rajid had held his course, passing on a reciprocal heading to the 21's belly side. He could have continued his turn, using the F-20's superior maneuverability to gain an angle when both fighters came around the circle. But that would prolong the fight. He recalled Colonel Lawrence's dictum: Don't waste time trying to sweeten up the shot. Kill the bogey soonest.
Instead of turning, Rajid pitched into a high yo-yo immediately after passing the MiG's tail. Pulling up, he quarter-rolled to keep his opponent in view through the top of his canopy, arcing onto his back.
Straining against the G, forcing himself to keep the MiG "padlocked," Rajid felt an odd sense of detachment, almost as if he were a spectator of this combat rather than a participant. I've been here before, he thought, in practice and in the simulator. I'm going to win!
The frightened Yemeni pilot reefed hard in his four-G turn, almost as much as his MiG-21 could sustain. He had difficulty keeping the Saudi in sight above him, and hoped to throw the Northrop outside his turn radius. But by continuing his level turn he gave the Tigershark a predictable path to anticipate the conversion, and it did not take long.
Pulling hard behind the 21, sensing the fuzzy grayness at the periphery of his vision, Rajid waited until his nose was approximately aligned with the MiG's. He recognized that he had a bit more separation than he needed, but he was well within the Sidewinder envelope. He had a favorable angle off the tail and took off some bank to reduce the G on his airplane. Hearing the tone again, he called the shot.
From overhead, Ottman saw the second 'winder come off the left rail, fly unerringly to the MiG, and explode. There was a bright flash in the sky.
"Yeah!" Ottman shouted in his oxygen mask.
The MiG-21 disgorged a cloud of dirty orange flames, with hundreds of tiny metal fragments in its wake. Instantly the canopy came off and the pilot's seat rocketed from the cockpit. The remains of the aircraft plummeted to the desert floor.
Seeing his wingman hit the ground, the MiG leader elected to disengage. The camouflaged delta-winged fighter reversed its turn, no longer sparring with Rajid's wingman. The F-20s' ROE said no hot pursuit, but the second MiG section remained in Saudi airspace. Ottman keyed his mike: "Orange Lead, this is Three. Two bandits still in a level turn with me, coming around upsun right now."
Rajid rapidly scanned the sky, hoping to silhouette the MiGs above him against the high, thin overcast. The glare bothered him. "No visual, Three."
"Lead from Two. I have the bandits." Lieutenant Hasni Khalil had good eyes.
"You have it, Two."
Khalil slid out abeam of Rajid as the two easily traded the lead.
Moments later Rajid saw them, also noting Ottman's section arcing upward to position itself beyond the bogeys. The MiGs were trapped.
“Orange Flight, this is Sentinel. Two bogeys at twenty-two miles, closing from southwest." The AWACS was doing its job.
Ottman cursed to himself. Damn Sukhois-he'd almost forgotten them. "Lead from Three. I'll take 'em."